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openerotica 106

Xizor pressed his lips against Leia's bare shoulder and felt her shudder with pleasure. He had her now. She was his — if not her mind and spirit, then certainly her body belonged to him. He was a little disappointed in how easy it had been. Ah, well. He reached for the closure of her dress, the dark green shimmering thing. It looked good on her, though it would have looked much better if she had not been so inconsiderate as to wear a bodysuit underneath. He smiled slowly. Time to test things. "Stand up," he whispered into her ear, then licked around the outside. He brought his tongue to the roof of his mouth, tasting her again, and flushed further, his swift-evaporating pheromones oozing into the air. She was a short woman, just the right height to watch as he leaned back on the couch. He'd undone the first closure with ease, but she fumbled for the second awkwardly, her face screwed up in concentration. "Do you need help?" he asked, smiling. Her glance at him seemed almost insulted, and the other fastenings seemed to come undone almost on their own. The dress dropped to the floor in a pool, and she stepped out of it gracefully. The bodysuit gave everything away, and he smiled as she realized she wasn't wearing anything under it. He watched the way her muscles moved, the smooth expanse of her back that still looked so exotic to him, more than a century after he first decided to stray from his homeworld lover. Sometimes he missed the blossoming of Falleen women, the soft ridge-spines of their backs, their smooth, skin, warmed by the mating urge. Not now, though, and met with this warm-blooded temptation, Xizor's own blood ran hot. She looked back at him, questioningly, and he smiled his appreciative approval. She really was stunning — slim, with that edge of muscle under her smooth scaleless skin. A strong woman, as used to firefights as negotiation. No match for him, of course, but then his pursuit of personal perfection was such that he really had no equals physically, mentally, or otherwise. He wouldn't have to worry about her killing him afterwards. Sometimes they wanted to, after all. He reached out with one lightly-clawed hand, running the talons down her chest, over the heaving swell of one breast. Stopped there, dug in slightly, so they pricked through the cloth but did not break her skin. He felt another of those full-body shudders. She wasn't making noise, though. He'd have to change that. Xizor briefly flirted with the idea of trying to tear the body-suit off, but with modern fabrics sometimes that didn't work as planned, and he wanted to be fully in control of all eventualities. Instead, he reluctantly lifted his fingertips and slid off the couch to stand, so that he was looking down at her. Small, fragile ... warm-blooded. The faint blush on her cheeks was easily visible past the makeup, He made his expression neutral, before reaching around his own hip, touching the fastener on his robes, and shrugging. There was no point in wearing clothes to a seduction that were difficult to remove, after all. Whatever quiet internal denials had still been going on in her mind were arrested right there. She stared at him blankly and a little panicked, as her brain slowly started to catch up. Oh yes, Princess, he thought smugly, We are, in fact, going there. He arched his neck down and kissed her before she could think better of it. He couldn't have her start to think, after all. He kept one hand gripping her shoulder, while the other began calmly undressing her. After all, those were his clothes she was wearing, and he certainly remembered how to unfasten them from the last woman who'd worn them. He broke the kiss to peel the suit off her, revealing her skin, a pale peach softly fuzzed with mammal hair. His own hide was smooth and marked by the lines between scales. The nipples on her breasts were dark and engorged where a Falleen woman would have only had another scale. He smiled, brought his tongue out to lick one, and was pleased at her soft hiss. "Alliance with the Alliance," he murmured against her stomach, and barely suppressed a chuckle at her blush. He peeled the bodysuit off further, crouching to pull the skintight suit around her hips and down, revealing a soft dark-brown thatch of wavy curls. "Sit down," he whispered, and she took a seat on the couch, her eyes looking him over in curiosity and barely leashed desire. She still had some self control, but she'd get over it eventually. "I'll join you in a moment," he added, and she flushed again. Let her look. He was fully everted and unashamed. No scales there, though some women had expressed mild disappointment at that. Anatomically, he was close to human. If she noticed he was ever-so-slightly asymmetric at the moment, she didn't seem to mind. They'd have a little more fun later. Nothing too shocking, for now. He was built more than a little differently than a human man, but the parts approximately matched up, and the desire certainly did. He found human women in some ways preferable to Falleen. It was fun to watch what your pheromones could do to a woman without her playing the same game. He slid one scaled hand between her legs, and in an intimate and somewhat possessive gesture drew a knuckle between her inner folds. For some reason human women tended to object to talons there. He sucked the skin into his mouth to taste and smell, but he'd known by the feel how aroused she was. She reached down to grab his hand, possibly objecting, but most likely wanting to continue. Xizor was renowned for his patience, but he was not feeling like waiting right now. He smiled at her and climbed onto the broad, soft couch, pushing her down underneath him. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want," he said, in his most sincere tone. Which wasn't really true, but in her altered state it would sound so, and would probably calm her down a little if she was getting upset. But to be honest, her state of mind wasn't something he really worried about as he undulated up her body, her skin sliding against his scales and yielding to his form as if they belonged together. She reached around his body to stroke the ridge on his back, and he growled softly. She kept stroking along it, and he stopped moving for a moment, luxuriating in the warmth of her skin through his scales. Humans were all touch, and it overwhelmed them more than it did a Falleen, whose trueskin was mostly shielded. He could see a faint sheen of moisture on her skin as she rubbed up against him, her warm sweat on him. But that went both ways, and more importantly she was marking herself with him, every skin-to-scale contact transferring some of his pheromones over to her. He was a deep, deep red now, and the sense he had of his own pheromones filling the air and soaking into her skin was enough to excite him even further. By now, his control over her was absolute. They were eye-level now, and she was looking at him with half-lidded eyes, dark and dreamy. She shifted underneath her, and he pushed himself up on one arm and let her hook a leg around his hips. The other was fairly well trapped by her position. He gave her another long kiss, feeling her murmur something incoherent and unimportant into his mouth. Then another move unbalanced the both of them, and they tumbled to the thick fluffy carpet of the floor. He took the impact on his shoulders, and she landed on top of him. "Sorry about that," she said, not sounding that sorry at all. And she moved her other leg around to straddle him. He smiled at her, startled a little but pleased by her initiative and she scooted down his body to line things up right. His hands roamed along her back, cupping her buttocks before she slipped out of his reach. She was quite shorter than him, but he quickly discovered that wasn't a problem. She sat back, looked at him, then looked down in consideration, running a hand around the scaled base before stroking the smooth, dark, scaleless, and exquisitely sensitive shaft. He shuddered slightly at the touch. She was smiling now, and her eyes were still dark with arousal. His hips left the floor briefly in anticipation, before he controlled himself and let her hands guide him in to her warm depths. The angles were slightly wrong, and he was bending in ways Falleen parts weren't quite designed to bend, but that was as it had to be, and he let out a long, slow hiss as she sank down on him. The first time he'd been with a human woman he had almost lost control from the sheer, wet, tight unnatural sensation of it. She moved around so that she was comfortable, and he closed his eyes, just letting sensation take over for a second or two. This was turning out just as well as he'd anticipated, he thought. Then, with a smooth, practiced motion he pulled her shoulder down and flipped her over, pulling out slightly from necessity as he did so. "Sorry about that, Princess," he murmured, as insincere as her earlier apology. She seemed to flinch slightly at the use of her title, and he frowned, aware he'd somehow misstepped but not sure how. He slid back in her, though, and her breath hitched as he started to move in earnest. Leia's breathing was soft, shallow, and panting, and she started making quiet vocalizations against his shoulder as he thrust into her leisurely, letting his body chemistry do the work for him. Waiting for the remnants of her fierce pride to break down. She'd be begging him before the end, he hoped. That would be fun to watch. He made a soft humming pleased noise at the thought as she moved against and with him. The Princess was holding onto him by the ridges on his back, pressing herself up against him urgently, trying to feed some chemical hunger she surely didn't understand. He craned his neck down to see her expression, keeping his own desire leashed and controlled. They had all night to explore each other, after all, and he wanted to start well. He didn't hear the sound of a hissing electrical short, and then the door opening. In fact, it wasn't until Leia's eyes opened wide, and sparked with sudden realization that he realized that something was wrong. And it was only when she started to struggle in earnest against him and one brown, hairy hand grabbed him by the neck and yanked him painfully off her that he realized he was in very deep trouble indeed. Massive, angry and apparently seeking vengeance for the Princess having a good time, Chewbacca growled down at him, raising a fist to strike him. Xizor twisted in his grip, eyes bulging, before managing by some miracle to slip out. He saw the reason as soon as he got his bearings. Guri had slipped soundlessly out of her alcove to rescue him, and was grappling with the Wookiee. "Guri!" he snapped, as soon as he could speak. "Kill him!" He slid open a hidden panel on the desk. The Wookiee flung his bodyguard off like she was a minor inconvenience, and tackled him again as he was reaching for his holdout blaster. The grip was iron-hard, and Xizor was held in a choking pin. He thought Guri was getting up, and hoped she'd neutralize Chewbacca in time. He felt the Wookiee's hot breath in his ear, heard a low growl that he understood rather more of than he really wanted to. He cast his gaze down, saw Leia rise, blinking, seeming to shake off his influence. She shouldn't be able to do that. Chewbacca, Xizor thought grimly, had probably thought him some effete crime boss, weak and easily subdued. The Wookiee wouldn't be expecting his chair-trained muscles, and he was skilled enough that it would take some time for him to lose even to a Wookiee. He slammed an elbow into Chewbacca's chest, and the Wookiee whuffed and loosened his grip long enough for Xizor to get into a more favorable position and knee his adversary in the groin. At that point he remembered very unhappily why he'd had to have had Howzmin castrated. Falleen pheromones at their height were very, very strong. And the Wookiee wasn't as unaffected as he had seemed. Xizor scrambled desperately away as Chewbacca roared, and spun to deal with Guri again. He hesitated, and then raced for the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the naked Princess palm the blaster from the desk's secret panel and slip effortlessly into a two-handed firing stance. Then there was nothing but pain. *** Leia heard the noise of catastrophically failing metal and winced as Chewbacca tore one of Guri's arms off. The droid was probably pretty nonfunctional by this point, but Chewbacca was just making sure. She sat on the couch, staring off into space, trying to focus. Idly, one of her hands drifted between her legs. trying to scratch an itch that still seemed like it was eating her alive. There was still a warmth pooled low in her abdomen, and she felt ... empty. Along with violated, angry, and a host of other confusing feelings. "I think I've been drugged, Chewbacca," she said after a moment, as she realized that one of those feelings was an extremely strong desire to find something male and fuck it senseless. A low growl. She flinched. She'd seen the look on his face when he's dragged Xizor off her. 'That's not an excuse,' she heard in it. And it wasn't. She'd been through at least an Imperial level two narco-interrogation and probably a level one, though that part was thankfully very blurry in memory, plus, she winced, numerous extremely creative tortures without betraying anything critical to the Empire. She still wasn't sure quite how she'd done that, but it still made her submission to Xizor's wiles laughably thin. Possibly because I haven't gotten laid since before Bespin, she scowled to herself. Chewbacca dragged in another body from the hallway, that bald servant of Xizor's. She didn't think Xizor himself was dead, just unconscious or wishing he was. Incapacitated, certainly. "So what do we do now?" she asked. Chewbacca growled something at her. He was messing with one of the consoles, now. There was a tension in his movements, a jerky unease. He wasn't looking at her. He thinks I've betrayed Han, she thought. She wondered if she should put some clothes on, but it wasn't like Chewbacca normally wore any, and all there was were Xizor's clothes and the ones he'd taken off her. She remembered his hands peeling those clothes off her and shivered at the response that still provoked in her. She glanced guiltily at the still green body near the door. No, naked was good for now. Maybe she could scrounge something off Guri. "Chewbacca?" she asked tentatively. The Wookiee barked something she didn't understand. She sighed. "I think we might need a protocol droid." Chewbacca snorted. She sighed and stood up. Her balance didn't seem to be quite right, but she adjusted, and walked carefully over to him. He growled something, and gestured back towards the couch. "Don't give me that, Chewie," she snapped, unreasonably angry all of a sudden. "What are you doing?" He seemed to edge away around the console. He wasn't scared of her, was he? That would be silly. What could she do to him? Jump up on him... and... and... whoa. The next look she gave him was a lot more considering. Realizing she wasn't going to go away, Chewbacca typed awkwardly at the console. It seemed to be made for Xizor, with depressions for talons instead of more normal input options. Startled, Leia noticed that small claws peeked out of the fur at the end of Chewbacca's fingers, barely visible. When he lifted a hand to beckon her to read, they were gone. She wondered what else she hadn't noticed about him, even as he'd shadowed her every move since Bespin. She leaned over his shoulder, trying to stay calm and in control and not, say, humping her long-suffering bodyguard's leg in an increasingly desperate attempt to get off. NO ALARM YET. TIME TO PLAN. X CLEARED SCHEDULE FOR MOST OF DAY Ambitious of him, she thought, and privately doubted he would have lasted that long, the way she was feeling. Chewbacca moved slightly, and all of a sudden sensation hit her again like a brick in a sock as his fur brushed her arm ... a now-familiar rush of dizzying arousal that threatened to overwhelm her. She almost fell to the floor, but managed to grip the console and lower herself down. Fuck, she thought faintly. I can't cope. From this unfamiliar angle, she looked up at Chewie, though her eyes inevitably stopped about halfway up in her current state of mind. Oh. Wow. Okay. She blinked. She'd missed that somehow. Her mental train of thought immediately sidetracked to wondering how he'd ever hidden that under his fur. Trying to focus, Leia exhaled sharply, feeling overheated and under-rational, and extremely tempted to lick it and see what happened. She shook her head trying to clear it, but the warm flush seemed to be spreading. A tiny voice screamed at her that she couldn't seriously be considering ... But whatever it was seemed to be affecting Chewie too, and despite his frustrating display of self-control if he was feeling anything like what she was feeling it would be a mercy to ... help things along. She was somewhat aware that that was massively self-serving logic, but she didn't particularly care, just blinking, and staring off into space. There was a small and slightly silly grin on her face. Chewbacca made a quiet, concerned noise. As she made no move to get up, he crouched awkwardly to help her up. Leia got her feet under her and let him pull her up. She stared up at him, and he stared down at her with a worried headtilt. She laughed and suddenly hugged him tightly, her arms around her waist, the soft full-body tickle of his fur almost too much to endure. And she stayed there, in a close. intimate embrace. They even fit together, his large and still-hardening cock trapped snugly in the valley between her breasts. She wasn't letting him go, and as she craned her neck up, and up, she saw him looking down, too startled to even move. She felt his cordlike muscles tense under his skin, could almost see him trying to figure out what to do. No. He knew what to do. He just was resisting. And there they were, two problems in search of an obvious solution. Chewbacca rrowred very softly, looking down at her. She knew that sound. It was the Wookiee name for Han. "Just as soon kiss a Wookiee," she whispered playfully. Chewie stiffened, a low growl forming in his throat — not angry, just... mournful. Leia remembered belatedly that he was married. So easy to forget that. It wasn't seeming to stop her though, she mused. "Hey," she whispered, and just hugged him. She couldn't read the expression on his face. "I miss him too. I miss him lots. But he told you to take care of me. And right now I really, really need something taken care of." Another low growl that rumbled against her chest like an earthquake. "Yes, I know you aren't going to respect me in the morning, but neither of us was going to anyway." She glanced at the still green body at the door. "I need to get whatever this is out of my system before I go crazy." Chewbacca looked uneasy. She pressed further against him, feeling him slide between her breasts, the tickle of his fur on her skin. Clearly he was attracted to her, right now, anyway. Whatever Xizor had done to her and him apparently didn't care much for species boundaries. Never mind that she was tiny and nearly hairless, and he was furry and... and... massive. She admitted quietly to herself the occasional idle speculation. She wondered what he'd thought of her, when they'd met. Walking carpet gibes aside. For a Wookiee, she probably wasn't that attractive. An idea struck her, and she let go of him. Chewbacca made a noise — maybe disappointed, probably relieved. She began to undo the quick braids she'd done to look good for Xizor, with the swiftness of long practice. As her hair cascaded down, she shook it out, feeling the soft sensual sweep of it against her back as she moved. Her body was slightly slick with sweat and, well, the Prince. She felt the high blush come back to her face, but she stepped back towards Chewbacca and everything became clear and obvious to her again in her pressing need. If Han was here, he'd laugh at me, she thought. "Han's not here," she said out loud, craning her head up and peering from behind the veil of her hair. She pushed most of it behind her ear, gave him her most earnest look. He just looked at her, and she sensed a dark burgeoning tension in that look, something intense and scary and — did she really want to push him now? Yes. "You can break off a table leg and I could try that, if you want," she wheedled, not quite seriously. She was losing the Alderaan accent more and more. Han had rubbed off on her far too much. Chewbacca made a slightly dismayed noise. She prowled around him. He turned to keep watching her, and her hand darted out snake-swift as she stopped, turned, and reached up to grab him firmly. She heard a small, choked, astonished, and very un-Chewbaccaish noise, but ignored it as she examined what she had caught. He really was not like Han at all, or any other man she had seen. Somewhat outsized for a human, definitely, but so was Chewbacca, and that was a bit more in girth than length. She watched, mildly fascinated, as it grew almost unwillingly in her grasp. About halfway down the length the thick pelt of fur that had shielded it suddenly ended, revealing a startlingly pale shaft beyond the sheath that normally hid it. Doesn't get any sun, she thought, and chuckled quietly. Chewbacca moved — she felt a furred paw on her shoulder and tightened her grip slightly. "Easy there," she said carefully. "Just looking." She tucked her hair behind her ear again and looked up. As she gave him another earnest look, she willed him to cooperate. This sometimes seemed to work on diplomats. Never had with Han. Chewie, at least, subsided. Good thing too, because she was lying through her teeth. She crouched down, nuzzling him, drinking in the smell of Wookiee. Chewbacca's smell was more or less the Falcon's smell. It was strange how she associated that smell with Han — it made Chewie's presence a familiar comfort, and sometimes an unbearable reminder. Ah damn. She sneezed, hard. Chewbacca made an alarmed noise, and she felt herself being lifted off him, suspended gently and apparently effortlessly in midair, his thumbs hooked under her breasts. She sneezed at him again, before taking a deep breath. He growled at her, and swung her over until she was resting on the console. It was cold, but seemed to give slightly under her bare bottom. Almost like it was designed for this sort of thing. Knowing Xizor, it probably was. She brought one foot up, curling it around the edge of the console. Pushed herself up it, and spread that knee wide. She was sure she looked thoroughly debauched, her face flushed, her breasts pink, her hair loose and tangled about her like a wild thing, and dark desperation in her eyes. But even now, she was wholly a princess. Absolutely in control. "Well?" she asked. He growled again. Chained by a man far away, and a woman too. Looking down at her with frustration. But still, moving closer, ensnared by her eyes. He slid his hands down to cup her bottom, the rough skin of his palms tickling her. Her eyes rolled back and closed, sheer arousal pooling in her abdomen. Chewbacca leaned down, and she threw a hand behind his neck and shoulders, pulling him down ineffectively. He rumbled something indistinct and bent over her, sniffing at her hair, his hanging fur tickling her breasts, his cock hanging over her, unsheathed and leaking. A drop fell on her chest, and she shivered. He loomed over her, his shadow covering her, and there was nothing but him. Closing her eyes, the smell was Han, and the Falcon, and quiet sex in the dark, hiding from Chewbacca. But there was nothing of her to hide now. He'd seen it all, and more. She jerked her head back to his eyes. His mouth was parted, and those sharp fangs were grinning at her. It was a predatory smile, teasing. She smiled back, and even as she did so his thumbs thrust between her thighs, spreading them further with an easy and inexorable strength, one that could as easily shatter her as shape her. As Chewbacca bared her to him, she brought her other leg up. He stood up, then, hooking her legs under his armpits, and she clung to him tightly. All her perception was down to touch, the feel of fur and the muscles beneath fur, their swollen wet aching flesh sliding together where he was sliding her up him. The head of his massive member prodded at her. One of his long arms wrapped around her back, and she was wholly entangled with him, that leg sliding free to dangle helplessly above the floor. Grabbing handfuls of his fur, she rocked insistently against him, furious, frustrated, denied. But there were only a few moments of awkwardness, before her lower lips closed around the head of his cock. She hissed as he breached her. He was flexible steel, but steel nonetheless and it seemed like she was molded to the angle of him as he relaxed his grip and let her sink down. Leia mouthed formless words against his shoulderblade, not knowing what she wanted — that slow, delicious descent, or for him to break with what self-control he still had. Her hands trailed down his chest, fisting in his fur as she rolled her hips against him. And though every movement and touch tantalized her heightened senses, it wasn't enough. Chewbacca seemed to realize this too, but they were too entangled to move together, unless he moved her. They compromised silently, sprawling her body across the console, her thighs up and her calves trapped under his arms. She had adjusted to the sensation of stretching around him by the time he made it a different one, sliding out of her and thrusting in, a slow impossible rhythm neither of them could tolerate. He growled, and the sound rumbled through both of them, and she could feel the vibration against her knuckles and where his hips nearly joined hers. That and the tension in both of them. She herself was shivering now, violently, not seeing anything even through open eyes. She felt on the cusp of some revelation, one her body was too fragile to contain. His earlier rhythm was already breaking, and what little restraint was left in the two of them changed into something different, something desperate, urgent, and physical. With guilt in it as well as violent lust, all sharpening the sensation, forging it into something new. She'd have bruises where her hips hit the hard console, bruises where her shoulder rubbed against the edge, but at the same time she was clinging to him, ripping at his fur to force them together again when his thrusts parted them, vocalizing a rising keen. And then there was sensation without thought or as she was swept over that precipice, losing her grip on the world itself. It threatened to drown her in ecstasy, for just as soon as she'd conquered it it surged up again. And then she was boneless on the console, with Chewbacca slipping out of her, spent. Wow. She was almost tempted to go over and thank Xizor for that. She let go of Chewbacca's fur, and he instantly stepped back, silent. She glanced up to see him staring at her, somewhere between worried, tense, and appalled. She'd felt him soften as he'd slipped out of her, leaving her precariously perched on the console, but his cock was still largely erect now that she looked at it again. Apparently even that hadn't been enough for him. As the rush began to fade, she rubbed at her shoulder absently. "Let's," Leia said, breathing hard, well-fucked, but aware of her own limits, "uh... sit down, Chewbacca, I need a break." Her legs were indeed a little weak as she slid down the console to the carpeted floor. The Wookiee made a sound, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps ashamed, and turned to stalk away. He must hate this, Leia thought. "No... don't go. You didn't hurt me. Lie down." She swallowed. "I can handle this." He couldn't refuse her, right now — no more than she could have refused Xizor, and Chewbacca didn't want to. She pulled him down to the floor beside her, climbing over him, reacquainting ... She wasn't about to try and swallow it all — not this Wookiee. Even size aside, that had not been part of the education of a Princess. But she laid sucking kisses up its length, caressing with her hands as well. Finally, she took the head of his shaft in her mouth, tasting her own slightly acid juices, and his bitter hint of his seed. Her fingers found the boundary where the short-furred sheath of his penis ended, and rubbed it between her fingertips, moving it, stretching. Her other hand moved to search his fur. Flush to his skin, she found. Smaller than a man's, but there were four of then, and by Chewbacca's pleased purr he liked them to be touched. One small finger slid between the sheath and his hard cock, and Chewbacca shivered, The strong taste of him in her mouth intensified as she teased him with her tongue. There was a tickle of fur on her thighs then, teasing, as Chewbacca ran the back of his hands barely over them. Just that sensation alone caused the banked fire of her lust to roar up again, and her own hands shook. She slid her mouth from around his cock and took a gulping breath as a blood-fueled rush spread through her. Even now ... especially now ... it didn't take much. She came, writhing against him. In her hand his cock jumped, fully awake now. Shaking off a silly smile, she focused again on her task. But Chewbacca was still being ... distracting. His gentle probing touch found her folds, and spread them, letting cool air play over hot flesh. A finger found her depths, curiously penetrating, wiggling around. Stretching her until another joined it. It was only two of his fingers, but two of his felt like three of hers. She was sore, yes, but it was a soft aching soreness, and he had stretched her enough that mere fingers weren't a concern, even long and furry ones. She could feel fur trailing as the fingers moved in her ... a novel sensation. His thumb pressed against her clitoris, rubbing gently, but unconsciously in rhythm with her own efforts. As she licked again down his shaft, his attentions on her grew distracted, and his hips rose up. A low growl of desire rumbled through both of them, and suddenly, almost unexpectedly, he spent, over her and on her. She took a deep breath, tried to wipe his seed off her shoulder and hair with little success. Rolled over carefully, enjoying the delicious friction of his furred fingers slipping out of her cunt. "See?" she said, "That wasn't so bad." Chewbacca grumbled an agreement good-naturedly, pulling her closer, seemingly intent on finishing the job again. He sucked thoughtfully on the two fingers that had pierced her, then beckoned her to within reach of his head. She smiled, more than willing. His rough, enthusiastic Wookiee tongue took its time, but she was ready to slow down. Her last, exhausted orgasm was more like a pleasant whole-body shiver. She felt him grin against her. She still wasn't trusting her feet, but scooted back to let him get up. She admired him idly as he stretched. Mallatobuck, she decided, was a lucky woman. She wondered what it would be like to answer that strength with her own. Somehow her brain didn't kick in before she blurted out "How do Wookiees fuck?" Chewbacca bared his teeth. He gave an amused growl that she interpreted as — [however we want]. She ran her fingers through her matted hair and grinned at him. His eyes went dark, and a paw lashed out, pulling her to him once more. But it was a somewhat remonstrative growl now, though amused, with a glance over to the bodies of their enemies. Oh. Right. Surprisingly, they hadn't wasted all that much time. Chewbacca pointed her over to the alcove where Guri had been stationed before turning again to the console. She was frankly surprised it was still in working order. The alcove did contain several interesting outfits, most of which hinted at amusing Xizor fetishes, but some of which were serviceable. It was larger than it looked like from the outside, and wholly concealed in the wall. There was also a large assortment of weapons Leia sighed and took one, searching for a bath, or at least a sink, so she could rinse her hair out. She picked up Xizor's holdout blaster. The first small door off the sanctum was to a large closet. Leia looked at herself in the mirror, noting the beginning of a few bruises. Her skin was sweat-slicked some of Chewbacca's fur had stuck to her. What make-up she had put on her face before the meeting with Xizor was smeared, and there were globs of Wookiee spunk in her now-tangled hair. In a word, Leia looked thoroughly debauched. She smiled at the mirror. She wasn't afraid of the person in it. While Xizor's clothes were nicer, he was even taller than Guri and she wasn't thrilled at the idea of trying to wear his clothes anyway. Reluctantly, she moved on, walking past Chewbacca, who downloading data onto a datapad he'd found somewhere. Maybe he could find out exactly where they were. She suspected they were in Xizor's palace, but the way up had thoroughly disoriented her. Fortunately the next room held a large pool. Not about to question her good luck, Leia washed up quickly and got dressed. There was a time to luxuriate in such things and there was a time to wash off the Wookiee fur and think about escaping. When she emerged, she felt much better, as if Xizor's corrupt influence had been washed off with everything else. Chewbacca looked similarly relieved. She noticed he had smashed Xizor's head in while she'd been gone, but said nothing of it. "Chewbacca, there's a weapon cache. We need to get out. Can you hack the security systems to get us a safe path out from here?" The Wookiee rumbled an affirmative. Noticing a message had been left on another comconsole, Leia poked at the claw controls with her fingernails until finally she managed to call it up. A wary voice was present on the recording. "My Prince, we located Skywalker in the custody of bounty hunters, but he escaped before we could purchase or kidnap him. Lord Vader has been seen in the vicinity within hours of the event, but we do not believe he is in Imperial custody. Please send orders." Chewie gave a triumphant roar, digging through the secret compartment Guri had come out of. Leia smiled. He tossed her an assault rifle, which she caught and set aside, and then a thermal detonator. "If you can find a datapad, it looks like our access from here is unlimited. We can drain his files for anything on Luke. Or anything else that's valuable." She hesitated, drawing on her Rebel experience. "I doubt we can move large sums of credits without flagging something, so let's not." Chewbacca nodded, padding through the area of Xizor's sanctum that served as an office until he found something suitable. As he waited for the information to transfer, he typed on the console: WE ARE IN XIZOR'S PALACE. THE SECURITY CAMERAS SHOULD NOT BETRAY US YET. I FIXED THEM EARLIER. On another screen, his claws danced to show a recording of the dead guard outside still living: THERE WERE RECORDINGS OF US, BUT ONLY IN HERE. THEY ARE GONE. THERE IS A SHIP ON THE TOP FLOORS THAT IS READY TO GO WITH TWO GUARDS. IT IS BUILT TO ESCAPE ANY PURSUIT. IT HAS ONE SEAT, BUT A LARGE COCKPIT. She smiled at him. "Good. We'll cope. Figure out how long it will take us to get up there, give us a window of safety, and I'll set the detonators." As they left the room, the comconsole was again blinking. Neither noticed. "Come on, fuzzball," Leia said with a feral grin, "let's blow this place and go home."

The windows in the loft face east, so it was the long fingers of sunshine that first reached me in the place where I was dreaming. That particular dream is kind. I don't usually want to leave it. For too long sleep's been an enemy, and I'm always grateful for the rare, forgiving dreams that come like gifts of Morpheus in the moments before waking. Even Richie comes to me sometimes now, and it's such a relief to hear him say he doesn't blame me. But today the touch of morning warmed my face, reminding me gently that there were things to do, a day to face, and that I'd slept long enough. The air was cool in spite of the sunshine. Opening my eyes, I could see the curtains moving gently at the window. The chill breeze was full of the smell of the sea, and something green and indefinable that reminded me it was spring; over that I suddenly became aware of the rich, dark smell of Kona brewing. Sitting up, I was surprised to find myself still wearing clothes from the night before—and even more surprised to realize I couldn't quite remember how I'd gotten home from the party. Someone had pulled the covers over me, and taken off my shoes—presumably the same someone who had started the coffee. But I was alone in the loft, and felt no sense of Presence. Methos, of course. Had to have been. I'd offered to let him stay weeks ago, when he'd called to say he was coming to the wedding. But I'd more than half-expected him to say no; now it seemed almost certain that he'd slept here, on my couch, mere feet away from me. For some reason it really bothered me that he'd taken off my shoes and tucked me in and I couldn't remember it. I had a troubling feeling that sometime after that last bottle of champagne, I'd said or done something I couldn't take back. I got up, padding on bare feet toward the haven of the shower, where I could work on getting the smell of cigarettes out of my hair and try to remember what exactly had happened last night. * * * I was under the spray, shampoo running down my neck, when I felt the buzz. There's something about his buzz that isn't like anyone else's. It's subtle, not something I could describe. I've never asked Amanda if she feels it, never asked anyone. Sometimes, when I'm stressed, or afraid, or there are too many people around, I can't feel the difference at all. But times like this morning, when it's quiet and I'm focused, or at peace... I know him. The feel of him. It's like... it's like what faith is like: a knowing you can't put into words. I hadn't expected him back so soon. The brewing coffee had been a good sign, but I still wasn't ruling out the possibility that I'd said something incredibly stupid in the missing hours of my memory between last night and this morning. It surprised me to feel him close, in my loft, where there was no Joe or Amanda or convenient stranger to help us keep to the steps of our uneasy dance. No one but us. I find it wearing, sometimes, being with him now. Things have been better between us these last few months, but I still find myself holding my breath at times, waiting for the other shoe to drop. We've never talked about any of it. Not about O'Rourke, or Richie, or Kronos... not any of it. I think we both know we will, some day. We're working towards that. I think we both know we're gonna have to talk about all of it in time, if we want to keep from killing each other. It's getting to where not talking is harder than the arguing ever was, and I know this careful truce is coming to an end, for good or bad. That's why I was so afraid some forbidden subject might have slipped out; I wasn't ready to give him up yet, not again. I stayed in the shower a long time. But the buzz didn't go away, and in the end I got out and dried off, knowing there'd be no running from him, no more than there'd ever been. As infuriating as he was, as unfathomable and dangerous as he was, as beautifully cruel as he could be—he was in my heart. Always had been; I couldn't change it. I knew it wasn't romantic love I felt for him. There had been a time when I thought it might have been that, yes. Before Alexa, before C'oltec. Before he betrayed me, and I him. But that felt like another life, and I could barely remember how in the beginning I wanted so much for him to be the answer to everything. Now we had too much history and pain between us, and I saw the truth for what it was, simple and inescapable: he was in my heart. When I came out of the bathroom he was there, sitting at my breakfast bar with the paper spread out before him, half a bagel in his hand. He glanced up when I came toward him, as bright-eyed and alert as if he were the morning person, not me. I saw he'd gotten smoked salmon and capers with the bagels—a weakness of mine. "Morning," he said, and shifted over, making room. "Lovely day, isn't it?" And he flashed me a smile that made something turn over inside me, slow and unexpected. I nodded, and poured myself coffee. * * * I felt a little naked, sitting there in my robe, but my only options weren't much better: get dressed in front of him or go find clothes and change in the bathroom, and somehow I knew he would laugh at that. It was a little ridiculous. I had no idea why all of a sudden I couldn't be naked in front of him. I'd never felt self-conscious before, when he'd stayed with me. He was wearing my clothes. Wasn't the first time he'd done that either, but for some reason today it made me feel strange. In fact, everything about him was throwing me. The way he sat in my kitchen having breakfast and reading the paper as if the last three years hadn't happened; the way he seemed to fairly hum with some kind of quiet energy I'd never seen in him before; the almost-memory of him pulling my coat off and tucking me in. Especially the way he had smiled at me, as if he knew something I didn't. So I sat beside him drinking the coffee he'd made, pretending to read the paper, pretending to eat. Wondering what the hell was going on with me, or Methos, that was making me feel like the world had gone off-kilter a degree or two. I can't say how long we sat like that, our shoulders less than two feet apart, our minds on different planets. At last he finished his bagel and looked up, dusting his fingers off on his jeans. My jeans. Folding his paper, he reached over the breakfast bar for the coffee pot. "More?" I nodded; he poured himself half a cup and gave me the rest. "You gonna read that?" he asked amiably, looking at my share of the arts section. I handed it over, watched him dive right in as if he couldn't wait to see what cultural strides Seacouver had been making in the past two years. Suddenly I wasn't sure I could take the surreal morning any more. "Since when do you read the paper?" He shrugged. "I like to know who's in town, what's happening, you know." "You planning on staying a while, then?" I'm not quite sure how I meant that, but it came out quiet, a small voice that lacked inflection. His eyes met mine, bright and amused and still full of that secret, like a bubble that'd risen near the surface but hadn't quite burst. "How would you feel about that?" An odd flush came over me then, a kind of cool, tingling sweep of awareness that started at the nape of my neck and brushed lightly over every inch of my skin. It was as if every part of me suddenly knew something. Something important and yet intangible, inexpressible. "All right," I said, feeling breathless as I said it. He nodded and went back to his paper, as if it was all decided then; he'd stay. And only then, feeling the way my heart lifted at the thought, did I realize how badly I'd missed him. Missed this. Methos in my home, wearing my clothes, sitting in my kitchen, staying. That's why, I realized. That's why it was throwing me, his casual presence, his easy habitation of my space, my loft. Because I'd missed it so much and for so long that I was afraid to believe in it now. That's when the other shoe dropped, the one I'd been waiting for. Impossible. God help me, it had to be. But suddenly I was looking at him, the way his lashes hid his eyes, the way his mouth was red from the warm rim of his cup and the way his throat curved so smoothly into the open neck of my old black pullover—and I knew it wasn't impossible. Insane, maybe, but not impossible. I'd been right, all those years ago. God help me, I'd been right. I stood up so fast I managed to spill hot coffee all over myself. I was grateful. It gave me an excuse to find jeans and a sweater and retreat to the relative safety of the bathroom. * * * I cleaned myself up, the sting already fading by the time I pulled my sweater on. Dressed, I sat on the closed lid of the commode with my hand pressed to my mouth and tried to think. I know now what I was really doing was panicking. Very quietly. Because all I could think was, how much does he know? He knew something, that was clear. How would you feel about that? he'd said, not at all what he would have asked me yesterday, or any other day that I could remember. He knew something. But what? A chill touched me. What had I said last night? Or done? I would never, I vowed right there, mix champagne and scotch in the same night again. I couldn't be sure how much damage control we were talking about. I had to know where we stood. Couldn't think of a plan until I knew. I'd have to ask him. * * * When I came out again he was standing by the window, watching something down the block. If I hadn't been sure before, I was then. The long, lithe line of him made me think of how he'd stood so casually beside Kronos, lying with his body as well as his tongue. It made me want to kill Kronos all over again. For him. Not impossible at all. I went to stand beside him, seeing as I drew near what he was looking at. A Dalmatian had gotten off its leash and was wandering down the sidewalk, systematically nipping buds off the wildflowers in the narrow strip of grass, testing them for flavor. We watched until he got to the end of the block and disappeared around the corner. "Methos?" "Mm?" Still looking out the window, both of us. "What happened last night? After we left the party?" I swallowed. "Did I...?" He looked at me sidelong. "What, Mac?" His voice was low, and full of that suppressed energy he'd been giving off all morning. I could feel my face getting warm. I plunged ahead. "Is there anything I ought to apologize for?" His amusement was plainly close to getting the better of him. "What, you mean to me? Or to the bride and groom? I wouldn't worry about it. What's a little swordplay between friends?" I groaned inwardly. I had said something. He was laughing at me, I could feel it. Suddenly I couldn't stand the thought of him laughing at me, and I started to turn away, anger sparking low in my belly. Dangerous. Oh, dangerous, to let myself get angry with him. It was the one rule we hadn't broken in the last four months. His voice stopped me, saying my name. "Duncan." My name, that he never uses. I looked, and he wasn't laughing, he was just smiling, shaking his head at my paranoia. "Don't worry, okay? You passed out, I took you home. End of story. I'm the one who should apologize—I shouldn't have made you drink so much." I wasn't angry any more, then. What I was, was afraid. I can guard myself against him when he's cruel, when he hurts me, even against his lies. I can fight. But his gentleness, his kindness... these I have no defense against. His blindness to that terrible vulnerability of mine is the only weapon I've ever had worth anything against him, against all the ways it's possible for him to hurt me. It's why I fall back on sarcasm so much with him, even when I don't mean to. I constantly push him to spar with me because I can't take his kindness. But that was it. That was the secret, the thing he knew, the truth that had somehow come out the night before in the space of missing time I couldn't remember. Somehow, he knew. He'd apologized to me. Said my name. Made coffee for me, and bought food I liked. He'd asked me how I felt. He knew. I'm no good at all at hiding what I feel, and Methos is far too good at reading me. Whatever my face showed then must have been more than enough to set off his alarm bells. But he didn't say anything, or ask me what was wrong, just turned back to the open window again, breathing in deeply. This was bad. Really bad. Here I was, grappling with what had to be the strongest, craziest rush of feelings I could ever remember having, for a man who had already cut my heart out more times than I could count and would no doubt do it again at some point in the very near future—and somehow I'd managed to put the blade in his hand. "You know," he was saying, "I think I'm starting to feel like a mole who's been too long without seeing the sun. We should do something today. Get outside. What do you say?" I was still reeling, but right then I knew, the only thing that would have been worse than being in his presence would have been feeling like this and not being near him. "What'd you have in mind?" "There's a music festival downtown." I saw his mouth quirk in profile. "Most of the bands might be a little... modern for your tastes. But there'll be some jazz, and good food. And more importantly, beer." "Sounds good." It sounded like torture. It also sounded perfect. "But I think I swore off drinking this morning." That made him chuckle, which made my nervous system jump in interesting ways. Jesus, I would have to get a handle on this, or blow the whole show. But oh, it felt good to make him laugh. He glanced at me, still smiling. "Guess I'll have to handle the beer consumption for both of us." At my expression his eyes widened, all innocence. "What?" "I wasn't gonna say anything." I tried to match him for innocence, but it was a battle I lost before it ever began. "'Course not," he agreed, eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well then. I'll clean up, and we'll go." When he turned to move past me, he touched me. Just the brush of his shoulder against mine, because we were standing close. Just that. But I felt it through his clothing and mine, and he was warm, so warm. Jesus. The dig he'd made at me registered belatedly, and I turned after him, pretending to be put out. "I'm not completely clueless about modern music, you know. I do know who Led Zeppelin is." He was still laughing when the bathroom door closed behind him. * * * I was right, it was perfect torture. The sunshine, the crowd, the so-called 'alternative' music with its edge of frenetic, angry cheerfulness—and Methos, close beside me the whole day. Perfectly, wonderfully torturous. We ate pizza slices with fresh tomatoes from a booth, and he drank more than enough beer for two. There was something else, too. Something astonishing, and fine: he touched me. Not overtly, and not anywhere except the safe places—elbow, shoulder, through clothing. Twice, the small of my back. But still, he touched me more times in one afternoon than he had in all the time we'd known one another. I didn't question it, didn't touch him back. It was all I could do to stand still under those casual brushes of his fingertips. There was nothing safe about it. * * * By the time we started back toward the car, I was flying. I was also exhausted, mentally, from the effort it was costing me to act like everything was business as usual when I was so close to overload. It was a long walk uphill to where I'd parked on a residential side street. We matched strides, not talking. The afternoon had warmed up a bit, and Methos pulled off his sweater—my sweater—and tied it around his waist. Under it he was wearing only a white t-shirt, also mine. It struck me how young he looked, and as always seems to happen, that momentary perception was followed by the heavy, overwhelming awareness of what he was. I can never see one without feeling the other, without trying to fit my mind around it. The outline of his stiletto in its sheath was barely visible against the hollow of his spine; we'd left our swords in the trunk, but I should have realized he'd not rely on the relative safety of being in a crowd. We were at the car then, and he turned to catch me staring. "What?" I covered. "Just wondering... why didn't you bring any clothes of your own? Not that I mind, but did your luggage get rerouted or something?" To my surprise, he colored faintly and lowered his eyes. "No. They're at my hotel. I didn't feel like going across town just for that." "Your hotel? You weren't planning on staying with me?" He shrugged. "Wasn't sure. Figured I'd play it by ear." His eyes flicked to mine. "I didn't want to impose." Belatedly, I got it. Amanda. We'd both thought she might show for the wedding, and Methos hadn't wanted to get in the way if she did. He knew I'd been a bit out of it since she'd left Paris. For some reason it's been harder this time than all the times before; I wasn't ready for her to go, I guess, or maybe I've been alone too much lately. But today I hadn't thought of her at all. "I'm glad you did," I said before I could think. He looked surprised, and pleased. A shy smile teased one corner of his mouth. "So am I. This was fun." He was standing easily beside my car, waiting for me to open the door. His nose and cheeks were pink from sun and his hands were in his pockets, the black jeans too big for him, riding low on his hips. The street was full of yellow forsythia blossoms. They drifted around our feet in the late afternoon breeze. And I had that feeling again. That same sweeping, electric feeling of knowing, of a connection completed. It was strong now—so strong I caught my breath—because now I knew what it was: my love for Methos, as deep and bittersweet as any I'd ever felt. It hurt how much I loved him. Made me want to step in close and put my arms around him and lay my head down on his shoulder for a while, until I could breathe properly. This was insane. I did realize that. It was probably going to hurt a lot more, very soon, and I knew that too. But right then, for that one moment, I didn't care. "Methos," I said hoarsely. It was all I could do. He lifted his head. Looked at me. That's when it happened. A slow flush that wasn't sunburn starting at his pale throat and rising to his face, a heat that I could almost feel from three feet away. He drew in a deep breath. Then he nodded, eyes holding mine steadily. "I know," he said. "I know, Mac. Me, too." I felt myself going cold, then hot. I couldn't think. "Yeah?" My voice was a rough whisper. He swallowed, as if his mouth had suddenly gone as dry as mine was, but he didn't look away, just nodded again. "Yeah." Thinking about it now, my lack of reaction seems strange. I'd been handed a miracle. I should have gotten down on my knees and thanked every deity I'd ever known for what his eyes were telling me. But all I knew in that moment was that I'd been right. It could hurt more. The ache in my throat became unbearable, and suddenly I was fighting tears. "Why?" I whispered, struggling with a sadness that felt too big to hold inside. Underneath, there was joy, sweet and fierce, but it hurt almost as much—all I could think of was the ways we'd failed each other, how much time we'd wasted. "Why now, after all this time?" He laughed a little, and I was stunned to realize he was as unsteady as I was, as afraid. More. "Don't you know? Can't you feel it?" He hadn't moved, and I couldn't. We were still standing in the street, with that three feet of space between us. "Timing is everything," he explained, as if it should have been obvious to me. "Our timing's been off from the beginning—we never could get that right, could we? Now's our time, that's all." I suddenly found myself remembering how I'd thought about him in the beginning, how I'd dreamed of him. Had he dreamed of me, too? Had he wanted, too? The answer was in his eyes, in the way he held himself so still, his hands buried in his pockets. How many times had we missed each other over the years only to finally, without warning, find ourselves in sync? He was right. I could feel it. I did know. "You wanna go home?" I asked him, when I could find my voice. A tremor ran through him, so faint I might have imagined it. "Yes, Duncan," he said quietly. "I would really like to go home." * * * It took us a while to get across town, Saturday afternoon traffic heavier than usual because of the weather. We didn't say much. He spent most of the drive with his arm propped up on the edge of the open window, looking out. As for me...my mind seemed to be having a hard time putting two rational thoughts together. I tried to think about what this would mean, what exactly I was getting myself into. It was impossible. Thoughts of me and Methos together—naked together, making love, even just sleeping in the same bed—made me short out, and I would find myself staring at him beside me, utterly stunned by things I had looked at a thousand times and never really seen. The whorl of soft down at his nape. The really magnificent way his cheekbones and nose came together to create his unlikely profile. The way his eyelashes curled, and the way his thighs were so long and beautifully made. Mostly his hands, where they rested on his knees. He was lost in thought, and never looked at me that I saw. I wanted to know what he was thinking about—was desperately afraid he was having second thoughts. I was afraid to ask. I finally had to turn off my brain altogether for fear of rear-ending someone. I pulled the T-bird into the alley behind DeSalvo's, and shut the engine off, putting the keys in my pocket with a hand that was none too steady. This time, when I looked over he was watching me. The afternoon was turning evening, the setting sun making his eyes amber and gold and red. I couldn't have looked away if I'd wanted to. I was surprised to hear myself say, "It's gonna be all right." I have no idea what made me say it. His face held no expression. How did I know he was the one that needed reassuring, when my own heart was beating twice as fast as normal and he looked cool as a cucumber? But I must have known, because he looked at me with those cat eyes for a long time before he finally said, in a strained voice, "Is it? Are you sure?" Still acting on blind instinct, I shifted over on the bench seat and brushed the back of my hand against the side of his neck, then slipped my hand around to cup my palm against his nape. A delicate shudder ran through him, I could feel it; it seemed to run the whole length of his body, and still his expression never changed. "We can do this, Methos. You and me, together. For once. That's what I want. That's all I want." I realize now it's all I ever really wanted from him—the one thing I've longed for in my heart from the very beginning. Just that. Just for him to trust me, and to be the kind of person that a man like me could trust unconditionally. Foolishly, I asked him for it then without any pretense at all. But he wasn't through being kind to me, because he said nothing of how absurd it was to think it could be so simple. Instead he went on looking at me, gazing at me steadily while I went on touching him, reveling in that small intimacy. "We'll go slow," I promised. "I won't do anything you don't want me to." More foolishness. I don't know how I thought I'd be able to keep that promise when the sight of my thumb stroking his pale skin was enough to distract me with imagining how soft his skin would be elsewhere, what my hands would look like touching other, more private places. To my surprise he caught my hand in his, pulling it away from where I'd been touching him, pressing it down to the seat between us. His eyes were hard. "What about me, MacLeod? What if I do something you don't want me to?" He must have seen in my face that the thought hadn't occurred to me. "You understand? I am not Tessa. I'm not even Amanda. Be sure of what you do now, because we can't go back." I was sure, as sure as I'd ever been about anything. "You're right," I said. "We can't." I turned my hand in his, returned his grip as fiercely—and somehow that was even more intimate than touching his most vulnerable place had been. He had held my blade to his throat more than once—and I his—but never before had I held his supple, callused palm against mine. I suddenly felt my desire for him, real and immediate and heavy in the pit of my stomach. If he wanted me to stop touching him he was gonna have to tell me soon. Methos felt it somehow, I think, or saw it in my face. But he didn't pull away, only nodded once, as if I'd somehow given him the reassurance he was looking for. "All right, Duncan. All right." He took a deep breath, let it out. "Let's go up." He started to open his door to get out of the car but I caught him back, searching his eyes. "We can do this." As hard as I tried I couldn't read him. But he met my demand with his opaque smile. "You said it." * * * Upstairs, we were awkward with each other. Horribly so. Where this morning we had been in such perfect accord, now we were all jarring discord, both of us so nervous it was embarrassing. It was as if being in the loft, where we had sparred and dance around one another so many times, we couldn't escape the weight of our shared past. Maybe he'd been right to hesitate. Methos was sitting on the edge of the couch, beer in hand but his customary sprawl nowhere in evidence. I couldn't sit. I was cleaning, of all things. Making sure my kitchen didn't suffer any possible trace of a crumb. "You sure you wouldn't like something stronger?" I offered for the third time, and he exploded to his feet in a sudden burst of energy. "No! I don't want something stronger. You're driving me nuts, will you please stop that?" I stopped wiping at the perfectly clean counter. My back was to him. I tossed the sponge in the sink a little harder than necessary and leaned against the counter, closing my eyes. "I'm sorry—" But he was already sighing, interrupting me. "No, I'm sorry. Yes, I'd like something stronger. And pour yourself one too, and stop cleaning and come over here, will you?" I did as he asked, getting out two glasses and filling both with a generous portion of the good stuff—his with ice, the way I knew he liked it. Heathen. I brought them over and handed him one. Hair of the dog...the first sip tasted amazing. The second, better. "Better," he said, licking his lips delicately. "Thank you." Long shadows lay across the floor; the sun would be down soon. "Sit with me," I said, moving to the couch and turning on the lamp beside it. He sat, too, and I tucked one leg under me so I could face him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his glass cradled in those incredible hands of his. I didn't say anything more, letting him work through his apprehension, concentrating on calming my own body and mind. "It's been a long time for me," he said finally, very quietly. His eyes were down, not looking at me. I saw him swallow. "Me too," I said. "No, Mac—" He glanced at me. "I'm not talking about a few months here." Alexa, I thought automatically. Then realized it might have been more recent. Kronos? Byron? It could have been anyone. Amanda, for all I knew. Feeling suddenly very cold, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask when. Who. Somehow I managed to hold the questions back, knowing I had no right. It was hard, but I made myself reach out and put my hand on his hunched shoulder. "Methos, it's okay. It'll be all right." I was surprised to feel how rigid his shoulder was. He was really struggling. When I squeezed him there, trying to ease the tension, a line appeared between his brows that hadn't been there before. "Don't you want to know how long?" And suddenly I didn't. I really didn't want to know. I knew all I needed to know, I reminded myself, remembering the way his hand had felt against mine. "It doesn't matter," I said, and it didn't, not any more. "Nothing matters but right now. You and me." That's how it happened that he kissed me the first time, or I kissed him. I'm not sure which it was. All I know is he was looking at me with the oddest expression, holding tight to his glass with both hands. Then somehow he was closer, and I saw his eyes close, felt his breath soft and warm against my face. And his lips, brushing mine. I barely had time to register the sweetness of it, the whisper-soft lightning-charged heat of it, before he was pulling away again, his eyes opening bare inches from mine, his hunger a blade, stabbing me with a purely carnal anticipation at the thought of how he'd respond to me after waiting so long. No wonder. No wonder he'd hesitated. Getting up, I set my glass on the table, and gently took his. Then I held my hand out to him, and waited. It didn't take long. We were in step again now; in fact, the dance promised to be something pretty incredible. He took my hand and let me pull him up, and I was struck by the easy strength in him, the way he balanced me. Sparring with him had always been a rare, guilty pleasure. Now, thinking of the way he moved with a sword, his grace and control, I felt my body responding to his like a wire to current. Before he could say anything, before my own overactive brain could stop me, I cupped his face in my hands. Kissed him, gently, the brush of lips a perfect echo of the first time we'd done it. "Is this all right?" I pulled back to search his face, to trace my fingertips over his cheekbones, the long curves of his eyebrows. They were soft to the touch. My heart was racing already, threatening to burn itself out. "I think I'll survive it." He was breathless, his eyes darker than I'd ever seen them. I slipped my fingers into his short hair, stroking him with a touch I hoped was soothing. He was still so tense. Drawn to his mouth again, I closed my eyes and tasted him very gently, with my lips and the tip of my tongue, daring a little more this time, a few more seconds of that warm, tingling contact. He responded very slightly, a pressure so light I might almost have imagined it, and still he didn't touch me, just stood very still under my caresses as if he were savoring them, memorizing them. When I let him go his eyes were closed, and the separation made me ache. "Methos." I didn't know I was going to say it. It came out like a sigh, or a plea. Whatever it was, he answered. His eyes opened and he very calmly reached out, took my sweater by the hem, and pulled the whole thing up over my head and my arms until it was off, out of the way. Then he cupped my face as I had done to him, tilted my head a little and stepped in close, his heat warming me through thin layers of cotton. This time we held each other when we kissed, and it was like... it was unbelievable. He was all lithe muscle and warm silk, like I'd known he would be. And his mouth was tender and very hot, devastating when he kissed me as if he wanted to melt me into a puddle on the spot. He succeeded. By the time he stopped for a breath I was shuddering from the kissing, hard for him and dizzy from lack of air. I'd spread my hands against his waist, holding on to keep from going too fast, from spooking him. Oh, god, this was going to be tough. He had me by the back of the neck now, his hand warm there, his fingers in my hair. His other hand slipped up from my shoulder to press at my throat and jaw, angling me, and then he was kissing me again, deeper still. His tongue flicked against my lips. Suddenly I was hungry for his tongue against mine, aching for it. I moaned my desperation softly into his mouth and he gave me what I needed, tasting me deeply, without mercy. His aggressiveness caught me off guard, but not half so much as my instant response to it, my body's frantic yes. I should have known. Danger has always turned me on far more than I'd like to admit—and he is dangerous to me in so many ways. He took possession of my mouth and I let him, perfectly content to let him devour me until there was nothing left. At last he made a sound like defeat and broke away. We stared at each other, trying to remember how to breathe. I could feel him touching my neck, my face, his fingertips brushing the edges of my hair. I couldn't stop touching him either. He felt too good under that thin t-shirt, now slightly damp with the moisture that had sprung up along his spine. But I also felt the tension, still there in the muscles of his back; when he backed off, I didn't stop him. I didn't know why he was so afraid to let himself go with me, but sensed it would be a mistake to push it. If we didn't cool down this was going to be over before it started anyway. Still breathing hard, he ran one hand back through his hair. His eyes were wide. "Jesus, Duncan. Jesus." I nodded agreement, trying to get myself under control. "Yeah. Don't know how we missed that." He picked up his drink and downed half of it, then pressed the cold glass to his temple. "If I'd known you kissed like that I'd've made sure we didn't." It really got to me that he wasn't playing it cool with me, that he was obviously as affected as I was. My whole body felt like it was lit up from the inside, I wanted him so much. "Maybe I should have jumped you that first day, in Paris," I laughed breathlessly. "Maybe you should have. Might have made things easier." But he didn't laugh, and I could see the strain in his face. I moved close, not touching, and nodded toward his glass. "Why don't you finish that, and let me get you another?" He looked at me suspiciously, and I felt my face warm. "This'll be a lot easier if you let me help you relax." That drew a faint grimace. "Don't think anything you could do right now is likely to have that effect." "Let me try anyway?" He nodded, finally, and finished the drink. I was close enough to see the faint dew of condensation against his temple, and the desire to kiss him there and feel the coolness was almost overpowering. But instead I took his empty glass and moved to the bar. I turned around to see him standing at the window, framed by the soft purple twilight. I went toward him. When I was standing right behind him, he let out the breath he'd been holding. "Mac... this is crazy. You know that." "I know." "You and me, two Immortals... you know it'll get us killed, in the long run." "Maybe." I wasn't worried that he was trying to talk me out of this. I knew it'd gone too far for that. In fact, I was happy, because he knew. Knew that if we took this step it wasn't for one night, not anything like. 'In the long run,' he'd said. He knew. I reached around him to hand him his drink, and he took it absently, spilling some almost immediately as he gestured with it. "Why d'you think Amanda doesn't stay with you? She knows it's ridiculous. Every Immortal knows that. We'll be hostage for each other, all the time. Easy targets, both of us." He was really agitated. I put my hands on his shoulders, working gently at the knotted tension. "You are that for me already. So is she. O'Rourke proved that, if nothing else. Has nothing to do with why Amanda and I don't live together, and you know it." Methos arched his neck a little, so I could get at the muscles better. "Besides," I teased gently. "You got all of us out of that mess and hardly broke a sweat doing it. What are you so worried about?" Methos bowed his head still further. I couldn't see his face, but I saw the way he was gripping his glass with both hands. Hurting for him, I stopped working at his shoulders and laid my hand against the back of his neck. "We're in the same boat here, you know. Don't you think it scares me to think about losing you?" My throat closed, and my words grew thick, tears suddenly hot and close. "Don't you think it would kill me?" His head came up and he looked at me. Seeing my face, his eyes got very bright. "Don't you start," he warned, "or I will, and then where will we be?" It took me a minute to be able to answer. I knew he wouldn't soon forgive me if I actually made him cry. "All right," I said when I could, "But I mean it. You hear what I'm saying?" He nodded, reluctantly; that was good enough for me. "Good. Now come on, old man." I squeezed his shoulders. "Get that shirt off and lie down. I want to do this properly." "Now?" he protested, but we both knew it was a token, only that. I smiled at him, couldn't help it. I was suddenly full of the thought of being able to touch him as much as I wanted, making him feel good with my touch. My happiness spilled over and I kissed him where I'd wanted to before, at the soft, fragrant hollow at his temple. "Yes, 'now.' I think we've waited long enough, don't you?" I guess he did, because he took a long swallow of his scotch, watching me over the glass, then set his drink down on the window sill and moved toward the bed without another word. * * * Watching him pull the white cotton t-shirt over his head, I still wasn't far away from tears; I swallowed them back, unwilling to spare attention for them. He was a pale figure in the shadows, the sculpted form of him as beautiful as any I'd ever seen, male or female. He toed off his shoes and socks, then undid his belt and let that fall, too. The jeans stayed on. He never once looked at me as he lowered himself gracefully to the bed and waited face down, head on his crossed arms, for me to come to him. In the drawer of the night stand I found a bottle of massage oil that had never been opened; I got it out and broke the seal, thinking there was something to be said for the boy scout motto. Kicking off my shoes I sat beside Methos on the bed. He did look at me then. Turned his face against his folded hands and looked up at me, solemn, with that same intensity like he was memorizing me. He watched me slick the oil between my palms, warming it, and I saw him smile a little. "What?" I answered his smile unthinking. I started warming the muscles of his back with long strokes, and he closed his eyes. "You have really beautiful hands," he said. Surprised, I stopped for a second, then resumed the slow rhythm, concentrating on getting him used to my touch. I found myself looking at my rough, square hands as they worked over his torso. "They're not," I said, not knowing at all what he'd meant. "Not like yours." I felt him shrug. "They're like you. Strong, dependable. A little rough at the edges." He sighed, relaxing perceptibly. "But when they dance..." Growing brave, I straddled his hips and began to knead in earnest against the knots in his shoulders, coaxing the corded muscles to give in to my touch. The oil was fragrant with something like sandalwood. The aromatics were pleasing, soothing. For what felt like a long time I massaged warmth and feeling into every inch of his shoulders and back, finally working up to the long neck. I could feel him relaxing more by the minute. I, on the other hand, was getting warmer by the minute. I was very aware his hips between my thighs, the firm, taut sweetness of his ass pressing gently against me. In my lifetime I've seldom been moved by a man's body; the few times I've tried it, it's usually been a case of getting carried away in the moment, or more rarely, a feeling of closeness I couldn't express any other way. But Methos was simply, truly beautiful to me. Unfair, I thought, that he should own so much of my heart and that his body should move me so. Either one would have been enough. Both was gonna kill me, most likely. I hit a particularly deep knot at the base of his skull, and he groaned softly as I worked to release it. I could sense his pleasure like sunlight washing over both of us. It was addictive as hell. I leaned forward and teased, "Rough around the edges, hmm?" "Just a little," he said huskily, practically purring as I rubbed slow circles into the soft skin of his nape. And then, so quietly it was almost buried in his arms, he said, "But then I like rough, now and then." It made me catch my breath unexpectedly, made raw heat jolt inside me. He heard the sound and turned his face against his hands until I could see his profile. I ran both hands from his neck to the small of his back, feeling the suppleness of his skin, the new ease of movement. He shifted under me and I moved off of him, letting him prop himself up on his elbows. The shadows were deep around my bed, but in the soft lamp light, his eyes glittered. "You've done this before?" With a man, he meant. I had to smile. "You reading my mind again?" But he didn't smile back. "It's a simple question," he said, gaze intent on mine. I drew a deep breath, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. "Despite appearances to the contrary thus far... yes, I've done this before." His eyes lowered, and he drew a breath of his own. It sounded a little shaky. Then he moved, rose up and turned toward me, resting one hand on my thigh, and I saw how hard he was, how his lips were flushed and his nipples drawn taut with his arousal. He didn't say anything, or look at me. But his hand on my thigh was a plea, his need suddenly washing over me as if he communicated it with his touch. My mouth had gone dry. I closed my hand over his. "Tell me what you want." I had to swallow, my throat aching with the desire to give him what he needed. "I want to give you pleasure. Anything, Methos." My urgency was rising fast to match his, and seeing how close he was, seeing the way he flushed at my words, I seemed to go from a strong idle straight into overdrive. His eyes rose to mine, and he laughed a little, breathlessly. "Much more pleasure and I'm gonna explode." He took my hand in his, drew it down between his thighs and cupped my palm against the rigid outline of his sex. His laugh ended in a groan when I touched him there, and he closed his eyes, catching his breath. "Oh god, literally. Mac—" He pushed himself into my hand as if he couldn't quite help it and his breath caught further. Feeling him like that, his erection hot against my hand through the denim, I almost groaned back. My own erection was suddenly fierce, pressing uncomfortably against my jeans. "It's okay," I told him, gently pulling my hand away, knowing he couldn't take much more stimulation. "It's okay." Then, before I knew what I was going to do, I'd bent down, slid my fingers into his hair and met his open mouth with mine. Kissing him was impossible, overwhelming. The more I tasted of him the more I wanted, and no amount of his tongue in my mouth was enough. I was dimly aware that I'd taken hold of his head, was trying to hold him absolutely still so I could get closer, deeper into him. At first he was equally desperate to crawl inside me, and I couldn't hold him; then suddenly I felt him relax and give in to the demand of my mouth, my hands, letting me take what I wanted from him. He went almost completely still against me, only his mouth answering my uncontrolled assault. I think now he was concentrating on trying not to come. I let go with one hand and started touching him, the silky curve of his throat, the hot skin at his waist. When my fingertips brushed a nipple by accident he broke away at last, hands coming up between us to clutch at my shirt. I could feel him shudder, and his voice was ragged. "Please, Duncan—" It hurt, to feel the way he needed me in the fierce grip of his hands, to hear it in the way he said my name. I suddenly couldn't bear that he should need anything from me and not have it. I'd failed him so many times before. Gently I disengaged his hands and he let me, searching my eyes as if fearing I wouldn't understand what he couldn't say. Without prelude I got up and shed the damp cotton t-shirt, then undid the buttons of my jeans. Looking down, I saw the relief in his face. He watched me unfasten my jeans and pull them off, the intensity of his gaze making me blush like a boy. It wasn't embarrassment; his eyes made my skin hot wherever they touched me. I stood naked before him then, very aroused. Strangely I didn't feel self-conscious any more—not even when his eyes reached my erection and stayed there, his uneven breathing keeping counterpoint to my thudding heart. There was such pleasure in him, looking at me; I could feel it. Before he was finished looking his fill I moved, taking the single step that would bring me to the edge of the bed. My eyes locked with his; one knee on the bed, I bent over him and spread my hands against his hips. It was a question. In answer, he turned the rest of the way over and leaned back against his elbows, giving his permission. With hands that suddenly shook I reached for the buttons that would free him. He wore nothing at all under the jeans, and unfastening them I could feel his hot, naked sex, hard as steel. The denim was warm, slightly moistened with his eagerness. The idea of wearing these same jeans that had tasted his heat and his scent made my thoughts reel. When I slipped them down over his thighs and off, a sound of mingled relief and wanting escaped him, as if he couldn't hold it back. I had only a moment to draw breath, to see him in his sweet glory. Before I'd even begun to look, he locked his hand around my wrist in an iron grip and pulled me down against him. It was heaven, to feel him against me. Heaven to lie face to face and feel his arms go around me, his bare chest against mine. He seemed to entwine himself around every part of me at once, sending me into sensory overload; I was drunk on the glide of his hair against my palm, the satiny press of his chest, his flat belly. He was trembling, but his control took my breath away. The feel of his strong thigh sliding against mine made me gasp, made me long to press it close between to satisfy the ache. But I didn't; I followed his lead, knowing we walked a sword's edge between sweet, building ecstasy and desperation. Neither of us would last if we didn't at least try to control this. I held him close, all I could do while his hands, those incredible hands, seemed determined to drive me insane with their slow, thorough gentling of my body. They spread a rush of pleasure wherever they touched—my shoulder blades, my waist, my nipples and collarbones and neck—until I was trembling too, close to begging him to stop the sweet torment. He wouldn't kiss me. Just watched my face, my helpless responses to his touch, until finally I couldn't bear the way he was looking at me, and closed my eyes. "Duncan," he breathed. And showed mercy, pressing me back against the bed and touching his mouth to mine. I think I made a sound when he kissed me, a sob of gratitude, or relief. He was so beautiful, kissing me in mercy and love, as if I were fragile and would break if he didn't take great care to go slow, to make me know I was loved with every touch of his lips and tongue. It was too much, suddenly. Too much, to lie there with him in the shadows and answer his slow, passionate kisses and know this was Methos kissing me, Methos touching me, Methos. All at once, I really could not wait another moment. I had to have him inside me, all the way inside me, had to, or die. The need was deeper than desire, stronger. Like the need to breathe. Imperative. "Methos!" I gasped, clutching at his back. I felt his cock press against my hip, silken hot and leaking fluid. I pressed back helplessly. "Please—" I felt him go very still, and bury his face against my neck. He understood. "You sure?" he whispered roughly. Unable to stop myself, I shifted and pressed him between my thighs, my cock sliding along his with an almost unbearably erotic friction. I felt the fresh surge of his fluid mingle with mine. "Yes. God, please, yes—" With an effort that showed in his face, he shifted away from me and pushed himself up, looking for the bottle of massage oil. I didn't want to wait even that long, but before I could plead with him again, he had it, was squeezing the clear oil into his hand. He looked at me then, and I saw the need still as strong as before, still as urgent, held fiercely at bay by his frightening will. He scared me a little. It only made me want this more, to transform that tormented fierceness into joy. I bent my knees and offered myself to him. His breath caught, hard, and I saw his cock twitch, his beautiful cock that was going to be inside me soon. Face tight, he bent his head and slicked two fingers in the oil. His fingers almost made me come. I cried out when he touched me, couldn't help it. The oil made the first touch cool and slick, made the passage smooth, and when he slipped into me and stroked me inside, every nerve in my body jumped in response and devastating pleasure. My stomach muscles clenched and I curled up towards him, then lay there on my elbows panting, trying to hold back a climax that was suddenly right there. "Shh," he was murmuring. "Shh, easy, Duncan. Be easy." "Okay," I panted. "Okay." I lay back carefully, eyes squeezed shut. "Just—don't move for a second." "Am I hurting you?" I gasped a laugh. "No. Not pain." There was a pause. And then I felt his fingers move inside me, pressing waves of pleasure into me. "I see," he whispered dangerously, and I groaned, and rocked against his hand. I was past the first shock now; the need to come had eased, and there was only the sweet, thick pleasure and the ache of wanting more. When he pulled his fingers away the ache was infinitely worse, and I clenched my hands in the pillow beneath my head to keep from voicing it. Twice more he slicked me with oil, teasing at a place inside me that made thinking stop, until finally I shuddered, pleading. "Now, Methos. Please, now." "Yes." It was a whisper. He leaned over me and kissed me gently on the mouth. Then he was turning me onto my side, urging me to bend one knee up, and my body wanted nothing more than to go where his hands moved it, to shape itself to his will. When I was face down with my leg bent, I felt his weight against my back, his heat probing between my thighs. "Duncan—" he said harshly. I could hear him panting now. I pressed back against him, letting him know I was ready. When he entered me, I felt such overwhelming relief. Terrifying, like falling, to feel him opening me and pressing inside, to be so vulnerable. But the relief, the satisfaction, was so much greater than the fear. He was hot. So hot. A slow surge of pure pleasure spread through me as he filled me, washing over me again and again as he moved deeper, until finally he was all the way in, his whole body pressed to mine. God, the feel of him. His strength made me feel totally enveloped. I'd never, in all my life, felt like that with anyone. He saw my instinctive grasp at the bed and his hands found mine, his fingers curling between mine until it felt like he touched every part of me. He bent his face against the back of my neck. I couldn't fall when he was holding me like that. No more fear, then. Only Methos and me, so close we couldn't get any closer. I must have made a sound. "You all right?" he whispered, as if it cost him a great deal to say it. I squeezed his fingers. "Oh, yes." He stayed in me like that, taking slow breaths in a deep, controlled rhythm that I took up instinctively. I could feel him throb in me with every heartbeat, could feel his breath against my ear, raising goosebumps. Tremors rippled through him like a breeze through tall grass. Then, at last, he drew a breath and held it—and moved. "Ah..." I breathed, the pleasure welling over me fully for the first time, the unmatched ecstasy of feeling him move in me, slowly stroking himself in me, waves of sensation released with each penetration, each pressing of his cock against that place in me that cried out for him. So slowly, he drew back. Then slid deep again, a tender, irresistible push. Again. Again. Each glide, pressure, fullness made me groan out my thankfulness. Each slow motion of Methos fucking me, filling me up with his thick heat, felt like a throb of pure pleasure that ran from the back of my heels, up my thighs, through my balls and belly and spine and a deeper, vulnerable place that shuddered with the delicious pressure. It felt so good I almost couldn't hold it inside—my breaths came out like sobs, pleading wordlessly for him not to stop, never to stop. Then I felt his mouth, hot against my neck. He was trying to smother the low cries he was making, his panting breaths. Wanting more than anything to feel him let go, I caught my breath and pressed back against him on the next exquisite stroke. And was rewarded. The choked, broken sound he made was so sweet, so uncontrolled it made me shiver and moan in response. Without warning he let go of one of my hands and rolled us over until I was half on top of him. His arm went around my waist, and this time when he thrust inside me it wasn't slow, and it went so deep I couldn't breathe for a second, the pressure was so great. Then he touched me, stroking between my thighs before taking me in his hand—my cock in his oil-slicked grip—and I forgot about breathing, or anything else. He finally lost control then, finally let go, and when I felt it happen, when he rolled us onto our sides and lost himself in his surging primal rut, fast and deep, the rhythm took me over with a flood of sweeping pleasure almost immediately. It was huge, immense, bigger than my whole body—a deep, endless wave that was gonna kill me when it hit, and I didn't care, couldn't stop it. He was sobbing against my neck, stroking me mercilessly, pushing us right into the pleasure, head on, not stopping, and all I could do was hold on and feel it and cry out my joy. When he froze against me, the throb of his orgasm deep within me at last triggered mine, and I came, shuddering and gasping for air as if I'd died and come back, the crest of pleasure so violent it was almost pain. Then came the long, sweet forever of falling, and for those few moments there was nothing in my world except him, and my own blessed release. * * * The first awareness I had was of Methos slowly kissing the back of my neck, over and over, as if trying to press an imprint of his mouth there. "You're gonna wear away the skin," I told him, my voice hoarse. "You'll heal," he murmured back. He nipped me lightly for my cheekiness; a little jolt of sensation followed the graze of his teeth. A cool breeze had slipped in from the open window, but his arms were wonderfully warm around me. His love for me was tangible, in the way he kissed me, the way he pressed himself so close, his tenderness with me like a rare stone glinting from under all his layers and levels of careful, intricate self. As it had always been, when I'd known to look. I was awed, humbled by him. That he could still love like that. That he was still strong enough, brave enough, to let me know it. I knew I'd never be worthy of it—doubted that anyone could be. Still, even knowing that, the perfect contentment of that moment was so great I would have stayed in it forever if I could have. Dangerous, where my thoughts had gone, lying there with him. I, of all people, should know that the Fates do not deal kindly with those who tempt them. I, of all people, know better than to use words like forever. But I couldn't help it. I knew that feeling, that forever feeling. I'd had it before in my life. Not often. A few times. With Little Deer, with Tessa. Now, with Methos, impossible as it might be. Methos, who was Immortal. Who had lived longer, survived longer than anyone in the world. I couldn't help it. "Penny for them," he said, finally done with kissing me for the present. I tried to explain, but didn't know how to begin. So instead I turned in his arms and pulled him close, starting my own pattern of kisses on his shoulder and long, pale throat, the only parts of him my lips could reach. "Mm," he murmured. "My thoughts exactly." "We must be on the same wavelength." I nibbled at a spot under his ear, stroking the soft hollows at the small of his back and the sweet, smooth curves below. "About time, wouldn't you say?" he said after a moment. His voice was beginning to fade. I glanced up and saw his eyes had closed. "Yep." I began gently kissing the place where his pulse beat. "I would." I could feel him getting more and more relaxed. Smiling against his neck, I slowed my caresses until he was drowsy in my arms, his breathing slow, rhythmic. Finally, he drifted off. The awe I'd felt before had faded, leaving me with only tenderness and affection for this brittle, difficult, ancient soul who'd somehow gotten inside my heart and claimed it, and who could still look innocent as a boy when he slept. Worth a shot, I tempted Fate, brushing lips over that unapologetic nose. Worth a shot. And I went on kissing him, telling him with my mouth and my arms and my body how very much he was loved. the end

It was the cigarettes that Jack noticed first, hand-rolled ones smoked no-hands and smelling vaguely of cloves. Jack had smoked for years himself, but he had to admit he'd never been able to balance a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as effectively, much less actually smoke it once it was there. But somehow those cigarettes never fell, only leaving that mouth to allow for a sip of scotch, always served on the rocks. It was the mouth he noticed next, surprisingly pink and bow-shaped considering that it was usually surrounded by 5 o'clock shadow by the time Jack walked into the bar each evening. A pair of glasses hovered above, the eyes hiding behind them still a mystery. A pair of full, mobile eyebrows, and then a mop of brown hair, sun-streaked blonde in places and messily finger-combed. He had a strong neck attached to broad shoulders clad in plain button-down shirts, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up over tanned arms dusted with golden hair, herringbone tweed jackets with elbow patches hanging on the coat rack next to the booth. Jack had never seen the man outside of his usual booth, papers spread all over the table in front of him, but Jack imagined that he was tall and fit and even more gorgeous than he was bent over a pile of paper. Because while Jack had never seen the man standing up, he had to admit he was one of the hottest men Jack had ever seen. And the way he made love to his cigarette did things to Jack's insides that made it difficult to nonchalantly sit on a barstool and drink his beer. Jack wanted to intimately acquaint himself with that mouth, but the guy gave off such an air of "noli me tangere" that Jack couldn't even get up the guts to say hi, much less ask him out. *** It was a blustery November day some two months after Jack had been transferred to his new precinct, and first gone to the bar and seen the man with the hand-rolled cigarettes, when he walked into the bar and didn't see him. Jack ignored the empty feeling in his belly, ordered his usual Heineken, and settled into his usual stool to watch whatever game was on the nearest TV set. He kept glancing at the empty booth, expecting the man to materialize, but he didn't. Jack was almost finished with his beer and starting to think about leaving when the door opened and the man walked in with a gust of cold air. He was wearing an open greatcoat over his usual tweed jacket, button-down, and tie, a beaten-up leather messenger bag over one shoulder and a sour expression on his face. "We were starting to think you weren't coming," Janet, one of the bartenders, called from the sink. The man merely grunted and sank into the barstool next to Jack rather than his usual booth. "You want your usual, Professor?" she asked, reaching for a lowball glass. The man shook his head. "Southern Comfort, neat," he said, voice as weary as his posture. Janet nodded, picked up a shot glass, poured, and handed him the drink. "Is it Sha're, then?" Janet asked, leaning on the bar across from him. "Of course," the man said, that delicious mouth twisted into a sardonic grimace-like smile. He picked up the shot glass and tossed it back. "Janet, give me another," he said, putting the shot glass on the counter, upside down. "It's not every day that your ex-wife remarries." Janet poured him another and he lifted the glass high. "A toast! Hodie mihi, cras tibi. What's to me today, tomorrow to you. I wish them both the best of luck." He tossed the second shot back, deposited his glass on the counter, and took off his coat, draping it over the empty barstool on his other side. "Another, Janet, if you don't mind." "Hey, Janet, put them on my tab," Jack said as Janet poured the drink. The other man looked at him quizzically, and Jack added, "Any guy with ex-wife troubles has my sympathies." The other man chuckled, staring into Jack's eyes for a moment, and took his drink. Oh god, his eyes were blue. But the very fact that he had ex-wife troubles meant that Jack's chances were slim to none. Though Jack himself had been married... The man took a cigarette case out of an inside pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. Jack couldn't help but follow it to the man's mouth, resisting the urge to groan at the almost orgasmic look on the man's face when he took the first drag. It took him a minute to realize that the other man was speaking, cigarette perfectly balanced in the corner of his mouth. "I'm Jackson, by the way, Daniel Jackson, and Janet's going to insist I prefix that with doctor," he said, glancing at her. "Three PhDs, Daniel, not something you should overlook," Janet said, and Jack was amused to note that Jackson blushed. "I don't see you mentioning that you have an MD after your name," Jackson shot back. "Or the fact that you're only working here nights because your partner is teaching a Masters-level seminar in astrophysics at the university." Janet sniffed, mock-insulted, and walked away, heading back to the sink, and Jackson laughed, a musical sound that Jack wanted to hear more often. "Jack O'Neill," he said and shook the other man's hand, which was big and warm in his, with calluses in unexpected places. "And I don't have any fancy letters after my name, but I get by. Cop, though I babysit more than anything else these days," he clarified when Jackson quirked one expressive eyebrow. "Is that why your wife left?" Jackson asked after a few minutes' silence. He was staring straight ahead, the third shot still cradled in his hands. "The fact that you're a cop?" "Indirectly," Jack said, staring into the depths of his glass. It had been something like five years ago, but at times the memories were still fresh. "To letting the past stay where it is," he said, lifting his glass and draining it. "Oh, I'll drink to that," Jackson said, lifting his shot glass and then tossing it back. *** The next day, Jackson was in his usual booth, cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth, papers spread on the table and scotch on the rocks just within reach of his right hand. In Jack's mind, all was right with the world. "Hey, Dr. Jackson," he said as he sat in his usual stool and nodded when Janet touched the Heineken tap. "Hey, Jack, come sit with me," Jackson said once Jack had picked up his beer, causing him to almost dropped it. "I don't feel like grading papers tonight." He gathered up the papers in front of him and slid them to the side. "And call me Daniel," he added as Jack took his beer and sat down across from him in the booth. "Daniel it is," Jack agreed, taking a sip of his beer. "So, what do you teach?" "Anthropology and archaeology, mostly," Daniel said, taking a drag from his cigarette and twirling a pen idly in his long fingers. "I teach a linguistics class every few years, too, and once in a while I guest lecture for the history department." Jack was trying really hard to pay attention to what Daniel was saying, he really was, but the other man had put down his pen and was now playing with his cigarette. Jack couldn't tear his eyes away. "They keep giving me the intro classes, which are always hell to teach." "That I can relate to," Jack said, seizing upon the topic and looking up at Daniel's face. He tried not to focus on Daniel's lips, but it was difficult. "New cadets either think they know everything and want to show off or really don't want to be there." "Same thing with college students," Daniel said, taking a sip from his scotch. "Most of the students in the intro classes are only taking it for credit, anyway, and the rest get a bit cocky." Daniel lifted his cigarette to his lips and wrapped them around it in a way that made Jack squirm against his suddenly too-tight pants. "So, do you train new cadets?" "When I happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time," Jack said, and Daniel laughed in sympathy. "I used to do the beat cop thing, and then I was in homicide, and now I mostly sit around and give advice when the rookies run into something they can't handle. It's boring as hell. I'd retire, but I've got nothing else to do with myself. Wow, that was maudlin." "We can say it's just the beer talking," Daniel said with a sympathetic look that Jack found comforting rather than condescending. "Plus, it's Friday, so it's ok." Jack had to smile at his utter lack of logic, but it cheered up his oddly-depressed mood. "Another scotch, Professor?" Janet called from the bar but Daniel shook his head. "I should be getting home," he said, shifting his cigarette to its precarious perch at the corner of his mouth and starting to pack the half-graded papers into his bag. "Busy day tomorrow. I have a date," he said, a slightly lost look on his face for a moment, like he couldn't quite believe what he was saying. "You finally ask out that music professor?" Janet asked with a cheeky grin. "Actually, she asked me out," Daniel said. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood, tossing the butt in the table's ashtray and putting on his sport coat, greatcoat, and bag. "See you around, Jack." "Yasureyoubetcha," Jack said without thinking, staring at the spot where Daniel had been sitting. He collapsed back against the booth as soon as the other man had paid his tab and left the bar. Damn. Practically shot down without even saying a word. Jack downed the rest of his beer and stood. Janet gave him an oddly knowing look as he paid, but guilelessly wished him a good weekend as he left. *** Jack didn't come to the bar on the weekends, and he didn't want to do something suspicious like show up on Saturday or Sunday to see if Daniel was there; he wanted to think he wasn't that desperate. The professor was at his usual booth on Monday, and Jack picked up his beer from Janet and then moved to the booth. Daniel smiled around his cigarette and gestured for him to sit, putting down the paper he was reading. Jack's insides fluttered, and he settled on the other side of the booth. "So, Professor, how'd the date go?" Janet asked from the bar, glancing at Jack, as if she had been waiting for his arrival before asking the question. He blinked innocently at her, but the knowing smile didn't leave her face. Daniel groaned, raising a hand to his eyes. "It was a disaster," he said, and it was all Jack could do to keep from cheering. "I never knew people could get so defensive about opera. She almost bit my head off when I thoughtlessly said I didn't like it very much." "Well, at least you figured that out before you two got married," Jack tried to joke, and Daniel laughed. "It could have been worse." "Oh, without a doubt," Daniel said. "My first date with my ex-wife comes to mind." He started in on a story involving a dig in an Egyptian town once called Abydos, a candy bar, a misunderstanding about a local custom, and an accidental marriage, but Jack was paying more attention to the way his hands were moving than what he was actually saying. Daniel didn't seem to notice. "So, does that mean you're back on the market?" Janet asked when Daniel had finished his story. "Because one of Sam's friends in the physics department really wants to meet you." "Fine, fine, whatever," Daniel said, waving one long-fingered hand. "I can't promise you anything, though." "Just be your charming self, and you'll have no problem," Janet said, and Jack could have sworn she winked at him. At Jack, not at Daniel. Either she was really perceptive, or Jack needed to hide better. Probably both, actually. "So, Dr. J, details, details," Janet urged, and Jack settled in for the long-haul. *** Over the next month and a half, Jack gave in to his newfound masochism as Daniel recounted horror story after horror story of his recently-revived dating life. After Cecilia, the opera-loving music professor, there was Marie, an astrophysics professor that Daniel was absolutely unable to carry on a conversation with; Indu, an astronomy professor, who all but sent Daniel running screaming from the restaurant when she admitted that she was husband-hunting; and Jennifer, an ER doctor that Janet worked with that Daniel had immediately vetoed when she told him she didn't like chocolate. Jack was beyond conflicted; he hated Daniel dating other people, and was overjoyed when things didn't work out, but then he felt guilty for rejoicing when Daniel was unhappy (even if Daniel seemed to find the whole thing rather amusing) and then got angry at himself for letting it get to him at all. There were times when Jack just wanted to get up and leave, but he couldn't tear himself away, and risk losing what little bit of Daniel he could claim. Throughout the proceedings, Janet seemed to be interested as much by Jack's reaction as Daniel's stories. Daniel tried his hardest to change the subject, but it wasn't until late December – when his rash of dates gave way to exam week and then the following grading – that he really succeeded. "Grades were due today," Daniel said one Friday evening a few days before Christmas. "Will Sam be back next week?" Janet shook her head. "My professor's taking the next week off to recover, and then we'll be trading after the holidays. You know how it is." Daniel chuckled and nodded. "You going to visit family anywhere?" Jack asked, glad the conversation had turned to safer topics, but Daniel shook his head with a wistful look. "Don't have any," he said, taking a sip of his scotch and resting his cigarette in the ashtray. "My parents died in an accident when I was young, and my grandfather died in an insane asylum last year." He gave Jack a rueful grin. "Sha're and I never managed to have kids, and I don't have any other family." He shrugged. "It doesn't bother me, really; I've never really celebrated Christmas or anything." Jack was very close to inviting Daniel to spend Christmas with him, since he'd be alone, too, but the look on Daniel's face had veered into pensive as he contemplated the bottom of his lowball. They sat in rather uncomfortable silence for a while, until Jack had finished his beer and glanced at his watch. "I'll see you guys in a few weeks," he said, standing and handing Janet his credit card so he could pay his tab. "I go up to Minnesota for the holidays to pretend to be a grumpy old man." That got a small smile out of Daniel, and it warmed Jack to his toes. Janet crooked a finger at Jack as he slipped on his coat, and he leaned over the bar so she could whisper in his ear. "Don't let him get away, O'Neill," she said softly, and Jack leaned back, unsure how to reply. "You'll regret it." *** In the end, Jack wound up staying up north well into January; he'd had vacation time piling up, so he stayed a couple extra weeks ice fishing in the property's small lake and drinking beer. He rather resolutely didn't think about anything, especially not bow-like lips wrapped around hand-rolled clove cigarettes or big blue eyes half-hidden behind rectangular silver wire-frames. And he certainly didn't imagine those lips around his dick or those eyes closed in ecstasy when he jerked off each night. Even after he'd returned to the city, it was almost another week before he was able to stop by the bar to see Daniel; a new batch of recruits had come in that Monday and he'd had his hands full with them well into the evenings until the end of the week. He spent all of Friday complaining about his knees, and was bouncing out the door at a more decent time after T, his partner, had gotten tired of his whining. His first stop, of course, was the bar. Daniel wasn't there, though, and neither was Janet. Jack walked over to the bad and waited for the statuesque blonde woman behind it to come over. "Where's Dr. Jackson?" he asked her, and her slight pleasant bartender smile gave way to a grin. "So you're Jack O'Neill," she said, pouring Jack a Heineken. "Janet and Dr. J've told me all about you. I'm Sam Carter, by the way." "Really," Jack said, eyes wide. "You're not what I was expecting." "No, I wouldn't think so," Carter said, smile fading. "You're not going to make something of it, are you?" Jack would have laughed at any other woman who'd said something like that, but this one looked like she would more than hold her own. Jack shook his head, and Carter relaxed. "Janet's probably told you a pack of lies about me, then," he said, playing with his glass. "Then you're not in love with Dr. J?" she asked innocently, and Jack almost fell off his barstool. Carter's grin widened. "Ah, thought so. You going to do anything about it, then?" "Why should I?" Jack asked miserably, unsure why he was opening up to this woman at all. "We've got fuck-all in common. I've never even seen him outside of here. And knowing my luck, he's probably straight as an arrow." "I can put your mind to rest on that last one, at least," she said with a conspiratorial smile. "As we speak, Dr. Daniel Jackson is one a date with one Cameron Mitchell, and ex-patient of Janet's." Jack cocked an eyebrow at her and she nodded. "Mr. Mitchell," she said with emphasis, "is a retired Air Force major, honorably discharged two years ago when some top secret mission left him almost a paraplegic. He's walking now – only barely needs his cane, I hear – and he's been dating your Daniel for about three weeks." Any jealousy Jack might have felt was killed by the fluttery feeling in his stomach the thought of "his" Daniel gave him. "Does it look serious?" he asked after he'd taken a gulp of beer to center himself. "Not sure," Carter said. "He hasn't brought him home to meet his mother and me," she said with a grin. "You'll have to ask him on Monday." "Yeah," Jack said quietly, staring into the bottom of his beer. "I just hope I'm not too late." *** Daniel was in his usual seat on Monday, and looked up excitedly when Jack came in. "Jack, you're back! How was your trip?" Despite the looks Carter kept throwing him, Jack let himself get caught up in telling Daniel about Minnesota. For once, he had Daniel's almost undivided attention, even if he continued to futz with his cigarette throughout. It wasn't until Wednesday that Carter was able to turn the conversation to Mitchell. Jack listened in despair as Daniel waxed poetic on how wonderful Mitchell was. "It doesn't bother you that I...that he...well, is a he, right?" Daniel asked earnestly when Jack had gone quiet. "Oh, no," Jack said, forcing a smiled; that wasn't the problem at all. "I'm...you know, too," he added with a bizarre hand wiggle that made him feel really silly, but Daniel smiled understandingly. "Don't really make a big deal of it, though." "Yeah, me neither," Daniel said, and went back to talking about Mitchell, about how hopeless he was a chess and how he was back in school so he could get another degree and get a job with an aeronautics firm. Jack guessed the day was a victory, especially when Daniel clapped him on the shoulder as he stood to hoist his bag and leave. Jack grinned at Carter when he left sometime later, ignoring her accusatory look. He wasn't stalling, not at all. *** "So, if you're not busy, do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?" Daniel asked, and Jack almost fell out of the booth. Daniel smiled slightly, as if he'd said something mildly amusing, and took a sip of his scotch. It was a Thursday night, a few weeks after Jack had gotten back from vacation. Daniel was well into the semester, it seemed, because he spent much more time writing tests and grading papers than he did talking. He still invited Jack to sit in his booth, though, and Jack relished in the chance to watch Daniel savor his scotch, chew on his pen, mumble to himself, and make love to his cigarette while he worked. Jack had also hoped that the almost daily exposure – he still didn't come to the bar on weekends, and Daniel had stopped coming on Fridays – would cure his jealousy, but that plan had yet to be successful. "What about that Mitchell guy?" Jack managed to choke out, and a momentary grimace crossed his face. "I broke it off with him," Daniel replied. "Cam's a health nut, he kept giving me a hard time about all the cookies and coffee I consume, the glass or two of scotch a day, you know. I just got tired of him trying to convince me to quit smoking," he added conspiratorially. Daniel looked so hot with a cigarette between his lips; Jack couldn't imagine how anyone could look beyond that to try to convince him to quit. "I know it's bad for me, of course," Daniel continued. "And I've been meaning to quit for years, but giving me a hard time about it all the time isn't the way to go." He sighed, exhaling a tendril of smoke. "He used to complain about the smell." "I don't know, I like the clove-y scent," Jack said before he could think about it, and Daniel cocked an eyebrow. "It's exotic," he added with a shrug. "You a smoker?" Daniel asked, resting his head in his raised hands and looking right at Jack. That bright blue gaze held him captivated, and it took him a minute to find his tongue. "Yeah, but my wife got me to quit when...when Charlie was born. My son," he added by way of explanation. "He shot himself with my off-duty piece about five years back." Daniel's expression was heartrendingly sympathetic without being pitying, and for the first time Jack felt almost comfortable talking about it. "After he died and Sara left, I lapsed back into it, but Teal'c, my partner at the precinct, keeps me at less than a pack a week." "You never answered my question," Daniel changed the subject, and Jack smiled at the welcome interruption. Daniel's answering smile was all the proof he needed to know that Daniel knew, too. "Jack?" Something about the moment made Jack bold, and he reached over and took the cigarette from between Daniel's lips, placing it between his own and taking a drag. His insides fluttered as he watched Daniel, whose eyes had darkened and he was licking his lips. He took another drag, savoring the taste of the smoke on his tongue and the buzz of the nicotine, and exhaled. "Sure," he said, glad he'd succeeded in sounding nonchalant after the daring move. "I get off at six. I'll meet you on the campus at half past?" Daniel's eyes went even darker at the innuendo and he took the cigarette back. "In front of the archeology building," he said, taking a nervous sip of his scotch. He lowered his voice, tone going deep and husky. "I can't wait." *** Jack was so fidgety the next day, T spent about half of it telling him to stop moving. His eyes barely left the clock from 5:30 on, and he was out the door at the stroke of six. He knew he'd be getting hell from the rest of the precinct on Monday, but he couldn't bring himself to care. After all, he had a date. He was running early so he loitered outside the archeology building, shoulders hunched against the March wind, scuffing his shoes against the pavement and wondering whether he should have worn a tie. Daniel didn't appear by 6:30, nor by 6:35, and by 6:40 Jack was starting to fear that he'd been stood up. But Daniel appeared five minutes later, hurrying out of the building with a gaggle of undergrads on his heels. "I'm so sorry I'm late," he said, unexpectedly giving Jack a hug, and Jack's arms came up automatically to wrap around him. He was so warm, it made Jack shiver. "I totally forgot to cancel my office hours, and they tend to run over." Daniel stepped back and grabbed Jack's hand, tucking their linked hands in Jack's coat pocket. Jack could swear a few of the undergrads sighed unhappily as they left, but he wasn't really paying attention. Daniel's hand had calluses in unexpected places; not just those from holding a pen, and in different places than the ones that came from firing a gun. Jack wasn't one for PDA, especially with guys, but he liked holding Daniel's hand. "So, where do you want to go?" "There's a great diner about two blocks that way, vintage 1950s-style," Daniel said, pointing. "I go there all they time, they make great burgers." "Sounds great," Jack said. "Do we need to pick up your car, or can we walk?" "I don't own a car," Daniel said sheepishly. He might have been blushing, too, but the wind had already turned his cheeks red. "Unneeded expense, especially with gas prices what they are." "Cool, me neither," Jack said breezily and Daniel seemed to relax. "The city's got great public transportation, and I like to walk." He let Daniel tug him down the street, babbling about the history of the diner, enjoying the sound of Daniel's voice and the feel of his hand, warm in Jack's own. The owner, a dark-haired woman who's nametag said "Vala" on it in block print, greeted Daniel by name when they entered the diner and seated them at what she called "your usual table, Dr. J". Vala came over again a few minutes later, flirted outrageously with Daniel until he jokingly threatened to leave, and then moved on to checking out Jack. "So this is the silver fox you've been telling me about, then?" she asked, and Jack stopped pretending to ignore her. Daniel did blush then and shooed her away. "You've been talking about me?" Jack asked. "Good things, I hope." Daniel hid behind his menu, mumbling something Jack couldn't hear, and Jack grinned. They decided on burgers, fries, and milkshakes in the end, and the food was very good, even though Jack barely tasted any of it on the way down. He and Daniel talked, about sports and the weather and silly "getting to know you" things that felt rather ridiculously first-date-like considering that they'd known each other for more than six months, but without all the usual first date awkwardness. They fought over paying the bill, with Daniel eventually winning, purely because he'd invited Jack out in the first place. Jack reached for Daniel's hand when they walked out of the diner, after Daniel had lit up a cigarette, and Daniel smiled brightly at him. "Walk me home?" he asked, eyelashes fluttering comically, but there seemed to be a serious edge to the question underneath. "Sure," Jack said, utterly failing once again to sound nonchalant. "Lead on, Dr. J." Daniel laughed and the began a slow stroll down the street. It was a clear night, and cold, but Jack didn't feel the wind at all. *** Daniel lived in a thin, eight-storey building in the older part of town. They stood outside the building for a minute, and Jack could feel a certain awkwardness seeping into the conversation. He'd never really dated men – just fooled around – so Jack had no idea what etiquette dictated should happen next. Daniel seemed to sense this, because he smiled slightly and asked, "Do you want to come up for coffee?" "Sure," Jack said. He followed Daniel inside the building to a creaky old elevator and up to the sixth floor. Daniel had let go of Jack's hand to unlock the front door, but he stood close to Jack in the elevator and rested his hand on Jack's lower back as they exited the small space. Daniel's apartment was one of two on the floor, and reminded Jack of a museum when they stepped inside. The main room had wall-to-wall bookshelves full to bursting with books interspersed with oddly painted pottery and funny-looking statues. Daniel seemed very tense while Jack looked around, but instantly relaxed when Jack said, "Sweet set-up you've got here." "Thanks," Daniel said, dumping his bag next to the desk in the corner and hanging his coat in a tiny closet by the front door. "Let me take your coat." He helped Jack slip off his coat and hung it up as well. "Make yourself comfortable, I'll go put up the coffee." He went through an opening into a small, utilitarian kitchen. Jack looked around at the shelves for a bit, but many of the books weren't in English, so he settled on the worn by comfy couch. Daniel stuck his head out into the main room a few minutes later, a question on his face. "I drink my coffee black," Jack said before Daniel could ask, and was rewarded with a heart-stopping smile. "Did I just pass a test or something?" he asked when Daniel walked into the room with two steaming, mismatched mugs in hand. "I'm a bit of a coffee snob," Daniel said sheepishly, sitting down next to Jack and handing him one of the mugs. "But it's not a deal-breaker if someone likes cream or sugar." They savored their coffee in silence, but Jack found his attention drawn to Daniel's face: those sinful lips, the way his expression became blissful with every sip. Daniel caught on eventually, and put his cup down, eyebrow raised quizzically. He gasped softly when Jack cupped his jaw and trailed his thumb over Daniel's full lower lip. "I've wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you," Jack admitted, surprised at how deep his voice had gone. Daniel sucked his thumb into his mouth and it was Jack's turn to gasp as Daniel sucked on his thumb and delicately swirled his tongue over the tip. He released the digit, eyes dark. "Bedroom?" he asked huskily, and Jack could only nod. *** Any fantasies Jack had had about Daniel's mouth paled in comparison to the real thing: his full lips were warm and soft and he was an amazing kisser. He'd pulled Jack to his feet and right into a kiss, but rather than being awkward, it was hot as hell. Jack tangled his fingers in Daniel's hair, cupping the back of his head. One of Daniel's hands settled heavy and sure on Jack's hip, arm snug around his waist, and the other on his shoulder, thumb caressing the base of Jack's throat. Daniel took a step back without letting go and Jack stumbled forward, breaking the kiss with a gasp. "Bedroom," Daniel reminded him, whispering against his mouth, and Jack let himself be led, renewing the kiss. It wasn't graceful, and they probably looked pretty silly, but by the time Daniel's back impacted with the closed bedroom door, they were both naked from the waist up, and Jack's pants were undone. Daniel fumbled with the knob, and then they tumbled into the room, dark except for the moonlight coming in the uncurtained windows. Daniel continued to walk backwards until they were against the bed and then sat on the edge, pulling Jack between his spread knees. He slipped his hands into the back of Jack's loosened jeans, cupping his bare ass, and then pushed them and his boxers down past his knees. For a moment, Jack debated stepping back to step out of his clothes, but Daniel wrapped one hand around his cock and then took the head into his mouth. Jack's eyes rolled up into his head and his hands fluttered uselessly before settling on Daniel's head. Daniel was...there were no words to describe what it felt like to have Daniel's mouth wrapped around his cock. All rational thought fled Jack's head. His last thought was that he'd been right to envy Daniel's cigarettes the first time he'd seen him. All too soon, though, Jack was pulled out of his reverie by cold air on his throbbing dick. He was on the verge of coming, but Daniel had released his dick. "Whu?" he asked, brain not quite engaged, but Daniel smirked up at him. "I want to be inside you," he said huskily, and Jack moaned at the very idea, dropping a hand to his cock and squeezing the base to keep himself from coming on the spot. Daniel rightly took that as agreement, and suddenly Jack found himself flat on his back on the bed. Daniel dumped Jack's shoes, socks, pants, and boxers on the floor and then stripped out of his own clothes. He got back onto the bed, kneeling between Jack's spread legs, and Jack pulled him down for a kiss, not letting him back up until they were both breathless. "Lube," Jack gasped out, and Daniel nodded. He leaned up over Jack to reach the bedside table, presenting Jack with his smooth chest, and he caught one of Daniel's nipples between his lips. Daniel shuddered and moaned, and Jack made a mental note to pursue that lead later. Daniel returned with lube and a condom, placing the former next to Jack's head on the pillow and quickly putting on the latter. He took the tube again and slicked his fingers. Jack put his feet flat on the bed, raising his knees, and waited. He expected to feel Daniel's fingers, but the other man bent even farther over and Jack felt an entirely different sensation against his hole. Oh God, Daniel was rimming him. Jack screamed and came. When he came back to himself, he noticed that Daniel had two fingers up his ass and a smirk on his face. "I'm flattered," he said, leaning down to kiss Jack's mouth and scissoring his fingers. "That wasn't what I'd been planning. Think you can do that again?" Jack managed a nod and Daniel smiled, ghosting a fingertip over his prostate. Jack gasped, hips coming up off the bed, cock astonishingly beginning to fill once more. "Enough," Jack said sometime later, and Daniel blinked at him. "Do it now." Daniel smiled brightly and Jack could swear his heart skipped a beat. Daniel lubed his cock and got into position. He was moving much too slowly for Jack's taste, so he wrapped his legs around Daniel's waist, ankles pressed to the small of his back, and forced him closer. "Move, Danny." Daniel gasped against his throat and took him at his word, sliding in the rest of the way with one smooth thrust. They lay panting for a moment while Jack adjusted to the welcome intrusion and then he shifted his hips, drawing a low moan out of the man on top of him. Daniel gathered his weight onto his elbows and started to move. All in all, it was over quickly. They were both ridiculously close, though Daniel had amazing stamina because Jack came first, and it seemed to be the contractions of his internal muscles that drove Daniel over the edge. He collapsed onto Jack, a panting, welcome weight, and Jack wrapped his arms around Daniel's back, letting his legs relax onto the bed when Daniel's softening cock slid out of his body. He knees were going to hate him in the morning, but he didn't care. Daniel shifted and Jack let him get up to throw out the condom and then he was back, head pillowed on Jack's shoulder. Together they pulled up the blanket, and Jack drifted off to sleep, a smile on his face. *** "You know, I think we should introduce Teal'c to Cam," Daniel said with a laugh after Jack finished his story of how T had made him vastly decrease his cigarette intake. "They sound like they'd get along." "They'd both be yelling at us right now," Jack agreed. They were curled up naked in Daniel's big bed, drinking coffee and sharing a cigarette between them. "I could never do this with Cam," Daniel said wistfully. He settled back more fully against Jack's chest with a contented sigh, but Jack frowned. "What's wrong, Jack?" "Did you just do this because of him?" Jack asked, and Daniel blinked up at him, confused. "Did you only ask me out tonight because you're on the rebound from Mitchell?" "No!" Daniel denied, turning to face Jack. "I was attracted to you from the first time you walked into the bar, but I was convinced you were straight." He brought his hand up to brush his knuckles over Jack's cheeks. "Cam Mitchell and I were never going to last, and I left when I realized I had better options," he added with a slow smile. Jack still felt a little unsure, but he kissed him, tasting clove-flavored smoke on his lips. "That was ridiculously sweet," he said, kissing him again. "Janet and Sam are going to laugh at us for taking this long, then." "I guess we deserve it," Daniel said, taking another drag on the cigarette. Jack still couldn't get over how hot Daniel looked with a cigarette between lips. He put the cigarette in the ash tray and the mugs on the bedside table. "But I think we should be making up for lost time now, not talking." Jack grinned and didn't protest as Daniel dragged him back down into the bed.

Kimberly never liked the mako injections. He doubted that any SOLDIER did. He'd never met anyone that couldn't be laid pathetically low by 5ccs of med-grade mako. The closest he'd seen was Elric, who usually looked green around the gills for a day and then passed out for another three. Kimberly wished that he could do the same. It was undignified to be stumbling about, hallucinating and puking for most of a week over a bitty syringe of green goo. Or orange-and-green goo, as the case was apparently this time. The stuff swirled like oil and water, not mixing in its tiny plastic prison. Kimberly looked up at the lab tech, then back at the syringe as the tech swabbed his arm. "Something new?" The lab tech blinked at him as he stuck the needle in and depressed the plunger. He hesitated, as if wondering if Kimberly was in the need-to-know loop, then shrugged. It wasn't like Kimberly couldn't see the difference, after all. "Improved formula." "Right," Kimberly muttered. He'd long ago figured out that the scientists here didn't know everything (or, sometimes, enough) about the mako they shot into peoples' veins. Every SOLDIER knew about the infrequent, quickly-hushed cases of those who had "reactions" to the injections: sudden homicidal rages, uncontrolled magical outbursts, catatonia, death. Not that any of that kept Kimberly away. Every power had its price, after all. Nothing was free. Still. Elric had gotten his injections the week before and hadn't mentioned any new formula. Kimberly was all for experimentation, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of being the guinea pig for one of the scientists' new brews. "You know the drill. Two hours." The lab tech gestured for him to lie back before walking off. Yeah, Kimberly knew the drill. They'd keep him here a bit to see if he turned into a meltdown case, then send him back to the barracks to be sick where they didn't have to deal with him. Kimberly swung his legs up and laid back on the hard cot, the overhead lights already turning too-bright and slightly phosphorescent around the edges. The burn as the mako sank into his bloodstream wasn't any worse than usual, at least. Just a bit...warmer. Kimberly closed his eyes and started the long process of waiting. --------------- Greed pushed away from the computer in the tiny cubby that pretended to be his office. He rubbed his eyes, then the back of his neck, and squinted at the clock in the corner of the screen. Nearly noon. And he was only about halfway through the paperwork. Fuck. This is going to take all damned day.... He yawned and leaned back, twisting so his spine cracked just so. The room was so small that he could plant his feet on one wall and press his palms against the opposite one. "Hey, Elric," he called, "I'll clean all your kit if you come do the paperwork." "Hell, no," Elric's voice floated back from the main room, where Greed had last seen him scrubbing behemoth blood out from between the plates of his gloves. Greed stood, wandering to the door just for something to do. Yep, the kid was still at it, head bent over the gloves laid out on the poker table, going to town with solvent and a toothbrush. Behemoth blood was a bitch on metal, too. Etched in like fucking acid. "Having too much fun, huh?" Elric snorted, glancing up. "Rather this than 'Fill out each form completely and in triplicate, with all attached schedules, addendums, and genetic samples....'" Greed winced, remembering that he did need to add on a Schedule 49-A-12 for the requisition for Dorochet's new sidearm. He'd forgotten about that. Fuck. He yawned again, "I'll pay you. 1000 gil." "No," Elric eyed a particularly discolored plate dubiously and reached for a wire brush. "Million gil." Elric looked up long enough to glare at him. His lips quirked almost into a smile, though. "You don't have a million gil." "I might," Greed said, examining his fingernails. "You never know." "You said you were a street thug from under the Plate," Elric pointed out, scrubbing with a vengeance until metal filings caught the sunlight. "A damned good street thug, thank you," Greed corrected, but gave up. "When should the others be back, again? And seriously, you should just replace that. You can scrub that thing until Yule rolls around, it's still not gonna come clean." Elric made a face and dropped the plate he was working on in disgust, reaching for the rag to clean off his hands. The smell of oil and cleaning fluid was strong, the sunlight shining in through the window onto the table and Elric's metal-dusted hands. It was a good smell, filled with memories of lazy days in the barracks. "Martel and the others should be another hour at least, by the time they hump it all the way across town. Kimberly should be back soon, though." Elric's mouth quirked up grimly. "I've got the handcuffs ready." Greed grinned approvingly. "Kinky." Elric rolled his eyes. "Please. Like I'd touch that with a ten-foot pole." He sniffed his fingers, made a face, and headed over to the sink. "He hallucinates, after mako injections. The first time, he raved for three days about eyes in the dark and red stone, and I think he was seeing evil cats all over the place. He kept trying to get his gloves for self-defense. We had to hide them and tie him to his bunk." Greed nodded sagely, cocking his head at the sound of the outer door opening, then closing. "That's why they stagger the injection schedule like this. They expect us to keep each other together, right after. Really, we're SOLDIERS. Who else is going to be able to keep us from--fuck, Kimberly, you look like hell." Out of the corner of his eye, Greed saw Elric twist around to look, but by then he was already halfway across the room. Kimberly was leaning against the doorjamb like it was all that was holding him upright. Then he raised his head, and one look at the bright orange glow that was his eyes made Greed stop, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. The room, Greed realized, suddenly reeked of magic, hot and electric, like a spell about to go off. "Kimberly. You ok?" Kimberly looked far from ok. Greed could see him trembling, face and bare arms unnaturally flushed, so red he looked like he'd been sunburned. Kimberly's pupils were barely visible under the swirling veil of mako swimming in his eyes. "I feel hot," Kimberly murmured. Greed made himself take the last few steps, though his every battle instinct was telling him to get the hell away. Very slowly, he reached out. He could feel the heat rolling off the kid even before skin touched skin. When his hand made contact with Kimberly's forehead, Kimberly hissed, like he was being burned, and jerked his head away, weakly. "You're burning up," Greed said. "Should we call Medical?" Elric asked, from somewhere behind him. Kimberly shook his head, and for once Greed agreed. "Hell no. They let him go, and they never know what to do for reactions anyway. Why do you think they only keep us a few hours? Grab the medkit and meet us in the showers." "Yes, sir." Greed didn't turn to look at him, just slinging one of Kimberly's arms over his shoulders. It was a sign of how bad off Kimberly was that he didn't complain. "How long's it been like this?" Greed asked as they headed toward the bathroom. Kimberly's steps were slow, unsteady, like he couldn't quite remember where the floor was. "Not...not long. It wasn't this bad when I left Medical. Just...halfway back...started feeling warm. They gave me...gave me something new. The injection looked...different. Orange. Not...not...fuck...." Kimberly sagged a bit in Greed's hold, and Greed could feel his body temperature spiking where the skin of his arm touched Kimberly's. Greed swore, abandoning the slow and careful for the fast and now. He hustled Kimberly into the shower by sheer upper body strength, positioned him right under the nearest of the showerheads, and cranked the cold water knob. Water splattered down on both of them in a soaking rain. Kimberly bit down on a cry when it hit him but didn't try to move away, splaying one red hand against the tiles for balance. He looked up, his breath speeding, and even through the mako oddness in his eyes, Greed could see the fear. He reached out without even thinking, putting both palms on either side of Kimberly's face and saying, "Hold on. You're gonna be ok." Kimberly nodded, his jaw setting. He reached up, hands like brands against Greed's, and pulled them away. He winced, his hands spasming, and he let go, gasping, "Get...get out of the way." The water, Greed realized, was suddenly steaming. "Fuck." He jerked back just as Kimberly screamed through his teeth and fire bloomed between his hands into a twisting coil of flame completely undeterred by the falling water. "Fuck!" Elric yelped behind him. The medpack clattered to the tiles, and Greed heard the kid pelt away again. Kimberly was, all too obviously, fighting to control whatever the mako was doing, breath coming so fast that he was probably hyperventilating. His eyes were only for the spell still going in front of him, arcing between his palms, snapping at his fingers, but not, apparently, actually burning him. As Greed watched, the fire expanded and contracted, each expansion met with a narrowing of Kimberly's eyes as he forced it back. Every time he did it, though, made the fire burn that much brighter and beat that much hotter against Greed's skin. Kimberly wasn't, Greed realized, going to be able to hold it forever. Not when fire was still climbing out of his skin in orange rivulets, pushed out and flowing down his arms to join the unstable star between his hands. Not when the very air in the room was beginning to feel like the inside of an oven. He probably should have run, Greed would think later. Nothing he could do to help a spell going awry in slow-motion, after all. Running definitely would have been the smart thing to do. It wasn't, of course, what Greed actually did. The last thing Greed would ever do when faced with the possible death of one of his men was run. So he did the second-best thing: he scrambled closer, spooning himself to Kimberly's back oh so carefully, pulling himself within whatever meager aura of invulnerability Kimberly was maintaining by tooth and nail. He felt fire prickle along his skin briefly, but then he was inside, plastered against Kimberly's unnatural heat. Greed could feel the thrum of power through the kid's body, wrapped around muscle and bone, could smell it in every panted breath as Greed wrapped an arm around Kimberly's waist. "You can do this," he murmured quietly in Kimberly's ear. "Don't fight it, just let it flow. Up and out, soldier. Up and out." Kimberly convulsed, screaming hoarsely, and the heat became suddenly unbearable, running up Greed's arms, washing over his face, stealing his breath away. Just before he closed his eyes and buried his face in the back of Kimberly's neck, Greed saw the fire between Kimberly's shaking palms go nova, white-hot. There was a roar of flames, a crackling boom, and the light went away but the searing heat remained. Greed opened his eyes and realized, to his relief, that they were not dead, though Kimberly was limp and falling forward in his arms. They were, however, both a bit on fire. As was some of the roof, where Kimberly's "reaction" had exited the building in what Greed assumed had been an awesome lightshow. He could see blue sky through the hole. And then Elric, gods bless his quick-thinking heart, ran back in with the fire extinguisher and doused both them and the flaming bits of the roof in cold foam, cursing loudly the whole time. The whole thing hadn't taken more than two minutes. Greed, heart still pounding, just leaned against the tiles, pulling the unconscious Kimberly back to lean with him. They were both the worse for wear, clothes and hair smoldering under the extinguisher foam. Greed's eyes watered uncontrollably, and his arms were starting to blister. Kimberly'd taken the brunt of it. The front of his shirt was completely burned away. Livid burns ran over his face and arms, a few of them charred at the edges. His hands, though, were the worst. His palms looked like he'd taken a blowtorch to them, and the smell of roasted meat was starting to fill the room. Bad, definitely. If Greed didn't know he had a pack of military-grade healing potions sitting next to him and a handful of Cure materia in his footlocker, he'd have been worried. And at that point, Greed would have broken out his personal materia rather than send Kimberly to Medical again. "Showoff," Greed murmured to Kimberly as he shook foam out of his eyes and reached for the medpack. "You always have to be an overachiever, don't you?" ------------ Kimberly floated up out of sleep with the distinct impression that he'd forgotten something. The feeling didn't go away, for several reasons, when he rolled over and opened his eyes. First, the light was all wrong, slanting in at entirely the wrong angle for the dawn he usually woke up to. Second, his skin twinged in that too-tight way that he associated with trouble and hospitals and chugging potions. This time was particularly bad, melding his face, chest, arms, and especially his hands into one long, uncomfortable itch. Thirdly, his CO was in the wrong bed. Not that this was anything new, but Greed didn't usually settle himself down in the empty bunk next to Kimberly and Elric's, and certainly not to just lean against the wall and fall asleep. And since when did he have a crewcut? Kimberly frowned, yawning, and rubbed a hand over his face to ease the itch in his palm. Then he got a good look at it, and the shiny expanse of healed burn spiking outwards from the middle of his palm did wonders for his memory. "...fuck." Greed stirred, one eye opening. "Morning, sunshine. How do you feel?" Kimberly looked down at his hands, then his arms, making sure that everything was still there. Especially since he was pretty sure that it wasn't a given. "Like I just got put back together. What's the damage?" "One hole in the roof, one slightly singed SOLDIER, and one SOLDIER who probably owes his life to Elric's paranoia about stocking the medkit." Greed stretched his arms and legs in front of him, joints popping softly. "You looked about like you'd expect for someone who'd had a fira blow up in their face, but it wasn't anything some hi-potions and materia couldn't cover. I got off with some blisters and needing a new haircut." He rubbed a hand along his newly-shorn skull. "You'll need one, too, but we got potions in you fast enough that that's gonna be the only lasting damage." Kimberly reached up to his hair and made a face. It felt like he'd lost most of one side. He'd have to argue with the barber, see how much of his braid they could save. Still.... "I'll take it. All considered." He squinted at the light, then at Greed's hair again. "How long was I out?" "'Bout a day and a half," Greed said, working a crick out of his neck with a wince. "It's suppertime. The others'll be back in a bit with our share of the mystery meat." Kimberly's stomach rumbled in spite of itself. After a day of nothing, evidently even eating the mess hall's "meat-flavored food products" sounded good. Kimberly swung his feet over the side of his bunk, testing out how vertical felt. Not bad. Greed watched him like a mother hawk, his expression serious. "You good?" "Yes, Mom--whoafuck!" Kimberly's attempt at sarcasm didn't survive trying to stand up. His legs evidently hadn't gotten the message about holding him up and collapsed under him like jelly. He shot a hand out to catch himself on the bunk support, but his arms weren't much better. A wave of gray washed over his vision, and Greed's quick grab, catching him around the chest, was all that kept him from slamming face-first into the floor. "Ok," Kimberly said, teeth gritted, eyes blinking until color came back into the world. "Maybe not. Fuck." Part of him waited for some crack from Greed, but the captain just eased him back down on the bed. "You should rest some more. That fireball was feeding off you, wasn't it?" "Probably," Kimberly said, rubbing a hand over his face again, then both hands when that set his skin itching again. "Gods only know what the hell was in that syringe. Distilled fire materia, some kind of summon....who the fuck knows." He looked down at his hands, contemplating the very real possibility that he might have died, had Greed not said what he did in the showers, had Kimberly tried to contain the materia's effects any longer. It didn't bother him overmuch. No SOLDIER worth his eyes worried about dying. What irked him most was the idea of dying stupidly. And dying from a freak mako reaction on the floor of the Alpha barracks showers fell squarely in the middle of "stupid". "Thanks," he said, grudgingly. Then, at Greed's raised eyebrow, "For saying what you did. I was trying to contain it, and it wasn't working. I wouldn't have thought of just trying to direct it. It's not the way materia works. But then, that shit certainly wasn't materia." Greed grinned. "Gut instinct. It looked like it was riding you. Only thing you can do with a runaway chocobo is try to steer, eh?" Greed crooked one arm up on Elric's top bunk. The sun was starting to set, the shadows falling long across the room. His eyes glowed purple in strange contrast to the orange-yellow light. Kimberly noticed that Greed was still in his sleeping shorts and t-shirt. Obviously he hadn't gone outside that day. So either he'd been hurt more than he'd said and been laid up recuperating, same as Kimberly, or he'd been hanging about, waiting for Kimberly to wake up. Outside, there was a crunch of boots, a snatch of laughter as someone passed. "Get some shut-eye. I'll wake you for dinner," Greed said, and the brief grip on Kimberly's shoulder before he moved away was only that, for once. ------------ Kimberly found himself lying awake that night for a reason that had little to do with the itch of healing skin. It wasn't hard to figure out the Pack's deal. Everyone wanted something, and unless you wanted to piss people off, you usually had to give up something in return, in one way or another. Equilibrium. Equivalent exchange. He'd learned that a long time ago. In a SOLDIER unit, mostly what people wanted was security and entertainment. The average SOLDIER lifespan was something no one wanted to think about too hard, but give a SOLDIER a better-than-average chance to survive their next mission and something to help them unwind afterwards, and most were pretty content. It was the same with Greed's unit: they worked hard and played hard and seemed pretty happy to repeat the cycle without too much variation. Kimberly was no different. He'd like to make First Class some day just to show that he could, but in the meantime he mostly wanted to stay alive, draw a steady paycheck, and not be annoyed by the people around him. And there, he thought, shifting absently to rub away an itch along his shoulder, was the issue. Kimberly'd be the first to admit that he often just did not get people. They had strange priorities, made illogical decisions, and overall didn't make sense more often than not, especially when it came to other people. Why everyone couldn't be competent and look out for themselves was beyond Kimberly. The Pack in particular seemed to like to tangle itself up in a messier-than-usual web of social interactions. When Kimberly had realized that his new unit not only had the barest grasp of formal military discipline but were also fucking each other, he'd expected nothing better than he'd seen from any other idiots who couldn't keep it in their pants: a gradual collapse into rivalries, insubordination, abuse, and general inefficiency. He'd been genuinely surprised to see that, somehow, the Pack made it work. After enough study, he could almost see how. They were all reasonably trustworthy and held up their part of the deal. Look out for your teammates, and they would look out for you. Put yourself in danger for them, and they would do the same for you. Scratch their itches, and they would scratch yours. Equivalent exchange. More involved than usual, but yeah. No problem. Kimberly got that. What threw him at first was that it was all more personal, trusting, closer than Kimberly was used to. He'd never been keen on relying on other people. He'd decided a long time ago that it was easier to do his own job, rely on himself, go his own way, and not worry about other people. Less responsibility, less people to worry about, but also, he was beginning to see, fewer resources to pull your ass out of the fire when you needed it, too. He'd never thought that he'd need those resources. He'd been willing to take the risk that he'd never get into anything he couldn't get himself out of. Or, if he did, that he deserved what he got. But that was before he was in a unit that saw so much action. Kimberly was rapidly running out of fingers to count how many times one of the others had kept him from getting cut off or shot or stabbed or treated to a faceful of firaga. And then there was Greed, who was his own brand of crazy motherfucker, staying with Kimberly the other day not because he could really do anything, but just because he was a stubborn bastard who wouldn't leave a man behind. He was, Kimberly admitted to the bottom of Elric's bunk, beginning to see the value in that. Maybe Kimberly would have been fine, trying to hold the spell back like he'd been. Maybe not. Kimberly'd gotten used to seeing himself as an outsider. Outside the group, outside their little social contract. But really, the idiots were already giving him the perks, even though he wasn't really holding up his end of the deal. He had, he thought, two choices: take advantage of their idiocy and keep on like he was, or accept the deal and hold up his end of it. And the former, well...the rest of Alpha Unit was a lot of things, but they weren't dumb. They'd get tired of him being a freeloader eventually. Kimberly thought back to Greed, sucking him off in the showers that one time, and then not asking for anything more than Kimberly wanted to give in return. Overall, equivalent exchange wasn't a bad deal. ------------ 4 weeks later Greed didn't like Junon. It was a military town, too regimented, too tight-laced for his tastes. The booze was watered and overpriced, the red light district couldn't hold a candle to Midgar's, and the whole place was hot, humid, and always smelled like rusting metal, sweat, and burning military-grade mako. They usually only saw Junon while passing through, catching a ride to somewhere else. Which was fine with Greed, really. The place made him itch in more ways than one, and he was just as glad when they didn't have to stay for very long. Still, one thing he didn't mind was the configuration of the dorms. The Pack's quarters in Midgar was one big open bunkroom designed for a force about twice their size, actually meant as a barracks for one of the regular divisions. Alpha Unit, like the rest of the SOLDIERs, qualified for one of the blocks of private rooms in the fancier dorms, but in the same way that they got a lot of the shit missions, they also had also had a mysterious room assignment snafu and gotten shoved into one of the barracks. It was supposed to be temporary, but no one had ever told them to move, and Greed hadn't pushed for a room change. In the end, once they'd all gotten to know each other, the unit had decided they'd gotten the better end of the deal: less privacy, but way more space than the usual cramped private quarters, and closer to the mess hall to boot. Junon, on the other hand, gave them what Midgar should have: half a floor of a regular dorm, with small private rooms lining the hall like identical little cubicles with identical little beds. It was like living in an office building, but Greed had to admit that having the space to himself was a nice change of pace. He didn't mind living in his soldiers' back pockets most of the time, but the quiet (relative quiet, at least...the walls were as thick as the average cardboard box, if what he could hear from above and below him was any indication) was kind of nice. He knew that the others used it to do whatever solitary hobbies they had. Law carved. Dorochet meditated. Martel wrote seemingly endless letters to her brothers and sisters and cousins back home. Elric read. Kimberly read and worked, every now and then, on what little portable materia-crafting projects he carried around. Greed was, himself, taking up reading (which had nothing, he assured himself, to do with being able to make conversation with a certain silver-haired general of his acquaintance), but still, there was only so much private time a man could enjoy before getting antsy to spend it with someone else. Which was exactly where he was when Kimberly showed up at his door. He leaned against the doorframe and asked, "You busy?" Greed tossed his book down to the bottom of the bed. "Nah. Getting bored, actually. What's up?" Kimberly came into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. Three steps and he was on the small bed, straddling Greed's lap. A pleased "oh" was all that Greed had time for before Kimberly leaned in, smug half-smile on his face, and shut him up. The kid tasted like toothpaste, his skin slightly damp, his hair wet and smelling of standard-issue shampoo. He must have come straight from the showers. And boy did Greed have a damn good memory of Kimberly in the showers. By the time Kimberly leaned in enough for Greed to feel his cock hard against Greed's hip, Greed could press up and return the favor. "Mmm," he said, pulling back enough to talk. He hated to question what was obviously a good thing, but Kimberly was just a squirrely enough character to make him wary. "Not that I'm complaining, but what brought this on?" Kimberly rolled his eyes. "What, being horny isn't a good enough reason, now?" Greed grinned. "Being horny's always a good reason." If Kimberly wanted to get in on the fun and games for real now, well, that was fine. He'd always known that Kimberly had too much heat in him to stay away for long. "Just curious what button I pushed, so I can do it again." Kimberly blew out an annoyed breath, and ah, there was the prickly bastard Greed was used to. "I thought you of all people wouldn't make this complicated. If you're not interested--" He shifted to get up, and Greed wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him right where he was. "Hell, yeah. Get the hell back here." He grinned. "Though I should turn you down, just to see the look on your face." Kimberly blinked, then barked a laugh at his own words turned on him. His hands settled on Greed's soulders, trailing down over his chest. "But you won't." Greed wasn't sure where this new brand of confidence was coming from, but he wasn't going to complain. "Hell, no." He eased his hands up under Kimberly's undershirt, palms sliding over damp skin stretched over lean muscle. "Same reason you didn't. Too good a deal to pass up. You got something particular in mind?" He slid his hands up Kimberly's back, fingers digging into the muscle just to feel him. "Because as much as I'd love to get my cock in you, it's not--" Not the only thing on the menu, was what he was going to say, but Greed was looking right at Kimberly when he said it, and the heat that slid through Kimberly's eyes before he glanced away was unmistakable. It was enough to make Greed pause and raise an eyebrow. "...or maybe you've changed your mind?" He raised his knees a bit, pulling with his arms and settling Kimberly more firmly in his lap. The kid tensed a bit, and that wasn't a good sign. Greed sighed. Just the thought had him hard as nails. "Or not. You know, you're enough to make a man doubt his skills...." Kimberly rolled his eyes. "It's not about the position, and you know it. It's about the...." He stopped, brow furrowed like he wasn't sure what to say...or maybe that saying more would give away too much. But Greed followed him just fine. "Power." He leaned in to murmur it in Kimberly's ear, bit down on the meat of Kimberly's shoulder just hard enough to feel his breath catch. "Control. Yeah?" "Yeah," Kimberly said, pulling back, Greed was pretty sure, just to prove he could. He watched Greed warily, eyes narrowed, like he expected Greed to try something, to push. "I'm nobody's bitch." Greed just stared at him for a long moment, then couldn't help but laugh, long and loud enough to feel Kimberly tense up with anger. Greed choked it back to a chuckle. "Kimberly, I've seen you pulp a man's head with one shot at a hundred meters. Blow up an entire unit in thirty seconds with three hits." Oh man, and hadn't THAT been hot.... "Believe me, I know damn well that you aren't anyone's bitch. And nothing we do is going to change that." He slid his hands up, digging his thumbs into the tense muscle on either side of Kimberly's spine until it relaxed, and even then Kimberly felt more than a little like a snake coiled in his lap. "So all you gotta do is decide whether you want it, because either way, it's not going to change a damn thing." Kimberly just stared at him for a long moment. He'd gotten better at taking all of them at their word, but this obviously ran up against some deeply-held concept of how the world worked. "So you'd let me fuck you then." He said it like it was a challenge. The kid had obviously not learned anything from their fun in the showers a few months ago. Greed shrugged. "Sure. Like I said, asking gets you pretty far with me." Not that he was going to give up that easy. After seeing that look in Kimberly's eyes, Greed wanted the kid writhing under him more than just about anything. Greed rolled his hips up, sliding his cock against Kimberly's, and feeling how hard Kimberly was through two pairs of pants was not enough. "But is that what you really want tonight? That what had you hard already when you walked in here?" Kimberly's eyes went to half-mast as Greed palmed his ass with one hand and his cock with the other, tracing him through his pants with a firm touch that earned him a tightening of Kimberly's hands on his shoulders and the tiniest of pleased sounds. Greed licked a long line up Kimberly's neck, "Because I want to get you naked and slicked up and under me. Want to slide in and make you feel so damned good...." Greed pulled down Kimberly's zipper and slipped a hand into his fly. The kid swallowed a moan as Greed's thumb circled the wet tip. The sensory memory of the taste of Kimberly's cock mixed with soap and steam and wet heat made Greed's mouth water. "And I think that's what you want, too, isn't it?" "Pushy bastard," Kimberly gasped, but his hips were already jerking forward into Greed's touch, down into Greed's lap. Which was almost as good as a yes. Almost. The same stubbornness that made Kimberly turn it into a fight made Greed want it that much more. "Isn't it?" Greed's fingers slid further back, cupping Kimberly's balls and finding the spot right behind, pressing up hard against his prostate. Kimberly hissed and jerked like he'd been burned, his nails digging into Greed's arms, his eyes glowing fire-bright, but what came out of his mouth was, "Yes. Yes, you fucking bastard, yes." Greed knew that his grin was too smug, but he couldn't help himself. "Fuck yeah." This time when Kimberly pulled back, Greed let him go and dove for the lube in his kit under the bed. He half expected Kimberly to want to be on top. Instead, when he turned back to the bed with lube in hand, Kimberly was already on his back, legs spread slightly, looking like a lean, deadly wet dream. Greed just grinned and settled in, popping the top on the lube one-handed. It was, a bit, like fucking a virgin, though Greed was pretty sure that Kimberly was no virgin. Still, despite being hard and willing, he was too tense, his heart pounding just a little too fast. Greed dealt with this by using more lube than strictly called for and wrapping a hand around Kimberly's cock when he slid the first finger in. Kimberly wrapped a hand around the back of Greed's neck, holding him there for a kiss that was more teeth and demanding tongue than anything else. Greed let him, humming appreciatively as he slid in another finger, thrusting deep and careful and making the kid's fingers tighten in his hair. He'd gotten three fingers deep and the sheets dripped liberally with lube before Kimberly finally gritted out, "Will you hurry the hell up already?" Good enough. "Yes, sir," Greed smirked, twisting his fingers on the way out in a way that made Kimberly choke on whatever else he was going to say. Greed wiped his hands on his cock (carefully, counting cadence in his head the whole time) then the sheets before positioning himself and pressing in. Despite all the preparation, Kimberly grimaced and grit his teeth as Greed pressed in. Greed just went slow, dislodging one of Kimberly's hands from the sheets and guiding it to his cock. Virgin or not, he was fucking tight, on the edge of incredible and unbearable, and once he was hilt-deep, Greed stilled, willing himself to ignore how hard Kimberly was despite the discomfort and how he could feel Kimberly's wild heartbeat all around him. Instead, he took his turn snarling a hand in Kimberly's hair and kissing him hard, tongue sliding deep, in and out. Kimberly made a noise that was half groan, half snarl, and Greed felt his arm start to move between them, pulled back just far enough to watch Kimberly's hand flashing over his cock. He groaned and closed his eyes, licking sweat from Kimberly's breastbone and pulling out halfway before pressing back in experimentally. That earned him a hiss and a push up into the thrust as well as into the next and the next, tight and hot and slick. Kimberly wasn't as vocal as Greed was used to, but he made it clear what he wanted, and Greed's resolution to be careful shredded steadily as Kimberly pushed back into each hard thrust. "C'mon," Kimberly gritted out, hands gripping Greed's arms hard enough to bruise, "show me why everyone's fucking lining up for you." Greed grinned, hooked Kimberly's knees over his forearms, and slammed in. The new angle was the best he was going to get in this position, and it wiped the smirk off Kimberly's face with a gasped "Fuck!". "How's that?" Greed asked. Kimberly's reply was to grit his teeth and arch up, as much as he was able. His hands moved away from his swollen cock to clench in the sheets again. It was hot as hell and as close to begging as Greed knew he'd get, and that made him fuck Kimberly harder, just because he could. Greed wanted it to last longer, wanted to draw it out until they were both exhausted, but Kimberly was demanding, kicking at him and scowling and calling him an old man whenever Greed tried to slow down. Instead, Greed just fucked him down into the mattress, using the roughening pitch of Kimberly's curses as a guide and then reaching between them to wrap around Kimberly and stroke. The kid swore at him and arched up off the mattress, his come slicking Greed's hand bare seconds before Greed closed his eyes and came for just about forever. The first thing Kimberly said after they'd both caught their breath was, "Fuck, get off me. You're heavy." Greed groaned and rolled over until he was squished against the wall and Kimberly could shove out from under him, leaving them both curled on the small bed's edges, the mess of wet sheets between them. Greed could feel the lube slick on his hands and just about everywhere else. Kimberly couldn't be much better, and the sheets were a lost cause. Greed propped his head up on one hand. Kimberly's hair had mostly escaped from its braid, and he looked like he'd dearly love to fall asleep right then and there. Well-fucked was, Greed decided, a good look on him. He was also watching Greed again, sharp and wary, like he was waiting to see what Greed would do. Prickly. Still. Greed stretched, feeling the burn of a good fuck working its way through his muscles. He felt good. Damn good. He reached out, grinning, and flicked Kimberly's braid back over the kid's shoulder, just for something to do. Kimberly rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I don't get you." "I know," Greed said. Kimberly was always going to be one of those guys that didn't get people in general. Greed had met more than a few of those. But that didn't, in his experience, mean that they couldn't be good friends, good fuckbuddies, or good soldiers. They were just easier to deal with when they knew what you expected of them. Greed guessed that somehow, someway, Kimberly had finally decided that he'd figured out the rules. "Next time," Kimberly said, his smirk returning, "I get to fuck you." As if that was going to be any hardship. Greed smiled, lazily. "Fair enough." Time would tell if Kimberly had figured out the right rules, but Greed had to say he was off to a promising start. ~End

For all that he can be stubborn and obnoxious, Danny Williams is the sweetest, most gentlemanly guy Kono's ever met. Yeah, he'll needle her about being the rookie, and he'll send her off to do the crappy rookie work, but he'd do that to any guy he worked with, too, and Kono appreciates not being handled with kid gloves just because she has tits instead of a dick. After the stunt they'd pulled to get up close to Sid, any other guy would have at least given her a hard time about her technique or something--hell, most guys, she'd have had to have threatened to break their wrists for copping an extra feel or two--but Danny's never once even mentioned it. The one time she tries to thank him--Sid's her family, after all--he waves her off with a faint blush and a mumble about how he's nothing special; any cop would have done the same thing. Kono would like to think he's right, but she knows he's not. All of which is why she has absolutely no qualms about offering to be his date for some dinner he can't get out of, one where he's bitching about how the guy--a captain or lieutenant or something on the force back in Jersey--will spend the whole night making insinuations about how Danny's still hung up on the ex, and how it's pathetic when guys can't let go. "Come on," Kono says. "I'll go home and change and we'll make them forget you've even been married." "Honey," Danny says, boggling at her. "No. I mean, Jesus, that's really awesome of you, thank you for offering, but trust me, you do not want to subject yourself to this guy. Or his wife. She's, uh, how should I put this--" He waves his hands around, then snaps his fingers and says, "A frigid bitch with an axe to grind against the world, and the only reason they're still married is because she hasn't caught him dipping his wick extracurricularly yet." "Dipping his wick?" Kono sputters with laughter. "Oh, my God, I had no idea people actually said that." "Really not the point," Danny mutters. "It'll be like going in undercover," Kono says. "It's a couple of hours, come on. At least make him work to insult you." Danny's wavering, she can tell, so she goes in for the kill. "I've got that dress I wore clubbing when we had to bust the coke dealer." It's a fucking spectacular dress, as dresses go--Kono knows this even though she doesn't really even care what she's wearing most of the time. "Your guy can't be any sleazier than that crowd." "You'd be surprised," Danny mutters, still on the fence. "You're really okay with this?" "I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't," Kono says. Danny should know her well enough to know that's true, but it never hurts to say it out loud. Danny covers his eyes with one hand, but nods, and Kono laughs at the tragedy of it all. "This such a bad idea," Danny sighs. "Seriously?" Kono smacks him on the shoulder. "Before you've even picked me up for the night, you're already telling me how I'm a bad date?" "Swear to me you'll still talk to me tomorrow," Danny says, shaking his head. Kono crosses her heart, and then promptly starts the next argument, when she insists they should arrive in one car and Danny looks alarmed. "Hey, you're the one who's always bitching about dotting i's and crossing t's on an undercover op," Kono says. "This is supposed to fool a cop, and if it's going to be as awful as you say it is, let's not blow it over something stupid." Danny grumbles and mutters, but agrees--finally, the stubborn idiot--and Kono leaves to deal with all the crap that's required when you're supposed to be arm candy. The dress is fine; she'd gotten it dry-cleaned after the last op, but she stops by her cousin Lailie's shop and lets her do a mani-pedi. It won't last past her next trip out to Ehukai, especially her toes, but it'll look good with the sandals that go with the dress. "And what are we going to do with this?" Lailie asks, gathering Kono's hair in a ponytail and tugging on it, none too gently. "It's fine," Kono says. "It's not a date; it's just a thing for work." Lailie gives her the arched eyebrow and long-suffering expression that says she's refraining from calling Kono's hairstyle a ratsnest only because she's a good person and she feels sorry for Kono's affliction, but that she's not going to let Kono walk out of the shop without something being done. "Fine," Kono sighs, and pulls out her phone. "Listen," she says when Danny picks up the call. "Do you want me to wear my hair up or down?" "I, uh, that's, your decision. Completely. All yours," Danny says, sounding panicked, like this is some kind of a trick question. "I have no favorites; I'm good with whatever you want." "Up or down, Danny?" Kono says. "I promise I won't file a harassment claim just because you express a preference." "Uh, well, if I had to pick, then, uh, like you had it at the casino?" Danny mumbles. "Up, but with parts that aren't? That looked nice." "You got it," Kono says, breaking the connection and relaying the request. "Bedhead," Lailie says, with satisfaction. "But classier." "If my mother hears you say that, she will pinch you so hard you won't be able to move your arm for a week," Kono says, as Lailie starts combing out her hair. "But she'll have hysterics on you and get your dad in on it, and I'll forget about the pain in my arm while I watch you try to convince them that you're still their sweet little girl," Lailie answers, laughing. "Bitch," Kono mutters, but very, very quietly, because not only does Lailie know where all Kono's metaphorical bodies are buried, she's got her hands on the curling iron and Kono wouldn't put it past her to burn off a patch or two of Kono's hair just to prove who's really in charge. She knows her stuff, though, and she's fast--mostly because she knows Kono has the patience of a gnat for all the girly crap--so at least Kono's done and on her way to her apartment in a fairly reasonable amount of time. She still has no idea why people do this on a regular basis or for fun, but whatever. She can do it when she needs to. The dress won't take any time to put on, so once Kono gets her make-up set and her spare gun and badge transferred over to a purse that works with the outfit (not that she's expecting trouble, but she's in the habit now; and one day, she's going to ask Steve how he knew that the Kel-Tek 9mm would work so well with an evening bag, just to watch him choke a little) she just hangs out until Danny calls to tell her he's on his way to pick her up. "Try to sound like it's not a death sentence," Kono says, which triggers another Danny-tirade. She slaps her phone on speaker and gets into her dress and sandals while he's going on about how bad of an idea this is, how he never should have agreed to it, how she's going to hate him. She sees the Camaro pulling in while he's still going, so she just grabs her earrings and purse and meets him at the car. "Are you done?" she asks, sliding into the passenger seat and starting in on her earrings before she loses yet another half of a pair. "No," Danny groans, putting his head down hard on the steering wheel. "Sorry; I'll shut up now," he adds, his voice a little muffled. He sits up and smooths his hair back into place and puts the car in reverse with only a sigh. "You, uh, look very nice." "Thank you," Kono says. "So do you." He does, too--black suit and tie and a crisp white shirt that sets off the faint tan he's acquired. However much sunblock he's slathering on every day, the Hawaiian sun is winning. He waves one hand at her, like she's just running her mouth, and she insists, "No, really… You look very handsome tonight. Wait, are you blushing?" "I don't know whatever gave you the idea I was smooth enough not to blush when a drop-dead gorgeous woman tells me I look good, but now you know for sure." Danny has both hands on the steering wheel, ten and two, like he's hanging on for dear life. He sneaks a quick glance at Kono, and okay, maybe it's her turn to get a little red at the drop-dead gorgeous part. "Would it help if I told you you were going the wrong way and we're going to get stuck in Honolulu traffic for sure if you don't get creative here in the next mile?" Kono asks. "Yes," Danny says, quickly. "It would." Kono obliges with directions that cut across a couple of obscure neighborhoods and get them to Ala Moana with time enough to sit in the bar and make up a story for how their supposed relationship blossomed (Danny's word, but it makes Kono laugh) out of working together. "Here we go," Danny mutters, as he nods in the direction of a couple who Kono would have dismissed as not their people strictly because they are so stereotypically mainlanders she would have thought they couldn't be real. "She's going to grill you; just go with it and I'll back you up on anything." "Anything?" Kono says, smiling for real when Danny rolls his eyes at her and mutters something about rookies and wiseasses. She lets him tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and start off across the restaurant, settling in for an evening of playing make-believe. * 'Frigid bitch' is probably too nice of a description for Mrs-Lieutenant-Whoever, Kono thinks after an hour of nasty comments about Hawaii in general, Waikiki in particular, and whatever hotel has the misfortune of hosting these two in the granular. She'd feel sorry for the husband if it wasn't so clear that he was as much of an ass as his wife, never once shutting up about how important his cases were and what a joke law enforcement was in the islands. Danny catches her eye and orders her another drink; Kono wills herself not to show any more of her aggravation, because it's not his fault she's sitting here listening to some haole couple diss every single thing about her life. No, this one is all on her, and she can't even be all that annoyed with the decision, because otherwise, Danny would be here alone. Kono knows she likes helping a friend out, especially one like Danny who'd be right there if she needed him, but some mercy missions are a little more tedious than others. The drink is frothy and frozen and crowned with fruit and umbrellas, not something she'd ordinarily be caught dead drinking, but it goes with the dress and it turns out to be a perfect cover for the double shot of rum Danny must have asked them to add. She takes another sip and smiles at him, and goes back in for another round, answering one question after another about how she and Danny could possibly be having a relationship when they have so little in common. It's actually pretty fun to say that yes, she's met Rachel, and yes, she's quite a lovely woman; and no, Grace is not having any trouble at all adjusting to the move; and yes, she and Grace do get along well. It's even better because it's the truth. When Danny shifts around and ends up with his arm across the back of her chair, Kono smiles as sweetly as she can--which is actually a lot and easier than she expects if only because it makes the frigid bitch want to choke when she tries to return it--and leans into him a little. When she absolutely has to take a break, invoking the standard powder-room option before their entrees are served and Danny stands up to let her get by, she doesn't think anything of brushing a kiss across his cheek while she promises to be back soon. It's quiet in the ladies room; Kono gives herself exactly three minutes to breathe deep and get centered, and then heads back to the battlefield. It's three minutes too long, though, because Danny's on his feet and dropping some cash on the table as she weaves her way through the too-tightly packed tables. "We're done here," Danny bites out before Kono can even ask if he's gotten a call about work. He catches her by the arm and tows her back toward the front, not stopping until they're outside and he's flagged down the valet to go get the car. "Okay," Kono says, rubbing at where his fingers have bitten into skin. "What just happened?" "I'll put up with a lot of shit, but there are lines you do not cross--" Danny closes his mouth with a snap, and rakes his hand through his hair, pacing in short, agitated strides. Kono watches him with a little worry; she's seen Danny pissed off before--it's hard not to, not when Steve seems programmed to punch every button Danny has and to like doing it--but he generally only reaches levels like this when somebody he cares about is in the line of fire-- "Wait, is this about me?" Kono catches him and makes him stop and look at her. He doesn't have to say anything, not when every single emotion he ever has flows across his face the way it does. "It is, isn't it?" "And me," Danny says, shrugging. "Yeah, but you wouldn't have left if it was just about you," Kono says, with narrowed eyes. "I can handle myself, you know." "Honey," Danny says. "You have gone way above and beyond the call of friendship and partners and every other thing just sitting there tonight. There's no way I'm going to let some blowhard tell me how--" He shuts his mouth again. "You know what? I'm not even going to repeat it. I made up a call coming in and got the hell out before I punched him." He steps back away from her, pacing up and back in the narrow space between the door and the valet stand, and it hits Kono all of a sudden, what an awesome guy he is. She's known that, of course, but there he is, upset and angry and worried about her, and she gets it on a level she hadn't before, all the way down to the little voice in the back of her head telling her she needs to hold on tight. "You are the sweetest man." Kono puts her hand on his arm as he goes by, leaning in impulsively. The idea is that she can start with a kiss on his cheek; the reality is her overbalanced and almost flat on her face when he jerks away. "No. No, I'm really not," Danny says, stiff and tense and so not-Danny Kono has to fight back the entirely childish urge to rub her eyes to make sure she's seeing straight. Then she has to bite back the entirely not-childish urge to tell him not to act like an ass, because it's been a while since somebody's treated her like she has the cooties. "What is your problem?" she snaps, mostly to cover how much that hurt. And maybe a little to cover how surprised she is that it did hurt. "A sweet man would have decked that jerk. A sweet man would not be thinking about--" Danny looks away from her for a second, and then everything, all the tension and stress, goes rushing out of him, taking everything else, too, so he just looks tired. "No, okay?" The valet pulls up in the the car, and Danny spins on his heel to go around to the driver's side. Nice timing, Kono wants to say. Could you run away any faster?. A second kid rushes up to open the passenger-side door for Kono, but she doesn't get in immediately, just stands there debating whether she should grab a cab instead. Danny pops back up on his side of the car, not saying anything. Then again, she's not talking either, and she's not exactly hiding how mad she is. It's Danny, though--no matter how weird he's suddenly acting--and he's never not been there for Kono. When she finally decides to get in the car, she doesn't know who's more relieved, Danny or the kid holding the door, who clearly does not want to be anywhere near whatever this is that's going down between her and Danny. She wonders how much more freaked the poor kid would have been if he'd known that both of them are carrying. "What was the point of all that?" Traffic around Ala Moana is a mess, as usual; if they're going to spend an extended time in the car, she's not going to sit there in silence the entire time and hell if she's going to talk about whatever didn't just happen between them. "The whole night--why do you even care about them?" Danny's quiet for a while, but then he sighs and says, "Because when Grace is done with school, and goes off to college, and I don't have a reason to be here anymore, that is the guy I'm going to have to deal with to get my job back in Jersey." Or you could just stay, Kono thinks, as the light finally changes and they get through the intersection. She doesn't say it, though. Maybe she should, but she thinks they have some other things they need to work out first. "I'm sorry," Danny says, after another couple of miles of silence. "For the rest of it. Can we just chalk it up to me being an idiot and go with a clean slate in the morning?" Kono wants to say yes--she can't imagine not being on good terms with Danny, who's listened to her and helped her and welcomed her into his life like she's always been a part of it. It would be easy and simple and they could make it work, but it's not what she wants. "You're not an idiot." Kono shifts a little in the seat, tucks one leg up under her and turns so she can watch him. That's key--Danny's emotions are all right there. Sometimes he's good at misdirection, but if you know where to look, you can see everything. "You get a little loud, but--" Danny's mouth quirks up in a half-smile, and he interrupts to say, "A little loud? Please feel free to share your opinion with the lieutenant commander the next time he's bitching about how I never shut up. And I don't want to argue with you, but yes, I am an idiot." "Danny," Kono sighs. He shrugs and it gets quiet again. There are a couple of things she could say, but she finally goes with, "I like men who are sweet--" "Of course you do," Danny mutters. "Who's actually going to say they don't?" "I'm beginning to rethink my stance on your idiocy," Kono snaps. He takes both hands off the wheel, a clear Do whatcha gotta, babe, and Kono can't help laughing. "Oh my God, you're going to make me say this, aren't you?" "Since I have no idea what's going on, I'm gonna have to answer that one in the affirmative," Danny says, pulling up to a stop sign. "You are the sweetest man," Kono says again, but this time when she leans in, he can't get away, and she presses a slow, careful kiss against his mouth. "You," Danny says, his voice hoarse and his eyes shocked. "You said that already." "I like sweet men." Kono kisses him again, a little less carefully, and then adds a quick, sharp bite on his bottom lip. "You said that, too." Danny eyes her with something close to understanding, which she notices only in the brief second she can make herself look away from how his tongue keeps sweeping across where she bit him. "Did you listen this time?" Kono kisses him one more time, humming in satisfaction when he kisses her back, slow at first, but sure and real and very, very thorough. "Yes," he murmurs against her mouth, getting one hand up behind her head, his fingers sliding into Lailie's perfect, "classy" bedhead and teasing it apart. He catches her bottom lip between his teeth, returns the bite she'd given him before. "This is me, listening." "Good," Kono answers, breathlessly, and meets him halfway for another kiss, deeper and harder, and not that she'd had any doubts, but talking definitely isn't the only thing Danny knows how to do with his mouth. A car pulls up behind them, the headlights throwing the interior of the car into harsh light and shadows, and a polite tap on the horn follows. "Yeah, yeah," Danny says, pulling away from Kono slowly and glancing in the rearview mirror. "We're moving, buddy; keep your aloha shirt on." Kono settles back in her seat and resists the urge to press her fingers to her mouth. Danny keeps shooting quick looks at her, like he's sizing up a situation that has the potential to blow up on him, so she reaches over and lays her hand on top of his where it's resting on the gear shift. He tangles their fingers together; when she looks up, he's got this little smile on his face, a cross between a half-pleased smirk and a half-stunned grin. "You're blushing again," Kono tells him. "Yeah, well, it's been a while since I've gotten surprised like that." Danny squeezes her hand. "And, may I just add, I'm not the only person in this car who's a little redder than usual. Again." "It's been a while on my end, too." Kono feels her face heat up even more when he takes his eyes off the road long enough to look her up and down, like he's making mental notes or working out his plan of attack. Two can play that game, though, so she does a little recon of her own, and adds some field work at the next few stoplights. By the time Danny's turning into her apartment complex she knows that licking right behind his left ear makes him whine, and he's figured out that she'll almost jump out of her skin if he scrapes his teeth along her throat. Danny brakes in front of the steps that lead to her front door, putting the car in park and then just holding her hand. "I swear, this is not me being an idiot again," he says, taking a deep breath. "Just, are you sur--" "Park the car, Danny," Kono says. "Oooo, bossy," Danny says, shifting back into Drive. "That's always fun." Kono would tell him exactly how much fun she's planning on having, but he whips the car into an open space and pulls her across the console and into a kiss that is wicked and she has much, much better things to do than talk. Breathing, on the other hand, is necessary, which is the only reason Kono finally tears herself away. The gearshift is digging into her hip, and she's probably going to end up with a cranky back from how she's contorted herself around the steering wheel, but if she hadn't desperately needed the air she's sucking in, she wouldn't have stopped. Danny's pretty breathless, too, and he smiles at her, his hand under her dress and halfway up her thigh, warm and a little rough against her. He's petting her slowly, lighting up the nerves with every brush of his fingers over her skin. "Nice," Kono murmurs, pressing kisses along the curve of his ear, smiling at how that makes him shiver. "But I can think of more places I want your hand." "You have excellent ideas, gorgeous," Danny says. "I'm just not sure how we undo this … situation--" he shimmies a little under her--"we've gotten ourselves into." "Very, very carefully," Kono says, wincing as the steering wheel digs in a little deeper. Slowly--her spine is going to be permanently indented if she's not careful--she gets one hand braced on the driver's side door, and then manages to squirm her hips back toward the other seat, to get her center of gravity back far enough that she can maybe get herself vertical again. "Oh, sweetjesus," Danny mutters, which, yes, Kono realizes that every time she moves, she's basically giving him a lapdance, but him just sitting there biting his lip and looking all hot and bothered is really not helping at all, especially not with how his hand keeps sliding higher up her thigh. "Danny," she warns, in her best Do not fuck with me voice. It'd probably sound more serious if she wasn't all but spreading her legs for him at the same time, but he gets it together enough that they manage to get out of the car with no injuries and a minimum of Wait, no, put your hand here; no, not there, *here*; God, quit teasing, or so help me threats. Danny keeps his hands to himself until they're inside her apartment, but then they're all over her, cupping her face, tangled in her hair, sliding down her back, over her hips, holding her close. He's all about the kissing, too--quick and playful turning into hard and deep and back again--but lets her steer them into the bedroom, a long, staggering path that he stops at the foot of her bed. "You know what's really crazy?" Danny murmurs, sliding his hands down her bare arms to hold her hands in his. "I've seen you at the beach, in those little scraps you call a bathing suit--you're a goddess, by the way--" He turns her hands over and drops a quick, sweet kiss in each palm. "I know what you look like under that dress, but I'm standing here, waiting to get it off, and the suspense is killing me." "No dying," Kono says. "We can take care of the suspense any time." "You know, that might be the best thing ever," Danny says, with a slow, brilliant smile that twists something hard inside her. She tells herself that it's only that it's been a long time since she's done anything with anyone who's not just somebody random, but even the yay, we're getting laid part of her brain knows that's not really true. "I'm just trying to decide whether I want to watch you take this off for me, or whether I want to do it myself," Danny says as he runs the tip of one finger along the line of tiny pearl buttons that hold the bodice closed. Kono grits her teeth to keep from whimpering. She's not at all surprised that he's a tease, but he's not even touching her and she's still half-crazy. "Decisions, decisions," she manages to say. She's trying for light and breezy, and it doesn't come out too badly, not given how hard her heart is pounding. If it's a little more breathless than casual, she doesn't think Danny's the type to gloat. "Indeed," Danny says, his finger starting back up the line of buttons. "Do you have a preference you'd care to share with the class?" He pauses at the top button, waiting until Kono shakes her head. "In that case, I think I'm going to go with me doing the honors." "Sure," Kono murmurs, taking a deep breath as he gets the first one open. "I can take care of it next time." "Even better," Danny says, fingers moving quickly now, three buttons, five, and then back up to her shoulders to slide everything back and down and off, so that she's standing in front of him in nothing but a thong and her sandals. "You know, I was always the kid who liked the unwrapping almost as much as the presents, but this is really above and beyond your basic birthday--" "Oh, my God, Danny," Kono says, grabbing him by his tie and hauling him in close. "Shut up." He's laughing as she kisses him, but that's fine. More than fine, actually--it's been a long time since she's been this turned on and having this much fun. She gets his tie undone, and his coat off his shoulders before he tumbles them down onto the bed, and then it's a jumbled mess of her pulling haphazardly at his shirt, getting it out of his pants and half undone while he kisses her mouth and her neck and sucks a bruise into her collarbone that's going to kill any possibility of a v-neck at the office for a week. Danny stops to help her, sitting up long enough to strip out of his button-down and throw it off somewhere to the side--which is an awesome step toward equality in the lack-of-clothes department--but then completely derails any further progress when he leans down and licks a light, quick path over and around her nipples. Tease that he is, that's just the start, just the preview. It's him figuring out what gets her going before he goes back in with serious intent, working her with callused fingers, paying attention to every time her breath catches, every time she arches into him, until he's got it how she likes it best, until he's rolling and pinching each nipple a tiny bit too hard to be pure pleasure, pushing her until she's almost crying, backing off right before it's too much and soothing her with his mouth, and then starting the whole thing over again. Kono stops him before he can get started on a fourth round, pulling hard on his hair and dragging his head up so she can bite his mouth as swollen as she's bitten her own. "You really, really need to fuck me now," Kono says, mesmerized by how blue his eyes are, how intense. "Yeah," Danny breathes, kneeling up beside her, his eyes moving slowly over her. Kono can only imagine what she looks like, Lailie's careful updo totally gone and her hair a wild mess, her mouth and nipples swollen and throbbing, still wearing her thong and sandals for all that she's sprawled out on her bed, but she doesn't see anything but good things in Danny's eyes. "I really, really do." Danny wrestles with his pants, fumbling with his belt; when Kono reaches over to help, his hands are shaking. "Let me," Kono says, the words getting stuck somewhere in her throat and coming out as nothing but whispers. He hears her, though, and nods, lets her take care of the buckle and button and zipper, lets her touch and stroke him through it all. "Silk," she murmurs, smiling up at him while she slides his boxers off his hips. "Who knew you were such a hedonist?" "I am all about feeling good--Jesus," Danny hisses, as she strokes him carefully, once, and then again. He's hard and ready even before she leans in and licks along the same path, adding in a quick swirl across the head at the end. She goes to start again, but he grabs at her, tangling his fingers in her hair. "Not that I am at all averse to your mouth and what it's doing right this minute, honey, but if you want to get fucked, you need to stop that. Now," he adds, as she takes one more taste. "Fine," Kono sighs, mock-dramatically. She leans up to lick a path up his body, navel and abs and nipples, and a kiss-bruise on his collarbone to match the one he put on her. When she looks up, he's smiling at her, reaching out to cup her face and draw her into a kiss that's lazy and unhurried and ends with her pressed against him, his thigh between hers, his erection riding the groove next to her hip, his hands sliding down to cup her ass. "Come on," Kono says, breaking the kiss and reaching past him, half-crawling across the bed and feeling for the drawer in her nightstand and the condoms left from her last trip down the rocky road to coupledom. He drops his head and nuzzles at the back of her neck, and then when she shivers, brushes her hair out of the way so he can work his way lower along her back. "Oh," Kono gasps, flailing at the drawer and arching up into Danny's mouth. He smiles against her, the scrape of his beard playing counterpoint to the softness of his lips. "You like this?" Danny keeps going, his mouth moving lower and lower while she shudders and holds on desperately to the bedside table. "Look at you, sweetheart," he says, working the elastic of her thong off her hips and biting gently at the top of her thighs. "Look at you; you're shaking." Kono nods blindly, spreading her legs for him and biting back a moan as he slides two fingers inside her. He rocks them in and out and drops kisses back up her spine. She drags her free hand, the one that's not keeping her upright, searching through the drawer until she finds the strip of condoms and pushes them back at him. "Like this," she says, dropping her head down to the mattress and trying not to whine. "God, Danny, do it like this." She pushes her hips back, fucking herself on his hand, choking out a harsh, wordless noise when he meets her with a rough stroke forward that pushes a third finger inside her. Three more strokes, then four, and she doesn't care what kind of noises she's making, how desperate she sounds when he slides his hand out of her to deal with the condom. He's quick about it, no more than a few seconds passing before his hands are back on her hips and his thighs are between hers, spreading her wider, and he's finally pushing into her, quick, shallow thrusts that are nothing but a tease. When she tries to push back and take him deeper, his fingers bite into her hips hard enough to bruise, and fuck, she's going to be surfing in board shorts for weeks. "Danny," Kono says, through gritted teeth, but he just laughs and bends down low to scrape his teeth across the back of her neck. He goes in deep the next time, but it's slow and controlled and not enough, not nearly enough. "God, I can't believe I thought you were sweet," Kono rages, as he does it again, and again, taking his time, holding her exactly like he wants her and fucking her steady and endless. "You're evil, you know that?" "Evil?" Danny sounds delighted, but breathless and shaky, too, so Kono might not kill him when he lets go of her. Then he stops with the control and the finesse and starts with the real thing, and it's all she can do to stay upright, especially when he slides one hand around her hip and down to her clit. He's not careful or gentle or teasing at all, every touch dragging sounds out of her that barely sound human. It's good and it's raw, overwhelming and intense, and she comes in a crashing roll that leaves her shaking and limp. "Come here, sweetheart," Danny murmurs, sitting back on his heels and pulling her back with him, until she's in his lap and he's deep in her. Neither one of them can move much, but he cradles her against him, one strong arm holding her steady while he touches her with his other hand, strokes her, breasts and belly and thighs, fingers brushing her nipples, moving lightly between her legs, until she lays her head back on his shoulder and whispers to him, more and harder and don't stop. "Not stopping," Danny tells her, holding her close. "Want to feel you." "You, too." Kono reaches back and wraps her arm around his neck, turning her head so she can kiss his temple, the corner of his eye. "Want you, too." "Yeah," Danny whispers, shivering as she bites softly at him. "So close. So close." Kono rocks on him, tiny movements that he matches, each one pushing him nearer to losing the control he's kept the whole night. Kono wants to feel him lose it, wants to know what it's like when he lets go, but he gets her there first. "Come on," Kono moans as he draws another orgasm out of her, one wave after another, long and slow and endless. "Danny, come with me; I want you with me. Her words are jumbled mix of Korean and Hawaiian and English that she knows he can't understand, but he holds her, clinging to her like he's drowning, every breath a choked-off gasp as he arches up into her, once, and again, and he's coming, fast and hard and shaking. Afterward, she makes sure to stay curled around him, an arm and leg thrown over him and one hand stroking along his ribs and side, so he doesn't start thinking he needs to go. It's been a long time since she's slept in the same bed with someone, but it's easier than she remembers. * Kono keeps her alarm set for a half-hour before sunrise so she can check the surf reports and have a go-out before she has to be at the office. Danny groans when it goes off, but drags himself up. "I,uh," he says, wavering a little in faint, pre-dawn light. "'M gonna go. Shower. Change." Kono should probably get herself up, too--it's the least she can do, especially after Round Two had ended with her riding Danny slowly enough that she'd come twice more while he panted and cursed and swore--but as soon as she sits up, Danny's petting her back down, tucking her under the sheets and dropping a kiss on her shoulder. "I know my way out," he tells her. "I'll see you later." He sounds so normal, so completely not thrown by everything that she tells the part of her brain that's yelling at her about fucking somebody she works with to stow it and just rolls back over and pulls the pillow over her head. It might be the first morning she's missed out on the waves in nearly a year, but coming four times in a couple of hours will take a lot out of you. * Danny's waiting for her outside the office, Kamehameha's statue throwing shadows in the early morning light. He has a coffee for her, and a worried crease right between his eyes that she wants to smooth away. "Thanks," Kono says, taking the coffee, not at all surprised that it's exactly how she likes it best, even though she doesn't think she's ever mentioned it to him. "See? It's morning and I'm still talking to you." It's a little corny, but totally worth it when he smiles at her. "So, how do you want to handle this?" Danny asks, and she doesn't know how he does it, but he makes it be not awkward. "I guess that depends on what 'this' is," Kono says, slowly. "Your call, hon," Danny says. "It's either one fantastic night that I, personally, am going to remain smug about for the next thirty years, at least, or--I don't know, the start of something." He smiles and adds, "I'll still be smug about it for the next thirty years, I'd just like to get that on the record." Kono studies him seriously. "Why is it my call? You don't have a preference?" "Oh, I do. I just--" Danny shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'm the one with the the kid who has to come first and the ex-wife and the lawyer on speed dial. I don't come free and easy, I know that." "We don't have to be the romance of the century--" "Yeah, we kinda do," Danny says, shrugging again. This one's a little helpless, a little Whatcha gonna do? "I, uh, can pretty much tell you already I'm not gonna be any good at the friends-with-benefits thing. Not this time." "Oh," Kono says, feeling the start of a blush in her face and throat. She doesn't have any doubts that if she says it's a one-night thing that Danny won't be cool with it. There won't be any issues or snide comments or problems at all, if that's what she wants. The beauty of it all is that she doesn't actually have to think at all to know that's not what she wants. "Then… I guess it's the start of something." "Yeah?" Danny ducks his head and looks up at her through his lashes, like he's waiting for the punch line. "Oh, yeah," Kono answers easily. Danny smiles a lot--it's one of the things that Kono likes best about him--but there are smiles and then there are smiles, and Kono doesn't care if it makes her a complete sap, but the one Danny is aiming at her now is leaving her breathless. She beams back at him, and they stand there in front of King Kamehameha like a couple of idiots until reality intrudes, in the form of her phone chiming with an incoming text from the ME's office about lab results that are ready to be picked up. Danny walks in with her, guides her with little touches to her elbow, her back, just like always, except, you know, the part where her brain keeps supplying little sense memories of how it feels when he's touching her without clothes in the way, so not so much like always. It's going to be entertaining until she can figure out how to compartmentalize things, but given the payoff, she's up for the challenge. "Okay," Danny's saying as they turn into the Five-0 offices. "I'm just gonna go have a word or two with Chin--" "Wait," Kono says. "Now? Already?" "What? Yeah, of course. I'm not talking putting out a bulletin to HPD, but yeah, we need to talk to Chin. And Steve." Kono knows he's right--they're way too close of a team to be hiding things, but she also knows she's got this Are you kidding me? look on her face.. "Chin and me--we're friends," Danny says, seriously. "And you're--well, he's pretty protective." "No, really?" Kono mutters. "I hadn't noticed." "I'm just saying, you don't start something with a friend's sister or cousin or whatever and not be upfront about it." "You sure you don't want me to talk to him?" Kono offers. "No, I'm good," Danny answers, heading off. "God help the sorry son of a bitch who sends Grace in to break the news to me…" "Men," Kono says, on a sigh that turns into a groan when she realizes that if Danny's talking to Chin, she's going to be the one breaking the news to Steve. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." She thinks hard about knocking her head against the wall, except Steve's coming around the corner toward her and she might as well get this over with. "Hey, boss," she says, falling into step with him. "Got a minute?" "Of course," he says, his head coming up from the file he's reading with a snap that says he knows something's up. "My office?" "Yeah, that's probably best," Kono says. The last thing she needs is for someone to overhear. "It's kind of personal." "Personal?" Steve says, closing the door and tossing the file on his desk. "Is anyone at HPD giving you shit? I know I'm supposed to encourage you to take that kind of thing to HR, but say the word and I'll go bust some heads--" "No," Kono says, smiling at him fondly. He really does like it when he can smack people around. "No, nothing like that." "Okay," Steve says. "So?" "So," Kono echoes, and sighs. "So, I kindoftookDannyhomewithmelastnight, and it looks like it's gonna be a thing, so we figured we'd give you the heads up." "Took Danny home," Steve repeats slowly. "You mean in the, uh..." "Biblical sense?" Kono asks. "Yep." For all that telling your boss you're fucking his partner isn't exactly a conversation you look forward to having, it's actually pretty awesome to have Steve gaping at her like he is. She would have gotten less of a reaction if she'd told him they were being invaded by aliens. Then he could have just gone for the heavy ordinance and had some fun. "I mean, obviously, you have a right to be concerned that this is going to affect the team and all, but I think you can trust--" "Yeah; no, of course," Steve says. "I'm just--you and Danny? For real?" "It kind of just… flowed." "Really?" "What?" Kono snaps. "Why is that so hard to believe?" "It's--" Steve takes a breath and scrubs his hand over his head. Kono crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. "Look, Kono, it's just that Danny is a really sweet guy and--" "Oh, my God, he so isn't," Kono says, her mouth running away from her brain. "He looks like it, and he acts a really good game, but seriously, Steve, he is fucking evil when you get him na--" "Whoa, whoa," Steve groans. "Heading down a path that leads to things I do not ever need to know." "Sorry," Kono mutters. She's definitely blaming Danny for this; clearly he fucked her stupid. "Okay." Steve takes a deep breath. "Leaving specific details out of it, I'm just saying that you're an incredibly attractive, intelligent, competent woman and Danny is… well, not vulnerable, but he's alone here and--" "Wait," Kono says, trying not to laugh and failing pretty spectacularly. "Are you trying to warn me off breaking his heart?" It's Steve's turn to cross his arms and glare, which only makes Kono laugh harder. "Oh, God, you are." Steve's still glaring and Kono's afraid he might break his jaw, it's so tight, so she makes a huge effort and gets herself under control. "Sorry," she manages to say. "Sorry, sorry. Not to freak you out with the details again, but I really didn't get much sleep last night and I'm a little punchy." Steve glares at her a little bit longer; she almost feels sorry for him, having to deal with half his team fucking, but, hey, that's why he gets paid the big bucks. "Where is Danny anyway?" "He's breaking the news to Chin--I offered to, but he said something about friends and sisters and having to tell Chin himself." "Well, yeah," Steve says. "Of course." And okay, fine, it's a guy code thing. Whatever. "So," Kono says, brightly. "That's all I wanted to tell you. Thanks for, you know, thinking I'm an amoral slut who's going to stomp Danny's heart, and I'll let you get back to whatever it was that you were reading." "Kono, wait, shit, " Steve says, with this horrified expression. "That wasn't--I didn't mean to imply you--" "Kidding, boss," Kono says, rolling her eyes. "Though, really, thanks for not leaping to my defense. I get enough of that already." "Well," Steve says. "If you hear anything about me having a long talk with Danny that takes place while I'm cleaning a bayonet, it's nothing but lies." "Of course," Kono deadpans, opening the door and almost tripping over Danny and Chin on their way in. Danny looks fine; Chin looks fine. Kono doesn't trust either one of them to have behaved in any kind of a non-macho, pigheaded manner, but as long as no one's bleeding, she guesses she'll just roll with it. "Are we cool?" she asks. Chin gives her one of those oh, we are so having a chat eyebrow arches, but that's it. "Frosty, babe," Danny says, with another one of the smiles that reach his eyes. Kono absolutely can't help grinning back at him, no matter how unprofessional it might be. He winks at her, and then calls, "McGarrett--what's this I hear about the staff at the Hilton Hawaiian finding the equivalent of a meth lab in one of the bungalows?" "Oh, right," Steve says, tossing the file to Danny. "We've got potential evidence scattered everywhere. It didn't get called in until after the cleaning staff went through, so nobody knows what did or didn't get trashed." "Oh, oh, oh, looks like the rookie gets to do a little dumpster-diving today," Danny says, with that gleeful smirk of his. Kono flips him off and goes to get her spare coveralls and a cap to get her hair up and out of the way. He's waiting for her on the way out to the cars, though. Steve and Chin are already deep in calls coordinating with ATF and DEA, so they don't hear him murmur, "Dibs on helping you get clean after it all." "Promises, promises," Kono answers, smiling, and the day kicks into high gear.

1999 With a careful snip, Madeline removed the unwanted sprout that had sprung rebelliously from the side of the juniper. She leaned forward, examining the other plants intently, searching for signs that their inner nature threatened to make them grow in uncontrolled directions. They were such small things to need such constant attention. But without it, without her unrelenting scrutiny, they would quickly attempt to revert to their natural state, to develop in the way that they wanted, instead of the way that was best. It was an unending struggle, requiring repeated maintenance. But she attended to them faithfully, patiently, every day. After all, she knew -- even if they didn't -- that they were trapped in a limited universe. In such an artificial environment, natural impulses were dangerous -- sometimes even deadly. And so she made sure all such impulses were stopped, cut off. During the Markali mission, however, she had been too distracted to tend to them as she should. Neglected, all of them had subtly rebelled, each one showing hints of unruly desires. Of wants, needs, and instincts that, if expressed, would weaken them. How had she allowed this to happen? Her mind had been elsewhere -- wandering, lost somewhere in the past. Unacceptable. The past was useful only for the lessons that could be drawn from it -- mistakes to be avoided, behavior to improve, experiences and patterns against which to compare the present and from which to predict the future. Valuable for that, certainly, but nothing more. Revisiting the past was a frivolous indulgence -- a failing of people with nothing better to do. Even the present held only limited value. Nothing in the present could be changed -- only observed. It was critical to be aware of it, to note every passing detail, but there its use ended. She had long since learned that it was only the future that truly mattered -- the future, alone, could be controlled, even if only to a degree. And so she inhabited the future -- living in a world of sims, probabilities, contingencies and plans. With these, the future could be anticipated, influenced, channeled, molded, narrowed -- at times even avoided altogether. The future had meaning; the future offered purpose. The future, therefore, was precious -- for while it contained both threats and promises, it never held regrets. She lifted the leaves of the last plant on the shelf and inspected them closely. They seemed healthy enough. She relaxed, feeling a clarity of mind she hadn't experienced in weeks. Her ability to concentrate had finally returned. Now, once again, the plants were pristine and perfect -- placed back on the path of what they could become, if guided properly. Finished, she straightened and closed the glass cabinet door, locking it securely. She frowned slightly as the pointlessness of that practice occurred to her. It made no sense to lock the cabinet -- there was no one likely to steal or harm the plants inside. No one likely even to want to look at them, aside from herself. Yet she did it -- indeed, felt compelled to do it -- just the same. It was almost as if she were locking the plants in instead of keeping any intruder out. She smiled to herself at the irrationality of the habit. Someday, she told herself, she would leave the cabinet unlocked. Just not yet. 1980 After smoothing out her skirt with unconscious nervousness, Madeline reached for the door and rapped lightly. Stepping back, she waited, staring absentmindedly at the gilt letters on the door. Of course, Dr. Etienne Petit, whose name the letters spelled, didn't exist. His 'clinique de chiropratique' had served as the meeting place for the Parisian undercover operatives and their handlers for the past four years. She had visited this office untold times, but never before with such a feeling of dread. It had built steadily during the long metro ride across the city, surging sharply as she walked the two blocks from the station to the building that housed the office, virtually paralyzing her as she climbed the creaking flight of stairs to the third floor. Now, she stood, motionless, awaiting entry. To receive a sentence of death, she had no doubt. By consorting -- in public -- with another operative, she had engaged in a gross violation of her cover. It was inexcusable. Unforgiveable. Idiotic. And now, she would pay the price. She couldn't even be angry with her executioners -- for being so foolish, she deserved to die. By the time the door finally opened, she was completely numb -- so numb, in fact, that she didn't even recognize that it was Adrian herself who answered and ushered her into the room. It was only when the door closed and she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder that her senses slowly began to return to her. Adrian stood beside her; George and another man waited several feet away. Three people, just to meet with her? A tribunal, perhaps. She hadn't expected anything quite so formal. She looked at each person one by one, struck by the contrast in their expressions. Adrian appeared relaxed, almost friendly. George seemed vaguely nervous. The other man -- dressed, oddly, in a denim jacket and bandana -- looked petrified. "Hello, Madeline." Adrian's tone was gracious, as was the smile on her face. "Thank you for coming to join us." "Hello Adrian," she replied respectfully. She looked at George and nodded. "George." "This is Walter, one of your fellow operatives." Adrian gestured toward the other man. "He works with me in Section One." "Pleased to meet you, Walter." Walter nodded silently, his face so pale Madeline thought he might faint. "Please, dear, sit down," Adrian said. Madeline reached for one of the heavy chairs at the long conference room table, but stopped as George rushed to pull another one out for her. Smiling in thanks, she sat, but then quickly frowned, blinking, when the sunlight from the windows hit her directly in the eyes. While she shifted in the chair to try to find a position where she could avoid the glare, the others took their own seats -- Adrian to her immediate right, at the head of the table, George and Walter on the other side. Adrian folded her hands atop the table and regarded Madeline with surprising warmth. "Well, Madeline, we've never really had the opportunity to get to know one another. I'm afraid I've let George monopolize your time." Madeline smiled politely. "I'm sure you're too busy to meet with every operative in the Sections." Adrian shook her head. "Oh, but you're not just any operative. After all, you managed to rescue my top team leader from some rather dire circumstances. I owe you my thanks." Madeline looked at Adrian carefully, cautiously, trying to detect any sign of insincerity, any hidden threat. But she saw nothing but gratitude in the woman's face. "Not at all," Madeline answered, relaxing faintly. "I was just doing my job." "Indeed." Adrian raised an eyebrow. "I'd say you did quite an outstanding job. Not only helping Paul Wolfe escape unscathed, but recruiting Egran Petrosian at the same time. All on your own initiative. Very impressive." "Thank you." She took a deep, slow breath in relief. Perhaps she had jumped to the wrong conclusion regarding the purpose of the meeting -- instead of being disciplined, it seemed she was being commended. She had been overly paranoid -- they might know nothing of her meetings with Paul. They had been extremely careful, after all. "By the way," Adrian asked, leaning forward, her tone casually curious, "how did you manage to recruit Petrosian? He seemed surprisingly willing to switch sides." Madeline's eyes darted briefly toward George as she remembered how his messenger had blown her cover and precipitated events, but then, controlling herself, she looked back at Adrian. "I seduced him," she answered calmly. "Did you? And that's all it took?" Adrian sat back again, an amused expression filling her face. "You must be quite talented. We'll have to be sure to put your remarkable skills to the proper use in the future." A chill settled over Madeline as she realized that the other woman was mocking her. "It seems you're an even more extraordinary operative than I'd realized," Adrian continued, no longer bothering to conceal her sarcasm, which sliced like ice through the warm air of the room. "Of course, George has been trying to tell me that for years. I see I should have listened." Bewildered at the turn the conversation was taking, Madeline looked across the table at George. His expression was odd, almost pained -- a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. He quickly looked down at the table, avoiding her eyes. Adrian smiled beatifically. "There's just one problem." Madeline braced herself. Here it comes. "I think you know what it is." Of course she knew what it was. But she hadn't spent years as an interrogator only to fall into such an obvious trap. She forced an innocent expression. "You'll have to be more specific." Adrian nodded. "Of course." She turned to Walter. "Walter? Why don't you tell Madeline what you saw?" Walter stared at the polished wood of the conference table, looking as if he might be sick. He could barely speak; his voice hardly rose above a whisper. "Paul Wolfe has been surreptitiously--" he paused and cleared his throat nervously. Madeline's muscles tensed as she watched him struggle for words. "--going to observe his son, Stephen," he finished. Madeline blinked, completely stunned. "How is it, do you think," Adrian asked sweetly, "that he's managed to find a son he isn't even supposed to remember that he has?" Madeline was speechless, so frozen with shock that she wasn't sure if she could even form a coherent sentence, much less explain herself. "I thought you might have some insight that you could share with us," Adrian continued. "After all, aren't you supposed to be somewhat of an expert in these matters?" As Adrian watched her intently, she felt as if she were being circled by a bird of prey. It was dizzying, disorienting, and completely terrifying. She opened her mouth but couldn't seem to put words together. "I see you're having some difficulty speaking right now. Perhaps I can be of some help." Adrian smiled once again. Her words were scrupulously polite, even kind, but her manner conveyed a lofty disdain, like that of the lady of the manor addressing a scullery maid caught stealing pieces of the tea service. "As I'm sure you're aware, we went to a great deal of trouble to make Paul Wolfe forget that he ever had a son -- to ensure that there would be no distraction that might interfere with his dedication to the Section. And yet now, years later -- and coincidentally right after he meets you -- he miraculously remembers Stephen -- and what's worse, has been secretly watching him." The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a look of cold fury. Coming from someone so delicate-looking, so fragile, even, the intensity of Adrian's anger was all the more frightening. "Now, all I ask from you is one thing -- an explanation as to why I shouldn't have you cancelled this instant." There was no explanation to offer. And for a moment, Madeline didn't care. Let them cancel her. But then, slowly, as her terror gave way to a dull acceptance of her impending demise, it occurred to her. She could tell them the truth. Or most of the truth, mixed with one critical lie. She swallowed nervously, but then jutted her chin out in defiance. "Because I helped you eliminate a distraction, not the other way around." Adrian frowned; her eyes narrowed slightly. "Explain," she ordered coldly. "His memories were starting to return on their own," Madeline explained, doing her best to control her voice, to keep it from wavering. "For the moment, they were limited to nightmares and a vague sense that something was wrong. But if I hadn't intervened, he eventually would have remembered everything -- including what Section One had done to him." She gave Adrian a knowing look. "I didn't think that would be in anyone's interest." Adrian studied Madeline, and her expression shifted, subtly, from hostile to wary but intrigued. "Go on." "So I put him through a process that reinforced his programming. I eradicated the memories thoroughly, eliminated all of the problems that were causing the nightmares, and made everything as good as new -- perhaps even stronger than before. With one difference." "Stephen." Madeline nodded. "Memory modification doesn't work perfectly. Strong memories -- the ones with the greatest emotional significance -- simply won't be erased. Not permanently, anyway. At least not without causing unacceptable levels of brain damage as a side effect." "I see." Adrian frowned again, but this time it was in thought. "He was going to remember Stephen sooner or later, no matter what was done to him. So I didn't even try to eliminate those memories. Instead, I allowed him to remember, but gave him a plausible cover story to explain the memory loss. One that didn't implicate the Section." "Which is?" "That his memory was temporarily impaired by trauma from his Vietnam experience." "And he believed that?" "Completely." Madeline paused. "I understand you're concerned about distractions, but many years have passed since he was recruited. He understands he can never have Stephen back in his life." Adrian nodded slowly. She no longer looked hostile, or even suspicious. "As for the other memories," Madeline continued, "I've ensured they won't return." "What other memories?" A look of confusion passed across Adrian's face. "Of the POW camp. He still believes he only spent fifteen days in captivity." "Oh, that," Adrian said dismissively. "We modified those memories because so much of Phan's questioning focused on trying to make Paul guilty for leaving Stephen behind. But now that he's remembered Stephen, that hardly matters anymore. You needn't have bothered erasing those memories." "That's the only reason you made him forget the seven years?" "Yes, of course. Why?" "I thought...." She paused, about to mention the man whom Paul had killed -- the man she had assumed worked for the Sections. But before she could do so, she caught George's eye. He was looking at her with such intensity, with such focused concentration, that his gaze nearly scalded her. She stared for several seconds, unable to look away. Then, slowly, covertly -- and gravely -- he shook his head. George's quiet signal threw her into complete confusion. Trying to compose herself, she shifted her focus to Walter, hoping that looking at someone neutral would give her time to think. But the motion of her head brought her eyes back into the path of the sunbeam shining into the room; it blinded her with a searing flash of light, making her feel not only disoriented, but also strangely vulnerable. As if she were in a spotlight. Or a rifle scope. With horror, she remembered that George had been very quick to make sure that she sat in that particular seat. Right in line of sight through the window. Her mouth suddenly dry, she turned back to Adrian. "No. Of course that would be the reason. I don't know what I was thinking." She glanced back at George, heart pounding. He nodded and smiled. Adrian examined her for several moments. "So you did this to protect the Section?" "Yes." "Then why did you keep it secret from us?" Adrian's voice grew faintly sharper. "Because what I did was unauthorized," Madeline answered, grasping at the most plausible reason she could think of. "Because I didn't know who had been in charge of the original modification, and I didn't want to be seen as accusing them of incompetence." Adrian laughed softly. "Well, it just so happens that the person in charge is sitting right here. George, are you offended by the fact that Madeline had to go back and fix some problems?" "Not at all," he answered, his tone richly gracious. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair with a relaxed posture. "You see?" Adrian smiled. "You should have come to us right away. Next time, I expect that you'll do so." "Yes, ma'am." "Good." Adrian took a deep breath. "Well," she said, her voice once again warm, "this has been most enlightening. And I must say, I'm quite relieved. For a moment, I thought you had interfered out of some sort of righteous anger over the fact that Paul had been separated from his wife and son. But how silly of me -- I forgot with whom I was dealing. You're not exactly sentimental about loving families, are you dear?" This final insult caught Madeline completely off guard. She tried to stifle her anger but failed, her face flushing with bitter rage. And then she saw it -- the look of triumph on Adrian's face -- and realized she had been deliberately baited. Tested. And she had failed. Her anger had given her away, had made it clear that she had indeed restored Paul's memory of Stephen for personal reasons, not out of any regard for the Section's interests. In fact, she had lied about Paul remembering Stephen -- ironically, it was the one memory that had not been showing up in his nightmares, had showed no signs of ever returning. And now Adrian knew. Adrian looked at Madeline imperiously. "Madeline, Walter, thank you for your time. You're both dismissed." Adrian watched Madeline and Walter depart in silence, intrigued but disturbed by the exchange that had just taken place. When the door closed, she rose from the table and strolled to the window, looking out at the bustling sidewalk below, trying to gather her thoughts. Madeline's story -- told in that silken tone that she seemed to employ so effortlessly -- had been completely plausible and utterly convincing. For a few moments, Adrian had even believed it. But then, on instinct, she had tested the young woman, pushing the one button that Adrian knew was likely to provoke a response. And with a single look of shock and outrage, Madeline had betrayed herself. So Madeline was lying. About how much, Adrian couldn't be sure. About her reason for restoring Paul's memory of his son, certainly. Perhaps about everything. Not that Adrian could prove it -- there was no real evidence. She simply knew. The question was whether the lies had any real significance. That they meant that Madeline -- of all people -- had formed an emotional attachment to a fellow operative was beyond any doubt. A great surprise, to be sure. But aside from that, was there any real import? Madeline was correct about one thing -- enough time had passed that Stephen no longer posed the same threat to Paul's loyalty. Indeed, in the months since he learned about his son, he had made no effort to meet with him, strictly limiting himself to furtive, distant observation. Whatever Madeline's motive, it seemed that being exposed to Stephen hadn't done Paul any lasting harm. However, there was one other, more worrying question: had being exposed to Madeline done Paul any lasting harm? Emotional attachments, Adrian knew, could go both ways. And what would be more natural than for Paul to form a bond with the person who had rescued him from almost certain death? But that, if the case, would be an unmitigated disaster. Adrian could think of no one, in any of the Sections, who would be a worse influence on Paul than Madeline. As necessary as people like Madeline were to the continued functioning of the Sections -- to the performance of some of the uglier tasks that fell to them -- such people could never be allowed anywhere near a position -- or person -- with influence. Their amorality was a poison; they needed constant monitoring and restrictions lest they corrupt everything they touched. For Paul to be exposed to -- or worse, influenced by -- such a person could undermine everything Adrian had hoped to achieve by training and mentoring him. Indeed, the possibilities were almost too dreadful to contemplate. Paul's drive and ambition, combined with Madeline's ability to objectify almost anyone, could turn the Sections into something unspeakable. From Adrian's hand-picked standard bearer for the future, Paul could instead become the destroyer of everything she had created. This could not be allowed. But how to prevent it? The obvious answer -- to keep them as far apart as possible -- had an undeniable appeal. But there were also significant risks. Kept apart too many years, they might idealize each other -- and then, once Adrian had passed on power to Paul, reunite, their attachment stronger than ever. Or even worse, a forcible separation might provoke active resistance or even rebellion. Indeed, knowing Paul's character, such a reaction was more than likely. Thus the other answer -- the counter-intuitive one -- might be the better choice. Instead of separating them, she could unite them -- but in circumstances that would drive them apart emotionally. After all, if, as the saying went, familiarity bred contempt, perhaps they needed to spend some time together. Time under Adrian's supervision and control. Turning away from the window, Adrian looked at George. He, too, had risen from his chair and stood, watching her carefully, as he aimlessly toyed with his watch. "I must admit, she showed a great deal of creativity and initiative," she said. "Yes, quite," George answered. He looked unsure of himself, as if he weren't certain what Adrian wanted to hear. But he then straightened his posture, seemingly growing in confidence. "You see? That's what I meant when I said we needed operatives whose ambition is for the Sections, not for themselves. She was looking out for our best interests." "Oh, I agree, her ambition isn't for herself. That much is quite clear." She paused, glancing out the window again, and then looked back at George. "That professor she's been reporting on -- he's getting a bit advanced in years, isn't he?" she asked. "Not so much that, but he is ill. It makes him seem older than he is." "Do you expect him to live much longer?" "Not more than two or three years." "What do you plan to do with her when he dies? Assign her to another mission?" George frowned, looking surprised at the question. "No, actually. I was thinking I might use her to help manage things internally at Two or Three. She's very organized -- I think she'd be of great assistance." "When he dies, I want her transferred to One," Adrian said bluntly. "To One?" He raised his eyebrows, unable to conceal his shock. "I didn't think you liked her." "Likes and dislikes really have nothing to do with it," she said. "I think she'd be an outstanding profiler. And she might be able to modernize some of our interrogation practices. I'd even be willing to give her a staff and budget." "I see." George nodded, but he didn't look particularly happy. "It's your call, Adrian. But I think she's better suited for the other Sections." Adrian smiled. "Well, we'll find out, won't we?" Madeline walked rapidly down the hallway, uneasy with the way the meeting with Adrian had ended, but relieved that it was at least over. And that she was alive after all. For the moment, at least. She had been caught in a lie -- and then simply dismissed. Not knowing her punishment -- and she was certain there would be one -- was almost worse than receiving the sentence right then and there. Left to her imagination, it loomed menacingly from the shadows, waiting to strike when she least expected it. And then there was the question of what would happen to Paul -- and to Stephen. Would they stop Paul from seeing him? Probably. Picking up her pace, she silently cursed herself. Her attempt to help Paul, to give him a gift, would instead cause him more pain. It would have been better for him never to have known about Stephen than to remember and then lose him. Foolishly, she had tried to make things right, to fix the past -- but had only succeeded in ruining the future. She would never make that mistake again. She had nearly reached the stairway, nearly escaped to the outside, when behind her she heard footsteps running to catch up with her. She ignored them. Her mind was now focused on short-term goals: stairs, street, metro, home. People, including the one running after her, were simply too much to deal with at the moment. "Madeline," Walter called out breathlessly. She kept walking, starting down the stairs. Just as she was about to take the first step, she felt him catch her arm. "Look, Madeline," he said, pulling her to a halt, "I am so sorry." She turned and looked back at him without expression. "You have nothing to apologize for." She started to move away, but again he stopped her. "Oh, yes I do." A mixture of guilt and indignation twisted his face. "This isn't right." She continued to stand, silent, waiting for him to let her go, not wanting to hear what he had to say. Not wanting to hear anything. Just wanting to get away. But he didn't let her go. Instead, he gulped, controlling himself, and began to speak. "Ever since Paul came into the Section, I've been monitoring him," he explained. "They told me to make sure that he didn't come across anyone from his past -- not just Stephen, but others. They told me that if anyone recognized Paul, their life might be endangered. So I agreed and followed him around -- but I've hated myself ever since. And this -- what I just saw in there -- this is the last straw. No more spying for me. Ever." Madeline looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. What did he want from her? Forgiveness? Absolution? He didn't know her, and he had no right to make any such demand. Looking back at him, she spoke as coldly as possible. "Why are you telling me this?" "Because I just wanted you to know." Walter sighed, shaking his head, his eyes brimming with tears. "I should never have told them about Paul going to watch Stephen. They were lying -- it didn't endanger Stephen at all. I should have just left things alone. I'm sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I just had to say it." For a moment, she felt a pang of sympathy. He was as much trapped by circumstance as she was; he, too, seemed to be eaten by guilt. Still, he was a stranger. She would not let him see that she was afraid, or vulnerable, or hurt. "Don't apologize to me," she said blandly. "Whether Paul Wolfe sees his son or not isn't my concern." Walter shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Okay, look," he said. "You can use that 'I did everything for the good of the Section' crap all you like with George and Adrian. But I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, you know." "What do you mean?" she asked, growing slightly apprehensive. "I've been following the man around, remember?" "Oh." Of course. The realization of what he meant hit her with dull ache in the pit of her stomach. They had taken so much care to deceive her surveillance -- but hadn't realized that he might be watched himself. He had been so sure that it wasn't Section One policy. But she should have known better. "Yeah, that's right. I know all about his visits to you." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And I haven't said a word about it to anyone. I've got a list of people he's not supposed to see -- and since you aren't on it, I figured it was none of George and Adrian's business." A surge of gratitude swept over her -- briefly. Then a doubt arose. "Are you the only one monitoring him?" He shook his head. "I don't know. Probably not. I do have another job. It's not like I can tag after him twenty-four hours a day." "And if someone else reports what we've been doing, he'll be disciplined, won't he?" Walter looked reluctant to answer. "Probably," he admitted, after hesitating. "Well, then, I'll have to end it," she said grimly. He stared at her in shock. "What?" "I am not going to be his downfall." "Don't say that." He squeezed her arm more tightly. "Look, I can help you hide it. I can help create enough diversions to cover his visits to you, as long as we work together. It's the least I can do after all of this." How she wanted to say yes, to accept his help and be grateful, to grasp some happiness for herself. But she had learned her lesson. That kind of happiness could only be short-lived. She would not jeopardize the future -- or the vows she had made to herself -- for the sake of such a selfish, fleeting joy. Instead, she would consider the consequences and choose what was best. Happiness could be postponed -- as long as it took. Her decision made, she took a deep breath. "No," she said. "No?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "If I wanted your help, I would have asked for it," she said sharply. "If you want to assuage your guilt, use those diversions to allow him to continue observing his son. Don't waste them on me." He stared at her, frowning, for several moments; he looked hurt by her words, confused by her coldness. Finally, sounding dubious, he spoke. "Okay, whatever you want." Releasing her arm, he passed around her and started to head down the stairs. But then he paused. "You know, I don't know you very well, but I hope you won't get offended if I give you some advice." She shrugged and kept her face blank. "Go ahead." "You've got to do something for yourself, too. If you deprive yourself of all pleasure, all joy, all human connections, this place is going to get you. It's going to eat you alive, and pretty soon there won't be any you left. There'll just be a shell, with nothing inside but the Section." Calmly, she looked him directly in the eyes. "What makes you think that's not what I want?" An expression of horror and disbelief filled his face. "You can't mean that." She regarded him wordlessly, unblinkingly. "Jesus Christ," he said, shaking his head and disappearing down the stairs. Departing the office, George closed the door behind him with a bit too much force. It slammed, and the sound echoed up and down the hallway, making him wince nervously. Adrian, still inside, would probably think him angry because she had turned down his invitation to join him for drinks. But it wasn't anger that boiled over inside of him -- it was anxious energy. He had dodged a dangerous bullet -- just barely. Sighing, he turned away from the door to leave, but stopped short when he saw a figure at the other end of the hallway. It was Madeline, standing at the top of the stairs in a posture that looked almost forlorn. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight -- it had been almost fifteen minutes since Adrian had dismissed Madeline and Walter from the meeting, and Madeline should have long since departed. Indeed, given the nature of that particular meeting, he would have expected her to flee the building with utmost haste. In her place, that's what he would have done. Nevertheless, since she was there, it provided an opportunity. An opportunity to do something he should have done long before. "Madeline," he called, starting toward her. She turned to look at him and waited until he caught up to her. When he drew closer, he frowned in shock at her appearance. Her normally composed visage was marred with fatigue, and her eyes were heavy with something he couldn't quite identify. Sadness, perhaps, or resignation. Did she realize, he wondered, how close she had come to death? How he was poised, with just a motion of his head, to signal the sniper positioned across the street to send a bullet through her heart? He was certain that she did -- her evasion of Adrian's question, just in the nick of time, had demonstrated that she understood his warning. No wonder she looked dejected. Such a close encounter with mortality might tend to depress one's mood. "I'm glad you're still here," he said, catching her by the elbow and steering her down the stairs. "There's a café around the corner -- let me buy you a coffee." She nodded, but without much enthusiasm. "All right." They descended the stairs and exited the building, emerging onto the sidewalk, which was lit with the late afternoon sun. Turning left, George stepped around a street vendor and his portable cookstand; Madeline followed dutifully alongside him. As they walked the block to the café, George attempted to lighten the atmosphere with idle conversation -- a comment about the weather, a recommendation that Madeline see a new art exhibit, a question about the necklace she was wearing. Her responses were pleasant but forced, their interaction strained but polite. Arriving at their destination, he gestured to a sidewalk table. They sat, gave the waiter their order, and then fell into an awkward silence. Arms folded, Madeline looked down at the table as if its well-worn texture were the most fascinating thing in the world. George cleared his throat. "You do realize, don't you," he said, with a casual tone that belied the seriousness of his words, "that you would have been killed had you started to describe what happened in that POW camp?" She looked up sharply, her eyes full of restrained intensity. "Yes," she answered and then swallowed rapidly. She kept her arms crossed tightly across her chest. He shifted in the too-small wooden chair, crossing one leg over another and folding his hands in his lap. "Your death would have been easy enough to explain away -- an attempted assassination against Adrian by a terrorist with rather poor aim, and you the unfortunate innocent bystander who got in the way. Adrian wouldn't have ever suspected the truth." Her eyes dropped again briefly, but then she looked back up with a faint look of defiance. "So why didn't you?" "Kill you?" She nodded. "You demonstrated that it wasn't necessary." George gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I don't wish you any harm, you know. If you're intelligent enough to keep quiet, you have nothing to fear from me." Unfolding her arms, Madeline leaned forward as if she were about to speak again, but pulled back as the waiter approached with their coffee. The young man took his time, joking and grinning as he set the cups down; both Madeline and George forced smiles and laughter. But as soon as the waiter turned his back, Madeline's smile vanished. Frowning, she added sugar to her coffee and stirred deliberately, and then set the spoon down on the saucer with a loud clink. "That man Paul Wolfe killed -- I thought he worked for the Sections. But that wasn't it, was it?" "No, he didn't work for the Sections." George paused, blinking. "He worked for me." Madeline said nothing in response, but he could see the question in her eyes. A question that, if he wanted to enlist her help, it was now time to answer. He took a sip of his coffee, set it down, and then shifted again in the uncomfortable chair. "You see, Adrian and I don't always see eye to eye. About several things." He glanced away briefly, reflecting on just how many such things there were, but then returned his gaze to her face. "One of the areas where we have a difference of opinion involves recruiting," he explained. "Adrian believes that good operatives are born, not made. She wants to recruit people in her own image -- zealots, moralists. People with strong views and deeply held principles. But I know better." He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table. "What we need are people who believe in nothing. People who can be molded -- who can be trained to be loyal to the organization, and to the organization alone. People like you." Madeline arched an eyebrow at his last remark, but kept silent. She reached for her coffee cup and slowly began to finger the handle. "Adrian has had her way with Section One," he continued. "And perhaps that's for the best. But she's left the others -- especially Three -- to me." He leaned back again, relaxing slightly. "Now, Section Three, as you know, is an organization of assassins. By its nature, it requires operatives without moral qualms -- ideally, without the capability for independent thought whatsoever. Robots who follow orders. And a number of years ago, I found the perfect source of such operatives." He smiled sadly. "The trouble was, it was a source that Adrian wouldn't have approved of. And so I never told her. I lied about where I was finding those men." Madeline's eyes widened, and she took a long sip of her coffee. "I found some freelance recruiters, of sorts," George said, picking up his spoon and playing with it idly. "They traveled around the world, picking out candidates for me. And as it turned out, the best all came from the same place -- the POW camps in Vietnam. All we had to do was pay a modest price per head, and the Vietnamese were happy to hand them over, no questions asked. They didn't even know who they were handing the men over to -- but I doubt they really cared, to be honest." He frowned in thought. "Adrian would have had no objection to recruiting from those camps, per se. But she wouldn't have liked the type of POW I selected. You see, they were all men who had broken under torture. Men with military training and combat experience, but who had been crushed psychologically." He set the spoon down and looked Madeline directly in the eye. "Those men were -- and still are -- my best assassins. They'll do anything -- and I mean anything -- without hesitation, without question. Of course, the war eventually ended, and I've had to develop new sources, but I still use the lessons that I learned then -- to get the best operatives, choose those who are weak, or disturbed, or troubled somehow, and expose them to violence." A faint expression -- maybe distaste, maybe apprehension -- filled her face. "Is that how you pick all of your candidates?" George chuckled. "You mean, is that how I picked you?" When she didn't reply, he smiled. "Do you really want to know the answer to that question?" She looked down at the table, her expression a mixture of anger and shame. He took a deep breath. "In any event, my recruiting efforts were going quite well, except in one camp. There, one of the POWs kept on interfering -- keeping my recruiters from properly identifying the weak ones. And then -- even worse -- he killed one of the recruiters. Needless to say, I decided that camp was too much trouble, and so we declined to do any further business there. It didn't really matter -- the other camps were just as productive. I wouldn't have given it another thought -- until the unthinkable happened." "The unthinkable," Madeline murmured. George could see from the mildly nauseated look on her face that she knew exactly what was coming. "Yes." George laughed bitterly, remembering. "One day, Adrian thrust a file at me, saying she had found the perfect operative to succeed her at Section One. You see, she had been paying the Vietnamese camp officials, too." He sighed. "I don't think I need to tell you who that operative was." She shook her head silently. "You can imagine my dilemma," he said. "Section Three was full of men he had been imprisoned with for years. What if he recognized one of them? And mentioned it to Adrian? It would make things very unpleasant. To say the least." He took another sip of his coffee. It had grown lukewarm; with a scowl, he set it down. "I tried to persuade her not to recruit him, but she wouldn't listen. I told her he had strong family ties; she told me to break them. And then it occurred to me. The best way to break his ties to his family -- especially to his son -- was to manipulate his memories. Why not make him forget his years in the POW camp at the same time?" Madeline nodded slowly. "I see." "And so I brought out Phan, and found Willie Kane, and with some of our psychological experts, we created alternate memories. I gave Adrian some excuse as to why it had to be done, and she never questioned it. We let him keep some recollections of his wife -- they had known each other since childhood, so it was impractical to make him forget her altogether. But it was easy enough to program him to think she looked like one of our operatives, and have that operative pose for surveillance that would persuade him to hate her. The son and the seven years, however, we erased entirely, and replaced with an alternate history." He shrugged. "Maybe not quite as vivid as the real thing, but good enough to be persuasive." "For a time," she corrected. "Precisely," he said, nodding. "For a while, it seemed to work. But then problems started cropping up. He was acting strangely, and -- just as you later confirmed -- my experts told me he might be recovering his memories. So I decided that the only safe thing would be to have him dead. Of course, I couldn't just kill him -- it had to be something that wouldn't arouse Adrian's suspicion. A death during a mission, for example." Madeline frowned and glanced away uncomfortably. "When he was captured by the Soviets, I thought I had been saved. I was sure he would be dead and my worries over. And if you had followed protocol instead of trying to be creative, he would be," he said sharply. She straightened her posture and hardened her expression. "Thanks to my intervention, he'll never remember those seven years or any of those fellow prisoners. I've eliminated any threat he might have posed to you. There's no longer any reason to want him to die." He raised his eyebrows, taken aback by her sudden vehemence. "Oh, yes there is. Perhaps not for me -- you might be right about him no longer being a danger. But for you, there's a very good reason to want him dead." Growing pale, she asked, "For me?" "Yes, for you." He paused. How to explain this? Perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning. "I hand-picked you to be recruited. Do you know why?" "No." She shook her head. "Why, to become my successor, of course." She frowned for a few moments, puzzled. "As second-in-command?" He laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Good heavens, no. My aspirations run higher than that. And yours should, too." He smiled and shook his head. "No, I plan to run the Sections one day. And if you make the right choices, you can, too -- eventually." "But what about Adrian?" He picked up his spoon again and turned it over, studying it intently. "Ah, well," he said, hesitating slightly, "Adrian's a superb leader -- a genius, really. She's an idealist -- a visionary. The perfect person to start an organization like this, to build it up from nothing -- but not the best to lead it into the future, to allow it to mature." He set the spoon down and looked back at her confidently. "For that," he said, "one needs a pragmatist. Someone comfortable with ambiguity instead of bright lines, someone capable of establishing rules, routines, bureaucracies. Someone like me. And you." Madeline said nothing, but she shifted in her chair, her expression growing vaguely uncomfortable. George leaned forward, lowering his voice for emphasis. "Paul Wolfe represents Adrian's way -- the road we don't want to go down. Adrian recruited him to prevent people like you from taking over. He's your rival, not your ally. By helping him, you only hurt yourself. Now do you understand?" He hoped that she did, but instead she looked as if she had been slapped in the face. "I--" she started, but then stopped, looking away for a few seconds. She closed her eyes briefly, and then returned her gaze toward him, her expression again calm. "I see. That's very interesting." He frowned, unsure how to read her reaction. She seemed so noncommittal. But of course. She didn't understand why he was telling her this, didn't realize that they could help each other -- that they needed each other's help, in fact. He had to explain that, too. "We've very nearly reached the time when Adrian will no longer be an asset to this organization," he said slowly, drawing out the words. "When she'll be a hindrance to its future growth. When that time comes, I intend to take over." A look of utter shock filled her face. "You're going to overthrow her?" "No. You will." She looked dumbstruck, as well she should. He smiled. "I cannot be seen to be involved directly," he explained, shaking his head in emphasis. "You see," he paused, somewhat uncomfortable at sharing this information, but realizing it was necessary, "Adrian and I have known each other many years. I … I want to make certain that no harm comes to her. It would kill her to know that I was involved in taking away her proudest creation. And so she mustn't know." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "The rebellion must therefore come from the ranks," he said firmly, "from disgruntled subordinates. But at the end of the day, I'll be in charge of a new layer, a bureaucratic structure in between the Sections and the people who fund us. I'll depose her, but from behind the scenes. And by helping me -- by being my proxy, in effect -- you can benefit." At this, Madeline's mask completely slipped off; her expression grew openly astonished. "You care for her, and yet you'd do this to her?" George frowned. How could he explain this to someone who had never been in his position? To someone so young that she had never had to make such hard choices, never had to hurt someone she loved? "It's for her own good, and the good of the Sections," he said intently, not quite sure which one of them he was trying to convince. "I cannot allow her to destroy what we've created, or to destroy herself, just because she can't adapt to changing times." Madeline regarded him quietly, her eyes dark mirrors reflecting back at him. Did she understand after all, or was her expression an accusation? He couldn't tell. "Sometimes," he said sadly, "the highest form of loyalty is betrayal. But then you wouldn't understand that, would you?" In response, she simply blinked and looked away. 1999 Paul sat uncomfortably in his car, observing Corinne being taken -- completely broken and destroyed -- into the mental hospital where she would spend the rest of her days. Watching her, knowing that he was responsible, pained him, ate at him with guilt. But it was not just because of Corinne's fate, horrific as that was -- it was also because of what he knew his actions looked like. He knew what George and Madeline -- who was he kidding, probably the entire Section -- thought. They had made it unmistakably clear that they believed his real target was Corinne, not her husband. The unfortunate thing, the thing that tore at him inside, was that they were right. Just not for the reason they thought. For years, his sources had been telling him that Corinne, of all people, had terrorist affiliations, that she was the one behind her husband's growing flirtation with such groups. At first, he refused to believe it. But over time, the reports had accumulated to the point where he could no longer deny the implications. Even then, however, he had ignored it. Because of his prior relationship to her, because he had loved her, once, he simply couldn't bring himself to hurt her -- despite her later betrayal, and despite his outrage at what she had done to Stephen. It was a line he wouldn't, no, couldn't, cross -- regardless of duty, regardless of logic. It was pathetic, really. He preached to his operatives daily how they couldn't allow personal issues to affect their performance -- and yet, again and again, it was his own biggest failing. After all these years, he still hadn't been able to change that. Maybe it couldn't be changed; maybe he hadn't tried hard enough. Whatever the case, it had almost led to disaster. When he learned that Markali was about to be put into a position of power -- and that Corinne's Badenheim contacts were poised to draw him into their inner circle -- he had almost panicked. He had allowed the problem to grow to the point where it was almost impossible to contain -- by the time he was willing to act, drastic steps were required. So, finally, he set aside his feelings and did what was necessary. Madeline should have been proud of his achievement -- except that, ironically, he couldn't explain it to her. Nor could he explain it to George. Corinne, his ex-wife, a terrorist sympathizer? They would have thought him completely mad, obsessed with revenge to the point of irrationality. So, instead, he chose a slightly more acceptable explanation -- manufacturing evidence against Markali himself. He knew that neither George nor Madeline really believed it, but it was just plausible enough that they let him proceed, however reluctantly. He suspected that the two of them had been discussing the mission behind his back -- at times, their statements to him had sounded far too in synch for it to be a coincidence. And there was something else, as well, something both reassuring and worrying at the same time: the files retrieved from Markali's campaign had indeed shown evidence of extensive links back to Badenheim -- evidence that he knew couldn't have existed. Evidence that he, in fact, had been intending to plant -- and that he suspected someone else had planted for him. Had it been Madeline, covering his back? George, wanting to ensure that Center didn't ask too many unwelcome questions? Or both of them, up to God knows what? The prospect of Madeline and George conspiring about something gave him chills -- especially given what he and Madeline were planning for George. Their behavior during this mission struck him as a real-life twist on that scenario -- and it disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. Once they put their plan in full play, he would be leaving himself completely at Madeline's mercy. He trusted her, of course -- implicitly. But then Adrian had trusted George, too, he reminded himself -- just as implicitly. History repeats itself, he thought with a shudder. God, he hoped not. Adrian had once given him advice about selecting a second-in-command. She had always been so ready to dispense advice -- even if she didn't apply it to herself. The advice, however, was often sound. Choose someone who brings you balance, who complements you and makes up for your weaknesses, Adrian had said. Well, he had done that. Without question. It must be someone who accepts that you are in control -- who believes in your leadership, Adrian had added. Was that the case? Yes, there was really no doubt -- Madeline had demonstrated that countless times, in countless ways. Certainly she tried to influence him -- sometimes even to manipulate him -- but she always, unfailingly, deferred to his final decision. Even when it was wrong, he recognized in retrospect. Finally, Adrian's last piece of advice: If your second keeps secrets from you, it's the beginning of the end. Here, he disagreed. Every partnership, every relationship, had secrets -- sometimes even dark ones. They were a necessary evil, he believed -- and the longer-lasting the partnership, the more that was the case. What really mattered was whether your partner would stand by you in the end. That was what Adrian missed -- that was what had destroyed her. And that was what would save him. He smiled as he remembered how the saying about history repeating actually ended: first as tragedy, then as farce. Yes, that was probably true. This time, it would be a farce. And the joke would be on George. His mind returned to the present, and he looked back at the scene unfolding outside his window. Watching Corinne mentally disintegrate hurt, despite his knowledge that she was no better than any of their other targets. Indeed, in the back of his mind, it puzzled him that both Corinne and Stephen had become involved with terrorists. What were the chances, really, that all three of them would independently fall into the same secret world? Infinitesimal. He wasn't blind -- either Section or Section's enemies had to have a hand in that. But he didn't want to know the details. Some things it was better not to know. It was better to have unanswered questions than answers that brought regrets. Indeed, his only real regret was that he hadn't been able to be a real father to Stephen, or to protect his son better. As for the rest of his life, he felt he was an extraordinarily lucky man. He had been given the opportunity to make a real difference in the world -- in fact, he had saved it several times over. How many people could say that they had accomplished the same? And then, to make things perfect, he had done so side by side with a woman whose brilliance, bravery and beauty still dazzled him. An infinitely frustrating woman, to be sure, who always tried to push him away whenever he seemed to be on the verge of getting truly close, but even that-- her very need to resist -- he found completely addictive. Of course, she kept him at arms-length only because he allowed it. He had learned, over the years, that, despite her frequent coldness, whenever he made a serious effort, those barriers would crack -- just a little, at least. He was confident that, ultimately, he could remove them entirely if he wished, if he were determined enough. He knew that however much she convinced herself -- and tried to convince him -- that she wanted to reject him, she was incapable of doing so. Whenever he had forced the issue -- given her an opportunity to end things irreparably, she had never been able to go through with it. No, in truth, they were bound together inseparably -- and somewhere, on some level, he was sure that even she knew it. But now was not the time to force the issue. It was better -- safer -- if things remained sporadic, indeterminate, even occasionally uncomfortable. As much as she seemed to worry about being his weakness, he knew that she was perhaps endangered even more. He was a man with many enemies -- he didn't want her to become a target of retaliation any more than she already was. So he would wait. Occasionally, he would pursue her -- and allow her to reject him -- because he knew she unconsciously craved the reassurance that he still cared for her. But he would wait -- until their enemies were defeated, until they were truly safe -- and then, he would claim what was his. What was theirs. Some form of personal happiness, even if so long deferred. He gave one last sad look at Corinne, and then turned away forever. The past was the past, and couldn't be changed -- but he had the future to look forward to.

1999 After listening to George hang up on the other end of the line, Madeline set down her phone wearily and turned back to her computer. She had so much work to catch up on -- not just for the Markali mission, but also several others -- that she knew it would be yet another late and tiring night. As a change of pace, she pulled up the profile for Sri Lanka -- a mission going live three days hence. For a few pleasant moments, she lost herself in the details of strategy and became one with her work -- immersed in the sweeping curves of the graphs that flashed colorfully across her screen, absorbed by the pristine clarity of the data that she assessed and balanced. But as she continued to type, George's words crept out from the back of her mind, jarring her focus. George was entirely right: Nikita was the worst choice possible for the Markali mission. The thought of how many different ways the reckless young operative could cause things to go wrong made Madeline physically ill with dread. But Paul had insisted upon using Nikita, growing angry and defensive when Madeline tried to convince him otherwise. Nikita was such an odd choice for the profile, and yet it wasn't the first time Paul had involved the young woman in a mission that affected him personally -- he had done the same two years before when the life of his son was threatened. Madeline wasn't supposed to know about that, of course. Paul hadn't told her. He hadn't believed that she would be willing to bend the rules for Stephen, hadn't even trusted her to look the other way while he did so. Normally, he trusted her with everything. The fact that the one exception involved the welfare of his son was the greatest of ironies, although he didn't know it -- indeed, could never be allowed to know it. But she recognized it all too well. It had gnawed at her relentlessly for those two years, opening up an ugly gash in her soul -- a gash that this mission was causing to fester. The details of the Sri Lanka mission faded into a blur. She sat staring at her computer screen, numb and motionless, until she finally closed her eyes, placed her hands flat on the cool glass of her desk, and forced her mind to clear. It was for his own good that she kept this knowledge from him. She had to keep believing that. The alternative -- that she had betrayed him -- was too awful to contemplate. 1975 Paul crossed the main floor slowly, taking in the layout and personnel of his new workplace, absorbing every detail for future reference. Section One intrigued him. While it had some of the feel of a military organization, it exuded a subtler, more complex kind of energy. It wasn't the complexity of an organization like the Pentagon, where he had worked briefly as a young Army officer before shipping out to Vietnam. No, that had been the ponderous convolution of a vast, inflexible bureaucracy. Section One's complexity was different, almost organic -- it felt like the workings of a single, devious mind. He found himself drawn to it, wanting to understand it. Wanting to match wits with it. He no longer regretted leaving his old life behind. In fact, he had no "old life" left to return to, as the surveillance photos of Corinne with her series of boyfriends made clear. Once past the initial blind outrage, he had settled into a more tolerable bitterness. Yes, she had betrayed him, not even waiting three months after his tour of duty began before turning to other men for comfort. But that proved her weakness, not his. Her shallowness freed him to pursue what he felt, more and more, was his calling -- protecting the vulnerable and the innocent. He had been unable to do it in the Army -- in fact, he was never sure who the innocent really were in Vietnam, where everyone seemed to be the enemy. But here, it was possible. Here, many things were possible. His thoughts came to a halt as he noticed the eyes of another man upon him, observing him from a distant corner. A lanky man with long hair and a bandana stared at him with an odd look, almost of recognition. Paul felt a twinge of fear rise slowly up the back of his neck. This man knows me, but I don't know him, he thought. Paul began to sweat with a thin sheen of apprehension. The look the man was giving him reminded him of the nightmares he kept having -- terrifying dreams of people and events that seemed bizarrely familiar, that he felt he ought to know -- but didn't. The dreams created a sense of disorientation that followed him into his waking hours, despite his efforts to block them out with constant work and activity. This was the first time he had felt that same, nagging familiarity while awake -- although perhaps that provided an opportunity. He glanced again at the man and then swallowed. He couldn't confront his dreams, but he could damn well confront this person. He walked slowly but confidently across the room, his footsteps echoing sharply, until he stood before the man. "Do I know you?" Paul asked in a manner intended to be faintly provocative. The other man shuffled his feet slightly, looking startled and uncomfortable. "No -- you must be thinking of someone else." "Well, it's funny -- you were sure looking at me like you knew me from somewhere." The two men stood while an awkward silence grew between them. The other man finally broke it. "Nah," he said with a shake of his head. "I was just noticing that you were one of the new ones." Then the man extended his hand with a grin. Paul took it and noticed the man's firm grip. It was odd -- standing in front of the man, Paul no longer felt any sense of apprehension. Perhaps his dreams were starting to distort his perception of reality -- this was just an ordinary operative, not someone to be concerned about. "Welcome aboard," the man said pleasantly. "I'm Walter." "Paul." "So you've finished your training?" "Yeah. They had me studying languages for a couple of years -- Russian, Czech, a lot of those Eastern European languages." "That's all the training you got?" Walter sounded both incredulous and a little worried. "I didn't need anything else. I'm a combat vet." Paul straightened his shoulders and looked him in the eye. "You got a problem with that?" Walter frowned. "No. Why?" "You dress like some hippie. I thought you might be some antiwar protester. You know, the kind that goes around spitting on people like me." Paul narrowed his eyes to glare at the other man. If he were going to have to confront someone about his background, it was better to do it sooner rather than later. Walter matched Paul's stare with one of his own, adding a resentful scowl. "I've been here throughout the whole war, son. In charge of weapons, by the way. You know, the weapons that you're gonna rely on to save your ass out in the field. The ones that you want to be in good working order." Realizing he had misjudged the man, Paul relaxed his expression. Walter looked Paul up and down for a moment, but then chuckled. "Look, man, I dress like this because it makes me look good. Don't want to disappoint the ladies, you know?" "Ah, say no more," Paul laughed and clapped Walter on the back. "Hey, since you're an old-timer, got any words of advice?" "Sure. Keep your head down, cover your ass, and be nice to the weapons-master." "Well, anyone who knows me knows that I don't believe in the first two. But I'll follow your advice on the last one." The anteroom to the office overflowed with operatives; the handful of chairs were full, so several men sprawled on the floor. They were waiting -- and had been waiting all morning -- to be summoned to see George. Some read books, others chewed gum, still others nodded off to sleep, looking up only when the next person's name was called. Section Two normally managed its operatives through lower-level handlers, but once a year George required personal meetings. This was Madeline's second such debrief. The first, the year before, had lasted all of five minutes, and she had resented having to wait all day just to be dismissed so quickly. This time, however, she was more accepting. The annual visit was the only chance she had to see her fellow operatives and exchange stories about their assignments. If she paid sufficient attention, the conversation in the anteroom could actually be instructive. She looked carefully around the room, observing each person, trying to guess the nature of their missions. A slight movement across the room caught her eye. A muscular operative named Thomas stood up and slowly walked toward her, the leather of his Hells Angels jacket creaking ominously. He stopped in front of her, but looked down at Christine, a frail-looking woman with light brown hair, who sat in the chair next to Madeline. Madeline remembered both of them from her days as a recruit -- Christine, Madeline's partner for many training assignments, she had thought well of; Thomas, she hadn't. In fact, Madeline's most vivid memory of him was the tantrum he threw when she outscored him at the shooting range. "So what kind of mission requires such fancy outfits?" he asked with a slight sneer. Christine was indeed unusually well dressed compared to the others, most of whom wore clothes to match their roles as terrorist hangers-on or criminals. "My mission has been to go out on dates. Lots of dates," Christine replied with a coy smile. The operatives gathered in the room burst out laughing. "There's got to be more to it than that," Thomas said in disbelief. "No, I'm completely serious. I don't know if this is leading up to something else, but that's really all they require of me. Otherwise, I just lead a quiet life." Thomas pursed his lips and scratched his beard in thought. "Sounds pretty cushy. You must be one of those sleeper agents who won't go into action for years." He sighed. "I'm stuck dealing drugs to some pretty heavy-duty bad guys. It's my job to listen to them when they're high and see if they give away any intel. That is, when they're not playing in the kitchen with explosives. One of these days they're going to blow themselves up, and I just hope to God I'm not there." "Yeah, consider yourself lucky," another operative, Sandra, interjected. "I'm married to a terrorist. And the things he makes me do...." She gave a slight shudder as her voice trailed off. Looking faintly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, Christine turned away from Sandra and Thomas. "So what do you do, Madeline?" "I'm a university student," Madeline answered simply. "That's it?" Sandra asked. "You're not spying on student radicals or something?" "No. In fact, I've been told to stay away from them." "You're just going to school -- and Section's paying for it?" Thomas asked, snorting derisively. "That's about it," Madeline replied with a small smile. Sandra and Thomas stared at her for several moments. "Well, I really got screwed over here," Sandra protested. "You and me both, sister," said Thomas. "Man, you and me both." Madeline listened to their complaints with a feeling of sadness. They would think her insane, but she actually envied them. They were on real missions, against real enemies, with real goals. She, in contrast, lived in a sort of suspended animation, waiting for something to happen, not knowing if it ever would. At first, she had enjoyed her student experience immensely -- it was the first time she could remember leading anything close to a normal life. Better than normal, actually -- to be posted to such a glamorous place as Paris -- with her own apartment and a generous allowance -- was an almost unimaginable luxury, so far removed from her old life that it almost defied comprehension. She had reveled in her new-found freedom, blowing the entire first month's allowance on clothes and having to resort to living on bread for weeks afterwards. It would have seemed like a dream come true, except that Madeline had never allowed herself the weakness of indulging in fantasies. There were, of course, requirements, but they had seemed quite minor -- for a time. School was the only significant one. Section's choice for her major -- psychology -- had unnerved her; in fact, the selection struck her as a twisted joke. Nevertheless, she studied hard -- her handlers made it clear that was part of her assignment. To her surprise, she found the coursework interesting. She had never developed much respect for the practitioners of that craft when they tried to apply it to her; in the hospitals, she had often entertained herself by breaking into the doctors' offices at night and laughing at the absurdities they placed in her files. But now she realized that they had been hacks -- in the hands of someone qualified, the knowledge she was gaining could be extraordinarily powerful. Aside from her studies, however, it had initially appeared as if she were allowed to do anything she pleased -- that she had a real life, with real choices. Gradually, painfully, she learned otherwise. With each mistake, she received a warning; when she ignored a warning, she received a punishment. Eventually, she no longer needed either. In reality, as she now understood, her life was strictly limited, precisely defined. Genuine human interactions were prohibited; only a superficial imitation was allowed. Within Section Two, there had at least been the camaraderie of a shared secret; outside, she was a shadow of a person, barely existing at all. George observed Madeline carefully as she entered his office for her annual interview. She smiled for a split second and took a seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. He set aside her file and smiled in return. "Madeline, it's so good to see you again. How is Paris?" "Very nice." Her tone and expression were pleasant -- even warm -- but he detected an underlying wariness. "You look well. Student life -- or is it French food -- must be agreeing with you." As was French fashion, he noticed, but he refrained from mentioning that fact. "Thank you." Again, she gave him only the most minimal, unrevealing response. He had hoped that she would respond more conversationally, as the other operatives did -- their small talk was often much more informative about the state of their assignments than the actual debriefs. But she refused to yield anything. Although disappointing for his present purposes, it did demonstrate an admirable caution on her part. It was yet another sign that he had selected her wisely. He sighed and reached for her file again. "It's time to begin the next stage of your mission." She nodded gravely. George opened the folder, pulled out a photo, and handed it to her. He watched as she examined it and waited for her to look up. Interesting. The young woman's mask had finally slipped -- she looked alert, almost eager. "Dr. Ardem Ohanian. A professor of psychology at your university. He's the leading expert in Europe on the subject of hypnotherapy. Your assignment is to get to know the good doctor. Get close to him, work with him, and learn everything you can about his techniques and activities." "For any particular purpose?" "That is the purpose. Just find out all you can about his work, and report what you learn back to us." He smiled benignly. "You see, we at the Agency are interested in a wide range of academic research -- this is just one of the many fields that we follow." For an instant, her face fell. Then she shifted slightly in her seat and the look passed. Had George not spent so many years reading people he would have missed the reaction entirely. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. If he interpreted her expression correctly, she was actually disappointed that her mission wasn't more substantive. Most operatives would find the news a great relief -- a nice, safe research mission tended to have a positive effect on one's life expectancy. But then again, this was someone who had once lived much more dangerously. Perhaps she was simply growing bored. Well, that would be remedied soon enough. The professor's research could be called many things, but boring wasn't one of them. "Paul," Corinne's voice called, with a strange, echoing sound. His eyes searched frantically, but everywhere he looked he saw a swirling gray fog. It engulfed him, strangling him with its damp, chilling tendrils, until he began beating it off in panic. A gap opened, revealing dark nothingness -- but then, out of reach, he saw her face, shimmering and blurred, the features not quite visible. "Paul," she called again, crying, "why didn't you come home? I miss you. I've been waiting for you." He reached out, trying to move toward her, but he was paralyzed, as if his feet were encased in cement. He struggled, and then-- With a start, he woke. He was shivering and cold, having kicked off the covers from his bed. He stood up and gathered the sheets and blankets from the floor, trying to force the dream from his mind. But the image lingered, rebuking him. "Dammit, Corinne, why won't you leave me the hell alone?" he asked aloud. "You're the one who stabbed me in the back, remember?" Tossing the covers back on the bed, he crawled back under them. But the bone-chilling coldness refused to abate. Why didn't she wait for me? he asked himself. He had loved her, and she him -- he was so sure of it. He couldn't possibly have misjudged her so badly. And yet, apparently, he had -- while he had suffered paroxysms of guilt merely for buying a drink or two for bar hostesses in Saigon, she had been...had been.... Christ. He couldn't even bear to think about it. He kicked at the covers in frustration. Enough was enough. He couldn't live like this -- the gnawing uncertainty was slowly killing him. Had she never cared for him at all, had his past been a complete lie? If so, the hell with her. But if not, if there had been some terrible misunderstanding, if she could just admit that she'd been weak, or afraid, or lonely, maybe he could forgive her. And if she really did miss him, really did want him, then not even demons from hell could drag him from her side. He had always believed in confronting problems head on -- this one would be no different. He would find out if she had ever really loved him -- he would know and then, one way or the other, these dreams would cease. She must be easy to find -- after all, Section One had been following her and providing him with an endless series of damning photos. With some discreet review of their files, he would locate her -- and ask her himself. Madeline entered the lecture hall and quickly scanned the audience. Most of the students seemed to be clustered in the middle rows, so she carefully made her way down to the front and found a seat slightly off center. The well-worn wooden chair squeaked loudly when it swiveled -- she gave an apologetic smile to those near her and pulled out her notebook. Her role was to play the avid, admiring student. To that end, she had spent the last several weeks reading -- and memorizing -- every article Ardem Ohanian had ever written, as well as everything that had ever been written about him. In the world of psychology, he was cutting-edge to the point of being controversial, and his activities spanned much more than academic pursuits. He was somewhat of a political gadfly, constantly flying around the globe for conferences on disarmament and cross-cultural understanding -- but it was his work in prison reform that garnered the most attention. He argued that even hard-core offenders could be rehabilitated with his unique brand of hypnotherapy. So far, only one facility in Belgium had actually allowed him to run a pilot program -- and even then only for non-violent inmates -- but the zero percent recidivism rate had attracted considerable media coverage. With his emphasis on workable cures, he seemed the antithesis of the institutional therapists Madeline had known, who had always seemed content to keep their patients drugged, warehoused, and out of the way. She looked up as a short, slight man with a shock of curly white hair stepped to the podium. He smiled, almost shyly, pushed up the glasses that had slipped down his nose, and began the class. The shyness disappeared as he spoke, his French colored with an accent from his native Armenia, weaving self-deprecating jokes into his case histories. The students laughed frequently -- a rarity at a university where most of the professors considered themselves too important to bother to make their lectures interesting. Taking notes, she shifted unconsciously in her seat -- and cringed as the chair let out an ear-piercing squeal. Ohanian halted in mid-sentence, and a sea of heads turned in her direction; she felt herself redden self-consciously and then shrugged in an effort to appear nonchalant. The other students laughed, and their attention returned to the front of the room. Ohanian, however, continued to look at her. He stared in silence, his wide, dark eyes searching her with a look of apparent shock and confusion. After several moments, he shook himself slightly, seemed to recover and moved on. But she noticed that he gave her fleeting looks throughout the rest of the lecture, with an odd, haunted expression. When the lecture concluded, she joined a group of students waiting in a circle around Ohanian to ask questions. Like many well-known intellectuals, he attracted throngs of fawning followers -- this lecture was no exception. They droned on endlessly in an effort to prove how much they knew -- they had no questions, but instead seemed intent on securing compliments, approval, pats on the head from their hero. One by one, he dismissed them deftly, and eventually turned to Madeline. "Yes, mademoiselle, you've been waiting a long time." "I have a question, if you still have the time to answer." "Of course!" He smiled graciously. "Please, what is it?" "I've heard that hypnotic regression results in a high number of false recollections. Wouldn't that interfere with the therapeutic process?" The other students seemed shocked that she would challenge him instead of paying respect; she even noticed one of them roll his eyes. But the doctor chuckled and looked delighted at the question. "On the contrary. False recollections are at worst immaterial to the outcome, and at best extremely useful." "But therapy is supposed to concern itself with uncovering the cause of an ailment. False memories can make that process more complicated." She persisted in her challenge, ignoring the stares of the other students. "But false recollections are as revealing as dreams or inkblot interpretations." "If the therapist knows they're false." She looked at him steadily. He threw his head back and laughed, seemingly pleased with her insight. "Very good! Yes, that's the challenge. But that problem can be solved quite easily." "How?" she inquired politely. "By deliberately inducing false memories, and observing how the patient reacts to them." At this, Madeline raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised by his answer. He smiled broadly. "But this is a discussion that really requires more time. Why don't you come along to my office? I can lend you some books that I think you'll find very interesting." As the other students looked on, Ohanian took Madeline by the arm and escorted her out of the lecture hall. She had to stop herself from laughing. It was almost too easy. She had expected to have to do considerably more to stand out from the crowd of students vying for his attention. While they walked, he began to ask her about herself. His manner was courteous and gentlemanly, and he spoke in a warm tone of voice that suggested a genuine interest in her answers. She told him her cover story, adding a few embellishments to give it some life, as he nodded intently. When she finished, he was silent. They walked several more steps, and then he stopped and turned to look at her, a questioning look on his face. "I'm curious about something," he said. "Yes?" "Why are you studying in France? There are so many excellent universities in America." She took several moments to reflect. Her profile had not included an explanation for this question, so she decided to draw upon a version of the truth. "I felt like an outsider at home. I thought perhaps it would be different somewhere else." "And is it?" "No." He looked at her, and an expression of deep sadness came into his eyes. "I know what it's like to be an outsider, to be alone," he said thoughtfully. "I was a refugee, you know, many years ago." He sighed, but then seemed to force a false note of cheer back into his voice. "But you're too young to think that way. When we get to my office, I'll make you some tea, and we'll have a nice chat. Hmmm?" "He's still having trouble adjusting," Adrian announced as she entered George's office. "I want it taken care of," she said crisply. George looked up from his work, taken aback to see Adrian arrive unannounced -- and concerned that she was so obviously upset. "Adrian, dear, you'll have to tell me who 'he' is before I can help you." "Paul Wolfe." Her voice was biting and her eyes glittered angrily. "He's started looking for his wife." "Indeed." George raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. He had known this for several days, but had hoped to keep it from Adrian long enough to solve the problem discreetly and quietly. "How do you know?" "I've had him monitored," she answered sharply. Then, with a tired sigh, she sat and allowed a softer look, more of concern than anger, to wash across her face. "He's even better than I'd hoped, George. He runs his missions like clockwork. We cannot afford to allow him to be distracted by personal issues." George pondered the dilemma. Allowing Paul Wolfe to delve too deeply into his past did pose a serious danger -- although not for the reason Adrian thought. Frankly, George preferred that the new operative be distracted -- a convenient slip-up might get him killed, and George would be rid of the man -- and the problem he posed -- without risking Adrian's wrath. But Adrian was fixated on Wolfe; for now, George would have to keep her happy. After all, keeping Adrian happy was his primary job description. When he failed, she made life very unpleasant -- but when he succeeded, she offered delightful rewards. "I think we should let him find her," George suggested. "Throw clues in his direction and then allow him to observe her with other men -- perhaps even mocking that foolish husband that she never loved. Once he sees it in person, that should nail down the lid of the coffin." Adrian smiled, and George took a deep breath in relief. She was pleased. Very pleased. "Excellent," she purred. "I knew I could count on you, George. Now, since that's resolved, I know a lovely spot for lunch." Paul stalked toward the doors of the locker room, his gym bag clutched tightly in his hand. His muscles were knotted with tension, his mind still reeling from the words he had overheard on his surveillance tape. "Oh, I have a nice widow's pension," Corinne had said, explaining her new car to one of her boyfriends. "Courtesy of my boring soldier husband." "Why'd you marry him, anyway?" the man had asked. Corinne laughed. "I wanted to get away from home. Daddy was always so controlling. With Paul, I got my own house and money, and with him gone all the time, it was like being a single girl anyway." The bitch, he thought, slamming open the locker room doors and heading inside. Maybe a few rounds on the heavy bag -- without gloves -- would make him feel better. And if that didn't work, maybe a few rounds of something in a bar. As he neared the corner leading to the dressing room, a high-pitched voice reached him. "I can't believe I'm not the team leader on this one. I've got more seniority than Wolfe does." It was Richard, a sniveling little ferret of a man who had recently been assigned to one of Paul's missions. Hearing this, Paul raised his eyebrows and stopped, cocking his head to listen carefully. "He had plenty of experience before coming here," another voice replied. Charles. Mr. Follow-the-Rules. A decent guy, actually, Paul had decided, but so damned boring. "And it's not seniority, it's skill that counts." "Oh, stop giving me the party line, Charles. You're such a fucking ass-kisser." Richard paused briefly. "Even so, I can't believe you're just letting it happen." "What do you mean?" "Letting Wolfe displace you as the Prince of Wales. I mean, doesn't it bother you?" "It's a blessing, actually," Charles laughed. "I prefer a lower profile. Less of a target for rivals that way." "I guess you've got a point there. In fact, the Prince better watch his step, especially if he tries to tell me what to do." That was enough. Paul didn't care if Richard liked him or not, or even if he was jealous of him. But he had to let the man know that he wouldn't allow team members to step out of line -- not even once, and not even behind his back. If a team member didn't respect him, he might disobey orders; if he disobeyed orders, disaster -- and death -- could ensue. Paul stepped around the corner and smiled, watching the color drain out of Richard's face. "Interesting conversation," he observed, keeping his voice even, but allowing a hint of menace to creep in. "But I'm curious. Just what do you mean by the Prince of Wales?" Richard sneered. "Adrian's golden boy, next in line for the throne, heir apparent -- whatever you want to call it. You're being promoted ahead of people who've been here longer, just because you're her favorite." "I'm being promoted ahead of people who've been here longer because my standards are higher." Paul stared at Richard, making sure that he didn't once blink. "If you've got a problem with that, why don't you just go to Adrian and tell her you can't keep up. I'm sure she'll find some nice abeyance assignment for you." Richard looked uneasy for a few moments, but then a smirk crept across his face. "You think you're such a hotshot, Wolfe. Well, maybe in Vietnam you heard of a little thing called fragging. You know, I've heard rumors that sometimes that even happens here." In a single, sweeping movement, Paul snatched Richard by the collar and slammed him forcefully against a wall. "You know, cowardly little shits like you don't scare me one bit. Go ahead and try to kill me. Since I'm such a nice guy, I won't even laugh at you when you fail." Paul then lowered his voice. "But if I catch you doing anything that jeopardizes a mission, puts your team members' lives in danger, or threatens the public, I'll slice your balls off and make you eat them raw." He released his grip and smiled. "That is, if you have any balls." Richard sputtered but couldn't seem to form any words in reply. Satisfied, Paul turned to look at Charles. "How are you, Charles?" he asked casually. A corner of Charles' mouth twitched in amusement. "I'm just enjoying the friendly banter in here. You have a refreshing way of inspiring your team members to do their best." Paul grinned. "I'll have to give you some pointers sometime." When she heard no response to her knock, Madeline slipped the key in the doorknob and pushed the office door open with a slow creak. After several months of studying with Ohanian, she had been given unlimited access to his office and the extensive private library inside. His kindly, Old World demeanor had disguised a stringent academic taskmaster -- the assignments he gave her required that she set almost everything else aside -- other classes, her social life, relaxation, and sometimes even sleep. At first, he had seemed surprised that she was willing to work so hard -- now, he appeared to want to see how far he could push her. Nevertheless, with each completed assignment, he seemed more and more pleased. This time, he had invited her to select any book she chose from his library and critique it. He had phrased the assignment as if it were something easy -- a break from all of her hard work. But she knew it would be anything but -- even her choice of books would be part of a test. As she reached for the light switch, she heard a noise -- a light gasp, a shuddered intake of breath. Startled, she froze in place. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw Ohanian slumped at his desk -- although shadows obscured his face, he seemed to be crying. "Are you all right?" She didn't quite believe what she was seeing. As he looked up at her, a pained expression twisting his face, she saw that he was holding a framed photo in his hand. "It's her birthday today," he said wistfully. When she frowned in confusion, he handed her the photo. She looked down and furrowed her brows to try to make out the image in the dim light. But the shadows were clearly playing tricks on her eyes -- the photo seemed to be of herself. Impossible. She walked back to the light switch and flipped it on. Looking down again, she stared in disbelief. It was her -- or no, not quite. When she looked more carefully, she noticed the difference in hairstyle and clothing, a variation in the shape of the jaw, a slightly shorter face. "Who is this?" "Anna. My daughter." She blinked in surprise, not knowing what to say. "She's dead," he said softly, his face contorting with the effort to restrain his tears. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea." She flushed, feeling ashamed to have intruded on the man's private grief so abruptly. "Nine years ago, a car crash." He looked up at her, and a look of uncontrollable despair passed through his eyes. "She was murdered, you know." "How do you know--" Madeline murmured. "Oh, one has a way of knowing these things," he interrupted, his voice wavering. "It was meant to punish me for my work," he added bitterly. "Punish you?" She was baffled. "I don't understand." He stood up unsteadily and walked around the desk to face her. He looked into her eyes as tears flowed freely down his face. "It's almost as if she's come back to life," he whispered, reaching out with his fingertips to stroke her cheek. She flinched involuntarily at his touch. He stared at her for several long, uncomfortable minutes. Then a strange, new light came into his eyes. "But there is a difference," he said softly, the tears starting to slow. "She was a sweet girl, and very bright, but she never cared about my work, never understood it. In fact, I shielded her from it." He took a deep breath and frowned in thought. "But you, I think you might understand. You have a thirst for knowledge, just as I do. And I think you might just be strong enough." "Strong enough?" "I've been thinking about this for a long time. I'm getting older. I need someone who can carry on when I'm gone, who can complete what I've started." He beamed with the expression of someone who had found a long-sought treasure. "I want you to be that person." She cleared her throat. Her assignment left her little choice but to agree, although the odd nature of their conversation was beginning to trouble her. "I will," she replied. A touch of amusement danced in his dark eyes. "Don't you want to know what kind of work it is?" "Isn't it your research into hypnotherapy? Rehabilitation of criminals?" "That's the public side of it. But that's just the tip of the iceberg. No, there's much more to it than that." He laughed -- it was still the same laugh that charmed his students, but somehow it now hinted of something sinister. He walked back to his desk and sat down, gesturing for her to do the same. She sat warily and listened as he began his explanation. "I am on a quest for understanding of the human mind," he said, his voice gentle and somewhat distant. "No -- more than understanding of -- control over. My research involves the creation and manipulation of mental processes -- memories, thoughts, emotions, perceptions." He paused, his eyes flickering from behind his glasses as he examined her. "And hypnosis is just one method of many. I use chemicals, surgery, electrical stimulation, sensory deprivation, and biofeedback techniques, as well as emotional and physical coercion." "Physical coercion?" she asked, with dawning horror. "Some people would call it torture," he replied with a bemused smile. "But those people have a crude outlook." Torture. He looked at her serenely, as if he had merely described the latest therapeutic technique. But then again, in his view, he had. She struggled to find her voice. "How can you get away with--" "I can't -- not here, anyway." He picked up a pen and toyed with it, the silver glinting in the light. "That's why I've developed a relationship with certain Eastern Bloc countries. They provide the research subjects, and in return I help them with certain things they need -- the extraction of information from prisoners, cooperation from dissidents, things like that." She fought an almost overwhelming urge to leap up and run from the room, concentrating on keeping her expression blank. She focused on the pen, twirling lightly in his hand, unable to look him in the face. She had wanted a real mission -- well, now she had one. Next time, she would be more careful about what she wished for. "Some of the work is distasteful," Ohanian continued, apparently pleased that she showed no signs of disgust at what he was describing. "But if you are as serious as I am about understanding the key to the human psyche, you'll understand that it's necessary. Eventually, you see, my research -- no, our research," he corrected, flashing his white teeth as he smiled again, "will lead to the development of completely efficient and reliable means of interrogation, and perfect control over unruly elements of the mind. Crimes can be solved, criminal urges eliminated, and criminals rehabilitated instead of punished -- and society will be the better for it." She looked at him in amazement, realizing that the man actually thought himself a humanitarian. And Section -- George -- had known all along that this was what they were sending her to do, but never told her, never prepared her. With a flare of anger, she wondered if she was recruited because of her resemblance to Ohanian's daughter, the belief that a child-murderer could quickly adjust to torturing people, or both. No wonder Adrian had looked at her with such loathing. They had chosen her to do a loathsome task. "Do you understand what I'm trying to do?" he asked beseechingly. "And are you willing to help me?" She forced her emotions deep beneath the surface of her mind and entombed them in a wall of ice, just as she used to do years before in the jails and hospitals. "Yes," she answered grimly.

1999 George took a deep breath of anticipation as he concentrated on the scene unfolding on his computer monitor. Moments ago, he had observed the video feed from Section One as Madeline handed Paul the recording of her latest therapy session with 'Corinne.' Now, alone in the Perch, Paul was about to watch. Over the past week, George and Madeline had clashed repeatedly over the therapy session scripts. George had inclined toward an aggressive approach, wanting to reinforce all of Paul's old feelings of betrayal -- perhaps even including a reference to that brat child that 'Corinne' had never wanted. Madeline, in contrast, had pressed for more subtlety, arguing that excessive antagonism might destabilize Paul to the point where he was beyond control. For a time, they went in circles, but in the end, George let Madeline have her way. After all, as he reminded himself, the whole point of the exercise was to keep Paul from having a meltdown and taking the entire Section with him. The lines written for Christine had thus minimized Paul's importance in Corinne's life without being openly cruel -- and had omitted mention of Stephen entirely. But George hoped that they had made the right decision. If, God forbid, Paul started feeling sorry for Corinne, he might do something completely rash, like try to meet with her. George shuddered at the thought. What a mess that would create. In the Perch, Paul started the recording with a look of nervous apprehension, and George leaned forward for a better view. But just as the playback began, the video feed from Section One cut off, leaving a blank, blue screen. Angry, George tapped his keyboard to switch his view to cameras in other parts of the Section -- Systems; Comm; Michael's office; Madeline's office. As he suspected, they were all working perfectly -- only the surveillance from the Perch was unavailable. George scowled -- he had been watching Paul quite carefully and was certain that Paul hadn't made a move to switch off his own cameras. Aside from Paul himself, there was only one person in Section One with the codes to disable those cameras: Madeline. Damn her. Now was not the time to be protecting Paul's privacy. He glanced at his telephone, considering whether to call her, but then, watching her type serenely on the video feed from her office, decided against it. There was no point. He could hear her now, in that aggravatingly calm voice, denying responsibility and blaming technical problems. He knew her all too well. He stood up abruptly and began pacing back and forth, that familiar burning feeling starting to grow within his stomach. It flared more violently than usual as a disturbing question arose in his mind. I wonder what else has been happening over there when the surveillance 'goes down'. Rushing back to his desk, he pushed a buzzer. Within moments, an operative stood in his office. "I want surveillance equipment installed in Section One as soon as possible." "But they already have extensive surveillance, sir," the operative replied with a confused frown. "No," George snapped. "I mean surveillance that's under my control. And I don't want them to know anything about it." He glared at the young man. "How quickly can this be arranged?" "I'll look into it right away, sir." 1980 With a slight grunt and one final yank on the rope, Paul pulled himself onto the snow-covered rooftop and then crouched down as low as he could. Tired from his exertions, he breathed in heavy puffs in the chilly night air. Slowly and quietly, he wriggled the backpack with its load of explosives off his back, set it down, and connected the wires of the detonator that rested in one of the pockets. He stepped back and looked at his handiwork -- now, it was live, only requiring a signal at the right frequency to blast a hole through the roof. The radio crackled in his ear as he heard Charles, leading the second team in Georgia, report in. "The explosives are in place and the team has returned to the rendezvous point. Ready to detonate on your mark." "Good," Adrian answered from her monitoring point within Section One. "Team One, report." "Lisa, Patrick, and I have placed the charges," Paul replied in a low voice. "We're waiting for Richard to check in." "I'm on my way in," Richard's voice sounded. "I'm clear to my target, one minute ETA." "Team Two, detonate," Adrian commanded. Several moments passed. Paul waited, peering over the roof to ensure that there was no activity on the ground below before he began to rappel down. "Detonation successful," Charles announced. "Target destroyed." Paul gripped the rope in his gloved hands and dangled his right leg over the edge of the roof. He stopped short when he heard a voice over his earphone. "I've got a problem," Richard said breathlessly. "There are extra guards posted where they shouldn't be. There's no way I'm going to make it to the target area." "You said you were clear less than a minute ago." Paul said, frowning. "What's going on?" "They came out of nowhere. I've got to wait until they leave. But they don't look like they're in a hurry." "Stand by for ten minutes and report back," Adrian ordered. "With all due respect, we can't wait that long," Paul countered. "The explosion in Georgia is going to raise an alarm. Someone's probably calling this place with a warning right now. If we wait too long, we might not take out the target, and I'll certainly lose my team trying to get out." "But we can't detonate without all of the explosives in place," Adrian explained. "We studied the engineering of the building very carefully." "If I get inside and go to the floor where the research labs are, we won't need to take out the whole building." The radio was silent. Paul walked back to where his backpack was sitting and strapped himself in it determinedly. As he crossed the roof to gather up his ropes, he heard the radio burst with static once more. "You'll never make it out of there," Lisa stated flatly. "We don't have a choice," Paul said, swinging the ropes to the other side of the building, preparing to rappel midway down and crash through one of the windows. "Team One, head back to the rendezvous point now. In five minutes, send the signal to detonate. If I'm not at the rendezvous point in ten minutes, leave without me." The wind whipped the snow into billowing whirlwinds, driving the fine crystals beneath Madeline's tightly wrapped scarf and deep down into the recesses of her collar. Ohanian gripped her arm tightly, his other hand clutching his cane, as they gingerly mounted the steep, ice-thickened steps that led to the staff entrance of the prison. Arriving at the top without mishap, Madeline reached for the door handle and pulled. The door resisted at first, until she threw her weight backwards, trying to retain her balance even as Ohanian clung heavily to her. It finally opened and they hurried inside. With a grim echo, the door slammed shut behind them. Unwrapping her scarf and opening her coat, she shook out the snow and stamped her boots on the floor of the frigid vestibule. Her breath curled up in thin trails around her; she rebuttoned the coat, dug her gloved hands into her pockets, and shivered. The sharp sound of footsteps on the hard floor made her look up. "Doctor," Petrosian said with a wide grin. "It's truly a pleasure to see you after so many months." "Thank you, Egran," Ohanian answered, leaning on his cane unsteadily. "And welcome back to you, too." Petrosian turned to Madeline and kissed her on the cheek, letting his lips linger for several moments. "You know I always look forward to your visits." She smiled sweetly at him in return. "Come back to the office where it's warm," he urged, moving toward a door. Madeline and Ohanian followed in his wake and entered the cramped -- but well heated -- room. Madeline gently helped the elderly man out of his overcoat and into a chair; afterwards, she removed her own coat and gloves and took a seat next to him. Petrosian handed them both steaming cups of tea and then, with an expression like an excited schoolboy, hopped up to sit on the desk. "And just what is this emergency that required us here so urgently?" Ohanian asked. "We had a terrible time getting here." "Ah, we have a very interesting situation. A unique opportunity, in fact." Petrosian glanced back and forth from Ohanian to Madeline with a delighted look on his face. "We have a captive from Section One." "Section One?" Madeline froze, the cup raised halfway to her lips. Ohanian gave Petrosian a knowing look and then turned to Madeline. "Of course -- you probably haven't heard of Section One before, have you?" "No," she answered, hoping that neither man would notice that the blood had drained from her face. "Section One is a covert organization created by the Western powers to fight so-called terrorism," Petrosian explained with a sarcastic curl of his lip. "It often meddles in our affairs, even though we're hardly terrorists. This time, some of its operatives destroyed two of our weapons research labs. We managed to capture one of them as he tried to escape." "That is very interesting. I've never had the opportunity to interrogate a Section operative before," Ohanian said, sitting up straight. A gleam of anticipation began to light his eyes. "But it's even better than that," Petrosian announced. "He's a known operative." "What do you mean?" Madeline asked, trying to sound casual. "We took his fingerprints and actually found a match. It turns out we have a file on him already, courtesy of our friends in Vietnam. I've made copies for each of you. I don't know if it will help with the interrogation, but I thought you might like to see it." Petrosian handed each of them a thick packet of papers. Clutching the tea in one hand, she took the packet with the other and looked down at the cover. The title was simple -- "Subject: Paul Wolfe." Paul Wolfe. She was sorry that she had learned his name -- it would have been easier for her to do her duty had he remained anonymous. Knowing his name gave him an identity, made him a person to feel sympathy toward. However, of all the lessons she had learned in her training, one thing was clearest of all: no Section operative could ever be allowed to become a security risk. She would have to set any sympathy aside -- by Section's rules, Paul Wolfe had to die. From his position in the corner chair, it was the cut flowers that drew George's attention. A burst of color in a crystal vase, they looked as if they had been plucked from a country garden -- gazing at them, he felt like he had been transported through space and time to a brilliant summer day, complete with chirping birds and bees buzzing for nectar. The flowers matched his mood: joyous and buoyant. And all, ironically, because of a death. Or at least an impending death. A death that would solve a problem that had loomed over him for years. A death that would close -- and lock -- certain doors forever. But even sitting half-invisible in the corner, George had to mask his relief. This was, at least officially, a crisis -- and so he made certain to look appropriately concerned. Frowning with just the right look of worry, he shifted his attention from the flowers on the table back to the two women in the center of the room. Before the desk, Lisa stood at military attention, her long, light brown hair framing her face and accentuating its somber visage. Seated, equally somber, was Adrian -- tense, leaning forward, hands folded and resting on the desk. Her fingers clasped each other so tightly that George could see her knuckles whiten. "I want to know exactly what you saw." Adrian leveled a piercing gaze directly into Lisa's eyes. "I saw him run from the building moments before the explosion," Lisa answered in a grim monotone. "He shot a few Russian soldiers on the way out, but he only made it about 500 meters before they had him surrounded." "And you're certain that he was taken captive, not killed." "Absolutely. They marched him off and forced him into a car." Adrian glanced at George and then looked back at Lisa. "Thank you, Lisa," she said politely, a distant look clouding her eyes. "That will be all." Lisa nodded curtly and departed. Adrian turned back to George, her face filled with concern. "And you think you know where he is?" "Oh, I'm quite positive." George nodded knowingly. "One of my Section Two operatives checked in with her handlers yesterday. She said she'd received an emergency summons to a prison in the Ukraine." "Interesting. But how do you know it's not a coincidence?" "Because it's the operative who's been working with Ardem Ohanian." A wave of white washed across Adrian's face. "Ohanian? My God," she groaned, lowering her head into her hands. "They're going to sic that monster on him?" "I wouldn't worry," George said reassuringly. "Madeline will cancel him before he gives up any intel." In fact, George realized, Madeline was likely to cancel Paul before any interrogation even began, much less before he gave up actual intel. For this, George thanked God, or fate, or whatever supernatural entity might be responsible. He couldn't have asked for a more reliable operative to be on the scene -- she had never failed to carry out an order, no matter how distasteful. George couldn't have arranged a more convenient disposal of Paul if he had spent years trying. Which he had, of course. Adrian snapped her head back up angrily. "That's exactly what I'm worried about. He won't break under torture, no matter what they do to him. But she might kill him before he has a chance to escape, or before we can get to him." She leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes in thought. "Is there any way to get word to Madeline? To stop her from canceling him?" "No." George shook his head. "Once inside the Soviet Union she's completely incommunicado. It's too dangerous to allow our undercover operatives to carry communications equipment." There's nothing that can stop this, he thought. No way to contact her, no way to halt the inevitable. His body began to warm in triumph. All I have to do now is wait for confirmation. Adrian grimaced. "Then we have to send in a rescue team immediately." George almost flinched upon hearing her words. Why couldn't she simply give up on this man? And a rescue mission would be the height of insanity -- it couldn't possibly succeed. Or could it? George frowned sharply in an effort at discouragement. "Into a high-security prison in the Soviet Union? That's suicide." She met his eyes and stared at him, unblinking, until he looked away. "Paul Wolfe is a resource I'm not prepared to lose," she said icily. "I've put far too much time into finding and training him. We'll do whatever it takes." The staff residential room Madeline had been given was tiny, but acceptable. She'd certainly stayed in worse. It was clean, warm, and contained the necessities: a bed, desk, lamp, and chair. It even had a closet, where she hung her clothes neatly after the driver brought her suitcase in from the car. After unpacking, she changed into a dress she knew Petrosian was particularly fond of and reapplied her makeup, ready to be called to dinner. And then she waited. Sitting at the desk, she couldn't avoid looking at it. While she was unpacking and changing, she had pretended it wasn't there, busying herself with other thoughts. But now, with nothing else to do and the desk in front of her otherwise bare, the report claimed her full attention. She stared at the cover, unable to tear her eyes away. How do I kill him and make it look like an accident? she wondered. Should I tamper with the settings on the electroshock equipment? Or should I slip him some drugs and make it look like a suicide? She looked at the report as if it might answer her questions, but it offered no response. Unopened, it would remain mute. Whatever secrets it held were inside. Waiting. Slowly, reluctantly, half-unconsciously, she reached for the document, spread it open to a random page, and started reading. Date: 25-10-1970 Interrogator: Phan Van Nahn The prisoner refused to sign the statement condemning American atrocities. We left him tied up overnight as encouragement to cooperate. This morning, he held out his hand as if to accept the pen; just as the pen was offered to him he turned up his hand and flashed his middle finger. Solitary confinement is recommended until he becomes more agreeable. She turned, again at random, to another page. Date: 02-02-1971 Interrogator: Phan Van Nahn I mentioned that I knew that he had a wife and son at home. I did not tell him I learned this from another prisoner -- it is better if he thinks the interrogators omniscient. I told him that it was shameful that he could leave his wife and son behind and come here to kill the wives and sons of other men. He responded by saying: "I've never killed anyone's wife. And the only sons I've killed were the sons of bitches who shot at me first." His reaction would suggest that he is unresponsive to this tactic, but I am convinced that his family is his weakness. I recommend further attempts with this method, emphasizing his cowardice in leaving them behind alone. With a frown, Madeline turned to the beginning of the report and began to read in earnest, absorbing the grisly details. The account was extraordinarily complete, setting forth not only a record of the almost-daily interrogations but also a description of the logic behind every technique employed. The unusual, first-person style rendered what would have been a dry, bureaucratic document strangely gripping. Compelling. And familiar. Sitting back suddenly, Madeline dropped the report as if it scalded her, recoiling with the force of a horrible realization. I am Phan, she thought. This is what I do. Reading someone else's notes had transformed her into an outsider, someone who could be shocked and disgusted at acts that she herself had performed. The extent of the shock surprised her -- she had thought that she was beyond such reactions, that she could distance herself from anything. But instead, she found herself suffering along with the prisoner -- hating his tormentors, admiring his courage. Incredulous at the thought that he had resisted for seven full years. Seven years. The two words turned over in her mind several times before the significance sank in. When it finally did, she exhaled in startled relief. This man was no security risk. There was nothing they could do, no conceivable torture they could try, that could possibly make him break. He would die first, she was certain. Which meant one thing. I don't have to cancel him. Thank God. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, almost dizzy with gratitude at her reprieve. In her career as a Section operative, she had watched many people die -- too many even to remember -- but had not yet been required to perform the act herself. The thought that she might have to start with a colleague had repulsed her. But now, thankfully, it wasn't necessary. Indeed, another possibility had opened. An intriguing, daring possibility. If Paul Wolfe could only resist for a few days of interrogation -- something she no longer had any doubt he could do -- it would buy her enough time to devise a way to help him escape. Thanks to her privileged position as Ohanian's assistant -- and her special relationship with Petrosian -- she had complete freedom to roam wherever she liked, whenever she wanted. No one would dare challenge her or even wonder what she was doing. Arranging his escape from the prison grounds might even be easy. After that -- well, she had hard currency she could give him, as well as knowledge of officials who were willing to be bribed. She ran through the layout of the building and grounds in her mind, pondering possible escape routes and inventing diversions. As she analyzed each option, she felt her heart begin to race with a burst of adrenaline -- a feeling of excitement that she found surprisingly enjoyable. Gathering intel -- gruesome though the subject matter might be -- had not proven particularly dangerous. So long as no one ever caught her passing information to her handlers, her life was, in fact, quite secure. But helping a Western prisoner escape the Soviet Union -- that was bold, risky, even exhilarating. It was the sort of thing a covert operative should be doing -- the sort of thing she had looked forward to, long ago, when she was first recruited. Her life as an undercover operative had become so routine, so cautious, she had almost forgotten what being bold felt like. Now, she remembered -- it felt like being alive. "Are you ready?" Madeline caught her breath as she looked up to see Petrosian calmly watching her. Lost in concentration, she hadn't heard him open the door. "Ready for what?" she asked, trying to shake off her nervousness. "The doctor wants to start with the prisoner now. A brief appetizer before we stop for dinner," Petrosian answered with a short laugh. "I see." Madeline stood hastily and followed him from the room. She knew she had to calm down, to appear normal, but her heart was still pounding, her mind distracted. Once in the corridor, Petrosian slipped his arm though hers and winked. "You know, the appetizer doesn't sound much to my liking, but I can think of a dessert I might enjoy." Paul twisted his wrists in frustration, shifting impatiently in his seat. He knew there was no way to slip his hands free from the handcuffs that fastened him to the chair, but the effort gave him something to do, somewhere to place his pent-up energy. His rattling broke the muffled silence of the cold, gray room; his jerks were the only motion. When he could take the slicing pain in his wrists no more, he began to kick at the desk in front of him, rhythmically and angrily. He had been waiting in the tiny interrogation room -- set up police-station style, with a desk, chairs, and two-way mirror -- for hours, and he was growing increasingly edgy. At first, it had been a welcome diversion from his cell. But as time dragged on, and he was forced to sit still, he started to grow bored. At least in the cell he had been able to pace, and the guards occasionally gave him cigarettes. Just get on with it, for God's sake, he thought. Don't keep me waiting here forever. As if in response to his unspoken words, the door swung open. He blinked in surprise and watched as a very unusual pair walked inside. The first was a frail-looking elderly man, who hunched over a cane as he walked. The second, almost more surprising than the first, was a very young, dark-haired woman, supporting the old man with one hand and clutching a notebook in the other. Both of them wore very fashionable civilian clothes -- the man, a black, tailored suit with a monogrammed handkerchief, diamond-studded cufflinks and an expensive gold wristwatch; the woman, a blue dress similar in design to ones Paul had seen in Paris, a silver necklace, and several rings. Paul raised his eyebrows. Well, these aren't exactly your run-of-the-mill Soviet civil servants. With the young woman's assistance, the man slowly eased into a chair and placed his cane on the floor. She sat down next to him, crossed her legs, and flipped open the notebook. Clicking her pen, she poised her hand above the paper, ready to write; the glint of the metal was what drew Paul's eyes, but then his gaze traveled down, almost unbidden, following the smooth curve of her leg toward the shining black surface of a high-heeled shoe. Clenching his teeth with the effort, he wrenched his eyes back up. Hang on now, Paul, he told himself. You don't need that kind of distraction. Keep focused. The man cleared his throat and smiled gently. "I hope you haven't been too uncomfortable waiting for us, Mr. Wolfe," he said, with a strange accent to his English that Paul couldn't quite place. Jesus Christ, they know who I am. Paul breathed in sharply, wondering how much else they knew. The strategy he had decided upon for dealing with enemy interrogators was to engage in insulting banter to prove his lack of fear. But their knowledge of his identity made him nervous -- it would be too easy to be led into giving something away if he spoke, even about something meaningless. So he sat quietly, looking back and forth at his two visitors. The man folded his hands in his lap and waited, continuing to smile, the paragon of patience. He watched Paul with a detached but attentive expression. His eyes, glowing darkly from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, seemed to have their own gravitational pull -- Paul felt himself falling into their orbit, helpless to escape. But then with a desperate surge of energy he managed to pull away, shifting his attention back to the young woman. She looked away quickly, avoiding Paul's eyes. She seemed ill at ease, nervous -- noticing this, Paul smiled to himself, deciding it was probably her first time meeting an enemy prisoner. But God only knew what she was doing as an interrogator's stenographer in the first place -- she was far too beautiful to be in such a hellhole, witnessing the sort of acts that no doubt went on in Russian prisons. No, beautiful wasn't an adequate word. Breathtaking? Closer, but no. Exquisite. That was it. The sort of word used for rare wines, priceless works of art, sublime musical compositions, polished gemstones. She was like all of those things -- something to be coveted, appreciated, and savored by a connoisseur. The ugliness of the setting only accentuated the effect of her presence. "I see you're quite interested in my assistant," the man said dryly, drawing back Paul's attention. "I usually take the first crack at the prisoners, however. But you might have the pleasure of working with her if I get tired." He smiled again. "She's almost as good as I am. Quite ruthless, in her own way." She was an interrogator herself? He looked back over at her, disgusted, and this time she didn't look away. Instead, he met a pair of cool, dark eyes, watching him confidently. But as he looked at her more carefully, he saw something strange in her expression -- it wasn't clinical, like the old man's, or hostile, like that of other interrogators he had met -- it almost seemed like she was trying to tell him something, to communicate a message. He frowned, unsure how to react. "Now," said the old man, "let's begin our questions." Ohanian swallowed a forkful of chicken and then waved the utensil in the air dismissively. "He won't break," he announced. "It's pointless even to try." Turning away from Petrosian, whose conversation had been monopolizing her attention, Madeline set down her knife and fork and looked across the table at Ohanian. She grew concerned, but was not surprised. He had read the same document she had, and the conclusion was obvious. Petrosian scowled, knocking Madeline's elbow abruptly as he reached for a slice of bread. "How can you be sure?" he asked. "You only questioned him briefly. We haven't even so much as given him a beating yet." He tore off a piece of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing loudly. "He'll break," he said smugly, leaning back in his chair. "Americans always do. They're not used to discomfort." Ignoring Petrosian's statement, Ohanian returned to his meal, his knife and fork making a dull scraping sound against his plate. After a moment, he looked back up, his face full of disdain. "Do you think I'm an amateur, that I need to waste hours or days before I get a sense of a man's character?" His voice was caustic. Petrosian stopped chewing and stared at the other man. Ohanian regarded Petrosian with a look of repugnance, the way one might examine a soiled piece of clothing, until Petrosian appeared to shrink visibly under his gaze. Seemingly satisfied, the elderly man's expression then lightened to that of mildly patronizing tolerance. "The man spent seven years in a POW camp under the most primitive conditions, and never gave up even the slightest piece of information." Ohanian enunciated his words carefully, as if he were explaining himself to a slow-witted child. "There's nothing we can do to him that would make any difference. His reactions when I questioned him this evening only confirmed what I already suspected." Petrosian made a face, took a long drink of his imported German beer, and set the glass down with a thump. "Then we should kill him now." He pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. "I'm sorry that I made you go to the trouble of coming here." Madeline struggled to conceal her apprehension as she watched Petrosian walk to the door, open it, and call out to one of the guards. "Go dispose of the prisoner from Section One," he ordered sullenly. Sickened, Madeline looked at the floor. "Wait, stop!" Ohanian called out, his voice sharp. Madeline turned toward Ohanian in relieved bewilderment as Petrosian called back the guard. "I said that he wouldn't break, not that we couldn't use him," Ohanian said, sounding annoyed. Petrosian returned to his seat. "What do you mean?" he asked, frowning. Ohanian took another bite of his chicken. He chewed it with relish, and then took yet another, watching Petrosian's growing impatience with obvious amusement. Finally, he answered. "In order to resist torture so effectively, it's likely that he has a very strong ability to dissociate -- to separate different parts of his mind from one another. He might, for example, be able to segregate the part of his mind that feels physical pain from the rest of his mental processes." He glanced over at Madeline pointedly before turning back to Petrosian. "It's a skill that we were trying to develop in our subjects by using biofeedback techniques, until we had to suspend that research." Petrosian sat still for a few moments as his brows knit faintly. "How is this useful to me? I want intelligence about Section One, not some sort of torture-resistant lab rat." Ohanian chuckled. "Individuals with highly-developed dissociative abilities tend to be highly suggestible. While he would never give up information during interrogation, we could -- possibly -- plant instructions in his mind that he would follow upon his return to Section One." Petrosian's face lit up as he grasped Ohanian's point. "Brainwashing, you mean?" "Such a crude term." Ohanian shook his head disapprovingly. "You make it sound like a bad American movie. But essentially, yes. I believe that with the right combination of pharmaceuticals and hypnotherapy, we might be able to turn him into a sleeper double-agent, without him even knowing it." The relief Madeline had felt when Ohanian stopped the execution vanished, replaced by a staggering sense of dread. She should have anticipated this, should have known how Ohanian's mind worked. But she hadn't. Now, unprepared, she crossed the threshold into a waking nightmare, where the door to every escape route slammed violently shut. It was all inevitable. Ohanian would start the process the next morning, and Wolfe would be irredeemably compromised. There would be no time for her to devise a plan or make arrangements; there would be no heroics or daring escape. Instead, she would become the cold executioner, forced to cancel her fellow operative for the good of the Section. It was foolish to have ever hoped otherwise. Perhaps it was even hubris for her to have aspired to a nobler role in life. She drew a deep breath of resignation and grew calm, accepting her destiny. Next to her, Petrosian took another deep drink of his beer, emptying the glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then leaned forward intently. "If we can turn him into a double-agent," he asked Ohanian, a look of excitement filling his eyes, "can't we also brainwash him into telling us everything he knows about Section One?" "Finally, an intelligent question. I see you're learning." Ohanian smiled mildly in approval. "But the answer is no, at least not in this case." He pursed his lips briefly in thought before continuing. "The perfect candidate for this process would not only have the ability to dissociate, but would also have a weak sense of self -- someone without strong morals or principles, someone easily swayed by others. Such a person could be conditioned to do almost anything, including providing the intelligence you desire. Unfortunately, this particular prisoner lacks that second characteristic. Even with extreme levels of conditioning, he'll resist performing acts that contradict his sense of right and wrong." "Well then, what will we be able to make him do?" "Things that on the surface seem innocuous. I can create a whole range of signal behaviors -- all of them perfectly innocent in and of themselves -- that will tell us when and where upcoming missions will take place. All we'll have to do is have someone observe him, and we'll have advance intel on everything. And he won't have the slightest idea what he's doing -- he'll just have an unexplained urge to wear a red shirt, or go get a haircut at a certain time of day, or buy a particular magazine at a bookstore across town." "This is incredible!" Petrosian exclaimed, slamming his palm on the table in excitement. The water sloshed out of Madeline's glass; grinning apologetically, he began to mop it up with his napkin. "Why, if this works," he laughed, "I'm going to get a big, huge promotion! And for you two, let's just say I'll make sure you're both amply rewarded." He beamed in delight and shook his head. "Professor, you are a genius. But what do we need to do?" "During the day, we'll punish and interrogate him like any other captive -- perhaps even more severely than usual, given his history. That way, his conscious memories will be of how he resisted and refused to break. When he returns to Section One, it's important that they be convinced he isn't a traitor." Petrosian nodded seriously. "But at night, the real training process will take place," Ohanian continued. "That, we'll make sure he has no memory of. When we're done, we'll allow him to 'escape' and make his way back to Section One." As Madeline listened to Ohanian's last statement, the vague beginnings of an idea seeped through the gloom that held her in its clammy grip. Suddenly energized, she sat up attentively and spoke for the first time during the conversation. "Professor, you aren't well enough to work both night and day," she said, making sure her voice reflected the proper tone of concern. "I insist that you let me take care of the hypnotherapy sessions by myself so that you can get enough rest. I've watched you enough that I'm certain I can handle it by now." Ohanian looked both surprised and grateful. He nodded. "Yes, that's probably best. I have been so tired lately. And since I'm quite sure Section One monitors my whereabouts, they'd be suspicious if he didn't remember me performing the daily interrogations." He turned to Petrosian and smiled proudly. "I'm so lucky to have her, you know. When I retire I know my work will be in good hands." "You're going to be working day and night?" Petrosian looked at Madeline, his disappointment obvious. Madeline raised her eyebrows knowingly. "You want that promotion, don't you?" "Are you sure you don't need him restrained?" The guard looked at Madeline skeptically, his round face full of concern. "I don't think that's necessary." Madeline shook her head and then smiled politely. "Even if he attacked me, where could he go afterwards? I doubt he's that foolish." The guard shrugged, unlocked the door to the cell, and pushed it open with a squeal. Madeline thanked him and stepped inside, pausing momentarily as she listened to the solid metal door close soundly and lock behind her. It had been easy enough to convince the guards to let her see the prisoner -- after all, as she had explained, she needed to assess the man before the next day's interrogation session. But they wouldn't have challenged her even if she had offered no excuse -- the guards were simply too afraid of her to deny a request. She wasn't quite certain where the fear came from -- as someone outside the prison hierarchy, she posed no threat to them. Nor had she sought to frighten them in any way. In truth, she hardly even paid attention to them except for polite greetings and thank yous. Yet they rarely dared to look her in the eye. Maybe it was the nature of her work, or maybe it was her association with Petrosian, a man who terrorized his subordinates. It didn't matter. If it meant her actions tonight would escape scrutiny, she was glad for it. Indeed, if inducing fear in others gave her greater freedom, perhaps it was a trait she ought to consider cultivating. Taking a deep breath, she looked around the room in curiosity. Despite her frequent trips to these institutions, she never visited individual cells -- her time was spent solely in interrogation rooms and staff or medical areas. This cell was more comfortable than she would have expected -- it was small and cramped, but almost civilized. A long metal bench bolted to the wall served as the bed; several feet away were a toilet and sink. The floor was plain cement, the walls an institutional green. It looked...oddly familiar. After a split second of confusion, she smiled wryly, remembering why. The room was a virtual replica of several jail cells she'd had the misfortune of staying in so many years ago. Another lifetime ago. Who would have thought I'd become one of the jailers? she thought in sad bemusement. Certainly not me. Shaking off that thought, she turned her attention to the object of her visit. Paul Wolfe was lying on a beaten-looking mattress atop the bench, covered with the thin blanket issued to all prisoners. At first, his back was to her -- she saw only a shape huddled under the blanket and a few tufts of brown hair poking out. But as she moved farther into the room, he rolled over to look at her, and his eyes -- so shockingly blue -- met hers. She blinked instinctively in self-defense, but it was too late. The power of his gaze -- and the contempt it held -- momentarily stunned her. It seemed as if the floor had weakened and cracked open beneath her, plunging her into the depths of an arctic sea. As she felt the blood color her face and her breathing become shallow, she realized that she would never, ever want to be this man's enemy. Unfortunately for her, in his mind, she was the enemy. The sooner she remedied that impression, the better. Regaining her composure, she began to walk toward him, stepping carefully around the cigarette butts ground into the floor. He threw off the blanket and sat up, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her intently. He said nothing, but his body language conveyed a bold arrogance, an almost insulting confidence. Leaning back against the wall, still clad in commando black from his mission, he looked at her as if he were a warlord receiving tribute from a vassal instead of a prisoner being inspected by his captor. His air of casual amusement was disconcerting -- she was accustomed to prisoners being intimidated by her approach, and he was anything but. When she stopped, less than a foot away from him, he gave a short laugh. "I see they sent in the second string. Well, your boss wasn't able to get anything out of me, so I don't see why you think you can." He then smirked, looking her up and down possessively. "Although you are nicer to look at." She felt a sharp wave of anger mixed with--well, something else. Something she didn't want to think about at the moment. You're lucky I'm your ally, she thought, or I'd wipe that look right off your face. "I'm not here to interrogate you," she said. Hearing her speak in flawless English, he narrowed his eyes and looked at her with disgust. "You're an American, aren't you? What the hell are you doing working for them?" "I don't work for them," she said, keeping her expression grave. "I work for Section Two. And I'm here to help you." She saw his eyes widen slightly in shock, but he quickly recovered. "Nice try," he hissed. "Now leave me alone. I'd like to get some sleep." "I'm sorry, but I can't do that. You're either going to let me help you, or I'm going to cancel you." She watched him calmly, letting this sink in. He no longer looked quite so arrogant. In fact, she could almost see a trace of doubt growing in the back of his eyes. "Now, I understand that you might not trust me," she continued. "That's to be expected. But you really have very little choice. Once I explain what they have planned for you here, I think you'll agree." He eyed her warily. She waited patiently, hands clasped in front of her. Finally, he shrugged. "You're right," he said. "I don't trust you. But say whatever you have to say and get it over with." They stared at each other for several moments. "May I sit down?" she asked. He moved to one end of the bench, gesturing for her to sit next to him. She sat, fought back her nervousness, and began. "My name is Madeline. I've been on an undercover assignment for Section Two for the past seven years...." For over an hour, Paul sat quietly and listened to the woman who claimed to be an undercover Section Two operative. As she recounted her story, he grew increasingly mesmerized -- not just by the recitation of the details of her mission, which made for a spellbinding tale in itself, but also by the manner in which she told it. Her voice -- a smooth blend of sensuality and logical precision -- unsettled him even as it drew him in; once captured, he found himself sinking into the shimmering pools of intensity that were her eyes. His initial suspicion was overcome by fascination, and then, when she began to tell him what the KGB planned to do with him, by apprehension. When she was done, he looked at her in astonished silence. Drugs. Hypnosis. Mind control. The matter-of-fact dryness of her description only heightened the science-fiction surrealism of the scenario. "Will this process work?" he asked, finally finding his voice. "It's never been tried on a fully resistant subject before. We don't know what the outcome might be." "So it might fail." "If Ohanian thinks it's failed, he'll have you killed. Of course, if I think it's worked, I'll kill you myself." Her tone was soft and unthreatening, but as she looked at him evenly with those dark, brown eyes, he knew, instinctively, that she was telling the truth: she could -- and would -- kill him, if it came to that. The realization gave him an abrupt chill. "I don't think I like those options," he said with a quick, sarcastic laugh. "Which is why you'll do what I say." She sharpened her voice with more than a hint of authority. "Which is?" "To pretend that the process has succeeded," she answered calmly. He raised his eyebrows in worried surprise. He had expected a straightforward escape plan -- this sounded overly complicated, excessively risky. "You've got to be kidding. Why can't you just help me get out of this place?" "Security here is extremely high. It would take several days to set up a feasible escape plan -- and even then the risk is extreme. And in the meantime, you'd have to pretend to undergo the procedure anyway. Why not just finish it out and be allowed to escape without any interference? It's considerably safer that way." "Not if I really get brainwashed somehow," he protested. "I won't let that happen." They held a long, uncomfortable look. His real question -- whether he could place his trust in her -- remained unspoken, but he could see from her expression that she recognized his doubt. Finally, she sighed and broke the silence. "It's really very straightforward," she explained. "First, I'll substitute the drugs with something harmless. Then, when I visit each night to do your 'hypnotherapy', I'll give you instructions on how you should behave the following day to convince Ohanian that the process is working. Once he's convinced that the procedure has been successfully completed, you'll be set free." She smiled briefly, reassuringly, but then hesitated as a faint cloud of concern shadowed her face. "The only difficult part will be the interrogations themselves," she continued, shifting slightly on the bench and glancing away with a frown. "Ohanian plans on making them realistic. He'll take you to the brink of death -- but stop just short." Leaning forward, she looked back at him sharply, her eyes cutting deep into his. "You're going to have to be strong. If you can't, then I can't help you." "Oh, I can be strong, alright," he replied. "But what if your mad professor misjudges where that brink is?" "He won't." She spoke with cold, unhesitating confidence. "He never does." He inhaled deeply and frowned. Her plan was actually starting to make sense. But there was one problem. "What about when the KGB figures out that I'm not sending them intel? Won't you fall under suspicion? It could blow your cover." She smiled serenely. "There's a way around that." "How?" "When you return to Section One, tell them to allow you to give up minor, non-critical intel for several weeks. Then taper off. It's an experimental procedure -- Ohanian will assume that the effects simply wore off. It happens with our subjects all the time. He -- and the KGB -- will be pleased with the partial success, and no one will be the wiser." He laughed. "You seem to have all of this figured out," he said admiringly. "Yes," she said, arching an eyebrow with a slight look of pride. "I have." He closed his eyes in thought. Did he trust this woman? It was possible, of course, that she had told him an elaborate lie in an effort to dissuade him from trying to escape. But no, she knew too much about the Sections -- she knew all about Adrian and George, and even spoke in Section jargon. Her story simply rang true -- not just in the details, but in the way she told it. Ultimately, however, it was something more than just a compelling story that persuaded him -- it was her manner, the way she looked at him. It felt familiar, as if they had known each other all their lives -- or, perhaps more accurately, as if they had spent their lives preparing to meet each other. He knew his reaction wasn't logical, but he couldn't shake it. He trusted her -- deep, in his gut -- in a way that he hadn't trusted anyone since he joined the Section. He trusted her enough to put his life in her hands and follow her advice -- wherever it might lead. He opened his eyes and sighed. "Well, as crazy as this story is, you're right. I don't really have many choices. I guess we'll work together." He grinned, trying to cover up his trepidation about her plan. She smiled warmly and held out her hand to him. "Then I guess we have a deal." He shook her hand and then released it slowly. As he did so, and the delicate softness of her palm and fingers brushed across his, he found himself growing acutely aware of their physical closeness -- of the sound of her breathing, a scent of perfume. She stood up quickly, looking a little disconcerted. "The process will begin tomorrow morning," she announced, her manner suddenly cold. "You'll be tortured and interrogated all day. I cannot interfere. At the end of the day, you'll be given food that is supposed to be laced with the drug. I'll make sure that it isn't. I'll visit you again tomorrow night to let you know how you should act the next day." With that, she turned and walked to the door, knocked to summon the guard, and then exited the room.

He first met Benjamin Jink on a rainy Monday morning at the Caddy Cafe in Victoria. The drizzle had turned to earnest showers, driving even the hardiest of locals off the terrace and into the confines of the little coffee house. Every table was full, a jumble of conversation battling for space with the clink of cups and the hiss and bubble of the coffee makers. It was half-eight, and the morning salary crowd was still parading through, letting in the draught. The whole of an ocean and the breadth of a continent away, Horace mused, and yet this might have been any wet December day in London. The rain tapped cosily against the windowpane, obscuring his view until the glistening cobblestones and blurry storefronts could nearly pass for Diagon Alley in lieu of Merlin Square. Only the fashions gave it away: the men and nearly all the women in trousers, the palettes muted and plain and doing little to enliven the grey weather. This was in fact the first time he had patronised the Caddy in the month since he had arrived in the city. The entrance was tucked away in one of the square's innumerable narrow alleyways, with only the occasional queue alerting the eye to the presence of a business. Today, however, Horace had been caught without an umbrella and had discovered to his happy surprise that despite the dubious sea serpent decor, the cafe did a lovely Turkish coffee and offered a selection of beignets besides. He made a French breakfast of it, savouring both cup and pastry at a corner table, idly eavesdropping and watching the bleary-eyed customers slink in for their morning pick-me-ups. That was when Benjamin Jink made his entrance. Of course, he did not know that was the young man's name at the time, nor could he predict the way their paths were about to intersect. All he knew at that very moment was that the door flew open with a certain amount of drama, and a black umbrella forcefully pushed its way inside before snicking shut to reveal a scowling young man of perhaps thirty-five or forty. Horace looked him over with mild interest. Then, when one look proved not to be enough, he made a more thorough perusal. Had they met before? There was something familiar about him, but vexingly, he could not put his finger on just what it was. The young man was of average height, built on the thin side. Not handsome, precisely, but certainly striking in the mildly consumptive way that used to be the fashion and that Horace still had a weakness for. His hair was collar-length and brown...or was it black? No, it was brown, as were his eyes. He paused. Weren't they? Horace rubbed his eyes and looked again. Brown hair and brown eyes, half of his brain insisted. No, said the other half. Aha, he was wearing a glamour, and a good one at that! That was rather interesting, although acknowledging the cause did not stop the maddening itch behind his eyes. He had always had a formidable memory for faces, and as such was stubborn to the illusions of cosmetic charms. Why someone with money to burn on a glamour wouldn't choose something more conventionally handsome was beyond him—unless, of course, he happened to be someone of some celebrity travelling incognito. He assessed the young man's clothing. Now when would they realise over here that monochromes did a man no favours? The young fellow wore black trousers and a black overcoat, with a white shirt that made him look washed-out and a charcoal-grey waistcoat that admittedly did acceptable things for his silhouette. The clothing was of passable quality but obviously off the rack. He looked down. Muggles seemed to wander into the square regularly, to the apparent alarm of no one but himself, but you could always tell a wizard by his boots. These were black dragonhide, not new but obviously well cared for. Square-toed, size eight. Dibs of Diagon's Reims model, if he wasn't mistaken, only... He paused again, suddenly chilled. A connection sparked in the void. ...only with bronze buckles instead of the usual silver. His gaze snapped up, his cup left hanging stupidly halfway to his mouth. The young man marched up to the counter, waiting with folded arms beside a handmade sign that read: We accept Canadian Dollars and British Galleons. Leprechaun gold will be refunded where the sun doesn't shine (and we don't mean the mainland). A cheerful, round-faced serving girl popped up behind the counter. "Welcome to Caddy's! Can I interest you in one of our fresh pumpkin scones?" This was met with a deep sigh as the young man deposited a precise stack of coins on the counter. "I want a large coffee. Black. To go." The sound of his voice made Horace feel as though he needed to knock water out of his ears. A fellow ex-pat, his accent faint. A hint of the north, maybe. The chill returned. No, no, he was being silly. And yet the tone of his voice, if not the timbre, insisted on its familiarity... "Which of our twelve special brews would you like to try today?" "Whichever one you gave me yesterday." "Ooh, I'm sorry—we're out of the Arabian Mocha Java this morning." "Then whichever one you gave me on Friday." "We're out of that too." The young man rolled his eyes. "Whichever one originated closest to the spot where we are standing at this very moment." "That would be the Macadamia Cream. But you wouldn't like it." "You're enjoying this, aren't you." "Highlight of my day, Mr. Jink." The name did not ring any bells. Mr. Jink audibly gritted his teeth. "Then whatever. You think. Best." The girl lit up. "I have a Costa Rican shade-grown organic blend you're just going to love!" The young man muttered something under his breath and turned away, leaning back against the counter as he waited for his coffee. His gaze fell on Horace and narrowed in a suspicious frown. Horace realised he was staring idiotically and set down his cup, managing an apologetic smile. Mr. Jink snorted, snatching up his drink when it arrived and sweeping out ahead of the serving girl's bright reminder to have a super day. Horace watched him go, suddenly aware that his heart was beating very loudly. Feh, foolishness, utter foolishness. Too much sugar on an empty stomach launching an old man's flight of fancy. He should have known the ghosts that had haunted him in England would catch up with him sooner or later. So another sharp-tongued young Briton happened to wear the same unfashionable twenty-year-old boots as a man who had died two years, seven months, and four days ago. So he had also had cause to replace the original buckles with bronze. Funny old world. He told himself these things as he ordered another coffee, and for the rest of the morning he sat in contemplative silence, looking out at the rain. In the end, Severus Snape was left unburied. It was a source of contention between Minerva and himself in the long days after the battle, when he and she and the rest of the staff had been left milling around the castle, mending what they could as they waited for the forms to be signed and funds to be allocated. They were still finding bodies, grisly punctuation to their aimless days, but there was nothing recognisably human to be recovered in the remnants of the Shrieking Shack. Hex-fire was hot enough to crumble even bone, and the ashes had long since scattered through the joyous streets of Hogsmeade. A stone had turned up in the overgrown herb garden, a literal stone, merely a rock about the size of a bludger, upon which had been inscribed: Severus Snape, Professor 1960-1998 It had been chiselled by hand, and the script was too neat to be Hagrid's. He supposed it to be the work of Argus Filch and left it where he found it, tucked in tenderly amongst the hellebore. "He deserves a proper burial," Minerva pressed, having a cup with him one night in his sitting room. The wine cellar, at least, had survived the unpleasantness intact. Horace leaned back in his chair. "Here?" He sighed. "I won't say I knew him better than you did, but do you really think he would want to be interred here for all eternity? That seems as much a risk for a haunting as leaving his bones scattered." Her lips pursed, but she did not argue. For fifteen years, Severus Snape had campaigned for a cursed position, one that Horace himself had, in his own way, finally delivered to him. This had never been a place for young men. Children left here, poised on the precipice of adulthood, leaping out into the great wide world with all its opportunity and heartbreak. If they returned, it was in their autumn years, as spinsters or widowers, grandfathers or world travellers, heroes or failures. Severus had never been happy here, and even the Dementors of Azkaban had the decency to throw dead prisoners into the sea to let the ebb tide carry them away from their fate. "Nevertheless," Minerva said, "at the very least, his family will want a service." He made an honest attempt not to pull a face. "I doubt they'd come. It's just the mother and grandfather, you know. I wrote—no reply. I gather they weren't close." "No. I shouldn't expect they were." She poured herself another glass, and if he had expected her to get teary-eyed, he would have been disappointed; she only looked tired. It was a feeling he knew well. The last tipple of wine went into his glass. It was boorish for the host to empty a bottle, but it was a boorish sort of hour. "He was a fine man. I wish I had taken more of an interest in him when he was one of mine." She gave him a look over her spectacles that hovered somewhere between speculation and accusation. "Oh, I never." He paused. "Not since Albus took over, at least." In hindsight, he realised it was at that moment that he lost any say whatsoever in the matter. She finished her wine, and she bid him a good night, and by the time he rose the next morning, a memorial service was already in the works. It proved to be a spartan affair. The day was uncomfortably hot and bright, the air thick with the smell of flowers and the chattering of birds. There was a large hole where the monument was to be placed when it finally arrived and a spotty gathering of the families of those who had fallen. The handsome new Minister for Magic, regal in his sombre robes, turned up to induct Severus Snape posthumously into the Order of Merlin. They did not bother with an empty casket, at least. Horace, eschewing the opportunity to make a speech for what may have been the first time in his life, greeted each attendee personally and fondly before taking a seat on the furthest bench. It did not feel right to sit among the staff, with those who had known Severus for so much longer than he had and who mourned in a different manner. He was here as a private citizen, he decided, and listened politely as Harry Potter—looking very much the young hero—eulogised Severus Snape as a Gryffindor for his bravery, as a Hufflepuff for his loyalty, as a Ravenclaw for his wisdom. There was applause, and not a few tears, and decent catering. Later that night, when all the visitors had left, Horace opened up a bottle of fifty-year-old single malt. He settled in his chair before the fire and raised a glass, not entirely dry-eyed. "Here's to you, m'boy." He drank to the most cunning, two-faced, duplicitous snake of a Slytherin he had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Horace returned to the cafe the next morning, and the next, but Mr. Jink did not show himself. He sat out on the terrace with his coffee and pastries, thinking of the more than serviceable restaurant at the hotel just across from his flat where he often hoped to run into old friends in the country for business or pleasure, or to meet new ones who might treat him to eggs Benedict and mimosas. Not even the afternoon prospect of a tour around the bookshops or a stroll along the shore excused the urge that led him here. The encounter had left him slightly perturbed. Whoever said that time healed all wounds had either lived to an astonishing age or was in fact a gibbering idiot. Time healed nothing. Days and months and years were lazy thread work, and all it took was the gentlest flex of memory to burst the stitches open again. Of course the young man in the Reims boots was not Severus Snape. Severus Snape was dead and gone and, logically speaking, if he were going to belie the latter and turn up anywhere, it would be as a phantom in the corridors of Hogwarts or in the rubble of the Shrieking Shack—not as a flesh and blood stranger in Victoria, arguing over coffee. No, he supposed it was not so much the young man himself who haunted him but his own reaction to him. He closed his eyes, reliving that mad flash of hope and the pang of grief that had followed when the ridiculous thought first occurred to him. Regret. It was, amidst two years of comfortable travel and rich food and expensive drink, the sharpest he had felt anything since that terrible day at Hogwarts. That was what lured him back. Not curiosity over just who that young man was—although he did abhor a mystery—nor anything as silly as sentiment. Rather, it felt more akin to the niggling need of a loose tooth: a novel and almost pleasurable pain that he found himself driven to worry and prod at until something finally broke. Of course, it didn't hurt that, plain or not, the young man was undeniably fetching. There was something about an enfant terrible that never failed to drive him to foolishness. On the third morning, he spied the young man in the street. It was a quarter to nine, and he had almost given up hope when a swiftly striding figure in black caught his eye. Mr. Jink was apparently forgoing his morning coffee once more, hurrying down the sidewalk with his head down. Horace abandoned the last bite of his croissant and hastened after him. He was not built for sprinting but with a few good lopes managed to catch up with him at the corner. "Mr. Jink—pardon, me, Mr. Jink?" The young man froze in his tracks. Horace saw his shoulders stiffen before he very slowly turned around. "Yes?" His voice could support icicles. Horace offered his hand, determined not to acknowledge his own lack of protocol. This was North America, after all. "We haven't been formally introduced, I know. I'm certain you don't remember me..." The young man glanced down at his hand but did not take it. "I saw you at the coffee shop the other day. You had powdered sugar on your robes and looked like you were having a stroke." Never let it be said he took himself too seriously. He chuckled and surreptitiously checked his front for crumbs. "Horace Slughorn. Fully recovered." "Benjamin Jink. Late for work." He began to cross the street. Horace fell into step with him. "What is it you do, Mr. Jink?" Benjamin—that suited him very well, Benjamin—gave him a wary look. "I'm with W.G. Moss. Look, Mister...Slugworth, was it...?" "Slughorn," Horace politely corrected. "Mr. Slughorn, if you don't mind, I have a busy day ahead of me. So if you'd care to skip to the part where you tell me what you're selling or how you lost your train ticket to Moose Jaw to visit your dying cousin thrice removed, I can tell you to bugger off that much sooner and we can both be on our respective ways." There was that feeling again, a stinging, singing cut. Good God, he even sounded a little like him, an actor mimicking familiar lines. He hesitated just for a moment, and the young man turned and began to walk away. "Wait! Forgive me—honestly, what a clod I am today—but might I take you to lunch?" Benjamin halted. He looked Horace over, raising an eyebrow, and responded very slowly: "I believe what you're looking for is a place called The Handlebar. It's over on Satyr Lane." Horace, still discombobulated, was nonetheless charmed. There was something very attractive about pertness. "I hope you'll forgive me for being forward. I collect interesting people, you see." It was an unfortunate fact that eccentricity was not considered to be quite as delightful on this side of the pond. "And why should I care to be 'collected' by some lunatic I've met in the street?" He caught the insincere note in Benjamin's voice, however, and knew he had hooked him. Truly interesting people, in his experience, secretly wanted to be reassured that they were in fact interesting and not—as the rest of the world might have decided—misanthropic bastards. "Because you're flattered." He smiled his most persuasive smile. "And you're curious. And you seem like the sort of upstanding young man who indulges his foolish elders." The upstanding young man snorted. Then he paused, with a look on his face that suggested he felt every bit as foolish as Horace, and finally relented as Horace had hoped he would. "I generally take my lunch at the King Egbert fountain at one o'clock. I may or may not today." Then he swept off down the street without looking back, leaving an absurdly pleased Horace in his wake. The rest of the morning passed in leaps and bounds. Horace did indeed browse through the bookshops and take a walk along the pier, and at precisely five to one he turned up at old Egbert's fountain and bought two very nearly authentic pasties from a nearby shop. He found an empty bench and sat down, waiting until a familiar stride in familiar boots caught his eye. Benjamin came to join him, sitting almost primly at the far end of the bench. The breeze ruffled his hair, making him look rather less severe, and the nip in the air brought colour to his cheeks. He looked like he should be composing dour poetry on the moors. Horace smiled and offered over one of the pasties, waving off the coin Benjamin tried to foist upon him in return. "Nonsense, your company is payment in spades." "Mm." Benjamin regarded him suspiciously but unwrapped his pie and started in. Horace watched him eat for a moment, admiring his mouth. "W.G. Moss—so you're in the investment game? You know, I could introduce you to Flavius Durham. I'm sure you've heard of him. Close, personal friend of mine." "He forces me to play golf with him twice a month. I'm in the arithmancy department anyhow. 'Number botherers.'" Daunted but not dashed, he changed tactics. "Arithmancy is a fascinating field, I've always thought." He took a bite of his pasty and hummed in pleasure. "You weren't educated at Hogwarts, were you, Benjamin? May I call you Benjamin?" Benjamin shrugged. "If you like. And no, I was nine when I came to Canada." Horace paused tactfully. "That would have been...1970 or so?" The wooden expression on the young man's face confirmed the unspoken query behind it. "'72." Three years younger than Severus Snape, a quiet voice noted in the back of his mind. "So your family came to British Columbia." "Nova Scotia. And it was only me." He winced in sympathy. A war orphan, not that they were calling it a war yet back then. "You had family there, in Nova Scotia?" Benjamin narrowed his eyes. "Why do you ask? Are you with Immigration? Because I assure you, I'm here legally." Horace held up his hands. "No, no. Only making conversation. It's all anyone talks about these days back in Britain, now that it's over. 'Where were you when...' Forgive me." "Mm." Benjamin shrugged. "I've visited England a few times. Hogsmeade, the London Alleys. It's very...quaint." "Have you ever considered moving back?" "No." "Truly?" Horace gave him a lightly teasing glance. "You know, there's a shortage of eligible young bachelors with steady careers." "I'm quite sure." "Real estate is immensely more affordable." "I said—" "And Gringotts is always looking for—" "Profess—" Horace blinked. Benjamin had gone abruptly red, then paled, visibly recomposing himself after nearly biting through his tongue. Horace smiled faintly, afraid that doing anything else would send the young man into flight. "Oh, bother, I do tend to run on at the mouth sometimes. Don't mind me." He feigned a thoughtful pause. "Now when did I mention I used to teach?" Benjamin shook his head, visibly forcing himself to relax. His expression flickered from full foot in mouth to one of slight chagrin. "Well, I wasn't about to traipse off and meet a stranger for lunch without ascertaining that he is who he says he is, now was I? Believe it or not, there is only one Horace Slughorn in Britain, former Potions Master at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry." "Ah, quite right." He patted Benjamin's shoulder, very fine cogs turning very quickly. He forced them to grind to a halt. "I suppose you can't be too safe these days. So tell me, Benjamin, are you a Circean or a Hypatian?" The young man eased slightly beneath his hand, back on steadier ground. "Hypatian. Numerology is the work of charlatans and idiots." "Oho—we're in full agreement there. Do you know, a numerologist once told me that I would be trampled by a runaway horse at seventy. Now, not that I've yet reached such an age..." Gratifyingly, Benjamin's lips twitched. He had a rather nice smile, slightly crooked and entirely smug. "In fact," he said, "I often thought that if I hadn't gone into brewing, numbers would be the business for me." The remainder of the lunch hour was spent in pleasant small talk about the utilitarian pleasure of arithmantic equations while Horace put a lid on any further ridiculous speculation. They watched the people pass through the square—out here, there was no pretending that this was home, but it had its charms—and threw the last crumbs to a pair of enormous and fearless ravens. At ten to two, Benjamin stood and brushed himself off and then straightened his tie. "I have to admit, this wasn't entirely painful. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Slughorn." "'Horace,' please. And in that case," Horace said, rising to his feet, "I would very much like to take you to dinner on Saturday." Benjamin narrowed his eyes. "What would you want to do that for?" Horace beamed. "Ah, progress! Now if you had asked what you would want to do that for, I'd have been in for a battle. If you're still leery, I can make you a copy of my C.v., complete with full references from the elite of western wizarding society." "You haven't answered my question." "Nothing gets by you." He considered it a moment and opted for honesty. "I like you, Benjamin Jink." He did. The fellow was witty and intriguing and, while on the older side of such things, precisely the sort of younger companion an old man abroad should make himself foolish over. Benjamin did not appear to know what to say to that. Horace took the opportunity to draw a calling card from his pocket and summon a quill nib from the end of his wand. "I'll be dining at La Taverna at seven. Do come. I've been told I'm much wittier over wine." Benjamin rolled his eyes but took the card, and this time when Horace offered his hand, he took that too, giving a firm shake. His hand was cold, and Horace held the connection until it warmed. Then he watched him go, the pang in the pit of his stomach warring with something lighter, something tremulous. That feeling was more familiar. Funny old world. Severus Snape at eleven was a graceless child, pale and pinched, with premature shadows under his eyes. He was the smallest boy in the incoming year, straggling at the end of Minerva's line just behind a bold little redheaded girl. Nonetheless, there was something about him that caught Horace's eye from the dais as he looked over the new arrivals. The boy had an alert look about him despite his hunched shoulders and the curtain of hair all but covering his face. While the rest of the youngsters gasped at the enchanted ceiling and the floating candelabras, he was stealing glances at faces, visibly picking out the heads of house, the head boy and girl, the prefects. Sharp, that was Horace's first impression. Sharp eyes and sharp cheekbones, all over in need of a little sanding, a little polishing. He found himself watching the boy as Black, Sirius and Evans, Lily andPotter, James were sorted into Gryffindor. The boy himself proved to be the last to join the Slytherin table, and Horace noted his name, his initials, thinking fancifully that perhaps it was a good omen after a very unnerving year. By the end of the first Potions lesson of the term, there was no question remaining as to why this one had sorted to the serpent. It was not entirely a family tradition. While it soon came out that Severus was Eileen Prince's son, Horace remembered her father August as a rather dull, stolid Hufflepuff from his own school days, and a little digging revealed that the Prince line was in fact inclined to throw Ravenclaws—not to mention, 'Snape' was not a name he recognized. No, unlike the majority of Slytherins who made their mark on life and instilled in their children a love for success and intolerance for complacency, this was not a matter of bloodlines. This was fresh hunger, and it was in that very first week that Horace subtly but deliberately cut back on calling on the boy when his hand was raised in class, even though he had arrived nearly ready for second year Potions. Severus Snape, a sad little sight in his second-hand clothes...his temper ran far hotter, a world apart from those brief moments of chilling emptiness behind blue eyes, and yet Horace could not help but be reminded of that other boy, that other hungry little half-blood, the boy he had once loved, the boy who had ruined him. The attacks had begun eight months ago, but those with an ear to the ground had heard rumblings long before. A year, or ten, or thirty. The papers were still speculating on what foreign powers lay behind the threat, but Horace had his doubts, and so did Albus Dumbledore (or so he suspected—who knew what lay behind that infuriating smile?). Thus he put old memories and the whole bad business out of his head, and he turned his attention from diamonds in the rough to rising stars. Lily Evans, now she had the right attitude, as did charming little Evan Rosier. They were bright, promising, uncomplicated children, and he basked in their fledgling glow for as long as blissful ignorance allowed him. They met for dinner on Saturday and over good wine and an exquisite veal parmigiana talked of things polite and innocuous, such as the new radio drama on the WBC, and the state of the market, and whether there would be snow for Christmas. The consensus was, in short: atrocious, tolerable, perhaps. "No more Inquisition?" Benjamin asked, expertly dissecting the last roll and lavishly applying butter. "Have I ceased being interesting?" Horace chuckled. "Not in the least. But I've learned my lesson." "Pity. I was going to spin you some tall tales. Possibly involving international espionage." "Is that so?" Horace topped up both their glasses. "I would put good money on the truth being even more interesting." Benjamin smirked and took a sip. "It really isn't." "If you say so." The challenge lay between them for a moment before Benjamin glanced briefly heavenwards and gave in. "I was born in a little village outside of Manchester. My father was a wizard and my mother was a muggle. After they died, I went to live with my Great-Aunt Constance in Cape Breton. I attended a muggle school—Riverview—tutored on the side by Aunt Constance and one of our neighbours. When I was sixteen, I secured an apprenticeship with an arithmancer in Halifax. Then, two years ago, I accepted a position here for better money. After that, little of interest happened until I was one day accosted in the street by a mad chemistry professor." Horace had received a letter that very morning in reply to a request sent to an old friend. Besides the short note from Phineas, the envelope had also included a newspaper clipping and a set of notes in Minerva McGonagall's hand. He had already decided that he did not wish to know how the latter had been obtained. According to the paperwork, however, a Benjamin Jink had indeed appeared in the Hogwarts book in 1963, though his name disappeared in 1972, two years before he was due his letter of acceptance. Around the same time, the Daily Prophet had announced that the Dark Mark had been cast over the household of one Francis Jink of Bolton. 'The extent of the attack is of yet unknown.' There had been no follow-up published. This of course proved one of two things. Either Benjamin Jink was exactly who he said he was, or he wasn't. That was not the most helpful clarification. If he were an impostor, of course, he was clearly one of high intelligence and remarkable diligence, although that was hardly a revelation. The young man had a delightful brain. "You look sceptical." Horace blinked. "Do I?" Benjamin absently rubbed the tines of his fork over his lower lip. It was a surprisingly arresting gesture. "Out with it." He paused, considering. Then he laid his cards on the table. "You wear a glamour." Now that proved unexpectedly fruitful. The fork froze, and Benjamin's gaze flickered to the door and back again. He sucked in a breath and regarded Horace guardedly. "I do. Most people don't notice." Horace spread his hands apologetically. "If there's such a thing as the opposite of a blind spot, I seem to have it." Benjamin slumped back in his chair, regarding him sideways. Now he felt terribly uncouth and attempted to rectify it. "Would you like to come to a Yule party with me the Friday after next?" That earned him a startled look. Benjamin's voiced dropped. "Just what are you playing at?" He gave that serious thought. At the moment he was playing at several things. He decided on the most immediate. "I'd like to see you again." Now it was Benjamin who looked sceptical. "Mm-hm." "Is that a yes?" Benjamin put his fork down and worried at his glass instead. "Tell me, Mr. Slughorn, are you always this way with men you allegedly like, or is this some sort of new and exciting post-mid-life crisis?" "It's Horace. And do you know, I'm not really certain." After a moment, he quietly admitted, "You remind me of someone, actually. One of my students. Someone I wish I'd got to know better." Benjamin snorted. "Ah, there it is." "Hm?" "You said you liked me," Benjamin said flatly. "But in truth I merely remind you of someone else." There was a little chink in the armour, baring a soft spot underneath. It endeared the young man to him on the spot. "Can't it be both?" "Not in my experience." Benjamin's mouth quirked humourlessly. "I was never popular with my teachers." Horace shook his head, picturing him a little younger, absently brushing a quill across his lips as he sat at his desk. It was a thoroughly charming image. "I find that hard to believe." "I was a little delinquent. Ran with an unruly crowd." "Is that so?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, a youth not misspent is hardly worth spending." Benjamin downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. "That was almost witty." "I try. Now was that a yes?" "Yes, yes, fine. Maybe." It was perhaps the most satisfying maybe he had ever received in a lifetime full of ambivalent responses. "I'll pick you up at eight." "You'll give me the address and I'll meet you there," Benjamin countered. Horace chuckled. "My dear boy, I'd almost think you didn't want me to know where you live." That was met with another snort. "When I'm satisfied you aren't an escaped mental patient, we'll talk." Horace beamed. "Progress. Would you like dessert?" "...all right." Later that night, as they left the restaurant and were about to go their separate ways, Benjamin caught his sleeve. Horace halted, retreating with him out of the light drizzle and under the shelter of the awning. The night had cooled just enough for him to see their breath in the air. He wondered if his young companion was going to be so bold as to steal a kiss. Benjamin regarded him seriously, however. "Tell me something, Horace." "Anything." Within reason, of course, but affairs did best with absolutes. "Were you a good teacher?" It was not what he'd expected to be asked, and it gave him pause. He took half a step back, regarding Benjamin intently, but those dark eyes gave little up. He scratched his chin. "In the scheme of things...no. No, I suppose I wasn't." It felt surprisingly good to say it out loud, as if a weight he hadn't even been aware of had been lifted from his shoulders. Benjamin only nodded, more to himself than anything. "I—when my parents were killed—there are scars. That's why I wear a glamour." The admission bruised his heart. An apology would have been trite—there was nothing he could say to that. So, loathing an awkward silence, he took Benjamin's hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across his knuckles. Just softly, just for an instant, but it warmed him straight through nonetheless. Benjamin huffed a faint, incredulous laugh before recovering his hand. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before turning and slipping away up the street. Horace watched him until he had disappeared around the corner, then turned around and whistled to himself all the way home. On Monday afternoon, he was waiting at the fountain when Benjamin arrived, and every day after that for the next two weeks. Severus was eighteen years old when he left Hogwarts, a thin, pale young man with a permanent worried wrinkle between his eyes. He seemed to belong to a different time, his used robes of a better class than they once were but of a cut that suggested they had belonged to his grandfather, and he wore his hair long when the fashionable young men were favouring short. He had nearly grown into a classical Roman face, his cheekbones and nose and chin unobjectionable on their own but utterly too dramatic in summation. He slumped over his desk in class and walked with stooped shoulders. Bad posture was far less forgivable on a youth than on a boy; it gave him an air of shiftiness. He was first in his class in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, History, and Arithmancy, second in Potions, Astronomy, and Ancient Runes, and third in Charms and Transfiguration. Despite his standing, he had never been made prefect and had not even made the first list for Head Boy. According to rumour, he had no offers pending from the Ministry or from any other sponsor. Horace found him in the library on the night of the year-end party. He was in fact merely sneaking through on a shortcut to the wine cellar, but he paused when he saw the boy at the furthest study carrel and smiled broadly as if he'd come to seek him out. "Ah, Severus, there you are—you're missed at the party!" Severus looked up with a frown, closing his book around his index finger. "I rather doubt that, sir." It was a rude reply, but it struck Horace as a sad one too. The boy was not completely friendless—he saw him often with Evan Rosier, Werner Wilkes, and Rodolphus Lestrange, and he had attended last year's dance with Bellatrix Black—and yet there was something lonely about him nonetheless. He simply didn't fit in, whether for what he had been born or what he was clumsily trying to be. In that moment, Horace wanted very much to tell him to put his books away. He wanted to take him to the wine cellar, and uncork a good aged Nebbiolo, and drink it there with him straight from the bottle. He wanted to tell him to stand up straight, and that he would look stunning in a muted shade of aubergine, and that Magnus Robertson in Edinburgh was looking for an apprentice brewer. He also wanted, upon consideration, to bring the boy to his bed. He strongly suspected that Severus Snape was a virgin, and if there were any excuse for missing one's own end of school party, it was an inaugural tumble. He pictured him, pale and charmingly awkward, nervous at first but then melting into passion as bookish young men did. "Severus..." It was then that he caught a glimpse of the book Severus had been studying. A red seal on the spine marked it as part of the restricted collection. Marten's Blood Curses: A Practical Application. In the stack beside it were 1001 Deadly Poisons and Secrets of the Venom Pact. Seventh years had sat their Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT over a week ago. "Yes, Professor?" If it wasn't his business, it couldn't be his fault. He shook his head and forced a smile. "You have a good night, Severus." He left him there that night, alone amidst his eldritch studies. Three years later, he would leave his comfortable position at Hogwarts, unable to face another class of fresh-faced first years, unable to befriend another upperclassman who might yet be a murderer. He had taught his students that the world was theirs for the taking, and they had taken it. He had taught them there were no odds they could not surmount, and they had stood up to terrorism, fought, and fallen. It would be another twenty years before he would wonder what would have happened if he had imparted a little confidence to just one more boy. The party was held at Mars and Hildegard Clayworth's city home, a well-situated three-storey affair that ably made up for its painfully modern exterior with tasteful and traditional decor within. A massive pine had been expertly dressed, and holly clung to the crown moulding, dotted whimsically with mistletoe. The guest list was a veritable who's who of the Pacific wizarding enclaves, with gossip insisting that several well-known names had travelled all the way from California and Hong Kong solely to attend the event. Horace was in his element, circulating with a glass of champagne in one hand and the other at the offer. He had already been introduced to the Canadian Minister of Ethno-Supernatural Diversity, the president of Gringotts Canada, and the Head of Abstract Magic from Morgan Le Fey University at Kau-Lung, and the night was young yet when he realised that he had lost track of Benjamin somewhere between the crab puffs and his introduction to the new soprano with the Victoria-Merlin Opera. "Horace—oh, Horace, you simply have to meet my nephew, Jeffrey." Hildegard Clayworth appeared beside him. "He just signed with the Vancouver Vultures." He smiled. "I would be delighted, Hilde. But if you'll excuse me for just one moment..." Scanning the room again turned up no Benjamin. He discreetly passed by the empty lavatories, glanced out at the terrace where a shivering few were huddled around their cigarettes, and then ventured further back into the house. A waiter in red and gold looked him over suspiciously but let him pass. A set of double doors were slightly ajar at the end of the corridor, and he approached, peeking inside. Benjamin sat in a wingback chair with a book in his hands, the soft glow of the lamplight bringing out the warm tones in his dark hair, and his cheekbones casting shadows. He had obviously been here for some time, having made a sizeable dent in the book. Horace peered at the gap in the nearest shelf: Dickens. He knocked quietly on the door frame. The book snapped shut. Benjamin looked up with a defensive expression, though it softened somewhat when he saw it was him. "You're missing a good party." Benjamin raised his eyebrows innocently. "I'm really not. I'm quite enjoying myself in here." "I think one of your colleagues from W.G. Moss is here." That did not appear to be a great incentive to leave the library. Benjamin opened the book again. "I'm about to be introduced to a new player with the Vultures," he pressed. "You should come meet him." Benjamin was silent for a moment. Then he reluctantly rose and shelved the book. "If you insist." Horace smiled, putting a hand at the small of Benjamin's back. He was about to lead him out of the library when he found himself hesitating. He looked from Benjamin, with his faint frown, down the hall to the gay lights and soft music and lively hum of conversation in the parlour. Hildegard was likely waiting for him, as was the young quidditch player. He still needed to get Professor Ng's address, and Mr. Graham had promised to find him again to shore up a date for golf. "Would you rather go get a cup?" he asked abruptly. Benjamin stared at him. "Coffee or tea. Would you like to get out of here?" "I..." Benjamin drew back, regarding him suspiciously. "Yes?" "All right." It was very nearly blasphemy to think it, and yet he thought it nonetheless: there would in fact be other parties. Hildegard was already engaged in a chat with her decorator when he and Benjamin stole out of the library, nipping their coats from the closet and slipping out the back door. They tiptoed across the lawn and then made a rush for the street as they tripped the ward for the security lights. Benjamin ducked behind a tree ahead of the sweeping lights, chuckling breathlessly. It was the first time Horace had truly heard him laugh, and that if anything lifted his regrets over leaving the party without a proper farewell. He'd had just enough champagne to start softly singing "Good King Wenceslas" as they made their way back to Merlin Square. It had snowed a little, a sparse dusting of white glinting in the glow from the streetlights. "...deep and crisp and e-ven..." They purchased hot cider from a stand that was just closing up and ambled around the deserted square. Had Benjamin been ten years younger, he might have offered his arm, but as it was he contented himself with keeping close for warmth, their hands occasionally brushing. He glanced sidelong at Benjamin. "I don't live far from here. As it happens." The invitation hung in the air for several painful seconds. "All right." Benjamin took a delicate sip of his cider. Horace beamed. "Onwards, then." He indeed did not live far, only a street behind the main square, in a red brick high-rise that called itself The Rosemere. Most of the building looked to be already abed, though a few windows were still lit. "And guest," he announced at the private entrance, and the wards parted, revealing the doors to the lift. Benjamin whistled as they rode up to the top floor. "Do you rent or own?" "I'm house-minding, as a matter of fact. An old student of mine, Gillian Bones—you might have heard of her—she winters in Australia, or summers there, depending on how you look at it. I'm watching the place until March." He had not entirely prepared for guests, beyond the extent to which he was always prepared for guests. He hurried ahead of Benjamin when the lift opened, straightening some clutter and tucking away the letter from Phineas. "Let me take your coat." Benjamin took some loose change from the pockets and secured his wand before handing it over. He gazed around the flat with obvious admiration, drinking in the wrought-iron staircase, and the grand fireplace, and the seemingly endless rows of bookshelves lining the walls. Horace decided there really was no harm in feeling flattered, even if it was not truly his home. "I know I have a bottle of red somewhere. One tic." He went into the kitchen and found the bottle, two glasses, and a corkscrew. Then he discreetly checked his breath, cast a personal charm, combed his moustache, and returned to the sitting room. Predictably, Benjamin was grazing at a bookcase. Horace set down the wine and came up behind him. "Benjamin the book-mouse." Benjamin flipped the page of a novel. "Book-worm." "Pardon?" He put his hands at Benjamin's waist. To his delight, he was not rebuffed. "Books have worms, not mice." Benjamin turned another page, obviously not truly reading it. Horace smiled. "I prefer mice." Then he let his lips brush against an earlobe, slowly, lightly fording a path down Benjamin's neck. Benjamin shivered but merely turned another page. "Oh, you're beastly." Horace mouthed softly at his skin, which changed abruptly from smooth to rough and back again. Yes, there was a scar—he could feel it, even if he couldn't see it. His hands slid down to Benjamin's narrow hips, tracing the curve of his backside, then around front where he felt him stiffening. The book wavered. He pressed a palm against his placket, giving an encouraging rub, and the hot sigh he earned was one he'd been imagining all week. The book was soon nestled back where it came from. Benjamin turned, bright-eyed and a little flushed. His mouth still tasted of cider when Horace kissed him, a touch more hungrily than he'd meant to, the rough, wet press sending a blazing arrow straight through him. Delicious. They two-stepped away from the bookcase, aiming for the sofa but bumping up against the wall. Horace couldn't keep his hands off him, pinning him to keep him still long enough to work at all those fiddly little shirt buttons. Benjamin was quicker, nimble fingers flying down the front of his robes, then the shirt beneath, then teasing under the waistband of his drawers. They rubbed up together, the friction of too much fabric making Horace curse and redouble his efforts. Somehow he managed to get Benjamin's trousers down, drawers following. His gaze devouring, he ran a fingertip along that handsome cock from root to tip, making him squirm, then took him in a firm grip, stroking generously. "Do you like that?" "Mm..." Benjamin bit his lip, his eyes shutting tightly. His breath was coming harder now, and Horace worried he was too heavy to be leaning against him, but Benjamin only slung an arm around his neck and pulled him closer. Horace kissed his cheek, his chin, his throat, feeling his pulse beat staccato and the vibrato of a low moan as his grip grew firmer. Trysts had been few and far between these last years, and perhaps not only for him—Benjamin was trembling, gasping, very nearly burning up with feverish heat as though it had been a lifetime since anyone touched him. He considered the bed, the couch, the floor, but even that was too far. He got his hand around the both of them, stroking and eagerly frotting until Benjamin arched against him, his hips stuttering and a strangled cry on his lips. The first wet spurt against his stomach was too much. Oh, lovely Benjamin, squeezing his eyes shut and licking his lips. Dear young fellow, grasping, wanton, looking so lost and found all at once. Horace pushed him flush up against the wall, drowning himself in a kiss and thrusting against the hollow of his hip, panting as the pleasure pulled up tight inside him—releasing with a reverberating twang as Benjamin's lips hotly traced his ear, breathing words too faint to be understood. His knees very nearly went out on him as he spent like a dragon, braced against the wall, pressed against sweetly shaking Benjamin, breathing in the wicked scent of sweat and seed. He shivered luxuriantly through the echoes of it, Benjamin gently nipping at his neck, rapid breath softly puffing against his damp skin. "Oh, lovely..." He leaned against Benjamin, not wanting him to slip away just yet. He kissed him again and stroked his hip. Gently squeezed his thigh, fingertips smearing the dripping mess. He could feel Benjamin's heart beating hard through his chest. When he finally had his breath back, he stepped out of his pooled clothes and staggered back with Benjamin to the sofa, where they collapsed in a heap. Benjamin squirmed atop him for a moment, then settled when Horace rubbed his back. "Well, that certainly didn't set any records." Horace chuckled. "Passion, m'boy, passion." In truth, brevity aside, he thought it might be the best he'd had in quite a while. "Mm." Benjamin did not sound completely displeased himself. There was a smug note to his hum. They lay there together for a time until Benjamin struggled to his feet and went to gather his clothing, disappearing into the lavatory. Out of politeness, Horace managed to get his wand and perform a quick cleaning charm, and then he summoned his dressing gown from the bedroom. Anything more complicated would be rather beyond him for the next five minutes or so. Benjamin emerged a few minutes later fully dressed, looking very nearly like he hadn't just been ravished, save for his bee-stung lips and a faint flush that lingered just past the open collar of his shirt. It was a very good look on him. Horace gazed his fill, then nodded to the wine. "Cabernet?" He was rather surprised when Benjamin acquiesced without persuasion. He had rather expected him to bolt as soon as he had his trousers back. Note to self, he thought, Benjamin Jink is much more agreeable after a healthy orgasm. In fact: "I'll get it," Benjamin said, taking the bottle and glasses over to the sideboard. Horace lazily eyed the straight line of his back as he uncorked the bottle, polished up the stemware, and poured the wine as carefully as any steward. Benjamin handed him his glass and then crossed the room to sit in the armchair, ankle primly perched on knee. "To a lovely evening," Horace pronounced, raising his glass. Benjamin tipped his and took a small sip. Horace took a deep breath of the bouquet. Then he paused and took a second. He closed his eyes and heard Benjamin fidgeting very slightly in his seat. "Oh," he said. "Oh my, you are good, Severus." He opened his eyes to meet a dark, veiled gaze—one that glanced to where his wand lay on the coffee table. Horace made no sudden movements. "Lethe Elixir, tasteless but possessing of a slightly anetholic odour. You know, I'd have hardly noticed if I'd picked up the Sauvignon, but a Franc should never smell of anise. You really do have to research these things." Severus Snape put both feet on the floor. He looked mildly insulted. "This wouldn't have been an issue if you stocked allsorts for Christmas like a normal person." Horace pulled a face despite himself. "Do you know, I don't care for the coconut." "Well, that's just lovely." "Oh, don't be like that." Severus pursed his lips, his hand hovering near his hip where Horace could see the haft of his wand protruding. "How long have you known?" Horace slowly straightened up in his seat, keeping his hands in plain sight. "Known? Honestly, not until this very minute. But that first day in the coffee shop, that first day, do you know what I thought to myself? I thought, 'Severus Snape once had those very same boots.' Of course, I only thought I was going a little mad." Severus's mouth opened, then abruptly shut. His hand flailed gracelessly for a moment before finally pinching the bridge of his nose. "They're good boots." Horace knew the sort of people he came from. You didn't just go and throw away a perfectly serviceable pair of boots, even if you were leaving the rest of your life behind. "They're dull boots. You would look much better in a Cuban heel." "You are mad." "Maybe," Horace said, and he toyed with his wine glass. He licked his lips reflexively, tasting salt. His heart was hammering, and Severus looked like he was about to die of nerves about two inches beneath that frosty surface. He thought about him trembling against the wall, hot and clutching him. He thought about him in the Clayworths' library and dodging the end of year party all those years ago. "Maybe. Do you know, I think I'll drink this if you like." Severus frowned, immediately looking to his own glass. "Have you dosed mine too?" Horace laughed aloud, a strained sound. "No, but that would be marvellous, wouldn't it? Two poisoned glasses at opposite ends of a table—that's every brewer's secret dream. I very nearly managed it once, you know, but the house-elf broke the decanter." "There's enough in that cup to wipe out the entire last week." Severus appeared unconvinced. "Why would you want to drink it?" Why indeed? "Don't misunderstand me, I wouldn't care to forget it all, not least tonight." He paused, folding his hands over his stomach, weighing options and discarding them in the course of a breath. There will be other parties, a little voice whispered. But there would not be another moment quite like this one. "Don't misunderstand me," he said again. "But I rather like Benjamin Jink, and if he has some mad notion that he has to leave the city, I don't think I'll ever see him again. Maybe I still won't if I take my medicine, but I like the odds better." He smiled. "He's a fine young man, you know. Done very well for himself, all on his own. I'd like to get to know someone like that better, and if he wanted to be mysterious about what his life was like before he came to Victoria, I just might learn to stop pestering him to find out. And if he ever wanted to tell me, I'd assure him that I've kept secrets in my time that would turn even his worldly head white. "I'd like to think I might have a thing or two to offer in return. I could introduce him to a proper tailor, for one. Promotions have been won on ties alone. I think we might have a rather good time talking Potions—he really does have an excellent grasp of the field for a number-botherer, if this dose is anything to go on—and I would very much like a second chance at properly seducing him. I can do better. Especially if I abstain from the champagne beforehand. "And most of all," he said, "I would like to have him over for the holidays. Otherwise, I'll be alone, and there's nothing sadder than an old foreigner alone at Christmas. I've already bought him a present, in fact. I shouldn't like to see it go to waste." Severus stared at him, mute for several breaths. Then he said, "I could always steal it on the way out." Horace's lips twitched. "You could, but I don't think you would." Severus crossed his arms. "Go on, then. Drink." His spirit sank, but it was, perhaps, only understandable. He picked up the glass, pretended it was mid-rate American Sauvignon, and tipped it back. "Oh, all right, fine!" Horace paused, the wine barely touching his lips. He raised a querying brow. "Put it down." He did so. Severus stood up and paced the floor. "You're infuriating." "Nobody's perfect." He spread his hands helplessly. "I've become something of a believer in second chances lately, though. It's a funny thing. Old dog, new tricks, all of that." Severus only glared. Horace cautiously picked up a white doily from the coffee table and gave it a little wave of surrender as he got to his feet. "I did miss you," he said and then slowly approached until he was close enough to kiss his cheek. Severus held very still, only the slight quickening of his breath giving him away. They stood there together silently until Severus finally cursed under his breath, brushing past him and picking up the glasses. He carried them into the kitchen where there was a brief splash and then the sound of water running. Horace refrained from making any comment whatsoever about what a waste of good wine that had been and settled for smiling hopefully at him when he returned. "Now, if I could ask just one question..." Severus halted in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning very slightly against the jamb. He looked exhaustion personified suddenly, as if the strangeness of the evening—of the last two weeks in their entirety—had caught up with him all at once, leaving him trampled and a little ill. "Ask," he said, though the look he wore warned him to tread carefully. Horace could not resist. After tonight, he would curb his nosiness, but there had to be a certain period of amnesty. "Was it Minerva who wove that glamour? Because if she did, I do have to say she missed her calling on the stage." "No." Severus paused and then, with a tired look that suggested he supposed he could always kill Horace later, admitted, "It was Madam Pomfrey." "Poppy? Oh, I'm impressed. But then, she always did have a soft spot for you." Severus shrugged, hovering uncomfortably. "Will you at least come sit?" Horace recovered his seat on the sofa. If a drink wasn't in the cards, they at least deserved to sit down. "No," Severus said, but he did, walking over and sitting stiffly, leaving the gulf of a cushion between them. Horace regarded him with the utmost fondness and tried very hard to suppress a laugh at the absurdity of them both. "What a pair we are, Benjy, m'boy." This was met with a snort and a numbly mumbled, "Don't call me Benjy." "Severus?" That was met with a glower. Ah, yes, he knew this one. "Benjamin." If he looked his very hardest, he could very nearly make himself see black hair and black eyes, an aquiline nose, a terrible scar. It was a ragged face, one that wore twenty years of heartbreak in every line. Then he blinked, and there was brown-haired Benjamin Jink, him of the arithmancer's squint. A little bruised, a little battered, but young still, with a lifetime ahead of him. Benjamin rolled his eyes, but his voice was soft and only feigned resignation. "I suppose I can live with that." Horace beamed. The world was full of happy coincidences.

Palo Alto, California, December 1986 Taking a deep breath, John walked into the travel agent's office. "Hi, can I help you?" The middle-aged woman who spoke gestured to the chair in front of her desk and John smiled a little as he sat down. "I know it's kind of late," he said apologetically. "But I really need to be in Boston on the 24th." "Only three days notice?" she said. "That's cutting it a little close; this will be expensive." "That's fine," John said. "I just...I really need to be there." She started typing into her terminal. "Okay. Let's see...this might take a minute or two." She looked up at him. "Is this a family emergency?" "No, I just want to surprise someone." "Oh, how sweet." She smiled. "That's a nice Christmas gift; I'm sure she'll appreciate it." For just a moment, John hesitated and then he took the plunge. "I really hope he will." Fortunately, the woman just nodded. "Okay, I've got a flight out of Oakland that will get you to Logan at...oh, no that won't do; ten thirty at night's a little late. Let's try again...oh, here. You can fly out of San Francisco and get in at two in the afternoon on December 24th with a return on January 2nd. The return is a red-eye; I'm sorry about that." "No, it's fine; that sounds great." She quoted a price that made him blink, but he reached for his wallet. "Can you rent a car for me as well? And I should probably get a hotel room." He remembered Rodney bitching about his place in Boston and figured that it might be nice to have some place where they didn't have to worry about dodging people on the stairs or waking the neighbors up. "Someplace nice," he added, handing over the platinum American Express card that was tied to his trust fund. She raised an eyebrow. "The Four Seasons, Mr. Sheppard?" "Sure," John shrugged. He really didn't care, as long as it had a decent bed and room service. * * * Boston Massachusetts, December 1986 Three days later, John accepted the keys for the car and then made his way to a phone booth. "Please please please be home," he muttered as he punched in the number Rodney had given him. Rodney had insisted that he wasn't going home for the holidays, but what if he'd changed his mind? What if he'd been able to get lab time on Christmas Eve? Then, I'll drive out to MIT and look for him, he thought as he listened to Rodney's phone ring. Hell, I'll fucking fly to Toronto if I have to. Rodney was in the tedious process of flipping through channels, bent over his crappy little television with its flat-grip knob, and considering whether he wanted to put himself in the even more tedious process of cutting through the swathe of work he had laid out for him in preparation for testing out of one of the fall semester's classes. I have a few more days, he told himself, and he settled on something that would make good background noise as he gazed sightlessly at the television, ate Chee-tos and pined for John. I am a pathetic, miserable excuse for a scientist, he decided. He didn't really mind too much. The feel of John against him was still too close and fresh for him to mind too much; the scientific mind would make its own return. He sat down on the sofa and then leaned over for a pad of paper and a pen (he considered himself an even worse writer than a miserable excuse for a scientist, but it was his only connection to John when he couldn't afford to place a state-to-state phone call and the longing was a palpable knot in his chest). When the phone rang, it startled him. Sure, it was Christmas Eve, but he wasn't expecting any actual calls. And then he thought in the split second it took to raise the receiver to his ear that it might be John, and at once he knew he'd be bitterly disappointed if it wasn't. "Hello?" Oh thank God. "Hey," John said. "It's me. Look, I'm kind of an idiot and I don't have much time, but I lost your address." He hadn't, of course. In fact, he'd memorized it. But he'd wanted to make sure Rodney was home before he drove out there. Rodney's heart sped up when he heard the voice on the other line, and he had a burst of irrational happiness at the idea that John was sending him presents. "Hi," he breathed. "Um. Wow." He gave the address quickly, and then, as a matter of making sure John had every conceivable way to reach him, also gave him the phone number to the lab. It wasn't necessarily a good idea, but God, he couldn't stand not letting John get to him anywhere he was, anytime. "Thanks," John said. "Look, I'm sorry; I've got to run, but are you going anywhere today? I'll be able to talk to you longer in a little while." "No." The disappointment was right there on the surface. Rodney knew it came through in his voice but couldn't do a thing about it. "I'm here all day." He hesitated, taking a breath, but what he wanted to say just wouldn't come out. "So...whenever." "Sorry," John said, and he almost told Rodney where he was. But no...he was a man with a plan and he'd better stick to it. "Honestly, I'll talk to you really soon." Once he was sure he'd mapped out the way to Rodney's place, John tossed his bag into the back of the car and set out. Driving in Boston was every bit as bad as he'd heard, but in spite of the holiday traffic, he made pretty good time and only got lost once. For me, he thought as he pushed the buzzer button next to "McKay, R." that's doing damn well. Rodney's eyes narrowed as he heard the buzz. "If that's another pizza delivery for I. C. Weener, I'm going to club somebody with the toaster." He hauled himself up off the couch, long-suffering, and went to the door. "Yeah?" he said as he punched the button. "I didn't order any pizza, so if you're here for that, forget it." John grinned; as he'd expected, the speaker was crap. He could only tell it was Rodney from the words and not the voice. "Got a package here for McKay. You need to sign for it," he said and then took his finger off the button. Sighing heavily, Rodney tipped his head down. "Fine," he relented, pushing the button. "Come up." Rodney was on the third floor and it was a walk-up, but it only took John a minute to reach the door. Taking a deep breath, he tried to let go of his fear that this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done. No. The stupidest thing I've ever done was let him get on that plane without telling him.... He knocked on the door. Rodney was already at the door, and he flung it open in sheer, unadulterated annoyance before his gaze lit on the face in front of his. "John," he managed, overwhelmed at once. "Oh my God." "Merry Christmas," John said. It had only been a few weeks, most of which had passed in a blur of finals and college application paperwork, but John still felt like he hadn't seen Rodney in years. "I...just...." Now that he was here, his words were getting stuck again. He'd been much more smooth the hundred and one times he'd rehearsed this. "I love you," he blurted out. "I just...I should have told you that before." Rodney stared, and for a few seconds he was just overwhelmed, wondering if he was experiencing the actual visual and auditory input that he seemed to be. Then he grabbed John by the shirt and dragged him in, yanking him close for a hard kiss. Oh thank God, John thought. Everything he meant to do after this would be easy, now that he'd said that and Rodney was...well, obviously okay with it. He tried to stop thinking and just let himself go and kiss Rodney. Somehow, the door managed to get shut, and somehow, they managed to work their way into the bedroom of Rodney's little flat. Rodney managed to pull back to breathe, one hand sliding along John's back, but there was nothing to say. John had come for him, and that said everything Rodney needed to know. Rodney's stunned silence meant more than any flood of words; John had never seen him speechless for this long, so he supposed he could be excused feeling just a little smug. "I didn't know if you'd...." Oh good, now he was babbling, as if they'd somehow traded off or something. "Anyway, I got a room, but we can...we don't have to...." He rolled his eyes at how sad he was and leaned in for another kiss. "I don't care," Rodney muttered against John's mouth. "I don't care." He dragged John against him once more, and then they were falling on the bed. The bed was crappy and lousy with bad springs, and Rodney still didn't care. This was perfect. "That's fine," John said, moaning as he came into contact with Rodney. "I just want you...please?" As he said it, he couldn't imagine why he'd thought he could give this up, give Rodney up. It just seemed ridiculous. Rodney couldn't stop kissing. Every once in a while in the middle of the fevered making out, he'd try to take off a piece of clothing, but he never seemed to get very far. John was here. John was here. He still couldn't make it compute. "Can't believe you came," he finally breathed, and then it hit him that he hadn't said the words, hadn't returned the sentiment. "John," he groaned between more hot kisses, "love you." And oh, fuck, it felt so good to say, better than Rodney had ever thought it would. He'd known, or at least been pretty sure, so hearing it really shouldn't have been as shattering as it was. "God," John said. "Rodney...." And then they were kissing again while he tried to get out of his sweater at the same time and it was a tangle of arms and wool and mouths that had John laughing breathlessly into Rodney's mouth. Twisting, Rodney managed to squirm away a little. "Okay," he huffed out, "just...this is totally inefficient." He got up to his knees and pulled his shirt off, toed out of his sneakers. "You, too." It took John a little longer, but he was finally out of his sweater and shirt and jeans and everything else. "Missed you so fucking much," he said, moving in on Rodney again. He kind of wanted to make some kind of big gesture, like going to his knees or something, but he wasn't sure that was the best thing to do. Remembering that he'd promised himself that he'd say more instead of assuming that Rodney just knew things, he cleared his throat. "It's not just the kinky sex," he said. "It's more than that." That was the kind of thing that deserved some attention. Rodney turned to John and slid an arm around his waist, watching him closely. "I know," he said quietly. "For me, too." Suddenly it felt safe to admit to things he wouldn't have before, and he added, "You distract me from my classes. I can't stop thinking about you, even when I'm in the lab." He figured that, at least, was about equal in weight to the things John was saying, and it felt good to get them out. "Wow, really?" John smacked his forehead with his palm. "Sorry, that didn't come out right." He fell back on the bed and laughed. "I...Jesus, Rodney, I feel like I'm high or something." There were things they needed to talk about, but John was just so gone on seeing Rodney again that he wasn't sure he'd make sense if he tried to say anything. "Me, too." Rodney rolled up atop John and kissed him again, then pulled back to look at him thoughtfully. "I can't believe you're here," he said again. "You came all this way for us." "I had to," John said and then said it again because he really wanted Rodney to get it. "I had to. For us." Swallowing hard, Rodney kissed John again, deep and long, trying to let him feel the things that the words were too useless to explain. He didn't know how long John was here for, but it didn't matter. They'd deal with that later. "There's so much," he mumbled between kisses, "I want to do to you. I don't know where to start." "Whatever you want," John said, putting his hands above his head, wrists crossed. "Anything." Rodney clamped a hand over John's wrists immediately, settling down over him to bite at his mouth. "I want to mark you." He shifted lower and fixed his mouth over a nipple, sucking sharply before raising his head again. "Something that'll hurt for a few days." "Oh fuck, please?" John grinned up at Rodney. "Knew you were a genius." Laughing quietly, Rodney leaned down to bite again. "Well, of course." He raised his head again, trying to decide how to make the mark. He could raise a bruise by biting or sucking, or he could hit John with something. He considered that a moment, looking John up and down. John shivered a little, all of a sudden this was serious and real. He had no idea what Rodney was planning, but whatever it was, he wanted it. "Please?" he said again, twisting his wrists just a little in Rodney's grip, wanting to feel that pressure. Pushing John's wrists further into the bed, Rodney nodded, still thinking. "Just need to figure out how," he murmured. It needed to be in a place John would feel, but nothing too visible. He shifted his grip a little bit and leaned down, latching onto the muscle between neck and shoulder and biting sharply. It hurt and John let himself make noise as Rodney bit down even harder. He wanted it, needed it even, and he could trust Rodney to give it to him. "Yours," he said as he arched up against Rodney. He'd said it before, but always pretended that it was something said in the heat of the moment, just before he came or when he was begging to come. Now...now it was real and he was going to say it as often as Rodney let him. "Yours." "Mmm," Rodney growled, sucking on the spot, and then he raised his head. "Mine." He kissed John hard, licking and biting some more. Mine. He was sorry that he had to let go of John's wrists to reach for supplies. Rodney had placed the mark perfectly; it pulsed in time with John's heartbeat and he knew he'd be feeling it for days. The thought made him smile as he watched Rodney dig for lube and condoms. I'll feel it every time...oh fuck. "Rodney? I know this is weird, but...can I...I have something I need to give you." Oh God, this was so far from smooth as to be completely dorky. "If it's okay?" Frowning briefly, Rodney nodded. "Sure -- of course." It seemed odd that John would request to give Rodney a present, but John was probably already pretty far down. "Is it a unicorn, or maybe my own personal nuclear lab? Because that'd be, like, the thing that would make today perfect." He grinned, petting a hand over John's hair and letting him up. "Sorry no labs," John said as he scrambled out of bed and hunted around for his jeans. "And unicorns, well, I'm hardly virginal...." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the narrow strip of black leather that he'd stroked over and over on the flight. Staying on his knees, he held it up. "Um...it's a collar. It buckles, but you can lock it too. If...if you want." Oh, God. Rodney pulled in a breath, amazed. "It's--John, wow." His heart was racing, and he hated that he couldn't find something profound and meaningful to say as he took the collar out of John's hands. "Yes, I want to," he finally managed, blinking and nodding. "God, John, absolutely I do." John handed over the collar and then the little lock and two keys he'd bought with it. "I'm sorry," he said with a nervous little laugh. "When I mentally rehearsed all this...it went down a whole lot better." Rodney had to laugh too, and he leaned down to kiss John, a hand at John's nape. This was the kind of thing that, not too long ago, would have sent him into a tizzy of what-ifs and wondering: how were they going to manage it with John in California and Rodney in Massachusetts, what did it mean, exactly, to have someone collared to you if you couldn't be there to oversee, to instruct, to do the things Rodney had grown so used to doing... It would work itself out, he decided. This thing between us wasn't going anywhere. He knew that now, John being here on his knees offering up his keeping to Rodney proved it, and Rodney was going to meet that need. They would make it work. Watching John seriously, Rodney put the collar around John's throat, buckling it with a fumble or two--his hands were shaking. He set the keys on his nightstand, promising himself he'd get some kind of indestructible chain to put one on, and then he took up the little lock. He floundered for words for a minute or two, staring at the lock and then at John. Finally he just murmured "I love you" as he leaned down to clip the lock into the hasp and click it shut. "Love you too," John said, tilting up his face for a kiss. Rodney gave it, and gave it, and gave it, and then he was pulling John up, onto the bed, settling over him. "This is just...incredible," he moaned, and of course all of that hot, intense emotion wasn't facilitating any kind of sex, so he grabbed for lube. "I'll be romantic about it later," he promised with a broken little laugh. "I think you fucking me is perfectly romantic," John said, putting his hands above his head again and spreading his legs. "Works for me." Rodney stared down at John as he wet his fingers and then worked two of them into John. "Fuck," he choked out, stunned all over again by how tight John was. "Oh God," John moaned. Only a few weeks without this, without Rodney, and it felt like it had been a lifetime. "I'm ready," he manages to get out. "Oh please...so ready, need you." Rodney was totally taking John at his word; there was no way he was waiting. Later, he could tease and play and drive John up the wall. But that was later. He bit the condom package open and spit out plastic, and then he couldn't get the condom on fast enough. He put extra lube on the outside, too, just because if he hurt John, he didn't want it to be by accident. John was looking kind of frantic by the time Rodney got lined up and ready, and maybe Rodney shouldn't have been so damned accommodating, but John's sheer need was enough to speed Rodney up. He pushed in all at once, and this time there was no clumsiness, no fumbling for the right angle. Rodney suddenly felt graceful and in command, and the contrast of black leather on John's tanned skin made him feel even more so. The first thrust was perfect and John arched up to meet it with a low moan. As Rodney kept fucking him, stroke after perfect, hard stroke, John had the vague thought that Rodney was staring at him even more than usual. It took another moment or two before he realized that Rodney was staring at the collar in the same way he'd stared at John in the beginning, like he didn't think this was really happening to him. Arching his neck, John breathed, "yours," and then just went with it, doing his best to show off. "Yes," Rodney hissed, biting at John's chest, aiming to leave another mark. Maybe a few, before they were done, and he just kept going, fucking John hungrily and sucking purple marks into John's skin. "Hurts," John moaned, knowing Rodney wouldn't hear that as a plea to stop. "Please," he added, and then "oh God," and "yours" and then all the words got jumbled up until they were falling out of his mouth in no particular order. "Mine," Rodney agreed when he could find breath, "mine," and he reached back to grab John's thigh and drag it up higher, digging his fingers into the muscle. The shift in angles was just right and John bit his lip hard as he tried not to come. "Please...please please please!" "Wait," Rodney ordered, hips snapping forward that much harder. "Just wait." He held John's hips down firmly and shoved in over and over, still staring at the collar. John wasn't sure he could wait, but he grit his teeth and thought long and hard about tax returns, which had to be the most boring math he knew. He couldn't even beg anymore because just the fact that he had to beg to come was almost enough to push him over the edge. Gaze finally flicking up to John's face, Rodney saw the struggle there and came abruptly, mouth falling open. His thrusts went uneven and jerky for a minute, hips driving in hard, and finally he wrapped his hand around John's cock, stroking for a second before he finally gasped out, "Come." With a wordless yell, John arched up against Rodney and came hard and long. By the time he was done, he was panting so hard that he could barely breathe. "Thank...thank you," he said, reaching up to touch the collar. "God, Rodney...." "Mmm." Rodney sank down over John and burrowed into John's neck, biting a little. He wanted to mark John again, but there would be time for that later. He felt as though the intensity would still be there, and the need. Sliding a hand up into John's hair, Rodney kissed him slowly and thoroughly. This time, he didn't bite. He wanted John to feel real tenderness. Moaning into Rodney's mouth, John suddenly realized that he didn't have to leave in a few hours, or even tomorrow. He laughed, just a little huff of happiness against Rodney's lips, and wrapped his legs around Rodney's. Rodney grinned. "What's funny?" he asked, though he figured it wasn't funny so much as just...overwhelmingly good. "I don't have to leave any time soon." John grinned. "I'm here until the second and so we have lots of time. This time, I mean." His own grin widening, Rodney held John tightly. "That's--that's great," he breathed, cupping John's head in his hand and offering up another little kiss. "Mmmm hmmm," John said. "I got a room at the Four Seasons, but I can cancel it if you want to stay here. I'm good either way." "Are you kidding?" Rodney laughed, pulling back to look at John. "We're definitely going to your place, because I bet they cook better than either of us does." He glanced around. "And they don't have piles of laundry." "Anything to avoid eating my cooking," John said. He took a deep breath, thinking of his ideas and plans and the application he had ready to take to MIT's admissions office. "At some point, and this is me saying this so you know how much I hate it, we're going to have to talk." The statement puzzled Rodney a little, since he couldn't figure out what there might be that was so heavy it needed that tone. Still, it couldn't be something insurmountable, whatever it was. John had, after all, flown across the country to spend Christmas break with him. He couldn't help but think that it was going to be okay. * * * Epilogue Pasadena, California, April 1999 Paying off the shuttle van driver, John grabbed his luggage and headed for the house, hoping Rodney wasn't in the kitchen or living room. He'd been gone a month and supposedly wasn't getting in until tomorrow; he wanted to surprise Rodney if he could. Rodney was nowhere to be seen but the door was open and the stereo was playing one of his annoying modern classical CDs. John figured he was in the office, so he ditched his luggage in the living room and called out, "honey, I'm home!" Rodney froze where he was, just heading out of the office. "John?" he called, amazed. He ran to the front room, laughing. "Oh my God, it's--you're not supposed to be back yet." John dropped down to his knees, a broad grin on his face. "We finished early and I didn't really want to hang around Seattle any longer than I had to." He put his hands behind his back and looked up at Rodney. "I spared you a drive to the airport. I think I deserve a reward for that." Snorting, Rodney tipped his head down in a defeated nod. "Of course you do," he smiled, long-suffering. "Stay here." He turned to hurry to the bedroom. The leash and collar were in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, and he draped the leash over one shoulder to walk back out again. "Tip your chin up," he ordered quietly. "Mmmmm," John murmured as Rodney locked the collar around his neck. "Thank you." Once Rodney had clipped the leash onto the collar, he tugged on it. John knew what that meant; he dropped down to his hands and crawled after Rodney. As Rodney led him into the bedroom, John could feel the fatigue of flying draining away. Rodney hadn't thought he'd get this for another day, and having it early made him feel great, energized and hard. He kept the leash taut as he walked, just to let John feel it that much better. He glanced over his shoulder as they went, liking the way the collar had drawn tight against John's skin. Once they reached the bedroom, Rodney let go of the leash in order to get undressed. Moving quickly and not really caring where his clothes ended up, John did the same. As soon as he was naked, he dropped to his knees again, more because he liked being there than because of a standing order or anything like that. Their brand of S/M wasn't anything like the porn he still read on occasion, but after thirteen years and a lot of enthusiastic experimentation, they'd figured out what worked for them and what didn't. There was never any doubt in John's mind who owned him, and that was good enough for both of them. "Missed you," Rodney breathed as he stepped forward, cupping the back of John's head in one hand and pulling John toward his cock, wrapping the leash around his other hand and making a fist around the leather. "It's been a long month." "Yeah," John said, his lips moving against Rodney's cock. Taking a deep breath, he slid his mouth down over it, sucking hard. Rodney smelled good, tasted better and John kind of wanted to spend the next day or two sucking him off. Rodney let out a low groan, dropping his head down. "So good," he managed, holding John's head in both hands now, the leash still twisted around his knuckles, and rocking forward gently. The rough stuff could come later, but for the moment, it was good just to be nestled in John's mouth again. After a moment, John had relaxed enough to take Rodney all the way in and he hummed as Rodney's dick hit the back of his throat. When Rodney pulled back up, John looked up and would have smiled at Rodney's expression if he could have. As it was, he went back down again, feeling the slight pull of the collar against his neck. "Huh," Rodney huffed out brokenly, finally pushing back with a sigh. "Can't keep doing that, or I'll come. Get up on your back and I'll welcome you home properly." He indicated the headboard where the cuffs lived, dangling from the slats, and tossed the leash in that direction so John could move. Even now, John still felt a little thrill of humiliation at how eager he was for Rodney to tie him down and hurt him. It was as familiar and as welcome as the feel of the cuffs around his wrists and he squirmed a little as Rodney looked at him. Once the cuffs were on John's wrists, Rodney petted them for a moment, just brushing his fingertips against the tender skin, and then took out a cock ring and a set of clamps. It didn't take much to get John's nipples ready for the clamps--it never did--and the cock ring was just another embellishment. John wouldn't come without permission. After all this time, Rodney wasn't even sure he could. John hissed a little when the clamps went on; Rodney had picked the really tight ones, John's favorite pair. The cock ring just made him smile because somewhere along the line, Rodney had gotten to like the look; they had quite the collection of cock rings and gates-of-hell. "There," Rodney sighed, admiring what he called John's dressed-for-bed look. He settled next to John and kissed him, rubbing luxuriously against his hip and toying with the clamps. The leash went down between John's legs, draped over his cock. Rodney liked the contrast of it and the idea of the cool leather on John's overheated erection. That was the beauty of this, he'd learned: it didn't have to be a huge scene. This was one of his favorite things, just binding John up strategically and making out with him till he begged. As much as John loved the times when Rodney got all complicated and it seemed like half the toys from their toy chest ended up on the bed, he liked this kind of scene as well. It was about connection, he thought as he moaned into Rodney's mouth. It was about how they matched up and fit together and how, wherever they did it, it felt like home. Rodney was so happy to have John beside him again that for long moments, all he did, literally, was kiss John hard and tug the clamps from time to time (when he wasn't too distracted by John's tongue). He decided they might not get out of bed for the next few days. Right now, nothing was more important than the way John was squirming and moaning and the way the skin of his hip felt, smooth and taut, along Rodney's cock. "Driving me crazy," John mumbled against Rodney's mouth. It wasn't a complaint, at least not much of one. He hadn't come in two weeks, although Rodney had teased him a couple times on the phone, taking him to the brink and then not letting him finish, but it didn't matter; he'd wait until Rodney was ready. "Feels good," he added. "Love this...." "I know." Rodney bit John's bottom lip and pulled back, dragging his teeth along the flesh. "And it's gonna be a long afternoon." He pulled back and gave John an evil grin, dropping his hand down to John's cock. He didn't stroke, not yet, just let John feel the heat from his palm. John pressed up against Rodney's hand just a little, but not too much. If he pushed, if he tried to get more than Rodney wanted him to have, there was a good chance that he'd finish the afternoon just as hard as he started it. And yeah, occasionally he'd done that kind of thing, he'd tried to top from below, because that was just the way he was; he couldn't help pushing the envelope. But today was not one of those days; today, he was going to be good for Rodney. Oh, and Rodney could feel that in the tense stillness in John's body, the way he stopped himself from shoving up. "That's good," Rodney breathed, rewarding and teasing with a single stroke. "I know it's been a long couple of weeks for you." He settled himself between John's thighs, grabbing lube and wetting two fingers with it. Rodney's fingers moved into John slowly, way too slowly for John's taste. He tried to be patient, but it wasn't easy when all he wanted was to move right ahead to the part where Rodney fucked him really really hard. Being good, letting Rodney do what he wanted, wasn't easy; pain was still the quickest route to headspace for John. Without it, he had to work harder at letting go. On top of it all, Rodney was touching him all over with his free hand--reaching up to tug at the chain that connected the nipple clamps, running his hand along John's side and then along his hip, stroking his cock lightly for a moment before moving on. John loved Rodney's hands but right now, Rodney was using them to drive John insane. "Please," he finally moaned. "Please what?" Rodney asked. He wasn't trying to be infuriating, but John's pleases could mean anything: more pain, more pleasure, fucking, all of the above...Rodney liked to know what John wanted, naturally, so he could decide whether or not to deny it. Sometimes, too, Rodney just liked hearing John beg, and Rodney had gone a whole month without being able to look in John's eyes and see the need. He kept touching, petting almost randomly, and then as he worked a third finger into John, getting him good and slick and loose, he bent down to suck the head of John's cock into his mouth, the thumb from his free hand rubbing along the cock ring. "I...just...oh fuck! Rodney, please!" John knew he needed to be more specific, but Rodney's mouth was so good and it was all so fucking hot that John just wanted. Finally, Rodney's sadism had to take a back seat to his need to fuck John. He pulled his fingers out of John's grasping heat and ran them over his own cock to spread the last of the lube, and when he pushed in it was all one slick shove, burying himself at once and then fucking John hard. "Oh fuck!" John yelled, a little surprised that Rodney was fucking him so soon. Rodney's hard, almost brutal, rhythm soon pushed any and all thoughts out of John's head, however, and he finally let himself relax, finally gave himself over to whatever Rodney wanted. Rodney's hands settled to John's hips, holding him down tightly. The look on John's face, the way he finally just sank into it always did Rodney in; he wasn't going to last long. Luckily, he didn't have to. He groaned heavily, panting as he tugged at the clamps sharply. The sharp pain was just one more sensation and John arched up and then pulled back, chasing that feeling as Rodney fucked him. Pain and sex and Rodney and it was just all too much. "Please," he gasped out, so gone on it that he really couldn't stop to think about what he was saying. "Oh fuck...God...please please please...Rodney...yours...please!" "Mine," Rodney agreed almost placidly, and then almost against his will the orgasm rolled over him, shaking him. He cried out softly, teeth gritted as he went still over John, panting in shuddery breaths. He felt an almost giddy sense of ownership with John still straining under him, hard and hurting. Rodney opened first one clamp, then the other, setting them aside so he could lean down and bite John's nipples, then his chest, catching random patches of skin. He let himself slide out of John's body and then settled atop him, a thigh snugged up against John's balls as he used his teeth on whatever bit of chest he could reach. Each sharp, hard bite pulled another groan or moan from John; it hurt, of course, and as much as he wanted to come, he wanted the pain more. "God," he gasped. "Thank...so good...hurts!" "Missed this so much," Rodney groaned, and yeah, he knew John knew that, and he knew John had missed it too, but it bore repeating. Over the years, Rodney had come to accept John's taciturnity -- but he certainly wasn't above working him in headspace, just a little, using it to say the things he needed to say. "Missed you...God, Rodney...so much." To a certain extent, John knew what Rodney was up to, and really, it was fine with him. Rodney wouldn't push him to say anything he didn't want to say; he'd more than earned John's trust over the last thirteen years. Rodney only dragged the tease on a little bit longer. He bit his way up to John's mouth, pausing only to mark John sharply, a nice red bite mark in that muscle between neck and shoulder that he liked so well, just under the lower edge of the leather where the collar met skin. That done, he kissed John hard and unsnapped the cock ring. "Come for me," he ordered tensely, sinking his teeth into John's neck one last time as he stroked, hard and fast. With a long, low, wordless moan, John gave it up, pushing into Rodney's hand and coming hard. "Yours," he panted, as he finally came down. The bite mark on his neck throbbed and he rolled his head a little, wanting to feel it again. "Love you." For all that Rodney had come to know John so well -- he knew that roll of John's neck and what it meant quite well -- John had learned just how to handle Rodney, too. Rodney soaked in the words, sighing happily as he bent down to suck on that spot. He was gentle now, but that would be enough. "Love you, too," he murmured against the skin. "Mmmmm...." John hummed, still a little high and loopy. "Feels good...hurts a little." He slid his legs along Rodney's, running a heel up the back of one of Rodney's calves. "Can I keep the collar on? Please?" Rodney let out a fond, amused huff. "Yeah. I don't think I want you out of it for a while." He did, however, unclip the leash. As hot as that was, neither of them wanted John strangling on it in his sleep. "You have -- what, the weekend off?" John yawned and tried to remember his schedule. "I have a bunch of stuff I need to write up, but I wasn't going to go in until Tuesday, maybe Wednesday." "Fantastic," Rodney nodded. "I put in for a long weekend." He undid the cuffs, pulled John's wrists to his mouth one at a time and then rubbed his fingers over the collar. "I oiled this while you were gone," he admitted quietly. "Next time you have a long assignment, you take it with you and keep up with it." "Okay," John said, turning his head to kiss Rodney's fingers. "Thank...." He was interrupted by the doorbell. "I knew you had hookers over when I'm gone!" Rodney snorted lightly and patted John's cheek just this side of a slap. "Because I'm so interested in paying for what my slut gives me for free." With a long-suffering sigh, he hauled himself out of bed again and put on his robe to pad to the door. Laughing, John got out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. He needed to wash up a little, and he figured that Rodney would deal with whoever was at the door so that they could get back to the welcome home part of the afternoon. The opening of the door revealed a courier--Air Force, not some random Fed Ex guy. "Yes?" Rodney asked, curious and apprehensive at once. "Package for Dr. John Sheppard," the courier announced quietly, and as soon as Rodney called over his shoulder for John to come sign, the courier was adding, "and Dr. Rodney McKay." Rodney blinked, taking his. The shape of it told him nothing -- it was flat -- and he glanced at John questioningly as he came to the door in his bathrobe and collar. While he couldn't have taken off the collar even if he'd wanted to, the sight of the young, earnest looking lieutenant at the door made John pause a little. Tough shit, he thought. It's not like we're any kind of secret and if that poor kid wants to speculate on why I've got a collar on, that's his business It was weird though, getting something here at the house. While they both had the same, very high, levels of clearance, anything that required this kind of security was usually delivered and held at JPL for them. "Dr. Sheppard," the young man said, holding out John's envelope. "My instructions are to wait until you have both read the materials." John glanced at Rodney and then back at the lieutenant. "Um...okay. You want a Coke or something?" "No thank you, sir." This was so new that Rodney didn't even know where to begin. He opened his letter carefully, watching John for a moment before looking down at the paper. It seemed to be a standard NDA, but for some reason Rodney got the impression that it was a little bit more important than that. John had never heard of a General Hammond before, and he was pretty sure he knew at least the names of most of the military R&D brass by now. Weapons research, maybe? he thought as he scanned the NDA and the letter inviting him to a meeting. Between the two of them, he and Rodney could probably produce a pretty damn big bang along with an intelligent delivery system, but none of the research they'd done up to this point had any real bearing on actual weapons design. "Excuse us," he said to the lieutenant and then took Rodney's arm and moved him down to the other end of the living room. "You wanna take this meeting?" "Well," Rodney murmured, stalling as he considered, "it's obvious they want us together, so...?" He looked at John, trying to gauge how he felt about this. "I'm curious," John said, glancing down at the paper. "And I know you; if we don't do this, it'll bug you, won't it?" Rodney didn't even bother hesitating; John did indeed know him. "Yeah," he nodded quietly. "It will." Sitting down on the sofa--and trying not to wince too hard--John dug around on the coffee table for a pen. He read through the NDA one more time, a little more carefully this time and then signed it before handing the pen over to Rodney. Rodney signed his own, muttering softly under his breath as he skimmed through the standard legalese. This felt pretty good, if he let himself think about it: both the fact that they both held clearances high enough for this kind of interaction and that even the government's high-end secret operations' chains of command knew that he and John came as a package deal. He gave John a smug little look as he handed his NDA back to the courier. "So," John said. "When do we need to be in DC?" "Not DC, sir," the lieutenant said. "Colorado Springs. We'll arrange for a flight next week, if your schedules allow." John shook his head. "No, that's okay. I'll fly us up there." The lieutenant nodded, as if he wasn't at all surprised. "You can contact us through the number on the letters; the general's aide will see that you're met at the airport." He looked at them both. "Did you have any more questions?" "Not really," John said, figuring the guy wasn't going to tell them what SGC stood for. He glanced at Rodney who shook his head. "Thanks, Lieutenant." "Thank you, sirs." "So," John said after the screen door closed again and they heard a car drive off. "Do you have any ideas who the hell this Hammond guy is? I've never heard of him." Frowning thoughtfully, Rodney shook his head. "To be honest, I hadn't even thought there was anyone left we didn't know in this field, let alone a whole department." He raised his eyes to John's. "SGC? Any ideas?" "Um...Strategic General Command?" John shrugged. "Standard Government Crap?" Rodney snorted. "Secret Gay Consortium?" He pretended to really think about it. "We really need to sign up for that." "We totally do," John said. "Oh hey, maybe they've seen my scores and want to invite me to their Secret Golf Club." Shaking his head immediately, Rodney frowned again. "That makes no sense at all, John; they sent us information about the same organization. Unless it stands for Secret Golf Club on one hand and Sucks at Golf Club on the other." "If you'd just put a little effort into it..." John said. Rolling his eyes, Rodney sighed. "Thanks, Mom. I'll pencil in 'apply myself to golfing strategy' right after 'root canal' and 'laundry.' Oh, and 'working out.'" "Careful there, Dr. McKay. If they find out that you're such an asshole, they might not let you in their Super Guys Collective." Rodney laughed, shaking his head. "You're the biggest dork in the universe," he said, reaching out to tuck two fingers into the collar and tug John up against him. "I dunno," John said, sliding his arms around Rodney's waist. "I know this guy--he's brilliant and funny and hot and really fucking bossy and also? A big damn dork." John's mouth looked too good; Rodney had to lean in and bite it. "Sounds like you and he are running neck-and-neck in the race for Biggest Dork of the Submissive Gangbanging Club, even if he does sound like a seriously amazing guy." "Yeah," John said quietly. "He's pretty amazing." -end-

Nathalie steadied the tray of full champagne glasses, muttering something between curses and a silent prayer of thanks that it hadn't all fallen to the floor when someone bumped into her as if she wasn't even there. The art was weird, and a lot of the patrons seemed rude; she was beginning to think that this wasn't worth the extra credit her art appreciation teacher had promised. There was also the unspoken promise that the students could drink whatever was left over if they did it somewhere else, but Nathalie had really been more interested in making sure her average came out better. Watching them from across the room, she was pretty sure her art teacher and the artists were a little more than friends, but she'd also seen her teacher buying pot from one of the patrons that night. It was all just weird, and she was ready for it to be over. But she put on a smile and braved a pass through the room one more time, hoping the teacher actually remembered who was there and what she'd promised. Lara would have rather taken the evening off. She had already done more than enough dragging herself around the city in search of various things for clients, and trying to entice some new clients altogether. Still, she made it a point to go to one of the newer galleries each time she was in New York, her European clients sometimes paying well to be the first to feature a new promising name. And what they wouldn't buy, she could sell to China. The place she arrived at was almost comically predictable for an opening that year in the city, in some 'repurposed' space that had probably once been a sweatshop....or an airplane hangar-you never could tell in America. Still, she stepped in, nodding at the few people who she recognized and ignoring most everyone else as she began to consider some of the work. Something about the air changed when Nathalie saw the tall brunette. She didn't easily fall into a type, as it seemed like everything from the picture perfect dirty hippie to the most pristine yuppie had walked through the door that night--the art world so wasn't her thing. But she nearly tripped for staring a moment too long at the woman, running all the possibilities of who she was and what she might be doing there through her mind. And finally, Nathalie found herself gripping the tray tightly as she walked toward her. She tried to shut her thoughts out and focus on not spilling anything. But the woman's eyes were so dark, and they held something...something Nathalie's mind was going wild trying to place. Lara lightly brushed back one of the few strands of hair left loose, softening an otherwise severe image she knew she made. Most of the work so far was unimpressive, save a piece the artist had described as "uneven" as she had tried to sell her a favorite. It was these lapses in judgment that improved Lara's profit margin considerably. She was mentally calculating how low she thought she could get the price when she found herself nearly accosted by a young brunette with a drinks tray. Lara shifted her focus, noting how the girl stared at her just a little too long as she took a glass. Usually she would dismiss the thought, it wasn't like she wasn't constantly the object of stares by strangers. However, tonight she was in a strange city, and didn't mind taking a moment for her own amusement. "Do you have a favorite?" She addressed the girl casually, but without looking away. "I...oh, me? I..." Nathalie looked around to see if the woman was talking to someone else, but she quickly found herself staring into those eyes again. She tried to remember everything in the gallery all at once so she wouldn't have to look away. It was all too loud for her, and she preferred photography anyway. But there were any number of things that the woman could want to hear, and she didn't want to piss anyone off with the wrong answer. Because there was always a right answer--it just changed depending on the circumstances at hand. And she quickly realized she had lost her bearing in these circumstances. "Uhm, they're all a little...esoteric for my taste," she replied, meaning really that she wasn't going to be smoking anything any time soon so she could understand what the other patrons saw in the work. At the girl's fumbling answer, Lara's lips twitched just slightly, suppressing her amusement. Already she could tell the brunette had no idea what she was doing here beyond serving the patrons, and Lara approved, art students were tiresome. She didn't respond to the girl's comment, her color and almost glassy stare told the tall brunette all she needed to know. "Your name?" She knew it wasn't a formal address in english, but she could fast tell it wouldn't be necessary. "Nathalie…Nathalie Pierce," she replied quickly, following it by a smile as if out of habit. From just those two phrases, Nathalie could tell the woman's accent wasn't German, but she was still trying to place it. And it was difficult to concentrate, to remember the inflections of the words because she didn't think someone so stunning had ever really paid any attention to her. Obviously, she had given the right answer. "Who are you working for tonight?" Lara's business at the gallery could be taken care of in short order, and she was already planning some different entertainment for the remainder of the night. She didn't feel the need to stay and hear some artist get up and thank her for being there, as far as she was concerned it went unsaid. "Oh, I'm just...uhm, volunteering..." Nathalie kept her smile in place even though she felt the urge to let it fall. Maybe her answer hadn't been right; maybe she had offended the woman, who was now going to complain Lara resisted the urge to roll her eyes, "Then for whom are you volunteering? They may want to know where you've gone." "Where I've..." Nathalie's eyes went wide, and she was almost breathless at the prospect. Was she being asked out...taken out? She found herself pointing before her mind really caught up to itself. "Dr. Simmons," she said. Lara pretended to ignore Nathalie's stammering, wondering if she would settle down, or if she might have the need to stop it by force. Either would be agreeable really. She nodded and crossed the room to the indicated person, who was speaking with the artist. Lara gave them a rare smile, and quickly concluded her earlier transaction, then gestured in Nathalie's direction, silently enjoying as the young brunette shifted uncomfortably as she was singled out. Lara explained how helpful the girl had been, and that she was so insightful on the work that Lara was moved to take her along to another opening. The dark-haired woman mastered her expression as the professor's face lit as if the comment had been about her. With a few more almost painful pleasantries, she stepped back to Nathalie. "You'll be getting top marks. Now if you're quite finished here, put the tray down and come for a drink with me, this collection is terrible." "But I'm not twenty-one," Nathalie blurted before thinking better of it. Her cheeks flushed red, and she took a step back before hurrying to put the tray away. She smoothed her skirt and ran her fingers over her hair, which was done up in a tight bun. And then she simply took a breath. The most interesting, not to mention attractive, woman in the room was taking her for a drink and had, it seemed, managed to get her extra credit. And of course, the first thing she had done was blurted that she was under twenty-one. It was so stupid that she half expected the woman to be gone when she turned around, but Nathalie's heart fluttered to see her still standing there. She hurried over, hoping the hard look on the woman's face wasn't because of what she had said. And once they were settled in the back of a cab, she shifted a little nervously. "I, uhm, didn't catch your name..." And she didn't think the woman had given it, but Nathalie didn't want to be rude. "The Gramercy Park," Lara instructed to the cab driver before turning back to the girl, "Lara Simone, and why would I care your age?" The brunette was obviously old enough to be in college, and that was good enough for her, and the fact of being with Lara would be good enough for the establishment. The client who was footing her bills for the trip was a friend of the manager of the hotel, and the penthouse suite had suddenly become available. She found that she needed ask for very little to receive gracious treatment, even for New York. Nathalie wondered just what it was about her that Lara did care about; she shivered at the thought. This was not how she expected her night to turn out, and inwardly, Nathalie didn't deal well with the unexpected. Outwardly, she seemed almost calm. And she was very good at forcing herself to be rational and take things in stride. This was not something she needed to force herself into. Drinks led to...other things, and she would have never imagined herself winding up with someone like Lara, even for a night. The cab pulled to a stop, and Lara had everything taken care of and was standing on the curb by the time Nathalie got herself together to scramble out. She needed to get it together, to stop being a step and a half behind. She smiled apologetically, not sure why she felt the need to apologize, as they headed inside. The hotel's bars were intimate and well known and required a reservation, which of course Lara was aware didn't apply to her. There were already shifting groups of New Yorkers in the lobby, dressed as if they might suddenly be photographed by the style page at any moment. Lara stepped quietly by them, Nathalie in tow, to the entrance of the darker of the two bars. They were immediately ushered inside to a choice spot in a corner, opposite the fireplace. The room was candlelit, and Lara was amused at how hard New York could try to be Paris or London yet still come off just confused and slightly gaudy. The dark-haired woman waited for Nathalie to sit opposite her, then spoke almost sharply, voice dropping a register, "No, not there." She instead motioned to the spot on the couch next to her. Nathalie drew in a sharp breath and was up as soon as she touched the seat. The edge surprised her, but she found herself quick to obey, sitting on the sofa next to Lara at a polite distance. She barely had a chance to look around the bar, to take in the surroundings as well as the appropriate mood. At the immediate compliance, Nathalie earned herself a rare smile. The look transformed Lara's features for a split second, before she reached for the wine list, elegant fingers thoughtfully turning the several pages. The smile was gone too quickly for Nathalie's liking, and she found herself wanting to bring it out again. Lara's allure was undeniable, but something about the smile caught Nathalie's imagination. She moved a little closer, glancing at what she could see of the list, even though she was content to let the older woman pick for her. A waiter approached, and Lara ordered a bottle from the last page, not bothering with the price. A few moments later he returned with two glasses and poured a sip for her to approve. She considered, then nodded, and he filled both the glasses before seeming to melt back into the room. Lara took another sip and turned back to Nathalie. The girl was pretty in an innocent way, but Lara could see past that, and knew there was plenty to bring out in her if she chose to. "How long have you been in the city?" It was obvious the girl wasn't a native. "Oh, just two years...for school." Nathalie smiled as she took her glass and swirled, finally getting the wine to swirl properly after a few awkward seconds. She shivered under Lara's gaze and looked away for a moment as she took her first sip. She liked wine, but she only got to have it at the table when she was home--and that was a pretty recent allowance of her mother's. She could discern dark cherry and smoky oak flavors and a little bit of spice, but Nathalie was just good at picking up things like that; she was good at finding out what made things work when she could turn off all of the possibilities that went through her mind. And the wine was a lot easier to figure out than her companion. Lara nodded, watching more for the girl's expressions than anything she was actually saying. She crossed her legs and leaned back, casually looking over the room. She sipped her wine and let her fingers trail to the base of Nathalie's spine, touching her just lightly. She was already getting tired of pointless small talk though they had only been sitting a few moments, "Why did you come with me tonight?" It didn't really need to be said, but Lara was vain enough to want to hear the answer. Nathalie swallowed her wine and took another long, thoughtful sip. She hadn't expected to be asked so directly, and that, combined with the force of Lara's gaze, made her squirm...albeit into Lara's touch. "You were the most interesting person in the room," she managed a little breathlessly, "and...you noticed me." Nathalie's self esteem wasn't low, but she was very good at being realistic. And realistically, women like Lara weren't after twenty year-old, only barely experienced lesbians. Lara raised an eyebrow, giving Nathalie a slightly amused look. The answer was sufficient, and quite expected. She noted how low the girl's glass was running and decided she'd had about enough of public for the night, "I see. Well then I suppose I should give you a choice for your honesty. We can either stay here and finish the bottle, and I'll get a driver to take you home, or you can put your glass down and come upstairs with me." Lara paused only slightly before concluding simply, "if you choose the latter, you'll be doing what I tell you to for the rest of the night of course." Her jaw dropped. This happened in books--well, not really because most of the books Nathalie had read had been a little disappointing--and not to NYU sophomores. She felt like she was going to hyperventilate, but she clenched her fist and willed herself to breathe normally. Choosing to finish the wine was probably the safest option, but if she did that, she might wonder later what would have happened. And Nathalie was confident that she could do what Lara told her. How hard could it be anyway? She pushed her glass away and straightened her shoulders. College was for experiences, and this was...definitely an experience so far. "I...uhm, I think I'll come upstairs." Lara had been expecting the response, and continued simply, reaching up to gently pull Nathalie's hair down around her shoulders. "Good choice. Go to my room and wait for me then while I finish up here." She produced a key card, "The penthouse," Lara concluded. "Okay," Nathalie said softly as she took the card. The penthouse... Who was this woman? Nathalie slowly got up and took measured steps toward the elevator, almost sure someone was going to stop her from getting in. She wasn't sure why Lara picked her or why she was so easily going along with Lara's requests...no, orders. But there was something so strangely compelling about the dark haired woman that she almost couldn't help herself. She tried to settle her mind, to calm herself on the ride up, but Nathalie found that she was only getting more excited by what might come next. When she opened the door, however, all thoughts stopped as she gaped at the view. "Wow..." she whispered, going to the window, forgetting herself for a moment. Lara paid the check and went upstairs a few moments later. She had no real plan, but Nathalie seemed interesting enough for the night and Lara hoped she would be strong enough to behave properly. She let herself in with a second key and looked around for the girl, sighting her across the room at the window. Mistakes already, Lara rolled her eyes just slightly as she stepped over to the girl, the noise of her heels muffled by the rich carpeting. She stopped just behind the young woman, her body only inches from her, and took a handful of her hair in her hand, twisting it firmly before the girl could react. "I don't remember telling you to come up here to stargaze." Lara held Nathalie firmly so she would have to look at her in the reflection in the window, their height difference, and Lara's stare seemingly amplified by the effect. The slight sting of Lara's grip made Nathalie wince, but when she saw her reflection, their reflections, she felt something inside of her break under the weight of a type of desire she had only felt the inklings of before. She understood the concept of submission, but she hadn't really understood the 'why' that factored in. Even then, she wouldn't say she did, but she was getting closer. Lara had only said to come up and wait, and waiting by the window was just like waiting anywhere else, but Nathalie found herself merely stammering an apology. "S-sorry, I...must have misunderstood." "You didn't misunderstand, you just don't know anything yet." This wasn't really a problem for Lara, she quite liked to be the first, to see the frustration, confusion, and occasionally shock at finally understanding, if it got that far. She didn't bother to explain further, the girl was far overdressed. Lara kept her hand in Nathalie's hair while she forced her out of her shoes and socks, then pulled off her pants and unbuttoned her shirt, tossing both on the ground. "You obviously need a little time to think about if you want to please me." Lara pushed open the glass door and shoved the girl out into the night in her just her lingerie. The night was brisk, but not freezing, and she would survive for long enough to learn the lesson. That done, Lara set about preparing, pulling a few things out of the drawers, and pouring herself a drink, though she didn't change out of her dress or take off her heels. The treatment surprised Nathalie more than frightened her or put her off, and there was something unquestioningly titillating about the methodical touches. But once she was outside, she found herself looking around frantically. The balcony wrapped around the building, and there was really no way anyone could see her. But Nathalie felt exposed nonetheless. She hugged herself and shrank against the outside wall, thinking about what Lara said. Of course she wanted to please her. The night could end at any moment, and Nathalie was determined to make it last. She just...hadn't expected to be standing outside in her underwear (though she was glad she was in the habit of matching it). After a few minutes, she tried to calm her shivering--more from shock than the cool air--and it occurred to her that she needed to show Lara she was ready to...be good, she supposed. She chewed her lip for a moment before finally deciding to go kneel in front of the door. Lara glanced over as the figure stooped at the door. She smiled inwardly, and left the girl there for a few more minutes before sliding the glass open again, looking down at her, "That's better." She reached down and wrapped her fingers through Nathalie's hair again, pulling her up and into the room. Before releasing her she paused and leaned down to kiss the cool skin on the girl's forehead lightly. "Go wait in the bedroom....properly." She was sure the brunette would know what that meant now. Nathalie nodded, not trusting herself to speak, wondering if speaking would land her outside again. She went into the bedroom and knelt, soft carpet under her knees. Instead of looking around, of letting herself go through the possibilities, she studied the patterns in the carpet. There was so much that could go wrong, but her body was eager, was telling her that this was something she needed to experience. And Lara was simply so compelling that she couldn't say no. Lara watched her go, then followed a few moments later, producing a braided silver and diamond choker and matching bracelets. She leaned over and wordlessly put them on the girl. Sometimes she felt moved to decorate, and seeing as she had no proper collar or cuffs it seemed logical. "Now don't you dare make me break these, they're worth more than you are." Lara thought she saw Nathalie tremble just slightly as she stepped back to admire the view. "I won't," she said quietly, voice unsure. Even though Nathalie remained looking at the floor, she could feel Lara's gaze on her. It made her shudder, and it made her want. She could feel the weight of the jewelry, and as she pictured herself in it, something about the aesthetic seemed so completely appealing. Lara hooked a finger through the necklace and tugged her up, keeping her facing away. She pushed under Nathalie's panties and into her from behind, keeping her fingers in her while she spoke casually, "And what do you think I should do to you for enjoying this so much?" Whatever she said, Lara wasn't likely to do it, but she wanted to make the girl try and speak at that moment. "I..." Nathalie gasped at the feel of Lara's long fingers, at the firm touch juxtaposed with her tone. She squirmed, having never felt anything so sure before, and she wondered if she could ever touch someone like that. "W-whatever you want...?" Lara laughed softly, almost silently at the reply and leaned in to kiss Nathalie's neck. She drew back a second later and removed her fingers quickly, reaching back and swiftly striking the girl on the ass. "Whatever I want? That's not an answer I think you should take lightly." Lara was already slipping her fingers back around the waistband of the brunette's panties, "Would you like to reconsider?" She yelped, surprised at the force of the blow, and in it, Nathalie could feel raw power and delight. She could only imagine, and she shuddered when she did, the look in Lara's dark eyes. "I'm sorry," she gasped, pressing into Lara's touch. "I'm...I...I don't know..." She searched for the right answer, for something that would please Lara, that would make her smile again. "I suppose that's the best answer you're capable of then." Lara let her go and stepped over to sit on the edge of the desk along the side of the room, "finish getting undressed then." She picked up her glass and took a sip as she waited for compliance. Nathalie almost jumped in response and fumbled with the clasp of her bra. It shouldn't have been that hard, but she was nervous, and her fingers were sweating. Once she finally got it off, she thought better of simply letting the garment drop. Nathalie held it while she sliped out of her panties, and she placed them on a neat pile on the bed before going to Lara and, after a moment's pause, kneeling. Lara quietly uncrossed her legs and pushed off the desk, stalking in a circle around Nathalie. She brushed her fingers through the girl's hair for a moment, then moved off and into the adjoining room. Nathalie took a shuddering breath at the sudden, gentle touch. But when Lara moved away, she hesitated, confused. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to follow or to stay where she was. She couldn't read Lara's touch or movements enough to discern which would be the right thing. She was sure the wrong move would bring some sort of punishment, so she was paralyzed for half a moment before scrambling up and following. Lara was locking the door to the hall, and picking up a few things when she heard footsteps behind her. She stiffened and spun around as the girl got close, slapping her soundly across the cheek. "Did I tell you to move? Do you have any control at all?" Her eyes flashed warningly, "You have just earned a punishment, but you'll have to wait for it." Lara liked to keep such things looming, it made the moment so much better in the end. She grabbed Nathalie by the hair roughly and shoved her back, "Go run me a bath and wait on the floor when you're done." "I'm sorry!" Nathalie was on the verge of tears it simply having done something that seemed so absolutely wrong. She tripped over her own feet, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks despite her best efforts. And as she started the bath, trying to get it the perfect temperature, she resolved to listen more, to do better. Finally, she slipped to the floor and wiped her face as she straightened her spine. There. Now Lara knew she had the girl's full attention, and she was more interested in the night in general. The tall brunette waited a few moments, picking up a silk scarf from the table as she went. When she reached the large bathroom and found Nathalie waiting, cheeks still stained with tears, she smiled down at her, stomach quickening pleasantly. "Good girl," Lara let her tone soften and leaned down, brushing her fingers over one of the girl's nipples before stepping around her and securing the scarf over the brunette's eyes. She wasn't going to give her the reward of seeing her naked yet, if it happened at all that night. "Oh..." Nathalie merely mouthed the word soundlessly as her vision was obstructed. The silk was cool, and she was calmed by Lara's sudden gentleness. All she had to do was keep up, was be good and she could have more of it, she thought. Lara stepped around infront of Nathalie and unzipped her dress, letting it fall on the floor, followed by her lingerie, and stepped out of her shoes. As she moved toward the bath, she called back to the girl, "Fold them," and slipped into the water, watching to see if she would succeed. Nathalie could hear the dress falling, and she reached in that direction, feeling for the dress. She fumbled with the zipper and tried to feel the dress to see which was was up and which was was down. Nathalie's lips were set in concentration a she finally did what she thought must have been a decent job and put the dress down. Her knees were beginning to ache, but she tried to ignore it. Lara smiled at the quite unsuccessful attempt, looking forward to adding to the girl's punishment for it. She took her time in the bath, keeping an eye on Nathalie's uncomfortable shifting as she did so. When she was satisfied she got out, dried off and left, leaving the girl on the floor while she put on a simple pair of black pants and tank top. Lara finally let her hair down, though it was straightened and midnight dark, which did little to soften her appearance. When Lara returned, she was carrying a thin leather belt, and she tugged Nathalie up by the necklace, shoving her in front of her back into the bedroom, still blinded. Nathalie tried not to trip or make any noise--though she was unsuccessful in both. But she managed not to fall on her face, which she feared would break the choker. Once Lara stopped, she took in a shuddering breath, keyed up at wondering what would happen next. "You left my dress on the floor." Lara's voice was calm, and she let go of the girl's neck, taking a half step back. "I...oh...I'm so sorry. I'll...I'll go get it..." But Nathalie didn't move immediately, waiting to see if she would get an affirmative response. Instead of replying, Lara cut the belt down across Nathalie's back, a red welt raising immediately. She was starting to get aroused again at the night's progression, but could hold out much longer than she knew the girl would be able to take the punishment. Nathalie yelped in surprise, and the actual pain of came a moment later. Tears sprang to her eyes immediately and she hurried blindly towards the direction she hoped was the bathroom. Finally, she sank to her knees and crawling, groping in front of her until she got through the bathroom door. Finding the dress took another few minutes, and her heart was already sinking, knowing she would probably be punished more for taking so long. But it never occurred to her to ask Lara to stop. Lara watched in slight amusement, following after her as she crawled. When she started to fumble back to the bedroom, Lara reached down and took the girl by the hair, making her stop. "That's quite enough of that, and I think you know what you deserve, do you not?" "Y-yes," Nathalie replied, knowing for sure that it was the right answer. She sniffed as she squirmed. "Stand up then and put your hands on your head." When Nathalie shakingly complied, Lara leaned over and kissed her trembling lips, tasting a few of the tears that were running down her cheeks. However, she didn't let it linger, and stepped back, laying the belt fast and hard across the girl's skin. It was thrilling to be the first to mark her, and Lara hoped Nathalie could stay on her feet long enough for her to do it properly. Nathalie cried out unreservedly before biting her lip. She had stepped forward slightly with the blow and made herself step back into place to await the next. She imagined what Lara might be feeling, wondering if the older woman was aroused. Lara wasn't counting, just watching the tapestry of marks she was responsible for raising. She didn't bother remarking on Nathalie's movement, she was sure the girl would do worse soon enough. She moved to the brunette's front, watching as the stripes wrapped around the girl's body, the belt making a satisfying crack with each blow. Finally, Nathalie couldn't stand another blow and sank to her knees. "Please," she whispered through dry lips. The blindfold was soaked from her tears, and it felt as if ever mark was crying out, aching more than the last. Lara paused for only half a moment, moving to lay a few more across Nathalie's shoulders, "Please what Nathalie?" "P-please...st..." Nathalie bit her lip, trying to hold back a sob. "Please, continue," she managed finally, voice a whisper. She didn't want to go home, and she was sure if she asked Lara to stop, she would be sent directly there. That surprised Lara, and not many things did. She raised an eyebrow and immediately dropped the belt to the floor, going to draw the girl up, kissing her again. "Good girl, very...mmmnn..." The brunette's skin was hot with the welts, and it made Lara's arousal finally get the better of her. She pulled Nathalie through to the bedroom, pushing her down to kneel on the floor by the bed while she removed her clothes. Nathalie shivered, surprised that her response had gotten so much of a reward. She could still taste the wine on Lara's lips, and the kiss made her shudder with delight. She could feel herself grow wetter as she heard Lara undressing, as the welts ached angrily. Lara sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Nathalie between her legs. She didn't want to wait, wanted to come while the girl's skin would still be stinging, the thought of it making her wetter. Nathalie breathed her scent before pushing her tongue between Lara's legs. She did not attempt to be delicate, but she guessed that there would be no rewards for being sloppy either. Nathalie braced herself against the dull, thudding pain, concentrating on pleasing Lara, on what the kiss had felt like, on that fleeting moment where the dark eyed woman had smiled. Lara allowed herself to moan deeply, tangling her fingers in Nathalie's hair and holding her in place. The brunette's tears had soaked through the silk over her eyes, and Lara could feel it between her thighs, adding to the moment. She closed her eyes and pressed a leg along the girl's side, finally letting go as she pressed into the heat of the lines she had made. Lara kept Nathalie there longer than necessary, coming down slowly. Nathalie took shaking breaths and moaned softly, whimpered as Lara came down. She found herself pressing into Lara's leg, wanting more, wanting to show that she was willing. When she was finished, Lara stood and pulled Nathalie up onto the bed, laying her down on the pillows. Leaning over her, she finally removed the sodden blindfold, not giving the girl time to adjust before leaning down to kiss her again almost forcefully. She moaned into Lara's lips at the force and found herself arching up. If not for the pain, Nathalie might have thought this was a dream. It certainly wasn't what she expected when making her way up to the penthouse. And she found that her thoughts had mostly shut off, had become centered on nothing but pleasing Lara so she could stay longer, experience more. Lara smirked slightly at the girl's reaction and pulled her arms over her head, leaning back to drag her fingernails over the brunette's breasts while she spoke, voice low, "Do you think you've learned enough to behave while I fuck you properly?" She gazed intently down at the girl, knowing she was going to enjoy herself upon hearing either answer. "Yes," she answered breathlessly, earnestly, "yes, please..." Lara leaned down and nipped one of the girl's nipples sharply, "We'll see." Without warning she pressed two fingers into her, leaning over her to watch her expression. The brunette's eyes went wide as she cried out. She squirmed, pressing into Lara's touch, wanting more. It was so new, so different than anything else she had ever experienced, and that combined with the gorgeous woman in front of her was enough to keep her mind focused. And Lara reveled in the girl's obvious surprise. She sat back between Nathalie's legs, continuing to press into her as she moved her other hand along a few of the welts on the brunette's stomach, slowly working lower. "Very good..." she purred, "but don't you dare come till I give you permission." "O-okay..." Nathalie bit her lip, knowing the task was going to be next to impossible. She was already, to her own surprise, so close. Lara pulled her fingers out abruptly, pressing her other hand down on the girl's skin, "Okay is not a proper answer." She looked expectantly, ready to continue when the error was corrected. "I'm sorry. I..." Nathalie swallowed and tried to think of what would be appropriate. "Y-yes...thank you," she finally managed as she tried not to squirm too much. "Better." Lara nodded coolly, and brought her fingers back, but this time further, against her ass instead. She only gave the girl a moment to adjust before pressing inside. While she did, Lara continued moving her other hand lower, fingers brushing, feeling Nathalie's still flushed skin. Nathalie's eyes went wide and she gasped even as her body went completely still. She looked up at Lara questioningly before she realized that the brunette did not mean to stop. And when Nathalie finally let herself feel, she whimpered softly. After all, she didn't want to seem ungrateful for Lara's attention. Lara watched the girl's adjustment and leaned down to nip at her sensitive nipples, providing distraction while her other fingers finally reached between Nathalie's legs as well, filling her completely. She didn't press against the brunette's clit just yet, wanting to hear her whimper and beg a little longer. Just when she thought she couldn't feel anything else so acutely, Nathalie moaned at each sensation as they converged. She wanted so badly to come, to let herself go, but she tensed, whimpering, to prevent that. Her legs were beginning to shake with the effort, and she looked up at Lara pleadingly. "Would you like something else Nathalie?" Lara's expression was passive, but she pressed faster as she spoke, enjoying the girl's almost pained expression. "No, no thank you," Nathalie moaned. "Only to...to come...please," she begged, curling her fingers into fists. "Oh...is that what you want?" Lara pushed more slowly for a few strokes, then relented, pressing the palm of her hand against the girl in almost rough, insistent touches. "Then you may..." She leaned down and kissed the already squirming girl, sliding her tongue into the brunette's mouth, claiming her in every way possible. Nathalie shuddered almost violently against Lara's body as her climax came. She was breathless and squirming with each almost painful aftershock, and finally she was still, blinking up at Lara lazily. She wondered if all of the pain had made the moment seem so much stronger. When Nathalie stilled, Lara removed her fingers and lay next to her, pulling the girl into her arms until her breath slowed. She was looking over the brunette's abused skin, but didn't let it linger too long as Nathalie hadn't earned it. "That will do for tonight, I trust you've learned plenty. Meet me in the lobby here tomorrow at noon. I want to take you out tomorrow night someplace different, but I want to get you something to wear first." Lara smiled at the thought of exactly what Nathalie might or might not be wearing the next evening, and she took off the jewelry she had put on her. "If you're not there, I'll assume you've learned enough." "I'll be here..." Nathalie smiled when she saw Lara's smile, but this one was a little different. She wanted to lie there a while; it was nice to have Lara's arms around her, but she forced herself up, slowly putting on her clothes and trying not to wince when they touched her skin. She bit her lip at the picture Lara made stretched across the bed, but Nathalie feared if she stood there too long, Lara would reconsider. "T-thank you," she stammered before hurrying out, already looking forward to the next day.

It wasn't like Bob had actually had to think about it. The only question he asked before saying yes was "are you shitting me?" and that was pretty much rhetorical. He knew Frank wouldn't call him in the middle of a random afternoon to tease him about something that had never really been funny even when it was a joke. And there was only one possible answer to the question: yes, yes, yes he wanted to play drums for My Chemical Romance, yes he could drop everything, yes he'd be in Jersey tonight. But the reason it was easy to say yes was that he knew these guys, knew what it would mean to play drums for them--or at least he thought he did. In his head My Chem hadn't changed since he'd teched for them in Europe; in his head they were still a van band, playing hard and partying hard and then passing out all over each other (and him) in the seats. It wasn't that he cared one way or the other about partying, or that he actively wanted to be crammed into a van, but it kept the awkwardness of being the new guy down to a bare minimum: you couldn't go thirty-six hours like that without someone spitting or drooling or puking on you, or sleeping with their head in your lap, or yours in theirs. You fit in based on how good you were to sleep on, and Bob was pretty much a champ as a headrest. He didn't even have to think about any of that, didn't have to worry about how he'd fit in with the guys; he just knew it. And that was where he got into trouble, because even though they told him things had changed, he didn't really get it until he was in the middle of it. Bob had been with the band two weeks now, counting the video and some practice days, and he was sitting up alone in the back lounge of their bus. He hadn't seen a beer can within ten feet of any of them, within a hundred feet of Gerard, and everybody slept lying down, behind curtains, and everybody had their own issues to deal with--Gerard getting sober, Matt being gone. Bob was just... along for the ride. He liked them, and they liked him, but Bob couldn't quite find his way in, and it was weirder than he ever thought it might be. It was lonely in a way that being on tour had never been before. He couldn't really hang with the techs anymore--they didn't need a drummer messing up their system or slowing them down trying to be buddies or, worse, trying to help. He should have been hanging with his band, but his band had sort of battened down the hatches, so it was just Bob, sprawled on the couch at three in the morning, watching a DVD he'd seen probably a dozen times and waiting to get tired. He laughed at the funny parts anyway--it really didn't ever stop being funny--but cut himself off when he heard his own laugh tentatively echoed from the doorway. Gerard was standing there, with his hair sticking out in every direction, his eyes wide and still makeup-caked. He was still holding his blanket, and he looked more like Cindy Lou Who than Bob was ever going to admit was his first thought. "Gee?" Gerard looked over at Bob, almost like he didn't think there was anyone there--like the TV was on for no reason, and Bob felt a weary glimmer of irritation. He wasn't invisible. He was too fucking big to disappear anywhere but behind his kit, but even alone together at three in the morning Gerard was looking past him. Gerard gave him the slow blink of the half-awake, and then a vague smile. "Bob. Sorry, I was--can't sleep. I won't bug you, I can..." Gerard waved vaguely toward the kitchen, and Bob knew what that would lead to: coffee, and drawing until sunrise, and Gee being vague and dazed all day, covering the circles under his eyes with another layer of makeup and five more cups of coffee. Gerard's sleep cycle was still totally fucked from the fact that he wasn't just drinking himself unconscious and then sleeping till the hangover admitted defeat. Bob thought maybe he himself was still on tech time: awake when the bus was in motion, in case it was about to be his turn to drive, sleeping hard from load-out to sound check, just when the band was waking up and hanging around together. So maybe his invisibility wasn't all their fault, anyway. Bob tilted his head toward the TV. "Wanna watch? There's enough for everybody." Gerard grinned, rubbing one eye like a little kid, and said, "Sure, what is it?" Bob stared. "Gerard, seriously, you were a loser geek in high school and you didn't ever see Blackadder?" Gerard shrugged. "The other loser geeks didn't like me enough to share their tapes." Bob patted the couch beside him. "Come on, I'll start it over." Gerard sat down, wrapping his blanket around himself, and when Bob settled back to watch from the beginning, he realized Gerard had planted himself a careful foot away, his knees drawn up to prop his chin on. Bob stared. "You're seriously going to sit over there?" Gerard looked over at him without moving his head, the glow of the TV screen reflecting off the whites of his eyes. "I'm respecting the personal boundaries of others this week." Bob didn't think that was a Step, so it must have been a therapy thing. He rolled his eyes. "Well, I'll tell you to knock it off if you start drooling in my ear, okay? Come on." "That was Frank," Gerard said, but he scooted over at the same time, leaning his head against Bob's shoulder instead of his own bony knees. He wriggled around for a minute while the movie was getting started, and then he let out a long breath, relaxing into Bob's side. The movie seemed a lot funnier this time, and he and Gerard both had to shush each other all the way through it so they wouldn't wake everybody else. When it was over, they walked up to the bunks together and each climbed into their own. Bob fell asleep to the sound of Gerard intermittently giggling to himself, sleepily mumbling his favorite lines in a horrible imitation of a British accent. That night on stage, Gerard totally butchered an attempt at a Blackadder joke; Bob recognized the effort and laughed anyway, and so did Ray, who obviously was a more socially successful loser geek in high school. Mikey glanced back at Bob, shook his head, and almost cracked a smile. Frank was busy getting disentangled from the amp cords, and Bob was trying not to look too closely at all the trouble he was causing the techs. Bob counted them into the next song with a smile on his face, and Gerard threw him a wink before he launched into his part. Gerard showed up again in the back lounge the next night, while Bob was watching Flying Circus. There was no rewinding required, and Gerard didn't hesitate when Bob waved for him to come in, trailing his blanket after him. He leaned against Bob right away, squirming around to get comfortable and rearranging his blanket even as he mumbled, "M'not bugging you?" "Yeah," Bob said, eyes on the screen. "Because I'm fucking shy about telling people when they're bugging me." Gerard snickered against Bob's arm, warm and damp on his skin. "I think Frankie still has marks from that time in Germany." Bob grinned, but all he said was, "Shh, lumberjack song's coming up." Time was funny on tour; anything you did twice was a habit, anything you did three times was a tradition. Gerard showed up again in the middle of the night, and again. By the end of that week Bob felt like he couldn't remember when it wasn't like this, Gerard drifting in with his blanket and his messy hair and curling up at Bob's side to watch TV. On the night or two when it didn't happen, Bob told himself it was just touring fucking with him, that if it weren't weird tour-time he wouldn't feel disappointed like this. It was better, anyway, if Gerard wasn't having trouble sleeping. It wasn't a big deal, just an hour or two in the middle of the night, Bob providing a warm soft spot for Gerard to lean while the TV lulled him back to sleep. Some nights he actually passed out on Bob, and there was never really any waking him up after that. The best Bob could do was to get him to the point of zombie-like movement, so he'd stagger to his bunk if Bob steered him. Bob pushed him inside and made sure he had his feet at the right end and settled his damn blanket over him so he wouldn't whine about being cold in the morning. Some nights when Gerard fell asleep, or got so close to it that he was boneless and bendy as a cat, he'd slump halfway into Bob's lap. Bob had to put his arm down, holding on to Gerard so he didn't tumble right off the couch. Bob's feet ended up asleep when that happened, from Gerard's weight on his thighs, but it wasn't a big deal. He couldn't argue with Gerard after he'd fallen asleep, anyway. By morning Bob had always forgotten to be mad about it, too, because by the time Bob woke up Gerard was three cups of coffee into the day, and Bob needed to be mad about Gerard being so fucking chipper, instead. There was a complicated movie-swapping ring on the tour which Bob didn't entirely understand, but the loan of his favorite season of Mr. Bean got him a collection of first-generation tapes of MST3K including Manos, the Hands of Fate, accompanied by dire threats about what would happen if the tapes weren't all returned safely. He knew Gerard hadn't seen Manos--he and Ray had been marveling at his deprivation while Gerard just rolled his eyes a lot--so he put it aside. You could walk in anywhere and follow a MST3K episode--he'd been watching a lot of them at night for that reason, and Gerard had watched the last halves of a lot of episodes with him the past couple of weeks--but Manos was way funnier if you could see it from the beginning and get all the running jokes. The next time Gerard wandered into the lounge at three in the morning, Bob patted the couch like usual. He got up as Gerard sat down, so he could switch on the VCR and put the tape in. When he sat down again, Gerard was frowning, hesitating to settle in. "Were you saving that? To watch with me?" "Uh." It hadn't seemed weird until Gerard said it like that. Out loud. "I guess, yeah. You haven't seen this one, it's a classic." Bob hit play, and Gerard said, "Oh! Manos! You and Ray were talking about this one. Badass." And then Gerard stopped talking, snuggling up to Bob and doing his tiny spastic couch-dance to the theme song, and that was mostly it for talking. Not quite two hours later, Gerard had completely passed out, fallen so far into Bob's lap that his shoulder was on Bob's opposite thigh and the weight of his head was making Bob lose feeling in his other arm. Bob tried to shove him off so he could go shut the TV off, and Gerard actually startled half-awake, sitting up unsteadily. "No," he said, though Bob hadn't actually said anything. "M'not tired, let's watch another one." Bob blinked stupidly at Gerard, and then grabbed the next hand-labeled tape and shoved it in--he had to remember to rewind Manos later, or he was going to get killed in his sleep--and aimed himself back at the couch. Gerard had sprawled across it in the thirty seconds it took Bob to swap the tapes, and already appeared to be totally unconscious. "Fucker," Bob muttered, and glanced toward the bunks. His bed seemed really far away--he was so fucking tired--and then the theme music came on and Gerard twitched and started doing his stupid dance in his sleep. Bob smiled, and then next thing he knew he was lying down right there on the floor beside the couch, tugging an edge of Gerard's blanket toward himself, turning his head so he could see the TV. He opened his eyes to fucking bright morning sunshine, Frank Iero's cheerful fucking face, and a warm breathing weight that smelled like pure unshowered Gerard Way cutting off circulation to the entire right side of his body. Frank prodded Bob's exposed shoulder with his toe. "Is that comfortable in any way?" "Fuck off," Bob muttered, squeezing his eyes shut even as he attempted to push Gerard off his numb arm and leg. Gerard squirmed, managing to jab his knee right into something in Bob's thigh that suddenly had sensation and hurt like a motherfucker. Bob's head whipped to the side, just in time for Gerard's face to mash against the side of his, and Bob just had time to feel-hear Gerard breathing into his ear before he felt it. Wet. Inside his ear. "Oh, fuck you," Bob snapped, shoving harder at Gerard, though it still didn't work well because he couldn't feel his fucking arm that Gerard was sleeping on. "Way, get up, you fucking drooled in my ear, fuck." It was turning cold already, and he could feel it trickling, and he could not remember for sure the last time Gerard had brushed his teeth. For fuck's sake, he was going to get disgusting ear diseases now, fucking awesome. "See?" Frank said brightly. "It could happen to anyone." "No," Bob groaned. "It can only fucking happen to me. Gerard! Move!" "S'ry," Gerard mumbled, rubbing his nose against Bob's temple. "Kiss't better." He smacked his lips against Bob's cheek, closer to his eye than his ear, and Bob gave up, rolling out from under Gerard and dumping him, blanket and all, on the floor. Gerard dug his face in against the carpet and went back to sleep, and Bob shoved Frank down onto the couch for the fucking smirk before he headed up to the kitchen. He was limping when he got there, gritting his teeth as the pins-and-needles pain and the almost-kneed-in-the-crotch pain worked through his arm and leg, and the wet feeling in his ear just kept sliding around. Ray was sitting at the table, peering at some video game magazine cheat-guide with his Game Boy sitting next to him. "Toro," Bob said, "is there peroxide somewhere? First aid kit?" Ray looked up and jerked his chin toward the fridge. "In back, behind Frank's fake cheese shit. What happened, you cut yourself on Gerard?" Bob stopped in the process of opening up the fridge and glared. "You looked so peaceful," Ray said, already looking down at the page in front of him again. "I didn't want to wake you." Possibly the thing Bob hated most about being in this band, right at that moment, more than the fucking drool in his fucking ear, was that he didn't know Ray Toro quite well enough to know what he meant by that. "No," Bob gritted, turning back to the fridge. "I need to fucking bleach my ear. Gee needs to learn to keep his spit to himself." And of course when he slammed the fridge door shut, Gerard and Frank were standing right there, and Gerard still looked like fucking Cindy Lou Who, only now he also looked like Bob had stolen his Christmas tree. Bob couldn't think of a goddamn thing to say, so he just stared back for a few seconds, and then he brushed past Gerard and went into the bathroom with the peroxide. A couple of hours before soundcheck, Bob was standing outside smoking. It was how he'd spent most of the day, smoking, rubbing his ear, avoiding Gerard. It was stupid to feel bad when Gerard was the one who drooled in his ear, but it had been stupid for Gerard to have that sad little look on his face, too. It was just tour shit, it was just Bob before his first cup of coffee when his hand and foot were screaming. Bob didn't know how to fix any of it, because he wasn't fucking apologizing but he couldnt stand the idea that Gerard might think he should, either. Bob was kind of hoping the show would just wipe the slate clean, and tonight would be another night, and this time he wouldn't be watching anything special and everything would be fine. The plan kind of went out the window when Mikey came outside and bummed a smoke, and then a light, and then said, "You have to talk to Gee, okay?" Bob rolled his eyes. "It's fine, Mikey, I'm not mad at him, I was just--" "You're just in love with him," Mikey said, and Bob stopped dead. "It's cool, you've always been super cool about it, everybody respects that," Mikey continued, squinting out across the parking lot while Bob tried to remember how to think, or breathe, or function in any way at all. "You don't go around all pathetic or anything, you always treated him really normal, but it's not like we didn't know. Except Gee's not wasted anymore, and you're not somebody else's tech anymore, so even he's figured it out at this point. The whole stoic routine is just confusing the shit out of him." "I'm not," Bob finally managed to say, and Mikey Way gave him a seriously withering glance. "I'm not," Bob repeated. He wasn't. He couldn't be. That would be so stupid. He'd always liked Gerard, liked him a lot, and maybe he cared a little bit more about Gerard liking him back than he did with most people. He'd noticed that Gerard was hot--it wasn't like he'd kick the guy out of his bed if he ever, say, stumbled into it naked--but it wasn't like he'd ever had any kind of shot with the guy and it wasn't like he'd ever given it much thought. Lots of people were hot, and Bob liked lots of people. Several. At least four or five, most days. Mikey shook his head and turned away to blow smoke. "Bleaching your ear just because he kissed it was kind of overkill, though." "I didn't--fuck, he can kiss whatever he wants, I just draw the fucking line at bodily fluids in my ear canal, okay, I was fucking disinfecting." Mikey kept his face turned away just long enough for Bob to hear what he'd said, and then he looked back, one eyebrow raised. "See, this is the kind of conversation you should be having with Gee. Expectations and shit. Turn-ons, turn-offs. Because if Frank and Ray and I have to spend one more day listening to him refine his top fourteen reasons why Bob wouldn't want to sleep with him, there's going to be fucking blood on the walls. Got it?" Bob tossed down his cigarette and lit another. "Fuck." Bob wasn't stupid. He really hadn't ever thought there was any chance of anything with him and Gerard; Gerard was In The Band and Bob wasn't that kind of tech, and then Gerard was... Gerard. It just never occurred to him that anything was even on the table. But Mikey hadn't sounded like he was joking about Gerard obsessing over Bob and why he didn't want to sleep with Gerard, and that kind of suggested that the problem wasn't that Gerard didn't want to sleep with Bob. Mikey would have been having a totally different talk with him, otherwise. So Bob had to tell Gerard something, and he had to do it before any of his bandmates killed him or Gerard, but Bob really had no fucking clue what to say. He'd never been great with these kinds of conversations--there was nothing he could say that wasn't incredibly sixth-grade. I like you, Mikey says you like me, check yes or no. Especially since there was a whole lot more than check-yes-or-no to figure out, like, Are you ready to be in a relationship with anybody? or Is this just a sex thing? or Is this going to fuck up the band? or Is this going to get me kicked out of the band before I'm officially in it? or Top or bottom and do you have a latex allergy? or No, seriously, why are you even interested? And then there was the part that he really, really didn't know how to say, the part that was really stupid and embarrassing and harder to admit to than the number of times he'd knowingly jerked off thinking about Gerard in the last two years (five and a half). The really embarrassing part was that Bob really just liked watching TV with Gerard in the middle of the night, liked the weight of Gerard against his side, liked Gerard falling asleep in his lap, and he wasn't anywhere near sure he was ready to trade that in for awkward attempts at bunk sex. "Fuck," Bob muttered again, because when he played that over again in his head, it sounded an awful lot like I'm in love with you and I want it to be special. Bob stuck with MST3K that night, popping in Godzilla vs. Megalon, because fuck it, it was his favorite. He needed serious distraction if he was going to even pretend like he wasn't just sitting there waiting to see if Gerard showed up. The theme music was barely over when he walked in, but he stopped short of the couch, biting his lip. Bob just patted the spot beside him, and when Gerard settled in, Bob put his arm around Gerard's shoulders, holding him there. Gerard sagged heavier against Bob's side, letting out a tired-sounding sigh. "Is this the one with Mothra?" "No," Bob said, "It's the one with the robot. I've got the Mothra one, too, though. Want me to put it on?" Gerard shook his head against Bob's shoulder. "We can watch it later. Or, like. Tomorrow." "Yeah," Bob said, and carefully didn't move his arm at all. He still hadn't figured out what the fuck to say, although that had been almost like a conversation right there, except he was pretty sure Gerard was going to be just as confused tomorrow morning and come up with three new reasons Bob didn't want to sleep with him relating to incompatible preferences in the robot-versus-sea-monster department. And then Mikey would probably decide to kill both of them, and Bob wouldn't even really blame the guy. Bob stared at the screen without blinking, feeling pretty much like he'd been yanked back to high school and handed a final exam in some class he hadn't known he was taking. Then Gerard started laughing way too hard at the Spiny Norman reference, and Bob couldn't help laughing back at him. It didn't really take too much figuring out to settle his hand on the back of Gerard's neck, to turn and kiss him before he'd quite finished giggling. The sound vibrated against Bob's lips and tongue, more ticklish than hot. Gerard went still everywhere but his mouth, pushing back into the kiss, lips opening wide for Bob. His hand landed on Bob's thigh, and he was moving closer, and it was late. Bob was tired and didn't know what to say, and there was still half of Bob's favorite episode of MST3K playing on the TV. Bob squeezed the nape of Gerard's neck and pulled back from the kiss, meeting his eyes. Gerard looked a little confused, and kind of happy, and kind of turned on. Bob cleared his throat. "I just wanted you to know that." Gerard blinked a couple of times and then nodded. When Bob slumped down on the couch and looked back at the TV, Gerard rearranged himself to rest against Bob's side, head on his shoulder. They both laughed just as hard at the Holy Grail joke. "Hey." Bob opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and rubbed the heel of his hand across his face, but Gerard was still there, leaning into his bunk and letting in daylight. "Hey," Bob managed. "So that stuff we were talking about last night," Gerard said, holding Bob's gaze steadily. "I just wanted to make sure I understood you." Bob blinked, trying to think of fucking words, trying to think how to explain what he'd meant by it, but Gerard leaned down and kissed him. His mouth tasted sharp, minty-fresh, which made Bob sort of smile at the thoughtfulness and wince at the state of his own mouth at the same time, but then again Gerard was kissing him. Bob reached up, got his fingers into Gerard's hair as Gerard's tongue traced along his, and then Gerard picked his head up and just looked at Bob like he was waiting for something. "Yeah," Bob said after a minute, letting his hand fall from Gerard's head. "That was pretty much it." Gerard grinned. "Okay. Cool. There's coffee, I'll save you some." He was gone before Bob could say anything, and as the curtain settled back into place, Bob rolled over to face the wall. He still wasn't really awake, and he couldn't quite figure out whether he had time to jerk off before Gerard forgot he was saving the coffee and drank it all himself. Bob waited that night until Gerard showed up before he put in the next MST3K episode. Gerard didn't ask any questions, just grinned and curled up close to Bob, spreading his blanket over both of them. Everything was pretty much exactly like it had always been until half an hour into the episode, when Gerard yawned, rubbed his face against Bob's arm, and mumbled, "The one with the robot is way better." "Yeah," Bob said. Mothra was cool and everything, but he was no Jet Jaguar. "Hm," Gerard said, and then he straightened up and put his hand on Bob's cheek, turning his face away from the TV. Gerard leaned in slowly, almost shyly, and Bob waited until one kiss had melted into another and another before he slipped his hand into Gerard's hair, holding him there for the next one and the one after that. They stopped making out during the funny parts, watching with their hands still on each other, their heads tipped together, before getting bored and going back to kissing. By the end of the episode Gerard's hand was inside the collar of Bob's hoodie, and Bob had two fingers tucked into the waistband of Gerard's pajama pants. They broke apart when the credits rolled. Bob hesitated a long, nervous minute, and then Gerard yawned, gave him one last peck on the lips, and got up to go to bed. Bob followed, smiling. Two nights later, Gerard was stretched out on top of Bob on the couch. They were half-watching Mr. Bean, making out and lazily grinding against each other, pants and shirts still on, hands above waists. It helped distract both of them from the fact that Gerard didn't actually really like Bob's favorite show, and it was helping Bob avoid thinking about what it meant that Gerard was out here pretending to watch a show he didn't like at all for the sake of making out with Bob. Especially since he just tucked his face against Bob's throat when Bob turned his head to watch for a few minutes, letting them both catch their breath and not deliberately distracting Bob at all. Bob even caught Gerard smiling when he laughed, like he didn't care what Bob was laughing at, like it just made him happy to see Bob happy. Halfway through the second episode, Gerard mumbled against Bob's mouth, "Friday's a hotel night." Bob nodded. He was pretty much counting hours to a hot shower and a real bed. Gerard's hips pushed down sharply, then. Bob's breath caught, and he started trying to count minutes. Holy fuck, a real bed. "Friday," he repeated, totally failing to sound like all his blood wasn't in his dick. "That's going to be awesome." "Yep," Gerard agreed, and he gave Bob another long, lingering kiss before he squirmed around so that Bob was getting more of Gerard's hipbone than the press of his dick. He settled his head on Bob's chest and lay still, acting like he was really watching until he started to snore, and Bob turned off the TV and made him get up and go to bed. By Friday morning, Bob had doubled his lifetime jerking-off-thinking-of-Gerard total and was seriously reconsidering the appeal of awkward bunk sex. He was also reconsidering bathroom sex, dressing room sex, broom closet sex, and Gerard-splayed-over-his-drum-kit-in-front-of-an-entire-screaming-audience sex, which really wasn't helping him concentrate on the show they were about to play. Gerard didnt seem bothered, though, and Bob didn't want to get all pushy when they were so close anyway. He sat on the couch watching Gerard and Mikey and Ray consulting books and drawing charts and doing a lot of complicated stuff that apparently was not playing Dungeons and Dragons, but just thinking about potentially playing Dungeons and Dragons at some point in the future. If they did it for real, Bob had been informed, he would need to read most of those books. Frank just offered him some weird vegan potato-chip-ish things and shrugged. "Nerds," he said, like he hadn't spent three hours yesterday arguing with Gerard about the paramount importance of some single issue of some Batman comic that wasn't actually called Batman. Bob shrugged back, licking his fingers; Gerard happened to glance up at him as he was doing it, and Bob raised his eyebrows and closed his lips on his fingertip. Gerard's face went abruptly bright red, and Frank started laughing and threw the bag of potato-chip-esque-things at Bob's head even as Ray said, "What? What did I miss?" "Jesus, shut up," Mikey said without raising his head. "Don't ask, you don't want to know." Standing in the hotel lobby, Bob stared at the back of Gerard's head, trying not to move at all so his cold, sweaty shirt wouldn't touch any more of his skin. He realized that he couldn't decide whether he wanted sex more than he wanted a shower, and that was definitely kind of sad. Then Gerard glanced back over his shoulder at Bob and grinned. Bob's stomach did a funny little flip, and he decided he didn't care about being sad. He was definitely going to get a shower and sex--maybe even each one more than once, if he was lucky or really good at planning--and there wasn't going to be anything to complain about. "Seriously," Frank announced, "you guys are gross. Get a room." Bob rolled his eyes, and Gerard looked away, hiding a smile behind his hair. Ray said, "I think that's actually what we're all trying to do here, Frankie." Bob looked toward Mikey, who had been nominated to deal with getting them room keys; thank God, he was on his way back. He handed one set of keys to Gerard and handed out the others to Frank and Ray, without even asking how anyone wanted to divide up. Bob hoped to God there hadn't been any Top Fourteen Reasons You Don't Want to Argue About Me Rooming With Bob from Gerard in the past few days. "You know, you guys should go out," Gerard said, eyes fixed on the keys in his hands. Bob arched an eyebrow, and Gerard looked up and met his eye, making a swatting hand gesture that clearly dismissed Bob from this part of the conversation. "Seriously, you should," he repeated into the silence of Frank and Ray and Mikey all staring at him like they were afraid even to move. "I know the Seconds guys were going out, they must have told you. You should go, have fun. It's not like I'm going to notice, I swear." Ray and Frank both looked at Mikey, and Mikey shrugged. "Oh, fuck yeah," Ray said, tugging his phone out of his jeans and heading off across the lobby. "Bob Bryar, I am so in love with you right now." Frank jumped on him--a sweat-soaked weight that nearly knocked him down, but Bob staggered and got his balance as Frank planted a smacking kiss on his mouth, and then he was gone too, heading off after Ray. Mikey lingered another second, gaze locked with Gerard's, and then he snorted, mussed Gerard's hair, and followed the other two at a saunter. That just left Bob and Gerard and the keys to their hotel room. Gerard waggled his eyebrows and Bob rolled his eyes again, but he resettled his bag on his shoulder and started for the elevators with Gerard at his side. Once they were alone and headed up, Bob said offhandedly, to the ceiling, "You're sure you're good with them going out?" Gerard snorted, and Bob looked down. He was grinning. "Dude, they've all been sober as long as I have. They're going to get wasted and tomorrow they're going to be hungover and I won't. I have been waiting my whole life for this moment. It's going to kick ass." Bob grinned, and looked back up at the ceiling. "Plus, it's really not like I'm going to notice," Gerard added. Bob nodded. "Yeah, I mean. The hotel has cable." "And HBO," Gerard said, and somehow it sounded like he'd just laid out all fourteen reasons he wanted to room with Bob in Technicolor detail. Bob kept on staring at the ceiling until the doors opened, because the elevator did not have cable, or doors that were going to stay closed nearly long enough. Gerard was kissing him as soon as they got into the room, and Bob's heart was racing as soon as Gerard touched him, nerves as much as excitement. He sunk his hands into Gerard's hair, trying to give as good as he got or at least keep up with Gerard's mouth, moving wet and fast against his. Gerard pressed up tight against Bob, one hand clutching Bob's hoodie and the other sliding down to his hip. Bob groaned into Gerard's mouth, rubbing up against him, and Gerard made a breathless sound back. It hit Bob, then, that they were about to have--or possibly were already having--exactly the kind of sweaty, fully-clothed sex they could have had in a dressing room or the back lounge or one of their bunks anytime in the past week. As long as he'd been waiting--and as awesome as sweaty, gross, fully-clothed sex could be--this really wasn't what he'd been waiting for. "Hey," Bob gasped, and then got his hands down onto Gerard's shoulders and detached him with a gentle shove. Gerard stared at him, dazed. "Hey. Uh. Before we--I'm just going to take a shower, okay?" Gerard blinked a few times, and then he seemed to get it. Whether it was just Frank's some people like to be clean mantra coming back to him, or whether he actually understood that Bob wanted to take a few minutes of time out, he nodded. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said, "Yeah, sure. No rush or anything." He was grinning when he dropped his hand, and Bob smiled back, because this was going to be okay, this was going to be fucking great. He leaned across the small distance between him and Gerard to give him one last quick kiss. "Maybe, like, a little bit of a rush," Bob muttered, and then he picked up his bag from where he'd dropped it and took the whole thing into the bathroom before he started looking for his toothbrush and got distracted by Gerard and totally ruined his exit. Bob scrubbed off fast but thoroughly, and the temptation to jerk off was tempered by the idea that Gerard was going to be seeing him naked in the really near future. He glared down at his belly and dick both as he washed behind his ears, but he wasn't seventeen anymore, he didn't need to pre-party to keep from embarrassing himself--and Gerard had a pretty goddamn good idea what he looked like and hadn't had any objections so far, so fuck it. Bob had done something scarier just getting up on stage every night on this tour, and that had all turned out pretty fucking fantastic. He wasn't going to freak out now. He did put clothes back on after he dried off, though, pajama pants and his clean(er) hoodie. This was all about not rushing, so. He wasn't going to rush anything. When he stepped back into the room, Gerard was rummaging through his backpack, already holding a little bag Bob had never seen before. It looked like a makeup kit, but it wasn't any of the three makeup kits Gerard used on a daily basis, so it probably actually had soap and a toothbrush and stuff in it. Huh. Gerard looked up at Bob, smiled, and grabbed a handful of clothes out of his bag. "Shower sounds kind of. Yeah." Bob tried hard not to look surprised, just stepped aside and said, "Yeah, go for it. There's lots of towels." Gerard nodded all the way to the door, gave Bob a shy smile, and then shut the door in his face. Bob fished some stuff out of his own bag and moved it to the drawer of the nightstand--shoving the Gideon Bible out of the way with his other hand--and then just stood there, listening to the water running in the bathroom. He wondered if he was being overly optimistic with the supplies, and then he remembered the way Gerard had shoved him up against the door and decided that was kind of a stupid thing to worry about at this point. After a few minutes, he realized it was also kind of stupid to just stand there. He figured he might as well stick with what worked. He sat down, grabbed the remote, and turned the TV on. He changed channels randomly, just for the novelty of watching shit he hadn't already memorized, and spent ten minutes watching a juicer infomercial contemplating just how badly they would wind up misusing that thing on the bus. Gerard had been in the shower for so long that Bob was starting to wonder if he'd forgotten how when he changed the channel again and found Sealab 2021. Bob grinned and dropped the remote, though he kept it close by. Ray had warned him before they even left for the tour that Gerard could be, "Just, you know, kind of funny about Aqua Teen Hunger Force. It's not a big thing, just if you're bringing it with you you have to fucking hide it like it's freaky farm animal porn, okay?" Bob had nodded and Ray had added, "If you have freaky farm animal porn, though, you should just show it to Cortez first thing, because he'll find that shit. It's like his superpower. He knows somehow." Bob hadn't asked any more questions about that. The next show up after Sealab was anime that Bob had seen maybe half an episode of before, so he had no fucking clue what was going on. He was thinking about switching the channel again when he heard the water shut off, and then he just kept his eyes on the screen. Bob had almost figured out what was going on by the time the bathroom door opened, and Gerard immediately said, "Oh, hey, Full Metal Alchemist!" Bob looked over, then, and Gerard was dropping his kit back into his backpack and walking over, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. "You're a fan?" Gerard shrugged, climbed onto the bed and then onto Bob, straddling his lap and putting his back to the TV. "Right now, I honestly don't give a fuck." "Fair," Bob muttered, and then Gerard was kissing him again, his hands on Bob's face, his hair falling down to brush against Bob's forehead, wet and chilly where Gerard's mouth was hot. Bob shivered and settled his hands on Gerard's hips, tugging him down. He let his fingers slide under Gerard's shirt, to the soft skin beneath, careful not to tickle. Even knowing exactly where Gerard's knees and elbows were, that could probably still end badly. Gerard let Bob pull him down, settling some of his weight in Bob's lap, grinding down against Bob's dick, and pajama pants were a fuck of a lot thinner than jeans. Bob bucked up, hands tightening on Gerard as he did. Their mouths broke apart, and Gerard was grinning down at him. "Fuck yeah," Gerard breathed. "This is what I'm talking about." Bob shifted one hand up to the back of Gerard's neck, pulling him down for just one more kiss, and one more after that, until Gerard pulled back against his grip. "I don't want to rush you or anything," he said breathlessly, shifting his hips in a slow roll against Bob's dick, "but I have been waiting a really long time for you to fuck me." Bob's fingers dug in hard against Gerard's skin, and even seeing Gerard wince was kind of hot at this point. Bob kissed his throat when he tipped his head back and said, "We're going to have to lose some clothes, then." "You're going to have to let--" Bob closed his teeth lightly on Gerard's throat, not enough to leave a mark--not that Gerard wouldn't either cover it up with makeup tomorrow or draw it in brighter, depending on his mood--and Gerard went silent. Bob licked the spot, wondering if that was all it took to shut Gerard up, and if he could remember to use it in the morning, and then he thought he might have better things to do in the morning than get Gerard to leave him alone so he could go back to sleep. Gerard rocked against him again, and Bob lifted his head and pushed Gerard's shirt up. Gerard barely let him get it off before he was tugging at Bob's hoodie, and Bob let him wrestle it off before he pushed Gerard off his lap, muttering, "Pants, pants, come on." Gerard shimmied out of his own while Bob was pulling his off, and that left Gerard lying there naked, on his back. He licked his lips, and Bob saw him looking nervous, just for a second. He couldn't just leave Gerard like that; he stretched out next to him, not quite on top. The first full-body contact of skin to skin, his dick against Gerard's hip, made Bob let out a shaky breath. He planted his knee between Gerard's legs, letting Gerard shove his dick against Bob's thigh as they kissed. Gerard's hands running randomly over Bob's skin turned gradually to Gerard holding on; when he started trying to dig in his fingernails, Bob lifted his head. "I've got--" Gerard said, looking a little dazed, his dick still thrusting against Bob like he just couldn't stop. Bob shook his head. "Got it already." He leaned over and got the stuff out of the drawer, and dropped it on the bed. "But I want to blow you first." Gerard squeezed his eyes shut and nodded fast, going carefully still. Bob grinned as he moved, trailing kisses down Gerard's throat, over his chest and belly--nearly as white and soft as Bob's own, which made Bob give it an extra nuzzle and lick, until Gerard was laughing breathlessly. "Fuck, fucker, not there." "Oh, no? Someplace else?" Bob had his hands on Gerard's hips now, holding him still, but Gerard still tried to push up, tried to get some friction. "Seriously," Gerard said, an edge of a whine in his voice, "we can have a Mr. Bean marathon, just--fucking please--" Bob snorted--Gerard had his priorities seriously misplaced if he was trying to bribe Bob to go down on him with the offer of more TV--but he gave in, settling himself between Gerard's splayed-out legs and licking up the underside of his dick. Gerard gasped out a "Yeah," and his hand landed on Bob's head, scrabbling for something to hold on to and getting nothing--Bob was growing out his buzzcut, but all it had done so far was get fluffy, still sticking straight up, so he just looked sort of surprised all the time. Bob lifted his head enough to look Gerard in the eye as he said, "If you grab me by the ear, I swear to God I will dump you in the hallway bare-assed and trade you for Frank." Gerard nodded frantically, and Bob grinned before he finally got down to it properly, closing his mouth over the head of Gerard's dick. He still had his hands on Gerard's hips, but he didn't bother trying to get the leverage to really hold him down. When Gerard thrust up Bob rode him out, letting Gerard's cock fill his mouth and batter at his throat. He sucked when Gerard tried to be still, and let Gee fuck his mouth when he wanted. He'd been waiting for this, for the smell and taste of Gerard filling his mouth, for the hitch in the rhythm of Gerard's breath, for Gerard's hand scrubbing over his head, pushing but never trying to grab. Bob only pulled off when Gerard's gasps turned to urgent half-words, warning. He knelt up, then, planted one hand on each of Gerard's shins, and said, "Turn over." Gerard stared blankly at Bob for a second, chest heaving, spit-shiny dick bobbing slightly as he breathed, and then he burst into motion, and only Bob's grip on his legs kept him from kneeing Bob in the head. When he was safely turned over, Bob grabbed Gerard by the hips, tugging him up to knees and elbows, pushing him toward the head of the bed. Gerard pushed the lube and condoms back toward him, but Bob ignored them for the moment, resting his hands on Gerard's ass and licking at the base of his spine, just above the cleft of his ass. Gerard jerked like Bob had shocked him, made a startled sound but didn't say a word. "Gee?" Bob let his lips drag against Gerard's skin as he spoke. "You mind?" Gerard exhaled on a shudder and shook his head, and Bob licked lower. Gerard's legs opened a little wider for him, making it easy, and Bob tasted nothing but clean sweat and skin, and revised his guess on why Gerard's shower had taken so long. Bob grinned, tracing a line downward with his tongue, pressing Gerard's cheeks open with his hands. Gerard made another startled sound when he got there, stringing even tighter, and Bob told himself he was in no hurry even if his dick said something different. He went slow, licking wet and soft around Gerard's hole, pushing in shallowly at first, teasing, just enough to test the tightness of muscle. When Gerard started pushing back into the touch he pressed harder, licking inside, working his tongue in and out until Gerard was wet and easy and practically growling at him. "Bob, fuck, come on, now, or I'll trade you for Frank." "Uh-huh," Bob breathed, but he was already getting to his knees, reaching for the lube. He slicked a finger, pressed it against Gerard's hole and in, but Gerard shook his head, looking at Bob over his shoulder. He was flushed and sweaty like he was in the middle of a set, like Bob was a thousand screaming fans and a kick-ass sound system, driving him wild. "Don't, I don't--now, Bob--" And Bob wasn't going to argue with Gerard when he was like that, not one bit. He got the condom on, got himself ready, and then he had his hand on Gerard's hip, holding him steady as he pushed slowly inside. Gerard was tight, and Bob probably should have asked him how long it had been--as well as Bob knew Bert, he'd never known what the fuck was really going on there--but Gerard was hissing, "Yes, yes, yes," and he felt so fucking good on Bob's cock that there was no way he was doing anything but this now. When Bob was all the way in he kept still for a couple of breaths--long enough to hear familiar cartoon dialogue behind him. His hips jerked, shoving his dick that little bit harder into Gerard, even as he was tempted to grab the remote. Gerard started laughing a little, and said something that sounded like, "Fucking Meatwad, fuck." Bob folded forward over Gerard's back, scraping his teeth against Gerard's shoulder. "You have such a fuckin' way with words, man." Gerard's giggle came out half a moan as Bob pulled out, and when he thrust back in, Gerard gasped, "Oh, yeah, Harvey Birdman--" "Oh, God, shut the fuck up," Bob gasped, pushing in again even as he tried to get his hand over Gerard's mouth. Gerard licked and bit at his fingers, moaning out, "Come on, Frylock, give it--" Bob took his hand from Gerard's mouth and closed it around Gerard's dick, and "Aw, Brak, yeah," trailed off into nothing but breathing. Bob tried to move in some kind of rhythm, but he just felt like he was racing himself, trying to get Gerard off, trying to come. He realized Gerard was going to beat him to it a second before he felt it, spilling wet over his fingers, clutching hot-tight around him, and he gritted his teeth and waited it out, until Gerard was easy and quiet under him, pushing back lazily onto Bob's dick. "C'mon, your turn," Gerard murmured, and Bob let his weight fall on Gerard's back, pushed them both down to the bed. His sticky hand was trapped under Gerard's stomach as he kept moving, fucking him deep and hard and almost, almost-- There, jerking rough and uncontrolled into Gerard's ass, lips moving meaninglessly against Gerard's skin as he came, gasping like he was drowning. Behind him, Space Ghost was yelling at Zorak. "Fuck, Gee, remote." Gerard laughed again. "See, Cartoon Network, fucking ruins the afterglow, man." Gerard squirmed around beneath him, and then there was sudden silence from the TV, and Bob pressed his face against Gerard's shoulder, thinking vaguely that he was going to have to move, clean up, at some point. He should at least, like, move so Gerard wasn't smashed into the wet spot, to say nothing of his own hand. Bob woke up to an annoying beep to find the lights still on, Gerard still under him. Gerard made a sleepy annoyed noise and batted at something that wasn't on the nightstand, and Bob peeled himself away with a wince and got up, getting rid of the condom first and then digging through Gerard's backpack after the source of the noise. "Gee, somebody's--" Gerard rolled over and sat up all at once, wincing even as he said, wildly unconvincingly, "You don't have to get that! It's not important!" Bob had the phone in his hand, though, and he flipped it open automatically. ALARM. Bob blinked at it a couple more times, and then shut it off with a stab of his thumb. He dropped it back into Gerard's backpack and shut off the lights, and then he climbed back onto the bed, stretching out half on top of Gerard. He could feel the brick-red flush of Gerard's cheeks, hot as a fever against his lips. "You had an alarm set to wake you up in the middle of the night." Gerard made a tiny choked noise. Bob grinned, rubbing his nose against Gerard's flaming cheek. "Were you ever having trouble sleeping at all? Have you been fuckin' stalking me, Gee Way?" "The first time I really couldn't sleep," he muttered. Bob wrapped his arms around Gerard, tugging him closer, trying to figure out how to get under the covers without making either of them stand up. Gerard added almost primly, "And it's not stalking if you live with the person. It's setting time aside to spend alone with someone special." That didn't sound like a Step or therapy. "Where'd you get that, Cosmo?" Gerard huffed and pulled out of Bob's grip, shoving the covers down and getting inside, holding them up for Bob to follow. "Yeah, Cosmo," he said, when he was pressed up against Bob again, his knee pushing between Bob's thighs. "You should see what they said on page 72 about driving your man wild in bed." "Mmmm." Bob ran his hand down Gerard's back, kissing idly at the bridge of his nose. "Something they can't show on TV?" "Only on the good channels," Gerard promised. "And only after midnight." "Yeah?" Bob muttered. "Well, it's always after midnight somewhere."

At Lestrade's phone call that morning, Sherlock initially snorts out a decided dismissal. "Boring and stupid. Why should I care if some barmy nut case, who hasn't left his flat in fifty years and is entombed by his own garbage, dies." John doesn't need this conversation to be on speakerphone. He can imagine all of it based on Sherlock's responses. "Variations on a theme, Lestrade. Why should I care if this man played the violin? Give me three days and I could teach a monkey how to play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." There's a pause and then Sherlock says, "I highly doubt it. It must be a fake. They are all accounted for except four. Three are extant, and the fourth is the one I stole." Another pause. "Of course I'm joking." John doesn't think Sherlock is joking at all but that isn't germane to this situation. Having developed a hinky feeling about these conversations, John gulps down the rest of his tea and shoves a piece of toast in his shirt pocket. "God, Lestrade, you're being tiresome this morning. Pluck me a string. I can tell you in half a second if---" As John races down the staircase, trying to simultaneously put on his coat and grab for the handrail so as to not kill himself, he imagines the satisfaction in Lestrade's voice during this exchange. Their victories against Sherlock are rare. Gloating is allowed. Sherlock's does his usual rapid-fire barrage of insults to clear the room so that he can examine and think. Also per the usual, he leaves off insulting Lestrade until Lestrade has ordered everyone else to the perimeter of the crime scene. The moment Lestrade has thrown everyone else out of the room, Sherlock is rude to him as well. "You're standing in my light, Lestrade. Now join the others, as in, get your arse on the other side of the door and let me do your job properly." John has come to like Greg Lestrade. Most of the cops he's met since becoming Sherlock's step-and-fetch-it have what his therapist would call "personality disorders." Which is a fancy way of saying they are a bunch of violent buggers with chips on their shoulders. John's personal assessment is that by and large they are sadistic wankers who gravitate to police work because it's the closest thing possible to institutionalized violence, short of running up and down a football field or joining the army. Lestrade is different. Although he's clearly bright enough, John suspects that Lestrade's promotions over the years aren't due to any special facility, merely that he works his arse off. His superiors have rightly come to the conclusion that he's not the type to use his promotions as stepping stones to other jobs--as in theirs--and why not promote him. Given the verbal abuse he routinely suffers at Sherlock's hands, if Greg Lestrade ever snaps and instructs some of the boys to work Sherlock over, John won't be surprised or sympathetic--to Sherlock. John believes that Lestrade is fairly mentally healthy; he ignores Sherlock's insults because it's not about him (which is the exact opposite of Sherlock). No, it's always about the case. Lestrade is willing to suffer whatever kicks in the metaphorical nuts Sherlock visits upon him just so long as justice is served. Like everyone, John had assumed that Lestrade was one of those dark-haired men who went gray early. "Not true," Sherlock had said one day as John was reading the newspaper. He'd been staring at some ad for hair dye for men. "He's much older than you think. I hacked into his personnel file." John had reached the point where he could usually connect the dots. "How did you know I didn't want the hair dye for myself?" Sherlock had run a lazy eye over John's head and then his face and then what he'd been wearing. "You have many faults, John, but vanity is not one of them." "Maybe I'm secretly vain." "Don't be stupid," Sherlock had snapped and then a pop-up on Sherlock's computer had appeared about a possible serial killer operating around Brighton. At that point, John could have spontaneously burst into flames and Sherlock wouldn't have noticed. He had felt like shouting, "Yes, I'm extremely vain. I stare at my thickening middle-age body in the mirror in the dead of night and hate myself." Which was a lie, but sometimes Sherlock's always being right is downright tiresome. John's months of being Sherlock's sidekick has had its financial benefits. He's on retainer with the police department now, a small one but it helps with the rent and cab fare, as his shifts in the clinic are hit and miss. Lestrade has started asking for his expertise as the ever-escalating gang-related slayings rock London; the Russian mafia is systematically trying to wipe out the Pakistani mafia in a bid for hegemony over the drug trade. Russian gangs are using the same weaponry as the Taliban. Probably bought from the same sources. Sherlock has no interest in gang-related violence--he refers to it as "uninspiring carnage" --and John attends these crime scenes by himself. It's not like the two of them ever go out for a pint in their free time, but over these last few months he and Lestrade have reached an understanding of sorts, a mutual respect. So when Sherlock orders Lestrade out of the room, John flashes Lestrade a minute smile in apology and he gets an amused roll of the eyes back. When Sherlock had said "entombed in his own garbage" he didn't think that even Sherlock knew to the extent that this was true. Small pathways had been carved out of stacks and stacks of newspapers. Whatever garbage that had accumulated was thrown over one of these walls of newspaper; the only light coming into the room is from a five inch by ten inch sliver of exposed window. The rest of the window is blocked by a mountain of empty soup cans. "John, your thoughts." Based on the lividity of the body, the man has been dead four days. Based on the temperature in this room, it is likely the man froze to death. It isn't the smell of rotting flesh that prompts the neighbors to call the authorities, but the constant mewing of six starving, freezing cats. Last week had seen record lows, and the body is fairly preserved. The cold has probably prevented the cats from eating him. As it is, it looked like they'd licked off his eyebrows. Small mercies. John rattles off these facts, which is fairly pointless because Sherlock is the world's foremost expert on lividity and, probably, freezing to death, but he doesn't say anything. Sherlock is staring at the violin. The man is laid out on his bed under a mountain of blankets and newspapers in a futile attempt to stay warm. The violin and bow are lying on his chest, and his arms are crossed, one over the other, as if he'd been hugging it. Maybe he had been. No doubt it had been the most precious thing in his life. "Save me from the world's idiots," hisses Sherlock. A staged cough interrupts John's intended reprimand. Mycroft is standing there, seemingly oblivious to the squalor. In his Savile Row suit, he looks as incongruous as a muddy footprint on a wedding cake. "Your sister, John." Fuck. It is February. The tenth. Their anniversary. She'd been lying to him. Had told him only last week that she had things under control, that she was, in fact, off the booze. Had licked it. Really. Was time. Didn't know why she didn't do this years ago. Surprisingly, the power of an original Stradivarius doesn't have as much claim on Sherlock's intellect as John's sister having a psychotic break in the middle of London. The words "---naked in Trafalgar Square" are barely out of Mycroft's mouth before John, Sherlock, and Lestrade are running for a police cruiser. With sirens blaring, they race through London at speeds so terrifying that if it weren't for the visual of Harry being physically subdued by baton-wielding cops, John would have been violently ill from sheer terror. As it is he keeps shouting at Lestrade to drive faster. The dispatchers on the police scanners are detailing the situation in cop-cromens: "IC1, white female, late thirties, blond, D and D, PGMS---" Before John can say anything Lestrade turns it off. Except for his exhortations for Lestrade to step on it, they are silent the entire way, the incessant whoopwhoop of the siren fortunately making any other conversation impossible. He doesn't need Sherlock's, "Alcohol-induced psychosis, obviously," to immediately deduce that his beautiful, brilliant, and completely potted sister is having one hell of a psychotic whing-ding, no doubt fueled by liters of gin. All the evidence he needs is right there. She's in Trafalgar Square, completely naked, and swinging a garden rake from side to side, successfully keeping the battery of police officers trying to capture her at bay. John indulges in a full second of incandescent rage at her and then it's gone. Because this is Harry. Strings have been most definitely pulled because the square has not only been cleared, but the surrounding area as well. He supposes that's Mycroft's sense of decency at play. Oddly enough it does make him feel better that only seventy percent of the Metropolitan police know what his sister looks like naked as opposed to the hundred thousand people who work and live around Trafalgar Square. The police are poised on the balls of their feet, as if they are just waiting for the word to take this bitch apart. String-pulling is too mild a word for it. When the news feed hits the television that night all four channels will have in-depth coverage of a naked woman who went berserk in Trafalgar Square that morning and tried to beat off the police with a garden rake. All of which is true. Except the face of this woman is not Harry, and at no point do John, Sherlock, or Lestrade appear on camera. John can't even fathom how this was done, but his gratitude is profound. She might actually keep her job. Later, when this is all over, he will try to thank Mycroft for that substantial bit of tap-dancing on their behalf; he will be tutted and his apology ignored. "You have no idea how much I owe you, John. I doubt that my debt will ever be paid." Harry is screaming obscenities at the police, using the rake to keep them back. Even so, they've cornered her near Nelson's statue. Apropro of nothing, John notices that all the pigeons have temporarily fled and flown away. "Harry," he says in a loud and what he's sure is a calm voice. Because without any effort John has moved into combat mode. He advances slowly, repeating her name. His hand is down by his side, moving back and forth in a discreet shooing-away gesture, hoping that Lestrade and Sherlock understand. He needs to do this alone. That they can't follow. "Harry, love," he calls yet again, making sure that there's much more of a West country drawl evident in his voice, a familiar drawl, a drawl that he's lost somewhere between university and Afghanistan. She lowers the rake. "Where were you?" Her voice is appropriately accusatory. The guilt he feels is nearly overwhelming but he doesn't let it stop him. He edges closer. "So sorry, love. A case. Some poor bugger froze to death, clutching a Stradivarius. A real one. At least Sherlock says it's real." "I'm cold, Johnny." "I know, my dear. Do you want my coat?" He's within five feet of her and inching closer and closer. "It's always so cold when he touches me," she screams. "His hands are so cold. No matter how much I beg, he never warms his hands." "I know." He's less than two feet away now. "I beg and beg him not to, and he never listens. I hate it when he touches me," she shouts. Of course she hadn't shouted at the time. She had whimpered and begged in a small voice not much above a whisper. Harry had had a lisp when she was wee, and sometimes when the wind screams through a gap between the wood and the window pane John fancies he hears her high-pitched voice begging, "Pwease." By this point, John is so close to her that he can see the blue tinge to her lips. Frozen tears and fresh tears cross her cheeks, and if he hadn't been in combat mode he would have started crying himself. Later, he tells himself. I'll cry later. "I know. Here, you're freezing. Take my jacket." She drops the rake but makes no effort to put on John's coat, and he has to thread her arms through the sleeves and work the zip himself. "Let me carry you. Your feet must be like blocks of ice. Put your arms around my neck, Harry. That's right, love, that's right. Now hold on tight. One. Two. Three. Up we go." And as if she were small child again, he lifts her into his arms and carries her across the square to a waiting ambulance. All the fight has gone out of her. She keeps her head tucked into the flat of his shoulder; her hair smells of gin. He chatters about the weather, how it's supposed to be warmer tomorrow. Even so, maybe they should look into taking a holiday to Florida. He's never been to the States. Her eyes never leave John's face as they strap her onto a stretcher. She doesn't even wince when they put an I.V. into her arm. Before the drugs pull her under she says, "Don't leave me." At John's request they take her to St. Bart's. In the ambulance he takes off his shoes and socks. The medic helps him put his socks on her feet and while John holds her feet in his hands to warm them, the paramedic placed warms packs all over her body. Afghanistan is brutally cold at night and he's become a reluctant expert on frostbite. He doesn't think she will lose any toes, but she's not wearing sandals for a few months. So much for that trip to the seaside. The ER doctor is sympathetic but brusque; he has three hearts, a compound fracture, and a possible meningitis in room four that he has to attend to. Harriet Watson is an open and shut case of alcohol-induced psychosis, obviously brought on by too much booze in too little time or a too-abrupt withdrawal. John thinks it's the former. The doctor concurs. Once they are confident that she doesn't have to have any toes amputated and isn't in danger of killing herself, then she'll need to dry out somewhere. There are several rehabs clinics the social worker can recommend. Will she need a slip for work? John is never sure whether it was Sarah who put a bug in someone's ear or yet again Mycroft's doing, but Harry is not confined to the psych ward. Much to John's relief, she's wheeled up to a private room. There are bars on the windows, so perhaps they have these rooms available for people with clout who go crazy. Courtesy of Mycroft or Lestrade, a burly looking nurse (either an MI5 agent or a police officer in scrubs) is sitting outside the door. She's wearing an ear piece and John is certain that there is a corresponding microphone in the room should Harry try anything. When John leaves, she'll move into the room itself. John sits there until she wakes up. Once her eyes focus he says immediately, "I'm sorry. So sorry." Because he should have spent the night and been with her all day and there is really no excuse. He hopes that her continuing silence is due to the fog of the anti-psychotic drugs flooding her system and not rage. Or psychosis. He curls his hand around hers and squeezes. She's so medded-up that she can't squeeze back. Or she's so angry at him that she refuses to acknowledge his gesture of affection. He stays until another round of anti-psych meds are administered and knock her out. Once the nurse assures him that she'll sleep until morning, he slips out the door and the police officer/MI5 agent slips in. Lestrade is the lobby/waiting room texting on his mobile. He's got John's coat on his lap. "Thanks, Greg." John doesn't know why, but today has propelled them to a first-name basis. At least in John's eyes. The ride to Baker Street is without sirens or fanfare or even stupid chit-chat. Thank God. "The lift. Oh, and my coat. Honestly, I don't even remember where I---" He doesn't bother to finish his sentence. "You left it in the ER. How is she?" "I think she'll keep all her toes. They have her on a bloody boatload of anti-psychotics and something to keep the DTs at bay until she's transferred to a rehab clinic. I need to---" The list of what he needs to do is growing by the second. First things first. He needs to contact Clara. Hopefully she and Harry aren't on the outs. She will know what clothes and toiletries to pack for Harry. If she and Harry are on the outs, he'll have to go over to the flat tonight and try to put together a week's worth of clothes. No, he won't. Even if they are on the outs, he'll take advantage of Clara's good nature and beg her to do this for him; he really doesn't see himself rifling through Harry's underwear. Then he must contact her supervisor regarding a personal leave and then call some rehab places. That "Promises" place isn't too bad. At least they'll let her smoke. Expensive though. "Well, a lot. I need to do a lot." "Right then, I'll be off." Lestrade hands him a small white bag. "It's a sandwich. Got it from the hospital canteen so it's nearly inedible, but it will fill the hole. I don't imagine there's any food in that flat." He gives their front window a dismissive glance. "No, not last time I looked. Thank you." He's halfway out of the car before he stops. "Today. At the square. Thank you for that, too." "Can't take any credit for that. Mr. Holmes' bailiwick. Imagine if those two weren't at each other's throats all the time. If they joined forces they'd be as scary as all get out. I'd seriously consider emigrating to Canada. Can you imagine those two as kids?" John musters up enough energy to say, "What a horrifying thought." He can still hear Lestrade laughing as he slams the car door shut. Has he ever been this tired? He sits on the stoop to eat his sandwich and manages to finish most of it before being shooed upstairs by Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is clicking away on his laptop and doesn't bother to look up when John enters the room. "That Clara called. One of Mycroft's minions phoned her. Says she'll take some toiletries and whatnot over to the hospital. She also says turn on your mobile because she's going to call back in an hour." He takes his mobile out of his pocket to turn it on and notices that it's not off but dead. Fumbling with the charger, he drops the phone several times before actually getting the little fork into the proper slot. The phone lights up and immediately his mailbox shows fifty-five voice mails and ninety-four text messages. The text messages are all from Harry; he assumes the voice messages are too. The kitchen table is more or less clear of whatever is fascinating Sherlock that week. Part of that day's newspaper is strewn across the top, looking worse for wear. Sherlock doesn't read newspapers so much as throttle them. The pages with nothing of interest are balled up and thrown on the floor. John kicks a few of these wadded up balls of paper out of the way and sits down. He'd like a cup of tea but doesn't have the energy to make one himself. He could ask Sherlock to make him one, but doesn't even have the energy to ask him. Of course, what he'd really like is a stiff drink, but that seems obscene in light of today's events. "Did Clara say anything else?" Sherlock types for a few seconds more and then finally looks up. "She might have done. You know I can't listen to that woman for more than two minutes at a stretch." Sherlock dislikes stupid people on principal and is always particularly vicious to Clara whenever he's forced to interact with her. Fortunately, his remarks are usually obscure enough that she doesn't understand that he's constantly insulting her. John has tried to defend her against Sherlock's condescending comments on numerous occasions, but the truth is that she's not very bright, as evidenced by her relationship with Harry. He knows that his role here as Harry's brother is to try and convince Clara to overlook Harry's faults, but he does the opposite. He's always encouraging Clara to leave his sister because no one should put up with that sort of nonsense. John has come to the conclusion that Harry purposely alienates Clara so that Clara will resort to bigger and more elaborate displays of affection in an attempt to keep them together. He's not sure whether this is calculated or just pathological on Harry's part, but Clara is not that dumb. At some point, she will leave Harry for good, and Harry will be devastated. Conversely, Harry might need Clara's continued devotion but every time Clara returns, Harry respect for her decreases a notch or two. No matter what happens, the end will be grim. Not for the first time does John wish he had as much insight into his own relationships as he does his sister's. By this point a normal person would have asked about Harry, but then Sherlock isn't normal. "What do you know about addiction?" "That some monkeys, regardless, will keep pulling the lever for more cocaine. They would rather die of exhaustion than face the idea that they will never get another hit off the crack pipe." "Is this supposed to make me feel better?" John doesn't wait for an answer. "Where did you grow up, Sherlock?" "Cheshire. What a revolting hellhole. Mycroft likes it, but then in another age he would have been a country squire." Sherlock says this with such a degree of contempt that you'd have thought that Mycroft's love of Cheshire's hills and dales was akin to his harboring a secret fancy to be Margaret Thatcher's love slave. "Yes, I imagine its pastoral delights would be lost on you." John fixes his eyes on a series of bullet holes, the remnants of an experiment Sherlock conducted during that case of the blindfolded man, the apple, and the Glock. "I grew up in Hampshire. Farnham, actually. My father was also a doctor. A pediatrician. We were fairly well off. Of course as a child you don't understand what well off is juxtaposed to not well off, but I remember we had two cars and a fair bit of land around the house. Which wasn't anything special. Some third-rate architect's vision of a Tudor mansion but with a suburban sensibility. Had a conservatory and a bunch of bedrooms. Large house. Fitting for an up-and-coming doctor and his pretty wife, and their two adorable children. The daughter was especially beautiful. She took after the mother." John noticed that the typing had stopped. He must talk to Mrs. Hudson about getting a hearing aid. She had the volume turned up so loud that he could actually make out what the people on the telly were saying. "He'd molest her on Saturday afternoons. Unlike a lot of the husbands among their set of friends, he encouraged his wife to take it easy on Saturdays afternoons. Have her nails done. Stop by Sally's and have a cup of tea on her way home from the hairdresser. Wish I had a fiver for all the times that I heard her say how lucky she was; I'd be a millionaire. He even did the laundry. Harry and I are only twelve months apart; it was probably the only time during the week she had a bit of time to herself. "Do you think Mrs. Hudson's going deaf? Anyway, I think he started on her when she was six. I'm not sure. I do know that at first it was her little secret with Daddy and then it was Daddy and Harry and Johnny's little secret from Mommy. Because eventually Harry told me. Told me what Daddy did. And how she didn't like it. How it frightened her but Daddy told her it was all right. Their special time together. When I confronted my father and asked him to stop, that Harry didn't like it, he told me that there were lots of things children didn't like to do, but that adults knew better. I believed him until the day I put my ear up to the keyhole of Harry's bedroom door and I heard her begging and pleading that she didn't want his hands there. She didn't want to put her hands there. He ignored her and in between giving her orders, he kept telling her how much he loved her. When he was done and opened the door, I could hear her sobbing into her pillow. As he stepped onto the landing, he was tucking his shirt into his pants. I've always been a bit brawny. Take after him that way. Harry's room was at the top of the stairs. At ten I was a little pudgy and quite strong. I shoved him down the staircase. Because he had his hands down his pants, he couldn't break his fall. Perverted bastard fell head over heels and broke his neck. "God, I could fancy a cup of tea. Anyway, that's why Harry and I are so awful to each other. She can never forgive me for not stopping him, I can't forgive her for not begging hard enough, and neither of us can forgive me for killing him." That is probably John's worse offense. Because in between all those "No, Daddy, stop," there were an equal number of "I love you, too, Daddy." "If I go to hell for this, I will use Harry's voice begging him to stop as my defense." John pulls his eyes away from the bullet holes and notices that there's a cup of tea in front of him. And it has gotten dark outside. Why hasn't Clara called, he wonders. Oh, his eyes hurt; he really doesn't need a migraine right now. As if on cue, his phone chirps and it's Clara. Yes, Harry's still out like a light. Clara's going to spend the night there. If they had been on the outs, they weren't now. Has a doctor examined her feet? Yes, they seem to be okay. Has John called Harry's supervisor and what about rehab facilities? Does he have anything lined up yet? They are looking to discharge her tomorrow before she goes into the DTs. John promises to call Harry's supervisor first thing in the morning and some rehab places second thing. He'll take care of it. He thanks Clara for being so super about all this, signs off, and then throws his mobile against the wall. "Today is the anniversary of his death. We always spend the day together and usually the night beforehand. Even when I was in the army somehow we managed. I took a short leave or she flew to wherever I was posted. Except this year I didn't. Last night I was arguing with you about actually sitting down and having a meal. And then we were arguing about how if in the miraculous event you might actually be hungry, we couldn't sit down and have a meal because you wanted to use the kitchen table to dissect a pig. And then I went to bed in a huff and completely forgot that I had had a dinner date with Harry. While I lay there stewing about what a totally irritating bastard you are and how you're absolutely impossible to live with, Harry was drinking herself into a right old psychosis." Sherlock's never gets angry when he should and becomes enraged over the smallest things. Even though a part of John knows that this is monstrously unfair, he doesn't care. "This is not about me, John," Sherlock says in a cool voice. John starts laughing. Later he will realize that this was actually nothing more than controlled hysterics, but at the time it merely seemed funny. "It's always about you, Sherlock. Always!" Sherlock closes his laptop and pauses, as if debating whether or not to say something. "You didn't kill your father." "Beg your pardon." John isn't sure he heard correctly. "You didn't kill your father. You only think you did. The police report says that your mother came home that afternoon just in time to see your father slip and fall down the stairs." John has been outraged on other peoples' behalf at Sherlock's lack of boundaries, but he's never been worried too much about his own. Until now. This is a violation of the first order. "You hacked into the police report?" "Yes, of course. I heard what Harry said and it was self-explanatory. I was curious if there was a police report." "Curious." John sounds calm to his own ears but his rage is escalating so quickly that it does feel like his blood is literally about to boil. "I knew you grew up in Hampshire. I wasn't sure there was anything to find, frankly. Most child molesters get away with it. It took me longer than I expected to locate the file. Watson is a fairly common name." "Sorry about that." Sherlock is like a human laser. All that intellectual power on high beam. Unfortunately, when you shine a bright light on something, then everything else around it fades into the dark. So engrossed in his sleuthing, he doesn't hear the dangerous note in John's voice. The edge. The anger. John needs to get up and walk out the door. Just leave for a couple of hours. Maybe check into a hotel. Or stay at Harry's place for a couple of days. He is pushing his chair away from the table when Sherlock says in a nonchalant voice, "You might have wanted him dead, which sounds perfectly justifiable in my opinion, but thinking murder isn't a crime. I want to kill Mycroft an average of four times a year." All thoughts of escaping his anger vanish. This so enrages him that he lunges out of his chair and throws a wild punch at Sherlock. His shin smashes into the coffee table and the thin skin along the bone rips open. He feels the knuckles in his right hand seize up in pain as he connects with the hard bone of Sherlock's cheek. The weight of his punch causes him to collide into Sherlock and the two of them fall back onto the couch in a heap. The act of throwing that punch bleeds John dry. He is no longer angry. So ashamed of himself, he bursts into tears. Sherlock manages to untangle himself from beneath John, and ignoring John's sobbing, he hustles him into the bathroom. He wraps John's hand (they might not have a moldy end of bread in the house but they are always well-stocked with first-aid supplies) and kneels to dress his shin. John finally stops crying and looks down at Sherlock using a handful of butterfly bandages to seal his cut closed. He should get a cab and go to the ER, but he can't be arsed. Sherlock's eye is already puffed closed. "You need to put ice on that. Your eye, I mean." Sherlock looks up. "In a minute. You're nearly done." John will look back on this as the defining moment in their relationship. As irritating, limited, arrogant, and insufferable as Sherlock Holmes is, he will accept a black eye from John Watson. Maybe he isn't that different from Clara, and maybe Sherlock isn't that different from Harry. Running a thumb over the cheek that isn't bruised, he traces Sherlock's sharply defined jaw line. Runs his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip. "John, I don't--" "I know. I don't either. Really, I don't. But I need this. Tonight. I won't ever ask you again. I won't ever expect anything out of you again. Just tonight it needs to be about me. Just this once." Sherlock stands up and leaves the bathroom, and he doesn't realize that Sherlock has agreed until he hears the wheeze of the bedsprings of his old mattress, as if someone has sat down on it. John follows as quickly as he can because he's really done a number on his shin. A killing throb every time he puts weight on his leg reminds him of how stupid he's being; he should really go to the ER and get it stitched up properly. Sherlock is already undressed and under the covers by the time John limps into the room. Taking off his clothes basically one-handed is something of a bitch but he manages and climbs in. He's not even sure he wants sex with Sherlock; he just knows that if he is alone one more minute something will break in him and that it will be permanent. A scar from one end of his soul to the other. Before John even lays a hand on him, Sherlock says in his usual take-no-prisoners tone, "I'm very bad at this. And I hate being bad at anything. Most of the time I don't see the point." He can well imagine that in Sherlock's world that passion without an accompanying intellectual tether would be inexplicable. People think he's a cold fish, but he's not really. In fact, he's one of the most passionate people John's ever met, if one can actually say that about someone whose emotional highs are limited to points on a logic tree. "I know. But this time there's a point even if I can't articulate it." And because this night is about scars, about his scars and Harry's scars and how they can barely manage their own but have taken on each other's as well, he starts with Sherlock's scars. At first his touch is clinical. After all, John is a doctor and he can't help but note the number of scars crisscrossing and dotting Sherlock's body. Some of them are very old. Sherlock's current practice of using his body as his own personal guinea pig must date back to when he was a child. This helps, actually, lulling Sherlock into a sort of bored acceptance of what is happening. He starts at Sherlock's back, mapping out the scars, starting at one end and moving a fingertip across the raised ridge of skin. As he moves down, his touch gradually eases from the clinical to the personal, and Sherlock gradually eases from indifferent to aroused. A monster of vanity in most regards, Sherlock is thoroughly cavalier about his physical beauty. As John kisses the scar on Sherlock's left knee, runs a tongue over the ridge on the back of his wrist, and kisses the puncture wound on his right shoulder, John is gob-smacked at how he could have lived with this man day in and day out for months and not realize how gorgeous he is. Teeth and a hot mouth worries Sherlock's left nipple and he comes. John moves into the wet on Sherlock's stomach in a slow back and forth. He's not even sure he can come from this. When he does fall over it's a surprise, a slow and languid release. As if he were having an orgasm in slow motion. John half expects Sherlock to get up and go to his own room, but he doesn't. He steals most of the blankets and all of the pillow, and settles his body. "Thank you, Sherlock." "Mycroft texted me the name of someone who can help Harry. Small place, exclusive. The mucky-mucks are sent there. This woman has a relatively high success rate. Located up in Yorkshire." John starts laughing because Sherlock can't help but sneer when he says 'Yorkshire.' Harry is what is known as a high-functioning alcoholic. The amount of money she makes for her company on a yearly basis is truly disgusting, and they grant her a six-month leave of absence, no questions asked. It's as if Trafalgar Square never happened. The cost of this secret rehab facility is never discussed, and it's either paid for out of one of Mycroft's government slush funds or he's footing the bill personally. John is not allowed to drop her off--it's that secret--but he loads her and her luggage into the private touring car that Mycroft's hired, and for the first time in his life tells her that he loves her. She doesn't say it back, but then she has much more to forgive. He doesn't quite know what he and Sherlock are doing. They don't talk about it. When Sherlock actually sleeps they share a bed. Regardless, they have sex on a fairly regular basis. Less often when they are on a case, more often if Sherlock is bored. Largely hand jobs and the occasional blow job if they've had a couple of pints, it's what John calls straight man gay sex. It's only mildly physically satisfying, but emotionally quite fulfilling. Since most people consider Sherlock an emotional vacuum, John finds this privately hilarious. Slowly but surely it's getting better or they are getting braver. Overtones of an S&M dynamic are beginning to creep in; he imagines that their safe words will be "yes" and "no." John supposes this makes sense as he most definitely needs to punish, but why Sherlock would want to be punished remains a mystery. To his mind in order for you to crave pain, then you have to be conscious of how to inflict it, and, as Sherlock has noted himself, his cruelty is that of the sociopath. Whatever. Far be it from him to second guess Sherlock Holmes. It might be simply that Sherlock finds John's desire to punish fascinating, and he's more than willing to discover what it's like to be the "M" to John's "S". Maybe it's that simple. Maybe. Everyone has secrets, and every now and then a secret gets told. More often than not they don't. You can't be in a room with Mycroft and Sherlock for more than three minutes and not know there are secrets. At a recent crime scene Sherlock solves the case in two minutes flat, a world record. He is so disgusted at this turn of events that he has a temper tantrum and stalks off, catches a cab, and leaves John behind. It isn't the first time and John knows it won't be the last. He and Lestrade trade ironic grins. "Need a lift, John? Tanner will be free in a minute." "Thanks. Gave my last fiver to Sherlock to pay for the cab ride out here. Say, Greg, thank you." "Not like I'm giving you the lift," notes Lestrade. "Tanner lives not far from you two." "No, I mean, changing the file. You did, didn't you? Change the file." It wouldn't have taken more than ten minutes. Most records have been scanned and computerized by now. Changing the testimony of a ten-year old boy who'd said his father had slipped down the stairs to the wife saying the exact same thing would have been a piece of cake. So would have eliminating the bit about the police finding a man with a broken neck lying at the bottom of the stairs with his hands still shoved down his pants, and the nine-year old girl with semen stains all over her sheets. "Have a sister. A father too. Tanner, get your arse over here. I need you to give Dr. Watson a ride back to Baker Street." Fin

One week, three days since the Enterprise departed, and Christopher Pike finds himself in one of the worst emotional states of his life. That's what you get for breaking your personal rules, he thinks, settling on his small balcony with a beer, looking over the city. They've been there for a reason, his lines of defense to ensure that there would be not another situation like ten years ago, where he opened himself up to a ridiculous degree and then got his shredded heart back on a platter. A bunch of rules all set up to make sure there would be no second Alain. Now he's let Kirk and McCoy walk into his life, his my-home-is-my-castle apartment, his never-fucked-in bed and every private spot he has. They don't need to know everything about him – they are deeply enough under his skin by now to cause the same havoc, if they want to, and it's his own fault for letting them in. Something special. Damn Jim for stealing his line and using it against him. They have something special for sure. Of the two weeks the Enterprise had been on Earth, the two officers stayed in his apartment for four days, then left for some family meetings and Enterprise arrangements only to return for another three days. In the end, their schedule had been hurried so they hadn't been able to say good-bye properly, only leave a hand-written note on his table saying that they'd keep in touch. It had been a very special time, but it had also been strange. Not the sex per se – there is nothing strange about sex, no matter the variety. Even with three, there is a limit to places and positions, and they've probably permuted through most of the possible combinations in his apartment. (And the car. And the restroom in that French restaurant, but it almost didn't count as sex. Almost.) What's strange, though, are all the side effects the two have on him. Most of the time they'd been in San Francisco, Kirk and McCoy had been absorbed in meetings, talks, lunches, and dinners with other Starfleet officers until late at night. Sometimes Pike had seen one or both of them at the same reception, or sat at a table nearby. Then he'd sneaked glances at them, watching the way they behaved in a professional surrounding. They are both perfectly able to follow all the unwritten rules of conversation in a multi-species surrounding. Kirk is charming, witty, the perfect flirt with the feared admirals' wives, always well-informed and more opinionated than he let on. McCoy is more of a listener than an active participant in discussions, unless they hit a theme that touches him deeply, like rescue efforts or politics about an ongoing war and the question of whether the Federation should interfere, in which case nobody is left with any doubts about the doctor's heartfelt opinion. Although nobody could miss the vibe of old colleagues between the men, nobody would've thought they were a couple either, and if they'd ever sneaked a glance back at Pike at any official gathering, he hasn't noticed. It had evoked a surprisingly painful feeling of being ignored by them. Of course, they greeted each other and spoke amicably at the few receptions where their ways crossed, but they'd never let on in public that they know him on a more than friendly basis, or that when the receptions were over, they'd driven to his apartment and screwed each other's brains out all night. He should thank them for their self-control, because he likes his private life to stay out of the rumor mill. He still wouldn't have minded seeing them a little less detached. Sometimes he wonders if he's been dreaming all of this, if these nights really happened. There isn't much hard evidence. Just a shirt of Jim's that has survived the departure forgotten in a corner and is now sitting on a shelf, freshly washed and waiting for the return of its owner, and that small white plush teddy with a heart pendant around its neck that McCoy had bought for him when they'd walked through "Disney Galaxy" one Sunday. Really, it's the sappiest gift Pike has received ever since his twelfth birthday, but it sits on the same shelf next to Jim's shirt. Pike thinks that he is coming dangerously close to the category of "love-struck old fool" by now. Which brings him back to the thing with Alain, the last man for whom he'd thrown his rules (fewer, but still) overboard. * Alain was everything Pike wasn't. Without a sarcastic bone in his body, Alain was like fresh water and sunlight. He had the air of a surfer boy around him and the body of one too: green eyes, long blond hair, and tanned skin. Alain was in the media business, not in Starfleet - he didn't even like the 'fleet and never made a secret of that, taunting Pike when he was stuck in his habits and liked his normal days well-planned, his time-tables sorted. They met when Pike took a break from starship duty on the insistence of his superiors, who wanted to pave him the way into a future career in the recruitment department and demanded he'd stay on Earth for a while. It didn't feel like a good decision at first, but getting to know Alain changed everything. Alain sang godawfully loud in the shower and spread his extensive toiletry (which included care products Pike hadn't even heard of before) all over the place once he moved in without much ado. He messed with the holy order of Pike's small, clean apartment, where every piece of laundry had its spot, perfectly folded and aligned, by putting his colorful shorts and shirts randomly into the piles. He tested and tried every kink there was on Earth and came up with a few more on the way, playful and smiling and just so much in tune with himself and the universe that Pike felt as if he'd been stuck in a cage before that, and was only now able to breathe freely. With Alain, he didn't care if anyone saw them together. He'd been out to his friends since the academy, but he'd never seen a reason to flaunt his sexuality in the face of the world. Hand in hand in Alain he walked out of the closet he'd still been living in, kissing in public, making no secret about the fact that the man at his side wasn't just a friend but his lover, no longer flinching apart when he met a colleague or a neighbor. He started to outgrow all the concerns that had held him back from living like he really wanted to, thoughts of what the world would make of him if they saw the Christopher Pike that wasn't distanced, cool and in full control of his emotions, the man that wasn't working day and night. At times, he thought about the future. Alain didn't fit into the 'fleet world and wouldn't want to become a captain's stay-behind wife. Even though they were as committed as two people with a tendency towards non-monogamy could be, months-long fidelity was out. It was the first time in his life that Pike considered leaving Starfleet. There were many places a man like him could go to, many companies looking for the expertise and professional skills of captains, be it for Earth-bound jobs or for captaining their commercial spaceships. The pay was great, the working conditions better than in the 'fleet. Once Pike started to drop hints that he might consider taking such a step, employment offers came in. Although he was forty-two, age wasn't an issue; if anything, companies were more interested once they saw his résumé. He had a few interviews, began making serious plans that didn't involve Starfleet. He didn't inform Alain about these plans right away; he wanted to wait to surprise him on their first anniversary. They'd planned to take a week off together to spend it in Hawaii; the hotel reservation was done, the flights booked. It would be the perfect moment to bring up Pike's plans for the future. Then two days before the vacation, Alain called him from work and cancelled it, blaming a business trip for some media campaign he was forced to undertake. Pike was a little disappointed, but didn't think about it twice. Things like these were bound to happen when both partners worked. Alain returned five days later, and with him the usual chaos into the just cleaned apartment. There was still the smell of beach and sunlight around him, but once in a while Pike caught a glimpse of something different, something serious that lingered beneath the surface. When Pike finally got around to sharing his plans with Alain over a romantic dinner at the hippest restaurant this side of the city, Alain didn't exactly jump at the idea of Pike leaving the 'fleet, arguing that it was basically his entire life and that he'd probably die of boredom once he didn't have to deal with 'fleet paperwork anymore. "If you keep talking like that, I might think you don't want me to stay on Earth," Pike joked after he'd listened to Alain for a while. The joke died as he looked into Alain's eyes, those open, brilliantly green eyes that couldn't hide a thing, and realized that Alain really didn't want him to stay. All the ease Pike had developed over the last year ran out of him like color washed off by rain. "Why?" he asked. "I've met a woman," Alain started, and Pike's stomach turned into a lump. He'd always known Alain identified as bisexual, but he hadn't cared. It didn't really matter if the partner left for someone of the same or a different gender, he'd argued whenever some well-meaning friends had uttered some clichéd warnings. "She's working in the same company as I do. I've actually known her from a distance for a few years now, but we didn't have sex until, well – the business trip." "I see," Pike said for lack of a better comment, still waiting for the point of it all. "She wants to have a relationship with me, the full program. Marriage and children and all." "Children," Pike repeated blankly. "Didn't think that was ever an issue for you." "It wasn't before," Alain admitted. "But I'm not getting any younger, and she's a wonderful woman. I think we can make it really work; I can imagine myself raising kids with her." Was there another way to get so monumentally defeated? Pike wondered. He'd never given a thought to having a traditional family, though maybe he would have if Alain had at least given him a chance to rethink priorities. But it was clear that while Alain wanted to have that kind of family, it was not even an option that it would be with him. He wasn't the right person; he possibly didn't have the right sex either, which would've forced them through a lengthy, costly procedure of alternative methods or go for an adoption - and taking in Alain's expression when he spoke about having kids, adoption wouldn't be enough anyway. "When would you have told me?" Alain averted his gaze. "I thought that you'd be on a mission again soon, and with the distance, well, things would've been easier for both of us." Pike nodded. He turned his head and looked out over the city at night, the stars barely visible from its light pollution. Took a sip from the white wine gone warm, stared down at the half-eaten plate of a first-class dish he wouldn't finish. He paid for the meals, drove them back, watched Alain collect his things (and for once, Alain was neat and didn't overlook any of his belongings) and at last opened the door for him. "I'm really sorry, Chris," Alain said, suddenly looking ten years older, the face weathered, the shine less bright. "I'm sorry, too," Pike replied, then closed the door in his face. He went out on another two-year mission a week later, as a last-minute substitution for a captain with acute burn-out syndrome. Starfleet was extremely relieved about his quick decision and generously paid for his apartment and some extras over the full trip. When he returned, people had long since forgotten the surprising breakup, and only his most intimates friends, like Natasha and John, ever had the heart to bring up Alain again. After that, it was either sex with friends he cared for but didn't love (like Dan) or short-lived affairs that ended before the participants qualified for crossing the threshold of his apartment, and he had fared well with this method for eight years. * Now it's back to square one, Pike thinks and takes a sip of his beer, trying to purge the phantom taste of wine from the night Alain left. Back to the point where he walks into his apartment thinking of a lover, even two now, and where his bed reminds him of nights spent in company. While Kirk and McCoy have the same service-taught tidiness that he has, a t-shirt and an incredibly kitschy teddy bear are silent witnesses to his breaking of rules. Nothing exclusive, Jim has said. Of course, anything else would be stupid for such a long-range – well, what? Relationship? Pike rolls the word over his tongue and discards it. He has no clue what exactly they have, just that it defies definition. Great, Admiral, you got it even worse than in the past; at least you thought you knew back then what you were risking your heart for. He could call them, pay for a real-time transmission. He wonders if he'd disrupt them during sex and, if he did so, wonders if they'd stop, make him listen, or even participate somehow. He drops the rather arousing thought as he empties his beer and gives the city a last glance-over before walking inside. It's late; he'd have a full day tomorrow and should hit bed. It's just an awfully empty bed. In every B-class movie, there'd be a call from them now, but his console stays quiet. With a sigh, Pike undresses and slips under the thin blanket. It's fresh, not a trace of their smell on it – which is a good thing, considering what they'd done most of the time. It still evokes a feeling of loneliness – there, you said it, now you're doomed, his inner voice admonishes him. With a groan he gets up again and snatches Jim's fresh t-shirt, pulling it on. 'Go climb a rock' is written on its front, but Pike knows it's wishful thinking. Jim frequently complains about not having made it to actual rocks yet, only exercising on the Enterprise's climbing wall so far, which is probably better for the doc's mood. As Pike isn't into rocks at all – in fact, he's into sports only as a measure of staying fit, not as a fun hobby – he doesn't take the message personally. However, when he thinks of his life right now, maybe it simply means he should deal with the rough, steep, emotional stuff thrown in his way. "Don't even think of it," he addresses the teddy bear coolly. It stares at him, mocking him with the ridiculous heart on its stuffed chest. Really, he's losing it. He goes back to bed, ordering the lights off. What the heck. If they don't call him, he'd call them tomorrow. * Of course he doesn't call them the next day, or the day after that. Instead, he rationally decides that he isn't the kind of man to let an encounter take over his world, even if it had been seven nights of hot sex with people that have become important to him. He cleans the t-shirt again, then stows it into a closet with the teddy bear, out of sight. If they call, it would be welcome – if they don't, it would be alright too. He has no special privileges, and he knows how insanely busy starship duty could be for the senior officers. (He also knows how boring it can be, but the Enterprise often works like a trouble magnet.) He invites Natasha for the weekend to visit his parents' former ranch in Mojave with him, where Pike is still a welcome visitor whenever he wants to take a ride. They depart early on Friday, and he determinedly leaves every communication device at home, not in the mood to let Starfleet interfere with his getaway trip. As if planned for them, there's a large barbecue on Friday evening. There is lots of alcohol on top of beans and half-done steaks. Pike is drunker on bourbon than he has been for years and damn, it feels good. Nat is drunk too, and she's having fun leaning over and whispering to him about the gorgeous ass of this or that man. She seems to think he needs to get laid to get his mind off certain people, and he's a bit annoyed when she gets too obvious about trying to hook him up. He doesn't need it that bad, does he? Maybe he does, because he leaves the gathering only an hour later, with a guy with a cowboy hat. Once they're both around the corner, the drunken groping starts right away. It's almost dark, the air smells of burning wood and late summer, and there are stars all over the sky. They tumble into a nearby barn, and it seems empty as they look for a good spot between open-mouthed kisses, hands roughly undoing flies. Pike's hungry for action, his fingers quickly working on the other guy's hard-on. The guy's young and strong, farm boy quality, and he's moving Pike's pants down his hips and pushing him back onto a pile of straw. Not that, Pike thinks and resists, digging his fingers into the guy's shoulders and bringing him down with a knowing pressure on nerve points. The guy utters a rough laugh, adding something like fine by me, and gives in. He takes Pike's dick into his mouth, deep-throats him without hesitation. It's so dark, all moving shadows as Pike looks down at the guy. His hands are lacing into short hair, adjusting the movements to his will, riding the mouth. The guy's good but Pike's not as hard as he could be, something's missing. It's only when he thinks of the doc and Jim that his groin explodes. Shit. He pushes the guy away, murmuring, "Want to fuck you." He gets only a movement in response as the guy withdraws and leans over the haystack. Pike gets behind him, shoves down the guy's jeans, palms the ass, thinks of the doc, thinks of Jim, thinks of the beach trip they'd made and how he needs to bring them up here. He gets out the lube, probes with one finger. The guy's used to things up his ass, and he does just that, gets his dick deep into the well-trained hole without much preamble. He shoves the guy against the haystack with every push, digging his hands hard into the guy's hips. Remembers Jim's moans as the guy under him whimpers, fucks him hard against the prostate as he'd do Jim, soon making the guy come over the straw. He follows swiftly, grabbing the guy's hair and pulling his head back as he rides out his orgasm. At last he pulls out, trying to get his things together, and shares a few words with the guy before the man leaves him. There's no need for even exchanging names; they've gotten what they wanted. Pike remains sitting on the straw for a little while, then finally makes it out, his legs trembling a little from the alcohol, the fuck, and maybe the realization that 'nothing exclusive' might be a great label, but it isn't a decision made by his higher brain functions. The group around the dying grill is small now, and Nat's nowhere to be seen. He hopes she's having a good time and awkwardly sits down, helping himself to more bourbon and getting lost until the early morning hours. The hangover is brutal, but they're ready for a ride in the late afternoon, high on pain pills and some semi-legal detox that the farmer has around. Natasha showed up at noon, and now keeps shifting around in the saddle, confusing the horse. Pike doesn't comment on it, because the last thing he needs right now is an in-depth conversation about their activities of last night. Or his complete failure at making his brain go non-exclusive. There's another barbecue in the neighborhood and Nat's going to attend. Seems there's a second date in for her, but Pike doesn't feel up to another ride with a cowboy. He spends the evening in the stables, working until he's sweaty and tired, and when the farmer's daughter comes back in late with her stallion, he helps with the cleaning and grooming. They talk a little, about the farm and all the work that's in it, and it's so far away from his 'fleet life that it could be another planet, another galaxy. The next morning, Nat calls him to say that she'd like to spend the day with Robert, and asks if he's got anything against it. He's fine and goes on a ride by himself, getting lost in the feel of nature, the heat of the desert and the smell of sand. They need to leave in the evening but they're both unwilling. There's that guy called Robert and Pike faintly remembers him as they shake hands - looks good, looks serious, could hold a drink, fine by him. They exchange a few words but mostly it's Nat talking, like a swirling bird. He hasn't seen her so cheerful in some time, and obviously she needed a lay much more than he did. Finally they depart, and Nat's doing the driving while he nods off, his head against the side window, his confused dreams full of sex. She delivers herself to her doorstep, and he drives the last kilometers, looking forward to hitting the mattress. Once he's at home, he's too wound-up for it. He spends an hour stowing things away, moving dirty clothes into the wash, having another drink (bourbon is only half the fun drunk alone) and then gives up. The console flickers awake when he drops into the chair in front of it. If they don't call him, he'll call them, and they had better live with that, or he's going to put everything on a damn hold, because otherwise he might just go crazy over this. Then the console is fully on, and the only thing he sees is the blinking one-line headline of the internal news – "Enterprise - contact lost since stardate 1223.8". It's nothing unusual; sometimes ships go to radio-silence or are in an area of impeded transmission. It's happened before, even with the Enterprise, and it's simply regulation that after forty-eight hours of no contact between SF command or its relay stations and a ship, the alert would be issued. But hell if it doesn't make Pike feel like an idiot for wallowing in self-pity while they are out there and possibly fighting for their life. In space, the top priority of a captain is the ship and its crew, not something - or someone - left at home. He gets up, picking up his communicator. There's already a message from Barnett, to whom the Enterprise officially reports – it had been pure chance that Pike held that one meeting with them, substituting for Barnett who'd called in sick that day. Considering all events, it's good they aren't his direct subordinates, Pike thinks. He reads the message, just one acronym – "RTHQ" – report to headquarters, and he's instantly on his way. * The next day, the tactical center of HQ is full of activity, but in a subdued, hushed way. The Enterprise is still missing and there's no new information. She's been on a cartography mission in a sector yet unmapped by the Federation, popularly called the Jewel Sector for its arrangement of stars that look like a diamond collar. The sector's not close to Romulan or Klingon space, and the Enterprise reported no problems before her sudden vanishing. Pike has taken short breaks, but never long enough to go home. He's following the incoming reports obsessively, trying to reach some information sources of his own. He even goes as far as calling his old friend John Farnham. "Hello Christopher," Farnham says when he finally reaches him, "haven't heard from you in a long time." "Yes. Sorry for that," Pike says, not above lying. "I doubt you are. Well, at least I saw you in your club, with George's son and his doctor. Handsome guys, aren't they? Must be hard on you, not knowing anything about their fate." "Yes, it is. And I wondered if you know something the Enterprise's whereabouts that we don't know." "Why would I know anything?" Farnham asks, the smirk deep enough to be audible. "Because you're working for Fed intelligence." "Am I? I'm sure I never said so." "I'm not deaf, dumb or blind." "You were rather blind to your surroundings when you got all the way into the pants of the doctor while dancing. Could've stolen your credits if I had wanted to." "Do you know more than we do, John?" Pike asks, ignoring the snide remark. "Because if you do, this would be a good moment to release the information." "If I knew anything, don't you think I'd tell you?" "No, because you'd rather I call you and ask for it." "Well," Farnham says, definitely amused, "that might be true. Though in that case, you should work a little more for it. You know, beg a little." "Remember that it's my club you prefer to hang around, because it's clean, full of hot guys, and you've got eternal credit at the bar," Pike says coldly. "Right. I tend to forget it's yours, because it fits so little with uptight Christopher Pike that I can never really wrap my mind around it. It's Alain's doing, loosening you up a little." "We're talking about the Enterprise, John." "And I like to talk about Alain. Do you know he's got two sons by now? The older one wants to attend Starfleet academy in the future. Isn't that an amusing quirk of fate? I can tell you, Alain's not pleased." "Why would you track someone like Alain?" Pike asks incredulously. "Because I can?" Pike rubs his neck, wondering if Farnham's gone a little crazy; it's more likely though that this kind of nuts simply comes with working for intelligence. He knows why he's said 'no' the few times he's been offered that kind of job. "The Enterprise, John." "The Enterprise, right. Maybe I'll have something for you. No promises, though." "You never promise anything." "Just wanted to make sure you remember." "I only remember why I hate to call you," Pike says darkly. "The love of old friends." Farnham laughs. "Bye-bye, sweetheart." He closes the line, leaving Pike strangely unsettled. There were two kinds of old friends, those that have grown on you, that you really like to spend your time with, and the others that you're stuck with, who know too much about you and cross your path more than you want. John definitely belongs to the second category, and he'd be damned before calling that ass again anytime soon. If he can help it. Four hours later, they receive news about a mysterious ship that has been monitored in the same sector the Enterprise was last seen in. Pike doesn't know if it had been his call or the call of anyone else, and he would never know. He's likely not the only admiral with contacts to other sources of information, and he's not even part of some of the inner circles the city has, old Federation legacies like the Forresters and Archers and Aprils. But all that matters now is that they have something new, however meager. The few images are blurred and almost look faked, but are reported to be from a trusted source. Pike is at thirty-six hours without a good sleep, and wonders if he's going to start seeing white rabbits if he keeps staring on the screen with the image. Cubic ships? Only robots would build a ship like that. * Another ten hours pass without new results. The Antares has reached the sector, but has found no traces of the Enterprise or the mysterious ship so far. Needles in a galactic haystack, Pike thinks. He's gotten four hours of sleep but as they'd been filled with the worst nightmares he's had in years, he doesn't mind staying awake instead. The missing starship has hit the public news, families start to call in, and the HQ turns into a bustling hive of meetings and memos. Since Pike isn't assigned to starship operations, he's one of the few that keep working on the day-to-day business of the admiralty, though always with one eye on the news. There's nothing he can do but wait, and it's tiring him like nothing else. He's a man of action, for god's sake. He should never have taken any kind of desk job. He hadn't had much choice after the Narada incident, though. Even after he was back on duty on his own two feet, thoroughly checked and certified healthy by SF Medical, he was considered unfit for another captaincy (not officially, of course, but he's not stupid). He can't blame Starfleet for that opinion; he'd likely think the same about anyone who'd gone through his experiences. It had been a close call for the slug turning him into a vegetable or an eternal wheelchair case, so he should feel lucky for being alive and still doing useful work. He's been given the admiral's stripes he'd resisted for years, and a brand-new office that is now slowly starting to look a little worn. He'd gladly give it all back for a ship and a mission to the Jewel Sector. * "She's back," is all Barnett says when he calls Pike at his apartment in the middle of the following night, tearing him out of another nightmare. "Currently limping to Starbase 14." Pike feels a large weight lifted from his chest. "What happened?" "Run-in with the cubic ship. Full report in a few hours, including a list of casualties." "Any senior officers among them?" "No. Kirk's wounded, so Spock is acting captain. But nothing serious." "Good." Pike inhales deeply. "Thanks a lot for calling." "Thought you'd want to know instantly. It was your ship, after all." Barnett closes the line, and Pike sinks into the nearby chair, massaging his forehead with both hands. Both alive – thank god. He sleeps a lot better after that. * The list of casualties is eleven names long, mostly from engineering which had taken the strongest hits in the battle. The list of wounded is fifty-three, with both Kirk and McCoy on it. The list is tagged with the usual Starfleet code from A (critical) to E (minor), and Pike is relieved to see both show a C (medium, which usually means some surgery but nothing that would result in permanent aftereffects). The mission report tells a story about the cubic ship appearing out of nowhere and instantly engaging the Enterprise in a fight. There'd been no warning, no communication and it almost looks as if the cube had been waiting specifically for the Enterprise. Not a calming thought, considering that they still have no clue which species this is, only that their ship is powerful enough to cause serious damage to the flagship. Most of the deaths occurred from direct enemy impact, which was centered on the impulsion system. They hadn't wanted to destroy the Enterprise – they'd wanted to disable and take her. In the end, Kirk managed to destroy the enemy vessel by luring it into a nebula they'd just mapped and igniting its meta-stable chemical mixture with the phaser banks. The Enterprise barely escapes the inferno, many injuries resulting from the shock wave and temporary loss of gravity. At least she's survived and is able to report in now, sending close-up images and movies of the cubic ship, instead of vanishing forever. Pike knows the report will keep the HQ analysts busy for months. With Federation enemies psychologically strengthened since the Narada incident, another unknown enemy is just what they need. He plays some of the recordings, automatically taking notes on the ship's maneuverability and weaponry, and considers Kirk's solution to be as ingenious as he expects him to be, because they'd definitely been running out of options at that point. He writes a short message to Kirk, from admiral to captain, sending his condolences on the losses and congratulating him on bringing the Enterprise home against the odds. He doesn't expect a quick answer, but Kirk's reply is at his console four hours later. "Thx for your message. We were damn lucky. Expect personal real-time transmission once we're cleared at the starbase. Jim." * They keep their word and Pike receives the "incoming transmission" signal shortly after 1800 in his own apartment, taking a deep breath before he accepts it. Seconds later, McCoy is on screen. "Admiral," McCoy says formally. "Doctor," Pike says just as formally, hiding the gigantic relief he feels over seeing McCoy with his own eyes. He examines McCoy's face as much as possible via the screen. The doc looks exhausted, dark rings under his eyes, one large, blue area on the left side of his face. "I'm very glad to find both of you alive." "We've been lucky," McCoy says, mirroring Jim's words. "The ship is whole, and the two of us. We got smashed around after the ignition of the nebula. Jim's got a broken jaw that keeps him from talking right now, but that's minor compared to what we could've ended up with." "It is. I've read the mission report; it was a close call. Jim's decision to use the nebula as weapon was probably your last best chance." There is a brief silence, then McCoy sighs. "Damn – I'm sorry, Chris. We are sorry." "What for?" "For not calling or sending a message earlier. We both fail at keeping in touch with people. I've managed to keep half-written letters on my console for three months without finishing them, and don't ask Jim if he's ever composed a personal message to anyone unless it was one-hundred-and-fifty percent necessary." "You don't owe me anything, doc." "But we do." McCoy clears his throat. "We meant what we said back on Earth. Usually we're just happy to fly away and not see the planet for months, but this time it really rankled because we had to leave you without even saying good-bye. We wondered if we should call right after the take-off but then we didn't, thinking it wouldn't help a thing anyway. Then we got into this disaster and if we had died, you would've been left thinking we were really only self-absorbed bastards looking for kicks." "I would never think that," Pike says. "I mainly thought you were back to your own life, and that it would be enough if you got back to me in time for our next meeting – if there are any. We didn't promise each other anything." "I know. And it's really not my style, okay? I don't randomly buy silly stuffed animals for other people." McCoy looks at him intensely. "Just so you know, we didn't forget you at all, and we'll do our best to keep in contact and in one piece, so that we can meet again whenever we hit Earth." "Leonard… really, I know how it is to be on a ship. I've been on many long missions, after all," Pike says. "Everything that is not within daily sight feels like it almost doesn't exist. It's a life apart, and that's what many of us were looking for when we went into space." "You want to get rid of us? Then keep talking," McCoy mutters. "I don't want to get rid of you, as you should have noticed. There's just – you were right in thinking that communicating like this doesn't help a thing because it's not the real thing. Even though I'm glad to have visual proof that you are still alive." "Well, then we've got to make it that way," McCoy states. "What -?" "Make it the kind of communication that feels real." Pike shakes his head. "Really –" "If you think you can escape us by hiding some hundreds light years away, you're wrong," McCoy says bluntly. "And I'm speaking for both of us." "We'll see," Pike relents. They want to keep more in touch – fine by him, but he knows how quickly promises of regular messages end with one communication a year, and he won't nail them down for any broken promises. "Yes, we will. And don't hide the poor bear in some drawer, he doesn't deserve it." Pike stares at McCoy. "How –?" "Doesn't take a genius to guess, Chris. We're rather alike. So do me a favor and put him somewhere in your sight. I like to imagine that you talk to him. Insults are fine too." McCoy smirks. "Bastard." "Yeah. And Jim said you can wear his t-shirt, even if you don't climb any rocks." "I already wore it once." "He'll be delighted to hear that. One of yours found its way into our bags too, by the way." "Which one?" "The one that says 'Captains do it at warp speed'." Pike frowns. "That was a gift from the crew when I got my first command. You better bring it back or I'll kick your ass for misappropriation, because I don't believe in the least that you took it accidentally." "It wasn't my idea," McCoy says a little apologetic. "But when Jim's wearing it, I think of you so I'm not complaining." "You really are a little sick, gentlemen." "Fully compatible with a certain admiral." McCoy eyes the lower left corner of the screen. "Need to end the transmission now. Take care, and stay cool when things get a little rough out here. We'll always turn up." "Guess you will." Pike shakes his head but smiles. "Godspeed, and give Jim a punch from me for taking my t-shirt." McCoy nods and switches off. Pike half turns in his chair, slapping the table. They had sex with his favorite tee on? They better bring it back well-cleaned, and on their own two legs! When he comes home that evening, he opens the closet, frowning at the teddy bear as he gets him out. Him, yes, definitely a guy. He puts the bear on the shelf above his desk, tweaking him into position. He'd have to find a name for him but he can't decide right away. Really, what respectable Starfleet admiral has a teddy bear sitting around anyway? He shakes his head and goes to cook, one of the few occupations that don't remind him of the two men. They'd been far too busy with other things to hit the kitchen for anything more than sandwiches, mostly had called in food or left for a late dinner whenever they needed it – there's always some open restaurant in this city. He eats on the balcony, then drinks a beer. He thinks of them, finally, warm thoughts that creep up his spine and make his head dizzy. Fuck them for fucking with my life, he thinks and smiles anyway. He'll manage. * Despite the vows of communication, he actually doesn't expect to hear from them soon, but then a voice recording comes in four days later. It's locked to his eyes only, and he sits in his office when he starts it. "Hello, Admiral," Jim's voice comes in, a little dampened compared to his usually cheery sound, probably still some leftover from the damaged jaw. "We gave the subject of communication some thought, and since we're currently both off-duty, licking our wounds in my quarters, we thought we could start with some real communication right away. "We gambled, and Bones lost, so now he's already on the bed, all naked except for the collar we bought in that shop you recommended. Really great quality, and I love voice-locked metal gear on him. He's kneeling, one hand on his dick because I told him to get a little excited. He's been complaining about the plan all day, but it was his own idea; I just caught on to it." "It was a side remark," McCoy's voice comes in from a distance. "Never thought you'd take it seriously." "Come on, say something to your favorite Admiral." The micro picks up steps and fabric moving, then only heavy breathing. At last, a "Hey, Chris. Hope you'll like it." "That's all?" "I'm a doctor, not a show girl, so get on with it," McCoy's voice grouches into the mike. Pike doesn't know if he should laugh or shake his head, so he does both, unable to stop this aural train-wreck. Crazy bastards sending him self-made voice-porn – and damn if it doesn't work, as Jim goes on talking. "You should see him; he's so damn hard already. He's been hard all day thinking about this, though we both know he'd never admit it. Get your hand off, Bones, wouldn't want to come too quickly, would you? Get on all fours, yes, like that." More sounds of fabric scraping over things, the squeal of a mattress, someone breathing. "I'm kneeling behind him now, still dressed in uniform. Feels freaking hot to have sex in it, I bet you liked that too. The power of captaincy. I've got my hands all over his ass, and he's moaning a little, hope the mike will pick it up. I put some lube on my fingers. I'm going to do that thing you love to do, putting my thumbs in his ass, one after the other, stretching his hole, finger-fucking him with my thumbs. He's tense at the moment, and I love breaking him in a little with the movements, slicking him up for my dick. Thought about doing something big tonight, but thinking about this recording got me so worked up. I've got to blow off a little steam before I can move on to anything elaborate." There's an audible moan now, coming in a regular rhythm, and Pike gets hard, closing his eyes as the scene completely sucks him (how fitting). He imagines his thumbs there, pressing into the ring of muscle, preparing the doc. He shifts in his seat, breathing harder as Kirk starts speaking again (must have paused – great timing). "Ah, he's moving against me, wanting more. Love seeing him so needy. We both love that, don't we? There's a lot of lube around, and my fingers are slippery on my zipper. I'm pulling it down, just enough to get my dick out. I'm so hard too, and I'm imagining you sitting next to the bed, watching us like in that one night. You jerked off, came all undone just from watching us fuck. How hot was that?" Damn, yes. Pike's hand rubs over his groin, his head tilting back. "I've got one hand on his hips; I'm guiding my dick in with the other. He's still a bit tense, must be the recording, thinking of you listening to it. I'm getting in, just a little, just to let him know what's to come. He's got his head down on the mattress, his hands digging into the covers. He's moving back at me, wanting more. Yeah. I'm pressing in. I'm right there, all in. God, I've been waiting for this all day. Wanted to fuck him so much. Just think how your dick would slip into him, how you could lean over him and ride him hard, just like I do." There's a knock and another one and Pike later thinks that only decades in a captain's chair give him the presence of mind to shut off the recording right before his assistant steps in. She's young and highly qualified, but also new in his department and therefore still a little unsure at times. He feels guilty just thinking about what she might pick up from his face now, since his groin is thankfully hidden behind the table. "Yes, Nicole?" he says very calmly. "Sir - you have an appointment for lunch with Admiral Barnett in half an hour." "That late already?" Pike shifts in his seat, straightening his uniform. A glance at the console tells him that the silent alarm has passed without him noticing. Not really surprising, since his eyes had been closed. "Thank you, Nicole. I'll leave in a minute." She tilts her head and then walks out, closing the door behind her. With a sigh, Pike sinks back in his chair. He should stop, but he can't. At least he could move forward to the ending, just to know how it will end. He can listen to the full glory of Enterprise-made porn later tonight. The recording jumps right into a sentence, " - pulled out now, god, I'm done. But Bones isn't, of course. He's waiting for me to do something. It's not what he expects." There're some sounds, movements, muttered words, a few slaps. Then a loud, "Fuck, Jim, you can't do that to me!" There's Kirk's voice back, laughing breathlessly, "Got his hands cuffed behind his back. Damn, if looks could kill, I'd fall over dead. He's just about to explode and I won't let him." "I'll pay you back, dammit, Jim –" "I think I'll give him a little break and then return for a second round of – not telling yet. I'll stop this recording now. You'll get the next part in a few days." There's a short pause. "Wish you were here. You're missed, Chris. Hope you like it. Send a wishlist if you feel like – it's a hot idea following your lead out here." Pike switches off the recording. He's breathing hard and his dick is rock-solid and aching. There's no way in hell he can go anywhere like this, so he voice-locks the door and opens his pants. It's a quick job, and he's still enough in control not to spill his come over his uniform, though it's damn close. He gives the blood another five minutes to recede, then goes to the restroom, throwing cold water in his face and washing his hands thoroughly. Of course, he's late for his lunch with Barnett. * "Gentlemen," starts Pike's voice message, which he records while walking around in his apartment the next morning, "I hereby order you to explicitly tag those message of yours that are not safe for work, especially when they involve practices forbidden on thirty-four percent of all Federation worlds and are transmitted via official channels which cost tax payers' credits. That said, I have to admit that the recording constitutes effective communication, in so far as it had the intended effect on me. I may not be able to reciprocate accordingly, but will endeavor to do so. "As per the advice of the doctor, I have freed a certain creature from the closet. I named him Mr. Lenny. Mr. Lenny, in contrast to the two of you, knows how to display proper behavior in the presence of superiors. I'm also convinced of his discretion, which might be good for my reputation, because he never hears the end of my troubles with a certain ship and its senior officers. Of course, he's also a witness to any voice-recordings that we will exchange in the future. "Jim, I'm still displeased that you've taken my favorite t-shirt on tour. Since it's one of a kind, it's your moral obligation to return it to me in one piece. As this may fail if you fall into your usual routine of battling enemy vessels every other day, I will see to it that after the repair, your next mission is going to be a milk run carrying diplomatic personnel. Consider this your punishment, Captain." Pike stops the recording, smirking to himself. The diplomatic mission had already been decided by Barnett. Pike actually advised against using the Enterprise, but at least he can receive a little secondary satisfaction from it now. He starts the recording again, his voice more gentle. "Leonard, Jim – damn if I know how to put into words what you do to me. Please try to stay alive until our next meeting, because I'm starting to believe you really mean all the things you said. Besides, you're delivering the hottest porn ever into my box." He sighs a little and stares out of the window. "It's a damn cloudy sky here, but I keep looking up anyway, thinking of you. Take care." He stops, not finding another good word to say. God knows what schedule of communication the two have in mind, so he'll probably need things left to say for future recordings. Pike eyes the teddy. "Satisfied, mister?" he asks. As no complaints come forward, he locks the message to the highest SF privacy level and Kirk's private key in addition. Then he sends it on its way out into the galaxy, already looking forward to the answer.

Saving the Universe by Madison [NC-17] Summary: Rodney was determined to make a life for them post-Atlantis. Spoilers thru Season 5. Another installment of the Cabin Series, which might make more sense if you read the others first, but really isn't necessary. Rodney blew on his cold hands and rubbed them together briskly as he knelt before the fire that he was slowly coaxing to life. Behind him, the kettle on the stove was starting to boil; he could hear the pre-whistle warning that it was making. Stuffing another piece of kindling into the fireplace, he rose, dusting off his hands as he crossed around behind the sofa and entered the small kitchen area of the cabin. His timing was perfect—the whistle was just beginning to rise in pitch as he lifted the kettle off the gas burner and shut off the flames. He opened the cabinet above his head and selected two mugs—one was his own 'Speak slowly for I am not fluent in idiot' mug from his days in Atlantis and the other the one John recently gave him for Christmas, with the photo of Rodney asleep at his computer desk and Puffin sprawled on his lap. Outside the kitchen window, the scene was blindingly white with the sunlight reflecting off the snow. Ice etched the inside of the window panes—John would want to do something about insulating that better, Rodney knew. He glanced over at Puffin now, the black and white cat curled in a ball along the top of the sofa, the room still too cold for her liking. He poured the hot water into the two mugs, placing tea bags within and setting both on a tray that he carried back into the coffee table. "What do you think, Puffball?" he asked the cat, using John's name for her. She lifted her head and blinked at him sleepily. "Well," he continued, inspecting the room with a glance, "am I leaving anything out?" The cat yawned widely, her little pink tongue curling in her mouth as she revealed surprisingly sharp fangs. She suddenly perked up, turning her head towards the door. Outside, Rodney could here the sound of booted feet coming up the stairs of the porch—he must have missed the sound of the car pulling up when he was in the kitchen messing with the kettle. There was someone knocking and Rodney briefly scrubbed his palms on his pants, unexpectedly nervous as he went to answer the door. He opened it to reveal Elizabeth standing there, stamping the snow off her boots, wearing a red parka that framed her short, dark hair with vibrant color, her cheeks pink with cold, and a delighted smile on her face. She looked fabulous. Rodney was suddenly reminded of the speech she'd given before they'd entered the gate for Atlantis that very first time, the way she'd stood, slim, proud and confident, memorializing the moment with words of encouragement for the expedition members. "Rodney!" she cried out on seeing him. "Did you do this? All of this?" She clapped gloved hands together like an excited child, mouth open in a wide, pleased smile as she surveyed the surrounding scenery. It was breath-taking. A thin layer of ice coated the trees, sparkling in the bright sunshine. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe, and yet somehow made you feel very alive at the same time. To the left, Rodney's battered Land Rover was parked beside John's little red Jeep and in the shoveled out space beside them was the black Explorer that Elizabeth must have arrived in. To the right, the land opened out into a bowl, the dark border of forest showcasing a frozen pond, the surface of which was scored with skate marks, a couple of old buckets and tin cans serving as makeshift goal markers. Elizabeth was beaming at him and Rodney realized he was gaping at her foolishly in his sock feet with the door wide open. "Well, don't just stand there," he said in mock irritation, "you're letting what little heat there is out. Second law of thermodynamics and all that. Come in, I've made tea." He ushered her inside, shutting the door and taking her coat while Elizabeth checked out the cabin in wonder, stepping forward to scratch a welcoming Puffin under the chin and turning to Rodney with bright eyes. "Rodney," she said, her mouth trembling with an emotional smile. "I don't understand." She was dressed in a thick, powder blue sweater over black pants and boots and she looked younger than when he'd last seen her, before Pegasus had taken its toll on her. Before...well, before her sort-of death. "This is a holodeck. I discovered it the first week we were on Fortune; I've been working on this program in my spare time to surprise John—it's my...our cabin back on Earth. I decided that since I was doing this anyway...I thought I might as well...well, you know, it seemed to me you might enjoy, well..." he was floundering worse than usual but Elizabeth forestalled him by giving him a big hug. "Rodney, thank you. You don't know how much this means to me." Rodney felt horribly uncomfortable. "It's the least I could do, especially since everything that happened to you was my fault." Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and clasped her hands in front of her. "Now, Rodney," she began. "Well, anyway, don't get too excited about it just yet," Rodney pulled out his grumpy voice and cut off anything else she might say. It was true, if he hadn't reactivated the Replicator code so that they were wiping out civilizations left and right, if he'd listened to John and not Jennifer and had refused to reactivate Elizabeth's nanites, then she'd never have been captured by the Replicators and killed, leaving behind only the essence of her—the part now merged with Fortune's AI. Of course, she'd be dead dead instead of just lacking a corporal body and all the rest of them would probably be dead as well. It was complicated. He continued his grumble. "Mobile emitters are still a long way off and I only have this one program so far and..." She reached out and placed a finger on his lips, beaming at him. "I understand. I should knock first. Or maybe you'd like to hang some sort of sign outside to indicate when you and John are here and...not receiving company?" She giggled like a schoolgirl as she grinned at him. "Elizabeth!" Rodney felt scandalized that she should treat his relationship with John as an open secret and then shook his head. They were sharing quarters on Fortune now; it wasn't like everyone didn't know. But still the need to be private about John was a very strong instinct. Word was that DADT might well be repealed with the inauguration of the new president, but it hadn't happened yet. "Relax, Rodney," Elizabeth said, sounding much more like the expedition leader he remembered. "I'm not going to tease you. Much." "Okay, but just remember, this program is still a secret from John. I'd like to create a few more options, for the rest of the crew, you know? Before I make the use of the holodeck public." He paused to look at her critically. "And I'm sure you'd like more than just one outfit as well." **** John as captain of an Ancient ship was very different from John as Rodney's lover and roommate back in the cabin, or even as CO of Atlantis. As military CO, John had believed in a laid-back approach to his command, relaxed in areas that didn't matter to him, unbelievably tough in those that did. He'd seemed very approachable, but anyone who knew him well knew just how much they didn't know about John, how much remained hidden beneath the surface, disguised by the deceptively simple character. Assuming that John was a simple man was like assuming that because you went to the seashore every summer with your parents that you knew everything there was to know about the ocean. At the cabin, John had shown himself to be unexpectedly affectionate and sensual as well. It had not been not unusual for John to approach Rodney from behind while he was occupied with some task, folding Rodney into John's arms for a strong hug and a nuzzle of lips against his neck. Rodney had relished those moments—even the times he'd jumped and protested when John had slid cold fingers underneath his sweater with a laugh to warm chilled hands against Rodney's skin. Sometimes they would hunker down on the couch together under a heavy blanket in front of the fireplace—Rodney reading scientific journals while John read everything he could get his hands on. That had been one of the secrets that Rodney had discovered about John—reading War and Peace was no fluke. In fact, John had pretended for years that he'd never completed the novel when in fact he'd read it many times over again. Discovering that John was a voracious reader had brought an unreasonable amount of secret pride to Rodney and together they'd filled the cabin with books. Another pleasant surprise had been discovering that John really enjoyed morning sex. Not that he couldn't be encouraged into sex at almost any time; in fact, more often than not, John was the initiator, dragging Rodney away from whatever task had preoccupied him for far too long. John was often most interested in sex after a day spent alone outdoors as well, and Rodney had become accustomed to being attacked whenever John had came back from whatever adventure he'd decided on that day, be it cross-country skiing or mountain climbing or just chopping wood. He'd enter the cabin, powdered with snow, pulling off his gloves and stacking his skis or whatever he'd used that day by the door, smelling of crisp, fresh air and demanding to know what there was to eat. And he'd sweep Rodney up into his arms over Rodney's protests of not really wanting to be covered with ice, thank you very much, and devour his mouth with a searing hot kiss. But morning sex...now that was something different altogether. Even without the military to dictate his schedule, John had still tended to wake early back at the cabin. And while Rodney faded in and out of full wakefulness, John's hands would start a lazy exploration of his body, sometimes ceasing briefly when John himself drifted back to sleep but always rousing again until inevitably there would be John's warm hand on Rodney's cock, palming his shaft slowly, rolling his balls gently between John's fingers, dragging his nails across them slowly and sensuously. Rodney would open his eyes to see John smiling at him with a raised, suggestive eyebrow and slightly parted lips and his cock would start to fill at the sight. It was an absolutely heavenly way to wake up, and one that Rodney was starting to miss. John as captain was a different beast altogether. He was still lax about things that he didn't think were important, like uniforms and saluting, but the easy-going, affectionate, hands-on sort of guy that he'd been at the cabin had disappeared. He hadn't quite retreated behind the Great Wall of Sheppard, though Rodney knew that could occur if something happened that threatened John emotionally, but he was definitely more reserved again. Especially when it came to the touching. Rodney was surprised that John had consented to sharing quarters with him on the Fortune, but he suspected that it was due in part to the fact that John had been too tired to argue at the time. The responsibility for everyone on board weighed heavily on John in a way that being CO of Atlantis had not affected him. Rodney suspected that it was due in part to the fragility of their existence out here in space, relying on the Ancient ship Fortune to keep them alive. It was a bit like flying about the galaxy in an egg carton as far as Rodney was concerned; but he thought that John would relax some if he could only accept the fact that Fortune was capable of thought, capable of caring about them as much as John did. Rodney gave a sigh as he stretched out across the bed and felt the cool sheets that indicated that John was already up and gone. He didn't begrudge the fact that Ronon had convinced John to start running with him each day. But he did miss the morning sex. **** "Anything else to report?" John asked briskly, tapping his stylus by the PDA in front of him, where he'd recorded a few notes during the briefing. Rodney felt a brief pang for the days when John had not been running the meetings but had been sending him snarky messages through the PDA, trying to get him to laugh out loud and embarrass himself. Jennifer spoke up. "The preliminary testing with Carson's gene therapy has determined that there are two latent ATA carriers within the crew, Sgt. Wilkinson and Lt. Davies. "Good," John said, looking pleasantly surprised. "That'll give us two more people who can pilot the jumper, as well as make themselves useful on board here and whenever we come across Ancient tech." "It'd be nice if the Colonel and I didn't have to be everywhere at once," Rodney agreed. "Only the two?" Jennifer shrugged. "You know the odds as well as I do, Rodney, and the crew is not all that large." Rodney nodded in concession, even as John was moving on. "Good. Have them report to me once the therapy is complete and we'll start piloting lessons. How about you, Teyla? Any word on the whereabouts of the Destiny?" Teyla shook her head, her copper-brown hair gleaming in the overhead lights. "We have definitely traveled beyond the borders of my personal experience in the galaxy, John. I am finding useful cultures, perhaps ones that we should consider trading with since we are dependent on outside supplies for food and other resources, but so far, no one matching any description of the Destiny has been sighted." "You and Ronon put together a list of places we should visit. Coordinate with Elizabeth and Jennifer as to what we can reasonably offer in trade." John paused as Teyla nodded and he glanced up at the corner of the room. "Elizabeth? Anything to add?" "Well," Elizabeth said over the ship's internal speakers, "you might consider consulting directly with Fortune and get her thoughts on the matter." She sounded ever-the diplomat but Rodney thought she was doomed to failure here. He was right. "That wasn't exactly what I meant, but thank you, Elizabeth. Very well, everyone dismissed." John rose, gathering his PDA and coffee mug. "I'll be on the bridge if anyone needs me." Rodney sighed. Radek had bustled out of the room behind John, but Jennifer was lingering behind, presumably waiting on Ronon, who was obviously hanging back to see what Teyla was planning to say. He didn't have to wait long. "Is there a problem between you and John, Rodney?" Teyla asked in her usual, direct manner. "Not so much me and John as John and the command of this ship," Rodney admitted. There was no use pretending with Teyla; she'd work whatever it was out of him with a single look as effectively as if she were beating him with her Little Sticks of Pain. Teyla frowned at him, a small furrow marring her brow. Rodney sighed again. "It's the whole AI thing. John seems to be having a hard time accepting it." "Fortune is aware of this and feels great sorrow over this fact," Elizabeth stated, her seemingly omnipotent response causing Rodney to jump unexpectedly at the sound of her voice. "Yes, well, John's not used flying sentient ships," Rodney tried to explain. "Don't worry, he'll come around." "We still on for tonight?" Ronon said with a grin, obviously changing the subject. "Yes," Rodney said with relief, noting the expectant smiles all around him with a little zing of pleasure. "Yes, we are." **** "Hey," John said when he ran into Rodney in the corridor several hours later. "What's this about meeting you tonight at 1900?" "You've been so hard to pin down lately that I'm scheduling a date with you," Rodney replied tartly. "Look, I'm sorry, Rodney," John began hesitantly and a little defensively, "I know I've been a bit pre-occupied lately but..." "No buts," Rodney interrupted, waving a hand in John's face. "I'm planning a big surprise for you and if you bail on me and spoil it, you'll be sleeping on the metaphorical couch for the rest of your life." A fleeting grin passed across John's face. "You sure about that, McKay? Punishment of that sort can be a two way street." "Trust me, Sheppard," Rodney said threateningly, "you do not want to miss this." "Okay," John tossed up a hand in a gesture of submission. "Barring unforeseen emergencies, I'll be there. Anything else on your mind?" "Well, now that you mention it, why exactly are we wasting our time looking for a bunch of losers and slackers? They were assigned to the secret base in the first place and finding the Destiny was their goal all along, even if they didn't know it at the time. So why does everyone have their knickers in a twist over the shiny new expedition?" "They were hardly 'assigned' to be a new expedition, Rodney." John frowned at him. "Sounds to me like they had no choice—they had to make a quick dash for the gate and hope they ended up someplace with breathable air." "I just don't see why we can't forget about them and go off on missions of our own choosing," Rodney complained. "It's not like anyone would care or come looking for us. They've written us off." "Not everyone," John grinned. "Besides, who's to say how long it should take to find something that's lost? Or what we run into in the meantime? You know, the usual for us. Making friends, fighting enemies, saving the universe." "Still," Rodney argued back, "it's a lot of fuss for a bunch of losers." Obviously annoyed, John called him on it this time. "You keep saying that—on what do you base this?" Rodney rolled his eyes. "I'm so glad you asked." He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from where he had it tucked inside his fleece jacket. John reached for it but Rodney snatched it away. "That's mine," he said smugly. "Where'd you get that?" John asked suspiciously. He obviously thought Rodney was not above reading from a blank piece of paper, which was a definite possibility, it's just that this time he had bona fide ammunition. "From Fortune. You know, if you'd just talk to the ship once in a while, you'd see that she's really not so bad, once you get to know her." "I'm not talking to any inanimate object, Rodney," John growled. "Why do we keep having this conversation?" "Because she's not inanimate. For crying out loud, John, I've seen you pat the puddlejumper on occasion. Why are you being so stubborn about this?" Because she's not Atlantis. Rodney could see the thought cross John's face just a moment before he carefully blanked out all expression. Rodney gave an internal sigh. Sometimes he thought he was the only one who missed the expedition and the city and then he would get blindsided by John's more subtle reactions. He chose now to continue on as though he hadn't noticed anything. "Anyway," Rodney waved the paper, "Destiny is Fortune's sister ship and there is some inexplicable, undoubtedly Ancient-in-origin communication through subspace between them—though not nearly enough to convince Destiny to abort the original programming and return home. I got a crew list from...hey!" John snatched the paper out of Rodney's hands. "Colonel Young," he read aloud. "Heard of him. Don't know him. Supposed to be an okay guy, experienced." "Well, he's going to need it. You should feel sorry for him," Rodney felt all too gleeful at the prospect of Young's potential headaches. "Look at the rest of the roster. It took them a while to sort out the missing from the dead, but these are the presumed survivors—the ones that made it through the gate." "Tamara Jon, field medic," John continued to read from the list. "They're really going to need her," Rodney huffed a little. "Closest thing they've got to a doctor unless Destiny provides them with a medical hologram." For the briefest of moments, Rodney got a mental image of Woolsey appearing in the infirmary, asking the room at large to state the nature of the medical emergency. As Rodney snickered, John made eye contact with him and smirked, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. Woolsey looked exactly like that hologram from Voyager. If Richard Woolsey had been a different sort of man, they'd have probably ribbed him about it when he took over as expedition leader in Atlantis that final year. "A medic. Lacking both the experience and the support system to deal with whatever Pegasus dishes out," Rodney reminded. He knew how stressed Jennifer became at times when faced with the weird and lethal things that Pegasus lobbed in their direction on a daily basis. And she was a trained doctor. "All the more reason to find them and get them back on course for home," John said mildly, not taking his eyes off the paper. "Chloe Carpenter Walker. Daughter of Senator Walker." "Oh, mygod!" Rodney intonated, giving the phrase a Valley girl kind of twist. "Can you say sorority girl? Completely useless and voted most likely to annoy? They should shove her out the nearest airlock." "Now, c'mon, Rodney," John seemed to be holding back a grin, "give the kid a chance. You never know, they might need someone who can throw a decent party." This time when Rodney snickered, John joined in. "Go on," Rodney encouraged with an airy wave of his hand, "read the rest." "Eli Hitchcock Wallace, Lt. Matthew Jared Scott, Sgt. Ronald 'Psycho" Greer," John finished off the list. "Wallace and Walker, won't they make a nice, pretty, alliterative pair. Wallace has some promise but he's never finished anything he's ever started. He just dabbles—a slacker through and through." "Maybe he just needs a little confidence," John said with a slight shoulder shrug. "Pegasus can bring out the best in people, you know." Rodney could tell where that was coming from and he headed it off. "And the worst. He'll have to come up to speed pretty damn fast—he's the closest thing they have to real scientist on board. You know all the problems we've faced on the Fortune, and you've got both me and Radek here. Not to mention Elizabeth as part of the AI." John's mouth twitched in a grimace of agreement. "Lt. Scott is an unproven element though I guess we should all feel reassured that they have someone named 'Scotty' on board. And seriously, would you want someone named 'Psycho' on your team?" John grinned suddenly, looking about twelve years old and ready to tackle something dangerous with his skateboard. How he could go from looking world-weary to impossibly youthful in a blink of an eye, Rodney had no idea. "We could start calling Ronon 'Psycho'." "We could," Rodney emphasized, "but we won't. I'm betting 'Psycho' is a loose cannon." John flipped the sheet over and read from the back. "Dr. Nicholas David Rush." "What?" Rodney snapped. He hadn't realized there was anything on the back of the page. "Let me see that." He snatched the paper from John's hand and stared at it, open mouthed. "See, not all slackers and losers after all," John said smugly, even though Rodney knew he was only taking that position to be contrary. "Sounds like someone Col. Young can rely on." Rodney started to laugh. "No, no, not all losers and slackers." He laughed even harder. "What's so funny?" John was obviously torn between wanting to be right and wanting to be in on the joke. "Dr. Nicholas Rush," Rodney beamed at John. "Hah. If you think I'm difficult to work with, you should meet Nick Rush. Mt. Rushmore, we called him. Ohmygod, what a pain in the ass. Probably heading up some super-duper secret project. Now I really feel sorry for the Colonel." "But he's a brilliant scientist, right?' John's eyes narrowed slightly; Rodney could tell he was playing the professional jealousy card. Rodney snorted. "Oh yes, brilliant, erratic, unpredictable, temperamental...he thinks he's Doctor Who," Rodney finished sourly. "So do you, Rodney," John chuckled, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. Damn it, he didn't have to look so damn hot when he did that. When John crossed his arms against his chest and his legs at the ankles and leveled that effortless, sultry smile in his direction, Rodney usually found himself on the losing end of whatever argument he was trying to conduct. "I wanted to be Doctor Who. When I was twelve," Rodney lifted his chin in John's direction. "There's a big difference." "Oh. I stand corrected." John continued to smirk at him from his leaning position, not standing upright at all as far as Rodney could tell. "Look me in the eye and tell me that you wouldn't give your right arm to be Dr. Who right now." "Well who wouldn't?" Rodney changed tactics suddenly, something he'd learned a long time ago from John himself. "Of course, I'd like to be Doctor Who. But I don't go around acting as though I am. Let me tell you, I think the Colonel would almost be better off with the kids from the Brady Bunch here, because Rush is going to be a big problem for him. I know exactly what it's like to butt heads with good ol' Rushmore. And really, if it came right down to it, no, I really don't want to be Doctor Who." "Oh really," John drawled and this time it was the sexy bedroom drawl, the one that gave Rodney little shivers of anticipation every time he heard it. "And why is that?" "I'm way cooler than Doctor Who," Rodney anticipated John's disbelieving grin and let his second verbal punch fly before John could contradict him. "And besides, I have you." John blinked at him a long second. "Oh." And then he smiled. His real smile. The one Rodney was sure most people never saw. It gave him hope that his plan would work after all. **** "Where exactly are you taking me?" John drawled, a hint of wariness in his voice. He'd submitted to the blindfold more easily than Rodney had hoped (and Rodney had filed that bit of information away somewhere, just in case that turned out to be one of John's kinks) and he'd snorted at Rodney's insistence on bringing the cat. "You'll see, Colonel Impatient," Rodney continued to drag John down the hall by his sleeve, as John was charged with holding Puffin. That contrary little female lounged in John's arms with nary a struggle. Typical. "You know how I feel about surprises, McKay," John warned as they paused in front of a door panel and Rodney began to enter his personal access code. "Yes, yes, I do. And how you feel about the Wraith. And clowns." Rodney felt a moment of concern—what if John didn't like the surprise? "And you." John cocked his head in Rodney's direction and gave his little half-smile. His hair was sitting up in odd tufts from the blindfold and he looked good enough to eat. "And me what?" Rodney was distracted by his internal thoughts. "And you," John repeated patiently. "You know how I feel about you, right?" Rodney blinked at John, open-mouthed, long enough that John raised an eyebrow over the blindfold and said, "Rodney?" "Um, oh, right, yes, of course, right," Rodney said hastily in some confusion as the door in front of them opened. He latched on to John's sleeve again and hauled him stumblingly through the door. As it closed behind them, Puffin struggled out of John's arms with a meow and landed on the floor. "Rodney?" John said inquiringly. Rodney could see him tilting his head again, testing out the air, trying to determine what was different. "Okay, you can take the blindfold off now." Rodney stood nervously before John, trying not to wring his hands. The look of surprise on John's face was beautiful—and well worth all the late nights working on the project when John himself was up doing captainy things. "We're in the bedroom of our cabin," John said in a tone of awe, dropping the blindfold to the floor and surveying the room around them. Puffin jumped up on the bed and gave a masterful stretch, bowing down and then arching her back, straightening out each hind leg and wiggling her toes before curling up on the nearest pillow for a nap. "Yes, yes, well, see, I told you that I'd discovered the holodeck," Rodney began explaining excitedly, now that he was sure of the reception of his gift. "And the basic programs were very simple, some training exercises for the personnel, some fitness stuff, that sort of thing. Radek and I worked on the code; we thought it would be a good idea to write some simple programs so that people could take a break and relax a little, though we are still arguing as to whether or not a tiki bar would be preferable to some smelly old Czech pub. And anyway, I decided to write this program...for us." "We're in the bedroom of our cabin," John said again, voice lowering into a husky register as his chin dipped and he looked up at Rodney with gleaming eyes. Rodney had a split second to think 'wow!' before John pounced. They hit the wall behind Rodney with a thud, causing the picture beside the door to jump a little, John pressing Rodney into the wooden panels, his mouth savagely assaulting Rodney's, demanding an entrance that Rodney willingly gave. Rodney found his own hands pulling up John's shirt in return, seeking the waistband of his BDUs and hauling him physically closer so he could cup John's ass. John pushed up against him harder with a groan, pulling his mouth away from Rodney's to work his way down Rodney's neck with sharp, little nips and lips that applied warm, wet pressure. Rodney's head fell back against the wall with a thump and he placed a hand in John's hair, scratching lightly, encouraging John for more. Until he remembered. He shouldered John off of him and was momentarily taken aback by the hungry, intense look that he was receiving from John. He looked angry and dangerous and for a second Rodney felt both desired and threatened and if that wasn't the weirdest, hottest thing he'd ever experienced, he didn't know what was. "Um, everyone from the crew is waiting for us on the other side of the door," Rodney blurted out. "What?" "It's a party, it's a party for you, it was supposed to be a surprise birthday party, only I didn't get the program finished in time and I really wanted to surprise you, so you need to pull yourself together and go in there and pretend to be surprised." Rodney began trying to tuck John's shirt back in. John started to laugh. "Hush!" Rodney exclaimed, trying unsuccessfully to cover John's mouth as John pulled out of reach and laughed harder. "Do you want them to hear us?" John looked at Rodney solemnly for a moment and then totally lost it. "Stop it! Stop with the donkey laugh!" Rodney smacked at John's shoulder and John suddenly pulled him into an embrace. "You don't think they heard us hit the wall earlier?" John whispered in his ear, his hands moving up and down Rodney's back. "You don't think they'll notice that you've been thoroughly kissed?" "Maybe," Rodney said unconvincingly. John released him with a snort and stepped back. "By all means, let's go in." Only John could make that sound as dirty as it did. **** The party had been a raging success. Rodney had called the hot tub off-limits, but Radek had brought a sufficient quantity of tormack moonshine so that no one seemed to mind. And John's look of stunned astonishment and the sight of Elizabeth hugging him was priceless. Radek also proved to be camera happy and the flash kept going off most of the evening. Ronon turned out to be something of a ham, mugging for photos with most of the crew and planting a big kiss on an embarrassed but pleased Jennifer when Radek asked to take a picture of the two of them together. Teyla was beaming with little Torren perched on her hip, Kanaan looked like he was having fun for the first time in Rodney's memory. Rodney was enjoying himself, though he wished they'd all go home soon. Not everyone could attend the party at the same time, as someone had to be running the ship; those on duty took turns so that there was a steady stream of visitors coming and going all evening. So when towards the end of the evening, there came another knock at the door, Rodney wasn't surprised. "I'll get it," he called out over the din of conversation, opening the door without hesitation. On the porch stood a young woman in a thin jacket, looking cold. She had long, dark brown hair that curled gently over her shoulders and hazel eyes that seemed to be pleading with him as he stared at her in confusion. She gave him a wan smile. "May I come in?" "Uh, who exactly are you?" Rodney asked, still holding the door like it was a tollgate and blocking her entrance. John was beside him in a flash, the others in the room rising to their feet as well. "I'm Fortune." The young woman shuffled her feet with the cold, rubbing her gloveless hands together as well. "I thought since you were all here, it might be nice to introduce myself." There was a long silence broken only by Radek muttering something in Czech. Rodney exchanged a bug-eyed glance with John, who laid a hand on his arm and said quietly, "Don't be rude, Rodney, let her in." They both stepped back from the door as Fortune beamed and entered the room. "Wow," Jennifer breathed into the stunned silence. "Why does this feel like a Tiny Tim moment?" A nervous laugh rippled around the room and the tension eased. "Why does she look like she could be Sheppard's sister?" Ronon said, earning a slap on the arm from both Teyla and Jennifer at the same time. "What?" Ronon looked hurt. "I'm just saying..." Radek moved forward to offer her a drink. "I must say, this will certainly make understanding your systems easier," he said with a smile. "What, are you crazed?" Rodney intervened, snagging the drink out of Radek's hands. "You can't get the ship drunk on your noxious brew. Who knows where we'd end up?" Fortune smiled. "Relax, Rodney. May I call you Rodney? Your tormack punch cannot affect me in that way. Though I have an idea or two for a more effective distillation method," she suggested to Radek with a bit of a twinkle. Soon everyone was crowding around her to ask questions. Everyone but John. He stood silently watching the interaction with his crew, listening to her answers but saying nothing. Rodney eyed him uneasily. It was times like this when he was so very conscious of his failings in all his personal relationships. Here he was, faced with what was obviously a problem for John and Rodney simply didn't know what to do. He hated feeling so helpless. Finally, at long last the party seemed to be winding down. Elizabeth and Fortune approached together to say their goodbyes. "I know the two of you would like to get some rest," Elizabeth suggested with a smile. "I just wanted to say how very, very happy I am to be here. Thank you, Rodney. And happy birthday, John." She stepped forward to give each of them a kiss on the cheek. "I, too, wanted to say how very pleased I am to have you all here," Fortune said quietly. "Too much time had passed since I had purpose or a reason to exist." "It's an arrangement that will work out well for all of us," John said, reminding Rodney just why John had been so very good at all those first contact situations. Fortune beamed at him, her smile lighting up her whole face. "You can't know just how much...a ship without a crew is nothing but a hunk of metal floating in space. And this crew..." she looked around the room and then cast a shy smile at Rodney. "There is cohesion and strength here. There is something about the collective that exceeds the individual." She lifted her eyes to look directly at John. "I am proud to serve as your ship, Colonel." "You can call me John," he said with a causal little shrug. "Everyone else does." "Just don't hug him," Rodney warned. "He's really not the hugging type." John made a face and slung one arm around Rodney's shoulders, putting him into a headlock briefly as Rodney protested loudly. "It's okay, we're okay, he's just teasing," Rodney said when Fortune's eyes grew large and she appeared alarmed. As the two women made their way down the porch stairs into the snowy night, Rodney could hear Fortune saying, "Please explain to me why we are pretending we are in a place called Canada?" Rodney shut the door. They were finally alone. "I can't believe you recreated our cabin," John said, sitting on the arm of the couch. Rodney came over to him, stepping into the space created when John spread his legs. He placed his hands on John's shoulders. "I missed it," he said simply. "I miss us." John pressed his face into Rodney's abdomen for a moment and then looked up with a smile. "I disagree with Fortune about one thing though." "Oh, and what's that?" Rodney said, stepping back and pulling John to his feet. "The collective doesn't exceed every individual," John murmured against his neck. "Let's go to bed." "Strangely enough, I'm good with that," Rodney grinned. ~fin~

"Have you talked to Laura lately?" Rodney crossed his arms and leaned back into the plushness of his chair. "Yes, yes, everything's fine and good. Last night, we even exchanged our deepest secrets while braiding each other's hair and toasting marshmallows. Can we drop Cadman for a while? It's not like she's the only thing in my life." "All right." Heightmeyer sat forward, crossing her wrists over her knees in a way that made her assets...appreciate. Rodney swallowed and forced himself to meet her eyes. "What do you want to talk about?" "Oh, I don't know, maybe the million and one ways I'm likely to die in the next week? Maybe the fact that one of my teammates went crazy and tried to kill me? Oh, I know. How about the fact that I've got a new team member, someone whose very important role is to save my life at critical moments, I might add, and for all we know he might be a serial killer?" Her eyebrows went up, all elegant surprise on her otherwise poised face. He wondered how much of it was an act, and how much was just her. He hoped it was an act; placidity like that belonged on the brain-dead or pot-smoking hippies, neither of which he found reassuring. "New team member?" "Yes, ignore the important parts like the danger to my well-being," he muttered. "I would have thought that you'd have already heard about everything going on around here." Heightmeyer smiled wryly. "People don't tend to gossip with their shrink," she said. "Huh." That made sense, he supposed. "You were telling me about your new teammate," she prompted softly. "Right. Sheppard got Elizabeth to let him add Dex." Rodney snorted; they were probably off exchanging war stories and tales of the Wraith right now. "Ronon Dex? The man you brought back from the planet where you encountered Lieutenant Ford?" Rodney nodded and rubbed his hand on the slick polyester of his pants. He still got all clammy and queasy whenever he thought about that mission, the way Ford had stared at him after the gun had gone off, betrayal changing into hate so fast his adrenal glands couldn't keep up. "Yes, him." "I wasn't aware that he'd been cleared for duty." He shook his head, half-smiling at the absurdity. "The colonel apparently decided that he was no longer a security risk and let him off the leash." The colonel. The word still felt odd in his mouth, like a sideways chunk of apple, the peel slicing between his teeth. Her right eyebrow did the little Vulcan thing. "You think he's dangerous." Rodney rolled his eyes. "Of course he's dangerous. That's why Sheppard wants him on the team. The guy's a one-man army." "But do you think he's a danger to you?" Rodney frowned, trying to evaluate the data, trying to use the knowledge he'd gained after a year in the field. Dex always prowled around like he owned the place, watching everybody with a predatory gaze and a look on his face like he knew something nobody else did. "Rodney?" "He cut me down," he said, the words jumping out like they sometimes did when everything clicked into place. "I'm sorry?" "On the planet, after he fought off Ford. He cut me down out of the trap. Sheppard was chasing after Ford, he could have done anything to me then." Heightmeyer was cocking her head at him in that way that meant good, now take it to the conclusion, which never failed to make him feel both pleased and condescended to all at the same time. "Fine. So he's probably not an axe-murderer. That still doesn't mean he should be on the team." Heightmeyer sat back like she did when she'd had a revelation. Great. "Colonel Sheppard didn't consult you about it beforehand." "No, of course not. Military, remember?" He shook his head. "It's not like I've seen him lately to be consulted, anyway." "But you think he should have asked you anyway." Rodney lifted his chin, bracing for her disagreement. "I don't think it's such an unreasonable thing to ask." She shook her head, a quick smile sliding across her gloss-slick lips. "I don't think it's unreasonable at all." "Oh, okay." He shifted in the chair, dropping his arms to the side as he glanced around the room. She didn't have a clock in here, but he couldn't help looking every visit, and every visit it drove him nuts. If he weren't here by his own volition, he would have stormed out in protest a long time ago. Fortunately, he was self-aware enough to know that would be rather silly. "You said that you haven't seen Colonel Sheppard much lately. Is it possible that he's not aware of your concerns about Dex?" Rodney shrugged. "It's possible." "So maybe you should tell him." He couldn't help chuckling at that. "Oh, that's a new one. Someone actually telling me to talk more about what's bothering me." Heightmeyer didn't need to say anything. Her eyes were sharp electric-blue sparks–just like those on a cattle prod. He shifted on the seat again and checked his watch. Maybe you should talk to him. Maybe you should discuss your concerns. He felt like he was trapped in some new-age touchy-feely get-to-know-yourself exercise as he stalked down the corridors on his mission, but Heightmeyer wasn't a total moron, and with the notable exception of getting him to let Cadman out to play, most of her suggestions were actually helpful. To a certain degree, anyway. Midday in Atlantis meant lunch rush, even though Elizabeth had politely encouraged everyone to stagger their breaks so the kitchen crew wasn't overwhelmed. John tended to eat late, but he wasn't in his office or the gym, and the jumper bay was full. If he wasn't in the cafeteria, Rodney was chucking the whole crazy idea in the garbage and getting back to his very important research. The room itself was fairly crowded, as he'd expected, but with the balcony doors open, letting in the sun and a fresh breeze off the ocean, it wasn't nearly as noisy as it could be. He almost grabbed a tray and got in line, but Myers was up there. She'd pull Rodney into some discussion needing his brilliance within thirty seconds if he got too close. Instead, he pushed his way past Grenier and Everson, gossiping in the aisle; and sure enough, there was John at his usual table, tray more full than empty. Rodney rubbed his hands in anticipation; maybe he wouldn't have to go through the line after all. He smirked and started towards John's table. He pulled up short when Dex slid in across from John, frighteningly graceful for such a big man. His tray was piled with enough food to make Rodney worry about a shortage, and he was already stuffing it into his mouth like a starving man. John laughed at something, a low chuckle that carried through the background noise and seemed to reverberate through the soles of his shoes. Dex grinned, something large and green stuck between his front teeth. Rodney turned and pushed his way back out the door. He spent the rest of the afternoon arguing equations at the whiteboard with Radek, managing to smear red dry-erase marker all over his shirt sleeve at some point. At least it didn't look like blood, but he was going to have to do laundry ahead of schedule. He was grumping his way toward the cafeteria to finally get something more than coffee and a PowerBar when John stepped out of his office right in front of Rodney. "McKay," John said, lazy tones matching the slow grin. "Long time, no see." "Yes, well, some of us have had more important things to do than play tour guide," he said. John gave him the narrow-eyed glare that meant you're full of shit and you know it, but I don't feel like getting into it right now. Rodney cleared his throat. "Are you busy right now?" "I was on my way for chow. You need something?" "Just to talk, if that's alright?" John nodded and stepped backwards, his office door shushing open just before he would have smacked against it. Rodney followed him in, waiting while John settled into one of his casual leans against the edge of his desk. The room was shadowy even with the lights on, though he knew it was brighter during the day. It was an odd-shaped room, so narrow and bland he would have assumed it was a large storage closet if not for the slatted windows. "Rodney?" "As you know, I've been meeting with Dr. Heightmeyer," he started, but John's eyebrows shot up. "Are you still having problems because of Cadman?" "Or I guess you didn't know," he continued after a beat. John gave him a get on with it look, all crooked eyebrows and tipped chin, but his eyes were soft and worried. Rodney waved him off. "No, no, I'm past that. Just the usual neuroses and dealing with imminent death thing. Not important, I assure you." "O-kay, so what are you trying to tell me?" Rodney crossed his arms. "I don't think Dex is a good choice for the team." All the worry and openness went out of John–tension snapping across his shoulders and jaw like a military salute. Rodney sighed. He knew this wouldn't accomplish anything. "You don't," John said flatly. "We don't know anything about him," he snapped back. "I realize that he's a good fighter, but that doesn't mean you should just arbitrarily make him our fourth." Something dark and dangerous flickered through John's eyes, and Rodney almost flinched as he remembered the reason they needed a new fourth. John had dropped his efforts to find Ford–there wasn't much hope now, anyway–but Rodney knew that didn't mean he'd stopped thinking about the lieutenant. "You don't know anything about Ronon," John said, skipping over the topic of Ford entirely. Rodney nodded. "Yes, thank you, that's what I said." John shook his head. "You don't know him. I've spent the past two weeks getting to know him, and he's a good guy. He's had it rough for a long time, so he's a bit rough around the edges, I get that. But don't write him off just because of that, Rodney. He'll be good for us." He had no clue what to say to that. The sounds of the room seemed to beat against his ears as he stared at John, the air processors making a shushing whir-whir that made him think of slow ceiling fans beating in hot, dirty barrooms. John had been off bonding with the new guy all the while Rodney'd had his brain invaded–not to mention the terrifying but frequently-overlooked fact that he'd been taken by the Wraith and subsequently shot down. "I see," he finally said, because really, there wasn't anything else to say. John looked down, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "Look, Rodney. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about it first. I didn't think it was that big of a deal. How about we take a little test drive mission, go inspect one of the alpha sites or something and see how well he fits in? If you've still got a problem with him after that, then we'll talk about it, ok?" "Really?" he asked, taken aback by the concession. Though really, he shouldn't have been, because John did listen to him as often as not. John smiled, soft amusement back in his face. "Really. Now is that all? Because I'm starving." His stomach growled in response to the suggestion, and John laughed. "I'll take that as a unanimous vote," John said, and Rodney grinned back. The trip to the alpha-site was about as boring a mission as they'd ever experienced, with the added joy of a ten-mile forced march which John called perimeter inspection, but Rodney knew it was really their shake-down cruise. Dex never said much. He spent most of the time scouting, watching the trees and the sky like some big hunting dog. Rodney swore he'd even sniffed something that looked suspiciously like cow dung on one of his squatting inspections, but when he'd looked askance at Teyla and John, he'd been faced with twin looks of polite interest masking what he suspected was boredom. It was a really boring mission, after all. Worse, the only conclusions it left him with were that he really hated hiking–-which he already knew–-and that he had no room to complain about Dex. He should have kept his mouth shut for once and saved his knees the abuse. He'd just gotten out of the shower and was heading off to the labs when his day got even peachier. "Hey, McKay," she said, her tinny voice as jaunty as always. She grinned at him in a way that made him suspicious. "Cadman," he said warily, trying to escape with a small smile and a polite nod. She simply picked up her pace so she could walk beside him. "So, how's the dating scene lately? Last I heard, Katie was feeling a bit let down that you hadn't asked her out again." He was so, so very right to be suspicious. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, trying to remember that she wasn't all that bad a person, and that he was happy that she was alive and well. And thankfully out of his head. "Aw, come on Rodney, don't give me the cold shoulder." He stopped and spun to face her. "Don't you have something better to do than harass me about my love life?" She smiled at him, a manic twinkle in her eyes that told him she thought she'd won something. "You should feel sorry for me. I'm up for mat hell." "Mat hell?" he asked, his own natural curiosity getting the better of him. Laura smiled and started walking again. "Hell," she repeated. "The colonel set up a rotation to train with Ronon on a regular basis." "Ronon? As in Dex?" She punched him in the arm–not at all lightly. Rodney glared at her as he rubbed the spot. "Do you know any other Ronon's? The guy's amazing, but it gets a little old getting the snot beat out of you over and over again." "Huh," he said. "He trains you every night?" "Well, not me personally, thank goodness. But he's been working with a group every night, as far as I know." Amazingly enough Cadman stopped talking, and Rodney found himself following her to the gym. John had said Rodney didn't know Dex, and the mission hadn't been helpful in that regard at all. Rodney wasn't sure what he might learn from watching the guy beat people up, but then again, he couldn't imagine sitting down for a deep philosophical discussion with him, either. Dex and a couple of Marines were already in the room, running through some kind of warm up stretch. Cadman dropped her stuff in the corner and joined them. Rodney glanced around, trying to pick a good vantage point amidst the boxing equipment and supplies that was far enough out of the way that he wouldn't get boxed himself. He was surprised to see John in the back corner, leaning against a rather disturbing dummy of a male torso. John was watching the group on the mat, but he looked up when Rodney got within a few feet. "Rodney," he said, smiling like they hadn't just spent most of an unpleasant day together. "Come to join in?" Rodney snorted. "Hardly. Just call it data collection." John nodded, still smiling, his expression open and a little goofy. Rodney could never resist that look. It reminded him of getting shot and being tossed off the balcony, of adrenalin surges that made his heart beat with excitement rather than fear. "Cool. You're in for a show. Ronon's incredible. He's got this one move where he spins in the air and does this knife hand to the neck, knocks anybody flat like that," John said, snapping his fingers to illustrate. "Right." Rodney nodded, then turned to watch the mat. Maybe it would be more exciting right side up, but he doubted it. He wasn't afraid for his life at the moment. The exercise seemed to be starting, all of the Marines edging the padded area of the floor while Dex faced them from the center, holding a short, polished wood stick. There was a feral air to the man, a tiny smile on his face that seemed to taunt the Marines. One by one they minced forward, only to retreat back off the mat once Dex spun to face them. Finally, Cadman launched forward, aiming a hard punch at Dex's kidney's. He whirled around before she could make contact, grabbing her wrist and pulling her into him. Rodney winced as he pulled her into a choke hold; Laura was still struggling, trying to kick Dex in the shins, but he evaded her easily. Another Marine darted in, but Dex simply flipped Laura to the ground and elbowed the new guy in the chin. Ouch. He looked over at John, wondering if that was within bounds for a training exercise. John's smile had faded away, but he didn't look angry or horrified. Rather, he was watching intently, his eyes on fire as he took in every move. There was a magnetism about him, even though he was in full lean–elbow braced on the mannequin, left ankle crossed across the right, hand on his jutting hips. A living, breathing display of static principles, and Rodney suddenly had the urge to push against John in just the right spot to make him tumble. He looked back at the mat. The marines were picking themselves up, rubbing their elbows, necks and shoulders as Dex started telling them what they had done wrong. Rodney turned back to John, who had started to smile again. He cleared his throat, and John's eyes flicked over to him. "Well, Colonel, I need to get back to work. Have fun playing Mortal Kombat." "Already, McKay? You haven't even seen half his cool moves yet." Rodney grimaced. He could feel a headache coming on; he wondered if it was possible to be allergic to other people's sweat. "No, no, I think I've seen enough, thank you." John looked disappointed for half a second before he nodded and returned to watching Dex. Rodney sighed and skirted around the edges of the room, feeling out of sorts for some reason. When did you first notice the problem? The question echoed in his head, but Rodney was pretty sure Heightmeyer wouldn't be satisfied with something as pat as when Dex first stepped through the stargate. That was the problem with psychologists; they were never satisfied with anything you told them. The epiphany came without flashing lights or blaring trumpets. He was simply sitting in the lab across from Radek, staring at the theoretical schematics for the ZPM, when all his discomfort and half-aware observations coalesced, leaving him with a sudden chill and a slightly queasy feeling in his stomach, not unlike the first time he'd emerged from the other side of a wormhole. It was an absurd conclusion–so absurd that he doubted his own intelligence for an unprecedented couple of seconds. The schematics fuzzed in front of his eyes as he let them unfocus, reexamining the facts. A), US Military–-fact against. B), John was clearly interested in women. He flirted outrageously with every beautiful woman they met–-hell, he flirted with every woman they ran into. He'd go all soft smiles and throaty-voiced innuendo, spouting off outrageous lines and batting his eyelashes like some Southern Belle at her debutante ball. So, another fact against. Except, C), Attraction to women didn't rule out the other, and D), John more-or-less acted the same way around the men they encountered. He wasn't as brazen–-more buddy-buddy than hot-to-trot-–but John was all charm whenever he smelled a potential audience; laughing, joking, inviting everybody in his radius to trust and like him. Gender didn't make a difference. Rodney pushed away from the bench. Radek looked up, but Rodney waved him off. "Going for a walk," he said, then wandered out into the hall. There was no way to know for sure–-unless he asked John, of course. But his intuition-–yes, thank you Elizabeth, he did have intuition-–was saying that he wasn't wrong. Heightmeyer's voice was in his head again, some bad television parody of the superego, patiently asking and what does that mean to you? Rodney shook his head. As John had so very bluntly said in the past, his love life wasn't any of Rodney's business. He wasn't a homophobe. The nausea he felt whenever he thought about the blatant way Sheppard ogled Dex–-well, that was simply concern about team dynamics. He'd feel the same way if John was interested in Teyla or Elizabeth. The smell of hot grease and boiled vegetables-–something similar to brussel sprouts or cauliflower–-broke through his deep thoughts. Rodney glanced around, and sure enough, he'd ended up outside the cafeteria. He glanced at his watch-–a bit early for lunch, but eating now wouldn't throw off his schedule that much–-and got in line. The boiled vegetable turned out to be green and otherwise unidentifiable, but the grease turned out to be fried chicken, complete with reconstituted mashed potatoes. Excellent. "Rodney, over here!" John. Rodney took several deep breaths, told himself not to think about what he'd been thinking about, and willed his betrayingly fair complexion to cooperate for once. Then he turned around and headed toward John's table. "Colonel." "McKay," John answered, looking boyish as he grinned up at Rodney. "How's it going?" "Oh, you know," he said as he slid his tray onto the table, thinking don't think don't think don't think while trying to think of something to say. "The usual attempts to solve the mysteries of the universe. I haven't had any near-death encounters recently, so lots of energy to spend on the important stuff." John chuckled as he dragged his fork through the last of his potatoes. "Yeah, about that. You didn't really say one way or the other what you think about Ronon." Rodney froze with his chicken halfway to his mouth. "Uh, he's fine, I guess." John beamed. Rodney took a huge bite of chicken to settle his stomach. "Great. I was talking to Elizabeth about potential missions, and I think we've got a good prospect. If that's okay with you?" "Fine," he said through his chicken. John looked so eager and happy, eyes shining at the prospect of taking his new buddy out and about. Rodney swallowed. "Whatever makes you happy," he said, far too seriously judging by the odd look John gave him. "You sure?" Great. Now John was worried about him. "Yes, I'm sure," he said. "Do you want your drumstick?" John rolled his eyes, but thankfully, he passed the drumstick. Rodney set it to the side as he started in on his potatoes, watching as John scanned the room. He could guess who John was looking for. The queasy feeling kicked in again. Rodney reached for the drumstick. "Can I come in?" Rodney asked as soon as the door slid open. He didn't wait for John to do more than open his mouth, pushing past and stopping in the middle of the room. He glanced around quickly, taking in the changes that a few supply runs from Earth had wrought. John's tastes apparently ran to the 'whatever you can play with' school of design. "Did you want something, McKay?" He took a breath, hesitating briefly. He was pretty sure this wouldn't be Heightmeyer-approved, but she had encouraged him to share his concerns, after all. "Look," he started, holding up his hand to stall whatever response John might have, "I know it's none of my business who you do what with, but I thought we'd established that romance shouldn't get in the way of the security of this mission." John frowned, eyebrows squirming with confusion. "Excuse me? Is this about Chaya again, because I really don't get where this is coming from." Rodney crossed his arms. He couldn't help it; he got defensive whenever the lying came up. "Not specifically, no. I'd just feel a lot better about the mission tomorrow if I knew that your decision to include Dex wasn't based on any...misguided feelings." There went the eyebrows. "You think I'm hot for Ronon?" John looked both disturbed and disbelieving. Rodney sighed. "I wouldn't be so indiscreet as to say that in public, but yes, I had gotten that impression." John stared at him blankly for a long moment in which Rodney had ample opportunity to wonder if the military stereotype was going to say hello with a fist to his face. Then he licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows like a crazy old man. "Ronon is a hunk, don't you think?" "I knew it!" Rodney threw up his hands. "Your lecherous urges are going to get us all killed." John laughed. "Relax, Rodney. Ronon's not my type. And you know, I don't know where you get off on accusing me of getting the team in trouble. You're the one who lost us the ZPM because you were trying to impress Allina." Rodney glared, ignoring the embarrassing realization that he'd been way, way off target. "Two words. Non-corporeal alien-sex." John glared back. "That's three words." "Two. Alien-sex is hyphenated." "Well excuse me, Mr. Picky Pants." John smiled, Rodney smiled, it was all good, misunderstanding swept under the carpet like Rodney'd never opened his mouth. John had to ruin it by frowning. "You really need to relax about this, Rodney. If it makes you feel any better, Teyla thinks Ronon will work out just fine." Rodney sighed and dropped his arms. "Fine. Good. I'm relaxed." John slapped him on the shoulder and winked. "I can see that. Now go get some sleep, would you? We've got an early start tomorrow." Rodney nodded and left, heading back towards his own room. He actually did feel sleepy and relaxed, moreso than he'd felt in a long time. John's optimism was contagious, apparently. He was actually looking forward to getting off-world again. So of course, their first real mission as a new team had to be a sequel to Escape from LA. Standing in the shower, scrubbing at all the dirt and grime that had amazing adhesive qualities, he wondered whether anyone had ever made a thorough investigation into Murphy's Law. It seemed like there might be intersections with Heisenberg's, but then again, maybe it would lie more with the scope of one of the fuzzy sciences. He needed to move up his appointment with Heightmeyer. Some days, when things had been relatively calm and they could afford to focus on his lesser neuroses, he thought about dropping the sessions. Then something always would go horribly, terribly wrong. He didn't understand how everyone else lived with the constant terror, punctuated by occasional grief and anger, with exhaustion always under everything else. Christ, they'd almost died again today, and he couldn't even count how many times within that short period they'd been in danger. That crazy fucker was going to make him fucking choose who to murder. He really, really hated it when people died. Rodney shut off the water, squeaky clean at last, and grabbed blindly for his towel. He could still hear John saying they'd rather die than give up Atlantis. Could still hear the roar of the Wraith carrier as it entered the atmosphere. But, hey. At least he'd found out that Ronon was a stand-up guy. Kind of crazy, but then they all were, weren't they? He pulled on his boxers and a T-shirt. The bed looked tempting, but he was way too restless to actually sleep. So, jeans, socks and shoes, and he was out the door. Maybe he'd go see if Zelenka had gotten any further on the schematics. He wound up in front of John's door. John looked exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes and his hair wet and lifeless, but he stepped aside without a word. Rodney took the invitation the same way. He wasn't sure what to do when he got in the room, though. They stared at each other in silence, John with a patient expression, like he had all the time in the world to wait on Rodney's whim. "I, uh, noticed you limping earlier," he finally said. "In the gate room." John nodded like that made perfect sense. "I banged my knee up a little in that last fight. No big deal." "Oh, good," he said. "Good." "Yeah," John said. "You okay?" "Me? A little stiff from being tied up and dragged around all day, but I'll live." He snorted softly. "Carson, uh, Carson says my tooth isn't chipped. So no worries there." John grinned. He dropped down on the bed and waved Rodney over. "I was so scared you were going to sue me for that landing." "Ha, ha, very funny," Rodney said, shifting so he could see John's face better. "I'd should, just for that. The American government really isn't paying me what I'm worth." "I'm sure nobody could pay you what your worth, Rodney." John's eyes were serious despite his teasing tone. His grin softened into an almost smile. "You did great work out there today." If John meant to fluster him, he succeeded. "Yes, of course," he said a few seconds too late, a little too meekly for it to come off as anything but ridiculous. It wasn't that John never gave compliments. Rodney never got used to getting them, though. The corner's of John's eyes were crinkled up with amusement, and the light was hitting his irises just right to bring out the green highlights. John wasn't really smiling anymore, but the corners of his lips were drawn up just enough to deepen the lines in his cheeks, accentuated by his dark stubble. Then he licked his lips, his tongue barely peeking out long enough to wet them. Rodney swallowed, then cleared his throat as he realized they'd lapsed into silence. "Rodney?" John sounded concerned. He waved his hand at his head. "I should go. I'm starting to space out. No pun intended, of course." John nodded. "Okay. Sleep well." Slipping out the door felt furtive, like he was still trying to escape from something. It didn't help that he could hear Heightmeyer all the way down the hall to his room, her gentle tones repeating what are you running from? until the words melted into a meaningless cadence that followed him into his dreams. "I gave at the office," he shouted at his door. Really, was it too much to ask to have a little time of his own before something fell apart again? "Open the door, Rodney." John, sounding both impatient and amused. Rodney saved his file and crossed the room to let him in. John held up a jewel case. "Somebody smuggled in a bootleg copy of the new Batman movie." "Oh, excellent," he said. John let him take it without protest. "Have you watched it yet?" "Nope. Thought maybe we could share." "Now?" He turned back towards his desk. "If you want. I wanted to ask you something, first." Rodney turned back to John. He sounded–strange. Uncertain, maybe. Un-John-like. "Sure," he said, waving him on. John rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the floor before he met Rodney's eyes again. "I was wondering why you thought I was interested in Ronon." Damn John's stealthy military training, softening him up with presents before he dropped a bomb. There was no way Rodney was going to come out of this discussion well. "Look, obviously I was mistaken. There's no need to dwell on it, is there?" He found he was rolling his fingers together nervously, so he clasped his hands behind his back. "And it's not like you weren't spending all of your time with Ronon, talking about him all the time, leaning..." John raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching up with amusement. "Leaning, huh? I'll have to keep that in mind." Rodney rolled his eyes. "So can we watch the movie now?" John shook his head. "Nobody's ever implied that I'm gay, Rodney." Rodney flushed. "Well, excuse me, Mr. Heterosexuality. I thought you were open-minded enough not to freak out about it." "Nobody, that is, except guys who were trying to pick me up." He was a genius–-he didn't need any time at all to catch John's implication. John didn't look amused anymore, or like he was trying to pull Rodney's leg. He looked deadly serious, but not edged and hard like he did during combat. "Oh," Rodney said, because, wow, he really was dense after all. Because finally, there it was-–click, boom, flashbulb, a revelation to shame all epiphanies, a beam of shining light splitting the murkiness of the heavens. And in the center of that beam stood John Sheppard, staring back at Rodney nervously with his funky-colored eyes, sucking his full lips between his teeth, crossing his muscled arms protectively over the tight black T-shirt that showed off his pecs so well. It took Rodney three tries to work up enough spit to open his mouth. "Is that so?" he asked, and damn it, his voice had to crack, but John was nodding along like he'd just asked the most important hypothesis since Einstein had first wondered about the speed of light. "Yeah," John said. "That's so." "Oh, huh. That's very interesting." Rodney swallowed, then found some courage he'd forgotten he had. "So, uh, what happens after that? With the propositioning." John lowered his arms and took a step forward. "That depends on who's asking." That was the cue for his turn in the witty repartee, but Rodney couldn't think past the increasingly small space in his lungs and reverberating thud of his pulse in his ears. He swallowed again as John took another step, bringing them face to face, chest to chest. "And if I were the one asking?" he finally managed. John answered by spreading his warm hands across Rodney's chest, thumbs rubbing tiny circles just below his collar bone. That little touch was insanity–tickling frustration and spiking heat that shot down to his groin. Rodney leaned forward, pressed into John's strength. John moved his right hand up, slowly crossing the boundary between cloth and skin, running it upward across Rodney's neck, making him shiver. John finally looked up from his own hand. Rodney couldn't say what color his eyes were right then, because all he saw was desire. "John," he whispered, and God that felt so right, almost as right as John's lips brushing across his own. He pushed forward hungrily, wanting more. John's hand wound in his hair, his hands clutched at John's shoulders, their bodies pressed together as closely as possible...and wow, hello, that was John's erection shoving against his own. "Rodney," John whispered into his ear, and that was hot, too. "You good with this?" "Oh, yeah, definitely," he whispered back, and then John stepped backwards, pulling Rodney with him until they ran into the bed. John sat down, staring up at Rodney, and slowly stripped off his shirt. "Oh, oh wow." "Too fast?" John's brow crinkled as he reached for his shirt. Rodney grabbed his hand. "No, it's good. I'm just caught in the can't believe this is happening moment." "I know what you mean," John said with a soft, sweet smile. Rodney rubbed his thumb over John's smile, stroked John's clean-shaven cheek with his fingers. John sucked Rodney's thumb into his mouth, sending a jolt of pleasure up to his elbow. He pulled his hand away from John's mouth, and bent down to kiss him again. It turned hungry fast. John laid back, pulling Rodney on top of him. It was awkward, their legs off the edge of the bed, his back stretched uncomfortably, but it was so good he didn't want to move. He could smell John, aftershave and deodorant and something more, a smell that was so familiar to him--but he hadn't realized that fact until just now. He broke the kiss and pressed his face into John's neck. John rolled them onto their sides. He pulled on the bottom of Rodney's T-shirt, so Rodney took the hint. He paused after he got it over his head, because John had sat up to take off his shoes. And pants. He'd never really thought about seeing another man naked, not consciously, anyway, but John was beautiful. Not overly muscled, but obviously strong, perfectly masculine. "Come on, Rodney, your turn," John said quietly, still smiling. Rodney squirmed out of his pants, avoiding self-conscious thoughts by coming up with ideas to turn John's smile into something different. Apparently, getting naked was enough, because the smile dropped away. Rodney could see John swallow. "God, Rodney. I want–-" John cut himself off by practically diving onto him, rolling them dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Rodney would have protested, but he was busy kissing John and rubbing into his hot skin. They got into a rhythm, John guiding from the bottom, his hands on Rodney's ass pulling them together. Their cocks were rubbing together haphazardly, but it was good enough, sweat slicking their bellies for a good slide. John's eyes were closed, his head thrown back, mouth open, breathy gasps and moans that Rodney never could have imagined escaping from his lips. Then Rodney closed his own eyes, speeding up his thrusts as his balls drew up tight. John grunted and came underneath him, hot and wet everywhere around Rodney's cock. Rodney clamped his hands around John's shoulders, thrust hard one last time, and came. Time seemed to fuzz out for few minutes. Rodney supposed he should have been slightly curious about the phenomenon, but laying on top of John after a really great orgasm seemed to have killed his curiosity. John was running his hand through the hair on the back of Rodney's head, almost petting him. It was incredibly soothing. They laid together in silence for a few more minutes before any desire to talk returned to him. "So, you're not interested in Ronon, then?" John's laugh shook through his chest and up into Rodney's, joining with his own. Heightmeyer's office was at its perky best: bright sunlight filtering through the warm Atlantean glass, wildflowers jaunty and showy in a vase on her desk, a new Athosian wall hanging adding to the joyous atmosphere. Normally it would have been enough to make Rodney roll his eyes with disgust, but even her own natural perkiness couldn't ruin his mood. "So are you still concerned about Dex?" Rodney shook his head and held up his hands. "No, no, I was wrong about him, I admit it." Heightmeyer smiled at him. "I'm glad to see you in good spirits. Your latest mission was rather harrowing, though, wasn't it?" Harrowing, and they'd lost a puddlejumper. But they'd all come back alive, which was what mattered the most. Plus, the other outcome had been more than satisfactory. Rodney grinned at her. "I'd call it a learning experience."

In which McCoy gets little relief and Eve and Prescott get rather a lot Church, Patterson House and then Prescott House Sunday Jamie insisted on accompanying McCoy to church, which was somewhat unusual. It also precluded church from being the sanctuary it was intended. He needed time away from Jamie to clear his head, which was impossible when the gentleman in question was only a couple of inches away. As the pastor spoke, his attention wavered. When Jamie shifted—as he did quite often, not being constitutionally suited to sitting still—he would lose a word or two of the sermon before sharply reminding himself why, in fact, he was at church. "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it," quoted the pastor. The theme of the sermon appeared to be a memorial to the recently departed, and McCoy realized with a start that the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo was a mere two days hence. Odd, it was. He had managed to live an entire year after the battle. Jamie had survived. Even Captain Pike had somehow survived, even if Jamie had had to carry him off the battlefield while injured himself. Jocelyn hadn't managed to survive childbirth. The pain in his chest coalesced into a hard knot, and he inhaled as best he could. Jamie turned to him, a worried look on his face, and McCoy gave a slight shake of his head. Jamie nodded, and returned his attention to the sermon. God help him, his wife was (to him) barely a year cold in her grave; his daughter needed him, and he was contemplating a sin so grave that he couldn't name it, not even to himself. It was almost enough to make a man turn Papist, to have the ease of confession. Afterwards, they walked home, Jamie chattering about the various people who showed up in church yet sinned all week. McCoy listened with half an ear, his hands stuffed unfashionably into his pockets. Upon entering the hallway, Joanna threw herself at him, and he picked up his daughter with a smile. This is what is important, he reminded himself. Later that afternoon, he sat in the library reading while Jamie did his accounts, and there was a scratch at the door. "Come," Jamie said, and the butler entered. "My lord, there is a young woman here who wishes to speak to Miss Colt." Jamie frowned. "Did she give her name?" "A Miss Caitlin Barry, my lord." Barry—probably Irish, McCoy thought. The first name agreed. Miss Colt had an upper-class London accent, but she did also have reddish hair. Perhaps a sister? "Get Miss Colt; bring her here, and put Miss Barry in the parlor," Jamie instructed. The butler nodded and left, and Miss Colt appeared about five minutes later. "My lord, is there something wrong?" Jamie stood. "You have a visitor, Miss Colt. We are aware that we do not know everything about your history, and we thought we'd ask if you want to see the visitor before showing you into the parlor." Miss Colt blanched. "No, I do not wish to see anyone." "Not even a Miss Caitlin Barry?" he asked. Miss Colt blanched further, if such a thing were possible. "No. No, I do not wish to—" She turned, pressed the back of one hand to her mouth. "Please excuse me." "Miss Colt. Do you need my help in any way?" "No," she said. "I understand if you wish to terminate my employment, but I would ask that you don't." She still faced away from the two men. "Why would we send you away for not wanting to see a visitor?" Jamie asked. "McCoy, can you go see to Miss Barry." It wasn't a question. He nodded, and left, closing the door softly behind him. Jamie was much better at eliciting information from women than he was. Entering the parlor, he saw a young, auburn-haired woman standing near the window. She jumped when he closed the door, and turned to him. "Oh!" "Pardon me for intruding," he said, knocking as much of the burr out of his voice as possible. "I'm McCoy, Leonard McCoy." "Caitlin Barry," she said, and the accent identified her as definitely Irish. The clothing, however—dark traveling dress and hat—identified her as upper-class, even to McCoy's relatively untrained eye. "I take your presence to mean that Amelia doesn't wish to see me?" "Amy," McCoy corrected. Miss Barry pressed her lips together. "Ah," he said. "So Amy Colt is—" "Amelia Colton," she said. "Six months ago, she was governess to my youngest sister, Juliana." "Why did she leave?" Miss Barry compressed her lips again. "I'd rather not discuss it. Suffice it to say that she has committed no crime." McCoy was well aware that there were many things that one could do that were not crimes yet weren't particularly high on the morality scale, either. After all, he—well, never mind, that was a crime. Nonetheless. "And yet," he said, "she doesn't want to see you. Have you committed a crime?" "No," Miss Barry said shortly. They stood, staring at each other in a sort of stalemate until the door opened; McCoy had to scramble out of the way. Jamie sauntered in, followed by a watery Miss Colt—or Colton. "Well, Miss Barry, Miss Colton has changed her mind." Apparently she'd spilled her entire life story to Jamie after McCoy had left. "Amelia," Miss Barry said, taking a step forward. "Cait," Miss Colton said, also taking a step forward. The tension in the room stretched thickly between the two young women until suddenly they were in each other's arms, laughing and crying and—were they—kissing? Before he could determine, Jamie grabbed McCoy by the arm and hauled him out of the parlor, shutting the door behind him. "What are you doing?" McCoy hissed. "They're—" He didn't even know the word for it. "Kissing?" Jamie said. He had a look on his face that McCoy couldn't interpret. "Yes!" Jamie rolled his eyes, a gesture he'd picked up from McCoy himself, and set off in the direction of the library. McCoy followed him. Once that door was shut behind them, Jamie threw himself in his usual chair. "So what are we doing this evening?" he asked, a blatant change of subject. "Nothing," McCoy snapped, pacing. "It's Sunday. Jamie, my daughter's governess is in your parlor, kissing another woman." "And Joanna is up in her room, safely away from the sight." Jamie sighed. "Let's not discuss this any further, McCoy." He knew without a doubt it was in his best interest not to say another word on the matter, but something in him—his grandmother would probably say it was the devil—prodded him on. "It's wrong, Jamie." "That's what the church says," Jamie agreed, his tone not nearly as polite as his words. "That's what society says." "And you believe they're mistaken?" McCoy's eyebrow shot up into his hairline. "Did I say that?" Jamie said. He was still sprawled in his chair, tapping his fingers against one armrest. "Devil take it, McCoy, I don't know what I think about the matter, but Miss Colton didn't look frightened or apologetic for the first time since she's been here, and she loves Miss Barry. It's obvious." McCoy opened his mouth to refute it, but he realized that he couldn't—fortunately before he said anything else. He stopped pacing and looked straight at Jamie, who had a strange sort of half-smile on his face. His heart gave an odd thump, and he coughed. "Tomorrow night is the Earl of Macclesfield's event, is it not?" "It is," Jamie said, and looked away. The devil prodded him on again. "Will you be dancing with Lady Christine there?" Jamie looked at him, brow furrowed. "I don't know. Perhaps. What does it matter?" "Well, if you're courting her, shouldn't ye be dancin' wi' her?" Sod it, his accent was showing. "I'm not courting her," Jamie said. "I'm not, to my knowledge, courting any of the lovely young ladies whose mothers are throwing their daughters at me." He stood. "I believe when I asked you to come to London, I specified that it was to help me keep away the matchmaking mamas. If you're concerned that I'll marry and she'll kick you out, you have no reason to worry. I shall not be marrying this season, or any season." McCoy's mouth was inexplicably dry, and he swallowed. "You need to marry, to produce an heir." Jamie shrugged. "I have a cousin George—he's got two sons already. He'll do." He raked a hand though his hair, disturbing the curls. "Shouldn't you remarry, give Joanna a step-mother?" "I'm not out of mourning yet," McCoy said, although it was a mere matter of weeks before he'd spent an entire year with a black armband and black gloves. "Is that why you haven't so much as danced with any ladies other than Kit's Number One?" Jamie asked, his lips twisting. "Yes!" McCoy said. "Also, had you not noticed, I'm not exactly prime marriage material, unlike the sodding earl of Riverside." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. "Jamie, I—" Jamie was laughing, albeit bitterly. "Oh, McCoy." He pushed himself upright. "I'd better check on our intrepid governess and her Cait." He strode towards the door, stopping when he stood by McCoy's left side. Two of Jamie's fingers gently, unobtrusively, stroked the back of McCoy's ungloved hand. "I am the sodding earl of Riverside," he said, only a few inches from McCoy's ear, his breath warm. "That is the problem." He left the room before McCoy could unfreeze enough to move. The back of his hand burned for long minutes as he stared at the door. * * * Sunday morning Eve begged off of church with a headache, and spent the majority of the day occupying herself with menial tasks. However, when the family had all gone to bed, she couldn't postpone thinking about Christopher anymore. Whenever she tried, though, her mind whirled, in a fashion she was not accustomed to. He loved her, and she loved him—that she couldn't be bothered to deny—and she wanted him, ached to be near him with an intensity that was so much greater than it had been nine years ago. But— Throwing herself off her bed, she paced in front of the window for a moment or two before she admitted that she knew exactly what she wanted to do. She turned to her wardrobe to change, but before she got any further, the door opened, and Chrissy stepped inside. "Evie," she said. "You've been out of sorts all day." "Have I?" Eve asked. "I love you, you know," Christine said. "Yes, I know, and I love you as well," Eve replied, frowning. "Chrissy, what—" "You are going to marry him, aren't you?" Her sister's eyes were very wide and very blue, even in the soft candlelight. Eve sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. "Yes, probably. I need to—there are still things I need to understand." Chrissy nodded. "All right." She leaned over and kissed Eve on the forehead. "Go to him." "Christine!" Eve stood up quickly, her hands on her hips, and aimed a glare at her sister, but couldn't find the words to express her disapproval. "Christine," she repeated, after a moment. Chrissy smiled as she backed out of the room silently and closed the door behind her with a quiet click. Well. That had been interesting. She hadn't been looking for her sister's approval, but now that she had it . . . She dug through the back of her wardrobe until she found the black crepe dress from when her grandmother, the dowager countess, had passed away, and quickly changed into it, covering her head with the matching bonnet and shawl and putting on soft-soled shoes. Eve slipped out of the house, avoiding the servants with ease, and navigated the two blocks to Prescott House with no mishap. Although she hadn't done it in approximately nine years, she'd made this trek more than once, and her precise memory served her well. Her eyes flickered to the windows on the back of the house—mostly dark, except a dim light off to the left—and saw that one of them on the right had been left open an inch or two. If she remembered correctly, that window would let her into the parlor. Perfect. Also perfect was the wooden crate left beside the shed. She picked it up, set it below the window, tested to see if it would hold her weight, which it did, and stood on it gingerly. Pushing the window up slowly, so as not to cause any noise, she peered in. It was completely dark inside, and she saw no movement, so she reached in, caught the bottom of the windowsill, and poked a toe in between the bricks. She took a deep breath and hauled herself up. Damnation. She hadn't done this in years, and had forgotten than it hurt. She set her other toe between two bricks and pushed a little further. Hands caught her about the shoulders; she jerked her head up and almost hit the window before she realized that whoever was touching her was attempting to aid her, rather than push her back out the window. She couldn't see well enough to identify the source of the aid, but she let him help her finish crawling through the window. Once she stood on the floor, she dusted off her dress and looked at her rescuer. His silver hair glinted in the light of the candle he'd brought with him; his clothing identified him as an upper servant. Probably Christopher's valet, then. "Thank you," she said. "You're welcome, Lady Eve," the valet said. "However, Lord Prescott has given all of us orders that you are to be admitted at any time, day or night, so next time, please consider coming to the door." "I'll remember that," Eve said, dragging the remains of her dignity around her. She couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or not. "I'm sorry; I don't know your name." "Boyce, my lady," he said. "Shall I take you to Lord Prescott?" "Yes, please." Boyce picked up his candle again and led the way to the opposite end of the house, where Eve had seen the dim light. He scratched at the door, and at Christopher's "Come," let himself in with her right behind him. "Lord Prescott, you have a visitor." Christopher was sitting in a chair facing away from the window, adjacent to the fireplace, his feet propped up on a stool. When he saw her, he broke into a surprised grin, making him look strangely youthful in the candlelight. He pushed himself up to standing, not without effort, and Eve frowned. She'd forgotten about his injury. How much pain did he suffer? "Eve," Christopher said. "Thank you, Boyce." Eve heard Boyce leave and close the door behind her. "Please, come in." She nodded and came forward a couple steps. While standing in her room, she had known exactly what she wanted to say, but now that she was standing in front of him, in his library, unchaperoned, the words dried up in her throat. Swallowing, she tried. "Christopher, I—" She stopped, unsure of how to proceed. "Come in," he repeated gently. "Have a seat. Do you want any refreshment? I can ring for tea." "No. No, thank you, Christopher; I am fine." She edged forward and perched on the edge of the chair that was a twin to his own, facing the window. "How are you?" she asked. "I am very pleased to see you," he said, only an edge of warmth to his tone, but enough to make her spine tingle. He retook his seat, somewhat stiffly. "Do you attend the Macclesfield ball tomorrow night?" "Yes, I believe so," she said. His matter-of-fact conversation, as if it were entirely logical for her to visit him at half eleven at night, relaxed her somewhat, but she did not forget her primary goal. "Why didn't you mail the letter?" His face blanked, but he did not pretend to misunderstand her. Instead he stood again, somewhat less stiffly than before, and walked to the bookshelves, pulling down a large volume and retrieving a folded piece of paper from between the pages. He offered it to her wordlessly, and she opened it to read. 15 August 1811 Dearest Eve, I am writing to tell you that I have been offered a position in the military—and a promotion—that would mean significant improvement in my financial situation. Due to this, I will be gone for at least another year. I hope you will wait for me, although I cannot guarantee any specific date. If you decide against waiting, I understand, although I do hope this is not your decision. As always, my love and I are Yours, Chr. Pike The letter was cold on the surface, but she knew him well enough to know—or at least suspect—the root of the problem. "You did not believe I would wait for you." "I didn't know," he corrected. "I—" He spread his hands. "The paralysis of indecision. I do not know whether I was more afraid that you would wait for me, in which case I had certain responsibilities to myself and to you, or that you wouldn't, and I would have nothing to anticipate upon my homecoming." "I did not wait for you," Eve said, and Christopher looked up, alarmed. "I helped three younger sisters through their come-outs. I planned two weddings. I am the treasurer of the Upper Brook Street arm of the Ladies' Aid Society, and have been for the last four years. My mother has ceded to me nearly the entire running of the household, and my father has allowed me to run the dower property, which has raised wool profitably for the last five years. I have attended dozens of lectures at the Royal Institution, and I have read more than two hundred books. I have not been languishing on the settee in your absence, Christopher." She took a deep breath. "But I have never entertained another suitor." "Eve," he said, eyes intense. "Eve." "Should I have, Christopher?" It was unfair, she knew; in no way was she unaware of how he felt about her. "No," he said. "No." His voice was firmer the second time. "No, you should not have entertained another suitor." He closed the distance between them and dropped to one knee beside her chair. "Eve. Number One. My love, may I renew my suit?" "Yes," she said, joy bubbling up in her heart. "Yes, of course." She leaned forward, placed her hands on his shoulders, and set her lips to his. Even as they kissed, though, and as amazing as it was once again to have his mouth against her own, she could feel him wobbling. A moment later, he sat down, hard and unexpected, and Eve was left leaning into empty air. He looked up at her, gray eyes wide, and her heart jumped into her throat for a moment—was he hurt?—before he started laughing. "Oh, One. Come here." He held out his arms, and she slid off the chair and into his lap. His arms closed around her and she buried her head in his shoulder, chuckling. After a moment, though, her mind started cataloguing the differences between Christopher nine years ago and Christopher currently. He was perhaps a little more muscled, now, and of course she'd noticed the gray by his temples; there were more lines on his face, and he was—more serious somehow. Not that he'd ever been particularly light-minded before; he'd taken up his seat in Parliament well before she met him and had always taken his responsibilities to heart. Now, however . . . . Well, one thing had not changed in the least—he still smelled enticing, and his warm, solid form against her still caused heat to kindle inside her. She inhaled deeply, and just barely resisted the urge to taste his skin; later, she would have the chance, she hoped. "Christopher," she breathed. "I'm sorry, Eve," he said. "I never should have left you, I never should have stayed away that long, I should have sent the letter, I never should have doubted you." "No, you shouldn't have doubted me," she said. "And now, you should stop apologizing and kiss me." "Oh, do you think I should?" Christopher said, grinning even as he cupped her face in his hands and slanted his head. He pulled her in for a long, slow kiss, his lips parting to allow his tongue to drag over the seam of her lips, and she opened them, eager to taste him as she hadn't for nine years. As her tongue met his, he made a sound in the back of her throat and reached up to remove her shawl and bonnet. Breaking the kiss, he unbuttoned her gloves with surprising dexterity and discarded them next to the shawl and bonnet, tracing her fingers with his. She turned her hand over and returned the motion, finding all the calluses on his hands from riding, fencing, writing, and new ones, apparently from whatever he'd done in the army. She found a scar on the back of his left hand that hadn't been there before, and kissed it—she'd ask how he got it later, but there were more important things to do at the moment. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch of her mouth on his skin, and she touched her tongue lightly to the pad of one finger. As he made a sound she could only describe as a 'whimper,' his free hand tangled in her hair, searching for the pins. She sucked the tip of his finger, lightly, and his fingers fumbled in her hair. Looking up at him, her cheeks hollowed out, she saw that his eyes were wide and dark with desire. "I'd forgotten," he whispered. "How could I forget this?" She let his finger slip out of her mouth in order to say, "It has been a long time," with a raised eyebrow. "Never again," he promised, and she chuckled before throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her breasts to the solid wall of his chest. Eve kissed him again, stroking her tongue just inside his lower lip, and he shuddered. "You remember, don't you?" "I remember it all," she said, tracing a line down the side of his neck, below his ear, and unraveling his cravat with ease. She kissed the exposed skin of his throat and spread his collar wide. His breathing was unsteady under her hands already, and they had so much farther to go. But perhaps not on the floor of his library. "Christopher," she said, and stopped. Asking to retire to his chambers was a little beyond her nerve. Fortunately, he was on the same page. "Shall we go upstairs, my love?" he said, a finger trailing along her jaw. "Yes," she said, and stood, one hand on the chair as she resettled her skirts. Christopher stood as well, albeit not as gracefully. "Are you in pain?" she asked. He thought about lying to her, she could tell, but didn't. "Yes," he said. "It's rare that I am not. I don't believe it'll affect us, though." "You don't know?" she couldn't help but ask. He smiled. "No." "Were you faithful?" she asked in disbelief. "Since the injury, yes. Prior—no," he admitted. "But it was infrequent and I always took great care." She tilted her head and looked at him. "Well, that's good. I would not marry a man who would give me the French Pox." "Eve!" he said, scandalized. "You have always appreciated my practicality, Christopher," she said, and held out a hand. "I have," he said, taking her hand and pressing her fingers briefly. "You did answer a question I had not yet asked." It was a statement, not a question. "Yes," she said anyway. "Now that we've determined that you are not going to give me the French Pox and that we will, of course, be married, what shall we do now?" Christopher smiled warmly and held out his arm; she took it, and they proceeded upstairs to his bedroom. Once inside, he lit candles beside the bed before asking, "What else do you remember?" She turned to him, slid his cravat off his neck, and said, "I remember how much you enjoyed helping me undress." Her tone was a blatant invitation. "Yes," he said, and turned her slowly. Eve closed her eyes as she felt him start at the top of the long row of buttons up the back of her gown. His fingers stroked her skin through the thin cloth of her chemise and she shivered. When he finished with the buttons, he pushed the black cloth off her shoulders and she shifted to help it fall to the floor. Pushing it aside with the toe of one shoe, she turned to face him. He smiled again and reached up to remove the rest of her hairpins. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders, straight and thick and dark brown, and he brushed it back from her neck before pulling on the ribbon that tied at the neck of her chemise. She helped him push the delicate fabric down her body, and watched his face as he saw her nude for the first time in nine years. Eve experienced an uncharacteristic moment of self-consciousness; she was not nineteen anymore and time had wrought changes on her body that might perhaps not be to his liking. However, the wonder, amazement, and arousal writ plainly on her face disabused her of that notion in short order, and she reached out to touch his cheek. "I love you," he said, turning his face to place a kiss in the palm of her hand. "You are more beautiful now than you ever have been, and you cannot grow but more beautiful to me." "Thank you," she said. "I would return the compliment, but you are still fully dressed." She looked at him significantly. Rather than removing his jacket, he sat on the edge of the bed, his face hardening. "Eve, I have been a soldier for nine years, and I fear that the years have not been as kind to me as they were to you." "Nonsense," she said briskly, masking the concern she felt. "Are you still Christopher?" "I am," he said, with a puzzled look. "Then you could have a thousand scars and I would still find you attractive." She slid her fingers along his chest, under his jacket. "Please. Show me." He stood, slowly, and wrestled off his jacket. Next he untied the laces at his cuffs and placket, and flipped his shirt over his head. While he unbuttoned his trousers and skinned them and his linens down his legs, Eve untied her garters and quickly removed them and her stockings and shoes. A minute later he was nude, watching for her reaction hesitantly. He was, as she'd noted before, broader through the chest than he'd been before; but his body was still lean and muscled, and while she counted five separate bullet scars, it was the one on his right hip that interested her the most. She placed a hand on his left hip and turned him to the side, to see the scar that left a shiny line, curving from the top of his hip around to his buttocks. "The scars make you look heroic," she said, "although I wish this one did not cause you pain." She touched the scar in question. He gave a short bark of laughter. "I am no hero. I spent most of the battle captured, behind enemy lines, and Kirk—Riverside had to carry me to safety." "It does not signify," she said. "You were there, and you came home alive. You came home to me, alive." She pulled back the covers on the bed and lay down on the mattress. "I've forgotten what comes next," she said, although she had not in the least. Next he would put his hands on her bare skin. "Remind me?" His smile said that he saw through her ruse, but he joined her in the bed, lying on his left side, facing her. "You don't remember this?" he asked, stroking her shoulder. "Or this?" His hand closed over her breast, kneading gently. She gasped. "Maybe—somewhat." "Perhaps this will spark your memory, then." He rolled her onto her back; she went gladly, and panted shallowly as he carefully placed a knee between hers and lowered his mouth to her collarbone. "Christopher," she said, her voice breaking. She threaded her fingers through his hair, dragged her nails lightly down his neck and shoulders—that, she remembered as well, and he still quaked—and hooked her heel around the back of his thigh. "Oh, Christopher." "Number One," he whispered against her skin, as he ran a thumb over her nipple before sealing his mouth on it. Oh, she remembered that, but not the intensity of his mouth pulling at her flesh. She cried out, and felt him smile even as he kept up the suction. After a few moments it became too much, and she pulled him up for a kiss. He returned it enthusiastically before returning his attention to her body, to her other breast, which was already peaked in anticipation. His tongue rasped against the peak, and she strained against the mattress. When the sensations threatened to overwhelm her this time, she hauled him up to eye level, and then pressed him onto his back. He rolled easily, although he kept her pulled against him, so she ended up straddling him, his erection pressed to her most sensitive spot. She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Eve? Are you all right?" he asked, his low, sensuous tone at odds with the concern in his words. "I'm fine," she said, looking down at him. "More than fine, actually." He'd never—well, they'd never—she'd never felt that particular part of him against that particular part of her, but she was certainly aware of the mechanics and had definitely intended to reach this point that night. "How are you?" she asked, and shifted her weight slightly. He moaned, and she did it again, more deliberately this time. "If you keep that up," he said, his voice rough, "I shall be more than fine rather sooner than I'd planned." "What did you have planned?" The sensation of him throbbing beneath her was affecting her more than she'd initially thought. "I thought—perhaps—I'd taste you." He gasped, and she echoed the sound. He'd only put his mouth—down there—on her once before, the night before he'd left, and it had fueled more than one fantasy of hers over the years. When she was willing to think about him, that was. "And then—you could—touch me?" "Oh, no," she said, and sat up, her hands tracing long strokes over the flat of his chest down to his abdomen. "Not tonight." She thought perhaps she saw the glint of silver in his chest hair, and inexplicably, it aroused her more. "No?" he said, disappointment on his face. "No," she said, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "I thought perhaps we'd try what you would describe to me while you touched me, nine years ago." "Evie," he said. His eyes were wide. "Are you sure?" "Of course. We are getting married, right?" He nodded vigorously. "Then, if you have no more objections. . . ." She wriggled again, and his hands went to her hips, to still her. "No more objections," he said, and rolled her back beneath him, with a slight wince she chose to ignore this time. He kissed her, tongues tangling, and then kissed a trail down her neck, between her breasts, over her navel, down to the hair covering her feminine mound, and quickly over the insides of her thighs before parting her with his fingers and tracing a circle with his tongue. "Oh!" She arched her back, moaning. It was hotter, wetter, and significantly better than she remembered, even in her most explicit fantasies. Christopher explored her thoroughly with his mouth, sliding his tongue even down to her entrance before sucking at just the right spot to send flares through her body. She felt herself begin the familiar climb as he slid a finger, carefully, inside her, as he never had before. The new sensation surprised her with how much she enjoyed it, and she canted her hips against his mouth and hand as he pressed inside her and sucked harder until she saw stars behind her eyelids and cried out his name. He moved up the bed to hold her as she shook with passion, stroking her hair for long moments as she relearned how to breathe. When she recalled herself, she realized that he was murmuring in her ear, how much he loved her, how much he had missed her, how happy he was to be with her. She smiled, and turned her head to capture his lips. "I love you too," she said a minute later. The smile on his face when she said that was so surprised and delighted that she said it again. "I love you." He bundled her into his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. "As lovely as this is," she said against his neck, "I don't believe we're finished." "No," he breathed. "No, we are not." He looked at her, and the heat in his eyes made her shudder and clench. Releasing her onto her back, he swept a hand down her body until it was between her legs, and used his fingers to spread the moisture he found there. She splayed her knees encouragingly, and he groaned. "Is this going to work?" she asked, remembering his injury. "I don't know," he said, "but I'd very much like to try." "Yes," she said. "Yes. Please." He groaned again, and covered her body with his, fitting his hips between her thighs, and pressing himself to her again. "This may hurt," he warned. "I know," she said. "I am not entirely ignorant. Please, Christopher." He closed his eyes, a pained look on his face, and slid inside her, just barely. She felt the stretch and a sigh fell out of her. "Tell me if it's too much?" "Yes," she said, and lifted her ankles up behind his knees. He slid in an inch further, and she took a deep breath, trying to relax tense muscles. "It'll hurt less next time," he said. "I know," she said. "I trust you." He closed his eyes, buried his face in her shoulder, and thrust in, slowly, another inch or so. "Lift your legs further?" he suggested, and she did. Some of the pressure lessened, and he eased in slightly further. "I love you," he said, and pushed in the rest of the way. Oh. That hurt. A bit. Not a lot. She squirmed, and he looked at her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I love you," she said. "There is no need to be sorry. I am yours now." Christopher lowered himself to his forearms, and cupped her head with his hands. "Yes, you are," he said, voice gravelly, and took her mouth, kissing her witless. Slowly, so very slowly, he withdrew, and she gasped. He searched her face, and apparently got the answer he wanted, because he pressed inside her once again, still slowly, and then pulled out again. He kept the slow, steady rhythm until she said "Christopher" on a broken sob. It seemed to be enough for him, because he sped up, thrusting into her, sweat slicking his brow. It had long since ceased hurting, or perhaps the pain had become just one more sensation in her oversensitized body, and she twisted her head from side to side, searching for a completion she was not sure she could achieve. "Christopher," she said, again. "Oh, Christopher." "Eve," he said, and used one hand to adjust her hips, changing the angle. He renewed his thrusts, and the new angle aligned their bodies such that--oh--Eve felt herself rising, and rising, and hurling off the cliff for the second time that night. Dimly, through the haze, she felt him bury himself inside her one final time and achieve his completion, her name on his lips as he fell. Long moments later, she raised her head. "Did that hurt you?" He sighed, and kissed her shoulder before answering. "Yes, but not enough to halt my performance." "I am sorry," she said, and unwound her legs. He withdrew, eliciting a gasp from her, and collapsed by her right side. "It is of no consequence. I should do my strengthening exercises more regularly, it seems." Sitting up briefly, he pulled the bedcovers over them. She leaned over and kissed him on the nose. "We have time to practice." "That we do, my love." He turned her to face away from him and pulled her against his body, and she curved to fit. "Are you in pain?" he asked, running a hand lightly over her hip. Eve shook her head. "I am perhaps a little sore, but no true pain." He buried his face in the back of her neck. "I wish it did not have to be so." "No matter," she said, and yawned. He kissed her shoulder blade and shifted the bedsheet under his arm. "I always was yours," she said, a sleepy admission, a few minutes later. "And I yours," he replied. "Sleep, my love. I'll wake you and escort you home well before dawn." "Thank you," she said, even as sleep sucked her down its dark well. He chuckled, and tightened his arm around her.

If he had devoured her whole it would not have hurt like this. "They're gone, they're gone." She couldn't do anything. He just paced around her living room. Brown hair rumpled and his shoes sliding over the floor. He wasn't picking up his feet anymore and his hands kept rising, finding nothing, falling again to his sides. Rising again, falling again. He hadn't taken off his jacket, once she'd let him in. The expression in his eyes had stilled her tongue, frozen her heart sick in her chest, and she had retreated, almost afraid to touch him. "Gone." She perched on the arm of her couch, feeling useless. He didn't see her. If she put her arms around him and stilled that perpetual movement, it would begin, the grief tight in his throat. He wasn't even pacing. The rough rectangle over the hardwood was nothing calm. His tread was so heavy that the coffee cup, abandoned and cold on the low table, rattled at his perpetual approach and retreat. "Ned." The low syllable was swallowed. The coffee cup rattled again. Nancy's fingernails tightened on her jeans and he brushed by her again. "Fucking--" he gasped. "Fucking car accident." "Ned," she whispered, the blood draining from her face. "Oh my God." "They were here this morning." Rising and falling. Rising and falling. If she touched him he would scream. No skin, just the raw throb of veins and tears. "They were here. She was--my mom, my mom..." Nancy extended her arm and he walked into it. His head snapped up. His brown eyes were swimming. "Ned." "Nan..." She put her arms around his waist and pulled him in close to her. "I'm so sorry, Ned. I'm so sorry." -- The phone had rung a lifetime ago but she had pulled it off the cradle and left it buzzing angrily to itself. She had an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label somewhere in the chaos of her cupboard but if she left him alone for more than a minute she was afraid of what she would find when she came back. "Nancy." Not that she would have been able to make it to the kitchen. Somewhere between stroking his back and telling him that it was somehow going to be all right, he was on top of her, and she was pinned between him and the couch, her arms tight around him. She could hear his every breath because it began as another sob. She had never heard him like this. Never. "It's okay." He shook his head. His face against her shirt. His chin brushing against the tops of her breasts. "What am I going to do," he whispered, his breath hot against the fabric. "I don't know," she whispered. Her cheeks were already wet and swelled from her own tears, and she stopped the low steady circle she was tracing over his back to rub her palm over her face. It wasn't going to be okay, but she had to say something, even if it was meaningless and hollow, even if she was just mouthing it over the terrible emptiness that yawned inside her every time she breathed. She couldn't remember the day that her mother was gone. Not anymore. She only remembered believing that her mother was on a trip, on vacation, and it was taking longer than ever before. She would be back. She wasn't gone forever. She couldn't be gone forever. She couldn't even remember her mother's face outside the scrolled silver frame on her father's dresser. The bedroom was her father's, never her parents'. Boxes full of carefully folded and wrapped shirts and skirts and shoes and scarves, stiff with age, in pools of sunlight in the attic on lazy summer afternoons. She could never remember a pale faintly perfumed wrist in the fluttering sleeves or the flash of shapely leg under the skirts, the smooth graceful throat beneath the pearls her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Among the snapshots of her on birthdays, her arms looped around Bess and George's shoulders, posed at the foot of the Eiffel Tower or waterskiing on the lake, she kept a photo album of her mother. China-blue eyes and blond hair, her father's hair still dark, his face unlined, as they leaned together over their daughter, three candles on the cake. Hannah Gruen and Edith Nickerson. Her mother's pearls at her throat, the delicate silver clasp under the thin lever of her fingernails, and Ned... Ned's father. "They looked--." He couldn't finish and she slipped her arms around him again, feeling his chest swell with another breath. "Shh," she whispered. "Nancy, there was so much blood." They'll be back, they'll be fine. They're just gone on a long trip. When I walk back into that house with you... No more cookies just out of the oven. No more frantic readjustment of clothes and limbs just before the key turned in the lock with the return of his parents, the sheepish smiles and rehearsed carelessness in their remarks. No more Sunday dinners or twinkling in Edith's eye as she made thinly veiled allusions to how good Nancy would look in white, on her son's arm. No more. "Ned, you can't," she began. "You--" He shook his head again, tilted his face up to look into hers. "I can't," he said. "I can't, fucking, go to the funeral home tomorrow and pick out boxes to put them into the ground. I can't fucking stand there and watch the pastor say they didn't suffer, that they're in a better place. His shirt was open, they worked on him all the way to the hospital, his legs were just--his legs, the side of--oh my God. He wasn't dead in the car. All the way there. They hurt." His eyes gleamed. "And now you hurt." "Nancy." He gasped in a breath again and she shifted underneath him, pulled his face back down against her shirt, closed her eyes as he cried out into her skin. "They can't be gone." She rubbed her palm over his back and the words were meaningless so she didn't say anything. "I can't do this." He reached up and rubbed at his eyes, the side of his palm brushing against her breasts, but he barely noticed. "I can't walk back into that house. I feel so fucking--" He gasped in another breath. Nancy ran her fingers through his hair, watching as a fresh wave of tears slipped down his cheeks. "Stay here tonight," she said. -- When the thin veneer was still intact, he would spend the evening at her place and after dinner, takeout or homecooked, they watched movies with their feet propped up on the coffee table and made out. After two glasses of wine or midnight, whichever came first, they shared a last long kiss at the door before he left for his own apartment and she chained the security lock behind him and went to the solitude of her bed. The only night he'd had a third glass of wine, she had ended up in a position very like the one she had spent the fading afternoon in, underneath him, but pinned only by his hands, the unbearable depth of his kiss. He didn't protest or make excuses about leaving when she flipped off the lights throughout her apartment. He followed her to her bedroom, and after she came out of the bathroom, her teeth freshly cleaned, in a faded worn t-shirt and little else, he was sitting at the foot of her hastily made bed, still fully clothed, his eyes glassy. His right fingers twitched against the quilt. "Are you tired?" He shook his head. "I'll never be tired again," he said, his voice desolate, and she came to him without further conversation, stood between his open legs and wrapped her arms around him and pulled him against her chest. He slipped his arms around her and rocked and she stroked his hair, over and over, her fingertips slipping over the top of his ear, his forehead, the back of his neck. After a long moment she leaned down and kissed the crown of his head. "You need to lay down," she whispered. "Can you do that for me?" He nodded, moving mechanically, reaching for his shoes. He unlaced them and kicked the into the shadows beyond her bed, lifted his arms and let her pull his shirt off. "I'm supposed to be stronger than this," he said softly, and shook his head. "Supposed to." He looked up at Nancy. "It hurts so much." "I know," she whispered. "I'm here. I'll be here. It'll be--" she sighed, sensing the futility of the words even as she said them. "It'll get better." He didn't respond, other than to meet her eyes again, but his held no hope. After a beat she went to her dresser, looking through for any of his clothes. She liked to sleep in his college shirts, and she remembered stealing a pair of his sweats, pulling the drawstring tight to keep them from falling off when she wore them. "I have something you can wear," she called over her shoulder, straightening again. He was behind her, looping an arm around her waist, and when she turned his miserable stricken eyes were gazing into hers. "I'm okay," he said, his voice rough. "Okay." When she had imagined it, it had never been like this. The entire afternoon she had done nothing else, just whispered meaningless words and rubbed his back and shushed him when he raged. She was drained. She thought she would be asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. He kissed her and she gasped when he backed her against her dresser, his tongue immediately deep and insistent in her mouth, his palm sliding against her side and under her shirt. His thumb slipping just under the elastic of her panties. "I need to feel something other than this." Her stomach tightened but she nodded and pulled him down to her again, returning his kiss. He took the hem of her shirt in a clenched fist and pulled it down until it was tight against her breasts, her chest swelled and straining against the fabric. When they pulled apart he turned toward her bed, and she had just pulled down the covers when he stopped her, pulling her shirt over her head and tossing it into the darkness. Reflexively she bent her arms to cover her bare breasts before turning to face him. His breathing was ragged. "Tell me now," he said. Nancy looked down and slowly let her arms fall loose to her sides. "I love you," she whispered. "And I--" She slipped her arms up around his neck, and he touched his forehead to hers, his brown eyes filling her swimming vision. "Ned, I never wanted you to feel this way. I am so sorry." He tilted his head and the last of her words were lost against his mouth when he kissed her again. He pushed himself on one knee to kneel on her bed, his tongue against hers, her heart beating painfully against her ribs. When she was on her back he cupped his hands at her hips, and she took a long breath before she arched and let him slip her panties off, leaving her naked beneath him. He had pushed his boxers off and was just kneeling over her, slipping his arms up underneath her, when he turned his head, half-smiling for the first time that night. "I don't have anything with me," he murmured. Nancy reached up and lay her palm against his cheek. "It's okay," she whispered, her legs open beneath him, and pulled in a long breath. "It's okay." The first kiss was slow, aching, gentle. She could feel his hips sliding just against her inner thighs, his tongue dipping into her mouth. She let her fingertips trail over the back of his neck, against his shoulder blades, and sighed when he pulled back. "You're all I have left," he whispered, pressing his lips to hers, his kisses brief and gentle. "I love you so much, don't ever leave, don't ever... not like..." "I won't leave you," she whispered, slipping her fingers over his cheeks, her fingertips coming away wet with his tears. He searched her eyes and she folded her legs up around his waist. "I won't leave you, I swear I won't leave you. I love you." He kissed her again, deep, hard, and she tensed when he pressed between her thighs, the depth of a breath inside her. "Shh," he whispered when she reflexively gasped in a breath. "Shh, baby, shh..." "Ned," she cried, clenching tight against him. "Oh God, Ned, Ned..." He groaned and slipped deeper inside her. She pulled back and he pinned her beneath him, pinned her wrist to the pillow beside her head, his hips shifting between hers in the slowest thrust. "Nan..." Tears were standing in her eyes, and she was arching to tilt her head back when he slipped his hand between them, found the button of her clit and stroked it, and her mouth fell open. Her answering groan was deep, low, intoxicating. "Yes," he mumbled, his lips brushing her forehead. She shifted underneath him, her breath in shallow gasps as his fingertips fluttered against her. He rocked deeper between her thighs and she was wet, just beginning to move against him, just beginning to meet the slow undulation of his hips. "I love you." He trailed kisses over her face, her breath coming in warm gasps against his skin. "Nan." "Ned," she cried, her fingers tightening in his hair. She tilted her hips back and he closed his eyes as he began the slow thrust, as it became deeper, quicker. She turned her face into the pillow and cried out with his every movement, and he was trembling, his body pressing hers into the bed as he buried himself inside her, letting the soft first clench of her against him, the first taste, wash over him, wash away the pain and the rage of it. He thrust again and her cries became a scream as she turned her face into his chest, the sound vibrating against his heart. "Ned, oh God, oh God..." "Fuck," he groaned. Her skin, damp with sweat where it met his, her inner thighs sliding over his skin as she drew him deeper inside her, her ankles locked at the small of his back. "Nan. Nancy." He was trembling with the force of it. "Please, please." "Now," she groaned, and he came with such force, such relief, inside her, and they were one in that brief perfect moment, as she arched against him, vulnerable and delicate and gasping against him. "Oh God. Oh God." He closed his eyes and let his head fall to the curve of her shoulder. When they parted she drew her legs together and lay for a long moment, her eyes closed, feeling every distinct heartbeat as it pulsed between her thighs. Ned rolled to his side and gazed at her, his expression almost nervous. "Ned?" she whispered, opening her eyes, turning her face to find his again. He gazed down at her and she smiled at him, faintly. "Nan," he whispered, and traced his fingertips down the line of her jaw. "Nan." She pulled herself up and groped at their feet for the covers, and when she lay back down, pressed the line of her body against his and pulled the quilt over both of them. "It was supposed to be perfect," he whispered. "It was supposed to be slow and beautiful and perfect and instead... the worst day, the..." She reached up and drew his face down to hers, kissed him slowly. "It was perfect," she told him. "It could never be anything else." "Nan," he whispered, and kissed her again, slow, lingering. "Go to sleep," she whispered, when he pulled back again. "I'll be here." She traced her fingertips down his cheeks. He nodded, and his eyes were still gleaming. "I meant everything I said," he breathed, and put his arms around her, skin to skin, his lips against her forehead. "I love you, Nan. I've always loved you. I wouldn't have been able to get through today without you, and tomorrow..." She nodded. "Whatever you need," she whispered. "I'll be here. Whatever you need me to do, I'll be here. I love you so, so much." He sighed. "Just don't ever leave." She ran her hands over his hair, soft slow strokes, her eyelashes fluttering down as exhaustion claimed her, their limbs tangled close. "Never," she breathed. "Never." -- When she woke she distantly remembered the feel of him inside her again, her face wet with his tears. When he turned to her, when he began the slow question of a caress, she swallowed the pain and the grief and took him within her, moving with the slow drowse of dulled grace. When he pinned her wrists to the pillow under the weight of him, when he spread her wide and slipped between her thighs, filling her, in the slow pulse of her center, so tight that she knew nothing but the feel of him, they trembled together, knowing that the second they parted he would remember someone else's blood, someone else's face in a silent scream. "Nan." She was in the shower washing the faint trace of blood from her aching thighs when he came into the bathroom, and she pulled back the curtain. "Come on in," she said. "My God," he whispered. "Nan." She looked down, then back at him. "It's okay." "Are you all right?" He stood at the lip of the tub but didn't step inside. "I know we..." She reached for his hand and when she pulled him inside, he obeyed. "You took my virginity," she said softly. "You knew that." "Hurt." She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. "Not as much as you," she whispered. He wouldn't stop touching her and she didn't want him to. Not at the pharmacy counter, not the tight squeeze of their hands in bone-knuckle white when they pulled up to the funeral home. They both thought the first pill, then the second, would make it stop, make it less, but at the end of that terrible day when she wearily keyed open the door of her apartment, the look on his face, the expression in his eyes, the tremble of his fingers was the same she had seen twenty-four hours before. "You have to eat." He shook his head, mutely. His fingertips hard in his palm. "Ned." She put her palm against his cheek. "Please." He pulled away from her, roughly. "No," he said. "I don't. I'm not." He came around the counter. The brush of his thumbs against the back of her neck, fingers digging into her shoulders. "If you're hungry, go ahead and eat." He kissed her, his teeth against the skin stretched over the tendon between her neck and shoulder. Then he reached beyond her to the cabinet, his fist closing around the neck of the bottle. "I'll be in the other room with this." She closed her eyes when he was out of her sight, in the living room, pillowed her head on her folded arms and felt the first tears sting her eyes. She felt slow and sick with exhaustion and fear. She had been able to lean on him so many times, and now, he was coming apart in slow pieces. The funeral home director had been soft and understanding but every second in that place was another that she could sense his control slipping. He was incoherent with grief and the words would not come. Only the rage. Rage and pills that didn't work and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red in his shaking hands. A bowl of microwaved canned soup and a pack of crackers and she sat down next to him on the couch. The orange bottle of pills in her purse. He poured another two fingers into the glass. I need to feel something other than this He shook his head when she offered him a spoonful, but she took his jaw in her hands and slipped the spoon between his lips and he swallowed, nearly choking. She handed him a cracker and he let it rest on his palm for a long moment before he brought it to his mouth for a bite. "Good," she whispered. "Good." His shoes and his shirt came off, his belt, his jeans. In deep darkness, in the glow of the television, they waited. When she took the empty bowl of soup, half of which she had forced into him, back to the kitchen, she swept up the bottle too, waiting for him to grab it, to protest, but he didn't. She came around to the back of the couch and stood, slipping out of her shoes, looking down at him. Her boyfriend of seven years. Her lover of a single night. She loosed her watch and slipped it off, laying it on the coffee table as she sat back down, and in a smooth movement he had swept her into his arms. "You're not gonna let me get drunk." She shook her head. "You probably shouldn't be drinking with those pills," she told him, running her fingertips over his cheeks. "I'm sorry." "Do you even want me here?" "For as long as you need to be here," she reminded him. "As long as you want me, I'm here. I'm not going to kick you out." He nodded slowly. "I need something," he breathed. "I need to stop feeling this way..." She had already promised she would be at his side for the funeral. She had already promised. Wearing black, her arm around his, and she knew that whatever strength he had while standing at his parents' graves would be hers alone. Now she reached down and pulled her shirt over her head. Silk and lace and then his hands cupping her breasts. "Stay with me tonight." He had been gentle, before. Hesitant. Now he was insistent, shoving her jeans down, impatient and demanding. The bed still lay in disarray and he carried her to it, his boxers already off when he joined her. "Don't--" He traced the tip of his nose over her cheek, his breath warming her skin. "Don't want to hurt you again." She kissed him, the tip of his chin, the angle of his jaw, felt his knees slide between hers as he urged her legs apart. "You won't hurt me." "Will you bleed again?" He was nipping down the line of her throat. His fingers pinning her wrists. Another fresh wave of tears rose to her eyes. "I don't know," she admitted. "Nancy..." His tongue in her mouth. His hips. She bent her knees and flinched when he slipped inside her, her fingernails biting hard into his shoulders, the gasp drowned soft in her throat. He arched over her and she pressed her face against his chest, tightened her grip on him, and he groaned. "Nancy." With every inch of him she pressed herself back, into the mattress, pinned underneath him, unable to escape, unable to move. She drew in a long breath but bit back the scream pressing tight in her chest. Her thighs trembled and stroked against his hips and she groaned, the force of his thrust, the sudden gasped cadence of his breath. He was beyond hearing. His hips slid forward until they were flush against hers, and she screamed. The movement of him between her thighs flared on every individual web-thin nerve, her blood hot and rushing in her veins. She ran her fingernails hard over his shoulder blades, over his spine and the back of his neck, as he moved over her, her back arching to push the angle of her hips against his. He said her name in a desperate gasp, as they felt the warmth flood inside her, between them. Her muscles clenched hard to press tight against his erection and he cried out, against every raw oversensitive inch of her flesh and her teeth scraped against his chest. She was trembling, and he didn't stop, he didn't stop, he just made a soft grunt with every thrust between her thighs, deeper, deeper, oh God, oh God... "Please," she whispered, but it was no louder than a breath. He groaned suddenly and as her hips loosed, her legs falling open beneath him, he reached down and hooked her legs around his waist. "Ned," she cried, tilting her head back, and when she screamed he came deep and hard and rough inside her. She almost sobbed in relief when he pulled out of her, and he trailed his fingertips down her cheek. She nuzzled against his palm, gasping for breath, her knees pulled tight together. "Nancy," he breathed. The first tear slipped down her cheek. "Tell me you love me..." "I love you more than anything, I love you, I love you." He pressed kisses over her temple, her cheekbone, her jaw. "God." She returned his kiss, when their mouths met. Her lips were trembling. "Sleep," she whispered, and ran her fingertips over his hair. "Go to sleep." Her arms around him, rocking him gently. He rested his forehead against her collarbone and sighed. "Tell me love me." "I love you," she replied. "I've always loved you. Go to sleep. You're safe." He shook his head and nuzzled against her breast, his lips catching the point of her nipple, and her knees fell loose. His tongue against her sweat-dampened skin. "You make me forget," he whispered. "You make it stop hurting. Make it stop." The second heartbeat between the ache of her thighs. She ran her hand over the back of his head, closing her eyes. Her flesh tingling as his mouth trailed over her breast. "Always," she whispered. "Sleep." -- Another pill. He was so gentle in the morning, sharing the shower again. After he had fallen asleep, she had lay stroking his hair until her limbs were slow with exhaustion. She could feel the raw sting of blood between her thighs again, aching every time she moved, every time he moved suddenly in his sleep and she tensed in anticipation of an encore performance. He teased her clit gently with a fingertip, until she backed up as far as she could and then slid down the wall, her knees bent. "I don't know," she gasped before she could stop herself. "You have to--" She swallowed against her dry throat. "Ned." Her nipple hardened under his mouth. He turned off the water, as she lay down in the bottom of the tub, opening to him, her hips trembling under his ministrations. "Gentle," he nodded. She touched him, for the first time, as he knelt over her. He closed his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me," he whispered. "Tell you what." He slipped his fingers over the seam between her thighs, showed her the faint trace of blood on his skin. She closed her eyes, her mouth falling open as his finger teased her clit again. "Is this hurting you?" "No... just don't stop," she whispered. "Please don't stop." In the reality that rushed back during their afterglow, she remembered that two hours would bring a limousine to her door to pick them up. She pulled herself up, running her hand through her wet hair, and he struggled to sit up with her. "Better?" She pulled his face to hers and kissed him slowly. "Perfect," she whispered, crawling into his lap. "And I'd love to stay here but if I don't dry my hair right now, it's going to look terrible." The service was graveside. In the limo on the way there he never released her hand, their fingers laced tight, his head bowed. She slipped her arm around his shoulders and he took a long breath before pulling her across his lap, letting his forehead rest against hers. "Ned," she whispered. "I'm here." "How can I do this," he whispered. "Stand there and shake hands with everyone. In that house." "It'll be okay," she whispered. "We just have to get through it. It's okay. I'll be with you. They'll understand, they know this is hard." "It's fucking impossible," he gasped. She put her arms around him, tight, and felt him shake. "We'll be okay. We'll be okay." By the time they reached the cemetery his face was set hard, tight. Black suit, black tie, white shirt. He had never looked more handsome. She swept her hand over her skirt, and laced her fingers between his, setting her shoulders. "We can do this." He nodded, once, his mouth tight. "Yeah," he muttered. Next to the closed coffin they stood, still as statues, the wind blowing ties and skirts. Bess and George barely lifted their heads the entire time, and Nancy's father stood on the other side of the coffin with Hannah Gruen. Ned kept staring at one brass handle, set in dark walnut, not looking at the pictures she had helped him select, the flowers, the minister. Whenever the minister mentioned their names Nancy felt him flinch and squeezed his hand. He released a breath as though it was all he could do to keep from sobbing aloud, and let his chin fall another inch toward his breastbone. When they moved to lower them into the ground, he turned to her silently and she slipped her arms around him, holding him tight. "Shh, shh, it's okay," she whispered, and he was shaking. "It's okay. It's okay." "Nan..." He turned his face into her neck. "I can't do this. I can't do this." "It's okay. It's okay. It's almost over." "This is the rest of my life," he gasped. "The rest of my life. Oh my God. Christmas. What the fuck am I going to do." She stroked the back of his head. "We're going to go to your parents' house and shake hands and listen to everybody say how sorry they are even though they will never know how you feel right now, and it is going to be one of the hardest things you'll ever do." "Don't leave me alone," he whispered. "I won't," she promised. "I won't." The ride to his parents' house was terrible. The rest of the evening was worse. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, beside him, and in unison they nodded solemnly at the condolences, the handshakes, the casseroles and flower arrangements. Bess and George hugged them both, as did Hannah, who appeared to have been cooking for the entire weekend. "I'm so sorry." Over and over. In the end it was a blur of black and carefully composed faces, plates of food and the soft hum of murmured conversation and Ned pulled her outside when the sun was low in the sky and the chill of night was just perceptible in the air. "I need you." "Ned," she protested, her hands fluttering uselessly, coming to rest around his shoulders as he kissed her. "I'll stay with you tonight but we can't do this now, not with—not with everyone inside..." He shook his head. "You don't understand," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with tears, and rested his forehead against hers. "I need you tonight, I need to wake up and see you there beside me tomorrow morning, on Christmas morning, every morning, every day. I need you for the rest of my life, Nancy Drew." She closed her eyes. "Ned, your parents just died," she said. "You're hurting, and..." "You think I'll wake up tomorrow and not feel this way," he said. "You're wrong. I've wanted... this... for so long. I never meant for it to happen this way but it has. And I." He let his head fall to her shoulder, his arms tight around her. "I never, ever, ever want to wonder, not about this. I never have." She turned her head and pressed a kiss against his cheek, leaving the trace of demure lipstick on his skin. "Shh," she whispered. "Shh. It's okay." "It's not okay," he protested. "Can't you see that." She kissed him again. "We need to go back inside," she said. "We'll talk about this later. I promise." He nodded. "Okay," he said softly. The mourners noticed when his strength began to lag, his carefully constructed mask began to fall. After Nancy waved goodbye to the last one and maneuvered enough around in the refrigerator to fit the last casserole inside, she walked back to the couch, where Ned sat with his tie hanging loose around his neck. She started to knead his shoulders under her knuckles, and he let his head hang loose, his torso swaying with the motion of her hands. "I feel like," he whispered, and she leaned forward to catch it, "like any minute she's going to come walking through that door with grocery bags hanging over her arm and ask me what I want for dinner. Like she's just been away for a little while. Like Dad's just on a business trip, for the weekend, for a little while." Nancy moved around the couch and sat down next to him. "I felt the same way," she told him, and clasped her hands against her knees. "Like my mom wasn't really gone." His face crumpled and she reached for him. "She's never going to walk through that door again." "No," Nancy whispered. "If this is too hard, we can leave." He sniffed and shook his head. "Maybe... maybe, Nancy, they're going to be back tomorrow, all of them, going through everything, can you..." She nodded. "I'll be here. And if you want to stay here tonight, we can." She shivered, her hand in his, as they passed the closed door of what had been his parents' bedroom, the cold and empty remains of their life together. "Okay?" They stopped short in front of his old bedroom and she reached up to stroke the tears from his cheek. "Ned, it's all right, it's all right..." He started to cry then in earnest and she wrapped her arms around him tight. "Ned, it's okay. It's okay. Let's go lay down, okay? Here." She pushed open the door and they stumbled together into the middle of the room, surrounded by the old trophies, the framed pictures of the two of them, the Emerson banner. The bed made by his mother's hands. "Here," Nancy whispered, pulling back the comforter and sheet, and he sank down to the mattress when she led him there. "Do you still... do you still not believe me," he gasped, and rubbed his palms over his wet cheeks. "I need you." Nancy stepped out of her pumps, unbuttoned her dress and pulled it over her head, standing before him in a black silk slip and thigh-highs. "You have me," she told him, sitting down beside him, rolling her stockings down her legs. "As long as you need me, you have me." He tossed his suit jacket across his desk chair, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it out of his pants. "The rest of my life." "Then that's how long you have me." She met the surprise in his tearstained gaze with a smile, then helped him pull his undershirt over his head. "Lay down." He obeyed, pulling her down next to him, and she stroked his cheek, the tip of her nose pressed to his. "Okay," he nodded. "You know what you just said." She smiled at him. "I know you aren't thinking clearly," she told him, running her hand through his hair. "I know that two months from now we might be on my couch drinking two glasses of wine each and then going to separate beds again." He shook his head. "Mom kept asking me when I was going to do it," he said, his eyes welling up again. "Take my great-grandmother's ring and ask you to marry me. I bet right now she's..." Tears pricking her own eyes, Nancy leaned forward and kissed him. "I bet right now she's happy," Nancy whispered. "Looking down on us." He pulled her tight against him and buried his face in her hair. "I don't know what I would have done without you," he whispered. "I don't know what I would ever have done without you in my life." She kissed the base of his throat, the faint beat of his pulse under his skin. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you, I love you..." She pressed her mouth against his forehead, his eyelids, his wet cheeks, his lips. "It's going to be all right," she whispered. "It's going to be all right." In the morning he held her hand tight as they crossed his parents' room, to his mother's dresser. Her hairbrush still lying there, as though at any moment she would walk back in and pick it up again. He took a deep breath and pulled open a drawer in her jewelry box. "It's been in my family for years," he said, his mouth curving up in a sad smile. "Now you're my family." She took it in her palm. "It's beautiful," she breathed. He nodded. "It's yours." She looked down at it for a long moment before she slipped it onto her left hand, then pulled his face down to hers for a kiss. "I love you," she breathed. "Always have," he whispered. "Always will."

The old lady pushed the shopping cart along the sidewalk, the wheels groaning and squeaking stiffly under loads of clothing and an odd assortment of junk. Starsky idly took a look at the contents as he approached and identified a yellow lamp shaped like a duck, a bunch of cookie tins, corroded and stacked together, a broken guitar, and a ping-pong paddle, cracked and weathered, lacking its mate. He wondered what possible impulse had prompted her to collect such garbage. Just as he was passing, out of the corner of his eye he caught an unexpected object propped up on the pile: a large, pale yellow teddy bear. The rusted old cart had passed him before the image registered and recognition hit. He spun quickly and backtracked, jogging up beside the cart. Casually, he turned his head to confirm what he had seen. It looked like Ollie, but somehow different. This bear was more soiled and threadbare than Terry's beloved stuffed animal. And yet...it had the same comically bent left ear and a worn spot on his chest, just like Ollie had. Suddenly, Starsky realized the cart had come to a stop, and he along with it, still staring. Embarrassed, he looked up at the old woman's face. She smiled vaguely at him with a gap-toothed grin. Her watery eyes were the thin blue of a cloudy summer morning. "Did you lose something, sonny boy?" she asked in a quavering voice. "Me, ma'am?" Starsky said politely. His eyes dropped back to the bear in the basket. It looked so much like Ollie. A picture flashed in his mind's eye of Terry standing by the window hugging the bear fiercely to her chest, her chin dropping against the blond fur, and a small, square bandage marring her forehead. "No," Starsky said, pulling himself out of the memory to answer the expectant silence, "I don't think so." "Are you sure?" the woman pressed. "I have so many things here. Precious things, lost items looking for their owners." There was something in her voice, something papery like dried snake skins slithering against each other. It filled Starsky with a sudden unease, and he shook his head violently. "Then you don't want it?" she asked. "You are relinquishing your claim?" Okay, this is getting weird, Starsky thought, and shook his head again, turning away from the strange gaze. He hurried off, still feeling her eyes upon him until at last he turned the corner. He was halfway down the block when he realized he had never heard the squeak/rattle of the shopping cart continuing on its way. ooOoo Starsky succeeded in pushing the eerie incident from his mind while he ran his Sunday errands. It was unusually hot for mid-February, and Bay City was enjoying its first Smog Alert of the year. His eyes were red and his chest ached by the time he arrived at Venice Place. Hutch had invited him to dinner; not an unusual event, but there had been something weird in Hutch's voice when he called Starsky this morning to ask him over. "So do you have something planned for tonight?" "Nope. What you got in mind?" Starsky asked, still playing with the idea of tracking down his current on-again, off-again squeeze, Tilly. Tilly was British and good for an occasional 'romp' as she liked to call it. "Dinner, at my place. Nothing special," Hutch had replied, his voice oddly hesitant. Starsky sighed and watched Tilly disappear in a puff of smoke. "Okay, Blondie, you're on." Starsky pushed open the apartment door after a brief knock. The place smelled like a symphony of meat and spices with garlic as the grace note. Smells like heaven. Hutch had gone all out. Starsky wondered, again, what was up with his unpredictable partner. "Blintz, you'd better have a cold one ready for me," Starsky said as he walked in. Even his throat was tight and sore, and taking a deep breath felt like padded knives digging into his lungs. "Got it right here for you, buddy." Hutch walked over and handed him a beer and a bottle opener. "Dinner's about two minutes away." Starsky sagged down on the couch with his beer and watched Hutch as he moved around the kitchen area. "Hutch, you're a good pal." Starsky wanted to ask what the occasion was, but he knew Hutch would tell him in his own good time. Instead, he leaned back and took a sip of his beer, feeling the coldness ease the smog-ache in his chest. "Bad smog today." "Bad, yeah," Hutch threw over his shoulder as he stirred something on the stove, "but it will make for a fantastic sunset. Let's see if we can catch it after dinner." He started setting things on the table, and Starsky hoisted himself up from the couch to help out. There was a leg of lamb roasted with garlic and rosemary, and a side dish of some sort of cold cucumber salad in a yogurt sauce. And yellow rice that looked like it had at least a cube of butter in it. Starsky's eye glanced over and ignored the healthy plate of steamed dandelion greens to settle on the roasted potatoes, crisp and oily and sprinkled with oregano. "Wow," Starsky said, inhaling the smells. "This is something else, Hutch." He put a question in his voice, and lifted his eyes reluctantly from the feast to find Hutch looking at him with an odd expression. "Well, dig in, partner," was all he said, and Starsky dismissed his curiosity in favor of sitting down and heaping the good food onto his plate. The next half-hour was devoted to single-minded munchings and groanings, interrupted by occasional sips from the glasses of the good red wine Hutch poured generously. Starsky didn't usually go for wine, but he was enjoying it tonight, in combination with the bite of the garlic and the slight sourness of the yogurt salad. Finally, he sat back, his belly pushing insistently at his wide leather belt. He surreptitiously eased it out a notch, and caught Hutch's observant smile. "That was terrific. I think I busted something loose trying to fit it all in." "I'm sure we'll work it off tomorrow. Dobey's got us on double shifts for the rest of the week," Hutch reminded him. "Crap." Starsky had forgotten all about that. "How come we're always the first ones he tags for double duty?" he groused. Hutch looked amused. "You have to ask? 'Cause we're the best, buddy. You know that." "Yeah." They shared a look of satisfaction. "I guess it means I should lay off of this stuff, though," Starsky said, pushing his glass away. "Got any root beer?" Hutch wrinkled his nose, obviously offended at the thought of following the fine wine with a root beer chaser, but Starsky just gave him his best winning look. Hutch sighed, "I suppose there might be a root beer or two in the fridge," and fetched him the requested beverage. Starsky hid a grin as he rose to take his soda over to the couch. Hutch did a little cleaning up and then joined him. "So, what you wanna do tonight? Catch a game on the tube?" Starsky put his foot up on the coffee table. It slipped a moment later to thud on the carpet when he saw the troubled expression of on Hutch's face. "I thought...well, I just assumed—" Hutch stopped and sat in the armchair opposite, still drying his hands absently with a kitchen towel. "Thought what?" Hutch made a concerned sound with his lips and then said, haltingly, "I just assumed you'd want to play a game of Monopoly. This being the twelfth, I mean." Even as Hutch said it Starsky heard a roaring in his ears, the vague disquiet that had been tugging him all day finally making sense. February twelfth. Starsky didn't have much use for watches or calendars, but you'd think he would have remembered a little sooner the anniversary of Terry's death. He came back to himself to the sound of Hutch's concerned voice saying his name, close by. Hutch had risen to sit next to him on the sofa, his hand on Starsky's shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Terry. Oh, Terry, I'm sorry, sweetheart." Starsky put his head in his hands, deeply grieved and ashamed. He felt Hutch squeeze his shoulder gently. "I know, buddy," Hutch said, his voice gruff. "I know you still miss her." But a moment later Starsky was distracted from his guilt and grief by a flash of memory. "The old lady," Starsky muttered. "Ollie!" The coincidence of the bear in the shopping cart now seemed too improbable, and a chill overtook him. "Who? Ollie?" Hutch sounded disturbed, and Starsky turned toward him, grabbing his arm anxiously. "Hutch, where's Ollie? Can you go get him?" He wasn't reassured by the sudden shifting of Hutch's eye. "Hutch? Where is he?" Starsky asked, feeling a jolt, almost of fear. "He's around here, somewhere, I guess," Hutch said, and promptly sneezed, a quick explosion of air. "What the hell is that?" "What's what?" Hutch asked. "That sneeze, partner," Starsky said, growing angry. He saw Hutch's face go blank as he tried to prevaricate. "You know the smog messes with my sinuses." "Yeah, I know that. Just like I know the only time you give a little sneeze like that is when you're trying to bluff at poker. Or when you're trying to put one over on me." Hutch winced. "Uh. Well, it's like this, Starsk." He took his hand from Starsky's shoulder and turned away a little. "I don't know how to tell you...Ollie's...missing." Starsky absorbed the statement for a moment. "Missing? What the hell does that mean?" He felt a whisper of unease travel up his spine, seeing the old woman's face in his mind's eye. 'Lost items, precious things...' "I'm...I'm sorry, Starsk. I just don't know what happened to him. I always kept him in the same spot, right on top of my bureau..." Hutch drifted off when Starsky looked away, clenching his jaw. Lost. Ollie is lost. Suddenly he was righteously pissed. He stood up, pacing a few steps before turning to look down on Hutch. "That's just great. You lost him. She entrusted him to you, and you lost him." "Starsk—" Hutch started, his voice appeasing, but Starsky cut him off. "Forget it, Hutch. You know, I remember being surprised when I saw she gave him to you, instead of me. I was almost jealous. Then you read the note, and I thought I understood. But I guess she made a mistake, huh?" Even as he said the hurtful words, he knew part of his anger was directed at himself for forgetting what today's date was. The look of guilt on Hutch's face only made it worse. "I gotta get out of here." Starsky grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door. He felt Hutch trailing up behind him but didn't stop. He pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. "Starsky, wait." He waited. There was silence, and finally he turned to face his friend. "Maybe...don't take this the wrong way, but maybe this happened for a reason. I mean, I didn't try to lose him, but maybe it's a sign, somehow. That it's time." Starsky looked into his partner's earnest face, listening to the pained voice. "'Time,'" he repeated. "Yeah," Hutch said, his gaze pleading. "Time, maybe, to...to let go." Starsky turned and left without a word. ooOoo The next few days were pretty screwed up between them. Starsky knew he should apologize, but didn't know how to bring it up, exactly. And his heart still hurt knowing Ollie was lost. Just like Terry was. And he hadn't told Hutch about the old lady, knowing that Hutch, in his current mood, would probably just dismiss it as a coincidence. But it didn't feel like a coincidence. Five days of double shifts and the continuing smog wave made matters worse, leaving them both sniping and irritable. Starsky often felt the pressure of Hutch's gaze, as if he was about to say something, but he always looked away when Starsky glanced at him. When they hit their weary beds in the small hours Starsky was too exhausted to think much, but his dreams were filled with bad scenes. Of Terry, struggling to say his name while lying on the gurney, the blood still fresh on her head wound. And once, he dreamed he held his gun, was cleaning it or something, and it was aimed dangerously at Hutch, but he couldn't seem to point it away. And then the gun finally went off, hitting Hutch in exactly the same place Terry had been shot. The despair and grief weighing on his chest when he awoke was beyond belief. He had to get up and walk around until the nightmare faded. Finally, it was Friday night. They had the next day off completely. Hutch had driven himself into work that morning, so at end of shift they logged out and headed toward their own cars. Hutch mumbled good night, not seeming to notice Starsky's hesitation before walking away. I'll try him tomorrow. We'll both be in better moods, Starsky thought. Restless, and not wanting to go home just yet, he drove around, looking for a likely bar. He didn't want to go to the Pits and face Huggy's inevitable questions about his blond shadow, and he didn't feel like cruising for some pointless lay while Terry was still so much on his mind. So he finally settled on a little tavern called 'The Parting Glass' in West Sunset. The neighborhood was kind of iffy, but the bar itself was solid. He ordered a beer and talked to an old guy named Ralph, a regular who started going on about how the neighborhood had gone to shit since all the 'fruitloops' had moved in. Ever since Johnny Blaine had died and Starsky had learned about his mentor's secret life, he had found himself reacting negatively to the bad names other cops used for gays. But Starsky wasn't going to tear into a bitter old man, so he just moved away from the bigot and turned his eye toward the football game on the big TV in the corner of the bar. After the game, feeling pretty relaxed from the two beers and the side-bet he'd won from the morose bartender, Starsky decided to call it a night. He'd had to park the Torino around the block, since a space had failed to magically appear right in front of the bar, and he was just turning the corner when he heard a sound, the distinctive squeaky rattle of a shopping cart. He reacted without thinking, turning quickly to try to identify the origin of the sound and moving hastily back down the street. He heard the squeak again just as he passed The Parting Glass. It seemed to be coming from the alleyway a block down. He hastened his steps, not wanting to lose it, even though the chances of this being the same shopping cart were pretty damned slim. When he reached the alley he ducked to the side of the building and peeked around the corner. No shopping cart. No little old lady. All he saw was two men about a hundred yards from him standing outside a back doorway, facing each other. He could faintly hear their quiet conversation. The one facing him was tall with chestnut colored hair and a thin, handsome face. The other one had his back to Starsky, his blond head angled in a familiar way. Hutch. A jolt of recognition struck him. It was Hutch's hair, Hutch's wide shoulders. The clothing was unfamiliar, but the lean form and the long legs looked like Hutch's. Starsky was about to call out to him when the blond leaned forward, rested his hand on the doorsill, and tilted his head. And then they kissed. Hutch's name halted on Starsky's lips, and instead he took a shocked breath. He watched in stunned disbelief as the other man raised his hands and put them on the blond's shoulders, pulling him in closer. Starsky was walking quickly toward them before he even became aware of moving. His heart was pounding with sudden anger, his gut loose with a falling sense of betrayal. He had covered half the distance between them when the brown-haired man turned and stepped through the door, the blond following closely behind. Starsky sped his steps, practically running as he approached the steel door, the old lady and her shopping cart now completely forgotten. He pushed through the entry and found himself in a short hallway that led to a room full of noise and music. A nightclub. A gay one, he quickly determined, seeing men paired up on the dance floor to his right. He scanned the crowd quickly but didn't see Hutch or the other man. Starsky pushed the bathroom door open on his left. Empty. He rushed past the bar and squeezed by the men clustered in front of it, barely registering when someone grabbed his ass in passing. Then he was out the front door and looking up and down the street. No sign of them. Starsky cursed and paced back and forth, still searching the street. It had been Hutch. He was sure of it. Almost. Already, doubt filled his mind. There were other blonds in the world, after all, tall ones with long legs and square asses like Hutch's. Maybe it hadn't been Hutch. But he couldn't shake the sick sense of betrayal that dogged him all the way home. ooOoo The next morning Starsky was up obscenely early for a non-work day. All night he had tossed over his questions. Endless questions. Had he seen what he thought he had? Was Hutch making it with some guy? And if he were, why hadn't he told Starsky? Hutch knew how much it had hurt him that Johnny hadn't told him the truth. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got, until finally he had churned himself out of bed and into the bathroom for a shower and shave, his brain still going in circles. If it was Hutch, I swear I'm gonna punch him right in the snoot, he thought as he beat a couple of eggs on the stove and put on a pot of coffee. He sat at the counter, staring down at his breakfast as if the answers to all his questions were written there. And if Hutch were going to swing that way, why with a stranger? Why wouldn't he...? He didn't like the direction his thoughts were heading. He took a couple of bites and chased them down with his coffee, trying to focus on just his anger. But he had never been very good at lying to himself, and he knew there was more to his sense of betrayal than the echoes of Johnny's lies. There was something entirely too possessive about it. Hutch was his. His best friend, his partner. His. Christ, I want him to be mine. I want Hutch. When the hell had that happened? But he had to admit he'd been thinking about it, down low where thought is more an unseen movement, a secret shift of earth below the foundation. And now that he finally recognized it, it could be too late. Starsky swore and dumped the rest of his breakfast in the sink. Have to go talk to him. You'd better be home, Blintz, because we're gonna have this out. But Hutch wasn't at home. When Starsky pulled up at Venice Place around 7:00am the LTD was nowhere to be seen, and no one responded to his quick knock on the apartment door. Starsky went back downstairs and sat on the stoop outside Chez Hélène's, continuing to hash it all out in his head. He was still sitting, his ass getting cold and his lower lip starting to show wear and tear, when he heard the sound of Hutch's old clunker puttering up the street. Hutch pulled up to the curb and got out, then reached back into the car for a large brown shopping bag. He came around the hood, looking very surprised to see Starsky standing there, waiting. "Hey, buddy," Hutch said, and tilted his head at precisely the same angle the blond man had the night before. He was wearing his usual old cords and tan suede jacket. Maybe his nightclub clothes are in the bag, was Starsky's angry thought. "Hey, yourself," Starsky said, his voice rough. "Need to talk to you." Hutch looked a little wary, but he nodded. "Come on, then," he said, and led the way up to his apartment. Inside, Hutch dropped the bag next to his easy chair and shrugged off his jacket. Starsky stood uncertainly next to the couch, not quite willing to sit down, trying to figure out his opening. 'So you're fucking guys, now?' would be a little too raw, especially since he still wasn't sure he had actually seen Hutch kissing that guy. "Get you some coffee?" Hutch asked, and Starsky nodded absently and sat down, glad for the delay. By the time Hutch had poured him some and brought it over, he was ready. Starsky took the mug and nodded his head at the chair opposite. Hutch lifted his brow but obeyed the silent command, seating himself across from Starsky. "We been friends a long time, Hutch..." Hutch nodded and looked at him expectantly. "So I know you pretty well, or I thought I did. But I think you've been keeping something from me, and I don't like it." Hutch's eyes widened, and then he looked away. The pain in Starsky's chest at the evasive move had nothing to do with the smog problem in Bay City. He saw Hutch put a hand up to his face and scrub it for a bit, as if trying to wipe out his expression. Starsky's voice went strange on him as he asked, "You...you like guys, don't you?" Hutch stared at him, and it was a long moment before he said, slowly, "I've never been with a guy." He had worded his response too damned carefully, and Starsky said, "But you want to." He didn't make it a question. Hutch started to respond, but was interrupted by a sneeze. "Shit, shit, shit," Starsky said, and got up and started pacing a tight circle. "Who...?" There was a trembling in his voice and he took a quick breath before asking, "Where were you this morning?" Were you with that guy I saw you kissing? Hutch had been staring down at the carpet, but now he lifted his head, looking surprised at the question. "I was...I had an idea, about Ollie, I mean. I was following up." "Ollie?" It was the last thing Starsky had expected to hear, and he watched, stunned, as Hutch reached into the bag and pulled out the familiar form. Hutch handed him across and Starsky took the bear, listening with half an ear while Hutch explained. "Marguerite, my cleaning lady, has a little girl, Alicia, and she brings her sometimes when she comes to clean.... I went over there today and...interrogated her." Hutch gave a ghost of a smile. "Alicia copped to smuggling Ollie out after a visit." Starsky examined Ollie. Same bear—a little more soiled, but with the familiar bent ear and the worn spot on his chest. Hutch's words were almost drowned out by a strange, high ringing in his ears. I don't understand. "Hutch, what did you do last night?" Hutch now looked a little ticked off. "What's with all the damned questions, Starsk? What the hell is going on with you?" "Please, Hutch, just answer, okay? I'll explain later." Starsky wasn't angry anymore, he realized. "I was right here. Where else, after the week we had? I fell asleep around nine o'clock I was so damned wiped." And Starsky believed him. It was just so goddamned weird. An Ollie who wasn't Ollie, and a Hutch who wasn't Hutch, appearing like crazy visions or something. Starsky rubbed his face with both hands, trying to straighten the puzzle out in his head in light of this new information. It wasn't him kissing that guy last night. But he does...he wants to.... Starsky dropped his hands and stared at Hutch, then looked down at the bear in his lap. "I guess...maybe you'd better hold onto Ollie, now. You'll take better care of him." Hutch said, sounding strained and tired. As if the words were a catalyst, everything suddenly fell into place. Starsky looked back up at Hutch, and shook his head decisively. "No." He handed Ollie back over. "Give him back to Alicia." Hutch looked stunned as he took the bear. "But—" "You said it yourself, Hutch. It's time to let go." Starsky shrugged. "But just last week—" "I know, I know." Starsky got up and went to put his cup in the sink, trying to wrangle his thoughts into words. When he came back, he deliberately sat next to Hutch on the couch, not missing the consternation on Hutch's face, or the way he pulled away a little. "Hutch..." he started, and then stopped. He looked at Hutch helplessly, wishing there were an easier way to go about this, some way to ask what he needed to without risking everything. I'm such a wimp. As if Hutch didn't show him all the time how much he loved him, from stocking the fridge with root beer to making an elaborate dinner to try to distract him when he was hurting. "What's this all about, Starsk?" Hutch broke into his train of thought sounding a little nervous, and also a bit excited. He feels it, too. "It's about...maybe I've been a damned fool, Hutch." Starsky put his hand on Hutch's leg and felt him tense. "About what?" Hutch asked, his voice almost a whisper. "About...trying to hold onto a precious thing that wasn't there, just to maybe miss out on a chance at something wonderful." Hutch stared at him, his mouth working for a moment before he said, "What the hell has happened to you?" His voice was unbelieving, but with an undertone of wild hope that was unmistakable. Starsky grinned and relaxed. "Let's just say I got a wake-up call. Why? You saying you're not interested?" Hutch mumbled, looking away, "M'not saying that." Starsky saw his throat work in a swallow before he continued, "Just want to make sure you're not suffering from a blow to the head or something." Starsky's grin was starting to hurt his cheeks. "Nope. No bumps on the head, no fever. See?" He grabbed Hutch's hand and pressed it to his forehead. Hutch snatched his hand away as if burned. "C'mon, Hutch. Don't tell me you're gonna try to fight this." Starsky mocked gently. His partner gave an amused snort, "Next you're gonna tell me this is bigger than the both of us." But Hutch's eyes were still wide, the whites showing around the blue. He's seriously weirded out, Starsky thought, but there was no power on Earth, not even a freaked-out Blintz, that was going to stop him from doing what he did next. He reached out and hooked the back of Hutch's neck, noticing as he did so that his hand was shaking. Guess he's not the only one freaked. And then he tugged Hutch over toward him, pulling against the stubborn resistance of the long body beside him until suddenly Hutch relaxed, and moved to meet him. When their faces were mere inches apart, Starsky whispered, low, "Bigger than the both of us." And there was a smile on Hutch's lips when they met his own. Oh, man. I'm kissing Hutch. Hutch's mouth, his tongue, tasted so good to him, he felt like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Fortunately, Hutch had full lips that could be nibbled and sucked on endlessly. About the only thing wrong with kissing Hutch, near as Starsky could tell, was having to stop for air. Starsky heard a sound and realized he was moaning a little with the pleasure of it. He pulled back, startled at having lost control so easily. Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him questioningly, his cheeks red. "Why the hell haven't we ever done that before?" Starsky asked. Hutch looked at a loss for words. "Especially since it seems to've made you speechless. I should've tried it years ago." "Shut up," Hutch growled and lunged at him for more kissing. Starsky shortly found himself on his back, the couch cushion wedged painfully under his left kidney. He forgot his discomfort a second later when Hutch pressed his body fully against Starsky's, chest to chest and groin to groin. They both groaned at the contact, hips grinding against each other. Starsky was getting too hot, too fast. He pushed on Hutch's shoulders and Hutch eased back from the kiss. His eyes burned down at Starsky. "Hey," Starsky said, his lips a little numb. "Hey, yourself," came the expected reply, only Hutch had never said it to him before with his hard-on pressed hotly against Starsky's. "I hate to sound like a mushball romantic, Hutch, but what say we move this action to somewhere a little more appropriate? Someplace soft and bouncy." Hutch laughed and buried his face against Starsky's chest briefly before hauling himself up. He reached down to help Starsky off the couch and onto his feet. Unfortunately, the pause must have given Hutch time to start with the thinking, because he pulled up suddenly to ask breathlessly, "What the heck are we doing? This is crazy, Starsk." "What we are doing," Starsky said, tugging relentlessly at Hutch's shirtsleeve to get him moving again, "is going to the bedroom. Where we will get naked and do things to each other that aren't covered in the partner handbook." Hutch gave a snort of laughter. "You are an utter lunatic." "Yup," Starsky said, pushing Hutch the last few feet into the bedroom. "And you know you're supposed to humor a madman or he might do some damage. So get undressed. Now." He waited long enough to see that Hutch was promptly, if bemusedly, obeying, before he started stripping quickly, himself. Then it became a race to see who could get more naked, first. Hutch was moving more slowly, but Starsky's jeans were tighter. They ended in a dead heat and stood staring at each other. Starsky had already seen Hutch naked about a million times, but he took the opportunity, now, to examine him from his blond head to his big, sturdy feet. Somewhere around the middle he had to pause a good while to appreciate the bold, thick erection Hutch was sporting. His eyes lingered long enough that Hutch made a strange, aborted move to cover himself. Starsky looked back up and into Hutch's pale blue eyes. Are you sure about this? Those eyes were asking him, and they seemed to read his certainty loud and clear, for the deep crease between them smoothed, and Hutch reached for him. They were in the bed and wrapped around each other and kissing before Starsky could blink. Hutch's long, smooth thigh was between his legs, moving insistently up and down against his erection. Starsky groaned and reached around Hutch to grab two handfuls of that broad, firm ass. Hutch gasped against his mouth. They tumbled and writhed against each other until finally Hutch slid down to put his mouth on Starsky's chest. Starsky took a breath and felt a tug at his nipple and a grazing of wicked teeth. "Oh, man." Starsky's head was spinning, and he felt his face flushing at the strange feeling of his partner licking and sucking at him. When Hutch started roaming lower, he knew he was in trouble. Dear God, it's me, Starsky. Could you please see your way clear to not interrupting us with any earthquakes, flashfloods or asteroid hits any time in the next oh three hours or so? I would greatly, greatly appreciate it. I promise I'll light a Shabbat candle and say birkat ha-gomel ten times if you'll just OH GOD where is he going? Hutch had finished his leisurely exploration of Starsky's torso and had headed further south like a man on a mission. Starsky groaned in approval as he felt a strong hand lift his cock and then the long sweep of a tongue—Hutch's tongue—licking his cock from base to tip, again and again like a big tawny cat. Only his tongue wasn't rough, it was so smooth, moving over him with a sweet, silken stroke that was going to destroy him. "Ohhhh, Hutch. Hutch." There was something else he wanted to say but his brain was too busy relaying pleasure impulses for him to form words. Then his cock was enveloped by Hutch's warm mouth sucking him in, and he found himself begging, "Please, oh please don't stop. Oh, God, don't stop. " Hutch didn't stop. Starsky cracked open his eyes to see the blond head moving over his cock eagerly, and he lifted his hands to bury them in Hutch's hair, urging him faster, until the sucking mouth and the firm hand stroking him below brought him to the edge and over into a crushing orgasm. He shouted and came into Hutch's mouth, vaguely registering surprise that Hutch didn't pull away as Starsky exploded. When he could think again, Hutch had joined him and was stroking Starsky's chest soothingly. He realized he was heaving lungfuls of air, as if he'd stopped breathing entirely at some point. Finally, he turned his head and met Hutch's lips for a soft kiss, tasting his come on Hutch's tongue and trembling with the realization that they could be this, for each other—that Hutch could make him feel so much pleasure. It seemed almost too good to be true. He felt Hutch's hot erection pushing against his thigh and started guiltily. "Gonna take care of you, babe," Starsky said, his voice rough. "If you touch me, I'll blow," Hutch whispered. "Got so hot doing that to you." Starsky closed his eyes, his heart giving a painful thump even as his dick gave an impertinent twitch at the thought. "Let's see what happens if I put my mouth on it, then," Starsky grinned and slid down on the bed to position himself near Hutch's groin. Hutch's cock was cut like his, but instead of dusky red, even in its hardened state it was a deep rosy pink, with golden wiry hairs surrounding his balls. Starsky took the thick shaft in his hand and heard a rumbling moan coming from above his head. He smiled and stroked it firmly, enjoying the twitch of Hutch's hips in response. A gentle hand wove itself into Starsky's hair, urging him closer. He knew the Blintz must be pretty desperate at this point, and without hesitation he opened his mouth and took in the head, moving his tongue just below on slight roughness there. Hutch moaned and his hips twitched again, as if he wanted to thrust, so Starsky slid his hands below Hutch's hips and pulled him onto his side, his mouth still around Hutch's cock. Then he guided Hutch in a pumping motion. That was all it took. Before he knew it, Starsky had his mouth full of heavy cock moving in and out as Hutch thrust again and again while gasping Starsky's name. Hutch didn't last long, he hadn't been kidding about that. His hand landed on Starsky's head, holding him still, and after a few more rapid thrusts he was groaning and coming, thick fluid pumping into Starsky's mouth like an endless river. Starsky tried to swallow but made a mess of it, drooling most of it onto the bed. From Hutch's cries of pleasure, he didn't mind much. Starsky pulled his mouth away and gave one last gentle stroke. Hutch shuddered beneath his hand. "God, Starsk. Come up here." Eagerly, Starsky crawled back up to embrace his partner, their damp, softened groins pressing together as Starsky hauled Hutch into a bone-crushing hug. "I think I could get the hang of that," Starsky said into Hutch's ear. Hutch laughed low and squeezed him back even harder. "Any time you want to get some practice in, just let me know." "Thought I'd feel weird, but I don't. Thought a lot of things, but never thought I'd be doing this with you, Hutch. It's crazy good." "I've...thought about it," Hutch replied in a confessing tone. "Yeah? Since when?" Starsky asked, all curiosity. "Since...since a while, now." Hutch rolled to his back. "To tell you the truth, since before...before Terry." Starsky lay quiet a moment, absorbing the statement. "She—" Starsky stopped and cleared his throat. "She did order you to love me." Starsky laughed a little. "I don't think she meant like this, necessarily, but who knows?" Hutch rolled back over and looked him in the eye. "She didn't need to tell me that, buddy. I already did, always will." Starsky held his gaze. Terry, sweetheart. I'm sorry, but I think I'm ready now. I think you wouldn't mind, so much, it being Hutch and all. I know you loved him, too. Starsky's vision went a little foggy on him, and he blinked before saying, "Me, too, Blintz. Only...." "Only what?" Hutch pulled his head back. "Only, you have to promise to come to synagogue with me." Hutch gave him a confused smile. "What for?" "I made some promises, and unless we want the Big One to hit, I'd better come through," Starsky said seriously. Hutch laughed in disbelief and pulled him close again. Later that day, they took Ollie back to Alicia. And then they went to temple. Finis. May 2005 San Francisco, CA

In the middle of a quiet afternoon, as Severus Snape read through a series of Ministry dispatches on criminal uses of polyjuice potion, Lucius Malfoy tossed down the Daily Prophet and uttered the words that Severus feared most: "I'm so bored." "Let's go somewhere," suggested Severus immediately. A bored Malfoy was a dangerous Malfoy -- at best he might only come up with a mischievous erotic suggestion, but in such a mood Lucius was apt to fly into a temper, disappearing to parts unknown or turning his frustration on Severus, who knew that he was hopelessly provincial compared to the wealthy, sophisticated older wizard and had little hope of keeping him entertained. "Where could we go?" Severus did not like to suggest shopping, as Malfoy had far more money than he ever would, and he suspected that Lucius was as tired of Quidditch and Muggle cricket matches as he was, himself. While he was considering, Lucius stood, stretched the perfectly formed muscles under his golden skin, and said, "Let's go away from here. Somewhere that involves packing. And spending money. And seeing things that don't exist in this part of the world." An idea came to Severus. It was a lot to ask, perhaps, but sometimes Lucius liked it when he surprised him. "There's a dark arts convention in Munich that starts tomorrow. Wizards from all over Europe will be there. If it's true that a Durmstrang student has made strides in developing a potion to treat the effects of lycanthropy, we could be the first to see it." "That's true..." Lucius looked tempted for a moment, but then he flopped back into his chair. "I don't think they'll ever cure us of werewolves, unfortunately. And there will be people at that convention whom I don't want to put up with, the ones who attend not because they have true research interests but because they think it's dangerous or taboo to study the dark arts." His eyes narrowed, and he repeated, "Taboo." Swinging around, he looked at Severus. "Why don't we go to New Orleans?" "In America?" asked Severus stupidly. He'd never been further from home than France, and Lucius was proposing to travel across the ocean to a country where (it seemed to Severus) they had, not very many years before, hanged people accused of practicing witchcraft. But Lucius was smiling, so he attempted to match his enthusiasm. "It would certainly be...exotic." "Just think," Lucius beamed, "the New World. Voudou. The Muggle food and music is supposed to be wonderful. Besides, in America nobody will care who we are or where we come from, and..." His smile turned lecherous. "I want to fuck you in a bed in an inn and have people clean up after us, instead of elves." "Naughty, Lucius," chided Severus, but the older man was already pulling him to his feet and through the house to his bedroom, where he brought several trunks out of a closet. He waved his wand, and a moment later, clothing, toiletries and other items began flying across the room from drawers and closets, packing themselves. Severus watched the trunks filling and gazed at Lucius' pleased expression as he strode around picking up other items he needed. "I'm sick to death of this place," he announced, glaring at the embroidered tapestries hanging above his bed. "This house, and work, and my parents, and...everything. I need to go someplace else, and I want you to come with me." While Lucius' gaze swept the furniture , pondering whether or not he'd forgotten anything, Severus glanced across the elegant room and decided that it might be wisest not to ask questions. If he were to travel with Lucius, he liked the idea of it being to a place where Lucius had never been, so that at least they would be equals in the novelty of the experience. "Let me send an owl to work, and stop at home to pick up some clothes..." "I took care of that for you this morning," admitted Lucius, as his eyes showed a flicker of what might have been an apology. "It occurred to me to go away last night. Then I thought, 'Wouldn't it be wonderful to show Severus a part of the world he's never seen before?' I didn't think you'd say no. You need a vacation -- I was asked no questions when I told your supervisor that I required your company." Severus could not decide whether to be appalled or amused. He knew better than to tell Lucius that if a Malfoy demanded the presence of Severus Snape for consultation, even if it caused him to miss days of work, his superiors would let him go without a word of complaint, nor ask too many questions upon his return. Moreover, if what Lucius was saying was true, he had picked the destination with Severus in mind. "You planned this trip...around me?" he asked, allowing his surprise to speak for itself. "I did. Although your mother believes that we are traveling on Ministry business, and I promised that you would owl her." Kneeling on the floor, Lucius stuffed some papers into a trunk and closed it, then looked up at Severus with excitement in his eyes. "So let's go. Get your things. Why are you hesitating?" "It's just that I'm sure it will cost a great deal, and I already owe you so much...I shouldn't get used to living like this..." "Honestly, Severus. Indulge me. Think of it as an early birthday present. I've made the arrangements for you to go, it's not a problem that you're missing work, and I will fetch a scroll right now so that you can write to your parents." A moment later there was parchment beside Severus, with a quill already writing the opening pleasantries for him. While the quill scratched, Severus watched Lucius move through the room. The older man's behavior over the previous few days had been unfathomable. It was as though Severus' confession that Lucius owned him had freed Lucius to stop trying to coerce such an acknowledgment from him. Lucius had been kind, even affectionate -- Severus nearly thought romantic, though he had so little experience of that sort of attachment that he hesitated to use the term. Despite his resistance to words that Lucius uttered on the verge of climax, which might just as easily have been addressed to a fantasy as to himself, Severus appreciated the change; he did not want to think about what Lucius might want of him that required the sort of bond that seemed to be forming. Quite pleasantly, Lucius inquired, "Are you finished yet?" Severus was constructing a fiction for his father -- a discussion of potential work to be done in America with the veiled suggestion that he and Lucius might enjoy themselves with bronze-skinned, bead-clad witches -- a lie that he assumed his parents were near to disbelieving, though Severus thought that even if they suspected the true nature of his relationship with Lucius Malfoy, they would never say a word to anyone. Finishing the letter, he rolled it and handed it to Lucius, who stepped out of the room to give it to one of the plush-feathered, well-mannered birds in the private owlery. While Lucius was gone, Severus removed what clothes he kept at the Malfoy home and began to put them into a trunk. By the time Lucius returned, he was sitting on the bed with his shoulders hunched and his knees drawn up -- not looking at all like someone anticipating a vacation, he realized, forcing himself to uncoil and stand. "Can I travel like this?" he asked, embarrassed. "Wait." Striding past him, Lucius opened a wardrobe and retrieved a box, which he set down on the bed and opened. "I had these made for you." Severus stared from Lucius to the gleaming fabric of the contents. "You shouldn't have," he said, awed, extending one finger to touch, fearful of carelessly staining the expensive clothing. "Of course I should have," retorted Lucius, shrugging one shoulder. "You should wear color more often; black makes your complexion sickly. And look...Slytherin green." When he reached out to begin removing what Severus was already wearing, Severus kept still, wondering whether Lucius might be playing out a childhood craving for a pet or perhaps a doll. Lucius had no need to court him; Lucius had never needed to offer him gifts or tokens, not from the first night he had invited Severus to his room and asked him in the simplest terms to satisfy him. Why Lucius was suddenly treating him like a cherished...yes, pet would do...Severus could not imagine. Yet Lucius adjusted the new robes on Severus, trailing fingertips over his arms with a satisfied smile, before guiding Severus to the full-length mirror between the closets. "You should see. It's remarkable what a little color will do." Severus blinked at his own image; he supposed that the color did suit him as well as any shade might, but what appeared more remarkable was how the robes resembled what Lucius wore, contrasting shades but certainly the same tailor. They looked like -- well, certainly not brothers, for Lucius' bright hair and fair complexion would have made him stand out beside nearly anyone -- but very nearly peers. "Thank you," said Severus, feeling humbled, though still entirely puzzled as to what Lucius was up to. "You're very welcome." Lucius cast their reflection one last appraising look before guiding Severus away. "We will be staying in the very heart of wizarding society in the city. But I think you'll find that in parts of New Orleans it may be difficult to tell the wizards from the charlatans." Turning away, he picked up a few bags. "You speak some French, don't you? We'll be at l'Hotel Voisin in the French Quarter..." Severus only nodded. There was little he could contribute; other than some reading about legendary haunted houses, voudou and macumba, and a popular series of Muggle novels about generations of witches from New Orleans, he knew little about the city and nothing about its fashionable lodgings. "Provided they didn't completely make a mess of things after the owl I sent, our room should be ready," Lucius was continuing. "I'm sure that they will be more than happy to be of assistance after the advance I sent them. Do you have everything? Don't worry too much if you don't, we can buy it there." The spell that Lucius used to send the luggage on its way was not one that Severus had heard before, and he experienced a moment of panic as he contemplated the distance across which they would be traveling -- impossible by floo powder, extremely difficult to apparate for any but an extremely powerful wizard. But he had always wanted to see America, and he did want to travel with Lucius far from London, someplace where no one could possibly recognize either of them, where perhaps Lucius would be seen in public with him as an equal...or at least a friend. "Come here," Lucius said, pulling something from a pocket. At first Severus thought it might be a time-turner, but instead of a miniature hourglass, the long chain held a tiny globe with golden continents and silver seas. Lucius turned it as if it were a lock that required a specific combination of twists to open, holding Severus against him with his free arm. He was smiling, his face as open and cheerful as that of a child, with none of the sneering or conceit that often clouded his expressions. "Now hold on, and don't blame me if you look down." With a loud whooshing sound like the arrival of a great storm, the walls and floor dropped away. Severus had the overwhelming impression of hurtling at inconceivable speed across the sky -- of land and then ocean rushing by far beneath him -- clenching his eyes shut, he felt on his skin the sensation of icy air giving way to a somewhat warmer wind. He clung tightly to Lucius, whose exhilarated laugh was the one constant in the mad tempest. After an interminable passage -- a few minutes? a quarter of an hour? -- the world zoomed back into focus around them and the ground rose up to their feet. They were outdoors, standing in a small park, and Severus felt all his senses assaulted at once. The sun was warmer, brighter than he had seen it in months, gleaming off shining green leaves and the water of a bird bath; he could hear birds, insects, distant voices, Muggle traffic, a dog, a far-off train, and a slow, sad melody being played on a horn of some sort; the air smelled of flowers he couldn't identify, and cooking fish, and mud, and himself and Lucius sweating in their fine clothes, still clutching at one another. Lucius laughed breathlessly, keeping an arm around him until they reached the edge of the greenery and stepped onto the walk. "It's right over here." Across the way stood an enormous, ornately decorated mansion, with curtains blowing out the windows and blooms spilling out of pots on the porch. Severus followed Lucius inside, where the older man stalked past a line of wizards to the front desk and waved to a rather flustered-looking innkeeper. They exchanged words, then the innkeeper walked away, and a boy not much younger than Severus emerged from a back room, bearing a set of keys. As they took a spinning spiral staircase to the uppermost floor, Severus looked around, from the windows facing the street to the common rooms inside. The inn was bright with early morning light streaming through all the windows, which were open to the breeze, smelling of fresh flowers and spices and something else that Severus thought must have been the river. Noticing his distraction, Lucius smiled indulgently. "Come on," he said, "we can look around as soon as we've settled in. It's several hours earlier on this side of the world; we have all day." Severus followed without speaking, wondering whether Lucius had registered under his own name and how many rooms he had paid for. Would the hotel manager understand that they were sharing a bed or would only their maids know? The young man led them down a bright hallway, through an open door into a large, spacious suite of rooms with a single, very large bed. Their luggage, Severus noted, had preceded them, and it appeared that their robes had been hung in one of the closets. Lucius tipped the young man, who stared at the foreign coin, then departed silently. As he shed the outer layer of his clothing, he smiled at Severus. "Here we are. What would you like to do first?" Stepping to the window, Severus leaned out and took a deep breath, thinking that there must have been an enchantment around l'Hotel Voisin to screen out Muggle pollution and filth because he could smell only the flowers and the nearby muddy water, thick and slightly bitter yet teeming with life. Lucius allowed him a moment to adjust to the surroundings -- the New World, Severus reminded himself, nearly half a world away from his own dark, drafty home and from the equally dark, stifling velvet-and-wood rooms in Lucius' family mansion. Then he felt Lucius wrap his arms around his chest to nuzzle the side of his neck, and Severus' hands began to fumble at the clasp on his robes, wanting to feel the air on his skin. Mouth moving up to Severus' ear, Lucius did his best to help him take off the garment. "I'm so pleased that you came with me," he whispered as he stroked Severus' bare chest and belly. "Thank you for bringing me here." It humbled Severus to know that he had nearly run away from this, and that he had spent so much time worrying about Lucius' motives that he could not permit himself to enjoy what was offered. Things might still end badly, but that was not a reason to refuse to enjoy the present moment. Turning in Lucius' arms, he wrapped an arm around his neck, kissing him more passionately than he would usually have risked. Lucius' arms tightened around him, and his response to the kiss was just as passionate. He let one arm move away from Severus to begin to work at his own robes. Severus wondered whether the flowers blooming just outside the window were producing an intoxicant, for he felt eager, even lightheaded. He was in a beautiful place with a beautiful man, and before he could cringe at the mawkishness of that last thought, he pulled Lucius to him again, tangling his fingers in Lucius' hair, exploring his mouth for many blissful moments. When Lucius drew back, he murmured, "The air here seems to agree with you." "No," replied Severus, shaking his head. "That is, yes, but not only." He wanted to explain that it was not the air but the ease with which Lucius was smiling at him, as if they were lovers on holiday together rather than a wealthy, powerful man who had brought along a fawning youth to keep him entertained -- a precarious balance that might collapse at any time. His own lips twitched as he ventured, "I would like to see if the bed is comfortable." Lucius raised an eyebrow, but his smile did not waver as he took Severus' hand to tug him close. They kissed over and over while Lucius moved backward to the bed, nearly tripping over one of the oversized curtains draping from the canopy onto the floor around it; he was laughing as he pulled Severus down with him. "I'm so glad to be away." He wrapped arms and legs around Severus before adding, whispered in his ear, "...and with you." Severus refused to analyze the comment -- to look for hidden meanings, taunts, anything that might have spoiled it. He only kissed Lucius back, turning against him, nuzzling his thighs and swollen cock, wanting simply to give and receive pleasure. He had planned to ask Lucius to fuck him, but if they fucked now, he would inevitably think of power games, positions and rules, what might constitute going too far...he did not want to think, only to enjoy the feeling. Lucius squirmed around, nipping playfully at Severus' thigh. His mouth moved up to brush Severus' hip, then kissed across his belly and lower, licking the head of his cock. Severus opened his mouth and sucked Lucius in, tasting warm skin that seemed made to be enjoyed in the salty-sweet air from the open windows. He tried to imagine being in the river, in water warm enough to make love, with the dark mud obscuring their bodies...he found himself remembering making love in the tub with Lucius, feeling tepid water enveloping his chest and arms in bubbling surges as he moved. It was good, and had been good for a long time, had he only taken a moment to realize it. Lucius moaned softly, though Severus had the impression that he was keeping himself in check, refusing to thrust hard into his mouth. He continued to lick Severus, not teasingly, but unhurried, and his hands stroked the small of his back. Shuddering, Severus drew Lucius in, encouraging him to move deeper, for he knew that he would not last; he whimpered, then moaned around the cock in his mouth, feeling both relaxed and urgent all at once. Lucius, too, let out a muffled little groan, his fingers tightening on Severus' hip, and he closed his mouth around him, sliding along his length, sucking. With a hand under Lucius' hip, Severus urged him to roll; he loved the feeling of Lucius' body over his, hair falling across his thighs, muscles surging against him. Yet the shift provided momentary distraction from the pleasure knotting deep inside him, triggering involuntary thrusts of his hips, making him gasp around Lucius' cock while it pressed toward his throat. Holding himself up with his elbows, Lucius did his best not to choke Severus, working his own mouth faster, sucking harder. Severus tried not to think about when Lucius had become so solicitous of him, focusing instead on how right it felt to have Lucius hard and shaking above him; he was tempted to take Lucius' buttocks in his hands and drag him down, squeezing, sucking, possessing. His own buttocks tensed, pushing him up from the bed into Lucius' welcoming mouth. Then he was much too close, too close even to stop and groan a warning, with Lucius twitching against his tongue...he went rigid, spilling himself down Lucius' throat which closed around him as he swallowed. When he pulled back to breathe, Lucius moaned and pushed himself in at a deeper angle, groaning, "Severus--oh--oh!", clutching at Severus' thighs, letting out sounds like sobs as he came. Still trying to recover, Severus could not keep up with the flood that poured out of Lucius, which burned at the back of his nose and drowned his breath. Choking, turning his head to the side, he was reminded of swimming in the ocean when he was a small child. It had been one of the few vacations his family ever took...a wave took him down, and for a few horrible seconds before his father had pulled him up, he had been certain that he was going to die there with the salt and grit in his throat. But once he recovered, the sun had seemed brighter, the sea bluer, and his parents had spent the whole day trying to console him with sweets. He had so few happy memories untainted by bittersweet moments, and these months with Lucius had been among the happiest of his life...forgetting for a moment that he could be heard, he whispered, "I must love you." Though he was still shaking from his climax, Lucius pushed himself up and turned around to crawl to Severus' side, lowering himself onto his belly, half-covering Severus who had closed his eyes in fear and shame. Gentle fingers wiped his chin and mouth, and he peered out to see Lucius licking his own hand clean, smiling with a contented triumph that did not suggest conquest. Severus shut his eyes again; if Lucius was planning to gloat or mock him with his own words, he could not bear to know. Yet he felt only a kiss against his chin, then arms tunneling beneath his back, and he could not stop his own hands from encircling Lucius and holding on to him, letting the smooth, soft hair brush his face. Lucius lifted his head, smiling at Severus, about to speak again when a noise from the hall made them both twist their heads up. The boy who had led them to their room pushed open the door, holding a spare set of keys and carrying fresh flowers and linens; he looked up to see the two of them on the bed together, naked and gleaming with sweat, and gaped before returning to his manners. Quickly excusing himself in French, he tried to back out the door, but Lucius rose, holding a pillow in front of his groin, and strode over to speak to him in a low voice before snatching the keys from his hand and closing the door in his face. Severus had turned onto his belly to hide his nakedness, tugging the bedcovers over himself, and he glanced cautiously at Lucius as he returned, wondering whether the other man would now be furious or withdrawn. Dropping the keys on the table beside the bed, Lucius climbed beneath the heavy blankets with Severus, though the room was really too warm to require such covers. "I told him that if he ever looked at you again, I'd curse his family." Severus snorted, "I hardly think that he was looking at me. Are you worried that he is going to destroy your reputation?" "Excuse me?" "You didn't like him seeing us. Like that." "I didn't want him staring at you while you were naked." Severus wondered whether Lucius was ashamed of his pale, scrawny body compared to Lucius' own gleaming skin; the clerks and pages at the inn all appeared to be tan and fit. "Because you're mine," Lucius added almost fiercely, pushing Severus over onto his back and leaning over him, "and no one should look at what's mine." Severus could not think what to say -- neither what response Lucius might want nor how to explain his own feelings, a combination of pride and terror. Perhaps Lucius thought of him as something bought and paid for like this room and his robes. He remembered being told, not so long ago, that he was Lucius' whore, and even if Lucius had been jesting, Severus remained fearful that on some level it might be true. He wondered whether any part of Lucius was his. "Aren't you mine?" The tone held the hint of a threat, but Severus could see that Lucius needed a reply; his mouth was soft, and his eyes were as vulnerable as Severus had ever seen them. Touching Lucius' face, he nodded slightly, and was rewarded with a broad smile from his seemingly delighted lover. "Good," Lucius said, and kissed him again, rolling to the side with a sigh of satisfaction. "Why don't I send down for some food, and after we've eaten, we can go walk through the French Quarter." Lucius had a feast brought up -- okra stew, jambalaya and bread pudding, Cajun oysters and red beans, Creole shrimp, beignets -- so much food that Severus wondered whether he intended for them to taste all the specialties of the local cuisine before they ever ventured outside. When they finally walked through the glass-paneled doors onto the vast porch surrounding the inn, Lucius shaded his eyes with his hand, saying, "Ah, sunlight. I'd forgotten what that felt like, at home." Severus glanced around at the people. Though it was nowhere near Mardi Gras -- a frenzied time in the wizarding world as well as among Muggles -- the youths dressed more outrageously than most in London, besides those young punks with colorful hair. There were public displays of affection taking place on the outskirts of the park where they had arrived, and noisy messengers riding two-wheeled vehicles with horns. "Later I shall take you to St. Louis Cemetery, and tonight we'll eat someplace with music," Lucius was promising. "But right now, I'd like to take you to a marketplace." After hailing a mule-drawn carriage driven by a wizard -- he was dressed as a Muggle, but he spoke to the animals in equine language and allowed them to see his wand, hidden discreetly among his riding crops -- Lucius whispered a destination, then sat back with Severus, putting an arm around his shoulders. The driver kept up a running commentary, pointing out New Orleans landmarks in Jackson Square and along Bourbon Street, but Severus was scarcely listening. From behind exquisite wrought-iron fences and balustrades, flowering trees and shrubs filled the air with sweet scent, mingled occasionally with pipe smoke and frying food. Lucius had pulled out a guidebook on the region with moving pictures of swamps filled with alligators, a white-sand beach on the Gulf, ancient oak trees swaying on a plantation...nothing Severus had ever seen near his home across the sea. He thought that if there were a way to capture this day in its entirety to relive later on, he would like to do so. "Well, well, well," chuckled a warm voice in his ear, making Severus realize that he was smiling dreamily. "You look like you've just spent a few hours getting the fucking of your life." Raising a hand to his neck, Severus could feel a bruise left by Lucius' lips, though he did not think that it could be seen above his collar; he could feel another inside his thigh, too, which fortunately would not be evident to any passersby. "I have," he drawled, mimicking the local accent, sounding far more satisfied than he expected, and suddenly he could not help laughing. "Good," Lucius agreed, stroking his free hand over a sleeve of the beautiful new clothing Severus wore. The fabric was light, designed for a warm climate such as this; he had never owned anything so frivolous as clothes for leisure, there had never been money for it, and his mother had been furious any time he had stained his robes. The fingers of Lucius' other hand lifted from his shoulder and wove into his hair, pulling him closer. "I was thinking that we should go down to the river tonight, when it gets dark. After dinner. We could make love under the stars." "But..." Severus gaped. From what he understood, the area around the river was constantly crowded with people -- Muggles and their law enforcement officers, wizards in disguise, and some wizards who insisted upon making a spectacle of themselves by presenting themselves to Muggles as fortunetellers and mind-readers. "Won't people see us?" "Honestly, Severus, anyone would think you had never heard of concealment charms and invisibility cloaks. The Muggles will never know that we were there, and the wizards will know better than to disturb such a charm in such a place." "You were planning to kiss me where people could see us?" "Yes." Lucius had a wicked grin on his face, and Severus knew better than to argue; moreover, he had not the slightest desire to question Lucius' motives. He glanced at his hair gleaming in the bright sunlight, squinting slightly, as the mules drew to a halt. Lucius reached out and tugged excitedly on Severus' sleeve, like a child. "Here!" he announced triumphantly, paying the driver with American currency and leading Severus towards a small store that none of the numerous passersby seemed either to notice or to want to visit. To enter he wove past several Muggles and a few witches without a glance at them. "Dark arts," he said softly to Severus. "Supplies...anything you could want. The store has a spell that protects it, rather like the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts -- only those who know to look for it will ever see that it's here." Severus sniggered faintly, for the shop was sandwiched between a brightly painted house with a glowing "Tarot Readings" sign above the door and an African imports boutique with terrifying-looking sculptures in the window. He hardly thought that the little dark arts store would have been likely to draw attention on this street even if it could have been seen by Muggles. "What do they have that we need here?" he asked. "Oh, this and that..." Lucius twined his fingers with Severus', guiding him over to a display of poisons and other ingredients banned by the Ministry of Magic at home. "You may be able to find interesting herbs here that I would otherwise have to work very hard to acquire for you." Amused, Severus reached out a finger to trace the raised foil letters on a package of cannabis sativa. "How interesting. And what did you come in here for?" "For you," Lucius replied softly. Severus glanced at Lucius, then back at the display in front of him. There were rare lethal mushrooms, illegally harvested ivory for aphrodisiacs, roots believed to cause nymphomania, seeds known to subvert chemical birth control. He could not even think at the moment of what he might like to experiment with; it was too exhilarating to be standing in this strange place, holding hands with Lucius who had not let go of him, despite the fact that there were at least a half-dozen other wizards and witches in the shop, and the witches in particular were openly gazing at the handsome blonde man. "There should be books here, too. And cursed artifacts, implements of torture, ouija boards owned by famous mediums..." Lucius glanced at Severus, then lifted their joined hands, kissing Severus' knuckles. "If there's anything you want, I'll get it." Severus was frozen in place, unable to move, expecting that anything he did might make Lucius remember where he was and drop his hand. He tried to make a pretense of glancing around at the shelves -- yes, there were prison shackles, and grinning Aztec faces that shot poisoned darts -- but his eyes kept returning to the only thing he truly wanted in the store, which was standing inches in front of him, smiling. "Don't you want to look around?" Lucius asked softly. "I..." Severus urgently needed an excuse to touch Lucius. There was a potion purporting to protect the wearer from premature balding, sitting amidst the beauty oils and polyjuice preparations; he spilled a bit from a sample vial onto his finger and swiped it across Lucius' lips. Lucius raised an eyebrow and grinned. "What's that supposed to do?" "Keep your hair lustrous," Severus replied wryly, running his hand through the locks spilling over Lucius' shoulder. When he pulled back, he could see a witch staring at them; Lucius gave her a narrow-eyed grin until she turned away, blushing. Severus could not meet Lucius' eyes, knowing that if he turned, so close, he would try to kiss Lucius and forget the consequences. Casting his own eyes about the store, he spotted a display case containing a small golden amulet engraved with a winged horse: Pegasus, sacred to the Greek goddess of memory, Mnemosyne, and sometimes used to represent the hippocampus, the part of the brain most responsible for storing memories. Though Severus had never seen one, he had seen photos of similar small round amulets, and recognized this one as a memory-locket. Once activated, it would send its owner back to the precise minute preserved within it as often as the owner wished, allowing the seconds to be relived -- physically and emotionally -- as if they were taking place anew. His hand fell on Lucius' arm. "I want that," he said, turning him toward the case, then flinching in embarrassment. The amulet was probably solid gold, and very expensive, and Lucius would know what he wanted it for... Yet Lucius only smiled, waving over one of the shopkeepers and indicating the case. "We'll take that, please." Turning back to Severus, he said, "I am delighted to bring home souvenirs, but don't you want any of the herbs or the potions to try?" "Well..." Severus glanced at bagged packets and vials, arranged alphabetically -- hellsbreath, hemlock, henbane, hunter's disguise. He grabbed items almost randomly, certain that later he would think of a dozen for which he should have looked, but none of them were in his mind at that moment -- he simply did not want to disappoint Lucius, who eagerly accepted the packets from his hands to be wrapped for transport by the shopkeepers. Taking Severus by the arm again, he walked to the counter, paid for everything with a shocking number of gold coins and asked to have all the herbs sent to their room at the inn. The amulet he handed to Severus, who put it around his neck beneath his clothing. Lucius was holding his hand again when they left the shop, stopping briefly to look at the African sculptures in the store next door. The bright sunshine made Severus blink as his eyes watered; he hoped that Lucius would not notice, nor notice that his palm was sweating, and he wondered whether he was holding on so tightly that it might be considered clinging or so loosely that Lucius might believe he wanted to escape. Concerned that they might be attracting attention, he looked around, but the street was crowded with Muggles in skimpy clothes, and they were not the only men holding hands. "Oh, food," Lucius said with some degree of relief, tugging Severus over to a fruit stand. "I'm ravenous, though I suppose I shouldn't be, after the size of the meal we just ate." Severus nodded; he still felt lightheaded, but he did not believe hunger was the cause. The stand had pralines and bananas which Lucius bought, neither a favorite of Severus' but he felt that while in New Orleans he should eat the food for which the region was famous. They made their way through the crowd again to sit on a ledge around an old fountain -- now filled with flowers instead of water -- and Severus pulled his knees close to his body, wrapping his arms over them, fighting the inexplicable sensation that his limbs might fly off if he didn't keep track of them. The flowers behind them smelled exotically strong, like dizzying perfume. Lucius glanced at him. "Is the heat bothering you?" "No, I'm just not used to it," Severus replied, accepting a banana when Lucius held one out. They were a rare indulgence at Hogwarts and something he had never eaten with his parents, who preferred their food, wool and ideas grown nearer to home. This one tasted very sweet and disintegrated wetly on his tongue, just past ripeness. Lucius reached out and brushed Severus' hair back from his face, trailing fingers down his cheek. Softly he said, "I want you again." Severus' hand trembled so that he very nearly dropped the banana. He had been slightly hard ever since Lucius took his hand leaving the shop, and Lucius' touch never failed to make him burn. "Should we go back?" he asked quietly. "Would you like to?" Lucius leaned over and kissed him, making Severus squeeze the banana so tightly that he felt the skin deflate as fruit oozed over his fingers. He was torn between wanting to be back in bed with Lucius and wanting to stay outside, with Lucius touching him in full view of dozens of passersby. Why this should have made their being together seem more real was unclear to Severus, for they were anonymous in this city where not even the mighty name of Malfoy summoned respect and awe. Lucius pulled him to his feet, and then, after grabbing the bag with their uneaten sweets, once more started to lead him along the walk. But instead of heading back to the inn, he pulled Severus into an alleyway between two buildings. "Can't wait," he said softly, tugging Severus against him for another kiss. Severus made an urgent noise and tried to look around but he could see only Lucius and the wall of the building behind him, half-covered by a dumpster and a stack of newspapers that looked as if they had been there for quite some time. He trembled slightly as he returned the kiss, unable to believe that Lucius meant to do this, there. "Did you swallow one of those aphrodisiacs in the shop?" he managed to get out. Lucius grinned at him as he opened Severus' robes. "Perhaps I inhaled one." Severus looked around again. While the alley was closed to vehicular traffic, there was nothing to stop any pedestrians from taking a shortcut through, absolutely nothing to block himself and Lucius from view, and he could not even reach his wand to utter the weak invisibility charm he might have managed. "But, Lucius, here..." "Yes," Lucius agreed, dropping to his knees, leaning forward and kissing Severus' hip, "right here." His fingers stroked teasingly over Severus' cock. "Don't you want me?" Severus' groin jerked forward even as he told himself to close his robes and beg Lucius to take him back to the inn. He could not answer in words, could only groan. "I'll take that as a yes," Lucius murmured, and his tongue started to follow his fingers, licking Severus with the same playfulness. He inched forward slightly, and his free hand reached back to cup Severus from behind. Knees shaking, Severus grabbed onto Lucius' shoulder for support. He could see the shadows of people passing by the entrance to the alley, pausing to light cigarettes or fumble with their bags; he was certain that they would be discovered at any moment. "Lucius...please..." "Yes, Severus?" Lucius' tongue circled around the head of his cock before he took it into his mouth, sliding over it slowly. A noise just to Severus' left made him nearly jump out of his skin as Lucius began to suck him; it turned out to be a bird scavenging in the garbage, but his heart was pounding wildly and his legs trembled even more. Lucius' hair spread out across his back in a golden fan, much too clean and beautiful for this dirty back corner of the city; Severus tried to grab a handful to tilt his head back, yet ended up only stroking it in his slippery fingers. This made the older man hum softly, contentedly, as his mouth moved leisurely over Severus. Sometimes he would take Severus into his throat as far as he could, but then his lips would pull off to let only his tongue slide up and down the length. He did not appear to be interested in letting the exquisite torment end. Severus thought about what it would be like to walk through the city with Lucius afterward, knowing that Lucius' mouth was coated with his come. He shuddered; he knew that he was not going to be able to stop what Lucius was doing, not until it was over, probably not even if a Muggle policeman came down the alley, which was entirely possible given the distant flash of sirens somewhere out in the street. "Lucius, please," he begged again. Briefly, Lucius glanced up at him, flashing a naughty grin, lowering his mouth over Severus' cock -- slowly, far too slowly, devoted to the task of driving Severus insane. This was intolerable, decided Severus; they might be imprisoned if Lucius insisted on continuing like this. Closing his fingers over the back of Lucius' neck, he thrust far more aggressively than he'd ever dared before. Lucius' hands moved to grab Severus' hips, but he did not try to slow him; he choked, yet did not push him away. Severus could just hear his now-ragged breathing over the sound of his own pounding heart. There was a scream just beyond the entrance to the alley, a bunch of young men standing mere feet away, shouting and joking with each other, and if any of them were to look...Severus shocked himself by turning his head away and closing his eyes. This sensation was worth any consequences -- Lucius letting him fuck his mouth. It felt as though Lucius might be shaking, perhaps with the effort it took not to pull away. Yet he didn't, crouched in the filthy alley, possibly seconds away from discovery, remaining on his knees with Severus' cock sliding in and out of his mouth. And Severus was very close, his toes cramping as they tensed in his shoes, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe; yet, though he suspected that he was about to have the climax of his life, the feeling that surged through him was not lust. Lucius took his hands, squeezing them reassuringly in his fingers as he swallowed convulsively around Severus' cock. "Fuck I love..." Severus gasped, but that was as far as he got before the spasms wracking his lower body rose into his throat, turning into a choked wail as he spurted into Lucius' throat. Though he swallowed as much as he could, Lucius pulled back coughing and ducked his head to wipe his mouth. Severus quickly tore his hand away from Lucius, trying to catch the dripping fluid with his fingers. He stared down at the man still on his knees, with a faint trail of come running over the side of his jaw and dripping onto his beautiful clothes. "Fuck," Severus whispered, and leaned forward to lick it off. Lucius rose unsteadily to his feet, wiping at his face, staring at the ground. "Good?" he asked. Trembling, Severus tried to speak, but did not trust his voice; he nodded instead. He needed to fasten his clothing but was afraid that if he moved his arms, they would throw themselves around Lucius, who nodded and looked hesitantly at Severus as he fastened his robes for him. "Good," he said softly, answering his own question with a contented smile. "Fucker!" came a shout from the entrance to the alley. Severus nearly put his head through the wall behind him, but the shout was not directed at himself and Lucius; the street outside had become more crowded as it grew closer to dinnertime. Heart still pounding, he rested a hand on Lucius' arm to steady himself. "Did you want...to go...?" "Back to the inn," replied Lucius. His voice sounded low and seductive, not at all afraid. "Walking? Or...?" If the alley had been hidden well enough for what Lucius had just done, Severus wondered whether it was isolated enough to risk apparating. Much as he cherished the fantasy of walking through the streets of New Orleans with Lucius, he thought that perhaps he wanted to lie down, sooner rather than later; recover his strength, hold his lover, offer him the same pleasure he had been given. Lucius glanced down the alley. Then, looking at Severus again, he shrugged one shoulder and grasped his wand. "May as well. L'Hotel Voisin -- don't forget." With a pop, he vanished. Preparing to follow, Severus straightened his clothing and hair, and his fingers encountered the chain around his neck. Pulling gently, he drew the amulet up until he could see it. Suddenly grateful that Lucius had left him alone, he studied it until he understood how to open the locket, brushing down the wings of the flying horse until his finger rested on its head. Then he took a deep breath with his head tilted upward to the sun. He drew in the stench of the alley, with the gardens and food stalls just beyond...the blue of the sky gleaming over the dirty building...the cursing and noises of traffic in the street, and, far off, a single crowing trumpet...the silk of his new clothes, now itching where it clung to him, the dampness behind his neck and beneath his arms and between his legs...the taste of banana and Lucius' skin and his own come on his lips. He held the sensations in his mind, desire, satiation, memories of every step leading to this moment, the feeling that he had very nearly named twice, Lucius' eyes, Lucius' smile...eyes closed, he smiled himself, and squeezed the locket shut, preserving it all forever just as it was, that minute in the new world.

God, what could have possibly possessed her to say 'yes' earlier this afternoon? What on God's green earth – or maybe the universe – had taken a hold of her senses and thrown them out the window? She smacked her forehead down on her lab table and glanced at the clock. Two hours before she was supposed to arrive at the Colonel's. Could she… should she even think of him as the Colonel? Could she… should she even *begin* to think of him as Jack? Was that a line she was willing to cross? Had she already crossed it by accepting his invitation? What was *he* intending for the evening? Her mind raced with thoughts as her body sat there, staring at the clock. What would she wear? What should she wear? Was it too late to break something and have to stay late to fix it? Was there anyway she could back out of the whole ordeal gracefully? Did she even want to? Sam took a deep breath, completely at a loss as to what she was going to do. Looking longingly at the last piece of machinery from the dig on P9R 454 – something she could safely break and put together in just under five hours – Sam left her lab. Twice she found herself heading back to her office with the intent to *mishandle* the artifact and hence get out of her evening, but there was something that kept turning her back. She had to admit, an evening with the Col… Jack?… the Colonel was appealing, even if she was just a little confused. She stopped at her quarters before taking her purse and keys and heading out of the mountain. She would have enough time to stop off at her house, change, grab a quick shower and head over to… Jack's. She could do this, really. Her hand trembled slightly as she started the ignition. What was she doing? What was he doing? What were they doing? What would they be doing? Was this really just dinner? What was she going to wear? She didn't want to over-step any boundaries. She still wasn't sure what he wanted, what he'd meant. At the same time, she wanted to look nice, presentable - not like it was just another team night. At least, not if that's what he wanted it to be. What did she want? God, she couldn't do this. She took a solid breath and listened to the motor, hoping that the steady rhythm would soothe her. It didn't and after a few moments, she restlessly pulled out of the parking spot and turned down the mountain. She sighed. It's not like he was a stranger. They had plenty in common, didn't they? They would have supper, talk, have some coffee and then she'd go home. That sounded feasible. But given the tingling in her stomach and the anticipation crawling up her spine, it was highly unlikely. She parked in front of her house and made her way up the walk. Opening the door she noticed, once again, that her hands were trembling slightly. The feeling of nervous trepidation crawling through her was overwhelming. Was she reading too much into this? Where had all of his scientific jargon from earlier come from? Was this the culmination of too many years working side by side where each of their lives was threatened on a daily basis? She entered her house, plopping the keys on the end table by the door and her purse on the island in her kitchen as she stood there trying to collect her thoughts. She took a deep breath, steadied her heart rate and then started to move to her bedroom before something caught her ear. She swiveled roughly on her heel and looked behind her. There, perched forward on one of her chairs was Jack, his chin resting on his steepled hands and a tense look on his face. "Jesus!" She breathed, her hand coming to dramatically cover her rapidly beating heart. Then she noticed the table and it's adornments; candles and two plates, side-by-side at the small table. Her brow furrowed in confusion as she scanned the roses that sat there… Anticipation was rapidly and irrevocably turning into arousal. He was seducing her? He smiled slightly, catching her eye. "I wasn't entirely convinced that you'd show up tonight. So I thought we could have dinner here." He slowly got up from his perch and carefully approached her. She felt the heat rising to her face, was her confusion that apparent? Was he so certain of this? If so, she already knew she trusted him with her life, what about her heart? "Of course, following that theory, you didn't give me enough time to change or anything…" Could she really shower knowing that he was sitting out here with a lovely romantic table set for dinner? "Oh, don't mind me." He said, a small smile tugging on his lips. Suddenly she caught sight of what it was that he was wearing and her breath hitched quietly in her throat. She'd seen him casual before, but not casual with the intent to distract. And distracting he was. Years she had spent learning to disregard his attire, his stance and his eyes and now that was all shot to hell in three seconds flat. He stood confidently before her, one hand tucked in the pocket of his khakis and the other resting on the counter only a foot from her. His eyes were highlighted by the dark brown of his turtleneck and stared at her intently, causing a flush to reach up into her cheeks. She swallowed the suddenly excessive amount of saliva in her mouth. And now, as she looked at him, her tongue slipping out to lightly moisten her extraordinarily dry lips, she decided a shower wasn't such a bad idea. A nice cold shower would do nicely. If it didn't, the court martial for breaking the fraternization regulations would be nothing when compared to the charges for assaulting a commanding officer, and conduct unbecoming of an officer. Swallowing hard, she smiled sweetly. "All right, you'll be okay if I grab a quick shower and change then?" She asked, coyly. Before he could respond, or she did something incredibly stupid - which would only add to the list at this point, she thought - she turned on her heel and headed toward her bedroom. Shower, she thought. Cold shower and clothes; just shower and clothes. She was proceeding with her search for clothes just fine and was even heading into her bathroom when another sound caught her ear. Her eyes widened in shock. Whistling? The damned man was whistling in *her* *kitchen.* For some reason it only made her smile. Regardless of her intent for a cold and distracting shower, Sam soon turned the water warmer, hoping to relax as much as rid her mind of the person who was currently standing in her kitchen making her supper. Stepping from the shower, she felt remarkably relaxed and slightly libidinous. She knew the second feeling was only bound to increase as the night went on, and judging from Jack's appearance that was exactly what he'd hoped for. She dressed casually; and it didn't take long for her to decide on a deep blue skirt with a white and light blue floral pattern, a nice white blouse that showed her figure without *too much* else, and a deep blue cardigan. Her beige-strapped, heeled sandals finished off the outfit perfectly. Checking herself over in the mirror one final time, she decided it was now or never and headed back toward her kitchen. Feeling certain in Jack's presence only served in her own resolve and as she moved down the hardwood hall, she determined to turn the tables on the black-ops trained Colonel. He'd never know what hit him. When she finally reached the end of the hall, she could see him standing over the stove and the smell emanating from the three pots made her mouth water in a completely different way. Although the sight of his shoulders moving under the form-hugging sweater was pretty appealing, her stomach lightly rumbled it's own intentions and Sam lamented. Turning tables could wait for a little bit, she decided. Besides, she could always use the food to her own advantage. She quietly approached him, leaning a hand on his shoulder, marking their first real contact since his arrival. "So, what's for dinner? It smells delicious." His boyish smile over his shoulder, almost made her knees go weak. God, how did she think she could survive this? "A light serving of shrimp scampi, followed by a special O'Neill family recipe for dessert. Pour the wine, this will be done any minute." She stepped back and knew her shocked look amused him. "Wine? You brought wine?" "Yes, wine. It's in there," he indicated the small table, "now go. You're getting in the way of my work." Then again, how could he not have brought wine? Given the obvious thought he'd put into making this evening, wine would have been crucial. Not to mention that a little alcohol in a seduction made it that much greater to succeed. She smiled as she poured the white wine, she listened contentedly to the sounds that he was making not ten feet from her. She found herself almost hyper aware of his activities and could almost feel him move up behind her as she straightened after distributing their drinks. His hand on the small of her back as he moved behind her almost shook the bottle from her hands and she was awash in his scent, his presence and the emotions he was evoking. The world suddenly narrowed to the two of them sitting at the table and eating his creations. There was very little talking over dinner. A brief casual discussion or two, nothing about work, or the SGC, or anyone they knew there. It was just them. His set-up had been perfect, the meal, the wine, the ambiance all built a very sensual atmosphere. Sam sat there knowing she would never look at this room the same again. She went to take his plate after he'd finished and he took her hand, stilling it mid-motion. "I'll get those. Besides, I still need to add the final touches to dessert." Her eyes were glued to him. She couldn't speak at all, only smiled in response, both nervous and excited of what 'dessert' would bring. As the smell of pasta and seafood disappeared, she could smell what it was that he had planned for dessert and her heart stopped for seconds before she willed it back into motion. She knew that he had this night planned down to the letter. Chocolate fondue. He was oozing confidence, and Sam decided that there was little she liked more than a predatory Jack about to pounce on his prey. As he set the platter of fruit down before and regained his seat, her eyes were drawn to his hands and they remained there. She watched, motion for motion as he grabbed a toothpick, speared a fresh strawberry, proceeded to dip it in the melted chocolate and hold it over his cupped free hand. It was only after she realized he had stopped moving that she brought her eyes up to his and blushed profusely. "Do you want this?" he asked innocently. The heat of her cheeks increased as she slowly leaned forward. She smiled, carefully opening her mouth as his hand continued on its path and gently, hesitantly, placed the fruit between her teeth. She lightly grasped the fruit, seductively looping her tongue around it as she backed away from his hand. Leaving him holding the empty toothpick for a few moments. Her eyes closed as she savored the wondrous taste of the fresh strawberry combined with the warm sensations of the melted chocolate. An evilly content smile crossed her lips as she reached over, taking the toothpick from his grasp as she swallowed and opened her eyes. "My turn?" "Feel free." He smiled and sat waiting expectantly. She pretended to consider the fruit, her hand moving over the pieces as the smell of the chocolate wafted around them. With a final playful glance at him, she chose a piece of pineapple and dipped it into the confection. She looked at him and smiled coyly, half offering the fruit and making him lean forward to accept the fruit. Their eyes didn't stray from each other and she watched out of the corner of her eyes as his lips pulled the piece into his mouth and chewed selfishly. A small trail of juice escaped from his mouth and instinctively her hand rose to his face, her thumb reaching out to capture the liquid. The moment her skin touched his, felt his day old stubble and the heat, she froze and swallowed hard. Boy, had that been a bad idea. Her breath caught in her throat at the skin to skin contact. Their eyes never broke the hold they had on each other, yet he managed to turn his head enough to part his lips and pull her thumb between his teeth. Gently licking and suckling every last drip of the offending liquid from the digit, he managed a boyish smile all at the same time. She knew her mouth was hanging slightly open and willed herself to regain some of her composure. Think of anything else, she told herself. Thumbs. Opposable thumbs - the one thing that separated primates from almost all other mammals. A key factor in evolution. Damn. Evolution. The next step in evolution required procreation. Procreation required sex.. Could her lack of a sex life really be a part of the missing link for the next step in human evolution? Did they even have the right to think that way? She could see her defense now: It was all for the betterment of mankind, sir. He released her thumb and her hand trembled the entire way back to her lap, as he picked up the forgotten toothpick and went for his next selection. She found herself biting her lip in anticipation as she watched his fingers make the second journey through the fruit. Her breathing increased, regardless of her attempts to control it, and her sensitive nose picked up his musk as well as the chocolate and fruit. Her eyes nearly rolled back at the overload. She came to her senses just as he was about to place the apple to her lips. The fruit went astray – or Jack did – and a trickle of chocolate caught the bottom of her lip and trailed smoothly down her chin. Her hand was halfway to retrieve the offending chocolate when she caught sight of his eyes and froze under his gaze. Dilated pupils darted intently from her lips to her eyes, back again and then he was there. Her breath hitched in her throat and a soft moan of surprise escaped as his lips surrounded the chocolate and sucked it into his mouth. He lingered momentarily and Sam could have sworn that his tongue had traveled the same distance, making sure that he hadn't missed any of the sugar. Then, just her hands were on the move to make sure that he stayed there, his touch disappeared and Sam opened eyes that had slid closed. Her disappointed sigh had been unable to suppress and Jack seemed quite proud of himself as he sat back in his chair. Not a word had been spoken since before her last turn. Honestly, she didn't trust her voice to not betray her. She examined the fruit, carefully deciding what would be 'best'. Ultimately, she discarded the toothpick. Using her fingers, she delicately picked up a slice of apple. Dipping it generously into the chocolate she then brought it to her lips, slipping on half between them and leaning closer to Jack. Her right hand cupped under her chin to catch any run-away fluids, her eyes locked on his. Her blue ones twinkling as she watched him shift slightly nervously, his mouth agape. He closed his lips, licking them carefully, before leaning forward to meet her. She balanced herself by grasping his knees and held herself still as he slowly took the slice between his teeth. A brief moment of disappointment fluttered in her chest as she felt him bite of his half and begin to chew, his eyes still glued on to hers. Then she felt his fingers wrap around hers and tug her gently to him, her loss of balance nearly sending him straight into his chest. She reached up and her palms settled flat on his chest, her face still a scant inch from his with a quarter of the apple still gripped firmly in her teeth. As soon as she was no longer compensating for the move, he moved forward and his lips captured the remaining fruit and her lips. The sharp contrast between the cool fruit and his heated lips sent a shudder down her spine where it pooled in her abdomen and set her fingers on fire. Reflexively they clutched at the thick cotton beneath her palms and tugged herself closer to his heat. Her blinded and overwhelmed senses didn't know what he was doing until the warmth of chocolate appeared to travel down her neck. She started slightly at the sensation, pushing back a bit, relinquishing his lips. His hands held her close though, not letting her get away as his mouth descended on her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut and she was only vaguely aware of the movement of his hands as they expertly unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse, moving it out of the way of the flowing stream of chocolate. His mouth and tongue covered every millimeter of her neck and throat. Pausing only briefly to flick over her pulse point, allowing her to feel him smile as she let forth a small mew of consent. Jack released a harsh breath against her skin and nipped at her collarbone, slowly moving down into the recently revealed V of skin. A shudder wracked her frame as his now active hand released the cardigan from her shoulders and then wound their way to her back, tugging to release the shirt from her waist. The touch of his hands at her bare back brought her own lack of movement to the fore. Then, suddenly she found her nails digging into his shoulders as he knelt before her and held her firm. They dragged down his back, her head falling forward to bury her nose in the crown on his head as he kissed her breastbone with expert touches. She reached the hem of his sweater and ducked in under the edge, her fingers traveling up the back of his pants to the waistline and dipping neatly just beneath the edge. She smiled triumphantly at the goose bumps rising in her path. Moving her hands up his back she let her neat, short nails make a light trail across his skin. His nips becoming increasingly more like small bites as her nails increased their pressure against his skin. She reached his shoulders and looped his hands under his arms to reveal his chest. His mouth broke contact with her skin long enough for her to remove the sweater, before her right hand made its way to the back of his neck and pulled him to meet her, while it ran through the wonderful, short hair there. Their mouths met with bruising force, her tongue quickly requesting and accepting entrance to his mouth. She relished in the light taste of fruit and chocolate that remained there, as well as the taste that she knew was distinctly him. She felt his hand rise up and lock into her own hair, tugging her that much closer to him. His other, unoccupied hand traveled down her leg to the hem of her skirt and gently clasped her ankle before beginning its journey, taking the light material with it. Her nerves preceded his fingers and sent bolts of fire racing along her veins; throwing them haphazardly out into the rest of her body. Instinctively feeling like she was loosing a grasp on reality, her nails dug into his neck and he hissed. "Hey…" he warned against her skin, but she could feel the smile lurking under his lips. It was the first word that either of them had spoken in a while, but it did nothing to detract from her attention on his wandering hand. It traveled up passed her knee and continued up her thigh, his lightly calloused fingers eliciting a small moan from the back of her throat. Her mind was reeling. She needed a solid grasp on something. This shouldn't be happening, couldn't be happening, yet she was at a loss for how to stop it. Not that she wanted to stop it. His lips left hers to travel down her neck, carefully moving her blouse aside as he licked, nipped, and suckled at her sensitive skin. He right hand carefully massaged her thigh while his left came up to further release the buttons of her blouse. The feel of his hand brushing against her breast was almost too much. "Stop." It was so quiet she wasn't even positive she'd said it. "Stop?" he asked just as quietly, his hands frozen in place. She bit her lips in frustration. She couldn't handle this much so soon and took a deep breath to calm her heart. Her hands still rest on his body, the tips of her fingers over-aware of the heat from his skin and it was just enough to tilt the balance. Sam rose gracefully from her chair and looked down on him, kneeling half-naked at the chair and couldn't help the appreciative smile appearing on her lips. Only slightly aware that that position was horrible on his knees, she held out her hand to help him up. He was still looking at her questioningly and she cupped his cheek with her palm. "Not stop," she clarified, "just slow down." He carefully wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his palms at the small of her back, "I think I can manage that." She gently pulled his head closer to hers, delicately kissing him. "Besides, this isn't exactly the best location that I can think of." Her left hand trailed down to join with his right as she elegantly twirled out of his embrace and guided him down the hallway to her bedroom door. He stopped her, turned her to face him and cupped her face with his hand, "You're okay?" She smiled, deepening the kiss, her mind a whirlwind of yes and no answers for him. "Uh huh…" She watched relief relax his face. As if from another body, she felt his fingers begin to move again, starting in little circles and moving slowly outward as they continued to kiss. Occupied as she was with his mouth, she began her own exploration and allowed her hands to travel along his skin, from his waist to his shoulders and back again. She took a small step backwards and felt him follow, his fingers clenching tightly at the loose fabric surrounding her waist. The rasp of it against her skin sent another tremor of sensations washing up her body and, taken over, grasped his belt and pulled him roughly against her. The ensuing force pushed them both backwards and she felt the back of her thighs hit the bed only moments before he pushed her on to it. She looked down her body at him as he stood between her legs and noticed that she no longer had her blouse. She pulled at his belt, bringing him forward, their lips crashing together with bruising force. Her hands fumbled with his belt as her senses concentrated on the more interesting interactions between their tongues. The heat of his bare chest against her skin sent her every nerve afire. The belt finally came free and she discarded it, her hands moving to the button and fly on his khakis. She felt his hand slide down her side, caressing her hip, searching out the zipper of her skirt. He found it easily and slid the catch down, his hand slipping beneath the thin fabric to massage the muscles of her upper thigh. Her lips pulled away from his as she gasped for breath. The sensations and attentions that he was creating were just too much for her to take. His lips traced a path over to her ear where he gently nipped at her lobe, creating goose bumps to appear on the flesh of her neck. "Slow enough for you?" "Not nearly enough," she gasped her hands forcing his lips back to hers before she moved to drag his khakis off of his hips. Left kneeling over her in nothing more than his boxers, she dragged her nails artfully up his side and gloried in the tremors that shook his body as they moved. He froze as her hands continued their journey and then headed south again teasingly outlining the waistband of his underwear. His eyes narrowed in accusation and he whispered, "Tease," on a short breath. She grinned playfully before she too was brought up short with his movements. His hands had left her skirt and were now hunting under her for the clasp of her bra. His warm fingers found the catch and loosened it before moving his fingers to the tender skin of her chest. Her already over-sensitive flesh cried out for his touch, her back arching her into him. She needed to feel him - feel of his chest, the slightly roughened hair that rubbed against her silky smooth chest, his warm calloused hands tenderly caressing her. The contradicting ruggedness of him combined with his soft and seductive caress causing every neuron in her brain to fire at once as every rational thought she had ever had fled her mind. There was nothing. Nothing but him. His touch, his taste, his smell, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, her senses on overload at every caress. It was all just too much. Her hands reached up and cupped his face, pulling his face closer to intensify the kiss, if at all possible. Then she broke it, pulling back and holding him slightly away from her, giving her a second to catch her breath. He seemed to be in a similar situation, breathing deeply, his eyes closed. Which made him completely unprepared when she pushed him over, flipping the two of them. "I can work with this," he smiled appreciatively as she knelt over him, her hand bracing herself on his chest. She knelt forward, a tender smile on her lips and kissed him before stepping off and divesting herself of her skirt. He shifted to the side of the bed and gently pulled her to him, his fingers playing along the elastic of her panties before quickly tugging them down and off. The look in his eyes as he took her in melted her heart and set her senses afire with awareness. As he leaned forward to place a worshipful kiss on her abdomen, her fingers went to his hair and she reveled in the sensations of the short locks. She closed her eyes and felt a smile tug on her lips as he continued to move before her. Before she noticed, he was kneeling on the floor and his hands were bracing her hips as his tongue delved into the apex of her thighs. Her knees buckled slightly and she wondered if this was the best idea in a standing position. All thoughts of even thinking about ending this had long since faded. Now the internal war that was being waged in her mind was more to take this slow and steady - something that *so* wasn't happening - or to ravage him in the way her every fantasy for the last five good years had dictated. He moved her slightly, allowing her to rest with her hips on the very edge of the bed. Carefully, as if he were unsure of her reaction, he took each of her ankles and balanced them on a corresponding shoulder. She lay back, slightly propped up on her elbows, wondering where he intended to go with this. Her legs had her spread for him and his hands had her hips secured. His tongue made trails across her upper thighs before moving toward its ultimate target. Her mind completely exploded as his tongue ventured forth. She felt herself bounce slightly as she straightened her arms to grab at the comforter on her bed. Her back and hips arching to try and gain more contact as the 'too much/not enough' sensations assailed her. Unconsciously, her hips moved with him as he explored her and she was washed away with the surging pleasure. The room was utterly silent but for their heavy breathing and the occasional sigh from Jack as he shifted against her. He worshiped her, kneeling before her and tasting her and she couldn't breathe and she couldn't speak and she couldn't stop… Her orgasm slammed into her. Her thighs closed around Jack's neck, grounding him as her body writhed to accommodate the pleasure that was coursing along her nerves. White-hot fingers of fire snapped her back into an arch and she moaned in satisfaction. When the lights began to recede from her vision and her thighs relaxed, Jack wearily rest his head on her inner thigh and watched her recover from his spot on the floor. She could see a smug grin playing on the corner of his lips and really couldn't deny his right to it. She reached toward him, her hand trembling this time for another reason, and ran her fingers through his hair. Slowly, he got up, sliding his way up to her on the bed. She pulled him close, kissing him solidly, her unused muscles protesting slightly in an oh, so, pleasant way as she wound her legs around him. Shifting them back slightly she rested her head casually on the pillows. The tumultuous and confusing emotions and thoughts from earlier were gone without a trace. He was the only thing that mattered at this moment. She had him in her bed, now she intended to keep him here. Her nails made a trail from his side, under his arms, to his back and then shoulders. She watched, delighted as the obvious shiver ran down his spine. Then her hands made a path down his back and across his buttocks, where she pulled him closer, feeling his form press into her stomach. "So…" she purred. "So?" he asked, slightly distracted by the tickle of her fingers along his side. "I was wondering." His breath caught as her fingers traveled down his chest and lightly played along his length, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time. He cleared his throat. "Wondering?" "You know that conversation we had this afternoon? About evolution?" She shifted slightly and sighed softly as he settled between her thighs. She could feel his erection rubbing along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, but he didn't move to complete their union. He began a slow, torturous rhythm against her. His eyes fluttered closed and she had to follow suit for a moment before she looked up at him again. "Passing on the genes?" she whispered. "And?" he asked, giving a particularly satisfying thrust that issued moans from both of them. "You need to be in a different position." She sighed coyly. "Oh, is that so?" he kissed her deeply as she wiggled beneath him, then broke away and handed him a pillow. He felt her hips tilt up as she motioned for him to place the pillow under them. His hands caressed her hips, as his mouth lowered to gently kiss her stomach. He slowly slid the pillow beneath her, caressing her gently as he slid his way back up to her. "Better?" Her eyes were stuck on his. There was no blinking, no closing, no breaking the hold. "Much…" They were really doing this. There was no going back. They weren't just going to have sex, they were actually *trying* to procreate. A *child.* She felt absolutely no qualms about it. There was no second guessing, no fears and uncomfortable feelings eating at the back of her mind. This was right. She caught his eyes, saw the clear thinking and rational movements behind them and knew that he was thinking exactly the same thing. He had wanted them to think like this; had wanted them to consider this as a viable reality. Something clicked in her head as he shifted against her and she looked questioningly at him, a smile pulling on her lips. "Why now?" She could tell that he immediately understood what it was that she was asking him. He grinned playfully, settling more firmly on top of her. "You don't think I've spent six years working with you hour after hour, day after day and not notice… certain… times, did you?" She knew the shocked expression must be clearly written across her face. "You noticed?" He shrugged. Leaned forward, kissing her gently, then moved to her ear, "I've noticed a lot of things about you in the last six years, Samantha." The words flowed off of his tongue like a gentle caress upon her ears. Her eyes rolled shut and she moved her hips against him. "Let's see how much you've learned." His hand wandered down her form, and hooked her knee, bringing her leg up as he settled comfortably between them. Slowly, he pushed into her, one hand bracing him over her as her own hands clutched at his ribs. She bit her bottom lip as she watched him above her. Something in his actions dictated his eyes, and they wouldn't leave hers; staring wide and dilated at her. He blinked and moved forward to her ear as he settled fully within her. "I know you're brave." He whispered, drawing back and slowly moving forward again. "I know you're brilliant." He followed with another thrust and a gentle nibble to her ear and Sam was completely captivated by both his words and movements. She sighed heavily as he continued. "I know you're compassionate and fragile; playful and serious." The arms supporting him bent and he leaned on his forearm, his breath now close enough to flutter tantalizingly across her neck. "I know you have a sensitive neck…" and he smiled against her skin as he nipped her there, eliciting a groan of approval. Her head bent back, allowing him better access to the sensitive skin he was delighting in. She shifted her legs slightly, bringing them up to encircle his waist. "You've learned many things I see…" Her voice trailed off as he worked his way down lower, nipping gently at her collarbone. His hips rocked in time with his motions and she dug her nails lightly into his shoulders and pulled him to her. "So, what have you learned in six years?" She smiled slightly, wondering how much of her silent observations she wanted to make public. "I know you're not as stupid as you like to pretend you are." She brought his head up to her lips, kissing him deeply. "I know that you'd die for anyone of us. You're loyal to a fault…" her breath caught in her chest and she arched her eyebrow at him, feeling his movements increase a notch. "And you're in fine form for a man your age." "Oh?" he huffed, releasing her leg so that he could gain a greater support. She wrapped her legs around him, securing him to her body as he continued to move. His lips continued on their previous journey by her neck until she growled in frustration and pulled his head to hers to that she could kiss him. She nipped at his lower lip and tugged it into her mouth, feeling his rhythm falter as she distracted him. "Carter…" he rumbled. "Back to Carter now, *sir*?" He growled softly into her mouth, his rhythm regaining its composure as he set about his task. She smiled softly against his lips, he was always so in control of himself, she had watched some of that control slip during dinner. Now, more than anything, she wanted to see it crumble. She shifted the angle of her hips, allowing him to sink deeper than before when he thrust. As he went to slowly retreat, her internal muscles clamped down hard, holding him to her. Her satisfied sigh was insuppressible. He twitched. His arms trembled as he struggled to remain in control. She ran her fingers lightly across the taut muscles of his arms, watching the shiver increase. "You… are… evil," he barely managed. The smile he was rewarded with was brilliant. "Why, thank you, *Sir*." She drawled out for him before sucking his lower lip once more between her teeth. He continued to move in silence for a moment and Sam took the opportunity to explore his face and neck with her lips and teeth. She could feel his jaw clenched and could see his eyes closed in concentration. Smiling in victory and feeling the warmth of completion gather in the pit of her stomach, Sam knew that he wouldn't be far. She was surprised that he had lasted this long. "Jack," she breathed, feeling his rhythm all but stutter to a stop at the sound of his name on her lips. "Jack?" He closed his eyes and groaned in defeat, his rhythm increasing again as she ran her fingers down his back and shifted herself to be able to move with him. She sighed in contentment and then saw his eyes open, staying half closed in his arousal. "Sam." It was simple, a word, a name, but so much more. Her head tilted back, her eyes, unwilling to move from his, kept the gaze though half-closed. The tendrils of warmth low in her stomach began to branch out, her hips arched, no longer willing to keep in rhythm with him. Her ankles locked behind him, unwilling to let him even consider an escape. She felt him falter, felt his rhythm become erratic, felt him grip onto her as if his very life depended on it - as if the world, the future of the human race depended on it. Then she felt her world slip away, everything around her slipped into a wondrous pit and fell away. All that remained was the extravagantly, sensational tremors that coursed through her and the feel of the warm body above her. Peripherally she could feel him continuing to move, heard his groan of surrender and see the exquisite pain of release wash over his face. Her grip on his biceps tightened as they clenched and twitched, fighting between melting under the pleasure and holding him over her still quivering body. His head fell into the cradle of her neck and shoulder and his sweat-slicked hair rubbed enticingly against her hyper-sensitive skin. Her own legs yielded to the lethargy that swept over her and they fell from their locked position around his hips pushing her hips into his even more firmly. Little contented sighs were emerging with every breath and she could feel his heartbeat's staccato under the pressure of her thumb on his arm. The comfortable silence developed as they lay there, recovering together. Finally his arms nearly collapsed and he rolled off to the side, tugging her along with him so they lay on their sides facing each other. "Jeez…" he commented in complete awe. She allowed a contented sigh to escape before she softly replied, "Yeah…." Snuggling closer to him, she tenderly kissed his shoulder, running her lips and tongue across his skin till she was nuzzling his neck. Her hand circled his chest lazily, her fingers running through the patch of hair there. Her left leg looped over to entangle itself with his. She wanted contact with him, needed to feel the warmth of him. Almost as though she felt he would vanish like the hundreds of times that she had dreamt of this and awoken alone. "Can someone remind me why we didn't do this years ago?" "Do I have to?" he sighed and Sam closed her eyes. There were serious issues with what they had just done, but there was nothing in her heart that was screaming at her to get up and leave – or get him to leave, seeing as this was her house. She felt as she did before they had even begun this intimate journey. "I'm not sorry." She said with conviction. "Oh, hell no. Me either." His own fingers had begun to journey her skin and Sam felt herself beginning to drift. His soft touches relaxed her awareness and she melted closer into his embrace. She didn't want to think about this now. Didn't want to deal with any of this now. All she wanted to do was curl up in his arms, get some of the best sleep she thought she would ever get in her entire life, and wake up wonderfully rejuvenated for round two. She shifted slightly, moving the covers beneath her she moved him over so that they both could slip beneath the warm cocoon of her comforter. Then snuggled back into his embrace. "I don't want to move," she sighed, "I want to stay here, like this, forever." His hold on her tightened. "So, do I." He sighed, kissing her forehead softly, "What do you think they'll look like?" "They?" She asked, surprised but secretly pleased. More that one child with Jack had a certain appeal – even if it greatly rested upon the *making* of those children. She lightly kissed his chest and hummed in contentment. "Your looks and my brains." She smiled. "Hey… I was thinking more along the lines of your looks *and* your brains." He ran a gentle finger down the side of her face and then leaned in to give her a soft kiss. He settled again cocked his head at her. "They? How many?" Her smile turned mischievous, "Well, they say practice makes perfect…" she started her reply as she moved in to kiss him deeply, "And I've always been more of a hands-on learner…"

Despertó con un punzante dolor de cabeza y por un momento aterrador no recordó absolutamente nada de lo que había pasado. Abrió los ojos y vio a Potter parado a un lado, y eso bastó para tranquilizarlo instantáneamente. En una parte bastante recóndita de su ser, Draco sabía con certeza (tontamente, hasta podría meter la mano al fuego por ello) que no había lugar para el miedo si el auror estrella lo estaba protegiendo. —¿Potter? —Era extraño, pero en vez de sentir vergüenza por no acordarse cómo había terminado ahí, lo que experimentó fue una genuina curiosidad—. ¿Qué demonios haces parado ahí como un zoquete? La voz que había brotado de su garganta había sonado espantosa, como si estuviera borracho o algo similar. ¿Había tomado alcohol? Intentó hacer memoria y lo único que recordó fue el té de las cinco con los miembros del patronato. Después de eso, se acordaba vagamente de haber bajado a las criptas por algo… ¿A pelear con Potter? —Vaya. No me agradezcas tanto, Malfoy —dijo Potter en tono lastimero, como si Draco hubiese herido sus sentimientos. Semejante idea podría haberlo hecho reír mucho si no hubiera sido porque cada palabra pronunciada por Potter le martilleaba en el cerebro—. ¿Sabes que acabo de salvarte la vida? A ver si para la siguiente ocasión escuchas antes de… Draco cerró los ojos y meneó la cabeza. —Potter, cállate por lo que más quieras. Oh Dios, mi cabeza… ¿Por qué me duele tanto? ¿Qué pasó? —La pregunta fue hecha más para él mismo que para el otro. No podía acordarse y lo único que sacaba en claro era que Potter, de algún modo, lo había arrastrado a ese misterioso sitio estando él inconsciente. Abrió los ojos mientras se incorporaba un poco en el sofá—. ¡Potter! ¡Me has drogado para secuestrarme! —Miró a su alrededor. Definitivamente y tal como lo había temido, ese sitio en el que estaban no era Colchester—. ¡¿A dónde demonios me has traído?! —¿Qué? —A Potter se le dibujó tal gesto de miedo en la cara que Draco no pudo evitar sentir compasión y ganas de consolarlo. No lo hizo porque estaba muy ocupado admirando la casita del horror en la que se encontraban—. ¡Yo no te he secuestrado! ¿Cómo puedes creer que…? —¡Qué sitio tan espantoso y de mal gusto! —dijo Draco, a quien de pronto había dejado de importarle que Potter lo hubiese raptado. No era mala idea, ahora que lo pensaba bien. Su mente continuó trabajando laboriosamente en un intento de llegar a una conclusión razonable sobre lo que estaba sucediendo entre Potter y él—. ¿Es tu casa? Potter frunció el ceño en un gesto adorable que hizo que Draco recordara lo mucho que el cretino le gustaba. Oh. Cierto. Así que era eso. Fue toda una epifanía. Potter le gustaba. Potter lo había cuidado en la cripta, salvándolo de algo que en ese momento no recordaba muy bien qué había sido, pero no importaba. Luego de salvarlo, Potter se lo había llevado a su casa. Por lo tanto, Potter también gustaba de él. A Draco le pareció bastante aceptable el resultado de su deducción. Y no sólo aceptable, también le pareció que era emocionante y agradable. Se sintió estúpidamente feliz, mientras algo en su interior comenzaba a acalorarse. —Eh, no. Bueno, sí es mía pero no vivo aquí. Me la heredó mi… —No importa —lo interrumpió Draco mientras bajaba los pies del sofá hasta quedar sentado—. Tratándose de ti, no podría haber esperado nada mejor —dijo con toda sinceridad. Sabía que Potter no era de gustos muy refinados, pero eso era lo que menos le interesaba en aquellos momentos. Si ya antes habían tenido sexo en un apestoso baño, ahora bien podrían tenerlo en aquella casa tan tétrica. Draco simplemente cerraría los ojos y la ubicación geográfica dejaría de existir y de importar. Miró a Potter a la cara y le sonrió—. ¿Y bien? ¿Qué esperas? —¿Qué espero, para qué? ¿Para llevarte de regreso al castillo? —le preguntó Potter en voz baja—. Estaba esperando a que te sintieras mejor. Si crees que ya podemos irnos, sólo levántate y te… —¿Cuál castillo? —preguntó Draco verdaderamente extrañado—. ¿Colchester? —Soltó un resoplido—. ¿Quién demonios piensa en trabajar en este momento? Con lo mal que me cae el contador, viejo arrogante y tacaño. Ni ganas de verle su carota en lo que me resta de vida, lo juro. Apenas esas palabras salieron de su boca, Draco arrugó más el ceño. Comenzaba a sospechar que algo no marchaba del todo bien con él, pues aparte de sentirse bastante mareado y desorientado, parecía como si su lengua tuviese autonomía total. Él no diría eso del contador, ¿o sí? Jamás se expresaba así de la gente con la que trabajaba, aunque en el fondo sí pensara pestes de ellos. ¿Qué estaba pasando con él? —Creo que voy a llevarte al hospital, Malfoy —dijo Potter pausadamente, mirándolo raro, como si Draco fuera un espécimen peligroso y pudiera atacarlo en cualquier instante. "Mm. Atacarlo. Esa idea no suena mal en absoluto." De acuerdo, algo no iba bien pero, ¿siendo sinceros? A Draco no podía importarle menos. Potter lo había llevado a su casa después de haber demostrado que sí se preocupaba por él, y Draco estaba tan exultante por ello que no iba a echar a perder semejante oportunidad por un simple mareo. De pronto se le ocurrió animar a Potter contándole la verdad. Sí, eso le pareció una idea genial. Decidido, se puso de pie, luchando por no tambalearse. No quería asustar a Potter y que éste continuara insistiendo en llevarlo al hospital. Dio un par de pasos hasta quedar frente a frente. Sonriendo todavía más, le susurró: —Toda la maldita tarde me has tenido como idiota, Potter. ¿Sabes lo bueno que te ves con esta maldita ropa muggle? ¿Y cuando te fumas tus endiablados cigarros? Haces que se me ponga dura en menos de lo que tú tardas en darle la primera fumada. Resultó. Draco vio cómo Potter abría mucho los ojos y la boca y enrojecía totalmente. —Oh Dios, Malfoy, mañana vas a odiarme más que nunca antes —dijo Potter, en tono preocupado. A Draco no le gustaba verlo tan acobardado. ¿Dónde estaba todo aquel maldito brío Gryffindor que a él le ponía tanto? —Te odiaré si no haces lo que tienes que hacer, Potter —le dijo, en medio de un arranque de sinceridad que debería preocuparle pero que, por alguna razón, no era así—. Después de todo, ¿para eso me has secuestrado y traído a tu horrible casa, no? Potter negó con la cabeza y dio un paso hacia atrás. —Yo no te secuestré, Malfoy. Demonios, a ver si lo entiendes de una vez —dijo en voz baja—. Y ahora mismo voy a… —¿A qué? Potter podía negarlo todo lo que quisiera, pero Draco sabía que si habían terminado en su casa era porque el idiota quería algo. Podía darse cuenta, a pesar de que se sentía desorientado, de que la cabeza le estaba estallando y de que le cosquilleaban todos los miembros del cuerpo. Dio otro paso tembloroso hacia Potter, provocando que quedaran separados apenas por unos centímetros. Potter no huyó y Draco se lo tomó como una buena señal, así que prosiguió. Estaba ya comenzando a saborear lo que iba a pasar a continuación y el cuerpo le pulsaba de pura expectación. Levantó las manos y con cada dedo índice, enganchó las presillas del pantalón del auror. Lo atrajo hacia él y pegó su cuerpo contra el del otro al mismo tiempo que atrapaba su boca y comenzaba a comerle los labios. Sumergió la lengua en él y, por Dios, ese ardiente sabor a tabaco que había probado apenas el día anterior de nuevo inundó sus sentidos, volviéndolo loco. Potter gimió y se rindió ante él, y Draco pensó que podría llorar ahí mismo de lo grandioso que se sentía y de lo magnífico que era saber que el héroe quería repetir con él. Todavía con los dedos bien aferrados de aquellos vaqueros que puestos en Potter lo volvían demente, Draco tiró más hasta que no hubo espacio libre entre los cuerpos de los dos. Soltó las presillas y llevó ambas manos hasta el trasero de Potter, afianzándose con fuerza de ahí y casi muriendo de la rabia cuando pensó en toda la gente que lo había tocado antes que él. —Maldito seas —murmuró Draco sobre sus labios, odiándolo porque lo hacía sentirse así de celoso e infeliz. Quería poseerlo entero y no sólo una vez. Quería quedárselo para siempre y que nadie, jamás, jamás, volviera a meterse con él. Lo empujó hacia su cuerpo y los dos jadearon cuando sus miembros erectos se frotaron el uno contra el otro. Potter hizo un ruidito curioso, como si estuviera conteniendo el llanto. En medio de aquel beso animal que estaban compartiendo, Draco sintió que Potter movía la cabeza en un gesto negativo. —No —suspiró Potter dentro de la boca de Draco al mismo tiempo que hacía un muy débil intento por zafarse de su abrazo—. No, Malfoy… Esto… esto no está bien. Nada bien. —¿De qué hablas? —Draco estaba comenzando a enojarse. ¿Cómo diablos eso no iba a estar bien? Estar con Potter a solas en un lugar que (aunque feo) disponía de sofás y camas, por supuesto que estaba bien. Carajo, era lo mejor que le había pasado en meses—. Está más que bien. Enfatizó sus palabras dándole un fuerte apretón en cada nalga y restregándolo contra él. Potter jadeó y se derritió entre sus brazos. Aquella reacción hizo que Draco casi perdiera el control y por poco eyaculara con todo y la ropa puesta. Potter llevó sus manos hacia atrás y las colocó encima de las de Draco, tratando muy patéticamente de que éste lo soltara. Draco, por toda respuesta, lo apretó más y con las caderas hizo un movimiento circular para oprimir firmemente su miembro endurecido contra el del otro. Potter volvió a gimotear al tiempo que soltaba las manos de Draco y las llevaba hacia delante. Aferró las mangas de su chaqueta y Draco se dio cuenta de que Potter estaba temblando. —Malfoy —jadeó Potter al tiempo que apretaba en puños la bonita y costosa chaqueta de Draco—. Malfoy, no. No podemos… por favor. Draco soltó una risita. Dejó de castigar la boca de Potter e inclinó la cabeza hacia un lado para hacerse sitio en el hueco de su cuello y comenzar a mordérselo. Potter se estremeció tan brutalmente que Draco tuvo que sostenerlo. —¿No? —se burló mientras mordisqueaba aquel cuello que tantas veces había soñado con probar—. Creo que es evidente que tú también lo estás deseando —dijo roncamente. Potter asintió con brusquedad con los dientes de Draco todavía clavados en su garganta. —Dios, Malfoy, sí… claro que lo deseo. Es sólo que… no puedo. Créeme… Draco lo calló con un beso. Asaltó de nuevo su boca y Potter gimió mientras aceptaba gustoso la lengua de Draco en su interior. Éste soltó el delicioso trasero de Potter para llevar sus manos hacia arriba. Las metió por debajo de la camiseta del héroe y acarició vehemente la torneada espalda, antes de dirigirlas hacia delante y atrapar cada pezón de Potter entre sus dedos. Potter jadeó tan fuerte que tuvo que dejar de besarlo. —No —continuaba insistiendo éste y francamente, ya estaba comenzando a resultar cansino—. Tengo que… tengo que decirte algo primero, Malfoy. Si no… —Podemos hablar después. Joder, Potter. ¡Tócame, con una mierda! —exclamó cuando el calor que dominaba su cuerpo y su entrepierna estaba llegando a un punto que era casi insoportable—.Te juro que no tengo ratoneras escondidas en los pliegues del traje. El traje, cierto. Sería mejor hacer eso con un poco menos de ropa. Con un solo movimiento rudo, levantó los pliegues de la camiseta de Potter hasta que lo obligó a ayudarle a quitársela. La visión del moreno desnudo de la cintura hacia arriba le hizo la boca agua. Rápidamente, o al menos lo más rápido que sus brazos adormilados se lo permitieron, Draco se quitó su chaqueta. Miró a Potter y Potter lo miró a él. Éste tenía las pupilas tan dilatas y estaba tan sonrojado y falto de aire, que no había modo alguno de que continuara negando que deseaba a Draco. Se podía ver más claro que el cristal. Con las manos más trémulas que antes, Potter alcanzó los botones de la camisa de Draco y comenzó a abrirlos, de uno en uno y tan lentamente que Draco podría haber gritado de ansiedad. Sin embargo, ver a Potter así de conmovido también lo emocionó. Se obligó a ser paciente, mientras se preguntaba si el hijodeputa haría lo mismo y se sentiría del mismo modo con sus amantes casuales. Draco, de alguna manera que no podía comprender, supo que no. "Realmente le gusto", pensó. "Tal vez hasta soy algo especial para él". La idea le hizo tan feliz que tuvo que apretar los labios para no sonreír. De pronto, la mirada apasionada que Potter le estaba dirigiendo se convirtió en una de horror. Draco bajó los ojos hacia su torso desnudo para descubrir qué era lo que hacía que Potter lo estuviera observando con ojos desorbitados. —¡Tienes mordidas de doxy! —jadeó Potter con un claro dejo de culpabilidad—. Olvidé revisarte ahí. ¡Dios mío, y el antídoto ya se me ha terminado! Draco se quedó mirando unas horribles pústulas que tenía en el pecho y en el estómago; grandes, moradas y asquerosas. No eran muchas, tal vez unas tres o cuatro. Arrugó el gesto y tuvo ganas de vomitar. ¿Cómo era que no le dolían? Frente a él, Potter estaba todo frenético. Draco lo miró ponerse su camiseta de nuevo y buscar su varita. Tenía en la cara un gesto de pena que hacía que Draco se sintiera orgulloso y, de cierta forma, feliz. No sabía por qué, pero así era. Potter tuvo el buen tino y la amabilidad de recoger la chaqueta de Draco, que éste había dejado caer al suelo. Dio un paso hacia él. Parecía querer abrocharle de nuevo la camisa, pero cambió de opinión. —Creo que eso no será necesario —dijo en medio de un sonrojo espectacular—. Después de todo, los sanadores necesitarán… ejem, verte. Draco le sonrió ampliamente. Si alguien le hubiera dicho que esa misma tarde tendría a Potter así de preocupado y alterado por él, no lo habría creído. Le gustaba bastante la sensación de tener a Potter completamente volcado en cuidarlo y en acompañarlo; pensó en lo fácil que sería acostumbrarse a eso. Todavía con gesto compungido, Potter caminó hacia Draco y, después de titubear un momento (como si no supiera cómo sería correcto sujetarlo), lo tomó de ambos brazos y se lo llevó con él. Draco casi vomita por la sensación de la aparición conjunta. Llegaron a San Mungo y todo se precipitó. Era obvio que no era la primera vez que Potter llevaba heridos al hospital. Se apareció directamente en una salita de emergencias que parecía destinada a recibir a los aurores o a las víctimas que éstos trajeran. Apenas arribaron, varios sanadores los rodearon y fue así como aquellas manos lo desprendieron, muy a pesar de Draco, del agarre de Potter. Le dirigió una última mirada que intentaba abarcar todo lo que Draco pensaba y sentía en aquel momento: deseo frustrado, la promesa de continuar después, agradecimiento y una estúpida dicha que apenas le cabía en el cuerpo. Potter respondió con un "Lo siento mucho, Malfoy" apenas murmurado entre dientes mientras tenía en la cara una expresión de culpa que rivalizaba con la de un cachorrito pillado mientras destroza el rollo de papel sanitario. Draco no pudo entender por qué Potter estaba disculpándose. Él se lo había estado pasando muy bien. Todavía ahí en el hospital, mientras los sanadores sacaban a Potter de la sala y comenzaban a desnudar a Draco con magia para acostarlo y revisarlo, pensaba que las cosas no podrían haber resultado mejor. Siempre habría un mañana para continuar donde aquéllo se quedó. Por lo que Draco pudo darse cuenta, Potter tuvo que dar muchas explicaciones. Podía escuchar su voz y la de una sanadora a través de la puerta entreabierta de su cuarto, mientras ésta lo interrogaba duramente y lo reñía por haberle aplicado un antídoto él mismo. —Ese tipo de tratamientos caseros se recomiendan solamente cuando es una mordida. O dos. No cuando es casi el cuerpo entero de la víctima. Debió traerlo de inmediato, auror Potter. —Lo sé, sanadora. Lo siento mucho, no volverá a suceder. —Bien. Mi recomendación ahora es que el paciente se quede internado durante la noche para mantenerlo en reposo y observación. Como usted ya se ha dado cuenta, la poción antidoxy tiene efectos secundarios que obligan al paciente a estar bajo cuidados. Avisaré a sus familiares. Son los señores Malfoy de Wiltshire, ¿cierto? Draco, acostado muy cómodamente en su cama, arrugó el gesto con desagrado. Lo que menos quería era a su padre o madre rondando cerca cuando finalmente tenía a Potter para él, pero suponía que no tenía más remedio. De cierta manera le llenó de orgullo que los sanadores importantes de San Mungo todavía recordaran al mago que anteriormente solía hacer generosas contribuciones y no sólo reconocieran a su hijo, sino que también lo trataran con deferencia. La sanadora se fue y Potter entró a su cuarto. Todavía traía en la cara un gesto de culpa que apenas podía con ella, la cual seguramente se había incrementado por las palabras de la sanadora. Draco, todavía mareado y sabiendo que algo no funcionaba bien del todo con él, no pudo quedarse callado. Las palabras parecían brotar por sí solas de su boca y los ataques de sinceridad simplemente parecían fuera de control. —No te mortifiques tanto, Potter —dijo en un arranque súbito. Tenía el extraño impulso de hacerlo sentir mejor—. No voy a demandarte ni nada por el estilo. Conozco a los de tu clase y sé que tus propósitos fueron loables. Jamás esperaría ninguna doble intención de un Gryffindor como tú. Aquello pareció surtir el efecto contrario a lo que Draco esperaba. El gesto de sufrimiento de Potter se incrementó todavía más. —Cuando te sientas mejor —comenzó a hablar el auror en voz baja—, me gustaría charlar contigo. Tengo algo muy importante que decirte. Draco se emocionó y la burbuja de éxtasis que llevaba sintiendo en su interior desde que había despertado en la casa de Potter, aumentó de tamaño hasta casi explotar. Le sonrió a Potter para darle valor y estaba a punto de responder algo que seguramente sería una ñoñería, cuando alguien abrió la puerta y no lo dejó. Todo atisbo de sonrisa desapareció de su cara cuando vio que el que entraba era ni más ni menos que Dennis Creevey. Potter pareció brincar en el sitio donde estaba parado cuando su compañerito auror se asomó a buscarlo. —Buenas noches —saludó Dennis a Draco y éste sólo lo miró con el ceño fruncido sin contestar. Dennis buscó a Potter con la mirada y Draco pudo notar, con inmensa rabia, cómo le cambiaba la expresión al encontrarse con los ojos de Potter. Sus propios ojos azules parecieron resplandecer—. Harry, traigo un mensaje de Robards. ¿Podemos…? Señaló con la cabeza hacia afuera del cuarto y Potter asintió antes de seguirlo. Ambos salieron y cerraron la puerta. Draco aguzó el oído, pero lo único que alcanzaba a distinguir eran murmullos ahogados. Sin embargo, no cejó en su empeño. Tenía que cerciorarse de que aquel resbaloso no intentara meterse entre él y Potter, menos ahora que tenía grandes esperanzas de comenzar algo con el auror. Un poco inseguro, Draco se levantó de la cama lo más rápido que pudo y caminó hasta la puerta. Pegó la oreja a la madera y trató de escuchar. — …ha interceptado la lechuza que el hospital envió a la mansión de los Malfoy y él mismo les ha dicho a sus padres que Draco está bien y que está contigo en un tipo de misión secreta. Lo único que manda decirte es que pases la noche con él aquí en el hospital para que te asegures de lograr lo que "tú ya sabes qué" —decía Creevey con voz extraña e inquisitiva. Hubo una pequeña pausa en la que a Draco le pareció escuchar que Potter soltaba una maldición—. ¿De qué se trata esto, Harry? ¿Qué quiere Robards que hagas con Malfoy? Potter tardó mucho en responder. —No puedo decírtelo. Es… clasificado —dijo con voz amarga. —Harry, por favor —la voz de Creevey sonaba incrédula y hasta burlona—. ¿Qué demonios puede querer Robards con el jefe de Finanzas? No es como si Malfoy todavía fuera un espía o un mortífago, ¿o sí? —¿Todavía? —recalcó Potter con rabia—. Que yo sepa, y te aseguro que sé bien, Malfoy nunca fue ninguna de las dos cosas. Mide tus palabras cuando hables de la gente, Dennis. No tienes idea del daño que los rumores pueden hacer. A Draco lo llenó de orgullo que Potter estuviese defendiéndolo así. ¿Quién lo hubiera imaginado? Pero no podía dejar de preguntarse a qué se estaban refiriendo aquellos dos con esa conversación tan críptica. ¿Qué mierda podría querer Robards con él? A pesar de sentirse todavía un poco desorientado y de tener la cabeza llena de ideas extrañas, la respuesta le llegó a Draco de repente y lo bañó como una cubeta de agua helada. El maldito baile anual de los aurores. Eso era lo que Robards estaba esperando obtener de él. ¿En serio había sido capaz de enviar a Potter a… a lo que fuera que lo hubiera enviado para obligarlo a autorizar semejante desperdicio de dinero? Temblando de rabia, frío y debilidad, Draco volvió a pegar la oreja en la puerta. Necesitaba seguir escuchando más. — …dile que no pienso continuar con esto —decía Potter todavía con más enojo que antes—. Que renuncio a la misión. No me importa el castigo que me sea impuesto. Y ya que por su culpa la familia de Malfoy no vendrá al hospital, entonces yo me quedaré a pasar la noche. Pero lo haré porque quiero, no porque él lo esté ordenando. —De acuerdo, Harry —respondió Creevey con voz temerosa—. Yo se lo diré. Creevey todavía no terminaba de hablar, cuando la puerta se abrió súbitamente y Draco se vio empujado hacia atrás. Potter entró y atrapó a Draco al vuelo antes de que éste cayera con toda su preciosa humanidad hasta el suelo. —¡Malfoy! —exclamó—. ¿Qué haces fuera de la cama? ¿Estás bien? Draco, como pudo, se enderezó y fulminó a Potter con la mirada. Ahora que entendía todo, decir que estaba furioso era poco. —¡Suéltame! —exigió al tiempo que se sacudía del agarre de Potter. Éste le hizo caso y lo miró con desconcierto—. Dime, Potter, ¿Robards te mandó especialmente a ti a cuidarme hoy por alguna razón en particular? —preguntó con sorna. Potter abrió mucho los ojos y para sorpresa de Draco, no lo negó. —Sí —aceptó, y Draco no supo qué decir ante semejante confesión. Potter continuó hablando—. Hubiera preferido hablar contigo de esto en otro momento, pero si lo has escuchado, ya no voy a ocultártelo. Robards me mandó a… —titubeó y enrojeció un poco— A… a quedar bien contigo para que te sintieras agradecido y otorgaras la subvención para el baile —finalizó a trompicones y aparentemente muy avergonzado. Draco no podía creerlo. No podía creer que Robards fuera tan ruin, que Potter se hubiese prestado, que ahora estuviese confesándoselo así de descarado. Pero sobre todas las cosas, no podía creer que ahora resultara que todo lo que había vivido con Potter fuera una mentira. Y peor, que Draco hubiese pensado que era sincero. Retrocediendo un paso, levantó una mano hacia Potter en un gesto protector. Se sentía engañado y herido; lo único que deseaba era alejarse de él. Potter lo miró con dolor, pero Draco ya había visto demasiado como para seguir creyéndole algo. —Así que por eso ha sido todo, ¿no? Desde ayer. Por eso me seguiste al baño. Por eso me has estado hostigando. Por eso me cuidaste de todos esos animalejos y evitaste que me hicieran daño. Por eso hasta te atreviste a llevarme a tu propia casa. —Se rió amargamente—. Eres un actor digno de un premio, Potter, eso tengo que concedértelo. —Te equivocas —dijo Potter con urgencia, dando un paso hacia Draco y provocando que éste caminara más hacia atrás—. Lo de ayer… fue todo auténtico. Robards me asignó esto apenas hoy. E independientemente de los deseos de mi jefe de querer obtener algo de ti y de tu departamento, yo no he fingido nada de lo que ha pasado entre tú y yo. No habría podido hacer algo así, Malfoy. Draco sintió que la cara le ardía del enojo y la vergüenza. No soportaba haber sido burlado como un bebé. —No creo ni una sola palabra de lo que dices, Potter —dijo, y era verdad—. No debí haber confiado en ti, ahora me doy cuenta. Potter comenzó a moverse en su sitio, como si quisiera soltarse a caminar de un lado a otro pero se estuviera conteniendo. Se frotó la cara violentamente con una mano. —Draco, sé que ahora no estás bien y… es por eso que quería postergar esta conversación, pero… —¡Deja de subestimarme! —gritó Draco, arrepintiéndose inmediatamente de haber levantado la voz. No quería llamar la atención de algún sanador que estuviera pasando por el pasillo. Continuó hablando en voz más queda—. Me siento mareado y un poco raro, es cierto, pero estoy en pleno uso de mis facultades, muchas gracias. Me doy cuenta perfectamente de qué es lo que ha pasado entre tú y yo… y de cómo encaja ahí la misión que tu jefe te ha mandado a hacer. Puedes ir y decirle que se meta su puto baile por el culo, porque ahora menos que nunca lo autorizaré. Potter asintió, pero parecía muy lejos de querer rendirse. —Me parece perfecto y estoy de acuerdo contigo en que esto ha sido bajo y traicionero. Yo debí haberle dejado claro a Robards desde un principio que no haría algo así, y menos a ti… Pero el muy maldito… —se calló un momento y suspiró—. No importa. Mira, Draco, lo único que importa es que… —No me llames Draco. —…yo nunca acepté esto… —Claro, ahora voy a creerte sólo porque tú lo dices. —Pensaba contártelo antes de que… —¡Te he descubierto, Potter! ¡Tuve que espiar una conversación entre tú y ese otro auror! —¡Lo sé! ¡Pero yo iba a decírtelo! ¡Yo no pensaba hacer nada de lo que Robards me pidió! ¡Te lo juro! —Potter parecía realmente desesperado y sincero, y Draco, muy a su pesar, comenzó a dudar. Porque un Gryffindor como ese idiota no podría fingir eternamente, ¿o sí?— ¿Por qué crees que no quise tener sexo contigo en mi casa de Grimmauld Place? Además de que no era correcto porque tú no estabas muy bien que digamos, yo no quería… no podía acostarme contigo si no te decía la verdad primero —finalizó con un hilo de voz—. Por favor, Draco… créeme. A pesar de que ya no estaba seguro de nada, Draco se negaba a ceder. Tenía que haber una trampa en eso, tenía que. —¡Si no hicimos nada fue porque descubriste que tenía más mordidas de doxy en el cuerpo! —gritó recordando ese detalle de repente. —¡Bueno, sí! Es cierto —reconoció Potter—. Pero, recuerda que antes de eso yo me estaba negando. Confieso que me estaba costando porque, Dios, Draco… te deseo tanto, pero la verdad es que yo no… —No lo sé, Potter —dijo Draco calmadamente, lo cual era admirable considerando que sentía que le hervía la sangre—. A mí me parece un truco bastante rebuscado. Fingir que te gusto y que te intereso para luego engancharme y decirme "Oh, mira, Robards me mandó a hacer esto contigo. Pero como soy bueno y noble no lo hice. ¿Te das cuenta? Ahora, ¿quieres ser mi amigo y autorizar el jodido baile para no meterme en problemas con mi jefe?" y de ese modo yo me habría sentido obligado a ayudarte. ¿Psicología inversa, Potter? —Bufó y barrió a Potter con la mirada—. Demasiado Slytherin para tratarse de ti, ¿no crees? Potter parecía verdaderamente asqueado. —¿Psicología inversa? Dios mío, ni siquiera sé de qué me estás hablando. Mira, Draco, yo sólo quería estar contigo y quería que fuera legal. Honesto. No tenía planeado llegar a más hasta haberte dicho lo que… —¿Qué, Potter? ¿Ibas a confesarme que en realidad no eres auror? ¿Que la verdad es que eres la puta favorita de Robards y que esta no es la primera misión de este tipo a la que te mandan? ¿Que eres la Mata Hari del Ministerio, dedicado a sonsacarle favores o secretos a la gente a cambio de sexo? —Draco resopló y lo miró con desprecio—. Ya lo decía yo. Potter no dijo más. Miró fijamente a Draco durante unos pocos segundos, y en ese breve lapso de tiempo éste pudo observar en el rostro de Potter cómo toda la ira y desesperación se marchaban para dar paso a una funesta y verdadera desolación. Lo vio tragar saliva y apretar la mandíbula. Terroríficamente y como por arte de magia, Potter pareció envejecer cinco años ante los ojos de Draco. Draco enseguida se arrepintió de lo que había dicho. El torrente de palabras venenosas había abandonado su boca casi sin que él se diera cuenta, todo debido al puro afán de lastimar tanto como él se sentía lastimado y no porque en verdad las creyera. Conocía a Potter (por Dios, tantos años de obsesión habían rendido sus frutos) y sabía que no estaba actuando. De un modo que no podía explicarse, Draco sabía, profundo y visceral, que Potter no mentía. Abrió la boca para intentar arreglarlo, aunque no tenía idea de cómo. Potter no se lo permitió. Se dio la media vuelta y sin decir nada, salió de su habitación dejando a Draco con la boca abierta. La disculpa que había estado a punto de pedir murió en sus labios aún antes de ser pronunciada. Demoró minutos enteros en reaccionar y volver a la cama. Se acostó y trató de dormir, intentando convencerse de que de todas formas Potter y él no tenían ningún futuro juntos. Potter era un donjuán promiscuo y eso jamás iba a cambiar. Tal vez era cierto que Draco le gustaba, pero ¿cuánto duraría eso? Draco sospechaba que no demasiado. Además, le costaría volver a confiar en Potter después de haberse enterado de que se había acercado a él sólo porque su jefe lo había mandado. Pensar eso hacía que a Draco se le estrujara algo en el pecho. "Maldito Potter, cómo te odio", se repetía a él mismo una y otra vez como intentando convencerse de ello. Por todas esas razones, Draco sabía que lo mejor era que las cosas hubieran terminado así. Arrancar la mala hierba de raíz y de una vez por todas, no esperar a que la plaga se volviera imposible de controlar. Se durmió pensando eso y tuvo un sueño absurdo donde se veía a él mismo en el jardín de la mansión de sus padres, rodeado por todos lados por la mala hierba que representaba lo que él sentía por Potter. Curiosamente y a pesar de ser una plaga, aquella planta era hermosa y daba flores de colores espectaculares. Llegó un momento en el sueño donde Draco decidió dejar de luchar por controlar el crecimiento de la hierba, rindiéndose ante ella y aceptándola como parte de su casa. No lo recordó al otro día, pero el sueño lo había hecho estúpidamente feliz. Draco pasó aquella noche solo en el hospital y al otro día no les mencionó nada a sus padres. No veía el caso de preocuparlos por tonterías así. Tuvo que inventarse una estupenda excusa cuando llamó a Colchester para pedir una nueva cita con el contador. Estaba decidido, entre otras cosas, a no permitir que Potter volviese a ser su guardia si es que al grandísimo imbécil de Robards se le ocurría mandarlo otra vez. No sucedió así. Cuando, después de varios días del incidente, tuvo que salir a Gringotts, fue Dennis Creevey quien lo acompañó. Draco tuvo que tragarse las ganas de preguntarle por Potter. El niñato parecía furioso con él por alguna razón, y Draco pasó una de las peores tardes de su vida presintiendo que, si sucedía algo que lo pusiera en peligro, aquel cara de culo no movería un dedo para ayudarlo en absoluto. Draco había creído que saber de Potter sería un capricho pasajero que desaparecería con el transcurso de los días, pero se equivocaba. Justo al contrario, ese deseo parecía haberse convertido en una necesidad vital. No tenía idea de cómo saciarla. ¿Ir de nuevo a la cafetería a la hora del almuerzo? Ni pensarlo. ¿Ir a hablar con Robards (quien por cierto, no se había atrevido a molestarlo de nuevo con lo del baile, lo que le causaba un perverso placer a Draco) para preguntarle? Mucho menos. Hasta ese momento sólo había salido un par de veces en misiones oficiales, y Robards había vuelto a su costumbre anterior de mandarle sólo a los novatos del escuadrón. Por supuesto, Draco tampoco se rebajó a preguntar a ninguno de ellos por Potter. Una mañana, casi un mes después del accidente en Colchester, Ethel le llevó su acostumbrado primer café y El Profeta con la selección de artículos que ella solía hacerle según sus intereses. —Gracias —le gruñó Draco. Ese día, por ninguna razón en particular, se sentía más amargado que nunca antes. Por supuesto que dormir mal desde hacía varias noches y sentir un remordimiento que le carcomía el alma por lo que le había dicho a Potter, no tenían nada que ver. Era sencillamente que se encontraba un poco estresado por el trabajo, nada más. Ethel se quedó parada a su lado mirándolo fijamente. Después de unos segundos de ese inusual comportamiento, Draco levantó la mirada hacia ella y se dio cuenta de que todavía tenía una sección del periódico en las manos. Sin preguntarle nada, Draco sólo arqueó las cejas. —Es… —comenzó a decir la secretaria, quien parecía extrañamente nerviosa— Es que por primera vez en mucho tiempo, realmente no sé si a usted le interese o no ciertanoticia. Draco suspiró. Bueno, tal vez en verdad no le interesaba, pero la mujer ya había picado su curiosidad. Extendió su mano hacia Ethel y ésta, dudando un momento más, le dio la sección con la que se había quedado. Una enorme foto de un Potter sangrante y muy malherido adornaba casi la mitad de la página. Draco, muy consciente de que Ethel estaba mirándolo, no mostró ningún cambio en su estado de ánimo a pesar de que las entrañas se le encogieron en un doloroso nudo y su corazón comenzó a latir apresuradamente. Se asustó de lo que sintió. No podía creer que la integridad física de aquel imbécil en verdad le importara tanto. Intentando distraerse de la espantosa imagen, Draco leyó la noticia con avidez. Seguramente no era nada grave, pero como Potter siempre era noticia, así tuviera solamente una uña encarnada, no debería extrañarle que… Sin embargo, conforme leía, una rabia y una compasión sin precedente fueron apoderándose de él. "Harry Potter", decía la noticia, "no sólo ha demostrado durante las últimas semanas un aparente deseo de muerte (pues es la quinta vez en un mes que termina en San Mungo), sino que, según nuestras fuentes, muestra un desacato y desobediencia total a las órdenes giradas por su jefe inmediato. Extraoficialmente se ha informado que el auror ha sido dado de baja del escuadrón porque su comportamiento errático y desubicado lo ha vuelto un verdadero peligro para sus compañeros y para él mismo. Estamos en espera de una entrevista con el jefe de los aurores, Gawain Robards, para que nos confirme si tal noticia es verdad. Seguiremos informando. Mientras tanto, el auror (o exauror) se mantiene en una habitación privada del hospital debido a su carácter violento y alta peligrosidad. Un reportero que acudió a entrevistarlo salió volando (literalmente) de su cuarto debido a un encantamiento repulsor que Potter ejecutó sobre él. El Profeta, sin embargo…" Draco, incapaz de disimular más y de continuar leyendo, arrugó el periódico entre sus manos. No se atrevió a levantar la mirada hacia Ethel, quien continuaba de pie a un lado de su escritorio. La mujer, inteligentemente, pareció darse cuenta de lo delicado de la situación. —Con permiso, tengo que ir a… a… Bueno —murmuró y salió a toda prisa dejándolo a solas. Draco estuvo varios minutos respirando con profundidad para calmarse. Todavía con El Profeta en las manos, suspiró hondo y lo colocó encima de su escritorio. Con movimientos calmos y estudiados, comenzó a alisar el papel hasta que la fotografía de Potter pudo ser visible de nuevo. Draco se mordió los labios, incapaz de saber por qué aquella situación le importaba tanto. Demonios, ni siquiera era su jodido problema. Se cubrió la boca con la mano mientras trataba de descubrir cuál era la verdad detrás de esa escueta información. ¿Sería cierto que Potter de pronto se habría convertido en un auror suicida o tal vez todo era una jugada de Robards para deshacerse de él? ¿Tendría Draco algo que ver? ¿O era que Potter finalmente había sucumbido a la locura que al parecer lo había perseguido desde niño? Draco suspiró con pesadez, cerró los ojos y se dejó caer en el respaldo de su sillón ejecutivo. Le costaba comprender por qué ver a Potter así de derrotado y con su anteriormente brillante futuro destrozado le estaba lastimando tanto. En otra época seguro que se habría alegrado. Abrió los ojos de golpe y miró la foto por última vez. Decidido, tomó la varita que tenía a un lado y con ella, incineró el periódico arrugado. Arrojó las cenizas al cesto que tenía a un lado y se puso a trabajar con ahínco, decidido a olvidarse de lo que había visto y leído. Pasó la mañana entera tratando de convencerse de que aquel no era su problema y de que si Potter estaba sufriendo, era porque el hijo de puta se lo tenía merecido con creces. Justicia divina, seguramente.

Potter era un hijo de puta. Era ésa una Realidad Innegable —sí, así, con mayúsculas— de la cual nadie debía dudar y, por lo mismo, Draco no alcanzaba a comprender por qué todos continuaban idolatrándolo. No comprendía cómo no veían lo mucho que el cabrón había cambiado. Aunque era cierto que el cambio había sido pausado, imperceptible, apenas visible. Pero aun así la gente tendría que haber notado que Potter era un hijo de puta; un canalla que abusaba de su fama, de su ingente e inmerecido poder mágico, de su puesto privilegiado en el Ministerio, de toda la gente importante que le daba el espaldarazo sin cuestionarlo, de su trabajo como auror. Y no sólo de eso. Existía otro poder, otro poder que Potter ostentaba y que no tenía nada que ver con la gran cantidad de magia que corría por la sangre de su mestizo cuerpo. Que no tenía nada que ver con que fuera el auror consentido de todo el escuadrón, que si no había sido ascendido a jefe del departamento era porque justo él no había querido —y Draco estaba convencido de que no aceptaba el ascenso por la pura comodidad de no tener más responsabilidades y seguir viviendo de manera fácil. No, ese otro poder no tenía que ver con nada de eso. A Draco, desde siempre, desde que había escuchado el nombre del Niño que Vivió —comparado sólo al molesto retintín de una gota de agua cayendo sin parar, constante en su vida, día y noche, noche y día, volviéndolo loco— le había molestado la excesiva atención y mimo que le concedían sólo por haber sobrevivido. ¿La gente era idiota o qué? Como si Potter fuera el único sobreviviente de aquella guerra y de la posterior… porque, bien mirado, todos lo que se encontraban en ese momento vivitos y coleando justo ahí en la cafetería del Ministerio eran, desde el punto de vista de Draco, sobrevivientes. Y algunos, seguro, con mayor mérito que el de sólo tener buena suerte. Entonces, ¿qué era lo que diferenciaba a Potter de los demás? Mientras se removía en su silla de madera y se acomodaba El Profeta frente a él para taparse la desagradable vista, Draco concluyó —casi a regañadientes— que lo que más le jodía era el presentimiento de saber con exactitud cuál tipo de poder era del que Potter echaba mano últimamente para ganarse el cariño y el favor de toda la gente. Y le jodía con ganas porque él mismo, Merlín santo, él, el mismo Draco Malfoy, también se sentía terriblemente influenciado. Porque si no fuera así, no estaría en ese momento ahí sentado. Al día siguiente, Draco pasó toda la mañana amonestándose, regañándose, intentado convencerse, usando su mejor retórica y hablando con él mismo en todos los tonos posibles. Al final, pareció dar resultado y se juró que no volvería a pararse en la cafetería, ni ese día ni ninguno más. Ethel, su secretaria, no dejó de echarle furtivas miradas como si creyera que ahora sí, su jefe del departamento de Finanzas del Ministerio, se había vuelto definitivamente loco. A Draco no le hizo ninguna gracia que su secretaria lo estuviera mirando con ojos de lástima. Pero como tenía demasiada clase como para ponerse a darle explicaciones, lo dejó por la paz. Ya se desquitaría cuando algún día la bruja quisiera irse temprano a su casa. El punto de todo era que Draco sabía que no estaba loco, que sólo estaba controlando sus debilidades para, precisamente, no caer presa de la locura. Porque era preocupante —y ciertamente parecía un claro síntoma de demencia— que él, Draco Malfoy, estuviese día a día subiendo a la cafetería del edificio a tomarse aquel café horrible (del cual no tenía necesidad pues Ethel le preparaba uno mucho mejor) para fingir que leía un periódico (del cual Ethel ya le había elaborado un conciso resumen señalándole los artículos de su interés) y así, poder echarle sus vistazos diarios al hijo de puta más famoso del mundo de la magia. Con lo que Draco no contaba era con que siempre había sido un ricachón mimado desde su más tierna y adorable infancia. Por tanto, fue casi natural ceder a su más grande caprichito del momento: regalarse a él mismo sus treinta minutos de jodido banquete visual. Después de todo, si ya lo había hecho durante varios meses… ¿qué era un miserable día más? Nada más uno y ya, pensaba mientras caminaba hacia el ascensor mirando por encima de su hombro para hechizar al primero que se atreviese a preguntarle hacia dónde se dirigía. Suerte que Ethel ya ni lo hacía. Y tal como lo venía haciendo desde hacía más de medio año, Draco llegaba a la apestosa cafetería armado con el diario y se apoltronaba ahí, todo dignidad y elegancia, rehusando con su pura actitud cualquier petición de compañía. El camarero ya ni le preguntaba la orden del día: simplemente le dejaba el café (que casi siempre permanecía intacto salvo unos pocos traguitos) sobre la mesa en cuanto Draco hacía acto de presencia. Entonces, Draco desplegaba El Profeta (el cual tenía doble propósito: le servía como escudo y excusa) frente a su cara. Y cuando los aurores se presentaban y se acomodaban en una de las mesas cercanas, Draco medio fingía que leía una nota y luego, bajaba el periódico para sorberle a su café y aprovechar ese ínfimo momento para observar. Otra de las cosas que más enfurecía a Draco era que realmente sí había mucho que observar en la mesa de enfrente. Tanto, que a veces se le olvidaba que estaba fingiendo que bebía café y que miraba el periódico, y permanecía minutos enteros con la boca abierta, bebiéndose a Potter en vez de a su café. Era, por decir lo menos, humillante. Porque Potter podía ser un hijo de puta —sin duda— pero era un sexy hijo de puta. Y eso, maldito Merlín también hijo de puta, cómo jodía a Draco. Lo jodía tanto que le daban ganas de matar al desgraciado. De matarlo porque tenía el descaro de llamar excesivamente la atención de todos —incluso la de Draco— y a quien a cualquiera le parecería una persona desesperada por ser famosa. Pero Draco sabía, por más que odiara reconocerlo, que no era así. Era algo innato. Aun siendo vulgar y escandaloso, la gente lo encontraba encantador. Gesticulaba excesivamente con las manos, algo que se podía considerar de poca clase pero que en él, en Potter, parecía sumamente adorable. Tanto, que Draco había aprendido a leer y a descifrar cada una de sus posturas y gestos sólo a base de sentarse ahí día tras día a observarlo. Si había tenido un mal día o estaba cansado, solía poner su mano izquierda en puño y posarla sobre la mesa con suma tensión, como si en cualquier momento fuera a golpear la mandíbula del primero que se atreviese a contradecirlo. Sobra decir que nadie lo hacía. Draco no estaba seguro si era porque todos habían aprendido a leer las señas que Potter mostraba cuando estaba enfadado, o porque simplemente todos sentían la rabia irradiando a través de su aura mágica. O porque era un hijo de puta y nada más. Si Potter estaba nervioso, usaba las manos para rascarse. Cualquier parte del cuerpo. Los brazos, el cuello, la barbilla —Merlín, ese dedo pasando varias veces por la barbilla con esa barba de tres días, era... Draco podía sentir su baba cayendo sobre la mesa cuando Potter se rascaba de aquella manera. Otro signo de su nerviosismo era que parpadeaba con mucha más frecuencia de lo normal. Eso también enfurecía a Draco porque hacía que le prestara atención a sus ojos verdes… bueno, más de la habitual. En cambio, si Potter estaba de buen humor, movía su cuerpo en un constante vaivén de atrás hacia delante. Se llevaba una mano a la cabeza y se rascaba levemente, pero lo suficiente como para despeinarse aún más su horrible mata de pelo negro. Y cuando sonreía, lo hacía con toda su expresiva humanidad. Su mandíbula cuadrada parecía suavizarse, sus ojos se abrían y brillaban más que nunca, su labio superior desaparecía en una delgada línea que mostraba sus perfectos dientes. Y Draco tenía que patearse por debajo de la mesa para no sonreír él también en respuesta. Otra cosa que Draco había notado era que siempre, antes de hablar, Potter primero tragaba saliva. Y ese "inocente" gesto podía empalmar a Draco en segundos porque al hacerlo, la manzana de Adán (huésped de honor de aquel ancho y apetecible cuello) se movía dueña y señora de aquel amplio espacio que era su garganta, la cual pedía a gritos besos y mordiscos. Porque al hacerlo, Potter apretaba los labios —esos labios siempre rojos y húmedos— durante breves segundos mientras tragaba, pero esos segundos bastaban para que Draco desease con el alma poder levantarse, caminar hasta su mesa y borrar las líneas de tensión formadas alrededor de su boca con sus dedos, con sus propios labios, con su lengua. Porque al hacerlo, Potter atiesaba su gesto y los nervios de la mandíbula eran visibles a cada lado de su cara, y Draco moría por tocar, por pasar un dedo, por… por lo que fuera. Los días calientes eran los peores. Porque Potter llegaba a la cafetería caminado con ese desgarbo tan característico de él y se quitaba la ya de por sí mal abrochada túnica de auror, la cual jamás portaba con la dignidad que cualquier zoquete hubiese creído que semejante uniforme merecía. Y aunque al principio Draco creyó que era bueno que se la quitara porque el hecho de que la túnica fuera del mismo maldito color de sus ojos lo ponía extremadamente nervioso —es que, ¡eso no era posible! ¿Cómo demonios podía ser que la túnica de los aurores fuera verde esmeralda?— pronto, Draco se dio cuenta de que era mucho peor que se la quitara. Porque invariablemente, bajo la túnica Potter llevaba sólo una delgada camiseta muggle de manga corta. De manga despiadadamente corta. Y como buen hijo de puta que era, parecía aprovechar semejante situación para presumir sus bíceps y dejar a Draco con la boca abierta. Es que, joder, aquellos brazos… Y era un escandaloso de lo peor, atrayendo la atención de todos los parroquianos hacia él y hacia su grupo de machos uniformados. Reía a carcajadas, hablaba en voz alta; si estaba molesto, retaba casi a gritos. Era un desastre social, ni siquiera sabía expresarse con propiedad. ¡Tartamudeaba, por Dios! —Chiller es-es… un imbécil. ¡Se lo dije a Scrimgeour, pero tuvo que esperar a que el otro la-la jodiera para… aceptarlo! —Era una conversación promedio sostenida por él, gritando su poca clase a los cuatro vientos y a quien quisiera escucharlo. Lo curioso era que siempre había más de un baboso escuchando con otro tipo de intención, Draco se daba cuenta. Siempre. Al menos uno. Bueno, también solía haber algunas, pero era de todos bien sabido que aquel sexy H. de P. no sentía cosquillas en la entrepierna por las brujas, sino por los guapos del género masculino. Su gesticulación lo delataba, aun si uno no tenía el gaydar tan entrenado como Draco. Tal vez sería bueno darle unas clasecitas de discreción al tarado. Porque nadie que conociera a Draco podía jurar que él era gay. Aunque lo era. Y mucho. Pero no era como para andarlo divulgando. Pero, ¿qué esperar de un hijo de puta consciente de su atractivo, como lo era Potter? Que en cuanto se daba cuenta que un chico nuevo en el Ministerio caía atrapado en sus redes, desplegaba aún con más ganas aquel irresistible encanto. Y en aquellas ocasiones solía levantarse de la mesa mucho antes que los demás y dirigirse prestamente al baño. El chico en cuestión no tardaba nada en levantarse y salir corriendo tras él. ¿Y Draco? Bueno, en esas ocasiones también solía dar su "almuerzo" por terminado antes de tiempo. Al volver Potter a la cafetería, seguramente no vería en la mesa de Draco más que el café intacto y el periódico desperdigado: Draco no estaba dispuesto a dejar que el hijo de puta viera reflejado en sus ojos lo mucho que aquello lo había afectado. La revancha personal de Draco llegaba al día siguiente, cuando Don Hijo de Puta ignoraba olímpicamente al chico en cuestión. Draco podía, ahora sí, sonreír a sus anchas al ver a otro más plantado por Potter y sufriendo por él. Qué satisfacción mirar en sus ojos el descubrimiento de que no había sido más que un nombre extra en la larga lista de conquistas del auror más cabrón de todo el Ministerio, de ese maldito gilipollas que echaba mano de todo aquel plebeyo sortilegio que poseía —Draco no sabía cómo—, explotándolo al máximo y explotando el cerebro, el alma y la libido de toda la gente que tenía la desgracia de cruzarse a su paso. Su manera de comer era punto y aparte, un acto merecedor de un ensayo elaborado por un experto en psicología y lenguaje corporal. Potter prácticamente le hacía el amor a su comida y, lo peor, la follaba en público, obligando a todos los demás a convertirse en un montón de patéticos voyeurs con la baba escurriéndoles hasta sus propios y olvidados platos. Draco incluido. Pero lo peor, lo infinitamente peor, llegaba a la hora en que Potter terminaba de comer y procedía —pasándose por el maldito Arco del Triunfo las reglas del Ministerio— a encender un cigarrillo. Y ahí era donde se podía apreciar mejor la manera en que el cabroncete hijo de puta desplegaba todo su poder e influencia a su alrededor, pues no había nadie en el lugar —Draco juraba que ni el mismo Ministro de Magia— capaz de decirle a Potter un amable "Por favor, apaga tu cigarrillo, que el humo molesta a los demás". Draco sospechaba que si alguien se atreviera siquiera a sugerir eso, sería linchado por esos "demás" que, más que molestos por el humo, se encontraban a punto de turrón para correr al privado más cercano y masturbarse hasta sacarse el alma. Porque mirar a Potter fumando no tenía punto de comparación ni con un striptease (o un chippendale, dependiendo de qué lado batearas) presentándose de manera súper estelar en Las Vegas. Aquel mediodía no podía ser la excepción. Era un día caluroso, así que Draco tuvo que chutarse el espectáculo de ver llegar a Potter a la cafetería caminando a grandes zancadas —lo cual parecía resultado de un complejo, pues Potter era más bien bajo de estatura—, caminar hasta su silla habitual, quitarse la túnica moviéndose lo más que podía hacerlo, arrojar la prenda de cualquier manera sobre el respaldo de su asiento y, finalmente, dejarse caer pesadamente encima de éste. Risas, conversaciones y hasta uno que otro grito; ésa era la algarabía cotidiana del escuadrón de aurores que acompañaba a Potter a ser la tortura y el deleite visual de todos los que tuvieran la desventura de encontrarse la bendita cafetería (la cual tenía cada vez más y más clientes a esa hora del día, y Draco estaba muy seguro de que el sexy H. de P. mucho tenía que ver). Draco, como lo hacía día tras día, fingió leer y beber, atrapando vistazos esporádicos de un Potter riéndose alegremente, de un Potter masticando sus huevos fritos con la boca abierta, de un Potter limpiándose la boca con el dorso de su enorme mano… De un Potter procediendo a encender su cigarrillo de siempre. Fue ahí, en ese momento, cuando Draco tuvo que bajar definitivamente el periódico. Porque ése era "la madre" de los shows brindados por el exhibicionista que era aquel cabroncete: su gloriosa hora de fumar. Como quien no quiere la cosa, Potter se llevó la mano a la cabeza y cogió el cigarrillo que siempre traía detrás de la oreja derecha —Draco no sabía a qué puta hora se lo colocaba ahí y cómo diablos no se le caía—, sin dejar de charlar y de sonreírles a los demás. Después de dedicarle una sonrisa particularmente sexy a un chico nuevo del escuadrón —un tal Dennis Creevey y cuyo hermano había fallecido en la guerra, según sabía Draco—, Potter se llevó el pitillo hasta la boca y lo dejó ahí, colgando casi a punto de caer, la punta del filtro apenas tocando los labios, inclinado hacia el lado derecho y moviéndose peligrosamente mientras Potter pedía fuego. Porque, a pesar de fumar diariamente y sin falta, Potter nunca llevaba su propio fuego. ¿Para qué molestarse? Si Draco no hubiera estado tan seguro de que era un imbécil redomado, hubiese creído que aquello formaba parte de sus tácticas de seducción. Aunque, a esas alturas, Draco ya no estaba seguro de muchas cosas, a decir verdad. Pero de lo que no le cabía duda era de que el hijo de puta de Potter estaba tratando de "darle su bienvenida" a ese tal Creevey. El chico se puso rojo cuando Potter le pidió a él que le diera fuego. Casi tumba el contenido de la mesa en su prisa por sacar la varita y convocar una leve llama que a Potter le sirvió para encender su sagrado cigarro del día. Y nadie se burló de Creevey. Todos estaban demasiado embebidos observando fumar al otro desgraciado como para reírse del nerviosismo del novato. Incluyendo Draco. Potter le dirigió a Creevey una mirada cargada de significado a manera de agradecimiento y, sin despegar los ojos de él, se llevó de nuevo la mano hacia el cigarro. Abrió los dedos índice y cordial, acercándolos al pitillo, rodeándolo con ellos, pero demorando algunos segundos en tomarlo por completo. Entonces se retiró el cigarro de la cara y abrió un poco la boca, liberando el humo sin soplar. Simplemente, dejándolo salir en curiosas y elegantes volutas blancas que cubrieron su rostro durante un momento. Se relamió los labios —siempre rojos, siempre brillantes—, y de nuevo se llevó el cigarro a la boca, depositándolo del mismo lado derecho y abriendo los dedos mientras le daba una larga calada al tabaco. Draco miró a Potter entrecerrar los ojos mientras hacía eso, como si toda la concentración que era capaz de reunir estuviese encaminada a fumarse aquel puto cigarro de la manera más candente y sensual posible. De hecho, ahora que lo pensaba, Draco se daba cuenta de que ése momento era el único en el que el cretino no hablaba. Al menos, no mucho. No tanto como siempre. Por lo regular, alguien más —aprovechando la oportuna y momentánea ausencia de reglas— se unía al festín de tabaco del cual Potter era el principal comensal, pero nadie jamás atraía la atención como lo hacía el moreno. Porque su forma de fumar iba mucho más allá del simple disfrute del cigarro: era una oda sensual, una demostración del agasajo que Potter podía darse a sus sentidos y a los sentidos de los demás. Era una orgía. Sexo público al cual todos estaban invitados. Sin dejar de sonreír, Potter hablaba entre dientes para no dejar caer el pitillo de sus labios, permitiendo que el humo escapara suave y sin prisa a través de su boca y de su nariz, y Draco juraba que al que le estaba saliendo humo era a él. Tragó pesadamente, olvidando el periódico por completo y poniendo toda su atención en Potter. Sin preocuparse de ser descubierto, pues por lo regular Potter apenas sí volteaba a verlo. De hecho, Draco creía que ni siquiera se había dado cuenta que Draco también trabaja ahí en el Ministerio. Creevey dijo algo y Potter sonrió ampliamente, inclinó su cabeza hacia él y le susurró algo al oído. Draco, con un funesto presentimiento, se dio cuenta de que en esa ocasión, las cosas eran diferentes. Porque tratándose de otro, Potter ya habría ido y venido del baño. Pero con Creevey, no. Aún seguía ahí, sin claras intenciones de culminar con el asunto. Como si pensara prolongarlo, como si… Merlín, ¿no estaría pensando en tomar a Creevey en serio? Con el corazón latiéndole de una manera particularmente dolorosa, Draco clavó la mirada en el jovencito nuevo. No era feo, tendría Draco que ser demasiado ciego para no verlo. Era rubio, aunque no tanto como él, y tenía unos chispeantes y enormes ojos azules enmarcados en un lindo rostro casi infantil. "Todo un twink y seguramente virgen", pensó Draco con desesperación. Ni el cabroncete de Potter podría resistir semejante atractivo. Draco apretó la mandíbula y se removió inquietamente en su silla, pensando en salir de ahí. Entonces le ocurrió algo que jamás en su vida le había pasado: de un nervioso manotazo derribó su taza de café. El líquido oscuro y todavía caliente se derramó por encima del periódico, y cuando las miradas de varias personas estuvieron sobre él, Draco deseó desaparecer. Sobre todo cuando levantó la vista y miró que Potter, con el maldito cigarro colgando descarado entre sus labios, también lo estaba observando, sonriéndole de manera extraña, burlesca y enigmática. Draco le correspondió la mirada de manera desafiante, sin dejarse intimidar. Entrecerró los ojos y le dedicó todo el odio que su frustración le permitía otorgarle. "Maldito hijo de puta", le dijo con la mirada. "A mí no vas a amedrentarme, por más sexy que te creas que eres". Estaba seguro de que Potter captaría muy bien el mensaje. Podía ser que así fuera, pues el cretino desvió los ojos y continuó con lo suyo. O sea, fumando con desesperada sensualidad y coqueteando abiertamente con el rubio Creevey. Draco bajó la mirada, dándose cuenta apenas hasta ese momento de que un empleado de la cafetería estaba encargándose del desorden que él había provocado. —¿Se mojó la ropa, señor? —le preguntó el chico, blandiendo hacia él la varita con la que acababa de fregar la mesa y secar el periódico. De manera automática, Draco bajó la mirada hacia su entrepierna en busca de alguna mancha o humedad. Y lo único que descubrió fue un enorme paquete que nada tenía que ver con el café. Abrió mucho los ojos y por poco suelta un jadeo de la impresión. ¿En qué endemoniado momento se le había puesto dura y él ni cuenta se había dado? Frenético e intentando disimular, negó con la cabeza hacia el empleado. —¿Quiere otro café? —le preguntó el camarero, mirándolo con extrañeza. —No —respondió Draco apretando las piernas, rogando porque ni el camarero ni nadie hubiese visto su erección. —Le traeré su cuenta entonces —dijo el camarero antes de retirarse, dejando a Draco presa de un horror atroz. ¿Qué tipo de enfermo pervertido era que se excitaba sólo de ver fumar al pendejete que tenía frente a él? Intentando hacer caso omiso a la urgencia de pasarse una mano para oprimirse la entrepierna, Draco buscó su cartera y sacó el dinero que costaba el café más una buena propina. Después de todo, sabía bien cuánto era: nunca ordenaba otra cosa. Arrojó las monedas sobre la mesa y se aventuró a echarle una última mirada a Potter, con la esperanza de que el odio que sentía contra él le ayudara a tranquilizar su ánimo. Pero fue un error. Potter lo estaba viendo a él, y continuaba fumando. Draco, al darse cuenta de que Potter lo estaba observando, le correspondió la mirada frunciendo el ceño; tanto, que presintió que tal vez hasta se vería ridículo. Pero no podía evitarlo. Era eso o era mirar a Potter con la boca abierta y la baba escurriéndole porque, con enorme emoción y sorpresa, Draco se percató de que el show de Potter iba completamente dedicado a él. Potter se sacó el cigarro y sopló hacia un lado, torciendo los labios, lamiéndoselos después, mirando a Draco, arqueando las cejas y volviendo a sumergir la punta del pitillo en su endemoniada boca. Luego, Potter repitió el proceso, pero en esa ocasión, en vez de relamerse, se mordió los labios y sacó un poco la lengua al final. Draco tuvo que ahogar un gemido. Apretó las piernas aún más. Potter arqueó las cejas y le dedicó una sonrisa torcida, con todo y el cigarro colgando del labio inferior. Entonces tomó aquel instrumento de tortura entre sus dedos y lo retiró, soplando el voluptuoso humo hacia arriba y entrecerrando los ojos como si estuviese en medio de un gran placer. Draco gimoteó. Y no pudo más. Dejando todo atrás y sin importarle si su situación era visible o no, se levantó y salió corriendo de la cafetería, encaminándose a toda prisa al baño más cercano. Cubriéndose con la túnica lo mejor que podía, se metió al primer cubículo —suerte que no había nadie más ahí—, cerró la puerta y se apoyó de espalda contra ella, jadeando con pesadez. Bajo sus pantalones, la enorme erección que tenía lo estaba avergonzando hasta la médula. Después de resoplar durante unos instantes y de decidir que si no hacía algo al respecto, aquella monstruosidad no cedería, Draco se abrió la túnica y el pantalón. Su erección estaba tan hinchada que apenas podía tocarse por encima de la ropa. Maldito Potter hijo de puta, Draco no podía concebir que lograra ponerlo así. "Te odio, te odio, te odio, shhh…" siseaba entre dientes mientras se bajaba los pantalones y la ropa interior de un tirón. Se llevó la mano derecha hasta la boca y se lamió un par de veces antes de usarla para envolver su ansiosa erección con un cálido, húmedo y desesperado apretón. Gimoteó, cerrando los ojos e inclinándose hacia delante. Comenzó a acariciarse frenéticamente, rápidamente, deseando terminar con eso lo más rápido posible para salir de ahí y olvidar que había ocurrido y jamás, jamás, jamás volver a pararse en la cafetería cuando Potter estuviera ahí… El sonido de la puerta de los baños abriéndose lo interrumpió. Tuvo que ahogar un gemido de frustración cuando se obligó a dejar de masturbarse. Conteniendo la respiración lo mejor que pudo, aguzó el oído, confiando en que aquel que estaba dentro del baño no demorara mucho en salir. Escuchó pasos hasta los cubículos. Draco se congeló. Entonces, para la mayor de sus desesperaciones, la puerta se abrió de nuevo. Otra persona había entrado y también estaba caminando hacia donde estaba Draco. —Hey, Harry —escuchó la voz de Creevey—. ¿Qué estás haciendo? Draco abrió mucho la boca. ¿Potter y Creevey? ¿Qué tipo de broma infernal era ésa? ¡De verdad que alguien allá arriba odiaba a Draco con ganas para jugar con él así! Escuchó la risa sardónica de Potter y no pudo evitar un escalofrío que recorrió su piel. —¿Qué te imaginas tú que vengo a hacer al baño, Dennis? —contestó Potter con un marcado tono de burla. Y sin esperar respuesta, caminó directo al cubículo donde Draco estaba escondido. Éste casi suelta un grito cuando el cerrojo se liberó y la puerta se abrió, empujándolo hacia adentro y casi haciéndolo caer de bruces sobre el inodoro con todo y los pantalones abiertos. Giró la cabeza hacia atrás para descubrir a Potter, el maldito hijo de puta, con la varita en la mano y metiéndose a SU cubículo. —¡¿QUÉ…?! —comenzó a preguntar Draco, pero Potter dio un paso hacia él y le cubrió la boca con una de sus manazas. Agitó la varita y la puerta del cubículo se volvió a cerrar. —Bu-bueno, entonces yo… —tartamudeó Creevey afuera del cubículo, el desconcierto y la decepción claros en su voz—. Te veré después, Harry. Potter no le respondió. Él y Draco estaban parados frente a frente, aquel con una mano sobre la cara de Draco y con la otra sosteniendo la varita. Draco, ardiendo de rabia y vergüenza, con los pantalones abajo y una mano cubriendo su erección. Los dos se quedaron muy quietos hasta que escucharon a Creevey salir y cerrar la puerta del baño tras de él. Lentamente, Potter se guardó la varita y soltó a Draco. Éste sintió que los instintos asesinos de la guerra volvían con más ganas que antes. —Voy a matarte, Potter —masculló Draco con tanto odio que él mismo se sorprendió. Potter le sonrió. —Claro. Pero que sea después de que yo te dé una mano con esto. Sin decir más, aferró a Draco de los brazos y, de un solo movimiento, los giró a ambos hasta que Draco fue quien tuvo la espalda contra la puerta del cubículo. Potter lo empujó hasta estamparlo con ella, y mientras Draco luchaba por recuperarse del golpe y la sorpresa, Potter eliminó los pocos centímetros que los separaban y lo besó. Abriendo mucho los ojos y tratando de gritar un "¡¿QUÉ JODIDOS TE PASA?!" que más bien fue un ahogado pujido que sonó a algo parecido a un "¡KUF-JODFFO-TT-PAFF!", Draco se quedó de una sola pieza ante el asalto del moreno, quien lo besó con la misma pasión con la que se fumaba su cigarro del día. Draco trató de resistirse, levantó las manos para empujarlo, pero en el cubículo del baño en realidad no había mucho espacio disponible. Igual, el hijo de puta hizo caso omiso a sus intentos de empujones, sin dejar de besarlo ni soltarlo. —No-no —pudo murmurar Draco a través del beso—, no, Potter… yo no soy como los demás —le aseguró—. Yo… no. Como si Draco hubiese dicho las palabras mágicas, Potter dejó de besarlo y separó sus rostros lo suficiente como para mirarlo a los ojos. Draco se sonrojó ante el intenso escrutinio del que Potter lo hizo objeto. —Yo no soy como los demás —repitió Draco con voz más segura, intentado explicarle con eso que con él no jugaría al seductor, al acostón de un rato y si mañana te vuelvo a ver, ni me acuerdo de ti. —Joder, Malfoy, eso lo sé muy bien —respondió Potter con voz ronca—. ¿Por qué crees que estoy loco por ti, cabrón? —exclamó, dándole un particularmente fuerte apretón a Draco en los brazos—. Nunca nadie… —Se inclinó hacia Draco, y éste lo miró con ojos desorbitados— Se había resistido tanto… —le tocó los labios con los suyos y Draco jadeó— Tuve que echar mano de todo para que… para que me miraras, y no he podido evitar seguirte hasta aquí hoy. Y… descubrir que tú… también… Potter se interrumpió y bajó la mirada brevemente hacia la erección de Draco, y éste sintió el cuerpo arder en llamas, y sabía que era más por la mortificación y la vergüenza de haber sido descubierto masturbándose por su misma fantasía en persona, que por la pasión que éste pudiera despertar en él al estarlo besando. —No es lo que estás pensando —dijo con rapidez, sabiendo que estaba más rojo que una remolacha. Potter lo miró casi indulgentemente y sonrió. —El problema es que no estoy pensando en nada, Malfoy. Y de nuevo lo besó. A Draco le pasó por la cabeza resistirse de nuevo, pero, joder, era él, Potter, quien lo estaba besando, quien lo había seguido hasta el baño, quien había rechazado al otro rubito y que se había colado ahí para estar con él, y bueno… tal vez, no fuera mala idea dejarse llevar un poquito. Draco cerró los ojos, rindiéndose ante el asalto. Potter pareció percibir la manera en que se relajaba porque gimió y comenzó a besarlo con más ímpetu. Y Draco creyó que estaba muerto. Porque, ¿de qué otra manera explicar la oscuridad que cubrió sus ojos, la humedad que empapó su cara, la presión que mantenía su cuerpo quieto, la sensación de que su corazón había dejado de latir? Pero de repente los dientes de Potter estaban mordiendo sus labios, y el agudo pero placentero dolor lo devolvió a la vida si es que en algún momento ésta lo había abandonado. La dura punta de la lengua de Potter se abrió paso entre sus maltratados labios, y Draco sólo pudo gemir con desesperación cuando ésta hizo contacto con su propia lengua y el interior de su boca completa. Potter sabía y olía a tabaco, a jugo de calabaza y a huevos fritos con mucha cebolla, pero a Draco ni siquiera le molestó por un momento. Porque muy por encima de todos aquellos mundanos sabores, estaba el propio gusto a Potter, a su saliva, a su calor. Y fue en ese sabor en el que Draco se dejó perder, en la sensación ardiente y mojada de la boca de Potter cubriendo la mitad de su cara en medio de aquel beso brusco y animal, en el doloroso agarre de sus manos sobre sus brazos, en la presión infernal y asfixiante de su cuerpo vestido de muggle machacándolo contra la puerta. Draco, con su hinchada erección fuera de la ropa, podía sentir el rugoso género del pantalón de Potter, pero también pudo percibir —cuando Potter se restregó contra él en un delicioso movimiento circular— la enorme dureza que tenía debajo de aquella tela. Draco jadeó tan bien como pudo hacerlo, con la boca de Potter todavía encima de él. Éste volvió a frotarse contra él y entonces, soltó a Draco de los brazos, bajando ambas manos hacia su entrepierna para abrirse el pantalón pero sin dejar de besarlo. Fue un momento de mínima claridad en el que Draco supo que tenía que escapar. Porque él no iba a permitir ser uno más en la lista de conquistas de aquel cabrón, porque él no era plato de segunda, ni de tercera mesa, porque lo que Draco sentía por Potter era mucho más… mucho más que… Cuando sintió la aterciopelada piel de otra erección pegándose a la de él, su cerebro se desconectó por completo. Separó sus labios de los de Potter y movió la cabeza hacia un lado, como negándose a continuar siendo besado, negándose a dejar que Potter descubriese lo mucho que él estaba disfrutando. —Malfoy… —lo llamó el otro con voz anhelante y suspirante, tal vez sintiéndose desconcertado porque Draco había volteado la cara— ¿Malfoy? —volvió a llamarlo Potter, y Draco sólo lo miró de reojo, conteniendo con todas sus fuerzas sus gemidos, sus jadeos, las ganas que venía acumulando desde hacía tanto tiempo. Sólo recordar con cuántos chicos había estado Potter en ese mismo baño lo enfureció y le dio fuerzas para continuar resistiendo. Porque se dio cuenta de que Potter no lo tomaría en serio, de que él era sólo otro más en su lista de pajas rápidas en un baño. Y aun así Draco se encargaría de que Potter tuviera muy en claro de que él no era como la mayoría. Él era el mejor. Y a él no le rompería el corazón. Determinado a eso, Draco miró a Potter de frente con ojos furiosos y decididos. Potter detuvo sus caricias sobre los miembros de los dos. —¿Qué…? —comenzó a preguntar éste, pero antes de que pudiera terminar, Draco ya había levantado las manos y, aferrándolo de las mejillas, lo besó con pasión. Potter pareció derretirse en medio de ese beso; gimió bastante audiblemente y, si Draco no lo sostiene, seguro que se cae hasta el suelo. Draco llevó su mano derecha hacia abajo, la colocó sobre la de Potter y, con un movimiento, le indicó que era hora de proseguir. Dejó de besarlo un segundo para decir: —Ponte a trabajar, Potter, porque jamás volverás a tenerme así. Potter abrió los ojos al escuchar eso y miró a Draco con gran desconcierto. Pero Draco no le permitió pensar más. Volvió a besarlo y Potter comenzó a acariciarlos a los dos, cada vez más duro, cada vez más rápido. La humedad del líquido preseminal de ambos fue suficiente para que Potter comenzara un brutal movimiento sobre sus erecciones, frotándolas juntas y oprimiéndolas en sitios deliciosos y precisos, y Draco no pudo más, cerró los ojos fuertemente, la boca de Potter pegada a la suya como lapa, mordiéndolo, chupando, su mano agitando, y Draco explotó. Eyaculó tan duro que sin darse cuenta echó la cabeza hacia atrás y se golpeó con la puerta. Y al momento en que liberaba su descarga en varias y excesivamente placenteras contracciones, Potter continuó acariciándolo, cada vez más suave y pausado, mordiéndolo en los labios. —Malfoy —repitió Potter con el mismo tono de voz esperanzado, necesitado—. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy… Y Draco, decidido a ser el mejor polvo que el hijo de puta sería capaz de tener jamás, se obligó a recuperarse con rapidez. Todavía sin poder respirar con propiedad, abrió los ojos y bajó la vista hacia su miembro agotado y al todavía furiosamente erecto de Potter. Éste lo miró con expectación y gimió quedamente cuando Draco recogió con su mano la mayor cantidad que pudo de su propio semen, desperdigado entre las manos y los vientres de los dos. Con su otra mano, tomó a Potter de un brazo e intercambió lugares con él. Lo apoyó contra la puerta y comenzó a acariciarle su erección usando su misma corrida como lubricante; lentamente, empapándola de arriba abajo, usando aquella pegajosa fricción para volverlo demente. Sexy HP by isobelhawk Y en efecto, así era. Potter estaba volviéndose loco, estaba muriéndose. Se apoyó contra la puerta, arqueando el cuerpo y echando las caderas hacia delante; ofreciéndole una deliciosa vista a Draco, puro sonrojo furioso, pura piel mojada de corrida y sudor; cabellos negros pegados a su cara, a su nuca y su cuello; los labios apretados en un hermoso rictus de placentero dolor. Potter rugió como león cuando se corrió, aferrándose de Draco tan fuerte que lo lastimó. Y luego se quedó así, todo desguanzado contra la puerta, jadeando pesadamente en busca de aliento, pero sin soltar los brazos de Draco, como deseando prolongar el momento. Poco a poco, Potter pareció volver a la realidad, y suspirando profundamente, soltó los brazos de Draco. Abrió los ojos y buscó su mirada, pero Draco no podía verlo a la cara. Ahora que todo había terminado, Draco sentía cernirse sobre él la amenaza del "¿Te veo después?" y saber que ese "después" no llegaría nunca, como hacía Potter con todos y cada uno de los amantes ocasionales que habían tenido la desdichada fortuna de desfilar por su vida. Se dio cuenta de que Potter sacaba su varita y de que los limpiaba a ambos, usando encantamientos sin ni siquiera decir palabra. Draco no pudo evitar sonreír ante la ironía de que, a pesar de ser un mago sumamente poderoso, Potter se había corrido con tremenda rapidez. Parecía que no era perfecto, después de todo. Simplemente, un ser humano más con algo de magia. Común y corriente, y quizá más corriente que común. De repente, Potter se inclinó sobre Draco y comenzó a subirle los calzoncillos, y Draco sólo pudo abrir mucho los ojos. Antes de que pudiera decir nada, Potter terminó de acomodárselos y, sin decir palabra, de inmediato procedió a hacer lo mismo con sus pantalones. Aquel gesto conmovió a Draco de una manera que no podía explicar. Tragó duramente y levantó la vista. Potter parecía no atreverse a mirarlo a los ojos. Tenía un semblante extraño y un gesto serio, la vista clavada en los pantalones de Draco. Intentó abrocharlos sin mucho éxito, por lo que Draco le empujó suavemente las manos y él mismo se los cerró. Potter aprovechó el momento para también cerrarse los de él. —Bueno… —dijo Draco, todavía dispuesto a demostrarle a Potter que él no era como los otros chicos y que, saliendo de ahí, jamás en la vida volvería a molestarlo—. Me voy. Hay que regresar al trabajo. Al menos que tú seas tan influyente que después de un orgasmo te den permiso de ir a descansar a tu casa. Lo cual, no sé por qué, pero no me sorprendería. Potter levantó la vista y lo miró fijamente a los ojos. Sus enormes y gruesas cejas estaban curvadas de una manera curiosa, en un gesto que Draco hacía mucho no le veía a Potter en la cara. Como si sufriera una gran pena. Sus ojos parecían haber perdido su brillo habitual. Se inclinó hacia Draco y lo besó suavemente en los labios, toda la pasión de unos momentos antes olvidada por completo. Draco se dejó hacer, demasiado sorprendido como para haber podido evitarlo. Potter se retiró y lo miró a los ojos por última vez. —Adiós —susurró Potter antes de girarse y abrir la puerta del cubículo—. De verdad, siento mucho haber irrumpido así. Antes de que Draco se diera cuenta, Potter ya había salido a toda velocidad de ahí, desapareciendo rumbo al cuartel de los aurores y dejándolo a él sin mirar atrás. Draco, en cambio, demoró siglos en regresar a su oficina. Y no fue sólo por lo cansado que se sentía. Era simplemente porque no tenía ganas de hacerlo. Algo muy parecido a la tristeza se había apoderado de su corazón y, además, se sentía inexplicablemente decepcionado de él mismo. Sabiendo que había cumplido una de sus mejores fantasías con el hijo de puta más sexy de todo el universo, pero sintiéndose mucho más vacío de lo que había estado antes de hacerlo. Y aunque presentía el porqué, no se atrevía ni a reconocerlo.

Si darle vueltas a un mismo asunto matara a la gente, Draco habría sido hombre muerto aquella misma noche. Porque después de su "encuentro" con el auror Potter en el baño de la cafetería, su mente pareció sufrir un ataque de análisis compulsivo de los hechos recién acontecidos; tanto, que le costaba concentrarse para realizar la más mínima tarea rutinaria en la oficina. Así que apenas terminó el trabajo del día, se fue a su casa a intentar descansar y ver si después de dormir un poco conseguía serenarse, pero resultó que no logró pegar ojo. Finalmente, harto de rememorar el momento y no poder pensar en nada más, llamó a un elfo a gritos, sin levantarse de la cama. Sólo una poción para dormir pudo ayudarlo a conciliar el sueño. Al otro día se levantó e intentó convencerse de que todo estaba bien. No sólo bien, sino perfecto. Que lo que había pasado había sido algo que a él le beneficiaba y que tendría que sentirse contento. Después de todo, llevaba las de ganar, ¿no? En primer lugar, como había decidido no volver a la cafetería nunca más, se podía decir que había conseguido vencer a ese idiota y vergonzoso vicio al que había estado sometido: ir a deleitarse con la vista del cabroncete aquel. Ahora se sentía… libre, por así decirlo. Ya no estaría cada mañana debatiendo si ir o no ir a la cafetería conforme se acercaba la hora del almuerzo. El asunto estaba zanjado de antemano. Y en segundo lugar (esto le costaba un poco más creérselo), Draco pensaba que debería sentirse satisfecho con lo ocurrido. ¿Acaso no había conseguido lo que quería, aunque aparentemente no se había dado cuenta de que lo deseaba hasta el momento en que lo obtuvo? Se podía decir que sí. Potter lo había estado volviendo loco con toda esa sexualidad que exudaba al caminar, al comer, al fumar… lo había mantenido en un estado de demencia temporal que, Draco creía, ahora había terminado. Le había puesto punto final a semejante locura con aquel polvo de tres minutos en el baño de la cafetería. Y cuando su línea de pensamiento llegaba a ese momento, era cuando Draco tenía que morderse los labios y suprimir un gemido de impotencia. Porque sí, había sido un polvo de tres minutos, pero qué polvo tan jodidamente inolvidable. Una paja mutua y unos besos apresurados que, aunque en aquel momento habían sido extraordinarios y sumamente disfrutables, ahora le dejaban un sabor amargo no sólo en la boca, sino también en el alma. Un gusto a decepción, tristeza y desesperanza. Porque todo había sucedido demasiado rápido y porque Draco sabía (oh dios, vaya que lo sabía) que era tan imposible que sucediera otro encuentro con Potter como imposible era que él autorizara la descabellada idea de Granger de comprarle teléfonos móviles muggles a todo el personal del Ministerio. Pero precisamente eso, que fuera bastante improbable volver a tener un encontronazo así con Potter, era lo mejor. Porque, ¿quién quería ilusionarse, entusiasmarse o, todavía peor, enamorarse de un idiota hijo de puta que se metía en los pantalones de todo dios? Al menos él, no. Draco pasó toda su mañana intentando convencerse de ello con cada gramo de orgullo y fuerza que le quedaban en el cuerpo. La hora del almuerzo llegó y se pasó; y durante minutos completos, Draco pudo ver los ojos atónitos de Ethel asomándose por la puerta entreabierta como para asegurarse de que en verdad su jefe continuaba sentado ahí y no se había escabullido a la cafetería del Ministerio como venía haciendo desde hacía meses. Draco la atrapó en una ocasión y le dedicó una mirada bastante desagradable: eso bastó para que Ethel comprendiera y lo dejara en paz. Draco asintió con satisfacción. Si había algo que le gustaba de Ethel era su don para comprender sus indicaciones aun sin decirlas en voz alta. Una hora después, Ethel regresó a la puerta, pero en esa ocasión traía un café en la mano y varios documentos en la otra. Pidió permiso para entrar. —Le recuerdo, señor Malfoy, que su cita con los administradores del castillo de Colchester está programada para las cuatro de la tarde. Tomará el té con ellos y posteriormente se llevará a cabo la junta con el contador. Su traje muggle está listo, colgado en su armario. Ethel se silenció y no colocó la taza de café sobre el escritorio de su jefe. Draco dejó de leer los pergaminos de solicitudes de presupuesto y subvenciones que le enviaban de todos los departamentos (cada uno con una razón más ridícula que la anterior) y levantó la mirada hacia ella. —Gracias, Ethel. Sí, puedes dejar el café. La mujer, una bruja de mediana edad y tan guapa que no dejaba de sorprender a Draco el hecho de que continuara soltera, le sonrió apenas levemente y caminó hacia la puerta. Se detuvo en el umbral. —Lo olvidaba, señor Malfoy. El auror que lo escoltará estará aquí por usted faltando un cuarto para las cuatro. Draco asintió para darle a entender que la había escuchado. Al salir ella, se permitió poner los ojos en blanco con fastidio: odiaba tener que consentir que un maldito auror fuera con él a todos los sitios. Apretó los labios con rabia mientras recordaba el atentado que había sufrido y que casi le había costado la vida, una vez a manos de un loco que había perdido a toda su parentela en la guerra. Después de eso, el ministro en persona le prohibió volver a salir a ninguna misión oficial sin guardia. Suspiró con resignación y alivio porque sabía que, pasara lo que pasara, al menos tenía la suerte de que Potter, el auror estrella del escuadrón, jamás sería asignado para cumplir esa (Draco intuía) desagradable misión. Después de todo, pensó Draco con ironía, el niño dorado era demasiado importante como para arriesgarlo poniéndolo a proteger a un mago clasificado como indeseable por muchos, situación que a Draco lo tenía bastante sin cuidado. Sabía que era un excelente administrador de los bienes del Ministerio: duro, inconmovible y ahorrativo, lo que lo convertía en un directivo capaz que el ministro no quería perder. Mientras fuera bueno en su trabajo y el jefe estuviera satisfecho lo demás le importaba un soberano rábano. Aunque tampoco tenía deseos de morir así de joven y bello, por supuesto. Por eso, más que por ninguna otra razón, era por lo que permitía que un auror lo acompañase en sus salidas de rutina, aunque por lo regular le asignaban a los jóvenes novatos. Recordó eso y se angustió al suponer que tal vez en esa ocasión le encasquetarían al idiota de Creevey. Se bebió de un solo trago el café que Ethel le había llevado, furioso porque estaba casi seguro de que sería así. ¿Cómo iba a soportar estar toda la tarde con el que seguramente era el último ligue de Potter y no pensar en éste, precisamente? Esperaba de todo corazón que un muro del viejo castillo de Colchester le cayera encima al que ahora parecía ser el fan número uno del club de la Puta Potter. Sonrió malévolamente al imaginar el hermoso cuadro. Pero no fue Creevey el auror enviado. La sangre se le congeló en las venas a Draco cuando, unas pocas horas más tarde, salió de su oficina para encontrarse con una fornida espalda enfundada en las túnicas verdes de auror y un cabello negro alborotado como nido de cuervos que él, válgame todos los dioses, conocía muy bien. Potter estaba mirando hacia las ventanas de modo que ni Draco ni Ethel podían verle la cara. De brazos cruzados y postura rígida, parecía un resorte a punto de brincar, un nudo de pura tensión y enojo, a tal grado que Draco podía sentir la magia del estúpido vibrando de manera violenta y desagradable en cada centímetro cúbico de la habitación. Draco giró su cabeza hacia Ethel como buscando una respuesta; la secretaria sólo le devolvió una mirada de susto, como si a ella le sorprendiera todavía más que el auror asignado para escoltarlo fuera ni más ni menos que el nene consentido de Robards. Draco no permitió que ni siquiera Ethel descubriera el azoro que él mismo sentía. Intentó recomponerse, endureció la expresión y caminó hacia Potter mientras se convencía de que eso tenía que ser un error. No era posible que después de lo que había pasado entre ellos, ahora tuviera que soportar la cercanía obligada de aquel grandísimo imbécil. Se colocó delante de Potter obligando a éste a que lo viera a la cara. Lo notó abrir mucho los ojos y barrerlo rápidamente con la mirada en un gesto apreciativo; quizá era la primera vez que Potter veía a Draco vestido de muggle (y Draco sabía que se veía muy bien porque todos sus trajes muggles eran finos y cortados a la medida. Él mismo se había asignado una cantidad suficiente para adquirir los hechos por los mejores diseñadores que existían, faltaba más). Sin embargo, aquello fue efímero. De inmediato Potter pareció volver a enfurecerse y a colocar en su carota una mueca adusta. —¿Puedo ayudarte en algo, auror? —le preguntó Draco del modo más indiferente que pudo— Estoy seguro de que te has equivocado de oficina. Verás, aquí sí trabajamos de verdad. ¿Eso no irá a darte urticaria? Por el rabillo del ojo pudo apreciar que Ethel lo miraba con terror, como si pensara que su jefe se había vuelto loco. Potter, por su parte, lo miró todavía más furioso y Draco juraba que lo estaba escuchando rechinar los dientes. Sonrió muy pagado de él mismo. Eso, curiosamente, le brindó un latigazo de satisfacción que recorrió sus venas y lo hizo emocionarse. Era como volver a estar en el colegio y molestar a Potter por el puro placer de hacerlo rabiar y obtener su atención. —Soy tu… —comenzó a decir Potter entre dientes y prácticamente echando humo por las orejas— Soy tu guardia. He sido asignado como tu escolta en todos y cada uno de los eventos oficiales a los que tengas que asistir de hoy en adelante —dijo mecánicamente, como si se tratara de un discurso que había memorizado previamente. —¿Todos y cada uno? —repitió Draco antes de poder detenerse. Se sacudió mentalmente; aquello resultaba bastante inusual por varias razones. Nunca le mandaban al mismo auror y menos a Potter, la estrellita del escuadrón—. Tiene que tratarse de un error, Potter —masculló, todavía negándose a creerlo—. ¿Tu jefe tiene grillos en el cerebro, o qué? Potter enrojeció, apretó los labios y el ambiente se hizo más pesado; la magia que irradiaba aquel imbécil se podía sentir claramente. Incluso Ethel se removió inquieta en su silla mientras le dedicaba a Draco una mirada que suplicaba "¡Jefe! Auror enfurecido casi en descontrol. ¡Ubíquese por favor si no quiere que nos mate a los dos!" Draco también comenzó a enojarse. Claro, porque eso era lo único que le faltaba: tener que lidiar con un psicópata que no era capaz de controlar la furia que evidentemente le causaba tener que cumplir con el desagradable trabajo de defender el pellejo de alguien a quien despreciaba. —Te aseguro, Malfoy —resopló Potter— que yo tampoco estoy brincando de gusto por tener que perder mi tiempo cuidando tu asqueroso trasero en vez de hacer cosas realmente importantes. Pero si Robards me ha asignado esta misión, ni tú ni nadie va a impedir que la realice. Ahora, si eres tan amable… cosa que dudo mucho —de nuevo miró a Draco de arriba abajo, pero en esa ocasión fue con desprecio. Draco sintió que le hervía la sangre—, te ruego que me acompañes. Apenas terminó de decir eso, salió de la oficina cual tromba, dejando tras de él un rastro de magia tan incómoda que Draco tuvo deseos de rascarse. Lo que menos le apetecía era seguir a aquel arrogante de mierda, pero, ¿qué otra opción tenía? Como el mismo Potter acababa de decir, aquello era trabajo y tenía que ser realizado. Sin despedirse de Ethel, quien todavía lo observaba con ojos como platos, Draco salió de su oficina rumbo al Departamento de Transporte. Draco estaba más que acostumbrado al desprecio que muchas personas solían dirigirle por el simple hecho de ser quien era, por ser el hijo de un ex mortífago y todas aquellas tonterías que a esas alturas de la vida, después de todo lo que él había conseguido por sus propios méritos, deberían haber quedado olvidadas; pero andar con Potter después de lo que había sucedido entre ellos el día anterior era un nivel de incomodidad completamente diferente. Permitió que se adelantara todo el camino. No le gustaba en lo más mínimo ir andando detrás de él, pero pensó que sería peor ir a su lado. Potter, por su parte, no parecía muy infeliz de ir varios metros delante de Draco, lo cual hacía que éste se sintiera irreflexivamente enojado. ¿Cómo era que Potter pensaba cuidarle la espalda si ni siquiera volteaba a verlo? Llegaron al Departamento de Transporte y ahí buscaron la Sala de Salidas donde el traslador que llevaría al jefe de Finanzas directo a Colchester estaba esperando. Sin mirarse a los ojos ni dirigirse la palabra en absoluto, Potter y él tomaron el traslador juntos, cada uno tocando un extremo de aquel libro encantado con ese propósito. Y así, mientras el libro titulado Arquitectura Normanda en Inglaterra los llevaba rápidamente a su destino, provocando que Potter y Draco chocaran hombro contra hombro mientras luchaban en vano por mantenerse alejados, Draco no podía dejar de pensar que aquella iba a ser una tarde muy larga. El traslador los dejó en una habitación pequeña y cerrada que él ya conocía bien. No eran pocas las veces que había viajado a Colchester: aquel viejo y derruido castillo ahora convertido en intento de museo estaba en una constante remodelación porque no dejaba de presentar problemas. Plagas incontrolables, humedad exagerada, paredes a punto de derrumbarse… era un verdadero dolor de cabeza para Draco y los administradores, sobre todo porque la mitad de los miembros del patronato, de los empleados y de los visitantes eran muggles y eso le impedía al Ministerio utilizar abiertamente la magia para hacer reparaciones, aunque se las ingeniaban. Sobre todo con las plagas que eran, en su mayoría, mágicas. Draco estaba cada vez más y más convencido de que aquel castillo de sencillo estilo normando tendría que haber sido, como decía una leyenda, el perdido Camelot, hogar de Merlín, el mago más poderoso de todos los tiempos. Había demasiados rastros de magia antigua (mucha de ella magia oscura) palpitando y rezumando en cada muro de piedra y en cada objeto antiguo. Esa era la razón, Draco suponía, por la que el pobre sitio no dejaba de ser asolado por las más espantosas criaturas de origen mágico. La magia atraía a la magia, especialmente cuando era de la clase más siniestra. Potter pareció darse cuenta de eso apenas al llegar. Draco lo vio abrir mucho los ojos mientras miraba alrededor y se llevaba la mano al bolsillo donde tenía la varita. Draco sabía que tendría que respetar al auror por ser tan capaz de percibir magia malévola y de ponerse en guardia, pero en vez de eso, se rió en su cara. —Tranquilo, Chico Maravilla —dijo cuando terminó de reír—. Todo esto que sientes es magia de siglos pasados, nada actual que amenace tu bonito culo dorado. ¿Jamás habías estado en Colchester? —Potter lo miró con rabia unos segundos y luego negó con la cabeza. Draco bufó y se dio el gusto de mirarlo de arriba abajo con tanto desprecio como lo había hecho el mismo Potter antes—. No sé ni para qué pregunto; es obvio que un iletrado como tú no perdería su valioso tiempo de perra en celo visitando museos. En el mismo instante que Draco soltó eso supo también que tal vez se había sobrepasado. Ahora sí sería un hecho: Potter, en vez de cuidarlo como era su trabajo, iba a asesinarlo ahí mismo. Sin embargo, en vez de sacar la varita y hechizarlo, Potter abrió mucho los ojos ante su comentario y Draco creyó que lo que había visto relampaguear en ellos había sido dolor y humillación. Pero fue todo tan rápido que Draco no podía asegurarlo. De inmediato Potter volvió a colocarse su cara de furia. —Oh, Dios, ¿se supone que tengo que sentirme ofendido por eso? —preguntó Potter en tono de burla—. Lamento que mi actividad sexual te insulte tanto, Malfoy, pero si tú eres incapaz de ligar y fornicar lo suficiente como para no estar así de amargado, es culpa tuya y no mía. A la gente no le gustan los engreídos que parecen traer un limón en la boca, ¿sabes? —Oh no, eso lo sé bien —arremetió Draco, con el calor de la emoción de una pelea inminente recorriéndole el cuerpo—. A la gente le gustan los culos abiertos y dispuestos como el tuyo, ¿cierto? Se ahorran montón de trabajo. Potter lo miró con odio y Draco entrecerró los ojos, correspondiéndole el sentimiento. Entonces Potter sacó la varita y Draco, automáticamente, se movió hacia atrás y llevó su mano al bolsillo interior de su chaqueta donde él traía la suya. Sin embargo, Potter no lo hechizó. Lo fulminó con la mirada un momento más antes de caminar hacia la puerta. Volviendo de pronto al momento presente, Draco dio un par de pasos para bloquearle el camino. —Alto ahí, Potter. No puedes salir en túnica y con la varita en la mano. La mitad de la gente que está allá afuera es muggle. Ellos creen que yo trabajo para su gobierno y no tienen idea de que este castillo pertenece al Ministerio de Magia. ¿No te dijeron? —Ante la negativa de Potter, Draco murmuró—: ¿Sabes que eres peor que todos los novatos que suelen enviarme? Te tienen totalmente sobrevalorado cuando la verdad es que no vales ni la saliva que el mundo gasta hablando de ti. Apenas terminó de decir eso, Draco volvió a darse cuenta de que se estaba excediendo al insultar a Potter con cada frase que decía. ¿Qué demonios estaba ocurriendo con él? ¿De verdad tenía ganas de enfrentarse con Potter en un duelo de varitas, especialmente cuando tenían trabajo que hacer? Draco permaneció expectante mientras luchaba con fuerza para no permitir que su mente volara e imaginara otro escenario que realmente se moría por volver a compartir con aquel imbécil. Miró a Potter contenerse mientras tensaba la mandíbula: también él parecía deseoso de medir fuerzas con Draco, pero era como si, al mismo tiempo, algo se lo estuviera impidiendo. Con molestia, Draco supuso que era sencillamente el deseo que tenía Potter de no meterse en problemas por atacar al que, se suponía, tenía que proteger. Finalmente, el auror bufó con desprecio y se movió hacia atrás; se despojó de su túnica y la arrojó de cualquier manera sobre el único mueble que había en la habitación: la mesa donde habían dejado el libro-traslador. Draco intentó distraerse pensando en cualquier cosa como, por ejemplo, que era una suerte que Potter siempre trajera ropa muggle debajo de la túnica. "Piensa lo que sea, piensa LO QUE SEA menos en lo bueno que está el desgraciado", se repetía. Cualquier divagación era válida con tal de evitar permitirse admirar boquiabierto lo bien que el maldito se veía con aquellos vaqueros oscuros y su camiseta de manga corta. Fue demasiado. Aquella ropa resaltaba como nada los atributos físicos de Potter y Draco inevitablemente comenzó a salivar. Tuvo que desviar la vista. De reojo vio a Potter guardarse la varita en la cintura de los vaqueros y cuidarse de ocultarla bien debajo de su camiseta negra. —¿Satisfecho? —preguntó Potter de mala manera mientras elevaba los brazos, cómo exhibiéndose delante de Draco. Draco se obligó a mirar a Potter a la cara y a asentir, aunque lo que en verdad deseaba era poder contemplar ese cuerpo sin reparos. —Realmente me habría gustado que vinieras un poco más formal, pero es como pedirle peras al olmo, lo sé —dijo Draco tratando de usar su mejor tono sarcástico, pero eso le costaba porque estaba más que afectado por aquel atractivo sexual que Potter parecía irradiar—. Sólo procura no acercarte mucho a mí para que la gente no piense que me rebajo a contratar asistentes que no saben ni vestirse. Potter bajó los brazos, suspiró con enfado y le dedicó una última mirada airada. Caminó hacia la puerta, la abrió y salió hecho una verdadera furia del lugar. Draco lo siguió, también suspirando y luchando por contener todo ese torrente de emociones contradictorias que Potter despertaba en él. Draco odiaba admitirlo, pero la verdad era que Potter estaba haciendo un buen trabajo como su guardaespaldas. Discreto y atento, el auror se mantuvo a una distancia prudente de Draco mientras éste hacía su recorrido rutinario por las plantas superiores del castillo y saludaba a los trabajadores y miembros del patronato que se encontraba en las diferentes salas. Observándolo por el rabillo del ojo y fingiendo que ni se enteraba de su existencia, Draco se daba cuenta de que Potter guardaba siempre una distancia que le permitía mirar todo lo que pasaba alrededor de Draco y que no dejaba de mirar a cualquiera que le pareciera sospechoso hasta que, aparentemente, decidía que el individuo en cuestión no era una amenaza. Potter lo acompañó a la oficina donde Draco iba a reunirse con los miembros del patronato a tomar el té. Revisó el sitio con magia (Draco lo miró levantar una mano y cerrar los ojos, y casi se pateó por sentirse impresionado) y luego se quedó tras la puerta mientras Draco procedía a cumplir con aquella reunión protocolaria. Draco jamás lo reconocería, pero ir acompañado de Potter le brindaba una sensación de seguridad que jamás había experimentado con ningún otro auror. Terminada la reunión, Draco salió de la oficina acompañado de un venerable anciano muggle que, según sabía, era un personaje importante en Colchester. Potter los siguió a cierta distancia. A Draco le costaba trabajo caminar con naturalidad y concentrarse en lo que el muggle le decía sabiendo que aquel cretino iba detrás de ellos. En un momento dado, llegaron a un ala del castillo donde un grupo de artistas restauraban unos óleos medievales. Potter, como lo había estado haciendo hasta ese momento, guardó gran distancia de dónde se paraba Draco. —¿Qué le han parecido los avances en los trabajos, secretario Malfoy? —le preguntó el muggle—. Estoy seguro de que pronto podremos reabrir el museo al público. ¿Le parece bien si discutimos las fechas para comenzar con la publicidad mientras lo acompaño a la oficina del contador? Draco abrió la boca para contestar, pero se vio interrumpido por las risas descaradas y cuchicheos alegres que eran emitidos por un grupo de chicas que estaban trabajando en una de las restauraciones. Draco y el anciano no pudieron evitar girarse hacia ellas, especialmente porque en el silencio casi sepulcral que reinaba en el castillo, aquel alboroto se sentía bastante sacrílego. El grupo de artistas (donde no sólo había chicas, sino también un par de jóvenes) estaban riéndose, sonrojándose, señalando y mirando hacia un rincón. Los ojos de Draco siguieron la trayectoria de sus miradas y apenas sí se contuvo de soltar una maldición en voz baja cuando descubrió que Potter era el causante del alboroto. Porque Potter estaba ahí… fumándose un cigarrillo con toda la frescura del mundo, con ese modo tan erótico con el que tenía la costumbre de hacerlo y que, aparentemente, también volvía loca a la población muggle y no sólo a los magos. Con la espalda y uno de sus pies apoyados contra el muro de piedra y con ese aire desgarbado pero sexy que lo caracterizaba, Potter tenía la mano izquierda metida en el bolsillo de sus vaqueros y con la derecha se introducía y sacaba el pitillo de la boca. En ese momento, Draco fue testigo de cómo Potter echó la cabeza hacia atrás hasta recostarla también en la pared mientras arrojaba volutas de humo y cerraba los ojos con placer. El grupito de improvisados nuevos fans de Potter el Desfachatado soltó risitas de la emoción. Draco vio todo rojo y trató de convencerse con todas las fuerzas de su corazón que era solamente porque Potter era un verdadero caradura inconsciente. Absolutamente por eso y nada más. —¿No es ese su asistente, secretario Malfoy? —preguntó el anciano en tono escandalizado y con una clara amonestación para Draco. Draco se enojó todavía más. Le dirigió una sonrisa de disculpa al hombre y caminó decididamente hacia Potter. Pasó de largo frente al grupito de artistas, les dedicó una mirada furiosa y llegó hasta el auror. Se paró a su lado intentando no sofocarse con el humo del tabaco y con las feromonas que aparentemente desprendía el desgraciado. —Potter —susurró, pero como el otro lo ignoró y ni siquiera abrió los ojos, Draco lo llamó de nuevo levantando la voz—: ¡Potter! ¡Te estoy hablando! Perezosamente y con el cigarro colgando entre las comisuras de la boca, Potter abrió los ojos soñolientos y miró a Draco. Éste había comenzado a respirar agitadamente y definitivamente se negaba a reconocer por qué. —Dígame, señor director de finanzas que finge ser secretario muggle, ¿para qué soy bueno? —dijo Potter en voz tan alta que consiguió que más de una persona a su alrededor los mirara con extrañeza. Draco sabía que estaba enrojeciendo y no solamente de la rabia. —¿Cómo se te ocurre ponerte a fumar tus endiablas cosas en el interior de un museo y rodeado de productos inflamables? ¡¿Estás demente o qué?! ¡Estás avergonzándome delante de todo el mundo! Potter se sacó el cigarro de la boca con un movimiento tan cadencioso que podría haber sido clasificado como obsceno y miró hacia donde estaban los trabajadores y el anciano del patronato. Soltó humo por la boca mientras le preguntaba a Draco: —¿Y se supone que tendría que importarme eso? ¿Eh, Malfoy? —finalizó en tono de burla y echó el resto del humo directamente a la cara de Draco. Eso fue lo último que éste pudo soportar. Levantó la mano, le arrebató el cigarro y lo arrojó al suelo. Lo aplastó con el pie, con tanta saña que cualquiera habría creído que era la cara de Potter la que estaba pisando. Jadeando y sintiéndose triunfante y feliz por primera vez en toda esa tarde, terminó y miró a Potter. Lo retó con los ojos a que dijera o hiciera cualquier cosa. Potter estaba realmente indignado y parecía sacar chispas por sus ojos verdes. —¡Eres un…! —comenzó a gritar Potter, pero miró de reojo hacia los presentes en la sala y eso pareció contenerlo. Soltó en voz baja—: ¡Eres un infantil y un presuntuoso, Malfoy! Draco, olvidando que estaban dando un espectáculo, se rió con ganas. —¡¿No te mordiste la lengua, Potter?! ¡El único niño mimado aquí eres tú! El anciano del patronato se aclaró la garganta tan sonoramente que el ruido reverberó por toda la habitación. Draco se sonrojó de vergüenza y, sin mirar atrás, tomó a Potter del brazo y tiró de él, obligándolo a caminar a su lado mientras salía de ahí y lo dirigía a cualquier sitio donde pudieran arreglar sus diferencias a solas. El primer sitio que encontró fueron las pequeñas escaleras que dirigían a las criptas. Levantó el cordón de plástico amarillo e ignoró el letrero que indicaba con grandes letras "PELIGRO. NO PASAR" pues sabía que estaba colocado solamente para que los muggles no se encontraran con las plagas que solían invadir aquélla, la parte más húmeda y oscura del castillo. Bajó a toda velocidad por ahí, todavía tirando de un Potter increíblemente dócil que incluso iba descendiendo tan aprisa como Draco. Terminaron de recorrer el tramo de aquellas estrechas escaleras de piedra y, jadeando, ambos se colocaron frente a frente. En la oscuridad del sitio los ojos de Potter parecían resplandecer y Draco se preguntó distraídamente si los de él se verían igual. —Potter —comenzó Draco, intentando no levantar la voz—, ¿tengo que recordarte que estamos haciendo un trabajo aquí y que no hemos venido de paseo? Potter, cruzado de brazos y tan tenso que los músculos de éstos se le marcaban deliciosamente, negó con la cabeza tan duro que a Draco le extrañó que no se desnucase. —Oh no, claro que no. Estar viendo tu horrible carota de frígido me lo recuerda a cada instante, despreocúpate. Jamás saldría a pasear con un idiota presumido como tú. Draco también se cruzó de brazos, intentando no sentirse lastimado por lo que Potter decía y queriendo patearse a él mismo. ¿Por qué tenía que importarle lo que el estúpido pensara de él? —Claro, porque tú prefieres pasar tu tiempo con tus cientos de admiradores que no hacen otra cosa que besarte el culo —masculló. Potter sonrió lascivo y socarrón. —Literalmente —susurró. Draco apretó los dientes con rabia. Por supuesto que no estaba imaginándose una escena así, por Dios. Lo que sería volver a besar a Potter y sobre todo, besar aquel trasero de ensueño que el maldito poseía. —Eres un degenerado —le dijo con la voz cargada de veneno, odiándolo más que nunca por desearlo de aquella forma—. Libertino sexual repugnante. Vio a Potter entrecerrar los ojos antes de replicar: —Y tú, un reprimido, amargado y arrogante, que se cree mucha mierda como para rebajarse a convivir con los de su alrededor. —¡Eso ya me lo habías dicho, Potter! —exclamó Draco, dando un paso hacia él y temblando del enojo. Dios, si Potter seguía así, él sacaría su varita y no respondería de sus actos—. ¡Eres poco original hasta para insultar! ¡Pero claro, con toda tu concentración puesta en cómo follarte a medio mundo, ¿cómo se podría pedir que pensaras en cualquier otra cosa?! —¡¿Por qué demonios te importa tanto lo que hago o dejo de hacer, Malfoy?! —gritó Potter, también dando un paso hacia él—. ¡Es mi maldito cuerpo y yo me acuesto con quien quiero! Draco se dio cuenta de que el polvo fino que cubría el suelo de las criptas estaba comenzando a agitarse y revolverse, y sabía que era por la magia descontrolada de aquel cretino. Pero estaba tan furioso que ignoró todas las señales de alerta. —¡Claro que no me importa! ¡Por mí puedes joderte a media Inglaterra! ¡Pero cuando me haces quedar mal a mí con la gente con la que trabajo, es diferente! ¿Viste el alboroto que causaste allá arriba con tu maldita forma de fumar? —Miró a Potter con desprecio antes de continuar—: Apostaría a que sabes lo que provocas y lo haces a propósito. ¡Eres tan puta que no me extrañaría que un día de éstos te usen en el Ministerio para seducir a alguien con algún fin político y siniestro! Potter retrocedió ante lo dicho por Draco, abriendo mucho los ojos y la boca, con desconcierto. Negó con la cabeza, pero antes de decir nada, se llevó la mano a la cintura y sacó su varita en un movimiento tan veloz que Draco apenas sí lo registró. —¡Desmaius! —gritó Potter mientras lanzaba el encantamiento. Draco se movió a un lado, pero se dio cuenta de que Potter no le había arrojado el hechizo a él, sino a un punto que estaba a unos centímetros de su cabeza. Draco se giró hacia atrás justo a tiempo para ver a un gorro rojo que salía despedido por los aires, todavía con una enorme maza manchada de sangre seca entre las manos. Draco pasó saliva mientras veía caer sobre el polvoriento piso de piedra a aquella asquerosa criatura, pequeña como un duende pero muchísimo más feroz. Sabía que Potter acababa de salvarlo de que aquella cosa le partiera el cráneo. Miró hacia Potter sin saber qué decir. Éste también lo observaba a él con intensidad. Entonces, sin previo aviso, comenzaron a salir gorros rojos de todos los rincones de la cripta, chillando y arrojándose hacia Draco que era quien estaba más alejado de la entrada. —¡Demonios! —masculló mientras se agachaba y trataba de alcanzar su varita, levantando el brazo izquierdo para protegerse la cabeza de aquella plaga infernal que adoraba machacar a la gente para poder pintar sus horripilantes gorros con su sangre. Todavía no había podido sacar su varita cuando una lluvia de hechizos le pasó rozando y un montón de gorros rojos, ya inconscientes, caían sobre él. Se arriesgó a levantar un poco la cabeza y miró que Potter estaba dándose vuelo acabando con aquellas cosas. Parecía feliz de por fin poder dar rienda suelta a su enojo, disparando encantamientos a diestra y siniestra con un gesto de profunda intensidad en su guapo rostro. Draco tragó fuerte cuando el último gorro rojo cayó desmayado delante de él. "Maldita sea mi suerte", pensó. Eso era lo único que le faltaba. Era la primera vez que uno de sus guardaespaldas asignados por el Ministerio le salvaba la vida efectivamente. Y había tenido que ser San Potter, de entre toda la gente. No sabía ni qué decir. Para su fortuna, fue Potter quien rompió aquel incómodo silencio que se había instalado en la cripta. —¡¿Qué mierda es esto?! —exclamó Potter con incredulidad—. ¿Por qué demonios hay tanto bicho aquí? ¿Al Ministerio no se les ocurre mandar una cuadrilla del departamento de Regulación y Control de Criaturas Mágicas? Draco, intentando recuperar un poco de su perdida dignidad, se incorporó ya con la varita en la mano. Prefería tenerla por si acaso todavía había más gorros rojos dispuestos a saltar encima de él. —Sí las mandan, pero no se dan abasto —comenzó a explicar en voz baja y sin mirar a Potter a la cara—. Estas plagas simplemente no dejan de aparecer. Hubo una pequeña pausa en la que los dos magos miraban a su alrededor. —Es por toda la magia negra que sucedió aquí, ¿cierto? —preguntó Potter. Draco asintió, todavía sin atreverse a mirar al otro a los ojos. —Este castillo no sólo tiene altas probabilidades de haber sido el famoso Camelot donde habitó Merlín (quien, déjame decirte, Potter, era un mago oscuro, retorcido y malévolo), sino que también fue la prisión de magos antes de que construyeran Azkaban y, por si fuera poco, fue testigo de cientos de ejecuciones de magos, brujas y muggles. Draco se giró a encarar a Potter, de cierta manera, aliviado de que un tema neutral hubiese surgido entre ellos. No tenía ganas de darle las gracias y mucho menos de sentirse culpable por todas las cosas que le había estado diciendo durante la tarde. —Este castillo sí que tiene una historia verdaderamente adorable —dijo Potter sonriendo, y Draco sintió que el aliento le faltaba al pensar que esa sonrisa iba dirigida a él—. Ahora entiendo muchas cosas de las que siento aquí. ¿Por qué entonces simplemente no lo cierran? ¿No es como muy arriesgado y peligroso? Tú sabes que los gorros rojos sí matan muggles. Draco suspiró y se encogió de hombros. De ninguna manera iba a contarle a Potter que si el Ministerio seguía empeñado en volver al castillo de Colchester un sitio rentable era por la insistencia de él mismo, ya que lo seducía la idea (quizá un tanto ingenua) de que ése se tratase del legendario castillo del Rey Arturo. —A lo largo de los años este lugar ha representado más pérdidas que ganancias para el Ministerio —dijo—, pero por alguna razón me he negado a rendirme con él. —Ya veo —dijo Potter mientras lo miraba fija e intensamente. Draco no sabía qué hacer con eso. No soportó aquella tensión y comenzó a caminar en círculos por la cripta como si buscara algo. Pasó junto a un antiguo féretro de madera y un zumbido atrajo su atención. —Aquí hay algo —le dijo a Potter mientras usaba su varita para abrir un poco la tapa del féretro. Potter se acercó al mismo tiempo que un hada cubierta de pelo negro salía volando del interior—. ¡Ah!, —exclamó Draco mientras utilizaba su varita para repeler al bicho—, es sólo una doxy. —¡Cuidado, Malfoy! —dijo Potter con preocupación—. Normalmente donde hay una doxy, hay… Antes de que Potter pudiera completar la frase, un enjambre de doxys salió zumbando ruidosamente del féretro y todas se arrojaron sobre Draco, mordiéndolo inmisericordemente en las manos, la cara y aun sobre la ropa. Intentó repelerlas, arrojarlas lejos, pero no pudo. El dolor de las mordidas y el veneno que rápidamente comenzó a circular por su sangre, fue suficiente como para dejarlo indefenso y casi ciego en pocos segundos. Escuchó a Potter lanzar hechizos mientras él peleaba con todas sus fuerzas para no dejarse caer al suelo. —¡MALFOY! —gritó Potter con un tinte en la voz que definitivamente era angustia, y eso fue lo último que Draco escuchó mientras se derrumbaba entre los brazos del auror. Pero eso no era posible. Tendría que estárselo imaginando, y ese fue el último pensamiento de Draco antes de desmayarse completamente.

Harry sabía que desde hacía unos años no se había portado muy bien que digamos. Lo sabía, no era tan estúpido como mucha gente creía. Se daba cuenta de que se había vuelto un poco engreído, un tanto comodón y, lo peor, un discapacitado emocional incapaz de enamorarse. O al menos eso era lo que había creído hasta el momento en que se percató de cuatro verdades relacionadas con Draco Malfoy: una, que estaba más bueno que la tarta de melaza; dos, que trabajaba ahí mismo en el Ministerio en algún departamento de ésos medio inútiles; tres, que era tan gay como él, y cuatro… que jamás lo miraba y que era el único ser en el mundo que parecía no babear por Harry Potter. Aunque la verdad número cuatro no era cable de último momento. Durante toda la historia de "encuentros, desencuentros y encontronazos", protagonizada por él y Malfoy, había sido así. Pero ahora, en ese punto de su vida en el que se rencontraban como adultos hechos y derechos, que Malfoy lo ignorara, resultaba más extraño debido a la inexplicable circunstancia que provocaba que todo el jodido mundo quisiera meterse en los pantalones de Harry. Draco Malfoy, como antes, como siempre, era de los pocos inmunes. Y eso volvía loco a Harry Potter. Haciendo un recuento, Harry podía marcar como el inicio de toda esa promiscua locura al momento en el que terminó su relación con Ginny Weasley y decidió que experimentar con su mismo sexo parecía buena idea. Se declaró bisexual y probó de todo. Brujas, magos, muggles de ambos sexos, personajes casados, divorciados, viudos, gente de cualquier edad: todos se le tiraban casi literalmente a los pies, lambisconeando por un poco de atención sexual. Al principio, por las fechas que coincidían con el periodo que pasó preparándose en la Academia de Aurores, Harry se lo tomó con calma, seleccionando cuidadosamente a las personas con las que terminaba yéndose a la cama. Sin embargo, poco a poco fue acelerando ese proceso de "selección, sexo y posterior despedida" ya que no parecía "hacer clic" con nadie y en muchas ocasiones ni siquiera le apetecía repetir. Además, había montones y montones de magos y brujas que querían estar con él. ¿Para que ir despacio si tenía tanto de dónde escoger? Llegó al Ministerio a desempeñarse como auror y la cosa explotó. Fue por aquella época cuando dejó de elegir chicas. Éstas, se dio cuenta, representaban más problemas. Con los varones era más sencillo terminar (en los dos sentidos de la palabra); no hacían tanto drama a la hora de decir hasta luego. La manera en que los hombres, maduros y jóvenes, caían con esa sencillez en sus redes era tan descarada y evidente que llegó un punto en que sus amigos se preocuparon de verdad, y Harry tuvo a Hermione molestándolo y haciendo investigación para averiguar si no tendría algo de veela circulándole por la sangre. Afortunadamente su amiga se cansó pronto al no encontrar absolutamente nada en el árbol genealógico de Harry, y poco a poco todos a su alrededor se acostumbraron al nuevo Harry Potter, un hijo de puta que cambiaba de amante como de calcetines y que no parecía tener la más mínima posibilidad de tomar en serio a nadie. Pronto dejó de ser tema para todos (menos para la prensa, la cual parecía no cansarse nunca de los jugosos chismes proporcionados por el niño-que-vivió-para-follar-con-medio-mundo). Harry, quien realmente amaba ser auror, pronto tuvo que tomarse su trabajo más en serio (lo que implicó menos tiempo libre para pasarlo con sus ligues) y, en medio de todas esas redadas y turnos extra para proteger un mundo mágico que no parecía poder cuidarse solo, Harry dejó de llevar chicos a su casa (o de visitar las de ellos). Especialmente porque de súbito descubrió que podía tener una breve sesión de sexo a la hora del almuerzo, sin complicaciones, sin invertir más tiempo ni esfuerzo. Harry, quien ya estaba empezándose a hartar de lidiar con las molestas consecuencias de llevarse gente a su casa que luego creía equivocadamente que eso les abría la puerta para cuando se les antojara volver, decidió que era mejor sostener ese tipo de sexo casual. No siempre era fácil hacer comprender a su conquista del momento que aquello no iba a más. Por eso y porque no le apetecía involucrarse sentimentalmente con nadie, Harry se volvió cada vez más caradura, menos empático, más hijo de puta. Se daba cuenta, cómo no. Su consciencia (esa inoportuna que desde el colegio le susurraba fastidiosamente las cosas con una vocecilla chillona y aguda parecida a la de Hermione) se lo reprochaba. A veces. Pero Harry prestamente había aprendido a ignorarla. Lo que no pudo ignorar fue el golpazo casi literal que sufrió cuando descubrió que Draco Malfoy se sentaba a unas pocas mesas de la suya cada mediodía mientras él y sus compañeros del escuadrón tomaban su almuerzo. No pudo ignorarlo porque al principio fue totalmente irritante. ¿Qué mierda hacía ese cretino aquí? Ah, sí, averiguó después, trabajaba para el Departamento de Finanzas, haciendo lo que mejor se le había dado siempre: manejar el dinero. Durante el primer par de semanas, Harry le dedicó algunas miradas airadas y desconfiadas sin resultado, sin que fueran correspondidas. Harry sencillamente no podía creerlo, ¿por qué Malfoy lo ignoraba de aquella manera, como si Harry no existiera? Ni siquiera en el colegio había sido así de indiferente: Harry recordaba perfectamente bien cómo, durante los seis años que estuvieron juntos en la escuela, Malfoy jamás se había negado a responderle una mirada de odio con otra peor. Las semanas comenzaron a correr con espantosa rapidez y Harry, infinitamente incrédulo, no podía comprender por qué Malfoy asistía a la cafetería del Ministerio solamente a tomar café y a ignorarlo a él. Con el afán de llamar su atención, Harry comenzó a comportarse cada vez más descarado y escandaloso. Empezó a reír más alto, a hablar a gritos, a fumar con obscenidad, a coquetear impúdicamente (sí, todavía más) con cuanto chico joven se le ponía enfrente y a largarse al baño con ellos para ver si así conseguía que Malfoy sacara la maldita cara de detrás del periódico y se daba cuenta de que Harry continuaba existiendo, de que estaba ahí y lo estaba viendo. En pocas palabras, Harry empeoró su ya de por sí egoísta y desastroso comportamiento para ver si ofendía a aquel estirado presumido y lograba regresarlo al campo de batalla de las miradas enardecidas en el que antaño ambos habían sido orgullosos combatientes en bandos contrarios. Pero no. Harry Potter estaba azorado. Tenía años (AÑOS) que nadie se le negaba así. La simple noción de eso lo estaba enloqueciendo. Lo que fuera que lo hacía irresistible a los ojos de los demás, con Malfoy simplemente parecía no funcionar. "Pero Harry", decía la voz de su consciencia, "siempre ha sido así. Malfoy jamás ha sentido ningún tipo de simpatía por ti, ni antes ni ahora. ¿De qué te sorprendes?" Y Harry, hastiado, sabía que tenía razón. "Pero, ¿por qué ahora ni siquiera me molesta o permite que yo lo moleste?", se preguntaba con lo que él consideraba era una duda totalmente justa. Así que, en vista de que Malfoy lo desconocía olímpicamente y ya no le presentaba pelea, Harry comenzó a sentirse intrigado. ¿Qué habría cambiado en el panorama que ocasionaba que su antiguo rival de la escuela mostrara ahora aquella novedosa indiferencia? Siendo Harry curioso por naturaleza, no demoró ni una semana: comenzó a interrogar gente con el fin de investigar. Usó algunas "amistades pasadas" (léase: anteriores amantes ocasionales) dispersos en varios departamentos del Ministerio para así descubrir algunas cosas. Pocas y bastante escuetas, y a Harry le molestó sobremanera no poder averiguar más. De este modo supo que Malfoy era el director del departamento de Finanzas (Harry ni siquiera había sabido de la existencia de tal departamento hasta ese momento), que continuaba soltero y aún vivía con sus padres, que los rumores decían que era gay pero muy discreto. Y eso fue todo. Siendo que Malfoy ni siquiera volteaba a ver a Harry en aquellos breves momentos en los que compartían espacio en la cafetería, Harry se sintió con gran libertad para observarlo sin temor a ser descubierto. De pronto y con un gran golpe de nostalgia, se sintió casi de vuelta en aquel último grado escolar que compartiese con Malfoy, donde se había dedicado casi todo el año a seguirlo y vigilarlo sin que pareciera que al otro le importase. Y como si de nuevo (increíble a esas alturas de su vida) estuviese obsesionándose con Malfoy, Harry comenzó a pensar cada vez menos en cuál de los novatos sería el siguiente que se llevaría a que le hiciese una mamada y, cada vez más, en por qué Malfoy habría dejado de considerarlo a él un sujeto digno de su mejor mirada enfadada y sonrisa altanera. Se habría dejado cortar un brazo antes de reconocer que extrañaba los insultos y las burlas de Malfoy. Poco a poco, conforme pasaban los meses, Harry comenzó a llenar su base de datos titulada "Draco Malfoy" con algo más que aquella poca información que había conseguido por medio de otros. Descubrió, por ejemplo, que Malfoy poseía en su armario al menos 55 túnicas diferentes (todas muy bonitas y de corte fino), ya que ese era el preciso número de días que iba a trabajar sin repetir guardarropa. También se dio cuenta de que Malfoy siempre estaba ahí cuando llegaba él y que, por lo regular, se quedaba después de que los aurores se iban, lo cual era raro considerando que ni siquiera almorzaba. Que invariablemente leía El Profeta y, por lo que Harry alcanzaba a apreciar, a Malfoy le interesaban más las secciones de cultura y deportes que la de economía. Que siempre pedía sólo un café, el cual se bebía sin azúcar ni leche, y que le dejaba una propina muchísimo más que generosa al camarero. Asimismo, Harry se percató de que el mencionado camarero, un chico joven y de bastante buen ver, se bebía los vientos por Malfoy (Harry no sabía si era por la gran propina o por alguna otra razón. Pensar en "esa otra razón" le producía un malestar que no quería identificar), pero que Malfoy sencillamente parecía no darse cuenta. Harry odiaba admitirlo, pero este nuevo y mejorado Malfoy era eso, precisamente. Aparte de estar guapísimo y de ir siempre impecablemente vestido, Malfoy hacía gala de unos modales corteses con aquellos pocos que se molestaban en hablarle que tenían bastante impresionado a Harry, quien intuía que ese trato, amable aunque distante, era también el motivo por el que tenía idiota al pobre camarero. Acostumbrado a que todos a su alrededor babeasen por él, Harry sentía una molestia cada día mayor ante ese asunto "Malfoy y su camarero". Ni el uno ni el otro se dignaba a verlo. Harry sabía que era infantil sentir enojo por algo así, pero no podía (ni quería) evitarlo. Le gustaba sentirse ultrajado por culpa de Malfoy… así fuera por algo que éste hacía sin querer. Harry finalizaba su almuerzo casi siempre sintiéndose patético, y ni siquiera una paja o una mamada rápida con su ligue del momento le ayudaban a sentirse mejor. Un día, el chico encargado de redactar los memorándums en la oficina de los aurores le hizo una mamada que lo hizo ver estrellas y, al terminar, Harry deseó subirse a su escoba, volar hasta la estratósfera y luego dejarse caer. Sin escoba. Y todo porque durante el mejor momento de la mamada (ése donde sabía que estaba a punto de correrse y todo era bueno y maravilloso) había cerrado los ojos fuertemente y sin poder evitarlo se había imaginado que el chico rubio que se la estaba chupado era ni más ni menos que Malfoy. Lo peor fue que, apenas pensó aquello, se corrió con tantas ganas que tuvo que estrujar el cabello de aquel pobre ingenuo que le estaba dando placer mientras él, hijo de regrandísima puta, pensaba en otro hombre. Apenas se recuperó y sin pagarle al rubito aquel favor, Harry salió despavorido del armario donde se habían metido y se dio cuenta, con espanto, de que estaba totalmente jodido. Le gustaba Malfoy. Muchísimo. Como nunca nadie más. Cada mediodía, antes de llegar a la cafetería, Harry se prometía dejar de observar a Malfoy de aquella manera lastimosa. Cada mediodía fallaba miserablemente. Cada mediodía desde hacía unas semanas (cuando se había percatado de que Malfoy le gustaba), se preguntaba si acaso aquello no sería el cobro por todo el karma negativo que Harry había acumulado durante sus años de cabrón. Cada mediodía, Harry llegaba, veía a Malfoy de reojo, suspiraba quedo y discreto cuidándose de que nadie lo viera ni oyera, se ponía una máscara de falsa alegría y se dedicaba a gritar, reír, comer y fumar mientras fingía de la mejor manera posible que la indiferencia del otro no era una tortura total. Cada mediodía, antes de salir de la cafetería, Harry le echaba una última mirada a aquella gélida y estoica escultura que no se dignaba a percatarse de su presencia, pasaba saliva casi con dolor y le daba la espalda. Y si acaso Harry hacía una parada en los baños más cercanos para "intercambiar impresiones" con su último ligue, siempre se corría deliciosamente pensando en el guapísimo e inalcanzable director de Finanzas. Ya ni siquiera hacía esfuerzo alguno por evitar imaginar a Malfoy en cada uno de sus amantes y hasta dejó de sentirse culpable de buscar sólo chicos rubios que le ayudasen a aumentar la fantasía. Era un hijo de puta, lo sabía. Sin atreverse a hablar con Hermione o Ron acerca del tema, Harry pasó buenos ratos divagando (con creciente pánico) si acaso así se sentiría estar enamorado. Desesperado, incrementó su actividad sexual (ya no conformándose con pajas o mamadas, sino llevándose gente a su casa para follarlos como Dios mandaba), pero ni así podía sacarse de la cabeza a Malfoy, a su impasible y helada manera de ser, a sus modales refinados, sus túnicas cortadas a la medida, su rostro de rasgos finos y preciosos (no había otras palabras para describirlo), el hipnótico ritmo con el que pestañeaba mientras leía, el jodido modo en que a "su camarero" se le caía la baba. No podía dejar de pensar en él durante todo el día, y esa media hora que duraba su almuerzo en la cafetería se convirtió en la más esperada, la más anhelada. Por eso, el día que Dennis Creevey se incorporó al escuadrón de aurores y cayó rendido, como otros tantos miles antes que él, ante los encantos de Harry Potter, éste se abstuvo de llevárselo corriendo al baño o al armario más cercano. Porque, ¿qué pasaría si, en vez de eso, mejor iba despacio y permitía que las ganas que sentía por Dennis se incrementaran hasta volverse insoportables? Tal vez, pensaba Harry, esa era la solución a su problema y así evitaría volverse loco. Tal vez así dejaría de imaginarse irremediablemente que lo estaba haciendo con Malfoy cuando se follaba a cualquier otro. Tal vez. Y tal vez estaba siendo un hijo de puta al usar a Dennis para tales propósitos, pero eso no lo había detenido antes. Él, Harry Potter, ya había hecho bastante salvándoles el culo a todos en el Mundo Mágico, ahora que se jodieran. Necesitaba un clavo para sacarse el otro clavo y poco le importaba cualquier otra cosa. Así que eso hizo: en vez de echarse al plato al jovencito y lindo Dennis Creevey, se contuvo para ver si así podía interesarse realmente en él. O al menos, un poco más de lo que lo hacía habitualmente. Dejaría pasar un tiempo para comprobar si acaso de aquel modo el deseo doloroso que sufría por Malfoy se sustituía por el antojo de follarse a aquel niñato. Harry confiaba en que así sería porque si no, no sabría qué otra cosa podría hacer. Harry siempre había sido malo para las fechas y para calcular el paso del tiempo, así que aquel mediodía caluroso de mediados de junio cuando entró a la cafetería a almorzar, se preguntó vagamente cuánto tiempo tenían Malfoy y él compartiendo esa media hora diaria en la que jamás se habían visto ni una sola vez a la cara. No estaba seguro, pero podía apostar que ya era más de medio año. Junto con sus compañeros del escuadrón, Harry llegó caminando con pasos largos y decididos hasta su mesa. Se quitó la túnica de auror, la tiró sobre el respaldo de la silla y giró la cabeza de manera automática hacia la mesa alejada donde Malfoy se sentaba siempre, para cerciorarse de que también ese día estuviese ahí. En efecto, como cada día desde hacía seis o siete meses, Malfoy se encontraba sentado con la mirada clavada en El Profeta y dándole elegantes sorbitos a su taza de café, ignorando a todos a su alrededor y ajeno al modo anhelante en que el camarero (y Harry) lo estaban viendo. A Harry, que hasta ese entonces no se le había resistido nadie, le resultaba tan ultrajante como insoportable tener que compartir membresía con aquel estúpido camarero en el Club de Admiradores de Draco Malfoy, Corazón de Piedra. Lo odió más que nunca, si cabía. Y se odió a él mismo por estar pensando en eso mientras Malfoy lo ignoraba flagrantemente y Dennis estaba sentado frente a él, suplicándole por un poco de atención. Harry suspiró e hizo de tripas corazón. Se obligó a sonreírle a Dennis mientras se entregaba a su rutina de siempre: dejar de mirar a Malfoy, comer, intentar no mirar hacia Malfoy, bromear con los compañeros, dejar de pensar en Malfoy y, finalmente, fumarse el cigarrillo que se colocaba detrás de la oreja. Le sonrió otra vez a Dennis mientras le pedía con su mejor voz que le diera fuego. El nerviosismo de Dennis mientras sacaba su varita y convocaba una pequeña llama, en vez de enternecerlo o conmoverlo, le irritó a grados inimaginables. Volvió a suspirar mientras pensaba que ojalá Dennis fuese más como Malfoy: un hueso un poco más duro de roer, un ligue un poco más duro de conquistar. Pero no, todo era siempre tan fácil que Harry estaba realmente hastiado. Mientras fumaba, luchaba con todas sus fuerzas en concentrarse en ese pequeño latigazo de deseo que ya comenzaba a sentir por Dennis y que, esperaba, pronto incrementara hasta algo más abrumador y tangible que le ayudase a olvidar a Malfoy. Se forzó a imaginarse a Dennis desnudo bajo su cuerpo, estremeciéndose y sudando mientras lo penetraba en la que tal vez sería su primera vez y, de ese modo, Harry consiguió dedicarle a Dennis una sonrisa lasciva que fue totalmente sincera. Vaya. Parecía que daba resultado. Se congratuló internamente y vio a Dennis sonrojarse antes de decir: —Es tan… raro ver magos fumando ese tipo de cigarros muggles. A mí, a pesar de mi edad, mis padres me asesinarían si lo hiciera. —Se rió de un modo encantador—. Creo que los pobres todavía no saben que trabajando de auror arriesgo tanto el pellejo que cualquier otra cosa, como fumar o embriagarse, resulta casi inofensiva. Harry le sonrió más, recordando que los padres de Dennis eran totalmente muggles. Se le ocurrió una idea que tal vez podría ayudarlo en su propósito de tomarse a Dennis más en serio. Se inclinó hacia delante, acercándose a la cabeza de Dennis, y le susurró al oído: —¿Sabes? Me encantaría conocerlos. A tus padres. Te prometo que no fumaré delante de ellos. Le cerró un ojo y Dennis se sonrojó tanto que parecía semáforo marcando el alto. Harry lo miró tragar saliva antes de decir: —¡Se-sería un placer, Harry! Mis padres saben todo de ti, ya recordarás que Colin te idolatraba y siempre que regresaba de Hogwarts, no paraba de hablarnos de ti. —Volvió a reírse, pero en esa ocasión su risa fue apagada y triste—. Si quieres, podemos ponernos de acuerdo para que vayas a cenar o… El repentino ruido de cerámica golpeando y líquido derramándose interrumpió a Dennis y distrajo a Harry. Éste dejó de prestarle atención al joven auror cuando se dio cuenta, con enorme asombro, de que Draco Malfoy acababa de volcar su taza de café, verter el líquido por toda su mesa y empapando su periódico. Olvidándose de su resolución de no mirarlo (o al menos, de no mirarlo tanto), Harry clavó los ojos en él. Su cerebro trabajaba a toda velocidad. A Malfoy jamás le pasaban ese tipo de cosas, ¿sería posible que ese accidente hubiese sucedido por…? Harry notó que las mejillas de Malfoy enrojecían levemente mientras miraba el desorden que había provocado y luego, hacia todos lados, francamente avergonzado. Se veía adorable y Harry sonrió de medio lado ante esa idea, pasando saliva miserablemente. Ver a Malfoy así, un poco sonrojado y apenado, sólo provocaba que la atracción que ya sentía por él se incrementara a niveles inimaginables. ¿Cómo podía ser posible aquello? Tendría que burlarse y alegrarse de la vergüenza del otro en vez de sentirse enternecido, por todos los dioses. De pronto, y en contra de todo pronóstico, Malfoy lo miró a él. A Harry. Harry abrió más los ojos, impactado e incrédulo. Por fin, maldita sea, POR FIN. Después de medio año de haber tratado de llamar su atención por todos los medios, por fin sus ojos se encontraban con los de Malfoy. Por fin aquellos iris de color gris se clavaban en él, reconociéndolo y haciéndolo sentir como si los años entre ellos no hubiesen pasado. El corazón comenzó a latirle tan deprisa que se asustó; incluso se olvidó de que tenía un cigarro encendido en la boca. Rápidamente se obligó a componerse y a no demostrar lo mucho que ese intercambio de miradas lo estaba afectando. Fingió una sonrisa burlesca. Resultó: Malfoy pareció ofenderse bastante por eso. Harry, no pudiendo creer su buena suerte, observó a Malfoy entrecerrar los ojos con furia y dedicarle una de sus legendarias miradas de odio. Oh, dios, Harry podría haber llorado ahí mismo de la dicha que le causó que por fin el otro se enterara de su existencia. ¿Qué demonios era lo que Malfoy le había hecho para tenerlo en ese estado? ¿Qué estaba mal con él, por todos los santos? No obstante, bastaron unos milisegundos de que Malfoy lo mirase así para que la satisfacción se convirtiera en angustia. Harry había pensado que tener el odio de Malfoy era mejor que nada, pero en ese momento descubrió, apesadumbrado, que no era así. Lo estaba lastimando. Pensó que era ridículo, jamás algo así le había pasado. Desvió la mirada y luchó para concentrarse en fumarse su cigarro y proseguir la conversación con Dennis, prometiéndose no volver a buscar la mirada de Malfoy nunca más. Pero todo era superior a sus fuerzas, y no pudo contenerse de continuar observando a Malfoy por el rabillo del ojo. El "camarero idiota de Malfoy" (como Harry internamente lo llamaba) no demoró ni un segundo en hacer acto de presencia al lado de éste y comenzar a limpiar solícitamente el pequeño estropicio que Malfoy había causado. Harry casi se traga el cigarrillo de la rabia. Dejó de prestarle atención a Dennis mientras fingía que sólo estaba dedicándose a fumar cuando lo que en verdad hacía era mirar lo que sucedía en la mesa de Malfoy. Había alcanzado un grado de insensatez donde poco le importaba si Malfoy se daba cuenta o no. El camarero le estaba haciendo preguntas a Malfoy y éste le respondía en un estado de azoramiento que no dejaba de extrañar a Harry. El Draco Malfoy que él había conocido en el colegio estaría más furioso que aturdido por haber derramado una bebida enfrente de tanta gente. De pronto, Malfoy bajó la mirada hacia su entrepierna y el sonrojo que tenía en las mejillas aumentó a niveles alarmantes. Harry frunció el ceño y echó un vistazo hacia lo que había debajo de la mesa de Malfoy. Gracias a la distancia, Harry tenía una mejor vista de la parte inferior del cuerpo de Malfoy que la que tendría el camarero. Así que, a diferencia de éste, Harry pudo darse cuenta de que Malfoy no se había mojado su pantalón con café, sino que tenía bajo éstos una erección de campeonato. Harry jadeó y el cigarro se quedó balanceándose peligrosamente encima de su labio inferior. No era estúpido y adivinaba perfectamente cuál era el motivo por el que Malfoy estaba así. Sin embargo, le costaba creerlo. Se llevó la mano a la boca y se sacó el cigarro. Bajó la mirada hacia éste y lo observó durante algunos segundos. Ya antes, algunas personas le habían dicho o insinuado que su manera de fumar les resultaba sexy, así que… ¿sería posible que eso fuera lo que estaba afectando a Malfoy? Sonrió malévolamente cuando una idea se le vino a la mente porque, oh por Merlín, valía tanto la pena intentarlo. Cuando Malfoy volvió a mirarlo, Harry se encargó de que supiera que a partir de ese momento, el show estaba completamente dedicado a él. Vertiendo todo su empeño en fumarse lo poco que le quedaba de aquel cigarrillo y casi imaginando que el pitillo era una parte de la anatomía de Malfoy que se moría por saborear, Harry comenzó a experimentar taquicardia y una excitación que se salía de lo normal cuando vio que Malfoy apretaba las piernas y ahogaba un gemido. Dios, Harry no podía creerlo. ¿De verdad estaba sucediendo eso? Vio a Malfoy levantarse a toda prisa y salir huyendo de la cafetería, cuidándose de ocultar con la túnica aquel delicioso bulto en su entrepierna. Pero Harry ya lo había visto y no le cabía duda de que él, y sólo él, era el culpable. Sin decir palabra a sus compañeros del escuadrón, también se levantó y se dirigió rápidamente hacia la dirección tomada por Malfoy. Alcanzó a mirarlo cuando entraba a los baños más cercanos. Harry se mordió los labios para no gemir de pura expectación y caminó hacia allá. Ahora que se había dado cuenta de que no le era indiferente a Malfoy, utilizaría hasta el último recurso para hacerle comprender a éste que él también se moría por algo más que un intercambio de miradas rabiosas en la cafetería. Llegó hasta la puerta de los baños, se detuvo ante ella, lo pensó durante unos momentos y, finalmente, tomó una resolución. Mandó todo a la mierda mientras cavilaba que jamás en todos sus años de promiscuidad había sentido un anhelo semejante por nadie, y aunque eso le aterrorizaba un poco, también lo llenaba de ilusión. Se introdujo a los baños y bruscamente mandó a Dennis de paseo cuando éste entró detrás de él. Ahora que tenía esperanzas con Malfoy, Dennis no le interesaba en absoluto, y así se lo hizo ver. Acto seguido, irrumpió descaradamente en el cubículo ocupado por Malfoy. Lo encontró con el pantalón abierto y la mano derecha apretando la erección más bonita, grande y apetecible que había visto jamás y Harry, quien casi eyaculó ante la simple vista, dejó de pensar de manera racional. Esperó a que Dennis saliera del baño y, entonces, se entregó con el alma desnuda al mejor intercambio de pajas que había sostenido en toda su puta vida, llegando súbita y avasallantemente a un orgasmo largamente ansiado de la mano del hombre que no dejaba sus pensamientos ni un momento del día. Pero el júbilo y el éxtasis no le duraron para nada. Apenas al terminar, ya sabía que tenía el corazón virtualmente roto en mil pedazos. Malfoy, el muy maldito, le había dado una sopa de su propio chocolate y había dejado al seductor seducido y con ganas de muchísimo más. "Jamás volverás a tenerme así", le había sentenciado Malfoy, y Harry, todavía respirando con agitación y sintiéndose vacío y miserable, supo por primera vez lo que era estar del otro lado de la moneda del sexo casual. Ahora tenía que joderse y tragarse todo ese deseo que sentía por Malfoy porque a éste, claramente, no le interesaba volver a estar con él. Harry, quien ilusamente le había confesado a Malfoy que estaba loco por él mientras se estremecía besándolo, quien prácticamente había lloriqueado mientras se corría en medio del que había sido el mejor y más ardiente trabajo manual que le habían hecho, quien perfecta y gustosamente habría renunciado a su estatus de promiscuo donjuán si Malfoy no le hubiese dado el plantón aun antes de pedirle cualquier otra cosa más. No pudo soportarlo. Intentando parecer despreocupado, se despidió de Malfoy y salió de los baños. Se largó del Ministerio, llegó a su apartamento y mandó una lechuza reportándose repentinamente indispuesto. El jefe Robards le respondió una breve misiva donde le mandaba sus mejores deseos para una pronta recuperación y donde le indicaba que al día siguiente tenía que presentarse a primera hora en su oficina porque necesitaba asignarle una misión. Harry se dedicó la tarde completa a beber cerveza tras cerveza mientras fumaba como carretero y rumiaba lo que le había pasado. Conforme pasaban las horas, la decepción y frustración iniciales se fueron convirtiendo en una rabia que no le cabía en el pecho. Sabía que seguramente se lo merecía, pero aun así... pensar que Malfoy sólo lo había usado para un desahogo inmediato cuando Harry deseaba muchísimo más con él y le habría dado todo lo hacía sentirse estúpido, lastimado y resentido. Seguía sin tener idea si eso era estar enamorado o no, pero si era así… ya podía el amor irse mucho a la mierda. Al otro día se levantó con el corazón más endurecido que nunca y planeando llevarse a Dennis a follar en cuanto se le presentara la oportunidad. Sentía un enojo e impotencia tales que podía percibirlos bullendo debajo de su piel, cosquilleando de manera desagradable, casi como si amenazaran en provocarle magia involuntaria y nefasta. Tenía que controlar esos horribles y desconocidos sentimientos, y creía que para ello no había mejor manera que teniendo sexo con alguien que realmente estuviese interesado en él. Mientras desayunaba, se duchaba y se arreglaba para largarse al Ministerio a la junta de "primera hora" que le esperaba con Robards, Harry no hacía más que darle vueltas al mismo asunto. Tanto que terminó odiando a Malfoy con mayor fuerza que antes, con mayor saña que el resultado de la suma de toda la aversión que había experimentado por él durante sus años escolares. O al menos, eso era lo que quería creer. En el fondo sabía que estaba siendo un necio y un infantil, que Malfoy no tenía la culpa de esa pasión malsana que Harry había desarrollado por él durante los últimos meses, pero no podía evitarlo. O mejor dicho, no quería. Necesitaba a una persona en quién canalizar toda su furia, vergüenza y despecho, así que Malfoy (siendo que jamás tendría nada con él) le parecía la mejor opción. Llegó bastante temprano al Ministerio; tanto, que tuvo que esperar a Robards casi durante tres cuartos de hora. Harry, alterado y hastiado (aunque por razones muy diferentes a sólo estar aguardando a que llegara su jefe) salía y entraba de la oficina de éste mientras bebía tazas de café sin parar. Estaba intentando encontrar excusas convincentes que presentarles a sus compañeros de escuadrón para dejar de ir a almorzar a la cafetería del Ministerio. Tal vez podría decirles que Hermione o Ron estaban enfermos y que él tenía que… Robards se apareció en ese justo momento, interrumpiendo la línea de su pensamiento. El viejo jefe del Departamento de Aurores llegó resoplando y, al igual que Harry, llevaba en la mano una taza con un simpático garabato (seguramente dibujado por un niño muy pequeño) que rezaba "El abuelo del año". Harry sonrió y por un momento se permitió olvidarse de las negras reflexiones que lo habían dominado desde el día anterior. —Harry, Harry —resolló Robards mientras rodeaba su escritorio y se dejaba caer pesadamente en su sillón ejecutivo. Dejó la taza casi vacía a un lado y comenzó a revolver entre sus papeles—. Cierra la puerta y hazme favor de sellarla, porque lo que voy a decirte es muy delicado… Así, muy bien, gracias. Ahora, toma asiento por favor. Harry obedeció y permaneció callado, expectante. Que Robards estuviese a punto de asignarle una misión, a él solo y con aquel secretismo, era bastante inusual y desconcertante. Robards, frente a él, lucía un tanto nervioso y embarazado. Harry frunció el ceño, pensando que aquello ya no le estaba gustando. El hombre se aclaró la garganta y finalmente se decidió a hablar. —Como recordarás, Harry, cada año el Ministerio celebra un baile en honor a los aurores cuyo fin es, más que celebrar al Departamento, recaudar fondos para el mismo. Harry arqueó las cejas. Vaya que recordaba esos bailes: eran bacanales puras y duras donde los aurores se embriagaban hasta perder sus inhibiciones, el conocimiento, la ropa o todo junto. Él, desde que era auror, había tenido en cada uno de ellos las mejores sesiones de sexo que podía recordar. Asintió levemente y Robards continuó: —Bien, me alegro de que recuerdes. El punto es que los últimos años hemos tenido desastrosos resultados. El Baile Anual de los Aurores se ha ido desprestigiando por… digamos que por el comportamiento un tanto inadecuado de algunos miembros del Departamento —dijo Robards mirando fijamente a Harry y éste supo que tenía que sentirse aludido—, y eso ha provocado que la venta de boletos entre los miembros de la sociedad mágica se vaya a pique hasta casi ser nula. Harry, sin decir nada, abrió más los ojos. Ahora que Robards lo mencionaba, se daba cuenta de que era cierto. Con razón los dos últimos años parecía que en el baile sólo había aurores y nadie más. Ya había echado de menos la presencia de carne fresca para ligar. Robards continuó hablando: —… Así que este año, el Departamento de Finanzas ha denegado la subvención que nos otorgan para organizar el baile, alegando que la partida presupuestaria está casi agotada y que este evento ha dejado de ser rentable… —Hizo una pausa mientras extraía un pañuelo bordado de su túnica y se limpiaba el sudor con él. Pocas veces Harry había visto a su jefe tan perturbado y adivinaba que se trataba más de una cuestión de honor que de verdaderas ganas de ver realizada aquella juerga anual—. No niego que tienen razón, Harry. Pero el asunto podría derivar en todo un escándalo, pues sería la primera vez en treinta años que el Ministerio se negara a organizar el Baile de los Aurores —añadió en voz más baja y temblorosa, dándole la razón a lo que Harry acababa de pensar—. Sería una… mancha terrible para mi carrera y un desprestigio total para el Departamento en pleno, como te podrás imaginar. Robards terminó y miró a Harry fijamente, apretando los labios como si se contuviera de seguir hablando. Harry se desconcertó más, pues no atinaba a descubrir qué vela tenía él en ese entierro. —Pues… —comenzó Harry—esas sí que son malas noticias, jefe, lo siento. Pero yo no… —Necesito tu ayuda, Harry —lo interrumpió Robards hablando a toda velocidad, como si hubiese tenido un arranque de valor y quisiera terminar antes de arrepentirse—. A nivel personal. Esto en absoluto sería una misión oficial. De hecho, tendría que ser un secreto entre tú y yo. Si hablas de ello fuera de esta oficina, yo negaré habértelo pedido. Harry se tensó. De acuerdo, era cierto que le gustaban los retos y las misiones difíciles, pero… —Voy a mandarte a cierta misión de rutina —continuó Robards—, como guardia personal del jefe del Departamento de Finanzas. Y ahí, Harry, necesito que tú… bueno, tengo entendido… quiero decir, hay rumores que afirman que este caballero comparte los mismos gustos que tú. En cuanto a amores, si entiendes lo que quiero decir. —Harry abrió la boca con horror, pero Robards no le permitió interrumpir—. A lo que me refiero Harry, y no conseguirás que sea más directo que esto, es que el Departamento de Aurores necesita que tú y este mago estén en tan buenos términos que lo convenzas, de manera muy sutil, que el Baile Anual tiene que llevarse a cabo. ¿Entiendes lo que quiero decir? Robards se quedó en silencio en espera de una respuesta. Harry, todavía con la boca abierta, se negaba a creer que su jefe le estuviese pidiendo eso, sin contar con el hecho de que se trataba de… —Dijo usted… —habló finalmente Harry después de un rato de mutismo provocado por el pasmo—. ¿Dijo usted el jefe de Finanzas? Robards asintió con ojos brillantes y el gesto más relajado. Tal vez la pregunta de Harry le daba esperanzas de que aceptara la "misión". —Tengo entendido que es muy atractivo, Harry. Si es cierto lo que me han dicho. Eso, sumado al hecho de que tú tienes… ya sabes, esa facilidad para cortejar a tus parejas… Me inclino a creer que al final resultará una misión agradable para ti. Harry miró a Robards con creciente espanto. El jefe del Departamento de Finanzas. Era de Draco Malfoy de quien estaban hablando.

Después de casi un mes de no verlo ni de saber nada de él, Draco Malfoy estaba ahí, visitándolo en el hospital y tan jodidamente guapo e irresistible como siempre. Harry se quedó sin aliento mientras sus ojos recorrían aquella varonil figura vestida con una fina túnica de mago, y entonces se percató de lo transparente que estaba siendo. Intentó remediarlo: puso su mejor gesto de desprecio, miró a Malfoy directamente a la cara y confió en que éste no se hubiese dado cuenta de la turbación que le causaba y de la manera en que se lo había bebido con la mirada. —¿Qué haces aquí? —espetó de muy mala manera, disfrazando su incertidumbre de molestia. Malfoy no respondió inmediatamente. Como reflejo de lo recién hecho por Harry, también lo barrió con la mirada. Harry apretó la mandíbula con fuerza mientras sentía los ojos de Malfoy observándolo con detenimiento. ¿Qué demonios pretendía con esa visita y aquel escrutinio descarado? —Pasé por San Mungo a realizar un… trámite —explicó Malfoy en tono indiferente, clavando por fin sus ojos grises e indescifrables en los de Harry—. Fue por pura casualidad que me enteré que estabas aquí. Sólo vine a… Se calló. Harry, que creía conocerlo bien, se sintió estupefacto al descubrir que Malfoy parecía acongojado aunque era evidente que hacía mucho esfuerzo por disimularlo. Por un miserable momento, la ilusión de que Malfoy realmente estuviera preocupado por él desbordó el corazón de Harry, haciéndolo sentir ligero y emocionado. Sin embargo, luchó con todas sus fuerzas para combatir cualquier esperanza. No iba a permitirse otro error con Malfoy y que éste volviera a dejarlo con el ánimo hecho trizas. Los segundos pasaron horrorosamente lentos y Harry no aguantó más la tensión. —Si has venido a burlarte o a decirme que tengo lo que merezco o cualquier estupidez de ésas, puedes ahorrártelo —dijo, totalmente a la defensiva—. Me importa una mierda la opinión que tengas de mí. Malfoy frunció el ceño y apretó los labios antes de hablar de nuevo, ahora con voz más dura y fría. —Sólo quería ver con mis propios ojos cuán bajo había caído el auror estrella de Robards y todo porque no pudo cumplir con su misión top secret —dijo burlonamente mientras torcía la boca en una mueca—. Es increíble como la suerte de uno puede cambiar tanto cuando dejas de ser el consentido del jefe, ¿no crees, Potter? Fue como si Malfoy se hubiese acercado hasta él y le propinara un derechazo en pleno rostro. Harry comenzó a respirar con rapidez y las ganas de desaparecerse lejos de ese mago se volvieron insoportables; nunca imaginó que un insulto de parte de Malfoy pudiese lastimarlo tanto. Era verdad que ya había temido unas palabras similares, pero no por haberlas esperado dolieron menos. Tendría que haber sabido que Malfoy le guardaba más rencor que nunca antes y que no dejaría pasar una oportunidad como ésa para ir a burlarse de sus desgracias. Harry, sobrepasado por aquel dolor agudo y asfixiante, tomó su varita de la mesita de al lado y le apuntó a Malfoy con ella. —Lárgate —le ordenó con voz helada—. Lárgate antes de que… Malfoy lo miró a los ojos por última vez, se dio la media vuelta y salió a grandes pasos de su cuarto. Harry, jadeando como si hubiese pegado una carrera, lo vio irse. Sabía que Malfoy tenía todo el derecho a odiarlo pues él nunca fue capaz de probarle que sus intenciones no habían sido malas. Lo único que Malfoy sabía a ciencia cierta era que Harry era un auror promiscuo que había tratado de seducirlo para obtener un beneficio, y nada más. Eso sin contar con toda la mierda acumulada durante sus años en el colegio. Con semejante cuadro y sin tener idea de lo que él realmente significaba para Harry, ¿cómo no iba a detestarlo? Pero una cosa era lo que la mente de Harry tenía en claro y otra muy diferente era lo que su corazón anhelaba y por lo que su alma sufría. Mordiéndose los labios, respirando profundo para no derrumbarse y muriéndose por fumarse un cigarro, Harry se mantuvo con la varita apuntando hacia la puerta durante tanto tiempo que mucho rato después, cuando entró una enfermera a llevarle su comida, la pobre mujer por poco deja caer la bandeja del susto que le causó descubrir al jodido Harry Potter apuntándole directo al corazón. Harry no se asombró de que la bruja llamara a gritos a un sanador y que éste le administrara una poción tranquilizante que, gracias a todos los dioses, lo ayudó a dormir sin sueños lo que restaba de la tarde. Cuando ya entrada la noche lo dieron de alta y Hermione llegó por él, Harry apenas podía mantenerse de pie. Llegó a su casa y, todavía bajo los efectos de aquella potente poción, incluso se olvidó que apenas un rato antes moría por fumar y no le costó trabajo echarse sobre la cama y quedarse dormido de inmediato. Despertó hasta la mañana siguiente con la terrible certeza de que ahora sí no le quedaba nada en su vida que hiciera que valiera la pena salir de la cama día a día. En el fondo, Harry sabía que Robards tenía algo de razón. Estaba consciente de que él no sólo había desobedecido una orden directa del jefe al largarse sin permiso a una misión, sino que también la había cagado con todas la de la ley: había dañado propiedad privada que el ministerio había tenido que pagar y, todavía peor, había arruinado la investigación al delatar de aquella explosiva manera que los aurores andaban tras la pista de los traficantes. Su estupidez equivalía a haberse parado en medio del callejón Knockturn a gritar "¡Hey, traficantes de pociones ilegales! ¡A correr que hay aurores olfateando por aquí!" Era cierto y Harry lo sabía. Pero, ¿despedirlo no era demasiado extremista? ¿No podrían remediarlo de otro modo? Harry deseaba creer que sí, así que, nada dispuesto a renunciar a la profesión que había soñado en desempeñar desde que tenía catorce años, Harry objetó, rogó, pidió perdón y prometió. Discutió con Robards en voz cada vez más alta hasta que llegaron al punto donde éste tuvo que levantar la varita y aplicar un encantamiento silenciador. Pelear no le sirvió de nada a Harry. Tras darse por vencido, salió de la oficina de su (ahora) ex jefe dando un sonoro portazo y atrayendo la mirada de los demás aurores hacia él. Harry los observó durante un momento sin decir palabra. Se sentía aturdido, incrédulo y tenía la mente en blanco. No podía ni pensar en qué hacer a continuación, mucho menos en lo que sería de su vida de ese momento en adelante. ¿En qué iba a trabajar ahora? No sabía hacer nada más que perseguir y atrapar delincuentes mágicos. ¿Cómo era posible que después de tantos años de entrenamiento y esfuerzo, ahora todo se desvaneciera así de fácil por culpa de una serie de estúpidos errores y un jefe repentinamente intolerante? De pronto, los cuchicheos y murmuraciones estallaron a su alrededor. La mayoría de sus compañeros lo miraban con tristeza mientras hablaban entre ellos; y aunque Harry sabía que todos lo tenían en estima, nadie parecía dispuesto a enfrentar al jefe para interceder y ayudarlo. Estaba abriendo la boca para despedirse cuando una mano firme y cálida lo tomó del brazo y lo sobresaltó. La mano tiró de él y por inercia, Harry se dejó llevar. —Ven, Harry —dijo Dennis en voz baja mientras lo conducía hacia los ascensores—. Te llevaré a tu casa. —Harry giró la cabeza y miró a Dennis de manera inquisitiva. El chico se sonrojó mucho y le soltó el brazo como si le quemara—. Bu-bueno, si es que quieres y me permites acompañarte. Harry, quien todavía se sentía bastante desorientado, asintió y Dennis le sonrió tímidamente. Sin decir nada más, el chico se mantuvo a su lado mientras ambos usaban el ascensor para subir al atrio. Una vez ahí, viajaron a través de una chimenea para llegar a la casa de Harry. Éste tenía tanto tiempo de no llevar a nadie a su hogar que no supo qué hacer una vez que Dennis salió de la chimenea detrás de él. Atribuyó su repentina incapacidad de socializar a la conmoción que le había causado su despido y a la necesidad imperiosa que tenía de quedarse a solas. Se quedó mirando a Dennis sin decir palabra, deseando que éste advirtiera que Harry requería que se fuera de inmediato. Dennis, todavía un poco sonrojado aunque Harry no veía por qué, echó un rápido vistazo a la sala. Harry tenía tanto desorden por todos lados que no había sitio para sentarse en ninguno de los sofás o sillas, la mesa del comedor estaba atiborrada de vasos y platos sucios, había ceniceros llenos de porquería desperdigados por ahí, y por el suelo se podía apreciar una ligera capa de polvo. Aunque todo eso era lo que menos le preocupaba a Harry en ese momento; después de todo, la visita de Dennis no era de cortesía. —Bueno —dijo Harry entonces y carraspeó un poco—, muchas gracias por acompañarme. Ahora voy a… —con un dedo señaló hacia atrás, pero no se le ocurrió nada qué decir. Especialmente porque no tenía idea de qué era lo que iba a hacer, ni en ese día ni en lo que le restaba de vida. —No deberías permitir que Robards te despida por algo así, Harry —dijo Dennis acaloradamente, sin hacer caso de las señales que Harry le estaba enviando—. Por lo que me han contado, otros aurores han hecho cosas peores y nunca han despedido a nadie. ¿No has pensando en presentar una queja o entablar una demanda? —Sí —respondió Harry distraídamente mientras sacaba una cajetilla del bolsillo de su pantalón y procedía a encender un cigarro—. Creo que voy a… voy a consultarlo con Hermione. —Eso me parece lo más sensato —comentó Dennis con una sonrisa tensa. —Sí, lo sé —dijo Harry. Ambos se quedaron frente a frente sin decir más. Harry, fumando nerviosamente, no entendía por qué Dennis no se marchaba ya—. Bueno, si no te molesta, yo… Harry no pudo terminar de hablar porque Dennis se había arrojado hacia delante. Tomado por sorpresa, Harry no pudo evitar que Dennis lo aferrara de los brazos firmemente y estampara su boca contra la suya. Pasmado, Harry abrió mucho los ojos al mismo tiempo que trastabillaba hacia atrás y luchaba por zafarse de aquel agarre y beso no deseados. —No, Dennis, espera. Por favor… —masculló en cuanto pudo despegar sus labios de los del otro. Empujó a Dennis con firmeza pero sin brusquedad. Éste finalmente se percató de que Harry no iba a cooperar, así que lo soltó y dio un paso hacia atrás. Estaba jadeando y miraba a Harry con gesto afligido. Harry también se alejó un par de pasos para asegurarse de que Dennis no volviera a brincarle encima. Sin cavilar en lo que hacía, se limpió la boca con el dorso de la mano y ese gesto sólo pareció empeorar la expresión resentida que Dennis tenía. —Mira, Dennis —comenzó a decir Harry en voz baja—, sé que yo tengo la culpa de esto, pues no debí… —¿La culpa? —lo interrumpió Dennis, repitiendo esas palabras con incredulidad. Soltó una risita amarga—. Haces que suene como si esto fuera algo malo. Harry lo miró con los ojos muy abiertos. ¿Acaso no era obvio para Dennis que, precisamente, todo eso era un gran error? Se frotó la cara con una mano y suspiró sonoramente antes de continuar. —Lamento mucho que hayas malinterpretado las cosas y, como te decía, sé que yo tengo la culpa. Pero no puedo tener nada contigo. Ahora menos que nunca. Sé que he sido un hijo de puta al hacerte creer otra cosa, pero… en verdad no quiero. Lo siento, Dennis. Finalmente, Dennis asintió con resignación. Hizo el amago de dirigirse a la chimenea, pero de pronto pareció cambiar de opinión y se volvió hacia Harry. —Estás enamorado de otro, ¿verdad? —preguntó abruptamente. Harry cerró los ojos, suspiró y meneó la cabeza en un gesto negativo aunque no estaba tan seguro de que las cosas no fueran justamente así. —No es eso. Es… dios, Dennis, son todos los problemas que tengo. Nada más. Dennis sonrió de una manera que parecía más bien una mueca. —De acuerdo, Harry. Cuando decidas que has dejado de estar "no enamorado de otro"… — dijo y soltó una risita como si hubiera sido gracioso, aunque era evidente que ninguno de los dos lo creía así—, sabes dónde encontrarme. Sin importar el tiempo que pase, recuerda que hay una invitación a cenar pendiente. Sé que a mis padres les encantará conocerte. Piénsalo. Lo harás, ¿verdad? No esperó respuesta de parte de Harry. Se dio la vuelta y salió de regreso al ministerio por la chimenea. En cuanto las llamas verdes se desvanecieron, Harry se dio un golpe en la frente con el puño. Fenomenal. Eso era lo único que le faltaba: sentirse culpable también a causa de Dennis. ¿Por qué precisamente ahora tenía que haberse convertido de nuevo en el "San Potter" que había dejado de ser hace varios años? Antes le había sido tan fácil andar por la vida sin sentir remordimientos de ningún tipo y, en cambio, en esos días… Frustrado y todavía bastante desconcertado, continuó fumando y miró a su alrededor. ¿Qué haría ahora? Hablar con Hermione le parecía la mejor idea, pero sabía que justo en ese momento su amiga estaba muy atareada con su trabajo. Sin embargo, Harry tenía el presentimiento de que apenas se desocupara, ella acudiría a su lado sin que Harry la llamara o le mandara una lechuza. Así que sólo le restaba aguardar. Varias horas después, tal como Harry lo había previsto, Hermione llegó a su casa y llevaba a Ron con ella (cosa que no extrañó mucho a Harry pues Hermione solía hacer ese tipo de acciones en pro de levantarle el ánimo). Los dos amigos de Harry estaban tan indignados por la injusticia cometida contra él que llegó un momento en que éste tuvo que interceder un poco en beneficio de Robards, explicándoles que el viejo mago también llevaba algo de razón. Ron no quiso escuchar defensas contra "ese jefe mequetrefe y parcial" y se lo pasó despotricando de lo lindo contra él. Harry, sentado frente a ellos mientras se comía una rebanada de la pizza que Hermione había tenido el buen tino de llevar, no pudo evitar esbozar una sonrisa ante el comportamiento acalorado de Ron. Le recordaba sus mejores tiempos en Hogwarts: aquellos días cuando la furia del pelirrojo y la manera en que éste se expresaba de las figuras de autoridad que atropellaban los derechos de Harry le bastaban al moreno para sentirse mucho mejor. —Según me ha explicado Hermione —insistía Ron, sin dejar de devorar una rebana de pizza tras otra—, en el mundo muggle hay algo llamado "defensa de derechos humanos" donde la gente va y puede quejarse de los abusos cometidos por el gobierno. ¿No hay nada así en el mundo mágico? —No hay, pero existe la posibilidad de levantar quejas y comenzar demandas —respondió Hermione—. Y justo eso es lo que planeo hacer. —Miró a Harry a los ojos—. Bueno, siempre y cuando tú quieras y me lo permitas, Harry. Un desagradable déjà vu invadió a Harry cuando recordó que esas mismas palabras se las había dicho Dennis unas pocas horas antes. Hizo a un lado el sentimiento de culpa que lo asolaba por culpa de ese chico y trató de concentrarse en la conversación. —Claro. De hecho yo iba a pedirte ayuda —reconoció en voz baja—. No tengo idea de por dónde comenzar. Hermione le sonrió levemente; Harry sabía que le encantaba sentirse necesitada. —Perfecto. Entonces mañana mismo comenzaré la búsqueda del mejor abogado laboral que exista en el mundo mágico. No te desanimes, Harry. Ganaremos esta batalla y pronto te verás de nuevo vistiendo gallardo tu uniforme de auror. —Y si no, yo iré a darle unas cuantas patadas a Robards hasta hacerlo entrar en razón —acotó Ron. Hermione tomó la mano de Harry y le dio un reconfortante apretón. Harry, a pesar de no sentirse nada optimista, les dedicó a sus amigos una sonrisa forzada. Hermione lo observó fijamente durante unos segundos antes de volver a hablar. —Cambiando de tema, te tengo una magnífica noticia, Harry. El director de Finanzas sí aprobó nuestro proyecto de Colchester. —¿Quién aprobó qué? —preguntó Ron con la boca llena. Hermione miró ceñuda al pelirrojo mientras Harry arqueaba las cejas con sorpresa. En medio de tantos problemas, se había olvidado completamente del castillo y del plan ideado entre Hermione y él para salvarlo. Trató de imaginar la escena en la que Malfoy, tal vez muy feliz, había dado su beneplácito para rescatar aquel lugar que parecía gustarle tanto. Sonrió apenas levemente al suponer que aquella situación sería una alegría para Malfoy y sintió que todo el esfuerzo había valido la pena. —Cosas del trabajo, Ron —dijo Hermione, un tanto evasiva, y volvió a clavar los ojos en Harry—. ¿Qué te parece eso? —le preguntó a éste con un tono mucho más inquisitivo que el que usaba habitualmente—. Al final resultó que el director de Finanzas sí es tan sensato como tú me habías dicho. Autorizó la subvención sin hacer muchas preguntas e incluso noté que estaba un tanto entusiasmado por el proyecto. Claro, esto fue después de asegurarse de que no le estuviéramos gastando una broma. —¿U-una broma? —se atrevió a preguntar Harry porque le pareció que si no lo hacía, resultaría muy sospechoso. —Sí —respondió Hermione—. Me dio la impresión de que el castillo de Colchester y su salvación eran asuntos que le importaban demasiado y por eso creyó que mi departamento y yo nos estábamos aprovechando de eso para burlarnos de él. Lo que me parece extraño es que tú supieras de antemano que él no se negaría a autorizar tanto dinero. No sé, es como si tú hubieras sabido que Colchester es uno de los museos favoritos de este mago. ¡Qué clarividencia muestras, Harry! Trelawney estaría sumamente orgullosa de ti —finalizó con ironía y dedicándole una mirada penetrante. Harry se sonrojó, pero valientemente le sostuvo la mirada a su amiga. No le había pasado desapercibido el timbre acusador que Hermione estaba empleando, pero tercamente se negó a aceptar que se debiera a que ella sabía lo que había pasado entre Malfoy y él. Harry miró de soslayo a Ron y vio que su amigo estaba tan ocupado rescatando con la boca los hilos de queso derretido que colgaban de su rebanada de pizza, que no prestaba nada de atención a lo que Hermione decía. Harry agradeció internamente que ella no se refiriera a Malfoy por su nombre: no tenía ganas de escuchar las acostumbradas opiniones de Ron acerca del "hurón supuestamente reformado", como solía llamar despectivamente a Malfoy. —Lo-lo que pasa es que… —comenzó a balbucear Harry— como hay tanta gente que imaginaba eso, que Colchester es Camelot, no sé… presentí que tal vez él… también lo imaginaba. Hermione suspiró ruidosamente. —Y no te equivocaste. No parecía asombrado cuando se enteró de las declaraciones de Sir Cadogan. Sin embargo, también me resultó curiosa otra cosa. Supe que tú fuiste la guardia de este mago en una ocasión y que justamente fue a Colchester a donde lo habías escoltado. Hermione miró a Harry con los ojos entrecerrados y éste comenzó a sudar frío. —Fue sólo trabajo de rutina, nada fuera de lo común —se justificó rápidamente, atropellando las palabras—. Vas, vienes, lo cuidas en el camino, fin de la historia. Fue por eso que… fue por eso que me interesé en Colchester, porque fui y lo visité y me pareció tan bonito. ¿No te lo dije? Estoy segurísimo de que te lo dije. —No, Harry, no me lo dijiste —replicó Hermione con reproche. Se distrajo un momento mientras miraba hacia Ron—. Dios mío, Ronald, ¿podrías dejar de comer? Dijiste que ya habías cenado. ¡Se suponía que la pizza era para Harry! Ron abrió mucho los ojos y se quedó con su novena rebanada de pizza a medio camino entre la caja y la boca. —Pero… ¡Harry ni está comiendo! —No tengo hambre —dijo Harry y Ron sonrió triunfante antes de embutirse el alimento en la boca—. La verdad, lo único que me apetece es un té. —Se levantó del sofá y caminó hacia la cocina—. Esperen aquí, enseguida vuelvo. ¿Quieren uno? —Yo quiero otra cerveza —dijo Ron y apuró el trago que le quedaba en su botella. Hermione se incorporó y siguió a Harry. —Te ayudo. —No, no, no es necesario, Hermione. De veras. Harry se sentía acorralado por las preguntas de su amiga y había querido poner tierra de por medio, no darle a ella un momento sin Ron para que pudiera seguir interrogándolo, ahora con más libertad. Entró veloz a la cocina, planeando poner a calentar el agua y salir pitando de ahí para no dejarla comenzar. Tomó la tetera y la colocó bajo el grifo abierto al mismo tiempo que Hermione entraba e iba directo al grano antes de que él pudiera escaparse. —¿Qué fue realmente lo que pasó entre Malfoy y tú, Harry? —preguntó ella, cruzándose de brazos e interponiéndose entre Harry y la estufa. Harry se giró a verla, horrorizado. Wow, esa sí que era una pregunta directa a la yugular. El agua del grifo llenó la tetera y comenzó a derramarse, pero a él no podía importarle menos. Abrió la boca dispuesto a fingir que no entendía de qué estaba hablando Hermione; sin embargo, por la manera en que ella lo miraba, supo que no tenía caso: su amiga lo sabía todo. Harry no alcanzaba a vislumbrar cómo o por qué, pero así era. No tenía objeto tratar de mentir. Además, cualquier cosa que hubiese pasado entre Malfoy y él, ya había terminado. Así que, ¿para qué preocuparse de la reacción de los demás? Pasando saliva trabajosamente por culpa de la angustia que le causó el pensamiento de que Malfoy y él en realidad no tenían nada, Harry cerró el grifo, dejó la tetera rebosante de agua a un lado del fregadero y le dijo a su amiga: —No fue nada serio. Ya sabes, el típico encontronazo en el baño, unos cuantos besos y… esas cosas. No ha vuelto a pasar nada entre los dos y dudo muchísimo de que se repita alguna vez. Hermione lo miraba con gesto intranquilo. —Harry… perdóname que te lo diga, pero creo que este desliz no se parece en nada a tus otras conquistas. Te estoy viendo, ¡no puedes negarlo! Estás triste, más delgado y… Dios mío, Harry, ¿sabes qué pienso? ¡Que Malfoy realmente te importa y te gusta como nunca nadie más! ¿O me equivoco? —Harry volvió a pasar saliva y negó con lentitud—. Oh, Harry. Pero, ¿cómo…? ¿Por qué él? Bueno, no importa, ahora no es el momento de hablar de eso. ¿Tú…? ¿Tú querías más con él, cierto? —Sí. Yo quería. Pero él no. Él… él piensa que yo no valgo la pena por… bueno, por lo que he sido siempre. Tiene el peor concepto de mí que nadie ha tenido jamás. Y mira que después de años de mala prensa y calumnias inventadas por la mismísima Rita Skeeter, eso ya es decir —finalizó en tono de broma y sonrió en un intento de aligerar la conversación. Hermione abrió la boca para decir algo, pero un grito de Ron proveniente de la sala la atajó. —¿Qué hacen? ¿Podrían traerme mi cerveza, por favor? ¡Estoy ahogándome! Hermione puso los ojos en blanco y suspiró. Harry se acercó hasta donde estaba ella para poner la tetera en la estufa. —No te preocupes, Hermione —susurró—. En serio no pasa nada. Lo superaré, te lo prometo —finalizó con una sonrisa convincente y por un instante hasta él mismo se creyó lo que acababa de decir. —Sólo quiero saber si Malfoy tiene algo que ver con tu despido —preguntó Hermione mientras los dos observaban el agua comenzar a hervir—. Necesito saberlo para usarlo en la demanda que le iniciaré contra Robards. —Harry apretó los labios y negó con la cabeza—. ¿Estás seguro, Harry? Porque… no sé, no me parece casualidad que Robards haya dejado de portarse bien contigo justo cuando… —No, Hermione —la interrumpió Harry con voz dura—. Malfoy no tiene ninguna culpa de que me hayan despedido. Te lo juro. Hubo un momentáneo silencio entre los dos mientras Harry sacaba un par de tazas y preparaba el té. Había algo que se moría por preguntarle a Hermione y sabía que era en ese momento o nunca. Después, sería hora de comenzar a pasar página. —Hermione —comenzó a decir sin mirarla a los ojos y fingiendo que estaba muy ocupado con el té—, cuando Malfoy aceptó otorgar la subvención para el proyecto del castillo, ¿cómo lo viste? ¿Se veía…? Quiero decir, ¿parecía contento por eso? —Oh, Harry —dijo ella con angustia. Harry se atrevió a encararla. La miró a los ojos y se asombró de verla a punto de las lágrimas. —¿Qué pasa, Hermione?, ¿por qué te pones así? ¡Lo pregunto por pura curiosidad! —No insultes mi inteligencia fingiendo que no hiciste todo esto por él, Harry Potter —dijo ella con un tono falsamente regañón—. Yo sé que la idea del proyecto se te ocurrió porque sabías lo que significa para Malfoy. —Harry la miró sin responder y Hermione suspiró con resignación—. Pero sí, respondiendo a tu pregunta, creo que sí se veía contento. Aunque más bien yo lo noté bastante atónito y conmovido, como si no pudiera creer que por fin alguien había encontrado el modo de convertir la leyenda en realidad. —Bueno, me alegro —dijo Harry en un hilo de voz—. Azúcar, ¿verdad? —preguntó, tratando de desviar el tema. Hermione se le quedó viendo y asintió. Todavía tenía los ojos acuosos y Harry temió que se soltara a llorar en cualquier momento. —Me parece que esto que hiciste por él ha sido un gesto de lo más desinteresado, dulce y adorable. ¡Oh, si alguien hiciese algo así por mí…! Malfoy es un estúpido por no verlo aun después de haberse enterado de que todo esto fue tu idea e iniciativa. No sabe lo que se está perdiendo al dejarte ir. Harry se encogió de hombros, tratando de parecer indiferente. —Es mejor así —murmuró. Entonces, comprendió realmente lo que Hermione acababa de decir—. ¡Un momento! ¡Hermione! ¿No te pedí que no le dijeras que yo tenía algo que ver en el proyecto? Hermione se encogió de hombros. —No pude evitarlo, Harry. Él sabía que la casa de las pruebas era tu casa. Se puso todo desconfiado y exigió respuestas. Ahora, explícame tú cómo es posible que Malfoy conociera Grimmauld Place. Harry se sonrojó. —No tengo idea —mintió. Hermione lo miró con preocupación, pero ya no insistió en el tema. Ambos tomaron su respectiva taza de té y antes de salir de la cocina, ella se acercó a él. Sonriendo con complicidad, le susurró al oído: —Un pajarito me dijo que cierto auror novato está que se muere por ti. ¿No has pensado en salir con él y ver si ese clavo consigue sacar al otro? Le cerró un ojo, le sonrió y le llevó su cerveza a Ron, quien ya estaba bastante enfurruñado. Harry le sonrió tensamente a Hermione, ansioso porque sabía que ahora ella no lo dejaría en paz con ese tema de "dale una oportunidad a Dennis para ver si te ayuda a superar tu amor no correspondido por Malfoy". No obstante, Harry pasó el resto de la velada analizando el punto y terminó concluyendo que tal vez Hermione tenía algo de razón. Aunque Hermione y Ron no se habían marchado muy tarde la noche anterior, a Harry le costó bastante poder dormir. No tenía planes de levantarse temprano ni de ninguna otra cosa, pero una lechuza golpeando su ventana con terrible insistencia terminó despertándolo por más que se resistió a abandonar la dulce tierra de los sueños donde a veces Malfoy se aparecía y repetía con él aquel momento maravilloso que habían compartido en los baños del ministerio. Abrió los ojos y miró su reloj despertador. Bueno, ya pasaba de las diez. Al menos no era de madrugada. Bostezó, refunfuñó y, finalmente, se levantó. Caminó torpemente hasta la ventana y la abrió. La lechuza entregó la misiva y se fue rauda, señal de que el remitente no esperaba respuesta. Era Robards, quien en un escueto mensaje le pedía a Harry que se presentara en su oficina lo más rápido que le fuera posible. Harry, imaginando que eso tenía que ser una buena señal (o que al menos, no podía ser una mala, ¿o sí?), se espabiló de inmediato y se largó a duchar. Una hora y media después, Harry salía de la oficina de Robards sintiéndose bastante confundido y suspicaz. Resultaba que el viejo jefe, después de haberlo recibido fría pero cortésmente, le había anunciado que su castigo había terminado y que podía reincorporarse a la oficina de aurores al día siguiente. Harry había abierto la boca un par de veces para preguntar, pero Robards no le permitió interrumpir. El jefe le soltó un rápido monólogo en el que le recalcó cuánto lamentaba esos roces que habían tenido y le suplicaba que los olvidara y se mostrara tolerante con él, un pobre anciano que a veces perdía la paciencia. Finalmente, le pidió a Harry que de ese día en adelante fuera un buen chico y cumpliera cabalmente con su trabajo sin desobedecer órdenes directas. Harry, un tanto renuente, le había cuestionado si acaso planeaba regresarlo al archivo. Robards soltó una risa afectada antes de responder. —¿Cómo puedes creer eso, Harry, muchacho? Si eres el mejor de mis aurores. ¡Ya ves, los bombarda que eres capaz de realizar! ¿Quién en sus cabales desperdiciaría semejante potencial? No digas tonterías. De hecho, estaba planeando ponerte al frente de uno de los destacamentos principales. ¿Qué te parece eso? Entonces, Robards lo mandó a descansar por un día más y fue así que de pronto Harry se encontró afuera de su oficina sin poder explicarse qué era lo que acababa de pasar ahí dentro. Miró alrededor y notó las miradas curiosas de los pocos aurores que andaban por ahí, entre los cuales, afortunadamente, Dennis no estaba. Huyó hacia los ascensores a toda prisa. Intuyó que Hermione estaba detrás del cambio de opinión de Robards, así que no podía esperar para abrazarla y darle las gracias. —¿Qué? ¡Pero si todavía no he hecho nada! En realidad, apenas acabo de mandarles unas lechuzas a todos los abogados que me han estado recomendando. Harry se quedó mirando a su amiga. —¿Estás segura? Es que… ¡Robards me ha restituido y con todos los privilegios! Incluso me ha dicho que piensa nombrarme jefe de uno de los destacamentos principales. Eso es un gran honor y responsabilidad, ¿sabes? Hermione pareció alegrarse mucho con la noticia. Harry la escuchó suspirar y vio cómo sus hombros se relajaban notablemente. —Bueno —dijo ella mientras buscaba papel y tinta, y comenzaba a escribir rápidamente—, no negaré que me consuela mucho saberlo. Estaba temiendo la gran cantidad de líos en los que íbamos a meterte por ponerte en una pelea tan abierta contra el mismísimo jefe de la oficina de aurores, de entre toda la gente. Les escribiré de nuevo a los abogados para avisarles que afortunadamente ya no requerimos de sus servicios. Harry la observó mientras redactaba las cartas. No dejaba de presentir que algo se le escapaba y semejante sensación no le gustaba en absoluto. —Pero, Hermione —insistió—, si no fuiste tú, ¿quién…? —No es necesariamente un "quién", Harry —respondió ella sin dejar de escribir—. Piensa que tal vez Robards reflexionó las cosas. Tú eres un personaje bastante popular y querido en la comunidad mágica, y él seguramente llegó a la conclusión de que también vería mermada su reputación si se metía así contigo. —Dejó de escribir y levantó la mirada—. ¿No te alegra? —¡Por supuesto! Pero… Harry se calló. Obviamente le complacía tener su trabajo de vuelta, pero no le agradaba ignorar por qué. Estaba seguro de que había gato encerrado. Conocía a Robards y sabía que el hombre era orgulloso y terco como pocos. La manera distante y cortante con la que había tratado a Harry hacía un momento era la mejor prueba de que restituirlo en su puesto no había sido su idea. Alguien lo había obligado a hacerlo, Harry podía jurarlo. Pero si no había sido Hermione ni ningún abogado, entonces… Lo comprendió al instante. —Fue Malfoy —jadeó, tan emocionado que el corazón casi se le sale del pecho. Sin embargo, el júbilo le duró apenas un brevísimo milisegundo porque enseguida la realidad lo golpeó con la fuerza de una manada de hipogrifos en estampida: Malfoy lo odiaba y por supuesto que no lo había ayudado sólo por la bondad de su corazón. Decepcionado, Harry creyó adivinar los motivos de Malfoy para chantajear a Robards y así, no deberle nada a él. La desilusión fue tan grande, tan dolorosa y desesperante que tuvo que apretar las manos en puños para contenerse de comenzar a golpear cosas a su alrededor. Hermione lo miraba con asombro. —¿Malfoy? ¡Es cierto! —exclamó con alegría—. Escuché que tenía mucha influencia sobre el Ministro. Tal vez se lo pidió a él… ¡Oh, Harry, eso es maravilloso! ¿Quiere decir entonces que…? Harry negó con la cabeza y Hermione se silenció ante su expresión sombría. —No, Hermione, no quiere decir nada. Al menos, no nada de lo que estás pensando. Yo sé por qué lo hizo y… Apretó los labios, enojado y despechado, incapaz de explicarle a su amiga la conclusión a la que había llegado. Pero eso no tenía por qué quedarse así. Harry se giró sobre sus talones y comenzó a caminar. —¡Harry! ¿A dónde vas? —A saldar la deuda de una vez por todas —dijo y salió de la oficina de su amiga rumbo al ascensor, decidido a buscar a Malfoy para ponerle fin a ese ridículo intercambio de favores que no hacían más que romperle el corazón. La secretaria de Malfoy lo miró con ojos desorbitados cuando Harry llegó y se plantó ante su escritorio. —Quiero ver a Malfoy —le dijo. No supo si fue por su gesto adusto o por las desagradables vibraciones mágicas que desprendía su aura, pero la pobre mujer se quedó como petrificada durante segundos completos, sólo mirándolo. —Yo… —reaccionó por fin y se puso de pie—, le avisaré. Permítame. —Harry la observó mientras la bruja abría la puerta de Malfoy y le susurraba algo. Entonces, ella se giró hacia Harry y le sostuvo la puerta para que pudiera entrar—. El señor Malfoy lo verá inmediatamente, auror Potter. Pase por favor. Harry caminó a grandes zancadas y se introdujo a la oficina. Encontró a Malfoy detrás de su propio escritorio, sentado y rodeado de muchos pergaminos, aparentemente muy ocupado en su trabajo. En cuanto Harry traspasó el umbral, Malfoy levantó sus ojos hacia él. Harry, que había estado esperando que Malfoy lo recibiera con su peculiar gesto altivo y gélido, se desconcertó mucho cuando no fue así. Todo lo contrario: Malfoy lo estaba mirando atenta y educadamente, y su expresión era abierta, afable y, de cierto modo, hasta un poco cohibida. Harry se detuvo a medio camino y lo miró con los ojos entrecerrados, desconfiando profundamente de aquel raro comportamiento. ¿A qué creía Malfoy que estaba jugando? La secretaria se retiró y cerró con suavidad. Entonces, Harry sacó la varita, apuntó a la puerta y la selló con un encantamiento no verbal. Malfoy arqueó una ceja, pero si le molestó que Harry se tomara esas libertades en su propia oficina, lo disimuló muy bien y no comentó nada al respecto. —¿Puedo ayudarte en algo, Potter? —fue lo que preguntó. Harry lo miró fijamente, confuso porque aunque el tono de su voz había sido el arrogante que solía usar siempre, también tenía un timbre de algo que parecía cordialidad y que le provocaba que se le erizaran los vellos del cuerpo. Harry no podía descifrar por qué de pronto Malfoy estaba fingiendo tanta amabilidad. Decir que esa farsa estaba sacándolo de quicio, era quedarse corto. —No creas que no sé qué es lo que has hecho —comenzó a decir Harry mientras caminaba lentamente hacia Malfoy. Éste se encogió un poco en su sillón pero no hizo más. Harry tuvo que reconocerle la valentía (o la tontería) de que ni siquiera sacara su varita, a pesar de que el auror sí llevaba la suya en ristre—. Y tampoco creas que no sé por qué lo hiciste. Malfoy abrió mucho los ojos. —¿Lo sabes? —preguntó en voz baja. —¡Por supuesto que lo sé! —exclamó Harry. Le enfurecía que Malfoy simulara de aquella manera—. Eres un… No pudo decirle qué era. Se interrumpió porque en ese momento Malfoy se había puesto de pie y estaba rodeando el escritorio para llegar a él. Harry tragó pesadamente, abrumado por la siempre gloriosa visión que proporcionaba aquel mago. Merlín bendito, Malfoy era tan injustamente hermoso que Harry sólo pudo apretar la mandíbula para no permitir que ésta cayera hasta el suelo, volviendo aquel momento más indignante para él de lo que ya estaba siendo. Sus ojos no pudieron evitar recorrer a Malfoy de arriba abajo. Éste llevaba puesta una de aquellas preciosas túnicas con las que Harry había hecho un cuidadoso padrón durante los meses que lo había estado observado en la cafetería. Túnicas que, a pesar de su holgura, parecían hechizadas con el propósito de ajustarse en las partes precisas que incitaban a que la imaginación de Harry se desbordara hasta casi matarlo de un derrame cerebral. —No voy a negar que no deja de maravillarme tu repentina agudeza, Potter —dijo Malfoy cuando ya estaba sólo a un par de metros de Harry—. Ni tampoco voy a negar que eso me alegra. Me estás ahorrando darte un par de explicaciones bastante incómodas. Harry, a pesar de lo mucho que la presencia y el atractivo de ese hombre le afectaban el ánimo, volvió a encolerizarse ante sus palabras de burla. —Como si yo quisiera escuchar tus explicaciones, Malfoy —le dijo con el mayor desprecio que fue capaz—. No vine a eso. De hecho, no quiero oír ninguna palabra salida de tu boca. Sólo vine a pagar. Malfoy se detuvo y frunció el ceño. Parecía confundido y extrañado, como si de pronto la conversación con Harry estuviera tomando un derrotero que no se esperaba. Volvió a abrir la boca, tal vez con intención de insultar o de humillar a Harry como sólo él sabía hacerlo, así que éste se adelantó para no permitírselo. Recorrió el par de pasos que los separaban y, todavía con la varita en la diestra, lo sujetó de las solapas de su túnica. Malfoy jadeó de la sorpresa, pero Harry lo silenció atrayéndolo hasta él y plantándole un beso furioso en la boca. Si esperaba encontrar resistencia, Harry no podía haberse quedado más desencantado. Hubiera querido que Malfoy pelease un poco para usar eso de excusa y encolerizarse más y, tal vez, por qué no, llegar a los puños o a los hechizos con él. Pero no fue así. Lo que pasó fue que Malfoy, por alguna razón que escapaba a la comprensión de Harry, se rindió ante él de inmediato. Malfoy comenzó a corresponder el beso de manera frenética: abrió los labios para permitir el acceso a la lengua de Harry y él mismo buscó con la suya los confines de la boca del moreno. Malfoy levantó las manos y las pasó por la espalda de Harry, rodeándolo en un cálido y firme apretón. El beso, que Harry había planeado sólo para provocar a Malfoy y hacerlo enojar, pronto se convirtió en droga pura porque Harry comenzó a olvidar los motivos que lo habían llevado ahí y no hizo otra cosa más que proseguir y proseguir, deseando con el alma que eso jamás terminara. Soltó la túnica de Malfoy y, al igual que él, rodeó su espalda. De ese modo, Harry y Malfoy se fundieron en un abrazo desesperado mientras sus bocas y lenguas no dejaban de explorarse la una a la otra con devoción. Harry gimió y Malfoy le respondió de la misma forma. No podía creerlo. No debía creerlo. Con un esfuerzo supremo, separó sus labios de Malfoy y apoyó su frente contra la suya. Ambos estaban jadeando. Malfoy, quien aparentemente quería más, abrazó a Harry con más fuerza, tiró su cuerpo hacia él e hizo que la palpitante erección que escondía debajo de su túnica se frotara contra la muy hinchada de Harry. Malfoy siseó ante el contacto y cerró los ojos. —Potter —susurró. Harry libraba la batalla de Troya entre la razón y el corazón. Ahí, en esa oficina cerrada con Malfoy dispuesto y tembloroso entre sus brazos, se volvía mucho más duro recordar todos y cada uno de los insultos que éste le había dicho, lo mucho que lo despreciaba, lo poco que había estado dispuesto a confiar en él y cómo había pensado que toda la pasión manifestada por Harry había sido actuada. Harry apretó la mandíbula mientras las imágenes más desagradables inundaban su mente, algunas reales y otras inventadas: Malfoy llamándolo puta una y otra vez, Malfoy acudiendo al hospital para burlarse de él, Malfoy descubriendo que lo de Colchester había sido posible gracias a Harry y, al no querer deberle nada, traicionando sus propios principios para ir y extorsionar a Robards. "Lo que hizo… lo que fue capaz de hacer con tal de no deberme nada a mí", se repitió varias veces. Así de mucho lo repudiaba Malfoy y necesitaba grabarse esa idea a fuego. Necesitaba sacar valor. Cerró los ojos apretados. Sabía que si miraba a Malfoy no podría proseguir. —Lo que me dijiste hace dos días, en San Mungo —comenzó a hablar todavía con la frente pegada a la del otro. Notó que Malfoy se ponía tenso y dejaba de frotarse contra él—, que mi suerte había cambiado desde que dejé de ser el consentido de Robards… —Potter, yo… Harry no permitió que Malfoy lo interrumpiera. Todavía sin atreverse a abrir los ojos, levantó un poco más la voz y continuó hablando. —Sólo quería decirte que tienes razón. Mi suerte ha cambiado muchísimo y muchas cosas se han ido a la mierda. No soy ni la sombra de lo que solía ser. Pero no fue por haber dejado de ser el protegido del jefe. Fue porque me… —Se calló. No, soltar eso era otorgar demasiado. Decidió decirlo de otro modo—. Fue porque tú, maldito seas mil veces, decidiste un día de hace meses bajar a beberte un café al mismo tiempo que yo almorzaba en la cafetería y… eso fue mi perdición. Ya puedes sentirte orgulloso, Malfoy: finalmente venciste al Niño-que-vivió. Separó su rostro del de Malfoy y lo miró a los ojos. Los pozos insondables que eran los grises de Malfoy estaban en ese momento más indescifrables que nunca, llevando la desesperanza que Harry sentía a niveles inimaginables. Harry estaba sumamente cansado de tratar de leer los sentimientos de Malfoy en ellos; era sencillamente imposible: nunca decían nada. O tal vez era que Malfoy no tenía ningún sentimiento hacia Harry digno de traspasar la ventana de su mirada. Y fue este pensamiento amargo lo que terminó de decidir a Harry a hacer lo que había planeado desde un inicio. —Es por ti que tengo mi trabajo de vuelta, ¿o me equivoco? —le preguntó. Malfoy, con el rostro contraído en una mueca, asintió apenas perceptiblemente. Harry soltó a Malfoy y se separó un poco de él. Sabía que sería la última vez que lo tendría así de cerca, así que llevó una mano temblorosa hasta su rostro y le acunó una mejilla. Dios, era tan dolorosamente hermoso. Su pulgar rozó los labios de Malfoy y éste abrió un poco la boca al mismo tiempo que inclinaba la cabeza hacia su mano como buscando más de su contacto. Ese sencillo movimiento llevó la libido de Harry hasta la estratósfera y su ánimo hasta el subsuelo. Era inconcebible lo que ese mago lo hacía sentir. —No tenías por qué hacerlo, Malfoy —le dijo ahora con voz más dura, provocada por la rabia que le bullía por dentro cuando la excitación y el deseo por Malfoy se volvían así de insoportables—. Se suponía que tú ni siquiera ibas a enterarte de lo que yo hice por Colchester. —Si no querías que me enterara, no debiste haber usado para las pruebas una casa tuya que yo ya conocía, idiota —dijo Malfoy en voz baja. Harry suspiró cansinamente. —Supongo que tienes razón. Por eso he venido a pagarte el favor. Así, ni tú ni yo nos deberemos nada y podremos proseguir con nuestras jodidas vidas en paz sin tener que volvernos a ver. Se dejó caer de rodillas frente a Malfoy y alcanzó a percibir el gesto de confusión e irritación que éste tenía en la cara. —¡Potter! —exclamó Malfoy, moviéndose hacia atrás cuando Harry intentó abrirle la túnica—. ¿Qué demonios crees que estás haciendo? Parecía verdaderamente furioso y Harry sintió una enfermiza alegría de mirar que por fin había hecho que el rubio imperturbable reaccionara de algún modo. —Pagar como la puta que tú alegremente pregonas que soy, Malfoy —masculló Harry entre dientes. Se desplazó por el suelo de rodillas e hizo un nuevo intento de alcanzar con las manos la ropa de Malfoy. Éste volvió a pegar un brinco quedando fuera de su alcance—. Ya sabes: sexo a cambio de favores. ¿Ahora me dirás que no quieres? Creo que ese bulto que tienes bajo la túnica y que hace apenas unos momentos restregabas contra mí, te delata. ¿No es increíble cómo la lujuria nos traiciona? Mira que desearme así cuando sé lo mucho que me odias… Malfoy, para insana felicidad de Harry, estaba boquiabierto, incrédulo y horrorizado. Hizo un movimiento para cubrirse la parte delantera de su cuerpo con la túnica y caminó varios pasos atrás, alejándose de Harry lo más que podía. —Lárgate —dijo Malfoy, representando una escena al revés de lo que habían vivido en el hospital un par de días atrás—. Así no era como… —se interrumpió y negó con la cabeza—. ¡Simplemente lárgate, Potter! No tuvo que repetirlo. Harry, quien pensó que su misión estaba cabalmente cumplida, se incorporó del suelo y observó a Malfoy a la cara con profundo desprecio. Se dio la media vuelta y agitó la varita para abrir la puerta. Se fue sin mirar atrás ni una sola vez.

Capítulo 11 Por fin. Tal como Draco había temido, se había vuelto indispensable sincerarse totalmente con Harry para que éste aceptara que se encontraban destinados a estar juntos tal vez durante el resto de su existencia, les doliera en el orgullo o no. Hechizarse a él mismo y a Harry en una "apuesta de la verdad" había sido una inspiración de último momento y un recurso arriesgado, pero no le había quedado más remedio. Un plan tras otro habían fallado durante el día y Draco había comprendido a regañadientes que Harry era un estúpido que requería que le explicasen las cosas con manzanitas y que no consentiría sus acercamientos ni insinuaciones si primero no le comprobaba que lo suyo era auténtico. Así que Draco, ya un tanto desesperado y temiendo que Harry hiciera explotar su oficina por culpa de su magia contenida, se decidió a ejecutar el Plan E: exponerse a un elemento de origen mágico que le obligara a hablar con la verdad absoluta. Un plan temerario cuyo resultado había valido la pena: Harry, en cuanto escuchó su confesión, soltó la snitch y se abalanzó sobre él. Draco lo miró venir experimentando sentimientos contradictorios: esperanza, miedo y excitación. No estaba seguro de qué sería lo que el auror haría a continuación. Harry llegó hasta él, soltó el palo de su escoba y acunó las mejillas de Draco entre sus manos. Draco tuvo tiempo de soltar un suspiro entrecortado: aquellas manos grandes y masculinas cubriendo su cara eran como un sueño vuelto realidad. La sensación ante un hecho tan simple era en verdad maravillosa. Abrumado, Draco cerró los ojos y entonces Harry estaba besándolo… Besándolo con pasión y furia y Draco se dejó llevar durante unos segundos antes de corresponder. Emitió un gruñido, mitad placer mitad ansiedad, liberando de ese modo la tensión y el miedo que aquella situación le había hecho sentir. Finalmente. Joder, finalmente. Apenas sí podía creerlo. También él soltó su escoba y se aferró a la túnica de Harry. Se besaron con algo que era casi como enojo, y las escobas comenzaron a bajar con lentitud hasta que sus pies tocaron el suelo del campo. Harry gimió su aprobación. Sin quitar su boca de la de Draco, desmontó la escoba y la pateó lejos. Bajó las manos de la cara de Draco y lo sostuvo de los brazos para ayudarlo a desmontar. Era fantástica, pensó Draco distraídamente, la cantidad de cosas que Harry podía hacer sin dejar de besarlo. Habilidoso en grado sumo, aquel sorprendente auror. Merlín, cómo lo quería. Lo quería sólo para él. Lo quería y jamás lo iba a perder. Sus pensamientos de posesión eterna se vieron interrumpidos porque Harry, apenas se vieron libres de las escobas, lo empujó y cayeron sobre el pasto, con el moreno encima de él. Entonces, Harry se restregó contra su entrepierna con fuerza, su erección se frotó descarada contra la suya; y Draco podría haberse puesto a lloriquear por la sensación, por poder experimentar de nuevo eso, por recordar que había vivido semanas enteras en las que había creído que Harry y él no volverían a tocarse así, que no iba a tener la oportunidad de conocer y explorar cada recoveco del apetitoso cuerpo del auror. Harry no se quedaba atrás en demostrar su deseo. Parecía estar muriendo de hambre por Draco: no dejaba de devorar su boca, de gruñir y jadear, de aplastar sus labios, de sumergir su lengua, de morderlo y extraerle hasta el alma. Gimió junto con él mientras lo aplastaba con todo el peso de su jodida humanidad, y Draco elevó las caderas mientras sus manos demandantes acariciaban los músculos tensos ocultos bajo la ropa del otro. Creía que jamás tendría suficiente; lo quería todo, y lo quería en ese instante. Necesitaba de Harry. Se moría por Harry, Merlín, ¿cómo había podido vivir sin eso todos esos años? ¿Cómo? —Harry, yo… Me gustaría que… —masculló contra los labios del otro, pero se quedó sin aire para finalizar su petición. El problema era que si Harry seguía restregándose de ese modo contra él no iba a durar nada, iba a finalizar vergonzosamente en cuestión de segundos, iba a mojar esos pantalones de quidditch que ni siquiera eran suyos y joder, no... A Harry no parecía importarle. Estaba desesperado, sudoroso, frenético y Draco habría sido un mentiroso si hubiese negado que le fascinaba verlo así por él. Sucumbió a la avasallante experiencia y decidió dejarlo continuar sin importar lo abochornantes que serían las consecuencias. —Draco, joder… sí. Así, espera. Oh, dios, sí. Así —eran las palabras incoherentes que Harry soltaba con voz ronca cada vez que sus erecciones se rozaban a través de todas esas capas de ropa. Y de pronto pareció recordar que había más y que tenía manos, porque refunfuñó, como regañándose a él mismo, y las metió bajo la túnica de Draco para tomarlo de la cintura. Draco percibió el calor de las palmas de Harry contra su piel; los callos de aquellas manos contra la suave piel de sus caderas, sus dedos acariciando con ternura. Harry se apalancó de ese modo para incorporar la parte inferior de su cuerpo, enredó sus piernas entre las de Draco y oprimió con mayor ímpetu su erección contra la de él. Un apretón más de aquel delicioso miembro endurecido y Draco puso los ojos en blanco. Gimió y dejó de besar a Harry: toda su atención, su sangre y su calor viajaron a su entrepierna, alistándose para el orgasmo más salvaje del que pudiera tener memoria. Echó la cabeza para atrás y Harry arremetió contra su cuello, mordiendo y succionando. Draco cerró los ojos. Sus uñas se clavaron en la espalda de Harry, quizá haciéndole daño. —Joder, Harry. Sí… El mundo se oscureció y Draco demoró unos segundos en percatarse de que eso no era producto del calor del momento. Abrió los ojos y se asustó al descubrir que el campo de quidditch falso ya no estaba a su alrededor. El encantamiento había finalizado y Harry y él se encontraban tendidos en el durísimo suelo de piedra de un cuarto vacío. Draco se paralizó cuando cayó en cuenta de por qué había pasado aquello. —Merlín. Harry, espera —masculló, intentando frenar a Harry, quien parecía no haber notado nada y continuaba frotándose contra Draco de modo enardecido y mordiendo su cuello con pasión—. ¡Potter! —exclamó Draco al tiempo que empujaba al auror fuera de control—. ¡Joder, espera, aquí no es lugar para esto! —¿Qué? —preguntó Harry, finalmente levantando la cara de su cuello y mirando a Draco. Tenía los ojos nublados de placer; el cabello, más alborotado que nunca antes y la cara extremadamente sonrojada. Draco tuvo que pasar saliva ante eso y por poco cede al impulso de volver a besar a aquel hermoso pedazo de hombre. Pero sabía que no debía: al menos, ahí no. No tenía ningún deseo de que su anhelado encuentro con Harry fuera material porno para un tercero. —Nos están monitoreando —explicó en voz baja, reuniendo todo gramo de voluntad que le quedaba para dejar de elevar sus caderas contra las de Harry—. Es contra las reglas del gimnasio realizar este… tipo de actividades. Seguramente Frederick ya ha descubierto que no estamos jugando al quidditch, precisamente, y esto —dijo mientras miraba a su alrededor— es su primera advertencia. Fue entonces que Harry se dio cuenta de que el cuarto había recuperado su apariencia normal, que el hermoso encantamiento de campo al aire libre había finalizado por completo. Eso, Draco sabía, era señal de que era hora de salir de ahí si no quería enfrentar una multa o una expulsión del club. —Si quieres regresar aquí algún día… conmigo, por supuesto —añadió Draco con una amplia sonrisa—, es mejor que dejemos las cosas así. Harry se veía más allá que sólo frustrado. De verdad parecía a punto de gritar, de llorar o algo. Dejó caer la cabeza sobre el pecho de Draco y suspiró un par de veces. Piadosamente, había dejado de restregar su apetitoso cuerpo contra el de él. —Lo siento mucho —dijo con voz ahogada—. Nunca pensé que se darían cuenta. Bueno, si he de ser sincero, ni siquiera estaba pensando en eso. En verdad lo lamento… Entonces, como impulsado por un resorte, se levantó de encima de Draco y se puso de pie de un salto. Desde su posición en el suelo, Draco notó la erección de Harry bajo sus pantalones de quidditch. Suspiró y se mordió los labios. Pensar que eso ahora era suyo y sólo suyo, y que podría tenerlo en la boca o donde le placiera en cuanto se presentara una oportunidad adecuada, le hacía la boca agua y le inundaba el pecho con una ilusión que no había experimentado en décadas. Deliciosa y tiernamente sonrojado, Harry le tendió una mano para ayudarlo a levantarse. Draco sonrió y la aceptó. En cuanto estuvo de pie, ambos, ya sin tocarse y sólo sonriéndose de manera cómplice, salieron del cuarto y se encontraron de nuevo en el vestidor. Había que ducharse. Draco suspiró al pensar que no tenía idea de cómo iba a aguantar sin ponerle las manos encima a Harry al mirarlo desnudo y mojado junto a él, pero… Esa línea de pensamiento se desvaneció cuando vio que Harry estaba cogiendo la ropa y las pertenencias de ambos a toda prisa. Con ellas entre los brazos, se giró hacia Draco con gesto determinado. —¿Hay algún problema con el club si nos llevamos los uniformes? Draco frunció el ceño. —No tengo idea, nunca he hecho tal cosa. ¿Por qué lo…? Harry no le permitió terminar la pregunta. Draco lo vio sacar su varita, dar un paso hacia él y tomarlo firmemente de un brazo. Realizó la desaparición conjunta y Draco no dejó de sonreír durante el breve viaje hacia, él sospechaba, el apartamento de aquel degenerado. Un degenerado que sólo pensaba en sexo y que era ardiente como el sol en el firmamento. Un degenerado que sólo era suyo y que, por todos los jodidos dioses de todos los panteones de todas las religiones, esa vez Draco no iba a dejar escapar. Se aparecieron en lo que Draco supuso era el cuarto de Harry en su apartamento. Era una habitación no muy amplia y algo desordenada; llena de ropa, libros y montones de cosas; y, en medio de todo, una gran cama sin hacer. No obstante, era linda y estaba limpia (sin colillas de cigarro, ni cenizas ni nada parecido alrededor, detalle que agradó a Draco porque quería decir que al menos Harry no fumaba en el sitio donde pernoctaba y eso ya eran kilómetros ganados en el camino para ayudarlo a dejar el tabaco). Contaba con un ventanal que abarcaba todo un muro, cuyas cortinas translúcidas permitían la entrada de la luz y el calor del sol del atardecer. Además, olía a Harry. El cuerpo de Draco se estremeció al percibirlo y todavía más cuando cayó en cuenta de que estaba a minutos de poder probar ese aroma no sólo con su olfato, sino con el gusto y con todos sus jodidos sentidos. Iba a comerse a Harry. Sacó la varita de entre su ropa. El auror lo miró con los ojos muy abiertos y una sonrisa engreída; quizá creía que lo iba a hechizar por haberse atrevido a secuestrarlo directamente hasta su cama. Draco también sonrió al tiempo que desaparecía el uniforme de quidditch que Harry traía puesto y luego procedía a hacer lo mismo con el suyo, dejándolos a los dos solamente con su ropa interior. El sudor que todavía mojaba sus cuerpos se sintió helado ante la repentina desnudez. —Los he mandado de regreso al vestidor del club antes de que Frederick entre a revisar y los eche de menos —explicó Draco cuando Harry lo miró con ojos burlones—. No quiero perder mi membresía, Potter. No estés pensando que es prisa por verte sin ropa o algo así —completó con fingido desdén. Harry sonrió más. —Por supuesto que no —susurró éste—. Después de todo, ¿por qué pensaría semejante cosa de ti? —completó mientras señalaba con los ojos el enorme bulto que Draco todavía llevaba bajo los calzoncillos y que no había menguado a pesar de lo recién ocurrido con Frederick en el gimnasio. Draco estaba pensando en alguna respuesta sarcástica cuando las palabras murieron en sus labios: Harry estaba quitándose sus propios calzoncillos, revelando así un hermoso miembro semi-erecto, el cual Draco no había podido apreciar con suficiente propiedad durante aquel ínfimo momento que habían compartido hacía casi dos meses en el baño del Ministerio. Pasó saliva, mirando fijo hacia la entrepierna de Harry, sin importar lo que éste pudiera pensar. El moreno, sin mediar palabra y sonriendo de lado, dejó su prenda en el suelo y se quitó los anteojos, dejándolos encima de una de las mesitas de noche. Enseguida se dio la vuelta, dándole así a Draco la oportunidad de admirar su compacto pero grandioso trasero. Miró a Draco por encima del hombro mientras caminaba a lo que éste suponía era el baño: una clara invitación a acompañarlo estaba dibujada en sus traviesos ojos verdes. Draco no lo pensó dos veces. Se despojó de su última prenda y caminó tras él. Harry ya estaba dentro de la ducha cuando Draco ingresó al baño. La puerta de cristal estaba empañándose rápidamente por culpa del vapor ardiente, pero aun así le permitió ver lo que ocurría bajo la regadera. Harry había tomado un jabón en barra y estaba cubriendo de espuma blanca todo su torneado cuerpo. Draco, con el deseo y las ansias de estar junto a Harry dominándolo por completo, se apresuró a unirse con su compañero bajo el agua. Llegó hasta la espalda de Harry y le envolvió el torso con los brazos. Harry intentó girarse para encararlo, pero Draco no se lo permitió. Lo sostuvo en el sitio y se oprimió contra él. Draco siseó cuando su erección se acomodó entre la hendidura de las nalgas de Harry. Cerró los ojos, echó la cabeza hacia adelante y clavó los dientes en el ancho cuello del moreno, quien, en reacción, gimió largamente y arqueó el cuerpo, rindiéndose ante el asalto de Draco, desistiendo en su tentativa de recuperar el control. —Draco. Oh, Dios, Draco. No tienes idea de cuánto… La exclamación ahogada de Harry ni siquiera pudo llegar a término. Pero sus palabras, más la manera estrangulada en que lo llamaba por su nombre, y tantos y tantos centímetros de piel ardiente y mojada; de nuevo ocasionaron que Draco se encontrara al borde del orgasmo, llegando al límite con una rapidez y una urgencia que no había experimentado desde sus tiempos de adolescente. La piel de Harry se sentía como de porcelana y sus músculos de auror estaban tan marcados que Draco podía imaginarse (tontamente y que nadie se enterara) que sus manos eran las de un gigante que se deslizaban sobre una cadena de montañas. Con adoración y verdadera hambre, las paseó por todo el tronco del moreno: por su dorso, sus brazos, hombros y pecho; bajó por su abdomen y las llevó hacia atrás, sumergiéndolas en el profundo hueco que se formaba justo donde terminaba la espalda y comenzaba su trasero; y, finalmente, tomó a Harry firmemente de las caderas. Le mordió la nuca y empujó más la entrepierna. Harry gimoteó. Totalmente entregado a la atención que Draco le estaba prodigando, Harry apoyó las manos contra el muro de azulejos frente a él y, de ese modo, dobló su cuerpo hacia atrás, permitiendo que Draco amoldara con mayor precisión su miembro erecto entre sus nalgas. El calor abrumador que reinaba en ese recóndito rincón del cuerpo de Harry y la suavidad de la espuma, casi lo hacen eyacular. Deslizó sus pulgares por aquel exquisito trasero, abrió las palmas y, de ese modo, le separó las nalgas. Bajó los ojos y, aun cuando el agua de la ducha le impedía ver bien, el espectáculo ante él fue lo suficientemente provocativo como para estremecerlo de la cabeza a los pies. Su erección, casi de color púrpura, goteante y lista para explotar, se alojaba en medio de aquella deliciosa cavidad apenas hacía unas horas tan prohibida y lejana. Le costaba creer que su plan al final hubiese resultado bien y ahora… Ahora… —Demonios, Harry —gimió sobrepasado, y comenzó a moverse de arriba abajo, un poco nada más; lo suficiente para que su erección pudiera deslizarse encima de la entrada de Harry. Empujó las nalgas de éste hacia dentro y la presión y el calor que envolvieron a su miembro casi lo hacen desfallecer. Se dejó caer hacia delante, encima de la espalda del moreno. No podía ni imaginarse cuán perfecto sería el momento cuando finalmente pudiera follarse a Harry con propiedad y enterrarse dentro de él. Si así… Harry, quien aparentemente estaba pensando lo mismo que Draco, giró un poco la cabeza hacia atrás y pidió con voz ronca: —Draco… Merlín, Draco, ¿qué esperas? Fóllame, te lo suplico. Métete en mí. Draco negó febrilmente con la cabeza aunque tal vez Harry ni siquiera podía verlo. Era difícil poder hablar con todas aquellas sensaciones dominando el momento. —No, ahora no... Después —agregó, y era una promesa. Ahora, justo ahora, se sentía tan excitado y tan a punto, que sabía que eyacularía mucho antes de haber siquiera preparado adecuadamente al moreno. Habían sido tantas las ganas acumuladas, tanto el tiempo… Harry gimoteó su desacuerdo, pero era evidente que también él estaba al borde. Bajó la mano derecha y comenzó a acariciarse con rudeza y rapidez su erección. Draco, por encima del hombro de Harry, alcanzó a ver aquello y fue demasiado. Cerró los ojos y se dejó perder en las brumas de algo que era más denso y nebuloso que el vapor que en ese momento ya inundaba el cuarto de baño; algo que oscurecía el mundo alrededor, que borraba todo, que le restaba importancia a cualquier otra cosa más que no fuera su cuerpo y el de Harry moviéndose al unísono, acercándose el uno al otro, deseando fundirse en uno solo; agua caliente, besos, mordidas y jadeos acrecentando las sensaciones; de pronto, como un rayo fulminante que anuncia tormenta en medio de una noche perfecta, Draco recordó la legendaria promiscuidad de Harry y el modo en que nadie, absolutamente nadie, se había podido resistir a sus encantos. Ahora entendía. Ahora entendía tantas cosas. Harry era mucho más que guapo, mucho más que sexy. Era una oda a la lujuria, una verdadera máquina de sensualidad. Y era eso, la suma de todo, la totalidad de su persona, lo que volvía loca a la gente y a él lo hacía irresistible: su físico de campeonato, sus respuestas a cada estímulo, su modo felino de moverse, su hermoso y sonrojado rostro enmarcado por el cabello negro más salvaje del universo que, entre más despeinado, más provocativo lucía. Su increíble manera de ser. Descarado, arrogante, divertido, seguro de sí mismo, poderoso. Excepcional. Todo un héroe. Bastardo con suerte. No era perfecto pero, ahora que Draco lo pensaba, sus mismos defectos (como su mediana estatura, sus manos callosas y maltratadas, su ingente cantidad de cicatrices, su pésimo gusto al vestir, su adicción al cigarro, su terrible elocuencia, ferviente honestidad y remarcable generosidad) parecían incrementar su atractivo al volverlo estúpidamente adorable. A Draco no le extrañaba estar hasta las manitas por Harry Potter. No le extrañaba que medio mundo se arrojase a sus pies. ¿Con cuántas personas, antes que él, Harry no habría hecho eso mismo que ahora estaban haciendo?, ¿tal vez en esa misma ducha, en ese mismo apartamento? Aquel pensamiento despiadado le congeló la sangre en las venas y lo hizo retroceder. Soltó a Harry, alejó su entrepierna y se quedó inmóvil. Abrió los ojos, aterrorizado. ¿Quién le garantizaba que él no era sólo uno más en la lista de las eternas conquistas de aquel irremediable donjuán?, ¿cómo iba a poder vivir con aquellos celos azotándole el alma cada vez que pensara con cuánta gente Harry había estado antes que con él? Harry, jadeando entrecortadamente como si estuviese corriendo un maratón, como si no tuviese una malditamente buena condición física que cualquiera desearía, miró hacia Draco por encima de su hombro, buscándolo. Lo vio directamente a los ojos con algo que era firme convicción y enojo. Draco se estremeció. Pero antes de que tuviera tiempo de huir de la ducha o de decir nada, Harry se giró sobre sus talones, encaró a Draco y atrapó sus manos con las suyas. Entonces, lo azotó de espalda contra el muro mojado y lo aprisionó ahí mientras lo miraba con intensidad. Se quedó así durante unos segundos y finalmente bajó su rostro hasta apoyar su frente contra la suya. —Te amo, Draco —susurró justo encima de sus labios—. Te lo había dicho antes y lo sostengo: eres el único por quien me he sentido así. Maldita sea, vas a tener que creerlo porque yo no pienso dejarte ir —gruñó y, sin más, se oprimió contra él, besándolo con violencia y juntando las erecciones de los dos. Harry Potter, auror estrella, mago extraordinario entrenado como nadie para librar batalla contra la magia oscura, hombre con cuerpo de dios griego y con un historial de amoríos que nada tenía que envidiarle al de una decadente estrella de rock, estaba entregándose en cuerpo y alma a Draco. Y si éste lo supo, no fue porque Harry se lo acabara de decir con palabras. Fue porque, al abrir los ojos y contemplarlo mientras hablaba, lo que Draco vio reflejado en sus ojos verdes lo impactó. Era amor. Amor descarnado, deseo desnudo, extrema necesidad y una confianza tal que hizo vibrar los cimientos de todo aquello en lo que Draco basaba su vida hasta ese momento. No era malditamente posible que Harry pudiera entregarle ese tipo de mirada a nadie más. Draco lo sabía. Tendría que haber sido un idiota de clase mundial para negarlo. Comprendió que, así hubiese estado con miles de magos y brujas antes, lo que Harry estaba haciendo con él en ese momento era especial. Ahora era sólo suyo y de nadie más. Eso bastó. Draco cerró los ojos y se entregó al asalto pero sin rendirse ante él. Arremetió contra Harry, empujó sus caderas y lo besó duro y posesivo. Luchó para liberar sus manos y, en cuanto lo consiguió, las bajó y las metió entre los cuerpos de los dos, buscando la erección de su compañero. La encontró imposiblemente dura; dura como ninguna que Draco hubiese tocado antes (ni siquiera la suya), y sabía que, como él, Harry estaba a punto de derramarse. Con una mano lo acarició lentamente, todavía intentando prolongar aquel perfecto momento lo más que se pudiera, y con la otra acunó sus deliciosos testículos, todo mientras él reanudaba su movimiento de vaivén y volvía a frotar su propio miembro contra el del moreno. Harry detuvo sus movimientos, se aferró a los hombros de Draco y se empujó más hacia delante hasta casi quitarle la respiración. Murmuró "Oh, Draco, por dios…" y eyaculó emitiendo una serie de jadeos ahogados contra la boca del rubio, ruidos casi imperceptibles en medio del estruendoso escándalo del agua cayendo sobre ellos. Draco pudo percibir en su mano cómo la erección de Harry pulsaba en cada contracción de un orgasmo que parecía no terminar; pudo sentir en su vientre los hilos ardientes de la corrida de Harry bañándolo. Lo sostuvo hasta que acabó y entonces le mordió los labios mientras él mismo llegaba a la orilla del precipicio y, en una extraordinaria muestra de fe y valor, se arrojaba ciegamente hasta el fondo para acompañar a Harry en aquella aparatosa caída que parecía no tener fin. Draco sabía que estaba tan, pero tan jodido, metido hasta la coronilla en aquel abismo llamado amor. Pero tuvo que sonreír tontamente al pensar que Harry también estaba ahí bien adentro. Acompañándolo. Juntos. Los dos. Ninguno hizo ningún comentario acerca de lo poco que había durado ese encuentro bajo la ducha. Después de todo lo que habían pasado, de todo lo que habían esperado y aguantado, lo verdaderamente notable era que ninguno se hubiese corrido apenas al despojarse de la ropa. Después de que ambos recuperaran el aliento y la frecuencia cardiaca, Harry le había sonreído y se había apoyado contra él, y de ese modo se habían quedado bajo la ducha unos minutos más, besándose y enjabonándose mutuamente. Era dulcemente ridículo, y Draco, quien jamás había tenido un momento post-sexo así, estaba casi seguro de que Harry tampoco y presentir eso lo hacía muy feliz. —¿Vamos a la cama? —preguntó Harry con un dejo de inseguridad bastante inusual en él, lo cual habría pasado desapercibido para alguien que no lo conociera tan bien como Draco. Éste pasó saliva ante la perspectiva e intentó restarle importancia, bromeando. No tenía su varita a la mano para conjurar la hora, pero por la intensidad de la luz del sol podía calcularla aproximadamente. —¿A las cuatro de la tarde? —se burló—. Un poco temprano para dormir, ¿no crees? —¿Y quién piensa en dormir? —murmuró Harry justo junto a su oreja. Draco se estremeció, tanto por eso como porque Harry estaba acariciándole lascivamente el trasero, introduciendo sus dedos entre sus nalgas y rozándole provocativamente su entrada—. Voy a follarte, Draco. Tan duro que cuando vayamos más tarde a cenar a tu casa, tus padres te preguntarán por qué no puedes caminar con normalidad. Draco no respondió nada. No pudo. Demonios, si apenas pudo controlar el gemido necesitado que había estado a punto de soltar. Totalmente en contra de su voluntad, su cuerpo tembló en medio de una salvaje sacudida de puro deseo y anticipación. Jamás lo reconocería en voz alta ni bajo tortura, pero imaginarse a Harry haciéndole el amor era una de sus más recurrentes fantasías. El auror era tan jodidamente varonil y tenía tal fama de buen amante que Draco no podía evitar desear descubrir que se sentía ser tomado por completo por él. Como si adivinara el motivo por el cual Draco parecía haberse quedado petrificado y mudo, Harry sonrió engreído, cerró los grifos del agua, salió de la ducha y le pasó una toalla. Draco la tomó y medio se secó con ella antes de salir también del baño para seguir a Harry, quien ya estaba junto a la cama. Ni bien se acercó hasta él, Harry lo tomó de los brazos y lo empujó suavemente para recostarlo. Draco se asombró al percibir en su piel desnuda y todavía húmeda la suavidad y frescura de las sábanas y mantas que cubrían aquella cama sin hacer: se notaba que eran de buena calidad. Tal vez el auror no era un caso perdido, después de todo. Durante unos pocos segundos, Draco se distrajo pensando en su futuro juntos. ¿Podría llevarse a Harry a vivir con él a la Mansión?, ¿sería Harry quien lo arrastraría a ese mini apartamento?, ¿se quedaría cada uno por su lado y sólo se visitarían de vez en cuando? Se sorprendió al darse cuenta de que cualquier opción lo llenaba de ilusión. No importaba. Lo importante era que por fin estaban juntos y les deparaba toda una vida de descubrimientos mutuos. Dejó de pensar en nada porque Harry se había dejado caer suavemente sobre él, cubriendo su cuerpo trémulo con su piel ardiente. Draco, sin pensarlo, sin avergonzarse, abrió las piernas para permitir que Harry se acomodara en ese espacio. No se sorprendió en absoluto cuando percibió que tanto él como Harry ya estaban comenzando a presentar sendas erecciones. Harry lo miró a los ojos durante una milésima de segundo antes de besarlo de lleno en la boca y restregar su cuerpo desnudo contra el de él. Demonios, las sensaciones eran fabulosas. Draco gimió mientras su pecho se inflamaba de deseo y las ganas de meterse en Harry o que Harry se metiera en él, como fuera, lo inundaban de nuevo. Era como si no hubieran acabado de experimentar un orgasmo hacía poco. Draco, quien había visto un brillo de suficiencia en la mirada verde de Harry y un amago de sonrisita en sus labios, creyó que no era buena idea permitirle semejante fanfarronería, aun a pesar de sus propios deseos y anhelos. Sin dejar de besarse con él, lo tomó firmemente de los brazos y lo giró para intercambiar posiciones. Harry, sorprendido, abrió mucho los ojos y lo miró burlón. —Creo recordar —jadeó Draco contra sus labios mientras se apalancaba para empujar su entrepierna hacia la de Harry. Éste puso los ojos en blanco y Draco miró, con satisfacción, que ya tenía de nuevo su miembro completamente erecto—, que allá en el baño me rogaste porque fuera yo quien te follara. Harry soltó una carcajada ahogada mientras arqueaba el cuerpo para obtener más contacto con Draco. —Pero eso fue allá —jadeó—. Me temo que has perdido tu oportunidad, Malf… Draco interrumpió la patética réplica de Harry dejando caer su cara sobre su cuello y mordiéndole fuerte. Empujando el cuerpo contra Harry en una serie de movimientos ondulantes, Draco besó y lamió aquella apetecible y ancha parte de la anatomía del moreno, cuya sola existencia le había arruinado cada día desde que había descubierto lo sensual que era cuando bajaba a almorzar a la cafetería del Ministerio. Sin dejar de moverse contra él, Draco comenzó a marcar un camino hacia abajo, probando y saboreando cada rincón del pecho de Harry. Mordisqueó sus pezones hasta hacer al otro lloriquear en medio de súplicas y jadeos; pasó su boca por su ombligo, lamió cada centímetro de su vientre y, finalmente, depositó la erección completa de Harry en su boca. El latigazo de placer que Harry experimentó fue tal que se sentó sobre la cama y tomó el cabello de Draco con sus manos. De nuevo, como antes en la ducha, Draco lo tenía en bandeja de plata, implorando. Sólo que en esa ocasión, sonaba mil veces más incoherente. —Sí, así, oh, Draco. Tu boca, joder, es tal como… Mmm, ¡bendito dios! Y Harry cerró fuertemente las piernas en medio de un espasmo de placer, apretando a Draco entre ellas, al tiempo que tiraba de su delicado cabello. A pesar de lo doloroso que resultaban para él aquellas reacciones del moreno, Draco no pudo evitar sonreír por dentro. Sabía que Harry haría cualquier cosa que le pidiese y joder, no iba a desperdiciar la oportunidad. Retiró la boca produciendo un sensual ruido de humedad y se incorporó sobre la cama hasta quedar hincado. Harry, una masa aguada de puro sonrojo, sudor y jadeos, lo miraba con expectación. Draco sonrió muy pagado de él mismo antes de ordenar: —Gírate, Harry. Boca abajo. Ya. Harry demoró más escuchando la petición que lo que duró en girarse. Se acostó boca abajo, tomó una almohada entre sus brazos como si necesitara algo de que aferrarse y, sin que Draco se lo ordenase, se arrodilló sobre la cama para elevar su exquisito trasero. Draco tuvo que pasar saliva ante la vista y dejar que transcurrieran algunos segundos para recuperar la serenidad. —Harry… Demonios, Harry —repitió, incrédulo ante el despliegue de erotismo del cual era capaz el moreno. No pudo evitarlo: se dejó caer de cara sobre el culo de Harry y lo devoró con un beso sin igual. Jamás había hecho tal cosa; hasta ese momento sólo lo había visto en películas porno y nunca se le había presentado la oportunidad ni el compañero ideal. Incluso había opinado que era un tanto repugnante. Pero con Harry y su culo increíblemente respingado, bien formado y apetitoso, parecía algo casi natural e incitante. Así que Draco lamió, chupó y besó aquella piel y, finalmente, sumergió la lengua en la entrada del moreno hasta que éste se retorció de puro goce. Draco se mantuvo así durante unos minutos: mirar a Harry reaccionar de aquel modo en lo que obviamente era una actividad que estaba disfrutando en demasía, era bastante estimulante sí misma. Tuvo que hacer una pausa mientras jadeaba agitadamente para recuperar la respiración y el control. Harry se dejó caer sobre la cama cual largo era y Draco lo acompañó, tendiéndose encima de él, acomodando su erección goteante entre las nalgas del moreno. —Dios, Draco —gimoteó Harry echando las caderas hacia arriba, buscando a Draco. —Nadie nunca te había hecho esto antes, ¿verdad que no, Potter? —resopló en el oído de Harry sin poder evitar cierta petulancia en el tono de su voz—. Nunca nadie te había follado con la lengua y la boca, hasta provocar que casi te corras sólo con eso, ¿cierto?, ¿soy yo tu primera vez? Harry asintió con la cabeza y soltó una risita ahogada. —Joder, sí. Ni tampoco nunca nadie me ha… —se interrumpió y Draco pudo sentir cómo tensaba el cuerpo. Draco no pudo evitarlo, también se tensó y dejó de frotarse contra él. —¿Nunca nadie te ha, qué? —preguntó. Harry giró la cabeza y lo miró por encima de su hombro. Parecía nervioso, como si pensara que había hablado de más. —Nada —jadeó—. ¿Vas a follarme o no, Malfoy? —dijo en un tono de voz que trataba de sonar más normal, más engreído—. Porque si te has acobardado, entonces intercambiaré lugares contigo y me temo que continuaremos con el plan original de dejarte lo suficientemente adolorido como para caminar con propiedad. Pero no engañaba a Draco. Éste, sospechando cuál era la verdad que Harry no le estaba contando, sintió una emoción indescriptible inundarle el ánimo. ¿Sería posible eso?, ¿Harry nunca había dejado que nadie se lo follara antes? Draco pensó rápidamente. En cierta forma, tenía sentido. Los rumores que circulaban alrededor de Harry Potter principalmente alababan sus dotes como el activo en cada situación. Además, Harry había ido por la vida arrastrando una promiscua manera de ser, rara vez permaneciendo en la misma relación más allá de un par de días, ya ni se diga una semana entera. Y para dejarse follar por alguien, al menos en la experiencia de Draco, se requería cierto nivel de confianza que en la mayoría de las relaciones casuales no se adquiría. Así que… Bien podía ser. En cambio, en ese momento, Harry confiaba tanto en Draco como para dejarlo hacérselo sin hacer alarde de ello. Draco pasó saliva de nuevo, pero en esa ocasión fue para intentar ablandar un nudo enorme que se le había formado en la garganta. Sin embargo, si Harry no quería tocar el tema, Draco respetaría su decisión. Aprovechando que tenía el rostro vuelto hacia él, Draco le tomó la barbilla con una mano y buscó su boca con la suya. Lo besó durante un largo rato, intentando decirle muchas cosas sin palabras, con el puro gesto, con las caricias que sus manos le prodigaron a sus costados, con cada empujón que provocaba que su erección se frotara contra la entrada de Harry todavía húmeda con su saliva. Y a partir de ese momento ya no dudó de que lo que Harry sentía por él era especial. Intentando corresponder a la confianza que Harry le otorgaba al cederle aquella, su primera vez, Draco lo preparó con absoluta calma y esmero. Usaron un bote de lubricante que Harry guardaba en una gaveta; Draco se sorprendió al percatarse de que, si bien el fantasma de todas las aventuras sexuales que Harry había protagonizado sí cruzó por su mente, por primera vez no se sintió celoso, ni inseguro, ni molesto. Sumergió uno a uno cada dedo en la caliente y apretada entrada de Harry hasta que tuvo tres adentro, y después de largos minutos, mientras que Harry suplicaba con roncos gemidos, consideró que era tiempo. Se arrodilló detrás de Harry y tiró de sus caderas hasta obligarlo a levantar la parte posterior de su cuerpo. Harry estaba empapado en sudor: su piel blanca resplandecía bañada por la humedad bajo la tenue luz del atardecer londinense. Durante esos exasperantes segundos en los que Draco rápidamente ejecutó algunos encantamientos de sexo seguro, en los que se acarició su erección y la cubrió con lubricante, lo único que se escuchó en la habitación fueron los jadeos descontrolados del moreno. Draco, dichoso e incrédulo, se posicionó y comenzó a ingresar en aquel vehemente cuerpo. Siseó y luchó por no cerrar los ojos. Poco a poco, centímetro a centímetro, fue introduciéndose dentro de Harry y no quería perderse el espectáculo de su erección brillante con lubricante y preseminal siendo devorada por aquella pequeña cavidad; no quería perderse la vista de la hermosa espalda de Harry, la cual subía y bajaba al ritmo de su agitada respiración; no quería dejar de ver su desordenado cabello negro, ni su rostro de ojos asombrados cuando se giraba hacia atrás… mucho menos quería dejar de constatar que realmente era él, Harry, con quien estaba compartiendo eso y no con nadie más. No obstante, no pudo evitarlo. La sensación, el calor y la estrechez fueron demasiado y Draco tuvo que hacerlo. Sobrepasado, cerró los ojos, gimió, sollozó y echó el cuerpo hacia delante, cubriendo con su pecho la espalda húmeda del moreno. Lo abrazó apretado mientras le daba tiempo para acostumbrarse. Sin embargo, Harry (el siempre valeroso y extraordinario Harry), empujó las caderas hacia atrás y lo incitó a moverse. —Draco. Y Draco obedeció. Mucho después, Draco tendría que haberse mostrado algo avergonzado por lo breve de aquel encuentro. Unas solas, poderosas y erráticas estocadas y se había vaciado sin proponérselo en el cuerpo tan dispuesto que estaba poseyendo. Afortunadamente no hubo sitio para abochornamientos porque Harry, cuya próstata había sido encontrada por Draco desde la primera incursión de su miembro, se corrió (bendito él) casi al mismo tiempo. Quizá, y sólo quizá, de lo que Draco podía haberse avergonzado en realidad, había sido de las palabras que había susurrado justo al oído de Harry y que habían sido eco de lo que éste le había confesado en el cuarto de baño. Felizmente para él, Harry no se burló y, en cambio, le respondió un casi imperceptible "También yo te amo, Draco" que evitó que éste saliera huyendo. El abrazo (que más bien fue un confuso nudo de torsos, brazos y piernas), los tiernos besos y la charla que siguieron después, se prolongaron mucho más que el acto en sí. Tanto que, cuando finalmente decidieron ponerse de pie para ducharse de nuevo y prepararse para ir a cenar a la Mansión Malfoy, el sol ya se ocultaba tras los edificios que dominaban el paisaje en la gran ventana de la habitación. Antes de salir del apartamento de Harry, Draco lo obligó a ponerse otras túnicas que no fueran las de auror. Se metió al armario a revisar su guardarropa y le pasó unas de gala que apenas cumplían con los mínimos requisitos para sobrevivir a una cena con sus padres. —Éstas bastarán —le dijo. Harry las tomó pero no se las puso. Parecía nervioso y con ganas de decir algo. Draco lo miró inexpresivamente—. ¿Sí? —Es que… antes de vestirme, quisiera… —gesticuló con las manos señalando hacia afuera—. Ya sabes… Fumar. ¿Puedo dejarte solo durante unos segundos mientras me…? Draco lo interrumpió caminando hasta quedar frente a él; luego, lo aferró de la nuca y comenzó a besarlo. Lo hizo gentilmente, jugueteando con sus labios y dejando pasar muchos minutos hasta que finalmente sumergió su lengua, profundizando el beso y permitiendo que Harry también participara en él. Concluyó después de bastante rato, dejando a Harry todo sofocado y con la mirada turbia. —¿Y eso? —suspiró Harry a través de sus labios enrojecidos e hinchados. Draco se encogió de hombros. —Es mi estrategia para ayudarte a dejar el cigarro. ¿No notas que se te han quitado las ganas que tan urgentemente te invadían hace un momento? Harry abrió los ojos con sorpresa. —¡Vaya! Es cierto. Sigo deseando un cigarrillo, pero ya no es la misma ansiedad. Creo que ahora está más… soportable. Draco asintió dándose aires de conocedor. —Leí por ahí que una actividad placentera y que te mantenga ocupado, especialmente si lo que ocupas es la boca, basta para eliminar esos antojos. Así, poco a poco, irás fumando cada vez menos. Por lo tanto, Harry Potter, prepárate para ser ampliamente besado por mí de ahora en adelante. Si te portas bien, también puedo incluir una mamada de vez en cuando. Harry lo observó durante unos segundos con una gran sonrisa. —Eres fantástico y me encanta tu idea. Así, hasta da gusto. Bueno, ¿me visto y nos aparecemos a las afueras de tu casa? —No, primero necesito regresar un momento a la oficina. Por si hay algo urgente que atender. —Muy bien. Harry terminó de vestirse y los apareció a ambos en el Atrio del Ministerio. Se dirigieron a la oficina de Draco, caminando el uno muy pegado del otro y arrancado murmullos entre la gente que los miraba pasar. Draco presentía que su floreciente relación estaría en primera plana en los periódicos al otro día y no había nada que le disgustara menos. Sabía que los periodistas malintencionados vaticinarían que su noviazgo no duraría, pero también estaba seguro de que ahora las cosas serían diferentes porque él era especial para Harry. Cuando Ethel los vio entrar a la oficina, Draco adivinó que algo en su lenguaje corporal estaba delatando que ahora sí eran pareja en verdad, porque descubrió a su secretaria sonriéndose maliciosamente después de mirarlos a los dos de arriba abajo. Draco suspiró y mentalmente maldijo la buena suerte de su secretaria: en ese momento estaba lo suficientemente feliz como para no desear perder su buen humor castigándola por sus impertinencias. Así que lo que hizo fue preguntarle si había algo que no pudiera esperar al otro día. Resultó que lo único pendiente era un memo que le habían mandado desde la oficina de Seguridad Mágica, el cual Ethel le tendió. Draco, sospechando de qué se trataba, se alejó disimuladamente de Harry para que éste no pudiera leer. Abrió el sobre e intentó no revelar su nerviosismo. —¿Qué dicen? —preguntó Harry, quien, al igual que Draco, supuso con certeza de que el memo tenía algo que ver con la investigación que se llevaba a cabo para descubrir a su acosador—. ¿Ya han averiguado quién está detrás de las amenazas? Draco consiguió leer el contenido del mensaje sin que Harry pudiera atisbar nada (lo cual fue todo un logro ya que el auror chismoso estaba estirando el cuello lo más que podía) y negó con la cabeza. —No. Inútiles buenos para nada. Es sólo un mensaje para avisar que habrá un par de agentes de la Patrulla de Seguridad Mágica apostados en los alrededores de la Mansión. Por si acaso. Harry suspiró y dejó de intentar leer el mensaje, el cual Draco ya estaba doblando y pasándoselo muy discretamente a Ethel. Ésta, eficiente como siempre, pareció comprender el predicamento de su jefe y raudamente guardó el papel dentro de una de sus gavetas. —Muy bien —dijo Harry aunque no sonaba muy contento—. Supongo que un par de agentes es mejor que nada, pero no sé si pueda irme a mi casa tan tranquilo sabiendo que tú y tu familia están en peligro de muerte. Draco sonrió cálidamente. La preocupación de Harry, y el hecho de que no sólo lo incluía a él sino también a sus padres, lo halagaba, lo enternecía y… bueno, sí, también lo hacía sentir un poquitín culpable. Pero esto último era fácil de olvidar cuando llegaba a la conclusión de que su plan para obligar a Harry a pasar el día con él había valido totalmente la pena. Seguramente hasta el auror se lo agradecería cuando descubriera lo que en verdad había sucedido. Si es que lo descubría. —Te preocupas de más, Potter. Te juro que ese par de magos están de sobra. Nada ni nadie podrá penetrar jamás las protecciones mágicas ancestrales que resguardan la casa de los Malfoy. ¿Crees que es la primera vez a lo largo de los siglos que algún patán ha intentado atentar contra nuestra familia? Harry alzó las cejas. —Bueno, si lo pones así... Supongo que no. —Te aseguro, Potter, que el único peligro lo corro aquí en el Ministerio donde, a pesar de estar rebosado de aurores y agentes supuestamente entrenados, han sucedido más desastres y crímenes que en ningún sitio en toda la historia. Draco exageraba, pero entonces recordó la muerte de Sirius Black acontecida ahí en el mismo departamento de Misterios y se estremeció. ¿Harry se lo tomaría a mal? Vio a éste fruncir el entrecejo y asentir con gesto serio. —Tienes razón —fue lo que dijo. Draco lamentó su desliz. No había sido intencional traerle semejantes malos recuerdos a Harry. Se acercó a él, le dio un apretón cariñoso en un brazo y un leve beso en la mejilla. —¿Sabes que te quiero, verdad? —le susurró al oído, lo bastante en secreto para que Ethel no escuchara ni en lo más mínimo. Harry lo miró con una sonrisa, como preguntándole a qué venía eso. Draco se encogió de hombros—. Ahora, sé un buen guardaespaldas y dame unos minutos para responderle a Robards lo que pienso acerca de sus progresos en la investigación, ¿quieres? Harry suspiró, asintió y se retiró a la puerta mientras Draco le escribía unas cuantas líneas al jefe de los aurores. Terminó en un par de minutos y, satisfecho, le pasó a Ethel el pergamino. —Envíaselo a Robards. El auror Potter y yo nos retiramos a mi casa. Como seguramente ya sabes, sus suegros lo esperan para cenar. Necesitamos causar buena impresión, así que deséanos suerte —bromeó en un inusual despliegue de buen humor y camaradería hacia su secretaria, con quien siempre solía llevar una relación estrictamente profesional. Ethel, correspondiendo a su gesto, bufó con sorna. —Ni que la necesitara, jefe. Usted se ha sacado un premio de lotería. El mejor partido que cualquier bruja o mago alguna vez se atrevió a soñar; sus padres deberían saberlo —lisonjeó y sonrió ampliamente, mirando hacia Harry con ojo apreciativo. Harry, parado en el corredor al otro lado de la puerta abierta, estaba aprovechando el momento para sacar un cigarrillo de entre sus ropas. ¿Cuándo demonios se había escondido una cajetilla sin que Draco se diera cuenta? Éste meneó la cabeza. Entonces, Harry ya estaba fumando y el maldito se veía jodidamente sensual. Tanto, que hacía que Draco se viera extremadamente tentado a no quitarle la adicción. Suspiró mientras observaba a Harry de arriba abajo y pensaba en los entrañables momentos que habían pasado en su apartamento. —Tiene sus defectos, pero sí… —dijo casi para él mismo más que para su secretaria—: es algo así como el premio mayor. —Sonrió, y aunque presentía que se veía bobo y cursi, no le importó—. Ahora, si me disculpas —le dijo a Ethel sin mirarla—, tengo un correctivo que aplicar. Caminó hacia Harry. Llegó a él, cerró la puerta para que Ethel no fisgoneara, le quitó a su novio el cigarro de la boca y lo desapareció con magia. Harry alcanzó a hacer un mohín quejumbroso antes de ser empotrado contra la pared. Draco lo besó hasta que a ambos les ardieron los labios, hasta que a Harry se le olvidó que había estado fumando… Lo besó hasta que un empleado o empleada del edificio (ninguno de los dos se enteró de quién se trataba) pasó junto a ellos y se aclaró fuertemente la garganta, murmurando a continuación algo relacionado con "indecencias" y "perversiones varias" mientras se alejaba. Draco separó su rostro del de Harry y sonrió engreído ante el espectáculo derretido y anhelante que el auror le presentaba. Oh sí, vaya que aquella era una compensación justa y necesaria por el enorme y difícil sacrificio que implicaba renunciar a ver a Harry Potter fumar. Harry, quien habitualmente quedaba en estado catatónico después de una sesión de besuqueo intenso (y era sorprendente que no tenían ni un día juntos y Draco ya hubiera tomado nota de detalles así), se dejó arrastrar por éste, quien lo tomó de la mano y caminó junto con él hacia los ascensores del Ministerio.

Conforme se acaloraba la discusión sostenida con Malfoy, Harry estaba cada vez más desesperado; no encontraba cómo demostrarle que nunca lo había engañado. Le dolía no sólo estar a un paso de perder cualquier oportunidad con él, sino también el hecho de que era notorio que Malfoy se sentía profundamente lastimado. Tenía que convencerlo a como diera lugar de que él jamás había fingido la pasión que lo desbordaba cuando estaba a su lado. —No lo sé, Potter —dijo Malfoy en un repentino tono tranquilo que no engañaba a Harry—. A mí me parece un truco bastante rebuscado. Fingir que te gusto y que te intereso para luego engancharme y decirme "Oh, mira, Robards me mandó a hacer esto contigo. Pero como soy bueno y noble no lo hice. ¿Te das cuenta? Ahora, ¿quieres ser mi amigo y autorizar el jodido baile para no meterme en problemas con mi jefe?" y de ese modo yo me habría sentido obligado a ayudarte. ¿Psicología inversa, Potter? —Soltó un bufido y barrió a Harry con la mirada—. Demasiado Slytherin para tratarse de ti, ¿no crees? Harry podría haberse reído de que Malfoy mencionara eso justamente ya que era verdad que tenía más de Slytherin de lo que nadie jamás se enteraría. Pero en esa ocasión no era el caso porque a Harry ni siquiera le había pasado por la cabeza hacer algo como lo que Malfoy acababa de describir. —¿Psicología inversa? Dios mío, ni siquiera sé de qué me estás hablando —dijo intentando no perder la calma. Iba a probarle a Malfoy que decía la verdad así fuera lo último que hiciera en su vida—. Mira, Draco, yo sólo quería estar contigo y quería que fuera legal. Honesto. No tenía planeado llegar a más hasta haberte dicho lo que… —¿Qué, Potter? —lo interrumpió Malfoy por centésima ocasión. ¿Por qué el insufrible rubio parecía tener la costumbre de no dejarle completar una mísera frase?—. ¿Ibas a confesarme que en realidad no eres auror? ¿Que la verdad es que eres la puta favorita de Robards y que esta no es la primera misión de este tipo a la que te mandan? ¿Que eres la Mata Hari del Ministerio, dedicado a sonsacarle favores o secretos a la gente a cambio de sexo? —Malfoy resopló y lo miró con más desprecio que nunca antes—. Ya lo decía yo. La mente de Harry demoró unos segundos en procesar las palabras que Malfoy había escupido y, cuando finalmente lo hizo, fue como si el aire que lo rodeaba se volviera tan denso que comenzara a aplastarlo. Sintió que se volvía pequeño, que el peso de la realidad era de tantísimas toneladas que terminaría asfixiándolo. Matándolo. Finalmente tuvo que aceptar la verdad que se le presentaba ante los ojos y que durante toda esa tarde (y todavía mientras discutía con Malfoy) había luchado con dientes y garras para evitar: que Malfoy jamás confiaría en él y que nunca dejaría de tener el peor concepto posible de su persona. Toda esperanza que hasta ese instante se hubiese mantenido débil pero con vida, murió irremediablemente ante las palabras y la actitud de Malfoy, la cual decía a gritos que jamás creería una palabra salida de boca de Harry. Lo peor del asunto era que éste podía comprender a Malfoy y el porqué de su suspicacia. Lo comprendía y sabía que su desconfianza estaba justificada. No había nada más que hacer. Malfoy abrió la boca y Harry, temiendo una nueva avalancha de insultos, se dio la media vuelta y salió a grandes zancadas del lugar. Le remordía terriblemente la consciencia dejar a Malfoy solo en el hospital, pero en el fondo sabía que no había manera de que éste permitiera que se quedara a cuidarlo. Salió de San Mungo hacia el Londres muggle, se fumó un cigarro a toda prisa con manos temblorosas y, no bien se lo había terminado, se desapareció directo al ministerio. Llegó ante la puerta de la oficina de su jefe y ni siquiera tuvo que empujarla con la mano: por obra de su magia, ésta se abrió de golpe, permitiéndole la entrada. Harry se desplazó a toda velocidad hasta que quedó frente al escritorio de Robards. Su jefe, sentado al otro lado, lo miraba entre furioso y atónito. —¡Harry! —exclamó—. ¿Qué significa esto? ¿Y qué es lo que haces aquí si yo expresamente te ordené que…? —Se acabó —lo cortó Harry con voz helada. Intentaba con todas sus fuerzas dominar su enojo pero le estaba costando—. No continuaré con esto. Le he dicho la verdad a Malfoy. Transcurrieron unos segundos en los que la cara de Robards mostró todos los colores y todas las emociones. Pasó de la rosada irritación a la pálida vergüenza y regresó finalmente a una furia carmesí. —Como te dije antes —masculló Robards con una voz tan gélida y controlada como la de Harry—, aquí no se habló nada y yo negaré todo. Harry le sonrió sarcásticamente. —Lo sé, jefe. No esperaba menos. Simplemente le estoy avisando que esto ha terminado. Malfoy sigue considerando que el Baile de los Aurores es un evento que no vale la pena llevar a cabo y me temo que no hay poder humano ni mágico que lo haga cambiar de opinión. Creo que es hora de que usted lo deje en paz. —Dio un paso hacia atrás e hizo el amago de retirarse. Se sentía tan alterado que requería salir de ahí. Robards no necesitaba enterarse de que entre Malfoy y él había existido la posibilidad de algo personal y que ahora todo se había ido a la mierda por culpa de aquella estúpida misión—. Ahora, si me permite, regresaré a mis ocupaciones habituales. Robards se puso bruscamente de pie. —Me temo que no —susurró—. ¡Christabella! —gritó de pronto, llamando a su secretaria. La mencionada bruja se asomó por el hueco de la puerta abierta; parecía desconcertada por el repentino mal humor de su jefe—. Elabora inmediatamente un reporte de castigo para el auror Potter y un aviso de suspensión de cinco días sin goce de sueldo. Con copia para el Ministro. —Sí, señor —dijo la mujer antes de dirigirle una mirada extrañada a Harry y desaparecer. Harry se quedó de pie en el mismo sitio mirando fijamente hacia Robards. Estaba estupefacto ante el hecho de que su jefe, anteriormente un hombre justo, ecuánime y amable, estuviese ahora actuando así de irracional y lo castigara por no doblegarse a sus peticiones deshonestas. —Esto no es una sanción por… por lo otro —masculló Robards como si hubiera leído los pensamientos de Harry—, recuérdalo. Yo te lo advertí, Harry, y no quisiste escucharme. Las quejas por tu comportamiento han ido aumentando a tal grado que no puedo ya hacerme de la vista gorda. Te vendrán bien unos días de descanso y espero que, al volver, decidas portarte a la altura de tu rango. Harry torció la boca en una mueca de burla. —Por supuesto, Robards. Usted sólo hace lo que considera correcto, no tiene que aclarármelo. Robards entrecerró los ojos y Harry salió de la oficina sin más. No bien había caminado un par de metros a través de los cubículos de los aurores (quienes lo miraban pasar boquiabiertos), cuando de pronto alguien salió de uno de ellos e hizo que Harry tuviera que detenerse en seco. Era Dennis. —¡Harry! —susurró, mirándolo de arriba abajo con expresión de susto. Harry estaba tan disgustado que no dudaba que su mal humor se le notara en la cara—. ¿Qué te pasó? ¿No te quedaste en San Mungo a vigilar a Malfoy? La sola mención del nombre de Malfoy provocó que la ansiedad de Harry por romper cosas aumentara a un grado casi inaguantable. Se sentía como una bomba a punto de explotar. Se mordió los labios, miró a Dennis y supo lo que tenía que hacer. —Dennis —jadeó. No sabía por qué razón, pero le faltaba el aire—. ¿Ya terminó tu turno? Dennis lo miró con gesto confundido y luego reaccionó. Miró hacia el reloj colocado en la pared del pasillo del cuartel. —Pues… ya casi, ¿por qué? Harry también miró el reloj. Como Dennis acababa de decir, faltaban casi treinta minutos para las ocho de la noche, hora en que terminaba el turno vespertino de los aurores. Si se daban prisa, tendrían las duchas y los vestidores del cuartel a su completa disposición antes de que una manada de aurores llegara a hacer uso de ellos. Lo tomó del brazo, lo miró con intensidad unos segundos y luego se inclinó hacia él. —Acompáñame —le dijo al oído. El sonrojo que dominó la cara de Dennis fue claro indicativo de que había comprendido a la perfección cuáles eran sus intenciones. Harry lo soltó y comenzó a caminar, confiando en que Dennis marcharía a su paso. Así fue. Llegaron a la puerta de los vestidores y entraron. Tal como Harry lo había pensado, el sitio todavía estaba desierto. —Dúchate conmigo —le ordenó a Dennis con voz ronca. El sonrojo de Dennis se incrementó. —Pe-pero, Harry… mi turno. Oficialmente, todavía no puedo… —Ahora, Dennis —dijo Harry en un tono que no admitía negativas. Sin dejar de ver a Dennis a los ojos, Harry caminó hacia atrás hasta la banca sin respaldo que estaba colocada en medio del pasillo de los casilleros. Se quitó los anteojos, los colocó sobre la banca y comenzó a quitarse su camiseta. Distraídamente, se preguntó por qué traía solamente ropa muggle y fue cuando recordó que había dejado su túnica de auror en el maldito castillo de Colchester. La rabia que lo invadió al recordar eso (sobre todo por la inevitable asociación a Malfoy) fue suficiente para meterle prisa. Arrojó la camiseta contra la banca con tanta fuerza que no le sorprendería descubrir que se había roto. Se sentía tan frustrado, tan iracundo y tan impotente que sabía que tenía que desahogarse de algún modo y de inmediato. No encontraba un modo mejor que follándose a Dennis ahí mismo y lo más pronto posible. Se sacó las botas y los calcetines y luego se giró hacia Dennis mientras comenzaba a abrirse los vaqueros. Dennis lo estaba mirando totalmente impactado y con la boca abierta, y Harry, haciendo a un lado su furia, le sonrió seductor. —¿En serio no vas a acompañarme? Mira que esas duchas pueden ser endemoniadamente solitarias… No querrás que me pase un accidente, ¿o sí? —concluyó guiñándole un ojo. —No, cla-claro que no —tartamudeó Dennis. Harry casi pudo escuchar cómo éste pasaba saliva. Harry terminó de abrirse los pantalones y, con un movimiento felino y totalmente calculado, se los bajó con todo y la ropa interior. Cuando al fin quedó desnudo de la cabeza a los pies, se incorporó delante de Dennis, permitiéndole una observación total y haciendo caso omiso al vergonzoso hecho de que no tenía su miembro erecto. Dennis, por su parte, estaba más que sonrojado: se encontraba hiperventilando y sudando copiosamente mientras miraba a Harry de arriba abajo. Harry le sonrió al mismo tiempo que la sensación de confianza en sí mismo y en su atractivo físico volvía a invadir su ánimo. Justo eso era lo que le hacía falta. No dijo nada más. Caminó hacia las duchas sin dejar de preguntarse por qué demonios no estaba excitado. No tenía que mirar hacia abajo para darse cuenta de que su miembro no mostraba ningún signo de interés en la actividad que estaba a punto de gestarse dentro de esa ducha comunal. Intentó no entrar el pánico. Ciertamente, era la primera vez en su largo historial como conquistador que le ocurría algo parecido: por lo regular, su "amiguito" estaba firme y dispuesto para atacar apenas Harry pensaba en lo que se avecinaba con el amante en turno. Se imaginó que era culpa del enojo que había sentido durante el día e intentó convencerse de que la ducha y unos cuantos besuqueos y caricias con Dennis lo dejarían más que listo. Después de todo, a eso se resumía su vida, ¿no? Malfoy se lo había dicho claramente durante toda aquella tarde: él era un caradura cuyo único talento consistía en ligar. Llegó a la primera ducha y abrió el grifo. El tiempo corría con rapidez y sus compañeros no tardarían en comenzar a invadir el sitio. No era que realmente le preocupara que lo descubrieran a medio polvo con Dennis, pero no quería dar más motivos para que la gente levantara quejas en su contra y luego Robards las usara de justificación para mandarlo a casa durante una temporada más larga. Por eso, en cuanto el chorro de agua caliente lo empapó, Harry tomó una barra de jabón y comenzó a acariciarse la entrepierna. Necesitaba eso y lo necesitaba ya. Pero su miembro y su libido parecían no estar muy de acuerdo porque sencillamente no querían cooperar. Más frustrado que antes, Harry cerró los ojos y permitió que el chorro le mojara la cabeza. A pesar del ruido del agua cayendo sobre él, alcanzó a percibir cuando Dennis se acercó hasta su espalda. —¿Harry? Harry cerró los ojos más apretadamente y se arrepintió de haber invitado a Dennis a tener sexo ahí con él. De pronto, la perspectiva de un polvo fácil y rápido había dejado de poseer encanto, y Harry no deseó otra cosa más que estar a solas y poder dormir para olvidar que con Malfoy ya no tenía ninguna oportunidad. Algo caliente y doloroso le subió por la garganta y por un momento temió que la humedad en su cara no fuera sólo el agua que caía de la ducha. Furioso con él mismo por sentirse así de abrumado por culpa de Malfoy, Harry se giró bruscamente para encarar a Dennis, decidido a tomar lo que éste pudiera ofrecerle y a sacar a Malfoy de su mente los míseros minutos que demorara en tomar al chico y correrse junto con él. Dennis ya estaba tan desnudo como Harry y éste pudo admirar el cuerpo hermoso y tal vez virgen de aquel jovencito que, como su hermano muerto, sencillamente parecía idolatrarlo y estar dispuesto a hacer cualquier estupidez que le pidiese. Como tener sexo en las duchas de los aurores. Dennis era muchísimo más delgado que él y apenas unos centímetros más alto. "Aunque no tanto como Malfoy", pensó Harry sin poder evitarlo. Su cabello rubio oscuro estaba comenzando a pegársele en mechones debido a la humedad, y su piel, blanca y lozana, se estremeció por alguna razón. Frío, nervios… emoción o miedo. Harry no podía saberlo. Su miembro, a diferencia del de Harry, estaba completamente erecto: clara señal de que sabía a lo que iba y que estaba más que interesado. Harry pasó saliva y se dio ánimos internamente. Dennis era lindo, deseaba a Harry y estaba ahí a su entera disposición. Tenía que tomarlo y disfrutar porque esa sería la única manera de olvidar. Dennis lo miró absorto y emocionado hasta que sus ojos se encontraron con el miembro de Harry y notó su no-excitación. La decepción y la duda dominaron su expresión durante un segundo, pero desaparecieron cuando Harry levantó sus manos hacia él. —Ven —le susurró. Antes de tomarlo de los brazos y atraerlo hacia su cuerpo, Harry pudo ver sus chispeantes ojos azules resplandecer aún más. Harry abrazó a Dennis lo más firme que pudo, pegando sus cuerpos mojados y desnudos, permitiendo que el agua continuara cayendo a su espalda. Con los ojos cerrados, buscó la boca del chico y comenzó a besarlo con frenesí, luchando con toda su alma para no recordar los besos apasionados que Malfoy le había dado apenas unas horas atrás. Haces que se me ponga dura en menos de lo que tú tardas en darle la primera fumada. Las manos del rubio aferrándolo del trasero, acariciándole la espalda, pegándolo contra su cuerpo… ¡Tócame, con una mierda! Dejó de besar a Dennis y gimió con desesperación. No podía sacarse a Malfoy de la cabeza, simplemente… no. Giró junto con Dennis para apoyarlo de espalda contra las frías baldosas de la pared justo debajo de la ducha. Cada vez más enojado porque no conseguía que su miembro se interesase en el asunto que traía entre manos, Harry se rindió y decidió que pensaría deliberadamente en Malfoy. Después de todo, no era la primera vez que lo hacía. No era la primera vez que cogía un rubito con toda la intención de usarlo para fantasear que era a Malfoy a quien se estaba follando. No era la primera vez… "Y no será la última porque jamás tendrás al real", le dijo una voz cruel en su interior. Porque, por supuesto, todas aquellas fantasías con anónimos chicos rubios habían servido antes.Antes. Antes de que Harry supiera por boca del mismo Malfoy lo mucho que éste lo deseaba, lo dispuesto que había estado a seguir teniendo sexo con él, lo mucho que se volvía loco cuando veía a Harry con ropa muggle y lo observaba fumar. Lo celoso que se ponía de que Harry alborotara a otros. Lo feliz que había estado de pensar que él y Harry tendrían algo y lo decepcionado que se quedó cuando creyó que el moreno había estado engañándolo. Ahora Harry sí sabía todo eso y sabía que a pesar de eso, de todas maneras nunca podría tener a Malfoy. Saberlo dolía demasiado y le impedía poder imaginar, como antes, que el rubio que estaba besando era Malfoy y no cualquier otro más. Dennis, aplastado por el peso del cuerpo de Harry contra la pared, jadeó de deseo. Harry, frotándose contra su compañero, jadeó de desespero. Los besos inexpertos que con tanto afán Dennis le prodigaba no tenían punto de comparación a los deliciosamente apasionados que Malfoy le había dado. Cada maldito milisegundo que transcurría, la mente traidora de Harry no dejaba de pensar en eso, y su alma no dejaba de desear estar con Malfoy en vez de con Dennis: todo se confabulaba para no permitirle sentirse ni excitado ni emocionado por tener entre sus brazos a un chico joven, desnudo y mojado, dispuesto y listo sólo para él. El miedo de no poder conseguir una erección comenzó a llenar cada espacio de su mente y cada célula de su cuerpo. Llegó un instante en el que, por más fuerte y duro que besaba a Dennis y por más que se oprimía contra él, supo que no lo conseguiría. Separó bruscamente sus caras pero sin dejar de empotrar a Dennis contra la pared. Éste abrió los ojos y lo miró con expresión de alarma. Harry abrió la boca y se quedó unos segundos sin saber qué decir. Dennis soltó una risita nerviosa. —¿Qué pasa, Harry? —Yo-yo —tartamudeó mientras se obligaba a ver a Dennis a los ojos. Era lo menos que el chico se merecía—. No puedo hacerlo, Dennis. Al menos, no hoy… Lo siento mucho, de verdad. Lo soltó, le dio la espalda y salió hacia los vestidores. Se medio secó y se puso su ropa lo más rápido que pudo y, para su fortuna, Dennis no lo siguió. Finalmente, llegó a su casa e hizo lo único que le restaba: dormir durante tantas horas que al otro día se levantó cuando ya anochecía. Harry aprovechó su semana de vacaciones obligadas para enfocar cada gramo de su voluntad y cada minuto de su tiempo en ligar y eyacular (por medio de cualquier modo: mamada, follada, paja compartida… le daba igual). Pero, sobre todo, estaba decidido a conseguir lo anterior de manera disfrutable y sin pensar en Malfoy. Lo cual, debió saberlo antes de comenzar, fue totalmente imposible. Salió cada noche a pubs, bares y discos muggles con el firme propósito de recuperar aquella facilidad legendaria que había poseído antes para tener sexo casual y sobrevivir feliz. Pero no pudo hacerlo. Todos y cada uno de sus encuentros salieron pésimamente mal. El fantasma de los besos y las caricias que Malfoy le había dado lo acompañaban todo el tiempo y lo hacían no sólo recordar, sino comparar, desear como nunca y casi llorar de la frustración de saber que jamás volvería a pasar. No importaba lo guapo o bueno que estuviera el ligue de la noche, Harry sencillamente no conseguía llegar a buen término y si lo lograba, finalizaba con la moral hecha trizas y un hueco en el alma que dolía físicamente. Uno de esos polvos mal logrados incluso lo hizo terminar en el hospital. La desesperación por conseguir lo de antaño lo hizo creer que tal vez sólo le hacía falta estar relajado, así que una noche se bebió una docena de cervezas, se fumó una caja completa de cigarrillos e inhaló una línea de cocaína antes de lanzarse a la pista de baile para ligar. Despertó horas después en un callejón cercano a la disco muggle donde había estado, golpeado, sin dinero y sin ni siquiera recordar si había disfrutado el encuentro o no. Apenas consiguió reunir fuerzas para aparecerse en la misma sala de San Mungo donde unos días antes había llevado a Malfoy. Todo le estaba saliendo tan mal que llegó un momento en el que pensó que Malfoy, herido y humillado como se había sentido aquella noche en el hospital, tal vez le había arrojado alguna maldición de impotencia sexual, teoría que tuvo que descartar cuando, durante una noche de profunda desesperación y ya a solas en su habitación, se rindió a todos esos recuerdos del breve magreo que había sostenido con Malfoy y eyaculó con todas las ganas y la energía que no había logrado conseguir con ninguno de los amantes casuales de esos días. Sabiéndose así de jodido y todavía adolorido por la golpiza, se rindió finalmente a esas fantasías que parecían funcionar sólo en privado y dejó de salir a buscar compañía. La mañana en la que finalmente terminó su suspensión, Harry se presentó a trabajar a primera hora. Iba rogándole a todo lo que le era sagrado que aquella semana de no verle la cara le hubiese bastado a Robards para olvidarse del asunto y dejarlo en paz. Apenas ponía un pie en su cubículo, cuando la melodiosa voz de su jefe lo sobresaltó. —¡Harry! —lo llamó Robards en un tono glacial que distaba muchísimo de parecerse al cordial que antes solía usar con él—. ¿Dónde demonios está tu uniforme? Harry abrió mucho los ojos y rápidamente se giró sobre sus talones. —Verá, jefe —comenzó a explicar—, el día que acompañé a Malfoy a Colchester, lo dejé olvidado en… —¿O sea que has tenido toda esta semana para ir a recuperarlo o, en su defecto, encargar un uniforme nuevo en la oficina y no lo has hecho? —le dijo Robards bastante desagradablemente, consiguiendo que todos los aurores que estaban a su alrededor los miraran con atención. Era bastante inusual que el jefe tratara así a Harry, anteriormente su chico consentido en el escuadrón. Harry abrió la boca para decir algo, pero Robards continuó—: Suspensión de siete días, auror. Regla 11, inciso B, Manual del Auror. No se puede venir a laborar sin el uniforme y el hecho amerita sanción. Vete de aquí y regresa bien vestido para la siguiente ocasión o si no, mejor no te presentes. Terminando de decir eso, Robards caminó pesadamente hacia su oficina, entró y cerró la puerta sin mirar a Harry a los ojos. Lo cual se podía considerar bueno porque Harry prácticamente lo estaba asesinando con la mirada. Bufó con rabia, pateó la papelera que estaba junto a su escritorio y, sin mirar a nadie, se dirigió rápidamente al corredor que conducía a los ascensores. Iba furioso. Le costaba creer que Robards, con la edad que tenía, el muy vejete, se estuviese portando así de infantil. —¡Harry! —dijo alguien detrás de él en un tono que intentaba sonar despreocupado sin conseguirlo—. ¡Harry, espera! ¿Puedo acompañarte? Mi turno no comienza sino hasta dentro de diez minutos. ¿A dónde vas? Harry se detuvo frente a los ascensores y no tuvo más remedio que encarar a Dennis quien, jadeante, llegaba hasta él. —Hola, Dennis —lo saludó con voz tensa. No tenía idea de por qué Dennis continuaba hablándole. Si a Harry le hubieran hecho lo que él le hizo al chico unos días antes en las duchas, la verdad era que no se habría molestado en continuar con la amistad—. Voy al Departamento de Transportes a ver si me permiten usar un translador a Colchester. Ahí fue donde olvidé mi túnica, el día que… Se calló y miró hacia otro lado. El ascensor abrió su puerta y Harry entró. Le irritó sobremanera que Dennis también lo hiciera detrás de él. —¿El día que escoltaste a Malfoy? —le preguntó Dennis con un peculiar brillo malicioso en los ojos mientras la puerta del ascensor se cerraba. El aparato comenzó a moverse haciendo mucho traqueteo. Harry asintió. Dennis suspiró y dijo—: Pues considerando el ataque de las doxys y todo lo que les pasó, no me sorprende que te olvidaras de la túnica. ¿Así de peligroso es el trabajo de Malfoy? Por alguna razón, la pregunta de Dennis provocó que Harry hiciera muecas. Se sentía extremadamente agradecido de que el chico no sacara a colación lo que había pasado entre ellos dos, pero hablar de Malfoy tal vez era peor. Lo más extraño de todo era la expresión y mirada inquisitiva que el chico tenía, como si quisiera provocar a Harry de alguna manera hablándole de aquel arrogante. —Eso parece. El castillo de Colchester, al menos, sí es un sitio peligroso y horrible. Deberían cerrarlo —concluyó Harry con amargura, pensando en lo molesto que estaría Malfoy si ocurría tal cosa y sintiendo una vengativa alegría por ello. —Bueno, sólo espero que Gringotts no sea igual de arriesgado —dijo Dennis al mismo tiempo que la puerta del ascensor se abría en la sexta planta y Harry daba un paso adelante para salir. —¿Gringotts? —preguntó, incapaz de no ceder ante la curiosidad. Se paró justo en el hueco de la puerta del ascensor para evitar que se cerrara. —Sí, es que hoy en la tarde voy a acompañarlo ahí. Robards me asignó como su guardia. —Ah —jadeó Harry. Por alguna razón, se sintió bastante decepcionado ante aquella revelación. Él, cuando todavía no sabía que todo iba a irse al carajo tanto con Malfoy como con Robards, había tenido la loca idea de que siempre sería, de ese momento en adelante, la guardia de Malfoy. Siempre. Apretó los labios y desvió la mirada. Aquel maldito asunto le dolía mucho más de lo que era sanamente normal, y ser consciente de eso le enfurecía. —De acuerdo. Entonces… —comenzó a balbucear sin mirar a Dennis a los ojos—. Pues cuídate mucho. Y cuida a Malfoy. —Elevó sus ojos hasta encontrarse con los de Dennis—. En verdad hay gente por ahí con ganas de asesinarlo, ¿sabes? Lo cual no comprendo porque, bueno, vale, que el hombre no es un santo pero tampoco es como para matarlo. Yo hubiera querido… En fin, no importa —concluyó con la voz un tanto estrangulada. Dennis no dijo nada. Sólo lo miró con algo que parecía verdadera pena y tal vez, resignación. Harry dio un paso hacia el corredor y permitió que la puerta del ascensor se cerrara con Dennis dentro. No tenía idea de por qué le había dicho eso; sencillamente había tenido la urgencia de pedirle que cuidara a aquel cretino que parecía tener el trabajo de más riesgo dentro del ministerio. Para su buena suerte (porque de otro modo tendría que habérselas ingeniado para aparecerse y andar a hurtadillas en un sitio donde se suponía que no tenía permiso para entrar), el joven empleado que estaba en ese momento en la Oficina de Trasladores era un viejo conocido suyo. Confiando en que el chico no estuviese esperando otro rencuentro más íntimo a cambio del favor, Harry lo observó mientras sacaba el libro que había usado con Malfoy de una caja marcada con la etiqueta "Castillo de Colchester: oficina para el director de Finanzas". El chico, tomando el libro con unos guantes especiales cuyos encantamientos impedían la activación del traslador, acompañó a Harry a la sala de salidas y le colocó el libro en la mesa. —Simplemente, cuando quieras regresar, tócalo de nuevo —le dijo con una gran sonrisa—. Yo estaré aquí hasta las seis. Por si… te interesa. Harry le sonrió forzadamente. No, por supuesto que no le interesaba. Dios, ni siquiera recordaba su nombre. Es más, ni siquiera recordaba qué actividad habían hecho los dos juntos. ¿Una mamada? ¿Habrían follado? Harry no tenía ni idea. Habían sido tantos los chicos que habían pasado por su vida los últimos años que estaba convencido de que se los estaría encontrando cara a cara diariamente hasta el final de su existencia. La perspectiva no era bonita. El chico no-recuerdo-su-nombre salió de la salita sin dejar de verlo con amorosa intensidad. Harry esperó a que cerrara la puerta y suspiró. Lo peor de todo ese asunto era que, en otras circunstancias y de no estar deambulando por la calle de la amargura (y de la impotencia sexual, aparentemente) por culpa de Malfoy, a Harry le habría importado poco no acordarse del nombre de aquel mago. Sabía que habría aprovechado la soledad de aquella salita para desnudarlo de la cintura para abajo y se lo habría follado ahí, justo sobre la mesa. Ahora nada le apetecía menos que eso y sabía que Malfoy tenía toda la culpa. Apretó los labios con rabia y tocó el libro para largarse a Colchester. Llegó a la misma oficinita de la vez anterior y, para su fortuna, vio que su túnica estaba en el mismo preciso lugar donde la había dejado. Tal vez era que nadie entraba nunca a ese privado, pensó mientras daba un paso adelante y, sin querer, le daba una patada a la mesa, ocasionando un ruido chirriante que retumbó en el minúsculo espacio. Harry hizo muecas y tomó su túnica. La puerta se abrió y el anciano con el que Malfoy había estado charlando el día que lo acompañó, asomó la cabeza. Harry y el muggle se miraron con asombro durante un momento. Harry comenzaba a preguntarse si tendría que sacar su varita y comenzar a aplicar obliviates, cuando el anciano habló. —Oh, pero si es usted. ¡Qué susto me ha dado, joven asistente! Mire, justo estaba por enviarle a su jefe una carta por correo. ¿Puede llevársela personalmente, por favor? Harry se quedó congelado durante un momento pero reaccionó rápidamente. Era evidente que el anciano lo recordaba como el asistente del supuesto secretario que era Malfoy. —Claro —dijo y estiró su mano hacia el hombre para tomar el sobre con el logotipo del castillo que éste le ofrecía. El anciano abrió completamente la puerta y se la detuvo a Harry para que pasara. —Lo acompaño a la salida. ¿Sabe? No debería estar usted aquí. El sitio es realmente peligroso. Hemos tenido varios accidentes en lo que va del mes y justo ayer desapareció un trabajador. Estamos vueltos locos y la policía también. —Ah, ¿sí? —preguntó Harry mientras intentaba no pensar en cuál habría sido la suerte de aquel pobre trabajador desaparecido. Discretamente dobló su túnica y se unió al anciano en el corredor. El hombre comenzó a caminar a paso veloz, lo cual era admirable considerando su edad. —Sí. Terrible situación. Es como si el castillo estuviese maldito. —El anciano suspiró—. Precisamente de eso trata la carta que le estoy enviando a su superior. Mañana Colchester cerrará sus puertas para siempre y no sólo eso… Estamos considerando demoler el sitio hasta los cimientos. El hombre parecía verdaderamente desolado y Harry incluso pudo notar cómo le había temblado la voz al decirle aquello. —Lo siento mucho —dijo Harry con sinceridad. A partir de ese momento, los dos caminaron en silencio, lo cual Harry agradeció. Aprovechó para observar un poco aquel sitio y los tesoros que guardaba. Se preguntó si tendrían que ser llevados a otros museos y si eso no ocasionaría que las plagas mágicas se propagaran. Una punzada de culpa no lo dejó tranquilo al recordar que él había deseado que aquel lugar se fuera a la ruina sólo para molestar a Malfoy. Ahora que lo veía como un hecho, no estaba tan seguro de querer que pasara aquello. El anciano y él finalmente terminaron de recorrer el trecho hasta la puerta principal. Harry planeaba aparecerse de nuevo en la oficina donde lo esperaba el traslador, pero fingió despedirse del hombre y caminar hacia afuera por un pequeño puente elevadizo. Se sorprendió al conocer el exterior del castillo, pues no se había imaginado que fuera tan bonito. Colchester estaba rodeado de un gran parque que, en ese momento del verano, rebozaba de flores de todos colores. Lleno de mariposas, cantos de aves y con una brisa fresca recorriendo el jardín, realmente se antojaba quedarse ahí. Harry, quien en realidad no tenía nada que hacer y ninguna prisa por volver al ministerio dado que estaba suspendido otra vez, se dejó caer pesadamente en la primera banca que encontró y desde donde tenía una buena vista del castillo. Aunque éste era más bien pequeño, sencillo y estaba medio derruido, tenía cierto encanto y Harry no podía dejar de apreciarlo muy a su pesar. Sobre todo si se tomaba en cuenta, como Malfoy le había contado, que existía la alta probabilidad de que ahí hubiesen vivido el legendario Rey Arturo, Merlín, Morgana, todos los caballeros de la mesa redonda y quién sabe quienes más. Era una pena que tuvieran que demoler semejante pieza de la historia muggle y mágica. Miró la carta que llevaba en las manos y no pudo evitar pensar (por más que trató) en lo desolado que Malfoy se sentiría ante la noticia. A Harry le había dado la impresión de que el rubio había luchado mucho por salvar aquel montón de piedras. Aunque… —¿De veras luchaste con ganas, Malfoy? —le preguntó Harry a la carta, causando que una mujer que paseaba cerca de él lo mirara como si se hubiese vuelto loco—. No sé por qué, pero tengo el presentimiento de que por culpa de tu orgullo no pediste ayuda a las personas que sí podían haber hecho algo por ti. Harry pensaba en Hermione, quien, en su cruzada por ayudar a mejorar la vida de los elfos domésticos, había llegado a tener un puesto muy importante en el Departamento de Regulación y Control de Criaturas Mágicas. Harry sabía que ella le habría contado algo si Malfoy se hubiera acercado al departamento para intentar terminar de una vez por todas con las plagas que asolaban al castillo. Era obvio que no lo había hecho, y Harry estaba seguro de que había sido por el puro capricho de no pedirle nada a Hermione. Encendió un cigarro y comenzó a fumárselo mientras le daba vueltas a la carta con su mano libre. Él podría hablar con Hermione al respecto, y no sólo con ella. Se le ocurría otra persona (o mejor dicho, un retrato) que tal vez podría ayudarle en aquella empresa y que, si Harry lo conocía bien, estaría más que feliz de poder poner a disposición de Harry su "corazón noble y temple de acero" para librar aquella batalla por la salvación del castillo de Colchester. Sonrió un poco y suspiró con resignación. Jamás había pensado que tendría que volver a Hogwarts para sostener una charla con el loco de Sir Cadogan quien, Harry recordaba bien, en más de una ocasión les había presumido que en vida había sido amigo íntimo de Merlín y un miembro (tal vez no tan) honorable de la mesa redonda. Si él no podía certificar cuál había sido el verdadero castillo del Rey Arturo, Harry sabría que nadie más podría. Harry dedicó sus siguientes siete días de suspensión a actividades diametralmente diferentes a las que se había entregado la vez anterior. Llegaba a su casa tan agotado de entrar y salir de la oficina de Hermione, de ir y venir a Hogwarts, de ayudar a redactar informes, de buscar documentos históricos y de llenar solicitudes de investigación y presupuesto, que no le quedaban ganas de salir a ningún otro lado más y mucho menos para ir a buscar con quién follar. Sin embargo, algunas noches (especialmente ésas donde se sentía muy solitario) se dejaba embargar por el agridulce recuerdo de Malfoy y eyaculaba después de unos minutos de trabajo manual, intentando con todas sus fuerzas no pensar en nada más y permitiendo que el sueño lo reclamara de inmediato. Durante el día, mientras laboraba junto con Hermione, echaba de menos el trabajo de auror con todas las fuerzas de su corazón pero se consolaba en el hecho de que sólo serían unos pocos días y que pronto regresaría. Además, lo tranquilizaba saber que era Dennis quien acompañaba a Malfoy y que seguramente lo cuidaría bien. Hermione, tan entusiasmada como él por salvar aquel castillo horrible cuando Harry le había contado que posiblemente se trataba del mismísimo Camelot, no le hizo muchas preguntas al respecto. Lo cual Harry agradeció internamente, pues de ninguna manera iba a confesarle todo el asunto de Malfoy. —El director de Finanzas jamás aprobará semejante gasto —dijo Hermione mientras miraba con preocupación el formato oficial que Harry y ella habían terminado de llenar. Levantó los ojos y lo miró—. ¿Sabes quién es? Harry se mordió los labios. Sabía que no tenía caso mentirle a Hermione. La chica lo conocía tal vez mejor que él mismo. —Sí. Es Malfoy. Hermione frunció el ceño y lo miró suspicaz durante unos segundos antes de continuar. —Exacto, Malfoy. Jamás querrá otorgarnos tanto dinero sólo para esto. Harry suspiró y miró hacia otro lado. —Te sorprenderás de lo sensato que se ha vuelto —le dijo en voz baja—. Confía en mí. Llévaselo y verás. —¿Hay algo sobre Malfoy que no me hayas contado, Harry? —le preguntó ella de pronto, observándolo con los ojos entrecerrados. Harry soltó una risa fingida. —¡Por supuesto que no! ¿Qué tonterías estás diciendo? Simplemente es… bueno, lo he visto y… no es como lo recordamos. De veras. —De acuerdo —accedió ella—. De todas formas, no llevaré esto a Finanzas hasta que Luna me haya mandado el resultado de las pruebas de la poción. Quiero mostrarle a Malfoy al menos un documento oficial donde se demuestre que la poción funciona correctamente. Además, así le daremos tiempo al Departamento de Aplicación de la Ley Mágica para que terminen de evaluar los datos que obtuvimos de Sir Cadogan. —Me parece perfecto —respondió Harry. Sabía que Malfoy autorizaría gustoso cualquier gasto que ayudara a Colchester pero no se atrevió a contarle a Hermione por qué sabía eso. Harry no le había entregado a Malfoy la carta mandada por el patronato del castillo y, en vez de eso, había solicitado una prórroga al mismo para tratar de salvarlo antes de su cierre definitivo. Hermione ya no insistió en el tema Malfoy, pero la mirada de sospecha que le dirigió a Harry durante toda aquella tarde fue un verdadero dolor de cabeza para el moreno, aunque no tanto como el que le provocaron los cangrejos de fuego que, escapando de unas cajas recién recogidas en una redada, atacaron a Harry antes de que nadie en el departamento pudiera hacer nada para evitarlo. Hermione se disculpó muy profusamente y abandonó a un Harry con quemaduras de segundo grado en San Mungo, sitio que éste visitaba por segunda vez en menos de dos semanas en calidad de paciente. Ahora Harry no sabía si era más peligroso ser jefe de Finanzas o un miembro del departamento de Hermione. Parecía que al menos él tenía imán para las criaturas peligrosas. Ese pensamiento dominó su adormilada mente mientras los sanadores curaban sus quemaduras, y lo hizo sonreír cuando llegó a la conclusión de que, de todas las criaturas peligrosas a las que se había enfrentado en su vida, Malfoy era la peor. Pero, eso sí, la más bonita. El día que Harry regresó de nueva cuenta a su trabajo, se cuidó muy bien de llevar la túnica impecable y de rasurarse y peinarse lo mejor que pudo hacerlo. No quería volver a darle motivos a Robards para una nueva suspensión y tenía todo el ánimo puesto en portarse bien y ser un auror ejemplar. Al menos hasta que Robards lo mandó llamar y le comunicó que había quedado delegado al archivo por tiempo indefinido. La noticia lo dejó mudo tanto tiempo que Robards le dijo: —Si no tienes más que decir, vete. Hay mucho trabajo acumulado, por lo que sé. Harry había estado a punto de discutir acerca de aquellas injusticias, pero sabía que no tenía caso. Robards poseía toda la autoridad delegar a quien le placiera al archivo y, normalmente, ese era su mejor castigo para los aurores torpes o desobedientes. Harry se había salvado durante el par de años que llevaba laborando porque Robards siempre le había tenido cariño. Claro, hasta el día infame en que no pudo conseguirle el dinero para su puto baile. Dispuesto a portarse lo mejor que pudiera para salir del archivo lo más rápido posible, Harry sólo dijo "Sí, señor" y salió de la oficina de Robards sin protestar. No obstante, conforme pasaron los días, el encierro y el trabajo monótono amenazaron con volverlo loco. Él se conocía y sabía que no iba a poder soportar eso durante mucho tiempo más. Estar confinado a esas cuatro paredes llenas de anaqueles rebosantes de papeles en espera de una clasificación no hacía más que robarle la poca paz que había obtenido durante los días que había trabajado con Hermione. La reclusión, la soledad y el silencio no hacían más que orillarlo a pensar en lo que lo había llevado a estar así, y todas sus conclusiones y divagaciones, siempre, siempre, terminaban en Draco Malfoy. Extrañaba poder estar afuera haciendo magia, aplicando encantamientos y hechizos que le permitían desahogar su rabia y frustración. Pero, ¿ahí?, ¿donde la mayor magia que hacía era un wingardium leviosa para levantar cajas llenas de pergaminos?, ¿donde su mente no hacía más que repasar una y otra vez los errores que cometió en aquellos dos días que tuvo a Malfoy para sí? Si tan sólo se hubiera permitido seguir sus instintos aquel mediodía que lo siguió al baño y, en vez dejarlo ir, lo hubiera secuestrado directo a su cama para hacerle el amor de una manera tan intensa que, al otro día, a Malfoy no le habría cabido duda de que lo que Harry sentía por él era sincero y legal. Pero las cosas no habían sido así y ya no había lugar para lamentaciones, se decía. Sin embargo, continuaba pensando sin parar en "hubieras" que no tenían sentido y lo estaban volviendo demente de la pura desesperación. El maldito de Robards, por su parte, no parecía tener pensado darle fin a ese castigo inhumano en un futuro cercano. Harry, paciente y tratando de ser buen chico, soportó dos semanas así. Pero una mañana en la que sabía que si se encerraba una vez más en ese cuarto de locos terminaría arañando las paredes (literalmente), perdió la poca sensatez que había adquirido y se presentó ante su jefe dispuesto a rebelarse porque era eso o renunciar. Todo salió pesimamente, aunque a esas alturas de su vida lo que habría sorprendido a Harry era que algo le saliera bien. En primer lugar, Robards le había dicho "no" a su petición de salir del archivo. Por lo tanto, Harry hizo lo que cualquier auror en sus cinco sentidos habría hecho ante semejante injusticia: se largó sin permiso con el escuadrón que salió un rato después a realizar una redada de emergencia. No estaba dispuesto a pasar ni un solo día más encerrado sin hacer magia de verdad, así que se unió discretamente al grupo diciéndoles que Robards lo había mandado con ellos. Nadie lo dudó y fue así como aquella media docena de aurores llegaron al callejón Knockturn en respuesta a un reporte anónimo que aseguraba la existencia de un laboratorio clandestino de pociones ilegales y altamente tóxicas. Harry, sobrexcitado, sintiéndose en su elemento y con los dedos picándole por hacer magia que le permitiera aliviar su ansiedad, aplicó, sin permiso del auror a cargo, un bombarda en la puerta del supuesto laboratorio, ocasionando que medio edificio cayera sobre el escuadrón. Harry, en su intento de salvar a sus compañeros de lo que incluso podría haber sido una muerte segura, tuvo los segundos suficientes para lanzar varios reductos hacia los escombros que caían sobre las cabezas de los demás, volviéndolos polvo. Sin embargo, no pudo evitar que un enorme pedazo de pared cayera encima de él oscureciendo su mundo por completo. Cuando despertó, se encontraba por tercera ocasión en ese mes en un cuarto de recuperación del hospital. Estaba que se lo llevaban todos los diablos. Los sanadores le habían informado que había presentado varias fracturas y aunque ya le habían sanado todos los huesos, debía quedarse en observación lo que restaba de la noche. Ninguno de sus compañeros aurores estaba a la vista, así que Harry no tenía idea de qué demonios era lo que había pasado o si alguien más había resultado herido de gravedad. Cerró los ojos con desesperación. Ahora sí la había cagado y no le extrañaría que al salir de ahí, Robards le informara que lo había suspendido definitivamente del escuadrón. En eso pensaba cuando se coló a su cuarto un tipo que tenía toda la pinta de ser un periodista de El Profeta. Harry lo miró con desconfianza: ese periódico jamás lo había tratado con justicia y no tenía esperanza de que fuera a cambiar y menos cuando había cometido semejante error garrafal. —Buenas noches, auror Potter —dijo aquel mago con voz lambiscona—. ¿Puedo pasar? —No —respondió Harry arrugando el entrecejo. El periodista se rió fingidamente y, de todas maneras, entró. —La gente no bromea cuando afirman que usted tiene un gran sentido del humor, ¿cierto? —dijo el periodista y Harry apenas iba a responderle una grosería, cuando el otro continuó—: Ha sufrido usted un accidente terrible. Justo me encontraba yo cubriendo otra nota aquí mismo cuando sus compañeros lo trajeron a la sala de urgencias. Venía completamente cubierto de sangre, todo golpeado y deforme. Francamente horrible… muchos pensábamos que ya estaba muerto. Qué suerte la suya, ¿eh, auror? —Sí, mucha suerte —masculló Harry. —Me tomé la libertad de hacerle varias fotos muy buenas —agregó el tipo mostrándole a Harry la cámara que traía colgada del cuello—. Me encantaría poder entrevistarlo para… —Fuera —dijo Harry con una voz tan siniestra que hasta a él le sorprendió. —…pienso que le debe muchas explicaciones a la sociedad mágica de Londres. Todos estarán ansiosos por saber qué anda mal con usted. ¿Sabía, por ejemplo, que el edificio que ha destruido, no albergaba a ningún mago o bruja cometiendo ilícitos? ¡Qué grave error! ¿Qué tiene que decir al respecto? —¡FUERA! —volvió a ordenar Harry con exasperación. —…por si fuera poco, escuché rumores entre los compañeros que lo trajeron al hospital. ¿Es verdad que su jefe lo ha suspendido? Porque, de ser así… Harry no volvió a advertirle nada. Tomó su varita (la cual alguien había dejado misericordiosamente sobre la mesita que estaba a un lado de su cama) y gritó mientras le apuntaba al idiota metiche: —¡Depulso! El periodista salió violentamente empujado hacia atrás y aterrizó, según pudo escuchar Harry, haciendo mucho ruido y tal vez encima de alguien. Sonriendo malignamente, Harry deseó de todo corazón que la cámara fotográfica se le hubiese roto en miles de irreparables pedazos. Se quedó un rato más con la varita en la mano por si a aquel cretino se le ocurría volver. No fue así, por lo que finalmente Harry decidió descansar un poco. Trató de no pensar en lo que le esperaba al otro día en el ministerio y luchó por dormir. Al otro día, Hermione lo visitó después de la hora del almuerzo y aprovechó para contarle las nuevas con respecto a los resultados de las pruebas de la poción de Luna y de la investigación derivada de los testimonios otorgados por Sir Cadogan. Harry, todavía con los huesos adoloridos y medio adormilado por culpa de las pociones que le habían administrado, escuchaba a medias y pensaba en Malfoy. Siempre había sido así y apenas en ese momento caía en cuenta de que toda esa labor de "Adopta un castillo, salva a Colchester" no era más que una excusa patética de su parte para poder pensar indirectamente en Malfoy sin sentirse tan culpable. Sabía que no tenía ninguna oportunidad con Malfoy y que todo entre ellos había acabado aún antes de empezar, pero de todas maneras le hacía ilusión saber que, de algún modo, él habría contribuido a llevar a la vida del rubio un poco de felicidad. Era consciente de que no compensaba todo el daño que le había causado, pero intentaba animarse pensando que algo era mejor que nada. —Hermione —dijo con voz arrastrada, interrumpiendo el monólogo de su amiga—, recuerda que te dije que, cuando vayas a hablar con Malfoy, no le digas que fui yo el de la idea. Hermione se silenció automáticamente. —Claro que lo recuerdo Harry, aunque me parece una estupidez. De cualquier manera, ¿en qué afecta eso? No creo que a Malfoy le… —Lo conoces —interrumpió Harry con esfuerzo—. Sabes que me detesta. Si descubre que yo tengo algo que ver, se negará. Hermione pareció encontrar aquella razón adecuada, porque no insistió. Se quedó un rato más con Harry, pero finalmente tuvo que regresar al trabajo. —Parece que te darán de alta durante las primeras horas de la noche, según dicen los sanadores. Vendré a recogerte para acompañarte a tu casa, ¿te parece bien? Harry asintió. Hermione le dio un besito en la frente y se marchó. Harry se giró de costado sobre la cama: le dolían absolutamente todas las costillas. Apenas estaba acomodándose entre las duras almohadas para dormir una siesta, cuando la puerta de su cuarto se abrió de nuevo. Sin girarse a ver, Harry murmuró: —¿Qué se te olvidó, Hermione? Te prometo que no me escaparé, si es eso lo que… —Buenas tardes —dijo la masculina voz de Malfoy a su espalda. Harry se quedó congelado durante un momento. Entonces, se giró tan rápido para cerciorarse de que aquello no había sido una jugada de su imaginación, que se mareó y casi se cae de la cama. Después de casi un mes de no verlo ni de saber nada de él, Draco Malfoy estaba ahí, visitándolo en el hospital y tan jodidamente guapo e irresistible como siempre. Harry casi se olvidó de respirar.

All were fair spirits. Some were brighter than others. Some lay with heads in each other’s laps, some danced along the ever-flowing streams of that mysterious realm known as the spiritual, some pondered the ways of mortals and wondered why they did such foolish things as eat the forbidden fruit and forgo their paradise. And as She looked down upon these spirits, She conceived a Game, a great Game. The Universe grew weary, carried in one hand alone. And She knew not the ways of mortals, any more than they. “Spirits,” She whispered out into the farthest reaches of the universe, and drew them to Her. They came. Some shy, hands clasped in a friend’s. Some bold, with laughter and dance. Some with a mere quiet glance that spoke of true devotion. Some with flashes of rebellion in their eyes. But they all came, and circled around Her, silent. “What is it, Lord?” one, bolder than the rest, dared to ask. She looked down upon them with love in her eyes. “You are my creations,” She said, “and I would have you be more. I would that you were also my aides.” “We are ready to do Your will,” one said, tossing dark tresses behind his shoulder, and placing a hand to his side, as if to draw out a sword. “What did you have in mind?” That was the voice of the dearest of Her creations, with eyes of air and fire, quick and lovely in both mind and body. The two who had spoken stood together, for they were bondmates, consecrated to each other in the courts of heaven itself. Long before Time began (and Time mattered not in these halls) the two of them had found each other and sworn to be together, ever enjoying each the pleasures of the other until the worlds shattered and Time went back to the hollow void that had created it. And She spoke, watching the faces of Her beloved ones. “I have considered a Game,” She said. “We know not the ways of mortals, and I know not how to rule them.” The spirits bowed their heads as one, acknowledging the truth of this. “I would have you go among them, like unto them, but not of them, and observe their ways. You shall watch them, love them, know them, and be even as one of them, except that you may not die nor have children like them. You shall be Immortals.” The newly christened Immortals raised their heads in interest. She went on. “This Game shall be played among you, with earthly weapons called swords. Whoever remains standing shall be the victor. When all save one have returned to me, I shall appoint the Winner ruler over the world of mortals.” A hum of interest broke out among the Immortals as each turned to his neighbor. The beloved one said to his companion, “Does that mean we must fight? Studying mortals sounds fascinating, sword fighting boring.” The dark-haired spirit laughed. “Keep your books and study, my loved one. Sword fighting appeals to me, if it is for a good cause.” At last silence fell again, for She was not finished speaking. “The Rules of this Game shall be thus: First, any ground consecrated unto Me, in any form that I have chosen to reveal Myself, is holy. You may not fight there. Second, only one may engage one other at a time. Third, the body you shall be given will always heal, even from wounds that would be fatal to mortals. And last, you shall receive the powers of the spirits you vanquish into your body. The spirit itself shall return to me, but you will have all the knowledge and power it has gained in life.” The voices that broke out this time were not hushed, and all seemed excited. A few backed away from the Throne, declaring that mortals were not their study and that they only wished the Presence forever to be happy. These She let go. But a few thousand remained. Among them were several bondmated pairs, including the two She loved. They were discussing together, and She bent to hear. “But what if we are the last two?” the wise one exclaimed to his lover. “I will not fight you!” “But we both wish to go,” said the dark-haired one. “Maybe there is some kind of provision for that.” She made it up on the spur of the moment, laughing. “Bondmates shall, if they are the last two, rule together,” She said, smiling down upon the little ones. They sighed with relief, and all who were mated clasped their lovers to their sides. “Bondmates, though,” She said, “because of their advantage, may experience great difficulty in coming together as lovers in that world of mortals. They may be far-sundered in time or place. Yet, they will find each other, if they seek long enough.” The spirits smiled. “We must be named, if we are to inhabit the world of mortals,” one of them, longhaired, noble and proud, declared. “You shall pick your own name,” She answered her. There was silence for a moment, then a chorus of voices. “Cassandra,” she said. “Kronos,” another, fiery and passionate, put in. “Amanda,” with a capricious laugh. “Nick,” from the spirit beside her. “Connor,” reaching a hand out to a mortal woman’s image. “Silas,” one said, staring at the earthly animals. “Darius,” staring at the blood mortals spilled. “Duncan,” the dark-haired one said, drawing the Favored One into his arms. They declared their names, one by one, but the Favorite remained silent. At last he was the only one left, and all turned to him. “Love, by what name shall I greet you, down there?” Duncan asked. He smiled a quiet, sly, smile. “Methos.” Laughter exploded in the heavens. “Methos!” Cassandra mocked. “Methos means ‘nothing!’ Oh, most humble one, you would have us call you that?” “I would,” Methos answered, quietly but firmly. “I would.” And the One approved their choices. “One last word before farewell,” She said. “Down there, I may not answer your pleas, though you beg with tears. In most cases, I will not give aid to you. This is your own fight.” And on that somber note, they filed out of the courts of heaven down into the skies of earth, forgetting everything they knew of their lives before. “So I told Joe that Methos wasn’t actually a legend, he just knew how to hide really well,” Ann Westra, newly appointed Watcher of Richie Ryan, laughed to her friend. “You should have seen Adam get all protective – I swear he thinks the Methos Chronicles are his own personal responsibility.” “Well, Ann, in a way they are,” the quieter girl answered. “Adam Pierson’s done a lot of work on those old books. He says he may be only a hundred years behind now. Just think, soon we may have a Watcher on the oldest of them ever.” Ann got a wondering look on her face. “It would be interesting to know where Methos is right now. He must be hiding in Alaska or something.” “Probably too cold for him,” a voice put in beside them. They both turned to see Adam standing there. “Speak of the devil,” Ann joked, shaking Adam’s hand. “But really Adam, do you know where he is or are you just playing us for fools?” Adam pushed away from the counter. “Not telling,” he said, with a characteristic shy smile. “But listen, I kind of need a favor, and I wonder if you can help me.” “Maybe for a…” Ann started. “Nope, don’t do information trades,” Adam cut in. “How about a decent beer?” Ann continued. Adam nodded. “That I can do.” After a whispered word to the bartender, he spoke again. “Duncan MacLeod. I want a copy of his Chronicles. That’s all. It’s not quite for research purposes, so I can’t request it myself. You could, since you’re going to be Watching…what’s the name again?” “Richie Ryan,” Ann supplied. “Right. So that would help me out a lot, really it would.” Adam handed Ann the beer. “Bribery does the trick?” “It does,” Ann said. “Check your email.” A brilliant smile lit up Adam’s face. “Thank you very much,” he said. “See you around.” Ann turned to her friend. “Almost worth the trouble of pulling up MacLeod’s chronicles just to see the look on his face.” “Yeah,” the other girl nodded, thoughtfully. “Wonder what he wants with MacLeod, though.” They both shrugged and went back to their conversation. Methos sat at his computer late into the night, reading the huge file that Ann had sent him. “Duncan MacLeod, born in 1592 in the Highlands of Scotland, taught by Connor MacLeod, fought under Bonny Prince Charlie, married a pre-immortal who vanished on their wedding night and is now known as “Faith,” never tried to marry anyone else until Tessa, who died recently." And the long list of mortals he had loved, battles he had fought in, and his students and friends dragged out until Methos thought he would fall asleep from boredom. “Always-a-cause MacLeod,” he whispered under his breath. Then sank back in the chair. “Maybe I can turn that to my advantage.” Methos’ dreams had been strange lately. Not dreams of the past, of ancient sweltering days under the burning sun, but dreams of a time before the past, before Earth. Dreams of a dark-eyed soul who had pledged eternity to him. Who was even now on earth, waiting, longing. “Could it be Duncan MacLeod?” Methos pondered. “Could it be?” The man who was beautiful beyond all words, noble, proud, and oh, yes, according to the Chronicle, only liked women. “If it is you,” Methos whispered to the chronicle, “I beg you, remember who you are. You are mine, from before the dawn of time. Mortals you may play with, but Immortals are off-limits for you.” As it was, the only Immortals Methos himself had ever had any kind of lasting relationship with had parted from him, and not on good terms. Sitting back in his chair, he remembered the fire that had driven him to live and kill for years. They called it passion. Drove across the wide aching wilderness for a hundred years and found satisfaction in nothing. Days revealed silent anguish and nights patient torture. The subtle shapes in sand and sky were lost to them, the gentle curve of river just another barrier to cross. And the years dragged on, some swift, some slow. But they called it passion, the hellfire of sweet revenge, and so they drove onward, sweeping through town and village like wildfire, leaving nothing alive. Until one day, one of them awoke from the long slow sleep of anguished killing, and whispered “is this all there is?” “We could rule a world,” Methos had written in one of his early journals, “but we had no idea how to govern ourselves.” Whatever they saw became theirs, except for the hearts of those they plundered. The women gave their bodies, unwilling it is true, but preferring that to death, yet none of them ever truly smiled at any of the Horsemen. The smoke of their burning could be seen far off as they made camp by night. And eventually that was what destroyed them. For with warning came preparation. There were always some willing to fight rather than to die meekly. After a time, those who wished to fight the Horsemen combined their forces, made an alliance, and attacked the Horsemen’s camp. The battle was fierce and bloody. The bodies of hundreds lay strewn on the ground after it was over. Three of the Horsemen were captured. Their slaves were set free to loot the camp, like their own villages had been looted. But Methos was not there. Death slipped away in the early dawning, on horseback, with only a few of his most treasured possessions. No one discovered this until many years had passed, and Kronos, slipping his own captivity by devious means, came looking for his brother. Oh, they found each other. How could they not find each other? But Methos was too sly, too quick. They parted again, not fighting with any weapon other than fiery words. Methos moved on, leaving the Horsemen scattered like ashes in the wind. Kronos did not, hanging on to the memories, the subtle taste of fear and the pleasure in the deaths of mortals. And then there was the laughing poet Byron, his other Immortal love, mocking the universe. “We don’t have a purpose, Doc!” the man had laughed. “Dance the night away! Laugh! Drink! Smoke! It’s all you get!” “It’s not all, Lord Byron,” he had answered. “Not all.” Byron had laughed then. He had remained on a continual high for over two hundred years now. Methos had better things to do than babysit him. Like figure out if Duncan MacLeod was the one he sought. The changing years had brought separation like the soft winds brushing sand grains high into the sky, tearing lovers apart. Immortals did not generally interest Methos. They were invariably not to be trusted, and he always found himself on his guard around them. Men were treacherous and women tended to be seductive betrayers. But mortals were intriguing, for their lives were so short, yet filled with so much passion. They lived with a zest that had gone from Methos’ life with the Horsemen, as if the thousands he had killed had taken all his energy and left him hopeless. The years had passed with a kind of quiet ache for Methos, living, hiding, learning, studying, ever delving deeper into the hearts of mortals and Immortals, exploring human nature so intensely that at times he would not even feel hunger. And now at last he had delved into Duncan MacLeod’s Chronicle, and at last the dreams were beginning to make sense. Methos left his laptop open on the floor to Joe’s last entry about Duncan, and began to write in his journal, slumping back against the edge of the bed. “The one who appears in my dreams has long dark hair. MacLeod has long dark hair. So do many other Immortals though. But, ruling out the women, for my lover was not a woman, the dreams tell me that unmistakably, there are only four others living who might be possible. I have met all of them, however, and I felt nothing for any of them. I simply did not recognize them. They did not resonate in my soul. One would expect that I would know someone I had loved in that mysterious place in my dreams. It is none of these others, and MacLeod rings more true than any, though I have not even met him yet." Methos looked up, out of the window to where the sun was dying over the Seine. “I will, though,” he whispered. “I will.” It was almost a year though, and a strange set of circumstances, before that happened. Methos had done his best to make a friend of Joe, instead of trying to meet the Highlander himself, and had also risen in the Watcher organization to the point where he alone, under Don Salzer, was responsible for the search for Methos. For the first time in centuries, he allowed himself the luxury of feeling safe. A dangerous mistake. “Don is dead, Adam.” Joe’s voice was on the verge of shaking. Methos drew in a deep breath. His own voice was none too steady as he asked why and how. “There’s an Immortal psycho on the loose. Name of Kalas,” Joe answered. “He came looking for Don — looking for a man who wasn’t even an active Watcher” — Joe’s voice got very low — “looking for Methos.” “That means he’s after me,” Methos said. “I’m next on his list.” “Yes, Adam, as the Methos researcher, you’re the one he will come to find next, I’m sure.” Joe paused for a moment, and Methos could almost see him thinking. “Wait a minute. You know Duncan MacLeod’s here. I could send him to protect you from Kalas. Mac’s been after Kalas for quite a while. Left Seacouver because the guy killed him in front of his girlfriend.” Methos’ first reaction was one of almost panic. Duncan could find him, expose him to the Watchers, his cover could be blown, and how was Joe to know Duncan was really as much of a good guy as he thought? And Methos didn’t feel quite ready to encounter someone he had only dreamed about. But it was Duncan MacLeod. And finally a chance to meet. “Yeah, that’s okay,” Methos answered. Methos slid a sword and a gun beside the bed, within easy reach, in case Kalas came after him before Duncan could get there, or in case Duncan proved too troublesome. “Helplessly innocent,” he cued himself. Maybe Duncan would think he was a brand-new Immortal who had happened to be in the Watchers and had never learned the Rules. Turning the music up, Methos began writing in his journal to pass the time. “I suppose my feelings could be likened to that of a teenager about to meet a blind date for the first time. I mean, here I am, about to meet MacLeod, who all the signs say is destined for some kind of strange entwined fate with me — and I am literally quivering in place. It’s been a long time since I felt so alive.” About an hour later, a strong Presence rang through Methos’ body, alerting him to the arrival of either Duncan or Kalas. Simultaneous with that, a spark of recognition went through him, for his soul knew that Quickening. “It’s MacLeod,” he whispered. And almost immediately the man himself appeared. Methos got lost in staring at him, for just a moment. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he said, letting the name roll off his tongue for the first time in full. Strangely enough, every bit of nervousness had vanished and Methos only felt exultation to see the one he had dreamed of for so many nights. Almost as though he had planned it, Methos grabbed a beer from off the floor. “Have a beer,” he said, and hefted it toward the Highlander. “Mi casa es su casa.” He wasn’t able to resist at least a hint. Duncan caught the can of beer, stared at it, then back at Methos for a moment. “Methos,” he said finally, and it was not a question. Methos nodded, and their eyes met. Time slid to a slow halt as they looked at each other. It was as though the pieces of the puzzle fell into place at last, and the mysteries of the years were laid bare. And for a flash of what couldn’t be called Time, they were spirits again, laughing in Paradise, finding each other, pledging hearts and hands to each other in love forever. For a moment only. Methos fell back into his body with a jolt. Duncan looked dazed and a little confused. “Who are you?” he whispered, extending a hand to help Methos up from the floor. When their fingers touched, it was as though stars shot through Duncan’s hand to Methos’, lightning crackling from the tips of their fingers. The chemistry was so thick it could have been cut with a knife. They, being men, attempted to ignore it, and let go of each other, both breathing hard and trying not to show it. Resisting the urge to say ‘yours’, Methos took a breath. “I am Methos, that is all,” he said. The world had tilted, swinging dizzy on its axis, when Duncan met Methos. The rest of the afternoon went by in a dreamy haze for Methos, a slow recognition sinking deeper into his soul with every word the Highlander said to him. They walked along the river and talked like they had known each other forever, smiles and words sparking together like dry wood. When they finally parted, late that afternoon, Methos was half-wary. Surely there would be danger waiting for him. Nevertheless, he let Duncan go and stepped onto the sidewalk near his apartment, almost immediately feeling the buzz. His preparation wasn’t enough. Kalas was good, very good. But a frantic desire to live, even if it was just to see Duncan again, took hold of Methos, and he struggled over the bridge and into the river. He washed up about a mile downstream, Kalas nowhere within reach, feeling like a drowned rat, and more panicked than he had been in years. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “Unless maybe…” And Methos found himself running upstream, sword tucked away in his coat. He was prepared to die, if he could save Duncan MacLeod. He hadn’t calculated that it would be physically extremely difficult to fight Duncan. There was a weary drain to his footsteps when their swords clashed under the bridge. And Duncan was more than uncooperative, to say the least. “I know he feels it too,” Methos thought. “At least I know we are bound.” Picking up Duncan’s sword hand and bringing it to his neck, Methos stood silent in the cold night, both sacrificing for Duncan and testing Duncan. “I cannot,” Duncan whispered after a long pause, sword wavering against Methos’ neck. “There’s something more to all this…what game are you playing, Methos?” Methos looked up, and there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Remains to be seen,” he said. He moved closer to Duncan and gave as much of a hint as he could. “Whether you kill me or whether you don’t,” he said, “I’ll be part of you forever.” “I know,” Duncan answered, letting the sword fall. Their lips met, in silence, in a kiss that would have been perfectly normal in Alexander’s time, but was a wonder in the twentieth century. It wasn’t quite romantic, just the sealing of some kind of pact. Or some kind of bond. Chemistry hummed low between them, and they broke apart as silently as they had come together, each disappearing into the evening without a word. They did not acknowledge the kiss when they next met, but the breathlessness of meeting Duncan MacLeod was still in Methos’ voice as he gave the command to take Kalas away and then spoke briefly with Duncan, behind the edge of the building. “Why?” Duncan asked, for the second time that day. “Live, Highlander,” Methos said, quietly, like a blessing. “Grow stronger. Fight another day.” And for the first time in years, he did not regret saying those words. Back when the Horsemen ruled, Silas was fond of repeating that Methosian proverb as though it were purest gospel. Whenever they lost a village, which wasn’t often, he would say it over and over. Methos had grown tired of the words. But they remained useful, for they were a code to live by. Hide and wait. Unfortunately, the death of Don Salzer had more effects than Methos first thought. And for a while he thought hiding was going to have to be necessary, not just an option. At least it meant seeing Duncan MacLeod again. This time taking a tentative step onto the Highlander’s turf, seeing that they remembered each other, and that the chemistry was still as strong as it had been — time had not diminished it. And time, Methos vowed, would only make it stronger. She had watched them since they had wandered out onto the human stage, observing who was worthy to live and who deserved death. The Immortals, constrained by human bodies, were growing darker and darker with the passing years. Some even dared to kill in ways that were against the Rules. Some bent the Rules to justify their own lust for Quickening power. But would Methos, one of the ones prophesied to live, stand the test of love she was about to put him to? Donning the garments of a mortal woman and assuming the life, for a brief time, of a beautiful, delicately formed, dying woman, She made her way to Joe’s and filled out a job application. Her mission was simple. Do not interfere, but test Methos. See if he truly had a heart for humanity or if he was as cold as the winds in the high desert night. At first she was disappointed in him. Her excited words about a world of beauty were met with cynicism. Miffed, she turned down his advances flatly, several times. However, he was very interested, she could tell. Was it the air of fragility she wore like a jewel, or was it simply the sense of joy in life that she imbued into everything? Alexa, late the Goddess, wore laughter like a robe. Perhaps it was her simple familiarity that attracted Methos to her, his unconscious memory of the Goddess from before time. In any case, she proved him true. Became more than a Watcher to him, for she recorded every thought of his deep in her mind, observing the way he protected her, loved her, cared for her, and did the same with many friends of his they met on the journey through Europe. But the deepest focus of his heart and soul was with MacLeod. There was not even a question that he would go to MacLeod in trouble, in spite of Alexa’s impending death. And the Stone was the deep desperate reaching of a man whose heart was going to be broken yet again, but it was never his destiny to place it around her neck. She knew this, and watched, and almost grieved that she had to die. And when she left the fragile body she had lived in, she mourned with him. That night snow fell in Europe, covering the world in cold. Eventually Methos found his strength. He had loved Alexa, true, with the deep passion that only is known to those who have loved and lost a thousand times. Yet, he loved Duncan with a love far deeper, a love that would give even eternity, if Duncan could be safe and happy. And so for several months, Methos did nothing but dance around Duncan with his presence, making himself the Highlander’s protector and thorn in the side. It was a shock out of the cold arching night when the blade came whistling through the air, sinking deep into Methos’ breast. But the greater shock was seeing Kronos’ face again. For a short time, the Methos that wanted to be with Duncan MacLeod forever slipped into the background, replaced by the Methos that wanted to see the Highlander safe at all costs, even his own death. And there was Cassandra to deal with. The woman had never reflected, Methos thought, that perhaps he had been as much a tool of Kronos as she had been his slave. Kronos was almost like an abusive father, and they two could have been like siblings conspiring against him in secret, keeping him happy but plotting behind closed doors. But Cassandra would have none of it. So he and MacLeod were estranged, a wedge driven deep into their friendship, by the woman both of them had loved, once upon a time. And possibly it was that which led to the terrifying events of a month later. Demons. It sounded like the ancient tales Methos had heard around the fire before writing was invented. “You can stop him, you alone.” And it was all almost silly, almost unbelievable, until Duncan said that he had seen Kronos. “Isn’t it over, then?” Methos had whispered to himself. “Or are we just all going crazy?” In the face of a friend gone mad, first with visions, then with grief, Methos could only stand and watch. In five thousand years, he had never felt so helpless. “I thought I’d seen everything,” Methos said, standing with Joe over Richie’s body and Duncan’s abandoned katana. “We could never have seen this coming,” Joe answered. “What’s next?” Methos asked. “Him trying to kill you? Or me?” Deep in his heart he knew it would be physically impossible for Duncan to kill him, yet that didn’t rule out the possibility of danger being near MacLeod. And suddenly the wild urge to be free, rid of all this grief and horror and sorrow, swept over Methos. Desperate, he trembled with the fight to stay still, holding Joe, and not run to the ends of the earth. “Come, let’s bury Richie,” Methos said after a long moment. Joe looked silently up at Methos and nodded. Deep in the woods they lay Richie’s body to rest. They worked in silence, sorrow eating at them. “Go somewhere safe, Joe,” Methos said afterward in the car. “Promise me. The…demon…could use you against Duncan.” Joe nodded. “You do the same, Methos.” “Believe me, I intend to,” Methos answered. And he did. The desperate hunger of a lost love was eating at Methos from the inside out, yet he would not seek Duncan MacLeod out again. For Duncan was dangerous to be around, dangerous to love. Methos remembered an old prophecy Duncan had told him about once. “You will always be alone.” For both their sakes, Methos hoped it was a lie. Wary as he was, he was still unprepared when the demon came to visit him, deep in the mountains of Tibet, hiding in a refuge he had owned since almost before land was bought and sold. Methos had only known of Horton, had never actually met him, so he was taken unaware when the strange man climbing up into the mountains stopped, ostensibly for a drink, at Methos’ cabin. Slightly suspicious even so, Methos kept a sword within reach. “Good day, traveler,” he said, tugging at the sleeves of his longcoat, looking innocent. “Is it?” the other man returned, frowning. “The sun is shining, and I have beer,” Methos answered, smiling, but on his guard. “Of course it’s a good day.” There was no Immortal buzz as the stranger came closer, but Methos still was suspicious. “What brings you here?” he went on. “Just a rumor,” the stranger said, close now. “Duncan MacLeod is going to kill you.” Methos laughed, at the same time placing a hand on his sword. “Oh yes? What makes you think he can?” “Because you love him.” Horton suddenly pulled out his own sword, springing at Methos, who jumped back, startled. “Because you’re weak, Methos.” And with those words, it was not Horton who stood there, but Kronos, in full battle gear, laughing coldly at him. “Weak, brother? Tired? Or maybe you want to make love to me before you die?” “Never!” Methos spat out, and pulled out his own sword, just in self-defense. More of Kronos’ cold laughter. “So you do love him! How sweet! Have you two lovebirds pledged vows yet?” At Methos’ shake of the head, Kronos grinned. “He doesn’t love you, you know. He hates you, because of me.” “Not true,” Methos said, quietly. “Not true at all.” “Oh yes?” Kronos’ laughter faded, and Richie stood there, smiling viciously. “You haven’t begun to fight yet, Old Man.” “You’re a demon,” Methos said. “I don’t fight demons. I ignore them.” “The policy of neutrality doesn’t work any longer!” Richie sprang at Methos, who pushed him away with his hands, noting as he did so that Richie’s body certainly felt very real under his fingers. “Go away, kid,” Methos muttered. “Send back Kronos. Give me someone I won’t feel guilty about killing again.” “I don’t think so.” It was Richie’s voice that spoke, but as Methos looked over toward the demon, it vanished and Duncan appeared, naked to the waist, looking exhausted. “It’s a trick,” Methos said, not fooled. The vision of Duncan did not appear to notice Methos for a while, but looked down, deep in thought. “Methos,” the voice at last was thoughtful, almost as though Duncan had been saying his name over and over as a mantra. Methos was silent; Duncan did not look up. “You’re so far away, Methos.” At Duncan’s words, Methos simply shook his head, not in denial, but in exasperation. “We’ve only kissed once, Methos,” Duncan’s voice was low and melodic, the trembling voice of a hesitant lover. “Go back to your monastery, Duncan,” Methos said. “We won’t be doing any more kissing, either, until you and I both know who we are to each other.” Methos sat down on the bench outside the door of his cabin, waiting in silence for a long time. At last Duncan looked up, almost surprised to see Methos sitting there. “You can’t fight demons with swords, MacLeod,” Methos said quietly. “That will not ultimately defeat them. The demon you really have to beat is the one inside yourself.” Methos took a breath; he couldn’t be sure that this was really Duncan, but it was his appearance, and Methos was finally getting a chance to say some things he had wanted to say for a long time. “I’ve dealt with my demons. Even without Kronos dead, he had been defeated. I know who I am. Now it’s time for you to discover the same of yourself, and of me, eventually.” Getting up, Methos disappeared into his cabin, laying his sword down and collapsing onto his bed for a midday nap. There was perfect silence outside. Much later in the day, when Methos came out of the cabin to watch the sunset, no visions, of Duncan or anyone else, disturbed the peaceful atmosphere. It was a simple thing that brought Methos and Duncan back together at last. After the death of Jacob Kell, Methos and Joe came carefully out onto the roof. They had watched the intense Quickening from the car, and both were hoping that Duncan was really all right, that it hadn’t been a Dark Quickening again. Duncan lay senseless on the ground when they found him, clutching his sword. Together they carried him down to the car, and Joe drove away. Methos sat in the back seat with Duncan’s head on his lap. Duncan looked so young like this, with his hair shorn, eyes shut in unconsciousness, trying to process the Quickening. When he woke up at last, it was to Methos stroking his hair and smiling down at him. “Come home with me?” Methos sounded almost shy. Duncan nodded wearily and shut his eyes again. Joe drove them to Methos’ home on the outskirts of New York. Duncan managed to walk inside under his own power, with Methos half holding him up. Joe waved goodbye from the car and drove off. Inside, they suddenly found they were a bit shy of each other, both wary. “Is everything all right?” Methos caught himself asking. “Yes,” Duncan answered, and Methos knew Duncan meant “as well as could be expected.” Methos gave a half-smile. “Good. You should have a shower.” Duncan wasn’t about to disagree. Methos woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, in the darkest hour just before dawn. It sounded like Duncan was screaming, but inside Methos knew it was a nightmare, and that he had to go comfort his terrified friend. “Duncan, Duncan,” he whispered, once he had reached the guest room. “Duncan, it’s okay. It’s a dream, Duncan, it can’t hurt you.” He found that he was stroking the Highlander’s hair again, and sat down on the bed beside the sleeping man to take further advantage of the opportunity. Duncan stopped making restless noises and began to sleep more peacefully. Methos stretched out on the bed beside him, on top of the covers, a hand in his beloved’s hair. Gently they both drifted off to a peaceful sleep. Methos shifted in the early dawning, feeling a light buzz tickle against his spine, and a feeling of complete well-being suffusing his body. The heart of his heart was next to him and the world was perfect. In the night, Duncan had snuggled up to him, unconsciously seeking out the warmth and comfort of his friend. It would have felt strange for any other two men who had not confessed their love to be sleeping together like that, but not Duncan and Methos. Not to Methos in any case. “Duncan,” he whispered, letting a hand stroke over his hair again. “Duncan.” And Duncan slid into wakefulness, eyes opening lazily. “Methos,” he said, looking a little confused. “I killed Kell?” “Yes,” Methos answered. “The Quickening was so strong it knocked you out. You were pretty unsteady on your feet last night.” Duncan nodded. “Yes, I kind of remember.” “You were having nightmares,” Methos said almost shyly, trying to explain his presence in Duncan’s bed. “When I came in and stroked your hair you got quiet again.” “Oh, I see.” Duncan looked almost disappointed. Methos sat up. “Think you can go back to sleep without me, Highlander?” Duncan panicked as Methos started to move off the bed. “You don’t have to…” he gasped out. Methos smiled. “If that’s what you want.” Duncan pulled the blankets back. “Just get in, Methos. I don’t know why I need you here, but I really don’t want any more nightmares.” Methos obliged. He was wearing only boxers, his customary sleep garment. Duncan was, oddly enough, only wearing white briefs. Methos glanced significantly at the Highlander. “Always wanted to know, Mac.” Duncan rolled his eyes. Strangely enough, now that they were in bed together, they found sleep eluding them. Methos’ desire for sleep was fading fast into just plain simple desire, and the way the front of Duncan’s briefs were filling out was proof positive that the Highlander was beginning to feel the same way. Sighing, Duncan reached out a hand and pulled Methos closer to him. The bare skin of Methos’ arm felt like it was on fire where Duncan had touched. Methos was sure his blush could have lit beacons in Tibet. Methos caught his breath, struggling against the desire to just cover the Highlander with his own body. Instead he simply snuggled in closer. “Do you know,” Duncan said dreamily, “that I saw a vision of you once, after…the events with the demon, when I was in that monastery?” “Did you?” Methos asked. “What was the vision?” “I dreamed you told me that you’d dealt with your demons, and not with swords.” Duncan’s eyes were large and wondering. “I have,” Methos said. “And you would be surprised at the kinds of things two people as close as we are will see. Any more questions?” “Yes. I was wondering,” Duncan began, “why you offered your head to me on the day we met? How did you know I wouldn’t take it?” Methos could only speak the truth. “I didn’t.” He paused for a long moment. “Now I know you couldn’t have taken it, just as I can’t take yours.” “Why?” Duncan asked. Methos was at a loss for words. “Because…” he began, then stopped for a moment, thinking. “Remember when you told me that you would have taken my head in your dream a couple of years ago, and that was a world without Duncan MacLeod in it?” “Yes,” Duncan said, not sure where this was going. “In a world without Duncan MacLeod,” Methos paused, “I would only be half of a soul, missing my partner. It’s no wonder I would have been quite an SOB. It’s because of you, trying to find you, getting to know you…” he paused again, “falling in love with you, that I can be who I was meant to be.” “You-you’re in love with me?” Duncan sounded only curious, and he did not move away like Methos had expected. “Yeah,” Methos said. “And I believe you’re in love with me, too, a little bit.” Duncan laughed. “Would that be why you can drive me half crazy with just a look?” “Mmmm, well maybe it’s time for me to stop looking and start acting,” Methos said, hand snaking around Duncan’s neck. Their lips met. In the fumbling ecstasy of their first real kiss, they found time standing still again. The silence was broken only by their smothered gasps and the echoes of birdsong outside the window. “Love you,” Duncan whispered after an impossibly long kiss, fingers curving over the fine bones of Methos’ face. Methos nuzzled into the touch, tangling his legs with Duncan’s and throwing his arms around the Highlander. They lay petting for several minutes, whispering words of fulfilled longing and desperate devotion to each other, both almost content to simply lie in each other’s arms until the end of time. Methos relished the feel of Duncan’s weight against him, solid and real, no daydream or demon. “How I wish we could have been here sooner,” Methos whispered, referring, of course, to their tangled bodies and minds. Duncan’s hands curved against Methos’ face, fingers against his temple. “Ah, but then it might not have been as sweet,” he answered. Duncan began dotting tiny kisses over Methos’ face, worshiping the fine cheekbones, the liquid dark eyes that stared up at him lost in ecstasy, the gentle curve of jaw, the surprisingly soft hair, the beautiful nose. At last Methos caught Duncan’s mouth with his own, driving them down together into a kiss that left them panting against each other. “Body and soul, Highlander, we shall be knit,” Methos said, his hand stroking over Duncan’s hair, tangling his fingers through it. For a moment they broke apart to remove their underwear, then Duncan reached out for Methos again. Finally completely skin to skin and it was like coming home. There was gentle fire as they touched each other initially, and tiny sparks of Quickening were shared between them. The warmth of Duncan’s skin against his was like being next to a star, Methos thought, and wondered how he knew what stars felt like. Waves of shivers broke out over Duncan’s skin as he touched Methos. Nothing in all worlds had felt like this before. There was no need for anything complicated, indeed it would have broken the spell. Just Methos’ fingers, then cock, twisting into Duncan with the rightness of a long-time lover, their bodies moving together in the same dance that time before time had witnessed. Orgasm broke over them slow, gathering with the force of a wave that tumbled them into ecstasy, smiling into each other’s eyes. In the end, the Gathering was really quite simple. Hide and wait had been the motto of Methos and Duncan during most of it, and they were not found in their Alaskan hideout until the very end. While Immortals warred around them, they stayed snug in the depths of the wilderness. Also strangely, they felt no desire to challenge each other — they were too deeply bound for that. And the Immortal who came last to hunt them out was Stephen Keane. He chose to challenge Methos. “Do you want to rule the world?” Methos asked casually, while they were exchanging the first blows. Keane did not answer, only fought harder. “Do you think you can rule the world?” Methos went on after a moment. “Lately, I’ve made my money in stocks. I can do this because I know people. I know how they’ll react, where they’ll go, what they’ll do. Can you say the same?” “I believe I’m a basically good person.” Keane’s words were hesitant, and he was struggling to block Methos’ blows. Methos snorted. “Goodness won’t get you far when you deal with mortals.” The sword came down in a swift slash to one side, and another sword came out from Methos’ coat. “Or Immortals.” He struck, hard, with the second sword. For a moment Keane’s betrayed eyes were staring at him, then the head fell to the ground. There was a dull thump as Methos sank to his knees, and Duncan rushed over from his vantage point. Just before the lightning gathered, Duncan pulled Methos into his arms. They rode out the Quickening storm together, lightning, fire, water, thunder, exploding into, over, and around their bodies. Their bodies tangled together, snow and fire; they could feel each other’s heartbeat in the darkness when it was all over. And they were One, remembering the long-ago days of their heavenly youth, finally seeing all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “Always loved you,” Duncan whispered. Methos kissed him, their mouths meeting as sparks of Quickening fire flew between them. The snow was wet underneath them, but they forgot it existed. Light streamed from their bodies, and suddenly they realized they were no longer in the Alaskan wilderness, but standing in halls of stone, polished with light. Before them stood a young woman, the very image of Alexa, but with ancient wisdom in her eyes as she regarded Duncan and Methos. Methos sank back to his knees, but she pulled him to his feet with a look. “Your eyes are like diamonds, you see in the darkness and make it light,” the ancient woman said, bowing before Duncan and Methos. “You are the Chosen Ones.” She turned to Duncan. “You, the Solstice Child, the Savior, the Warrior, the Defender of the Just.” And to Methos. “You, the Heart of Man, the Human Soul, the Reason, the Knowledge, the Power. Together you balance the universe. Together you may rule.” There was silence as the two bowed their heads in acceptance. And the stars spun around them again for a moment, the wind whistling in their ears. They were back in Methos’ New York home, standing on the front steps, as a crowd of thousands gathered in what seemed like just a few moments. The great mortals of the world stood waiting for their commands. Duncan and Methos stood before them hand in hand, suffused with a golden glow, vibrant and royal. They were beautiful, eternal, powerful. Methos and Duncan were the Rulers. Now and forever.

She hadn't expected it to stink. The miasma was nearly overwhelming: stale air, the thick, caked smell of cheap makeup, the chemical bite of spilled liquor, unchanged linens, unwashed feet, blood, semen, vomit, all of it undercut by the harsh, headache inducing tang of industrial cleaner. It was overpowering enough to send her back a step, her weight poised on one heel, ready to turn and flee as if from an attacker. She raised her arm and buried her face in her elbow, inhaling the cold, crisp scent of her leather jacket, hoping that it would be enough to drive the fug from her delicate senses, but the breath only brought with it a renewed assault. She shut her eyes, exhaling, forcing every molecule of air from her lungs that she could, and waited, searching for blankness of thought, trying to drive the nauseating sensations from her mind. A moment later, she dropped her arm, raising her head carefully, as if expecting an ambush; she knew better than to draw another breath. Nothing. The faint ache at her temples was already receding. As satisfied as she could be, given the circumstances, Michelle Morgan shouldered the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the hotel room. Her eyes flicked from detail to detail in the small, shabby room, searching for some sign of the filth that her nose insisted must be piled within; but, after a moment, realized that she would probably not discover any. It looked tidy enough; almost cozy, in a rustic sort of way. The small bed was neatly made, its quilt showing signs of careful mending; the nightstand and narrow table crammed into one corner both gleamed with furniture polish. This was not a sty; she had simply afforded herself an insight into the small, everyday horrors that most people passed through their lives blissfully unaware of. Mites, she told herself, trying to ward off this new unpleasantness with a familiar one. Millions of mites, in every mattress. There were all sorts of things that people chose not notice; she would simply have to develop a much more extensive list. Not that it would have mattered much if it had been filthy; she was not planning on patronizing this establishment any longer than absolutely necessary. She shut the door gently with a booted foot, turning to shrug the long, round case from her shoulder and lay it carefully one the edge of the bed. The city lights shone through the thin chintz curtains, but it was remarkably quiet, for all of that; the faint thump and mutter of a television at the end of the hall shrouded any other incidental noises she might have been able to hear. It was a week night, and late enough that the clerk had been surprised to see her; she did not expect to encounter any trouble. Not here, at any rate. She surveyed the tiny kingdom a fistful of crumpled drachmas had obtained for her, surprised at how little anxiety it actually inspired in her. She had paced the streets for an hour, gnawed by the memories of her last, terrible attempt to seek shelter in a hotel; there were so very many things that could go wrong, even if she knew better than to try to stay. The very sight of the generic furniture might have been enough to stir prickles of unease; the mere act of using her name enough to trigger pursuit, capture, defeat. But in the end, she had forced herself into it, uncertain of what else to do, once she'd realized just how extensive the problem was; and, here, now, she found that she did not care. She had much better things to be frightened of than a modest, every day business transaction. It wasn't exactly a relief. She crossed the room in two strides, seeking the true object of her desires; the knob of the door spun loosely under her hand for a moment, but before the spark of confusion could blossom into annoyance, it caught, the door opening onto an equally small, but no less well-kept bathroom. Perfect. She shrugged out of her jacket, turning to toss it onto the corner table, and winced when she heard it slither to the floor behind her. She unbuttoned the left cuff of her flannel over shirt, pushing it up past her elbow, and considered the small, wide streak of crusted dry blood that adorned the inside of her wrist. Looking at it now, she could hardly believed that she'd missed it; dark and flaking, it pulled against the soft, fine hairs of her arm as she turned it. She'd picked at it surreptitiously as she'd walked, debating what to do, but it seemed to have done little good, as sharp as the feel of it peeling from her flesh had been; even in the places she'd managed to remove it, a faint maroon stain overlaid the paleness of her skin like a fog. Not that that was the worst of it. As if waiting to be discovered, she'd run her fingers nervously through her hair as she retreated from the station, only to have them snag in a matted cluster of curls at the ends of her hair. There was a strange, prickly feeling at the small of her back that she suspected was another dried patch; there was certainly one on her shoulder, catching annoyingly against the thin fabric of the t-shirt she'd stolen. She had suddenly felt spattered, besmirched, unclean; no wonder the ticket clerk had looked at her so strangely. She didn't know whose it was. Sidling in between the toilet and the sink, she reached over to open the hot water tap, gratified by how quickly the water ran clean and clear. The hotel was upscale enough to offer complimentary soap; she palmed one of the miniature bars and slit its wrapping with a fingernail, lettering it flutter to the floor unheeded. Carefully, she slipped her bloody arm beneath the stream of water, rubbing gingerly at it with the thin slice of soap. She could feel the tug of it against her skin, the insistent pressure of the water against her, swirling pinkly in the bowl of the sink, but the dried smear was not easily dislodged. Reaching behind her, she unwound a streamer of scratchy paper from the toilet roll and swabbed desultorily at it, not expecting much success, and soon gave it up. It had been worth a try. She eyed the tub; an old fashioned, claw-footed number, it would have to serve her purposes, no matter what sort of microbial peril might be lurking on its gleaming, porcelain surface. She knew better than to take another breath. With a faint sigh, she slipped out of the flannel shirt, balling it up and setting it on the closed lid of the toilet. She raised her hands and rubbed them against her face, kneading lightly at her temples. She knew her face was clean; she remembered wiping at herself. Someone would have said something; people would have recoiled. It was a stupid thing to worry about. She knew what she'd see, now. A small, ironic smile quirked the corners of her lips. Perhaps she ought to enjoy it while she still could. Lowering her hands, she eased her way out from between the sink and the toilet, moving to stand before the sink. She turned the tap off with a faint squeal of protesting metal, the water vanishing down the drain with a sucking gurgle. She gripped the sides of the sink tightly, her head lowered, curly hair dangling in her face; and, before she could talk herself out of it, she raised her head and gazed into the mirror. For one awful second, she thought—but it was only a thought. The visage that greeted her was wonderfully familiar; it was almost like meeting an old friend. The brief glimpse she'd caught the night before had been the first time she'd seen herself in... weeks? Months, perhaps; the realization of how quickly the nights had slipped through her hands brought with it a queer, gnawing sense of shame. It had not even occurred to her to look at a newspaper, as she'd made her inquiries that evening. She hadn't looked because she had assumed she couldn't; finding out that she could, at least for now, was both a relief and a reminder; for in that glimpse last night, she had also learned why she would some day find it unwise to allow mirrors in her presence. No. No, don't worry about that right now; it was an irrelevance, not a memory to be pored over. Right now, she was only herself. She raised a hand to brush the strong angle of her jaw with her fingertips. Her face was the same one that had peered out of her passport photo; not too different from the one that lurked in her high school yearbooks. She was pale, it was true, but who wouldn't be? She'd always been fair-skinned. Her eyes had always been dark; perhaps they bore the marks of what she'd been through, but there was nothing truly different about them save the knowledge they now carried. She kept her lips carefully pursed. There. That hadn't been nearly as bad as she'd feared it might be. There were so many silly things she wasted her time thinking about. She needed to stop it. As if released from a compulsion, she turned away, and began to carry on with her plans for the evening. She bent over and turned on the bathtub's faucet, before sitting down on the lip of the tub to unlace her boots just as much as required to kick them off. Rising, she stripped off her shirt in one smooth movement as she did, and then slithered out of the sports bra that was all she'd been able to scrounge. The dull, thrumming roar of her bathwater was soothing; normal. Eeling out of her jeans, she let them lie where she'd stepped out of them. Dipping a toe into the half-full tub gave her pause. The water heater was generous; she could see the steam rising from the water almost as soon as it left the faucet, but she felt nothing against her skin save a dull warmth. She wiggled her foot, hoping it was merely a momentary lack of sensation, but she felt nothing but the splash of water against her skin. She frowned in thought; this wasn't right, somehow, but she could not begin to guess why. The water had to be hot; she might scald herself unknowingly. But, then, there was snow on the ground; perhaps the room was cold, and the water simply tepid. That must be it. Satisfied with the explanation, she stepped in and lowered herself into the churning water. She leaned back against the tub, laying her arms on its sides and resting her head against the wall, wiggling her toes beneath the faucet's pounding. It had been ages since she'd had a proper bath, no matter how long it had been since she'd felt water against her skin; the gatehouse's shower facilities had consisted of a pipe set high in the wall that dribbled icy water on anyone brave enough to stand below. She smiled at the memory of Lillian's horrified shrieks, and Mara's teasing laughter. The recollection brought with it an ache of loss, but she was pleased to realize that the mere thought of them was no longer a raw, throbbing wound; it was possible to reminisce, to remember the good times without mourning them to the depths of her soul. They'd been avenged. But that thought brought with it other memories she was not yet ready to confront, and so she made an effort to settle herself more comfortably in the tub; there were few back home large enough to accommodate the length of her legs, and it was a pleasure to simply stretch out beneath the water. The steam was thick enough to dampen her hair, making it cling to her cheeks in strands. She tried simply to loll, luxuriating in this unusual treat; but soon found that even it had been tarnished for her. She'd always loved a good soak, but this brought none of the expected pleasures: her muscles did not loosen in the hot water, nor did her skin soften and blush with heat. Annoyed and dismayed, she reached up to close the tap with one of her feet, subsiding into the water with an eerie, unnerving discomfiture. England. It would have to be England. Or Scotland, perhaps Ireland; she was fuzzy on the geography, and would settle for whichever was closest. Easier said than done, of course, but still by far the easiest solution she had yet been able to come up with. It would at least broaden her options; place her somewhere that she could at least communicate effectively. It would get her away from Bucharest. It would get her amongst people who would be disinclined—perhaps even incapable—of asking the questions she was most terrified of having to attempt to answer. And she thought that, assuming luck was with her on the logistical side of things, the international dateline would aid her even further. She'd have to check a time-table before she dared to risk it, but she was almost certain that the time zone changes could allow a carefully chosen flight to cross the ocean under cover of darkness. No awkward questions about baggage that way. She sank deeper into the water as she grew lost in thought, submerging her shoulders, the tip of her chin. She was allowing herself to get lost in the details, as consequential as they were, simply because the main fact that her current plan was built around was almost too horrifyingly bizarre to contemplate. But it was the lynch-pin that everything else rested upon; what else could she do? There were certainly such things as forged documents, unless the spy movies had led her terribly astray, but she hadn't the faintest idea how to go about acquiring them. Stowing away was also an option, and not one she had entirely dismissed; she was almost entirely positive she'd have no trouble boarding an airplane unnoticed, or exiting one even if she were; it wasn't as if they could pull the plane over to kick her off mid-way through the journey. But what if she were wrong about the time? What if there was an unscheduled stopover? Which was a risk she'd have to take, regardless, but... ...but the easiest way was often also the simplest. It was entirely possible that she could simply purchase a ticket—with funds she had yet to acquire, but she expected she could do so with little qualm—board a flight, and return home an honest citizen. She could seek out the embassy, give them a story about a spontaneously extended vacation and a stolen purse, and have a temporary passport issued. It could be so simple. As long as the government didn't realize that she was dead. It was a gamble she could scarcely stand to imagine making, but it wasn't one she could turn away from any longer. She had no idea what had become of her original passport; had no idea how much of what happened had become public knowledge, and in what form, but she hoped... Becky had been shocked to hear from her, which indicated that the disappearance of three American exchange students had not become international news. Mel had seemed completely confident that travel papers for Michelle could be arranged; but, then, he had never actually produced them. What might he have said of her? To whom? Who might know what had actually befallen them, besides Michelle? Her lip quivered suddenly, the shame, the rage, the miserable, piteous loss of it all flooding over her anew. She hadn't done anything to deserve this; none of them had. People rarely did. She'd had to work very hard to find them. She let herself sink lower into the water, feeling it lap against her chin. For the first time in... a very long while, she found herself able to think of Stefan without... cringing. She'd never thought of him as anything other than a dashing foreign student; sleekly handsome, well dressed, and flawlessly polite, his easy, fluent English had been a welcome respite from the taciturn locals they had been attempting to interview. Standoffish, certainly, and disinclined to offering details... but Michelle had thought at first that was simply because he preferred Lillian. And once she knew better... she'd stayed. She'd stayed for her friends; even now, could not imagine doing otherwise; but while many others would have fled when Stefan had abjured her to, she had not. And she had asked. She had asked him to do it. Confusion, terror, and mortal dread had been what motivated her, but at that point, she had had a horrifyingly accurate idea of what she had been letting herself in for. She'd asked anyway. And she had received. Sliding her shoulders against the slick surface of the tub, she braced her feet against its opposite wall, and let herself slip even further, closing her eyes out of long habit as her curls floated briefly at their level. There was one bad moment as the water closed over the tip of her nose—ancient reflex made her want to bolt upright; or perhaps only to suck in one last, dooming lungful of liquid—but she made herself ignore it, concentrating on the feel of the porcelain against her shoulder blades, the unnatural creep of water into her nostrils. She had to bend her knees slightly to fit, but she soon lay completely submerged and completely, utterly still. Opening her eyes took a bit of nerve—she expected it to sting, at the very least, but all she felt was a slight pressure, her vision blurred with the gentle ripples of the water's surface. She could not help but marvel at it; though at tiny voice in the back of her mind screamed a dozen different warnings at her, she was completely comfortable. She wasn't even holding her breath; she could feel the slow trickle of water down the back of her throat as it seeped into her nose, reminiscent of hay fever. She would have counted her heartbeats, if she'd had any, and so settled for the best approximation of seconds that she could recall. A minute. Two. Three. She was fine. This was the life she had to live now; no amount of regrets, no protestations about the unfairness of it all would ever change that, and it was time she got on with it as best she could. Her mouth twisted in a smirk. She had all the time in the world, bought with blood and suffering; she simply needed to determine how best to spend it. Home. Definitely. Absolutely. Not that she had the faintest idea of what she intended to do once there, but almost as much as she yearned to put the terrible memories of Romania behind her, she longed for familiarity; places, perhaps even people she remembered, some day. But for now it would be enough to get back; then she could decide where to go from there. As loath as she was to expose herself to that kind of notice, there was no denying that contacting the embassy, if all went well, would be the best way to accomplish that goal, and it was only her own self pity that kept her from seeing it. Even assuming she had been reported somehow—so what? When confronted with a woman in the flesh, what attache wasn't immediately going to assume that some sort of mistake had been made? And if worst did come to worst... her own feelings needn't enter into it; it simply meant going back to the drawing board. There was no set of handcuffs that could restrain a shadow. Getting in at all was going to be the difficult part; that meant at least one more day in Bucharest, and probably several. She could find the office easily enough, but she had no idea what sort of hours it kept, and had a feeling that they would be short. But surely there had to be some method of assisting stray citizens whom trouble had befallen in the night; perhaps there'd be some sort of emergency number posted. If nothing else, the nights were growing longer—the sun had set a little more than half past five—if she could find a nearby place to rest, she could rush to the place and pound on the doors, if need be, hoping someone who'd stayed a bit late might take pity on her. She really hoped there would be an emergency number. Galvanized by her own decisiveness, she was possessed by a need to find out how right her assumptions might be. She sat up, the water dragging against her like a blanket, and felt an nauseating wave of imbalance wash through her; leaning forward to brace her elbows against her knees, water streamed from her nose and mouth. She snorted a laugh, half-choking on the departing flow; it seemed she would never get away from the logistical difficulties associated with her new condition. Before the melancholy could settle on her once more, she snatched up the soap and began briskly lathering her wet hair. That done, she rose to her feet and began doing the same with the rest of her body, scrubbing as best she could with her hands; she knew better than to look for a washcloth, having learned on the journey out here that most Europeans considered that far too personal an item to borrow from a hotel. She refused to think about what it was that peeled away beneath her fingernails; it was simply dirt. But she held her nose when she lowered herself back into the water to rinse. Climbing out of the tub, she pulled the plug with her foot as she snatched one of the towels off the rack; it was only coincidence that she was ruffling her hair dry as she walked past the mirror. Her skin was still damp when she began reassembling her outfit; she wasn't anxious, precisely, but she had spent so long being afraid—being powerless—that, having come to a decision, she could not bear to put it off any longer than absolutely necessary. She tugged the wet fabric away from her arms as she bent over to pull on her socks and wondered, suddenly, if she didn't look too scruffy. The sporting goods store had been the closest thing she'd been able to find to suit all of her needs—and she had wanted pants so very badly—but she supposed she did look rather like a lumberjack in her jeans and flannel. Ah, well; she supposed there were plenty of backpackers that looked at lot worse. She scooped the jacket from the floor and shrugged into it with a smooth movement that already felt as if she'd done it a thousand times; though she had put it on for the first time last night, she supposed she had seen Becky don it often enough it was no surprise the motion felt natural. She tugged at the lapels, settling it more comfortably on her shoulders; she was a little more broad than Becky had been... ...there'd be time to grieve when she was safe. When she was home. Snatching up the round case, she flung its strap around her neck as she whirled to leave—and stopped sharply when she heard a soft clang of metal from within, following by the low, heavy grate of metal on stone. She caught her lower lip between her incisors, anxious for the first time about the safety of the case's contents. She couldn't imagine that either of the objects was delicate; but, then, she couldn't afford to risk either of them. With a sigh, she ducked out beneath the strap and turned to lay the tube on the bed once more. Unzipping the top—she believed it had been meant to hold rifles; it was the only thing she'd found to suit her needs—she slipped a hand inside and, with perfunctory swiftness, withdrew a sword that was nearly as long as she was tall. She could scarcely bear to look at it, but her fingers idly caressed its ornate golden hilt as she laid it on the bed; a perversion of reality, the most fearsome weapon she'd ever known, and salvation, all in one sharp package. She had been told it was called the Blade of Laertes and, given the circumstances under which she had acquired it, she had little reason to doubt its connection to that myth of blood-thirsty ghosts. She had to tilt the case to get the true object of her concern out; it was just a touch too wide to slide easily. She felt its strange contours as best she could through the thick fabric as she worked it out; she didn't think it could have been damaged, but—her fingertips met cool metal and colder stone, and her prize fell into her hand. She didn't know what it really was, and doubted that anyone ever would. At first glance it seemed almost innocuous: a pale, milky crystal with a deep gray heart, set in a decorative holder, it would not have looked out of place on a slightly grim curio shelf. But when one looked closer, one realized the silver was wrought in the shape of finger bones, tipped with wickedly sharp claws, curled up to grasp the stone, which itself swirled with a strange, murky action that wasn't quite light. It was said to have been stolen from the Vatican itself; it was said to drip the blood of all the saints. What it actually did was... remarkably close to what the legend indicated. The Bloodstone oozed a strange, eldritch sustenance; not only was its owner free of the need to hunt, they were said to be empowered with all sorts of uncanny strengths beyond even the range of their own supernatural ilk. Michelle now held the two greatest treasures in all of vampire lore. The Bloodstone could grant her life; the Blade of Laertes, a gruesome, agonizing death to her enemies. She had climbed over a pile of corpses to claim them both; but if she could keep them, she would be unstoppable. The Bloodstone was cool and heavy in her palm as she hefted it. She had already fed for the night; a single drop from the stone would do in place of a murdered human. She wondered how long it would hold her; her appetite for the hunt had slackened as she had grown used to her new state, sometimes allowing her to go three or four days between victims, and she hoped the Bloodstone would prove similar. While she was not entirely sure she believed the claims that the strength it imparted came at the cost of madness—it sounded too much like a tale told to intimidate the uncertain—she was also in no position to risk it. Time. There'd be time to plumb its secrets; time for everything, once she was safe. And right now, she needed to make certain that the Bloodstone remained so. She had a hard time believing that something so minor as a scratch or ding could harm it, but she didn't dare to find out if she were wrong. She cast around the room quickly, hoping for a solution—she supposed she ought to find some sort of special container for it, but she had no idea what might serve—when her eyes lit on the pillows. Moving quickly, she stripped one of its pillowcase, and gently lowered the stone into the fabric bag, wrapping the loose ends around it; dissatisfied, she repeated the procedure with the other one, making sure the result was evenly padded. She eyed it uncertainly; she wasn't pleased with it, but it would have to do for now. She worked it back into the case, having to struggle a little to make it fit; but, once seated, it barely made a lump in the case's sides. She carefully took hold of the sword—having seen the horrific results of a mere nick, she wasn't certain if any of the blade was safe to touch—and slipped it back in. The case once more secured on her back, she paused for a moment to consider her options. Giving her real name at the front desk had been the product of hasty confusion as much as anything else. She'd worried that giving a false name might prove troublesome if she were asked for identification; but, then, she had none proving her actual identity, either. Fortunately, it had proven to be a moot point, and she realized she may have done herself an unintended favor by being honest. Why, yes, Mr. Consulate, I just got back into town this evening—check with my hotel! She wondered now how important a point it might prove to be; important enough to walk out past the clerk, make certain she was noticed? But she was in such a hurry... and her name was already in the register, after all. The window slid upwards with surprising ease, even though the gritty scrape of dirt in its hinges indicated a long time had passed since it had last been opened. She closed her eyes as she felt the movement of the night air against her face; the wind had picked up significantly in the time she'd been inside, bringing with it a wet flurry of snow. She looked out, frowning; the window didn't offer much of a view of anything besides the building next to it. She wasn't entirely sure where she was; her grasp of Bucharest's streets had never been particularly strong, and she had simply hurried away from the train station until she'd found a hotel that looked moderately safe. Nor was she quite clear on where the embassy was; Mara had pointed it out to them on one of their trips into the city, but while she was sure she'd recognize it, she couldn't remember anything besides the fact that it was somewhere downtown. She could find if, if she walked around a bit, but first she had to find the city center. But it wasn't as if she was limited to looking through phone books. Closing her eyes once more, she had to restrain herself from taking a deep breath, still such a habitual part of clearing her mind. She struggled to keep her thoughts blank despite her mounting tension; she'd only done this a handful of times, and still only half-believed that she could do it at all. If there was some trick, some action that inspired it, she had yet to determine what it was; it simply... happened. Listen. The gravelly rasp of his voice was so clear he might have been standing behind her. She gritted her teeth, struggling to banish the memory; sights, sounds, the feel of cold, dead hands on her face. None of it mattered. But as if it delighted in tormenting her, her mind insisted on showing her images of that night; the rain, the hunt, the torn, bloody carcass— She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to think of it, but— —the castle—the table—what the ceiling had looked like while— —when she opened her eyes again, she could see. The shock, the pure, alien wonder of it, was enough to break the cycle of recollection. She might have gasped; she was so enrapt in what lay before her that she wasn't sure. It was the same brick wall she had seen a moment ago, but in such clear, prismatic detail it almost hurt to look upon it. She could see every chip, every crack, every pockmark in the mortar; snowflakes spun through the air like little jewels, the tiny specks of light they refracted as precious as rainbows. But if she looked beyond that—she tried to study the sensation as it happened, but the sensation was so unreal she wondered if there was language to describe it; it felt almost as if she were seeing with the backs of her eyes, absorbing information through the skin of her temples. But things—shifted—it was nothing so simple as being able to see through walls; yet, just that easily, the souls of the city were laid bare for her. Everything, everyone, lay spread out before her, points of illumination speckled throughout the night like a star map. The effect was dizzying; a stab of pain lanced through her temples, and it took a concerted effort to block enough of it out to make sense of any of it. But the alien vision was only part of it; thoughts buzzed at the corners of her perception, only waiting to be noticed. She knew from rough experience that if she did listen, she could flick through them as easily as tuning a radio; could listen, could know them, in a way that didn't require words. It was what had allowed her to choose her prey, and make the deaths she required for sustenance as righteous as any murder could be. She could do nothing for long moments but let the ocean of sensations wash over her, trying her hardest to keep from being washed away in its overwhelming tide. It was always this way; as exalting as she knew it to be, she did not think that any memory would ever prepare her for the true magnificence of the experience; nor could she ever help but feel like a tiny god, gazing down upon her supplicants. Michelle grinned, a warm, honest smile that reveled in her own strength and bared her sharp, curved fangs to the world. It wasn't all bad. No, not at all. Some rational part of her knew that it was a terrible mistake to make, but it seemed as if she knew everything. She could watch them, see where they went, which routes they took, where they gathered, and learn what she needed to know thereby. She wondered if there was some way she could glean more specific information from them, without engaging one directly; she suspected there was, but—time. Time for everything. And now she knew where she needed to be; now it was time to go. She slipped her skin and slithered down the wall with the speed of a diving falcon. Where a woman had stood, a shadow now stretched; it rocketed along the wet streets, disdaining the angles physics dictated it ought to obey. It wasn't flight, but she didn't know what else to call it; she loved the speed, the grace, the intangibility of it. She slipped over things, rather than through them, but she needed only the smallest crack through which to find her way; noted buildings, trees, people, even the ground itself only as obstacles, not objects. Her body was wholly irrelevant; she simply was, and simply willed. It was hard not to give over to the sheer inhuman sensation of it, but she kept her course; so many people, so many lights, the groups they formed a series of dazzling constellations in her uncanny vision. As fast as thought, she sped toward the area where they congregated so thickly it was as if she viewed a field full of fireflies, sparing no attention for anything that she passed. Cars, buildings, lives; none of it mattered, not when balanced against perception like this. She thought she was as close to eternity as a sane mind could stand. Sooner than she expected—it always was—those faintly gleaming souls drew close enough to separate into individuals; she slowed, amazed, and for a time could do nothing but admire them. She slunk across a sidewalk, pressing her insubstantial form against a wall, and finally took stock of her surroundings. She was in a narrow access way, but she thought the narrow view at the alley's mouth was familiar; eeling forward, she realized that she was looking at the back of the art museum. She paused, satisfied; she wasn't more than a few blocks away from the opera house, which meant that she was as close to the embassy as she could hope to come unaided. She flickered hesitantly; it would be easier to sweep the streets as a shadow, but it would also be easier to make a mistake. She was alone now; she might as well take advantage of it. The transition felt like walking through a sieve, a process whose internal alchemy she wondered if she would ever fathom. One moment she moved forward, as insubstantial as mist; the next moment her boot struck the pavement, and she strode out onto the pavement with a determined air. Michelle realized she had been lucky to happen on to a bit of privacy; as late as it must be—two? three?—the area was still surprisingly flush with activity; even the museum was still brightly lit enough to denote current occupancy, and well-dressed groups still made their way along traffic-heavy streets. She supposed it must be a weekend; if both the museum and the opera had hosted events, that could easily account for the unexpected amount of crowding. She slowed her pace, seeking to blend in with the other pedestrians. As she walked, her eyes scanning ceaselessly for some sign of the embassy, she found that she was having a hard time taking in the simple details of her surroundings. Were there two people walking in front of her, or three? Was that a softly glowing street lamp, or a sign? Her brows drew down in concern as she struggled to make her eyes focus. Nothing looked wrong, exactly, but there was a strange cast to everything that she saw; a hazy unreality seemed to permeate the scene before her. When she finally realized what it was, she nearly stopped dead in her tracks; might have, had she not heard someone stop short behind her. She got herself moving again, working her way through the flow of foot traffic, turning her head to gaze around like a tourist. It hadn't left her. She was physical; she was real, caught up in the world just as much as everyone around her; and yet, somehow, she was still seeing them through her night-eyes, through no apparent effort of her own. Misty cauls attended every person she saw, some bright, some faint, all those ephemeral outlines indicative of some quality she had never quite been able to clarify; health, sanity, well-being, decency. Yet while their apprehension had always required the specific act of will she had put herself through before leaving the hotel, it now attended her as easily as breathing had, once upon a time. She found herself growing excited, despite the uneasy thrill the realization gave her. She had grown so superstitious about the ability that it was hard to reconcile when it wasn't all-consuming; yet at the same time, it was somehow reassuring to realize that it might be natural. Perhaps it was simply a matter of practice; once she had grown familiar with it, she would be able to use it at will. Or perhaps it was simply a product of maturity; as she settled more deeply into her current state, it would become as much a part of her as her normal vision had been. She wasn't certain how she felt about that idea; while it was incredibly beneficial, she didn't know if she liked the idea of this level of intimacy with every single person she ever encountered. When she did it deliberately, it took concerted effort to focus on whatever it was she was seeking; even now, it was a little difficult to separate what was really there from what wasn't. Perhaps that was why it had seemed comparatively easy to trick some of the older ones she had encountered; perhaps it took so much concentration to realize what was in front of them that less evident things could slip by them. She didn't like that idea at all. She squeezed her eyes shut and blinked them rapidly, trying to clear her vision; to no avail. But there was no point in fretting about it now; it didn't seem as if there was anything that she could do about it, anyway. She needed to focus on what was ahead of her and, right now, that was finding her way back home. Her feet had carried her to the fringes of the arts district, where the few antique buildings that had survived Ceausescu's plan for modernization gave way to the tall, serried tenement buildings that had had meant to replace them all with. She did her best to look casual, stuffing her hands in her pockets and keeping her gaze lowered, but kept her hearing sharp. She didn't think that this was necessarily a bad neighborhood, but it did not look welcoming, and she had no wish to attract undue attention. The realization made her smile. A few months ago, she would have been petrified to set foot in a place that looked like this; now, she was simply worried about what a fuss it would be if she were accosted. There were upsides to everything. It was a marble building, she thought; and it had some kind of decorations out front... not pillars, but statues, maybe, or urns. She remembered being surprised that the Romanian government had allowed the Americans to occupy such a nice building when there were so few left. She turned right, pacing up a relatively deserted sidewalk on the street that separated the old quarter from the new. She was fairly certain it had been near the border, as she had been startled by her first sight of what appeared to her to be gulag-style apartments not long after Mara had pointed it out; but it hadn't been too far from the opera house. Had it? She slowed her steps, trying to think her way through it; suddenly, canvassing the neighborhood did not seem as good an idea as it had back at the hotel. She glanced around, but found herself mostly alone. Though her Romanian was probably good enough to ask directions, she wasn't certain the average person would take notice of something like a foreign embassy. She supposed a phone book was not out of the question, though her reading comprehension was next to nonexistent, but where could she find one at this hour? She couldn't spot any taverns; the only one she knew of in the area was a place she never intended to set foot in again. She supposed it was time to start exploring her options. Michelle let her eyes unfocus, trying to concentrate more on what she knew than what she saw; it brought a dizzy, sick-making feeling, but it worked. She saw the city's denizens around her wherever she looked, laid over her vision like a transparent map, glowing feebly or fiercely at various distances. She wasn't sure if depth perception applied here; some were near and some were far, but she could not have guessed how near any but the closest were. She wondered how far she could sense, if she really put her mind to it, but dismissed the thought quickly; now wasn't the time. As she turned her attention towards specific—people; she had to think of them as other people—she could begin to hear them, their thoughts stippling against her own as if her skull was membranous. She let the unnerving awareness pass over her, and began to skim amongst them. She didn't know what she intended to find—an embassy employee whose presence she could glean, perhaps—but she was disappointed. There were just so many of them; any information she might have gained was lost like wind through the rushes. She could listen in on any one of them that she wished and get the sense of them, if not their speech; but it was impossible to determine which one she needed. Sighing, she increased her pace, letting her feet carry her forward with little thought as to where they carried her; she supposed she would simply have to quarter the neighborhood. Her eyes flicked back and forth, alert for any sign of the embassy, but most of her thoughts were on the information her strange new senses brought her. As disturbing as the idea that this might be permanent was, it was impossible not to be fascinated with the information they brought her; and who knew if some of it might prove useful in her search? Even as she walked, it was becoming easier to parse all the input she was receiving; it became easier to tell one person from another, to—watch—a particular individual without becoming ensnared by their thoughts. It was as easy to tell sheep from goats as it had ever been; she found her attention drawn towards those who carried taint within them, blotting and crazing their cauls. It seemed that, even though freed from the requirement for it, she could not help but size up prey. If she wanted to, she could sniff out their particular sins, but the contact left her feeling filthy, wracked with despair; it was under the aegis of those emotional assaults that she could bring herself to kill at all. Without having meant to, she realized she had been tracking the progress of a heavily sputtering light, following their progress along streets that couldn't have been too far away. It was moving quickly—probably too quickly, she realized, and felt a sudden twist of anxiety. Running from, or hurrying to? She stopped, uncertain. She wanted desperately to know what that person was up to, but could not bring herself to immerse her thoughts in them deeply enough to find out. But what if they had just done something horrible and were fleeing the scene? What if they were even now running down a victim of their own? It didn't matter. She wasn't a superhero. Bad things happened every day; she could not take a hand in all of them. She had sworn that she was done with hunting. Maybe they were simply running to catch a bus. Or maybe some harmless soul was lying in an alley, bleeding their life away. Or was about to be. She didn't have to kill them. Surely she could stop things without going that far. Maybe there'd be nothing to stop. Maybe this was an upside, too. She exploded out of her skin, heedless of who might have seen her, before she had a chance to change her mind. She sped through the darkness, along, beside, around, nothing in her thoughts but velocity and the location of that sulky, ominous glow. As she flew, bloodlust began to hum in her veins like an old, familiar song; as much as she tried to quell it, her fangs still ached with the anticipation of sinking into flesh. She told herself it was only habit; she was only going to find out what was happening, and then—maybe—do something about it. She wasn't stalking; she was only seeking. True to her promise, once she'd come near enough, she drew up short between two buildings; it would be ridiculous to come bursting out of the shadows if something completely innocuous lay ahead of her. She coalesced balanced on the balls of her feet, straining her eyes and ears for some sign of what was going on. She was close enough—fast enough—she'd be able to intervene if there was any reason to. Traffic. The narrow street was empty, but those close to it weren't; looking around, she realized that she stood between two warehouses, and that the rest of the street was lined with them. This must be some kind of shipping area; her heart sank with the realization that it was probably quite busy even at this time of night. Perhaps her mark was simply running to catch a delivery truck; she couldn't bring herself to punish him for what he might do on his off hours. Pounding footsteps. Her head swiveled as if it were on a bearing. She meant to plant herself a little bit ahead of him and... she had. A middle-aged man came running around the corner, elbows pumping, the tails of the over shirt he wore flapping in the wind of his passage. His face was strained, his brow wet with sweat, his teeth bared with effort, but even that didn't necessarily mean anything, if he weren't used to running. She could hear the labored razoring of his breath as he drew closer, and he didn't seem as if he were going to stop any time soon. Her vision narrowed as she watched him, shrinking down into a hunter's tunnel vision as she tracked his movement. She was aware of everything, even as she zeroed in on him: the fat wet snowflakes that splatted against her face, the rumble of heavy truck engines near by, the soft creaking of her leather jacket as her muscles tensed involuntarily, the way the case shifted against her hip, spoiling her balance ever so slightly. It was all she could do to hold herself still. He was fleeing. She wanted to chase him. He sped past her hiding place—she could have reached out and sunk her fingers into his arm. As if he realized it, he immediately veered to his right, cutting across the street at a long diagonal, his feet slipping on the wet blacktop. He managed to save his balance and keep moving; he seemed to be heading for a narrow alley much like the one she currently occupied. She forced herself to straighten, tried to make herself relax; he was probably just going to slip into one of the side doors. There was nothing to be concerned with here. She unclenched her palms from the fists she hadn't realized she'd made. Stupid. She'd wasted time on this, time she'd need to find a place to rest for— A woman's voice, high and alarmed. Her head whipped around to track it; it had come from behind the man, and it sounded frightened. She sank into a crouch, prepared to leap in either direction, her gaze flicking back and forth between the man—he'd almost made the alley—and the direction the shout had come from. Help her, or harm him? What had happened? It galled her not to lunge after him; every instinct she possessed cried out for her to spring—but if that woman was hurt—if he'd done something—if she really thought she'd be safe around a potentially bleeding, terrified mortal— Another figure rounded the corner so quickly that she at first thought she was seeing someone riding a scooter—low to the ground, light colored, faster than a person could ever hope to run. But the strange vision resolved itself quickly, though Michelle could scarcely believe what she was seeing: a lithe figure, wrapped in a loose, light-colored garment, scrabbled along the sidewalk, propelling itself unnaturally quickly with all four of its limbs. As she watched, rooted to the spot with shock, it righted itself, straightening into a rapid, loose-limbed lope; it was as if the runner had taken the corner a little too sharply, but had been unwilling to sacrifice momentum to the sake of getting up. By the time she realized what was about to happen, it was already too late; even she couldn't have crossed that distance in time. The pursuer gathered itself and sprang with a surging, mechanical leap, tackling the man to the ground with a bone-jarring thud. He screamed in pain, and Michelle burst from her hiding place, elbows pumping; the figure raised its hands, wriggling its body at an insane angle so that it knelt on his back, and plunged its fingers into his throat, wrenching them apart in a crimson welter of gore. The figure jerked its head up at her approach, baring its teeth with a bestial snarl that seemed to shake the ground beneath her feet. Michelle found herself skidding to a halt in the middle of the street, even as her heart froze with horror and grief. Contorted as it was with lust and rage, she had no problem recognizing that face. The girl who played the piano fastened on to her victim's throat like a lamprey. Time seemed to stand still as Michelle was confronted with the utter depths of their failure; she did not know who to mourn for more deeply. They hadn't saved her. It had all been for nothing. She scarcely knew what to do—there was no point in trying to pull the girl off of him—but there was someone running towards her; she swiveled to face them, heels slipping in the snow, and— —her world ended. For an endless moment, she thought that she had died; there was only emptiness, nothingness, a total absence of thought, self, presence. But as she explored those sensations, she realized that they couldn't be correct. If there were truly nothing there, she would not be able to apprehend it; there would be no her to do the apprehending. This could not be an afterlife. Then she began to wonder if she was in fact correct, but in a way she did not entirely understand. She passed her days in a sleep that might as well have been death; no broken rest, no dreams, no memories, nothing but the sun sinking where it had just been rising to indicate that she had done anything more to blink her eyes. Perhaps, as the strange character of her sight had indicated, she had progressed beyond oblivion; perhaps this utter, blank stillness was what now passed for dreaming. The idea cheered her. She knew that she was not necessarily confined to her rest while the sun rode the sky; he hadn't been. Perhaps this new awareness was a part of that; perhaps this meant that she could now rise as well. She shuffled her elbows, setting them against the hard surface beneath her, and began to rise. She thought at first that the pain had blinded her; it felt as if the right side of her head was about to slide free of its moorings. She fell back the scant inch or two she had managed to gain, staring upwards, willing the pieces of her skull to adhere to one another, praying for the agony to subside or to claim her. Yet as she stared, she realized she saw tiny flecks of movement, and that the stark white that filled her vision was not absolute, filtering into darkness at the edges of her sight. Lights. Snow falling through beams of light. What? Her eyelids fluttered with the strain of rolling her eyes backwards, the movement causing her sight to haze into uncertainty; but she waited, counting the seconds between flashes of pain, until the picture behind her resolved. A metal grille. A shiny bar beneath it. Red paint. A truck. She'd been hit by a truck. She might have laughed, if it hadn't hurt so badly. Had she wandered out into traffic? How had she not seen it coming? The smell of blood was everywhere. Some of it was hers, undoubtedly oozing from gashes she was as yet unable to separate from the pulverizing ache that was her body; some of it was fresh. She slid her parched tongue against the backs of her teeth, contemplating the richness of the scent. Somebody was whimpering, the soft, hacking sounds of a grief too great for tears. Surprisingly, it wasn't her. Somebody else was yelling. It didn't matter. She hurt so badly. She was so thirsty. She flexed her fingertips lightly, feeling the pebbled surface of the wet street beneath them. She thought she could sit up—thought she'd managed to, at least a little—but she couldn't bring herself to try again. Something was wrong in a deep, primal way, even beyond the excruciating pain. Trying to turn her head proved a foolish idea as it seemed to explode in a cascade of agony; when her vision swam back into focus, she was still looking upwards at the same angle. She was not surprised when her legs did not immediately obey her desire for movement, but she knew a numb, hollowing dread when she realized she could not so much as wiggle her toes. Her head—she could see out of her right eye, so it couldn't be that bad, but—but it hurt. Maybe it could. Maybe it was. And try as she might, she could not move her feet; the lower half of her body didn't even hurt. A vehicle accident that ended in an un-breathing pedestrian with a smashed head and what she was growing more and more convinced had to be a broken back— She could not allow that thought to continue; could not let it rob her of what little self-possession she had managed to regain. It did not matter what paramedics or onlookers might make of it; she had to get clear. Yet as hard as her skull pulsed with the agony of her efforts, she remained stubbornly anchored to her flesh. She was doomed. She was starving. The aching dryness of her mouth was suddenly insistent enough to make itself felt over the clamor of her other injuries; she closed her eyes and let her mouth gape open, hoping against hope that the light fall of snow might to something to slake her perishing thirst. But as she knew it would, it only grew worse; the waft of spilled blood on the damp night air was nearly enough to drive her insane. It was close—so close—but in her current state might have been on the other side of the ocean for all the good it did her. She would have lapped it from the sidewalk, if she could have. Would have done anything. Some calm, rational part of her mind was fully aware that it was solely because she was so gravely injured. An infusion of fresh, life-giving warmth—perhaps even a mouthful would be enough to set her right; able to mend her just enough to allow her to flee. It was all she wanted. All she needed. And just so narrowly out of reach. Or perhaps not. She couldn't tell if the strap was still around her chest, but she thought the lump angling beneath her shoulder blade might very well be the case containing her treasures. The Bloodstone could save her. If she could reach it. With utmost care, she began to grope along the pavement, feeling very carefully for any sign of the tube; it was hard to single out any particular sensation, but if she were right, it should be jutting out beneath her hip very near to where her hand currently was. Getting it out from beneath her—getting it open—getting the Bloodstone—she banished the extreme difficulty of such formerly simple actions from her mind with a ferocity born of desperation. One thing at a time. First, she had to grasp it. If it hadn't been knocked free in the impact. Something cut into the light above her. She blinked, thinking the effort of movement had caused her sight to darken, but the blot resolved itself into a human figure that had inserted itself between her head and the truck's bumper. She sagged back against the pavement, letting her eyes droop shut, half-hoping to be mistaken for dead; she did not think she would be able to refrain from giving them the last surprise of their life if they knelt close enough to sink her teeth into. “Do you think you can do it?” Michelle's eyes blinked open in surprise at the relative calm of the question, even as her weary mind struggled to make sense of it. Had they been watching her struggling movements? Had they somehow divined what she was attempting to do? “It's her neck.” A male voice, taut with frustration. She decided that the first voice had been female, and had not been addressing her directly. Paramedics. Shit. She pursed her lips over her fangs, heedless of how they scored her dry flesh. She didn't think she could help herself, but— English speaking paramedics. What? The woman behind her knelt down; Michelle rolled her eyes back in an attempt to follow her progress, but lost sight of her as she settled to her knees. “We have to move you,” the woman said forcefully. “Do you understand? We must. But first, I must straighten.” A few locks of golden hair swung into her vision, as if the woman didn't quite dare to lean over far enough to bring herself in reach. Wise of her. “You must let me touch you, and you must be very still. It is imperative.” The voice softened. “Please, Michelle.” Despite the pain, the feel of those hands sliding beneath her head was tantalizing beyond measure. So warm, so soft, so redolent of life; all she had to was turn her head. Her lips skinned back from her teeth involuntarily as fingers gently prodded the base of her skull. So close. The hands tightened their grip with sure, steady strength, and pulled.

Charms was beginning to be a bit of an ordeal. As much as Elspeth liked the subject, she had to admit that at NEWT level, her head was getting rather full by now. She often wished sixth year would just hurry up and be over, but it was still only May. There was another problem, too: for most of the year she had been sneaking looks at Severus Snape in the classes they shared, and it was taking more and more concentration away from her work. Even though she could tell he still fancied that Evans girl in Gryffindor (well, anyone with a brain could tell that), she couldn't help it. The net result was that at the end of the day like this, when her brain seemed to refuse to absorb anything Flitwick was saying, she tended to fail on the "sneaking" part of looking at him. As she walked down the hallway after leaving class, eager to fetch some mindless pulp novel from her dorm in Ravenclaw tower and take it outside for a nice hour or so of turning off her brain, Elspeth felt something snag the sleeve of her robe. When she turned to see what it was and disentangle herself, she discovered that the offending object was three slender fingers which had caught a fold of the fabric between them. These fingers appeared to be in close association with a slender wrist, a long arm, thin shoulders, a pale throat, and a pair of dark eyes framed by lank black hair. The cohort was obviously, then, in the employ of one Mr. Severus Snape. "Was there something you wanted from me, Alderley?" he said, his expression nearly blank but for a strange light in his eyes. "Pardon?" Elspeth said, confused. "There's, er, nothing I..." "Oh? It's only that you were staring at me so much during Charms just now, you see. Was I mistaken, then?" Something in his tone hinted that he thought rather the opposite. Elspeth looked down at his fingers, which were rubbing the fabric of her sleeve between them, and then back into his eyes. She swallowed. "Very well — yes, actually, but I would prefer to discuss it somewhere..." "...less crowded?" he finished for her. The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. "So to say," she said, and smirked. "Follow me, then, but not too closely," Severus said, and she did. She had heard of a curious secret room on the seventh floor, and wondered if that was their destination, but Severus instead led her to a rather ordinary-looking door on the fourth floor, albeit it was in a dusty and shadowy sort of alcove. "Take my hand," he said softly, holding one out to her. Elspeth startled, and hoped the ambient light was dim enough to hide the blush in her cheeks. "What?" "Opens only for Slytherins... and guests," Severus explained, with a little curl to his lip. "I would have thought anything like that would be in the dungeons," Elspeth said as she placed her hand in his. His fingers were pleasantly cool; his skin unexpectedly soft except for a little roughness at the fingertips and a writing callus on his third finger, where a quill shaft would rest. Severus noticed the inquisitive exploration of her fingers and thumb, and looked sideways at her. A shiver ran down Elspeth's spine at the feeling of his gaze. "One might think that," he said mysteriously as he placed his other palm on the door. It opened silently, and Severus tugged her inside. The room was nothing special, and Elspeth wondered why it was so important that only Slytherins be able to enter. It looked very much like a lonely storage room, although curiously there didn't seem to be much in the way of spiderwebs or dust. It was about the size of her common room, although with a much lower ceiling. There were some worn desks, tables, and chairs scattered about the floor and some shelves on the walls bearing assorted books and bric-a-brac. "I don't understand. What's so interesting?" "What do you mean?" he said, his face falling into a look of genuine confusion. "Don't you see it?" "See what?" Elspeth quickly put two and two together. "You've never actually brought anyone else in here before, have you?" "But there was – I – well, no," he admitted grudgingly, and turned away to examine the shelves, or so they appeared to Elspeth. "See what, then?" she repeated. "It's a rather nice lounge," said Severus. "Comfortable appointments, fire, books, bar—" (he smirked) "—wireless set, teh—eh..." He choked on the last word, and Elspeth thought he might have been about to say "telly". Does he have some Muggle background, then? she wondered, but decided not to inquire about it now. "So it can't be like that room on the seventh floor, then," Elspeth said, drawing on the rumours she'd heard about the place. "What room?" Severus replied, a little too innocently. "Right," Elspeth said. "Well, it looks like some kind of storage to me." Severus frowned thoughtfully and said mostly to himself, "But that isn't right. Last time it was like this for him and me both. Why not now?" " 'Him and me'? 'Last time'?" Elspeth asked, raising her eyebrows. "None of your business," Severus said, his frown becoming hostile as he turned annoyed eyes on her. "All right; I'm sorry. I was just curious." Severus's features softened a bit as he sighed and struck his fists softly against the wall. After a moment with his head bowed, he snapped it up suddenly to look at her with a kind of desperation. "Will you tell me anyway?" "Did I say I wouldn't?" Elspeth said, facing Severus as she seated herself on top of a nearby desk. "I just wanted to understand where we were." Severus turned around and leaned against the wall with his arms folded. "It looks like there's still at least one amazing and mysterious thing at Hogwarts, then," he said a bit uncertainly. "Yes, apparently there is," Elspeth said, and smiled. A little colour appeared in his cheeks. "I do so love being correct," he said, and glided over to stand in front of her. At this distance she could feel the warmth of his body, but he didn't touch her. She could feel his eyes tracing the contours of her face and neck, and a hot ache awoke low in her belly. Now she remembered just what it was that had started all this: that despite what many people would say, as far as she was concerned, Severus was one sexy piece of work. She had spent no small number of nights envisioning him lying beside her, kissing her, touching her, bringing her off more times than was really very likely when you looked at it logically; then slipping smirkingly but longingly out the door at the crack of dawn like some romantic highwayman of a lover out of a folk song, except without all of that deadly dull business about unintended pregnancy. Elspeth braced her arms on the desk as she leaned forward, and pressed one knee against his hip. "Hi," she said softly, and smiled. She thought she caught the hint of an answering smile before her eyes were too close to his skin to see properly. She nuzzled his cheek and brushed her nose against his own, lips not quite touching. Truth be told, it was quite electric enough, and she wasn't sure she could handle more just at the moment. Severus was suddenly shy himself, to judge by how his whole body tensed up and the way he gasped and then ceased to breathe. Summoning her courage and plugging it into her desire, Elspeth pressed forward just that fraction more and gently closed her lips on his. She was delighted with the tiny whimper that escaped Severus's throat and raised a hand to touch his hair. Some envoy from the august chambers of intellectual curiosity (Doctor of this, Professor of that, bearer of Rowena's Cypher of the other) wondered if something could be done about its fine, oily texture, but he was swiftly shouted down by several more urgent agenda items as Severus pressed her knee against his body with one hand and stroked the fingertips of the other against her neck and behind her ear. If she'd been trying to stand, Elspeth would surely have wilted to the floor and dragged Severus with her. Even though it was just soft presses of lips and slow motions of mouths, no tongues or teeth or anything, the kiss was stupefyingly exquisite. It was like there was nothing else in Severus's world. He kept drawing in sharp, quiet little breaths that had the sound of surprise, as though he couldn't believe he was privileged to be doing this. Elspeth moaned at that thought as Severus trailed his hand across her throat and shoulder, then down her arm to lace his fingers with hers. His skin felt quite warm now, and she broke the kiss to nip at Severus's neck and collarbone. Her free hand fumbled for a way into his robes, eager to touch more of that skin, but Severus caught it with his own and held it by the wrist. He didn't push her away, but clenched the fingers of both hands as he asked, "What do you think you're doing?" She froze, pulled back, and hung her head in shame. "I – I just wanted – sorry—!" He pushed back on her arms and ducked his head so he could see her eyes. "No," he said, "no. Not that. Literally, what do you think you are doing? I must know." He gave her arms a little shake. Elspeth fought the tears that were welling in her eyes. What had she been thinking? Clearly she hadn't been at all. Her friends would be ashamed of her. She knew how he felt about Evans, despite what had happened last year. It was as plain as, well, the nose on his face, which was saying something. And there was no way someone with Elspeth's common colouring and unremarkable body was going to compete with her shapely, red-haired, green-eyed beauty. "Elspeth, tell me," Severus murmured, and she shivered at the way his voice caressed each syllable. She lifted her gaze and blinked the tears from her eyes. Words were on the tip of her tongue, but they faltered as she noticed that the wall behind Severus was different. Looking around in confusion, she saw that the details of the room had changed to be just as Severus had said they were, television included, and she was now sitting on the top surface of some kind of antique table. "What is it?" he said, seeing the change in her expression. "I see it," she said vacantly. "Ah." He looked slightly worried. "What... do you think?" "Well," she replied slyly, "Given that what we were just up to seems to have something to do with it, it does rather make me wonder what you were doing in here with 'him'..." Severus's cheeks went a little pink again. "Don't you talk about—" "But that's not what I'm most interested in at the moment," Elspeth murmured, pulling their joined hands to her cheek and rubbing the back of Severus's hand along her skin. She fought to keep the nervous quaver from her voice as she continued, "You wanted to know what I thought I was doing?" Severus nodded, releasing both of his hands and placing them gently on her hips. Elspeth reached out to brush his hair back from his face, and he twitched away slightly, as if fearing she would strike him. She stared at her fingers trailing softly over his temple, ear, and throat, afraid to look him in the eyes. When she worked her hand around to the back of his neck, she pulled forward gently, and leaned towards his ear. "I thought I was about to have a wonderful time with this very attractive boy that I've been lusting after for ages, but who I thought there could never be a chance with, even for so much as a hug and a snog," she whispered, sliding her hand down to his upper back and bringing the other one around to join it. "Although the way you kiss, one could hardly call it snogging. God, Severus, that was amazing..." He made a funny sort of high-pitched coughing noise that Elspeth thought sounded like he was stifling an embarrassed giggle. She laughed softly herself and pulled his body against hers as much as she could. Severus nuzzled at her hair as his arms snaked around her waist. "I'm not going to kid myself," Elspeth went on, the attempt at sultriness dropping out of her voice. "I know there's... someone else you really want." "Mmmf—" She stopped him by pressing his face into her shoulder. "Don't try it. But Severus... even if we stop here... I don't want you to leave here without knowing how much I've thought about you. Obviously I look at you a lot, but it's more than that... when I'm in bed at night, I..." She choked up, suddenly ashamed of her desires, and could go no further. "You what?" Severus said quietly into the skin at the join of her neck and shoulder, and when Elspeth made no reply, pulled back to look into her eyes. He placed the tips of his first two fingers under her chin and gazed at her intently. "You what?" he repeated, and although his words tried to be commanding, his tone was entirely needy. Deep in his eyes he looked – he looked afraid, but there was a fire like he was forcing himself not to dwell in it, to have courage and walk straight into the terrifying and unknown place that was the truth of her opinions. Elspeth felt as frightened as she fancied he must, but was amazed at his bravery while she had little enough to match it. She felt herself shrink away slightly as she stammered, "I – I pretend that you're th-there with me, you've sneaked in somehow, and no one else knows... and you touch me and k-kiss me and make love to me for hours on end, and you're more w-wonderful and tender and beautiful than a-anyone would believe, and the sound of your v-voice when you f-fuck me and finally cry out as you c-come is just—" She closed her eyes as she felt tears pricking them again, the thought of that fantasy sound so exquisite that she could barely breathe. "Elspeth," Severus said softly, and she gasped at the intimate caress of his voice. "Look at me." She opened her eyes and darted them back and forth between his. He laid one hand on her thigh and brought the other up to brush a thumb over her nipple, palpably hard even through the layers of fabric. "I think I would disappoint you terribly," he said a little sadly, and squeezed her leg gently before moving both hands to brush the outer curves of her breasts with his fingertips. Elspeth bit her lip and arched her back slightly; the touch was something right out of many of her fantasies. "There's no way I could possibly last for 'hours on end', not if you were responding like thisss..." His upper lip took on a feral curve as he said the last word, and the feeling of his gaze turned hungry. She felt his hands moving to undo her robes, but couldn't tear her eyes away from his face. His eyes smouldered with eager lust, and she was pinned like the hypnotized prey of a serpent. Shortly, Elspeth felt cool air across her upper chest, and had just worked out what that must mean – he could see her, and she was... she was... well... "Seh – Severus, are you s-ssure... I mean, do you really like..." "Mmmnn... why shouldn't I?" he replied, circling her nipples with both thumbs through the sheer fabric of her bra, and bending his head to kiss and lick the soft inner curve of one breast. "Because they're... I'm..." Severus jerked up abruptly and considered her for a moment. "Let me show you something," he said, lifting one eyebrow. He reached for her hand and guided it down to his crotch before she could object. Elspeth's eyes rolled slightly back at the feeling of his prick, hot and hard even through his clothing. "I've been like that since you let me kiss you," he said, low and sensual. "Whatever you apparently think of yourself, it's quite enough to have me aching, thank you very much." He grasped her hips and slid her carefully closer to the edge of the table. Elspeth could feel him pressed against the inside of her thigh as he stood between her legs and spoke into her hair once more, his hands starting to cling with a twitchy, desperate character. "Knowing what you seem to think of me doesn't help, either... for a certain meaning of the word 'help'." Elspeth could hear the smirk. "God, I – that sounded so delicious, what you said – I could find a way, if you really want, come into your room and stay with you all night, secretly, just like you said—" "Severus, you hardly even know me," she said, but pressed a hand against the small of his back to pull him even closer to her. "You don't mean that. You're just saying those things because you're—" "Aroused as fuck?" he asked rhetorically, and growled into her neck before biting it. One of Severus's hands slipped down to stroke her belly, and the other pressed fingers between her legs, rubbing the fabric over the swollen, sensitive flesh. He made a sort of whimpering sound, and Elspeth gasped as she felt a tingle of magic. Somehow, he'd managed to Vanish her knickers, but he clearly hadn't spoken, wasn't even touching his wand. "Ahhh—! How did you do that?" "What, how did I do what?" he said, startling and drawing back from her. Elspeth looked shyly down at the lower half of her body, then back up at his eyes. He seemed to understand, and a look of shame came over his face. "Oh – oh no, I didn't mean – I only wan—" He brought one hand to his mouth and bit his first finger to try to stop himself babbling more nonsense. "You only wan...ted..." Elspeth thought for a second. No incantation, no wand; and he had wanted something... Her eyes widened as she found what she thought must be the only explanation. "You wanted that so badly you managed to do accidental magic?" "I... I must have done..." Severus said, his expression confused, and his whole body language showing fear of reprisal. "Please – I would never do anything you didn't ask... for..." He trailed off and his eyes widened in turn as she parted her robes the rest of the way and leaned back onto her arms, locked at the elbows. She peered up at him through her eyelashes and said with mock shyness, "Then... then what if I asked you to touch me?" He hesitated, but not for long. She hadn't even finished her next sentence – "Please, Severus, want you to m—uhn—ohh!" – before he had fastened his mouth on her throat and plunged his fingers into the wetness between her thighs. "Want me to make you come, is that it? Is that what you want? Clever little Ravenclaw, mmm, that's just what I want too," he said, his voice husky. He seemed to have lost almost every ounce of the aloof composure he usually had, that he'd had even half an hour ago. Now, he was a creature composed of pounding heart and firm cock and hot breath and desire. "Tell me how," he panted, and ground himself against her as he stroked two fingers back and forth over her clitoris. "Want to please you... what do I do in these dreams of yours? Anything you want... let me serve—oh, fuck, please..." Elspeth wondered fuzzily if he might just come out of his own excitement without her touching him at all. She wanted, oh, how she wanted to hear those cries, to find out if they matched her imagination, but at the moment his fingers, surprisingly cool against her hot, slick cunt, were providing a very compelling distraction. "Just do... that... oh God, maybe... inside..." Severus swiftly obliged her, and slipped his first and middle fingers inside her while his other hand, high on her thigh, kept the folds of fabric out of the way. His thumb brushed across her clitoris in maddeningly unsatisfying random patterns, and he began to tease her mouth with tiny nibbling kisses and flicks of his tongue. She tried to catch his lips for a firmer, slower kiss, but what he was doing was making her breathe aloud so much that she couldn't manage it. "Slower... softer," she gasped, clasping his wrist and guiding his fingers back up into that back-and-forth stroke he had started with. "Like this?" he said, and planted a gentle kiss right at the corner of her mouth. It was an unexpectedly sensitive spot; she whimpered at the sensation, and felt him smile against her cheek. "Like this?" he repeated, his voice a honeyed murmur, as he added the hint of a circling motion with his fingers. Again there was a contradiction between what he was saying and what he was doing. His voice was a bit smug, I've-got-you-right-where-I-want-you, clearly expecting a "yes" answer. But the touch of his hands, so tender and attentive despite his inexperience, and the sweet curve of his body as he bent to kiss her collarbone and oh, oh God, that thing he was doing with his tongue now, somehow all made her feel precious and adored. "Mmmnnnyyessss...." she moaned, tangling her hands in his hair and pulling him up to kiss him deeply. "Little... faster..." she mumbled into his mouth, and he did, and oh that's so good... and before she knew it she was whimpering helplessly and pleading, "Please, Sev'rus, please..." "Please, don't," he said on top of her words, pulling back briefly to look into her eyes, then kissing her desperately again. "Don't beg me. Don't," he said in between hot strokes of his tongue, his fingers slowing but never stopping. "You're not... not at my mercy, like some prisoner. You asked me for this. You – I'm – ummmnnnhh–" Severus seemed to lose the power of speech again as he dipped a finger firmly inside her and used it to smear her own wetness around her. The urgency in his voice was strange. It was as though she had accused him of forcing her and he were vehemently denying it. Elspeth wondered if someone had mocked him so, saying that the only way anyone would ever let him anywhere near them is if he forced them. Well, she knew that wasn't true, at least to judge by the hot, slippery need between her legs that he was plying and encouraging with his agile fingers. She buried her face in his shoulder and hooked a leg around him. "You're damn right I asked, and I'm – ohhh – so glad I did," she said, and wormed a hand into Severus's clothing to touch the skin of his chest and stomach. This time he did nothing to prevent her, and moaned happily as she traced her fingertips over his nipple. His skin was hot and soft and she craved more of it. She pictured herself running her hands over his naked sides and back as he slid himself inside her, right there on the desk or table or whatever the hell it was, she didn't care. She knew that if he did that it would probably be over far too fast, but she was yearning to learn the feel of his thrusts, if they would be tender and gentle or hard and deep and whichever would surely be fine because fuck did she ever want him. "Severus, wait," she panted, and he froze, clearly afraid he'd done something wrong. "No, don't worry," she assured him, and reached behind herself to unfasten her bra and lay it beside her. For a second he stared dumbly at her naked breasts, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. Then he looked up at her, and she smiled. His tiny answering smile was adorably shy, she thought, as she tugged on his robes. "Off? Please?" Severus blushed a little, and looked uncertain. "We – we can't, I mean, we shouldn't..." "I know, Severus, I just want to feel your skiinnnn..." She drew out the last word and let her eyes slide shut as she saw herself clasping his lean body against hers, another wave of desire rising inside her. Severus pressed his lips together, but it didn't do much to muffle the whimper that escaped him. He seemed to be struggling with the idea for a few moments, but finally his arousal must have won out, because he hurriedly shrugged off his top layer, unfastened the under-robe to his waist, and slipped it off his slim shoulders. "Mmm... fresh young Slytherin, my favourite!" Elspeth teased, and pulled him back towards her. The sensation of his skin brushing across her nipples was delicious, and they both moaned as they ran their hands over each other. He arched away from her, though, when she tried to reach down and palm his cock. "Severus, what's wrong?" "Ohhhh, just don't touch me," he groaned, sounding disappointed. "I – ah..." His voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper. "I'd probably come." A flash of hot lust went through her. "Ooh, Sevvverus....! Sounds perfect to me..." "But then... what could I offer to tempt you back for a second go?" he purred as he returned to stroking her, his first two fingers on either side of her clit and the other two brushing lightly against her labia. She cried out with pleasure, and he chuckled softly. "You hungry little treasure... you want so much, it's beautiful... can't satisfy all your lusts at once, now can we? Have to leave at least a little something so you'll come back for more... so delectable... nnnhhh..." Severus was usually a taciturn sort, so Elspeth hadn't had much chance to hear his voice before. What she'd heard, she'd liked, but this... this was something else again; she reckoned there were probably a lot more late nights in her future. And now more than ever, she wanted to hear that voice making pleasure noises of its own. Elspeth moaned and began to say so, but Severus silenced her with a soul-stealing kiss. "No words," he said afterwards. "Let me do the talking. I just want to hear the sound of your breathing..." There was a sobbing hitch in that, because Elspeth knew she was very close to orgasm now. "Look what I've done," Severus continued. "You're so warm and soft... my skin on yours is incredible, I can't believe I thought I shouldn't do this... I can feel your pulse racing, just here in your throat... every time you whimper like that I want to... oh, I heard that, that little change, you're going to, aren't you, please, I've never—" Elspeth came with a long, deep moan, pressing her hips against Severus's hand and riding it. She felt his other hand move into her hair and he pulled her head back, slightly roughly, but she didn't mind. He kissed her like he was a starving man feasting on the sounds she was making as he held his hand still and let her body do what it wanted. When she finally came back to reality, she was surprised to find Severus staring at her adoringly, his eyes softer than she'd ever seen them before. "Thank you," he whispered, seeming rather in outer space himself. "Huh?" Elspeth said, and laughed. "What's funny?" Severus said, the contented look disappearing from his face. " 'Huh'. Apparently that's the most intelligent thing I can think of to say at the moment, is 'huh'." "Mmmm, well, that can be our secret," Severus replied, and wound his arms around her. "Wouldn't want them tossing you out of that skyscraping eyrie you call a common room. Hallways are a cold place to sleep." "Caw, caw!" Elspeth said, and giggled. "That's crows, not eagles. You're delirious." "If I am, it's your fault." She disentangled herself from him, fished for her discarded bra, and put it back on. Taking his cue, Severus buttoned himself back into his own clothing and settled the green-trimmed second layer on top. "Hmm," Elspeth said thoughtfully, looking down. "Hmm?" "Well, it appears that by the courtesy of one Mr. Snape, late of Slytherin House, I am missing the other half of my undergarments..." He laughed then, laughed, briefly but genuinely, and quickly hid it in his sleeve. His eyes, peering out from above his arm, were bright with mirth. "...and, not to put too fine a point on it, I seem to have contracted a case of wet-spot-itis." Severus snickered into his sleeve again, closing his eyes. "Ahh... hmm," he said, when he had composed himself. Affecting the same high-society tone she had used, he went on, "As for the former, you may consider it my gift to you, Miss Alderley." That smirk is truly a thing to behold, Elspeth thought as she found her wand and pulled her robes back up onto her shoulders. "The latter – ahem — condition, according to the literature, is rarely fatal and usually clears itself up in a few... see, there you are," he elaborated, noticing the disappearance of said spot as she cast a silent cleaning charm. Elspeth hopped down from the table and straightened her clothing as best she could. "Well thank you, Healer," she said, trying not to laugh. She felt flushed and disheveled, but was already enjoying the idea of being coy with her friends about what had just happened. "I should go," she said softly, taking his hand. To her surprise, he drew hers up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist, then nipped one of her knuckles with his teeth. The gleam in his eye made it plain that he was still very aroused, and she marveled that he hadn't given in to it and taken her up on her offer to do him as well. Elspeth wondered vainly for a moment if he was going to go off and take care of it himself while thinking about her, and swallowed nervously. Severus picturing me – oh God... "You first," he said, letting go her hand. "You won't see me behind you." "All right." Elspeth noticed that the room had taken on its storage guise for her once more, and peered carefully out of the door. "See you later," she said over her shoulder. Severus nodded, and she slipped quietly out. ************ Severus let out the breath he had been holding. "That went rather well," he said quietly to himself. He hadn't thought things would carry on quite that far when he had decided that, yes, she was definitely looking at him, and talked himself into taking the chance on what it could mean. He would have been pleasantly surprised to have got, as she had put it, a hug and a snog; even more so if she didn't think better of it afterwards and awkwardly excuse herself, as he had expected she would. As it was, though there was that odd business with Regulus and the fact that a couple of the Slytherin girls had consented to let him try kissing and touching them a little, Severus really found it rather startling that anyone would harbour such erotic thoughts about him. As much as he had thought she liked him, he certainly had never felt that sort of thing coming from Lily... Lily. Oh, shit. Severus fought down the urge to punch one of the tables, and instead collapsed into one of the chairs and rubbed his forehead. Why had Elspeth had to mention Lily? He hadn't even been thinking about comparing the two of them until she brought her up. At the start of sixth year, Severus had sensed that Lily's anger had cooled down over the summer. But here it was nearly a year after The Incident and all the progress he'd managed to make with his apologetic looks and soft words was that she would once again speak to him like a regular person. A regular person, Severus thought forlornly. That could be anyone. That isn't her "Sev"... Although she still obviously had little warmth in her heart for Potter, she sometimes let him and his sidekick Black-the-Elder follow her about like puppies, or bodyguards, which he supposed was really what they thought they were doing: protecting her from the scum of the earth they judged him to be. So Severus had put a lot of time into trying to put Lily out of his mind, and now here had come Miss Alderley, late of Ravenclaw House, he thought with vicious sarcasm, to flush it all down the bog. Brilliant, just fucking brilliant. Severus sighed, trying to calm himself down. "Think, now," he mumbled to the empty room. "She's told you one thing you need to know, and that's that you're being too obvious. Perhaps that's putting Lily off." He leaned forward, placing his forearms on his thighs and folding his hands. And Elspeth, well... she's obviously... ah, interested. He felt his prick pause in its softening at the euphemistic thought. Why turn away opportunity when it beats down your door? He looked contemplatively at the sleeves of his robes, and suddenly his eyes focused: a few strands of Elspeth's slightly reddish-brown hair were clinging to the nap of the wool in various places. A whisper of an idea began to form in Severus's mind, and he carefully drew the hairs out to curl in his hand. It needs a private place... but what better way to learn the secrets of someone's body? Pleased with himself, he grinned slyly, then schooled his features to his usual disinterest before making his way back to the common room. ************ "Snape?!" Elspeth whispered, louder than she meant to. "I mean, Severus? How on earth did you get in here?" "Whisht!" he said, waving a barely visible hand to silence her, and spoke so softly she could hardly hear him as he cast an Imperturbable Charm. "There, that's better," he continued, though not much more loudly, his voice as dark as the room around them. "I said, how—" "I told you I would find a way if you wanted me to," Severus murmured as he crawled, spider-like, to kneel beside her where she sat up in bed. "You did want me to, I thought...?" He leaned in to nuzzle her ear and stroked her other cheek. Elspeth felt her breathing quicken. "Well, it's... mmm... er, fantasies are just..." "Sometimes very good material to build on," he finished for her as he threaded fingers into her hair and kissed her jawline. "Oh, but—" He drew a vial out of a pocket and handed it to her. "Drink that," he said. "Why? What is it?" Elspeth asked. "Fine, don't, if you want me to be the father of your child." "Oh... oh!" She blushed, taking his meaning. He wanted to... oh my. She suddenly felt hot all over, and swallowed. "Ah... that won't be necessary. I already make my own." "Oh, so you've some experience, then?" he said, sounding like he was leering. "Well... not exactly, I... when you're a girl... you just, well, you never know." " 'Not exactly'," he repeated thoughtfully, and paused for a moment. "Elspeth... are you seventeen yet?" "August, just before term starts," she said, avoiding his gaze. "Why, are you?" "January," he admitted. "Do you think... I mean, would your parents..." "What they don't know," she said, and pulled him into a heated kiss. "But Severus," she said afterwards, sliding her hands up under his shirt, "please, how did you manage?" "I've friends in high places," he said dryly, and Elspeth laughed into his shoulder. He stroked her hair. "No, I can't tell you... I might not be able to use that way again if I do. It has to be secret." "I can keep a secret." "Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead." "Hmm, then I'm glad I didn't drink that potion." He pulled back, looking insulted, and a retort clearly on the tip of his tongue. "Severus, relax," Elspeth said, laying her fingers on his lips to shush him. "I'm sorry." She brushed her thumb over his cheek, guided him gently towards her, and kissed him softly. "Let's turn back a few pages." She leaned back against her pillow, pulling Severus down with her. "You've come to visit in the middle of the night... now what?" "Now this," he replied, and kissed her so wonderfully she thought she might never need to kiss anyone again. ************ As it turned out, he was right: he couldn't last hours on end. Well, not each time, anyway.

It started with a pile of dirty laundry. No, that was inaccurate. Amendment: it started with the captain’s well-formed backside and the snug, unforgiving Starfleet issue trousers worn by (almost) all male personnel and approximately 37% of the female personnel. The captain, of course, had nothing to forgive in the first place, backside-wise, other than his natural propensity toward putting it on display in a most distracting manner. He could often be found leaning into the science viewscreen ‘visiting’ Spock, placing said backside in Spock’s peripheral vision; or resting his elbows on a rail on one of the observation decks, hips canted and back bowed, emphasizing the pert curve of his buttocks; or on his hands and knees under a replicator, in engineering, helping an ensign recover pieces of a broken padd, digging for treasures unknown underneath his bed frame, or any number of other places where Spock would find him, bottom flexing high in the air and rendering Spock’s mouth inexplicably, illogically dry. Spock had attempted to rationalize his preoccupation with the captain’s pleasing physique: Firstly, he had not engaged in mutually satisfying intercourse with another male in 7.3 months, since before the start of the mission. Secondly, the Captain was a dynamic, intelligent, physically attractive individual who stimulated Spock’s mind and senses both. Finally, Spock was duty-bound to spend the majority of his time with him, idle hours spent eating, playing chess and speaking on all manner of subjects with him notwithstanding. It was only logical that an attraction – not an attachment – would develop. Spock acknowledged it and set it aside, the consummate first officer. If the Captain’s various body parts occasionally featured in his masturbatory obligations (a necessary act to keep the body healthy, much like a balanced diet and challenging exercise routine), then that was just something Spock kept locked away unexamined. Until the program codes for the automated laundry systems became corrupted. The computing department quickly identified the long lines of gibberish suddenly embedded in the code, but used the opportunity to approach Spock regarding a total overhaul of the laundry systems to address long-standing glitching issues such as their tendency toward shrinkage and spot bleaching. A total reprogramming would take approximately three weeks, during which time the yeomen would have to wash the officers’ clothing and bedding items by hand. The resulting schedule for the yeomen’s revised duty rosters had them on duty for 1.6 shifts every day for the duration. Spock authorized the repairs after assuring the yeomen they could each have an extra two days of shore leave at the next pleasure planet. Spock kept his soiled items neatly folded in a corner in his closet. His yeoman was scheduled to collect it while he was on alpha shift every four days. He was partaking in post-dinner conversation and a chess game in the Captain’s quarters when he spied Jim’s own laundry, a haphazard pile of clothes hastily pushed under his bed, not quite hidden from Spock’s keen view. Peeking out just beyond the confines of the bed space was a pair of black regulation briefs. Spock immediately made two assumptions based on logical deduction: 1. Jim was wearing pajama pants already and had previously stated a preference not to wear undergarments with them. Therefore, those briefs capping his mountain of dirty laundry were most likely (98.67%) the briefs he wore just earlier that day. 2. The aforementioned briefs were saturated with Jim’s natural daily excretions: pheromones, his personal musk, a drop or two of urine from a hasty shaking off, sweat from his scrotum, his penis, the crease of his thigh, his perineum. Spock’s lips parted and, underneath the table on which they shared their game of chess, his penis swelled helplessly within his Starfleet trousers. Inwardly horrified at both the unanticipated reaction and his inability to suppress it, he tore his gaze from the tormenting image of the briefs under the bed to Jim’s face to ascertain whether or not Jim had noticed his inappropriate tumescence. He was relieved to note that Jim seemed oblivious to his distraction, occupied as he told a story accompanied by large manual gesticulations. “So then, this farmgirl’s shoving her tongue down Bones’s throat while we’re still trying to fight off her beefcake boyfriend and he pries her off and screams – guess. Guess what he screams.” “I am sure I am unable to extrapolate what the good doctor may have said in such a situation.” “He goes, ‘I’m a doctor, not a lozenge!’ I’ve got a whole notebook of what Bones isn’t, wanna see?” Jim hopped to his feet without waiting to hear Spock’s response and bounded into his bedroom. Spock had, of course, seen this notebook already. Indeed, he had added “June bride” and “wrecking ball” to it himself. Standing at his bookshelf, Jim rifled through several volumes of notebooks before finding the right one, and once again Spock’s eyes strayed to the exposed briefs lying so prone and accessible beneath the bed. Logic lost its import, as did the scrawl of Jim’s handwriting set before Spock. He stared at the page at Jim’s insistence, the scribble utterly meaningless in the face of the throbbing in his pants. “You got any to add?” Spock blinked up at Jim, Jim’s face an open, happy, completely devastating image. “Clotheshorse,” Spock croaked, willing his erection down. “Yesterday with the quartermaster.” Jim snatched the notebook back laughing, scratching the latest into the page. “Good one,” he said. Then, moving a rook, he announced, “checkmate.” He beamed in victory and got to his feet. Still disturbed, Spock could do nothing but blink at his captain. “I gotta pee, so hold tight for a sec.” “Jim.” Jim paused halfway to the head, turning a questioning look on Spock, who sat stock still at the table. “I believe I will retire for the evening. Thank you for a most stimulating game.” Jim smiled at him. “Sure, Spock. Another tomorrow?” “Affirmative.” “See you at breakfast?” “Affirmative.” Jim nodded. “Good night then, Spock. Good game.” “Likewise, Jim. Good night.” Jim disappeared into the head, and what tenuous threads remained of his logic fled. With quick, efficient movements, he sprang into Jim’s bedroom, snatched up the briefs, stuffed them into his sleeve, and left the captain’s quarters. If someone were to accuse him of dashing into his own quarters like a Terran feline whose tail was on fire, he would surely deny it, but the corridors were blessedly empty, and his desperation had no witnesses. In his own quarters, Spock engaged the locking mechanism to respond only to his command. He yanked Jim’s briefs from his sleeve and buried his entire face in the thin cotton, inhaling to total lung capacity. The scent was intoxicating: dark and musky and male, with the acrid edge of Jim’s most intimate sweat laced with dizzying pheromones. This was the scent of Jim’s loins. Blood coursed unerringly to Spock’s penis, filling and lengthening it impossibly further against the confines of his trousers. Staggering, he let out a low, unbidden groan on the exhale, sinking to his knees on the edge of his bed. He took deep, gasping breaths through the material of the unethically obtained undergarments, one hand holding the briefs to his face, the other braced on the bed, supporting his weight. Spock got steadier on the bed, knees spread. He undid his trousers, frenzy mounting, and his cock bobbed free, smooth and tremendously full, glistening with pre-ejaculate fluid and personal lubrication. Small sounds of exertion escaped his throat as he gripped his cock, choking it with merciless abandon. Nose buried in his Captain’s used briefs, hand jerking his engorged cock with rough, desperate pumps, he wrung the spine-shattering orgasm from himself all too quickly, sagging then in boneless relief. Coming to his senses in the hazy aftermath, Spock took in the sight of himself: trousers open, coarse black curls shining with perspiration and lubrication, sated cock lolling to one side, stripes of creamy semen cooling on the sheets. The briefs were bunched in the loose fist of his left hand. Instead of shame blooming hot within him, as he might have expected with a mind cleared of the mist of arousal, he felt only a satisfied thrill. As he got to his feet and unfurled his spine, as he wiped himself and his sheets clean and folded his clothes for his yeomen, he plotted, quite logically, how to replace these briefs in Jim’s pile and obtain another pair. The process of surreptitious appropriation of Jim’s undergarments was more complicated than it seemed on the surface. In actuality, Spock did not often have the opportunity to make off with the desired contraband, whether because Jim could not always be trusted to put on pajama pants, or because Jim did not often leave Spock alone in his quarters, even for a moment, or even because he was not always so slovenly as to leave his laundry lying about in plain sight. The opening came five days after his first indulgence, when the low ache in his groin began to grow more insistent from watching Jim’s ass progress through its days and evenings and remembering its most pleasing scent. Orgasm was once again swift and ruthless. Spock had managed to undress himself, but when he became aware of reality as it existed outside of himself and his own blinding pleasure once more, naked, splattered with semen, gagged by Jim’s briefs, he realized it had been a mere 4.8 minutes since he had entered his own quarters with the stolen goods. He was not given to luxuriate in his masturbatory obligations with the aid of props, nor was he in the habit of indulging in lurid fantasies with said props, with his Captain the unknowing object of his newfound perversion. He attributed his lack of erectile fortitude to this variation in his routine. Spock understood that humans sometimes achieved pleasure from the illicit, or from the threat of being caught with one’s hands down one’s pants, as he believed the saying went. He did admit privately, never in front of the good doctor of course, that he was human, at least partially. As he dislodged Jim’s briefs from his mouth, Spock told himself that his heretofore undiscovered appetite for soiled underwear, Jim’s specifically, must be very common in human sexuality, and therefore nothing to be ashamed of, as his mother and, indeed, Jim himself, had so often reminded him. To be more accurate, they were his shepherds in other facets of the human condition, for example social cues, but he was sure their lessons in humanity extended to human sexual mores. So he would speak of this to no one, he would keep his own secret tightly guarded, but he would not be ashamed. The damp, wrinkled briefs, now riddled with indentations from his own unwitting mastication, fell through his fingers and onto the floor. They languished there for a moment, and in the pause between them landing and Spock getting up to finish some ship’s business, he obliged one more unattainable reverie. Maybe Jim, his painfully heterosexual captain, would have need of his first officer in the night and steal in to find his briefs lying there abused on Spock’s bedroom floor. Instead of anger, there would be only arousal and ardor and firm bodies colliding in mutual gratification. There was a 97.86% chance against it, and his captain so enjoyed defying the odds. But Spock got to his feet, shrugged into a robe, and put aside the impossible. Spock was able to satisfy his curious new cravings a total of four more times before the automated laundry systems were back online, fully functional and cured of all ills. Boon to the yeomen, bane of Spock’s quiet hedonism. During the final session, when he knew the end was nigh and the yeomen were gathering their prohibited stores of spirits in preparation, Spock was so bold as to ejaculate copiously into Jim’s briefs, mixing, he imagined, their genetic material, just this single time. He was not quiet, but the bulkheads were thick, and Jim did not come running at the bellow of his name. Spock did not name the ensuing emotion disappointment, and if he was cold and unsatisfied in the aftermath, he attributed it to the forthcoming reinstatement of the officers’ laundry chutes and the resulting deprivation he would endure without Jim’s heady, aromatic underwear to press into his face and his genitals. He had created a problem for himself, of course. He pondered how to replace the briefs in Jim’s quarters without drawing undue attention to the fact that they were pumped full of Vulcan semen. Indistinct from human semen without a microscope, yes, but Jim would know he had not left them in such a state, and he would have to suspect a lurking pervert, and the revelation of the only available culprit would not be far behind. Spock decided then that this would be his one allowance to his libido: he would keep this pair of briefs. He would send them down the laundry chute and get them back folded neatly, scrubbed of all traces of Jim, near indistinguishable from his own, and he would remember. 2.63 months after the laundry systems were repaired, 2.63 months after his masturbatory obligations began to stagnate and fail to induce satisfaction and total bodily health, Spock was standing in Jim’s bedroom as they perused the bookshelf together when his gaze alighted on a pair of briefs discarded on the floor below the laundry chute. A fallen item, separated from its brethren and simply overlooked. His physiological reaction was similar to that of an animal conditioned to give a specific response to specific stimuli: he achieved erection instantly, unable to control the flood to his groin and unable to hide the resulting abundance of hot, needy flesh in his trousers. He inhaled sharply and snapped his head back to look unseeing at the book titles, clasping his hands together in front of himself in a futile attempt at modesty, but Jim’s blue eyes were keen and the damage was done. “You all right there, Spock?” His captain’s tone was amused, but Spock dared not meet his eyes. He dreaded being mocked, being the object of that amusement, but most of all being rejected so gently by a man who cared for him, but not enough, not the right way. “My apologies, Captain. I have found myself… distracted, of late. I will go to my quarters.” “Hey, no.” A hand came to rest on his shoulder, so sure of its welcome, stopping his retreat. Still Spock stared straight ahead. Little Dorrit, The Art of War and Moby Dick were propped together like chicks in a nest, and he stared through them. “You don’t have to go so early. It happens to all of us. Just a guy thing, you know.” A human huff of laughter. “We get so hard up a stiff breeze’ll do it, or hey, some old bound books. How long’s it been, for you?” Spock hazarded a glance at Jim’s face, arching one brow. “‘It,’ Captain?” Jim smirked, lifting one shoulder in a shrug and dropping his hand from Spock’s. “Since you got laid. And none of that ‘Captain’ shit while we’re talking about how horny we are lately.” “It has been 10.73 months since I engaged in sexual congress with another. Jim.” Jim’s eyes widened as he boggled. Spock would find it comical if he were not so preoccupied with suppressing a hot, full-body blush and willing down his eager erection. Jim smiling at him and touching him were not helping. “Christ, that’s before the mission started! What do you do when women throw themselves at you on away missions? I know that hot little scribe on Dolphar’s Second Moon showed you all her charms. And Uhura!” Spock’s erection flagged, and he straightened, safe to bring his hands behind his back. “I… am not moved by the female form, Captain. Fleeting encounters on away missions hold no appeal for me. I bid you good night.” Spock found himself trapped between his captain and the captain’s bed. He briefly considered going over the bed, but discarded the idea as lacking dignity when he needed it most. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t know. Uhura, though?” Jim seemed oblivious to Spock’s predicament and mortification, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “I… I regret that I took advantage of the lieutenant’s feelings for me to comfort myself in a vulnerable moment. I apologized for my behavior once we returned to Earth, and the lieutenant and I were never in a romantic relationship as the crew assumed.” Jim was staring at him. Spock, despite spending more than ten years living and working among humans, found it difficult to read the expression Jim wore. “You were with her all the time, at the beginning.” Spock’s gaze dropped to the floor. He fought the urge to shrug; he abhorred the human tendency toward fidgeting, but his body seemed to want to squirm under Jim’s scrutiny and the discussion of Spock’s private life. “She was my only friend, Captain.” Jim’s hand settled on his shoulder again, and when he looked up, Jim looked decidedly soppy. “Not anymore, huh Spock?” “No, not anymore. Jim.” The hand on his shoulder came round to thump him on the back. “Well. Back to business. I think we should find someone for you to be with Spock. A brain from computing or engineering, or someone else you don’t have direct authority over. Someone… suitable. For you.” Spock’s eyes flickered to the balled briefs by the laundry chute and then back to Jim’s face. The former made his loins stir, but the latter made something intangible and unnamable expand within his chest cavity. Affection seemed an inadequate word for something so sharp and beautiful, so tangled with lust and admiration and enjoyment, therefore Spock simply let it exist without label, filling him until he could not contain the hand that reached toward Jim. At the last moment, he reasserted control and drew his hand back. It hung lamely at his side, an awkward, thwarted thing. “That will not be necessary, Jim. I am able to control myself.” Barely, he did not add. “Well sure, but how fun can that be?” This was Jim’s bawdy, practiced leer. Spock knew it to be an affectation, a forced mannerism fueling and fueled by Jim’s reputation as a promiscuous cad. A reputation Spock had come to learn was wildly exaggerated, to his relief. “I am not preoccupied with ‘fun,’ Jim.” “Ha, don’t I know it? Come on, let’s make a list of nice, hot dudes for you.” Jim had removed himself from the space between the bed and the bookshelf and waited with an expectant look on his face, brows raised in tandem. Once again Spock couldn’t help but glance at the underpants, but it was a mistake: Jim caught the line of his gaze and followed it to its humiliating end. “Sorry, neat freak. It’s just underwear.” He bent to pick them up, the thin cotton of his pajama pants stretching over the curve of his backside with the movement. Spock’s breath halted in his throat as Jim threw the briefs into the laundry chute without thought. He straightened and looked back at Spock, eyebrows drawing downward and a frown touching his mouth. “Spock?” Spock realized then that he was blushing furiously, and his trousers did little to hide his… esteem. “Oh.” “I apologize, Captain. If you request that I transfer to another vessel, you are within your rights.” “No. God, no, Spock. You’re my... it’s not a big deal. We’re both adults.” Spock did not feel like an adult. He felt like a wild, uncontrolled thing driven by base emotions like lust and hope and disappointment. He was caught on Jim’s utterance of a possessive pronoun. “I’m your what, Captain?” Jim shifted, fidgeting by the laundry chute. “My first officer. And my friend.” Spock turned away from Jim’s buzzing body and uncomfortable expression, suddenly overcome by guilt and shame at Jim’s proclamation. He had acted not only unethically, but perversely, and his captain, his friend had been his unwitting victim. “I have not been a good friend to you,” he said, compelled to confess his bad deeds like a schoolboy seeking absolution. He stepped out from in front of the bookshelf, 1.28 meters separating him from his captain. He stood at attention the way he would when the captain entered the bridge. “I have perpetrated heinous acts of perversion against you, secretly and willfully. I should be sent to the brig for sexual harassment and subjected to a court martial.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up, Spock.” Jim’s hands were raised as if they could stop what had already happened, as if they could foil Spock’s misplaced passions. “No one’s going to the brig. What could you have done that was so bad, anyway? Whatever it is, I promise it’s not… it’s not a crime. It’s flattering, even.” Spock’s mouth closed around the hideous truth of his transgressions. He did not want to lose Jim’s regard. However, he reminded himself, perhaps I did not deserve it if I would treat it with such disrespect. He squared his shouldered and straightened his spine further. He owed it to his captain to tell him the truth, and to look him in the eye while he did it. Taking a steadying breath, he confessed. “During the laundry system reprogramming, I conspired to appropriate your soiled undergarments for use in my masturbatory… exploits. I succeeded on a total of six occasions. On the final occasion, I did not return the item, but kept it as a memento.” Silence pressed heavily in the space between them. Spock stood straight and still, unwilling to acquiesce to the mounting urge to run into his quarters, lock the door and fill out a transfer request just so he would never have to see this exact look on Jim’s face ever again. Confusion and alarm and disgust. Shame was like heat, Spock decided as it rose from his stomach to his head, a nauseating fire. “I see. You’re dismissed, Commander.” Spock nodded once, and with just three long strides, he was through the shared bathroom and into his own quarters, locking every door with a single command in his shaking voice. He paused to control his breathing, head bowed, hands in fists at his sides as he stood by his bed. His throat felt as if it were tightening enough to choke him. When he regulated his heartbeat and stopped taking gasping breaths, he set to packing up all of his personal belongings with quick, efficient movements. He had wasted enough time on his human foibles, had lost too much to their damning gravity, to indulge now in the illogical desire to mull over each item and remember how they were connected to Jim. Gag gifts he had acquired for Spock on shore leaves, the shirt he once complimented, the pre-reform book of poetry he had admired. Spock did not examine them, he simply placed them in his luggage according to the most logical packing pattern he could divine. He was three quarters of the way through his closet when he unearthed the briefs that had been his undoing. He squeezed them in a fist, his regrets a bitter force that compelled him to try, illogical though it was, to wring from the briefs a return of his self-respect and his captain’s favor. They were clutched in his hand when he heard Jim say his name from behind him. Spock whirled around to face him, briefs fluttering to the floor. Jim had the pinched look he sometimes wore when he was unhappy but trying (and failing) not to show it. “Captain’s override, no challenge,” he said by way of explanation. “This is the great programmer of the Kobayashi Maru?” His lips twisted as if he were trying to muster up a smile. “I assumed you would not attempt to break into my quarters after you knew of my misdeeds, Captain.” Jim shrugged, averting his eyes from Spock’s and casting a hand out, indicating the mess of packing. “What is this?” “I believe it is self-evident.” “Look. Look. I mean, listen. Just. No.” Spock cocked his head, taking in Jim’s heightened pink coloring and continued fidgeting. Jim began to pace, Spock helpless but to follow him with his eyes, back and forth, hands gesticulating as he ranted. “You don’t just get to drop that on someone and then run away to pack up and… run away more. You don’t just – You! You’re always watching me and saving my life and making me laugh and looking good in fuckin’ Starfleet uniforms, least flattering clothes of all time, and you just don’t get to do this shit Spock, leave like this because of something… something so dumb, and funny, and gross and hot and I hate you, you know that? I totally hate you, Spock.” He was panting, and he looked back at Spock before grabbing the luggage laid out on Spock’s bed and overturning it, everything tumbling out in a heap. He went a step further, shoving a hand into the mess and mixing everything up. Then he stepped back, facing Spock with a challenge in his eyes, as if daring him to clean it up and put it back. “I do not understand,” Spock said after a moment’s pause. “I committed perverse acts against you. You dismissed me.” “Yeah, well! You’re going to have to forgive me for being surprised for a second there and reacting badly, but this? Packing and leaving and all this? Is a way worse reaction.” Spock dropped his gaze to the mess on the bed, his clothing and personal effects. “I do not know what else to do.” “Look at me.” Spock forced himself to look. Jim exhaled and took a step forward. “I need to know,” he said. “I need to know if this is a real thing. Whether you like me because I’m here and I look good and it’s convenient, or if you really like me. Because… because you value you me as a whole person or some sappy shit like that.” Jim stopped speaking, looking at him with wariness and hope. The expression gave Spock a measure of courage he did not possess only moments before. “You are extraordinary, Jim, in mind and body. I admire almost everything you are. How could I not? You are unlike anyone I have ever known. You have made my life less… lonely. The undergarments… I could not help myself, but my lust is a satellite symptom of the entirety of my esteem for you.” Jim’s face was transformed by that fond smile he had, the rather watery curve that meant he was trying to respect Spock’s reserved Vulcan sensibilities and not hug him. “Almost everything I am, Spock?” “You display bouts of illogic that I sometimes find exasperating.” “I’m gonna hug you, okay?” “Jim, that may not be wise. I am… I do not believe my feelings for you are platonic.” “Yeah,” was all Jim said in response, and then he was surrounded by cool human arms and the gentle squeeze of Jim’s embrace. The scent of him, familiar and clean and enthralling, overwhelmed Spock’s olfactory senses, and he squeezed back, breathing deeply of the warmth of Jim’s neck. When Spock’s erection attempted to make its triumphant return, Spock drew his hips back and put space between himself and his captain. “I apologize,” he said, but Jim was laughing and shaking his head. “You know who’s number one on that list of hot available dudes, Spock?” “I thought it was ‘nice’ and ‘hot,’ Captain.” “Nice and hot, then.” “Negative.” “Me.” Spock fully disentangled himself from Jim, stepping back even as Jim’s lower lip threatened to extend beyond the confines of its natural place on his face. “I appreciate your apparent willingness to attempt a more personal relationship with me, Jim, but you cannot alter your natural predilections simply to appease me.” “What?” “You are heterosexual, Jim. And rather ostentatious about it.” Jim exhaled and stepped back himself, running a hand through his hair and casting a calculating look at Spock. “First off, I am not ‘attempting a more personal relationship with you.’ We have a ‘more personal relationship.’ I spend more time with you than I do alone, and more time than I ever spent with Bones at the academy. You saw me swell to the size of a human blimp after I ate that Rigellian spice clam, you’ve watched me make huge cultural faux pas on first contacts, you cleaned me up and put me to bed when I drank too much after Carstairs died, you… you’ve seen me at my worst, Spock, and you still come back to my quarters after shift every day just to talk to me.” “Jim –” “Shh. Secondly, it wouldn’t just be ‘to appease you.’ What am I, Saint Jim, the martyr of the Enterprise? I’m not heterosexual, I want this. I’ve wanted this for a long time, and sometimes I thought you did too, but I knew I couldn’t exactly compete with Uhura, and some guys still get bristly when another guy… um, expresses interest, and wouldn’t being gay be illogical for Vulcans anyway, and you talk now please and save me from my own yapping—“ Spock obliged him, pressing his lips to Jim’s, hands cupping his face. It was short and soft and moist and sweet and when he pulled away, he left his hands where they were, tangling his fingers in the short bronze hair at the back of Jim’s head. “Sexual orientation is not subject to logic, Jim. It simply is. To attempt to subjugate it to philosophical principles that emerged long after the dawn of our civilization would be akin to arresting the weather for changing with the seasons. That is the height of illogic.” “Oh.” “I have never heard of you sharing yourself with another male.” Jim hummed and stretched up a bit for another small kiss, sucking on Spock’s lower lip teasingly as he pulled back to look into Spock’s face again. He was flushed, and through his skin Spock detected excitement and giddiness. “It doesn’t happen much, and I don’t advertise it, but I do know what I’m doing, Spock. You can quit worrying.” “I do not worry. And if I were mildly concerned, it would be because I do not wish to force you into a relationship that makes you uncomfortable, or one where I would be unable to meet your needs due to my gender.” Jim sighed and stepped out of Spock’s grasp, turning to lean down and set aside space to sit on the bed, where much of Spock’s belongings still languished. “We really have to have this conversation right now? I can’t just whip you into some kind of frenzy by showing you my underwear?” “You are not wearing any,” Spock said, sitting next to him. “Ah. Nothing gets by you.” Jim held out his hand, and after a moment, Spock took it and held it loosely. There was silence, and Spock basked in the low buzz of Jim’s emotions, trepidation and excitement and arousal in equal measure. “So,” Jim began. “I guess my deal is that I’ve always liked guys, like really liked them, but I haven’t found that many that I’d really consider… suitable. For sex, or a real relationship. I’ve had sex, of course, and sometimes it goes well and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the guys I’ve been with have tried to use sex as a weapon or a power play, and I’m not saying women don’t, it’s just that, well, guys can be way more successful with that if that’s what they want. And, I don’t know. I like women, too. Obviously. Most of the time it’s easier to find a woman and take her out and show her a good time and have it be easy and uncomplicated. I’ve never met one that I really had intense feelings for. Feelings like I have for you, all the time. On the bridge, during chess games, on away missions, on shore leaves, I want you so much all the time, Spock.” Spock was gripping Jim’s hand tightly by the time he stopped speaking. Jim had lain his other hand on top of Spock’s, trapping it between them, and Spock could feel all of Jim’s desire coursing through him, a throbbing counterpoint to his own low burn. “I also have strong feelings for you, Jim. I have tried to deny them, but I cannot. I cannot.” Then they were kissing, devouring each other like ravenous men presented with a feast, humid breath and agile tongues and pliant lips. Spock’s desires were consumptive; he wanted to possess and be possessed by Jim, to burrow deeply into his body and his mind and merge as two Vulcans would. He allowed himself the small hope that he could someday have such a union with Jim, but for now, he contented himself with sliding his hands underneath the waistband of Jim’s pajama pants and gripping, finally, ecstatically, the two firm buttocks that had so tormented him over the course of the mission. He let out a groan into Jim’s mouth, hauling him bodily into his lap so Jim straddled him, their swelling cocks grinding together. Jim tore himself from Spock’s voracious mouth to issue a needy wail. Spock set his lips to Jim’s neck, sucking a trail of red up the length of it. “Fuck, fuck, hold on.” Jim scrambled off him, and Spock felt bereft in the aftermath, hard and bewildered as Jim stood and stripped off his shirt and pajama pants too quickly for Spock to appreciate it, then snatched up his own stolen briefs from the floor and pulled them on, his erection an obscene column straining against the cotton. A rumble escaped Spock’s gullet at the sight, his own cock growing painful as it filled to capacity. He took himself in hand, his tight grip a balm to his excruciating arousal. “You like this?” Jim asked, one hand splayed on his chest, the other moving downward to cup his genitals through the thin material of his briefs in an lewd display. “Affirmative,” Spock answered, his voice deepened by arousal, his gaze riveted to Jim’s body. The line of hair on his muscled stomach, the dips of his hip bones, the lean, powerful thighs emerging from the black briefs. Breath ragged, Spock sank to his knees in front of Jim, setting his eager tongue to Jim’s navel and sucking him there. “Oh, God, Spock,” Jim gasped, clutching the hair at the back of Spock’s head and widening his stance to steady himself. Spock hands came around to fondle Jim’s ass again, cupping and kneading it through the cotton like a precious, cherished thing. Spock’s mouth took a leisurely route southward, pausing to nuzzle at the trail of body hair along the way. When he reached the straining erection, he flicked his eyes up to glance at Jim’s face. He was panting, open-mouthed and beginning to sweat, barely able to stop himself from rocking his hips forward to force his cock down Spock’s throat. “Do it,” he said. Spock closed his mouth on Jim’s cock through the cotton and wetted it with saliva, groaning as he applied suction. Jim bellowed, hands convulsing in Spock’s hair, leg muscles constricting with effort. Spock took one hand off Jim’s ass to free his own rampant erection and grip it at the base. “Fuck, you look good like this, Spock. Made to suck my cock, just like that,” Jim babbled, thrusting forward. Spock eased Jim’s cock out of the slit and began sucking him in earnest, relishing the thick, weeping column of flesh filling his mouth. It was a familiar, earthy flavor that his escapades in masturbation with smuggled goods had only hinted at; now he was happily engulfed in the full Jim Kirk experience. His universe narrowed to the flex and groan of their two ardent bodies exercising their lusts on each other. With some reluctance, Spock pulled away from Jim’s penis, pushed all of his possessions off his bed, and dragged Jim forward by the waistband and shoved him onto the mattress face first. Jim laughed, muffled by the pillows, arching his back to raise his cotton-clad ass in invitation. “Whatever you want, Spock,” he said, undulating his hips. Spock disrobed quickly and gracelessly, then insinuated his knees next to Jim’s, forcing his legs apart as he settled above him. “I would taste you, Jim,” he said, caressing Jim’s sinuous back with long, appreciative strokes. “Huh? Oh, I didn’t shower tonight.” Jim made the effort to get on his elbows, but Spock stopped his progress with a hot hand in the middle of his back. “No matter, Jim. I have desired exactly this.” He leaned forward to lick a hot stripe down Jim’s spine. Jim gave a shout at the contact, squirming as teeth and tongue snaked down his back. “Fuck, anything you want, anything you want,” Jim chanted, humping the bed as he tried to grind backwards into Spock’s rigid cock. Spock reached Jim’s compact, sweetly curved ass and stroked it reverently. Anticipation spiked within him, causing his cock to jump, and he squashed his face into Jim’s cotton-covered crack and took deep breaths. The briefs smelled clean and unused, but just there beneath the waft of fresh-Earth-air detergent was the deep, hot odor of Jim’s perineum, his full day’s sweat and his hidden asshole. Spock growled and tried to get closer, holding Jim’s hips still as he shoved his face into Jim’s ass and savored the scent he found there. He slipped two fingers past the elastic of the leg holes and rubbed at the outer rim of Jim’s anus, the muscle constricting against his fingertips. Jim was babbling a string of obscenities peppered with occasional utterances of Spock’s name. Spock took mercy on his lover and himself when he yanked the waistband down just to the crease of his thighs. He hauled Jim’s hips up and used his hands to spread his buttocks wide, exposing the tangle of bronze hair concealing the winking anus. “Perfect,” he declared, unbiased, and with that he set his nose to the tuft of hair at the top of Jim’s crack and the tip of his tongue to Jim’s quivering anus. He teased around the rim before delving inward for the sharper flavor there. “Oh fuck, oh God, Spock, fuck, do it just like that, oh fuck, you’re so—” Jim’s words came in choking, halting gasps, devolving into meaningless syllables and guttural moans. Spock worked his tongue into Jim’s ass with relentless fervor, sucking around the edges, tireless in his dedication. Saliva ran down Jim’s crack, into his asshole and down into the briefs. Jim was keening and wailing, one hand clawing at the pillows his face was buried in, the other jerking roughly at his own cock in pursuit of relief. “I have thought about this,” Spock murmured into Jim’s perineum, as if to Jim’s ass itself. “I have thought about this and brought myself to orgasm with your undergarments covering my face.” “Oh fuck, tell me more, Jesus fuck, Spock, more, more.” Spock lifted up and rested his head on the small of Jim’s back, stroking a hand down the downy expanse of one cheek before sliding a finger into Jim’s anus, the sphincter giving way to him without protest, then grasping around it like a smooth fist. Jim wailed as Spock worked the finger around, gently coaxing the walls of his rectum to relaxation. Spock sighed, content and aroused and reveling in the sensation of Jim’s body contracting around his sensitized finger. “I visualized many scenarios in which I would be invited to perform analingus on your person. In my preferred scenario, I imagined a disastrous away mission, a foreign contaminant, the only cure a judicious application of Vulcan saliva to the affected body part: your anus.” “Oh, fuck.” Spock leaned over and rummaged in his bedside table with his free hand for a bottle of lubricant, ill-used and steadily emptying in recent weeks as he increased the number of his masturbation sessions in an effort to slake his near-constant state of arousal. He uncapped it with his teeth and poured the liquid liberally down Jim’s crack. He pressed another finger in, the squeeze tighter and sweeter, forcing twin groans from his throat and Jim’s. “Did you know that Vulcans kiss with our hands, Jim? I am kissing your rectum right now.” Jim, thwarted by the briefs around his thighs, made a frustrated sound and thrust backward into Spock’s hand with inelegant, uncaring force. “Oh fuck, Spock, you gotta fuck me now. Fuck me, fuck me, I need your big hard cock in me now, now, please, please, please.” “I must prepare you more thoroughly.” “I’m not gonna last.” “Then I shall endeavor to be expeditious.” Spock was capable of great care even while making haste; it was a classically Vulcan trait for which he was frequently grateful. He murmured filthy fantasies and unbridled praise into Jim’s ears as he worked four fingers into his asshole, stretching and readying him for his own fervid cock. Finally, he pushed Jim’s hips down and placed the head of his cock against the loosened ring of Jim’s anus. Jim took a breath and Spock pushed forward slowly, eyes closing and mouth parting as the cool sleeve contracted around his cock. Jim hissed as Spock sank in to the hilt, his testicles resting against the bunched cotton briefs. He paused there, stroked up and down Jim’s sides. “You are far finer a reality than fantasy, Jim,” Spock said, stroking across his shoulders. “Nnngh, God, Spock. You’re amazing, fucking amazing, you know that?” “I had hoped.” “Move now.” Spock obliged him, rolling his hips forward. Jim whimpered but responded by rocking backwards, then reached a hand back to grab at one of Spock’s. “Kiss me your way,” he said, linking their fingers, “while you fuck me.” Spock shuddered and gasped, squeezing Jim’s fingers as he held Jim’s hips cradled in his own. He set a strenuous pace that threatened to dislodge his cock from the grip of Jim’s ass, but he did not falter. Despite the awkward restraint of the briefs lashed around his thighs, Jim rose and pressed his back to Spock’s chest, trapping Spock’s hand above his heart, matching Spock’s rhythm and howling every time Spock’s hot, thick cock bumped his prostate. Spock brought his free hand around Jim’s hip to join him in jerking his penis. Jim’s cries grew louder, his cursing more indistinct, and finally he let Spock jack him off alone while he put his hand around to Spock’s hip, encouraging deep, hard thrusts. “Fuck, Spock, I’m coming, fuck me just like that, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m—” He gave a final, agonized yowl and spurted all over Spock’s hand, jerking and trembling in the aftermath. Spock held him locked in his embrace, head nestled between Jim’s neck and shoulder as Jim’s entire body twitched through the final shocks of orgasm, rectum spasming around Spock’s hot erection. Jim slumped forward, sated, fingers limp and slipping from Spock’s. Spock nudged him to lean back, and he kissed Jim the human way, tongues languid and exploratory. Jim hummed his approval. Spock repositioned them so Jim was lying with his legs outstretched instead of bent underneath him. As he sunk once more into Jim’s pliant ass, the sweet globes of his buttocks pressed fully into the frame of Spock’s hips. Electricity flashed up and down Spock’s spine. “Jim,” he groaned. “Jim, you are exceptional, an exceptional man.” His urgency mounted as he watched the wet red ring of Jim’s anus stretch taut around his own thick cock. Jim’s body accommodated the penetration like he was designed for it, and Spock increased the speed of his thrusts, leaning forward to lick away Jim’s cooling perspiration. Jim’s hand came up, tangling in his hair and holding him there against his shoulder. “You gonna come in me, Spock? I want you to come in me. Wanna feel your come dripping out of me all night. Come on, fuck my ass harder, feel how tight I am for you? Come on, Spock, come in my ass, I want it.” Spock lost his rhythm as orgasm approached, jerking without any semblance of grace toward climax. With a final shout of Jim’s name, Spock emptied himself into Jim’s willing ass. He sagged on top of Jim as the final tendrils of the orgasm rippled through him, and he became aware of time passing again when Jim wriggled out from beneath him and shucked off the restrictive briefs. “Fuck, Spock, that was good.” Jim lay on his back, head turned to look at the half of Spock’s face not obscured in the pillows. Spock cracked an eye. Jim grinned at him and slung the briefs into his face, laughing when Spock grunted but didn’t make a move to remove them. “I gotta clean up a bit,” he said, pressing a kiss to Spock’s crown before levering himself up and walking to the bathroom with just a trace of stiffness in his gait. Jim came back 6.3 minutes later and wiped at the semen congealing on the sheets before settling back down. Spock shifted so he could lie on his side facing Jim, and he drew the briefs down so he could see, but stopped there and held them to his nose. Jim laughed again. “Apparently watching you perv over my underwear is a turn on. Who knew?” “Such was my plan all along: to seduce you with my unnatural fetishes,” Spock mumbled into the briefs, eyelids drifting downward. Jim’s hands came around his abdomen as he tucked his head under Spock’s chin. Spock’s arm came to rest around Jim’s shoulders, his hand tracing lazy circles on Jim’s back. “Not unnatural, Spock. You gotta worry less.” “I do not worry, Jim.” “Of course not, Spock.” End Read the sequel, A Plausible Scenario

Disclaimer: Smallville and Batman belong to DC Comics. I am just playing. After all these years he was finally here. Lex looked around the new office that had been empty just a few weeks ago, and which as of today was the LexCorp main tower. Today would be one of the greatest days in his life. No more lies, no more standing in that bastard's shadow, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Not that he had ever been all that nice over the past ten years. For a short time – a time he wanted to forget -- he'd been a lot nicer. Back then, he'd been blinded by a presence in his life, but that presence was long gone and that period of his life long over. He liked to pretend it had never happened, and on days like this that self-deception was easy. He could walk out onto the concrete terrace and sit, and look out at the skyline, and pretend a lot of things hadn't happened. It had been ten years to the day. This legacy was what he'd vowed when he'd left that small town. The town that was just a blip on the radar, barely a footnote in his biography, just as his father had said. Tonight, he sat on the terrace, sipping the perfect olive martini, staring out at his city, Metropolis. Most of it belonged to him now, and by next week everything within his view would be his. The only thing that had prevented it from happening sooner had been the hostile take over by Wayne Tech of a certain lab that even to this day Lex held in his heart fondly: Cadmus Labs. It had been the start of everything. The start of his eventual rise to the top of the empire his father had begun. That lab had been the start of Lex's ruthless foray into the business world, and the start of Lex's greatness. He sighed when he felt the sudden breeze. Lex casually unbuttoned his Armani jacket and leaned back, unruffled by the unwelcome intrusion. "Come to congratulate me?" Lex said into his glass. He didn't need to look up. He knew what the only thing was that could make it up to the seventy-fifth story of the building without entering through the front door. He knew who was hovering right behind him. "No." Lex didn't even flinch at the sound of booted feet touching down. He could imagine the huge figure behind him, all decked out in red and blue, cape flapping in the wind, muscled arms folded sternly across the barrel chest. It was his enemy, his nemesis. Lex smirked and lifted his glass in a toast. "To me," he said with a flourish of one arm, spilling some of the drink on the concrete. He spared a brief glance at the dark, wet patch the liquor had left, and then looked back out at the skyline. "The view is spectacular," Superman said softly. Lex watched as the favorite hero of Metropolis walked into his line of sight, blocking the spectacular view he had just complimented. Lex smirked again and looked down at his hands. They were not shaking; they would not shake no matter what. He set the glass down on the table beside him and folded his own arms in mock imitation of his guest. "What do you want?" he asked coldly. Superman spun with a flourish of his cape. Lex knew the alien was looking down on him, knew the blue eyes directed at him were cold only for him. It had been this way for three years. Three years of utter hell. Now here he was, the winner, and yet Superman was gloating. Lex inhaled deeply and looked up. "I just wanted to see," Superman lifted off the concrete. "How lonely it was at the top." With a gust of wind he was gone. Just like that, disappearing into the night, leaving a ghost image burned in Lex's retina. A pit of anger boiled in Lex's gut. He lifted his glass to his lips and gulped the rest of his drink and then slammed the glass down on the table beside him. "I have my billions to keep me company, alien." In a fit of anger, Lex stormed over to the edge of the balcony and flung the glass out into the night, cheerfully watching it fall. A streak of red and blue swept across the sky and the glass vanished. Seconds later it was back on the table and Lex was laughing out loud with his head thrown back. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed his assistant's number. "Get me Bruce Wayne." In point of fact, it hadn't been that long since he'd seen Bruce. Granted it was two years ago and it been at a board meeting. The end result for Lex had been a night of binging on everything from the finest alcohol to the sexiest women. Sometimes it was hard watching Bruce, knowing what he knew. Years before when he'd read about the boy Bruce had taken in as a ward, Lex wondered what Bruce had been compensating for. Lex had met Dick Grayson at some charity dinner a few years back. After a few too many drinks, he'd lashed out with crude comments, angering Bruce beyond anything Lex had ever seen before. Nobody else would have seen the raw hatred in Bruce's eyes. The boy had blushed bright red, reminding Lex of another boy he'd known long ago. Bruce had quickly disappeared, taking his ward and his anger with him. Lex smiled even now at the thought. It was exhilarating. He'd been trying to contact Bruce now for over a month and all his calls had been brushed off. He managed to get a hold of Alfred, but the old butler had coolly asked Lex never to call Master Bruce again. Lex turned away from the skyline, walked back into his apartment, and closed the glass door. When they'd constructed this building, Lex had thought of having the walls in his personal apartments lined with lead, but had decided it was just a waste of time and resources. He wanted Superman to see, and in the end he knew nothing would have stopped the alien anyway, so why waste perfectly good material. This way, Lex could prove beyond a doubt that he had nothing to hide from anybody. His home office had become his sanctuary. He entered the room and closed the door behind him, setting his glass on a coaster on the desk. He sat down in the plush office chair and opened the top left drawer and pulled out the newspaper clipping. Setting it down in front of him he stared down at the picture. It was a shot of Superman standing beside Lois Lane, the reporter who had written the by-line on Superman's arrival in Metropolis. Every word was gushing and it was obvious that Lane had become enthralled by the alien. But that wasn't why Lex had saved the clipping. He read 'I plan on doing in Metropolis what Batman is doing in Gotham.' The thought of a guy in a superhero costume flying around beating up criminals was so beyond absurd that Lex had gone to France for almost a year after this first article had broken. He needed to get away from the hype. Every time a reporter had shoved a mike in his face, the first question out their mouth had been to ask him what Lex thought of the new favorite son of Metropolis. Biting his lip had become synonymous with being asked anything about the alien. Lex had begun to hate him so that any time his name was mentioned in Lex's presence; nothing close at hand seemed to survive his angry outbursts. After three years, he truly begun to despised the flying do-gooder. Even though Lex had not once committed a crime that anybody could prove, Superman still harassed him constantly. He placed the clipping back in his desk and made his way to his bedroom. After stripping down he climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over his bare chest. His assistant had not called back about Wayne. That didn't matter. Lex would get Bruce eventually. Or he could easily arrange something that would get Bruce's attention. That wouldn't be too hard. Drifting off to sleep, Lex's last thought was about that bridge back in a small town and chance meetings that led to life-altering mistakes. Six weeks and one hostile take-over later, Bruce had finally agreed to see Lex. Bruce arranged for the meeting to take place in Lex's own penthouse suite. It was quite an unexpected development for Lex, but he more than welcomed the change from Bruce's previous reactions to Lex's attempts at rekindling their friendship. Bruce's assistant had set everything up with Lex's assistant. They hadn't actually talked to each other. Lex sat on his balcony, a table for two set up complete with a chilled bottle of two-thousand-dollar champagne, and a meal read to be served. The gust of a breeze on Lex's back was not surprising. It had, after all, been six weeks since Superman's last visit. Since then the Man of Steel had made only an occasional flyby. Lex was sure that tonight Superman was here to inform him that he had put an end to Lex's most recent shady deal, thanks to Lois Lane's latest expose on LexCorp. Neither Superman nor Lois could directly link Lex to any of it. All they had been able to make were accusations that Lex had earlier denied in the press. Now was not the time for a visit from his ever-watchful pain in the ass. "Hello, alien. Slow night?" Lex lifted the bottle of water to his lips, mouthing it suggestively as he looking up at the towering figure. Triumph coursed through Lex's chest when he saw Superman's reaction to the gesture. "Luthor," Superman said, lifting one hand to his mouth and coughing into it. Lex swept his gaze from Superman's red boots up to his impressive chest. Suddenly his mind flashed to an image of Superman taking him right there on the balcony, without asking. The image sent a jolt straight to Lex's cock. Lex mouthed the lip of his bottle of Tynant again. It was easy to imagine what the Man of Steel hid underneath all that spandex. His costume didn't leave much to the imagination. To Lex's amusement, Superman turned away, his cape wrapping around his torso. "Date?" Superman said. Lex swore the usually steady voice had faltered. "Not that it's any of your business but yes, I do have an intimate engagement. So if you don't mind," Lex made a dismissive hand gesture, but Superman did not make any motion to leave. "That means get lost, in case you're alien brain couldn't figure that out." "I know what you're trying to do." Superman stepped closer, cape snapping in the breeze. Lex clenched his jaw and looked down at his watch. Superman swept the area with an intense gaze. "Who's the unlucky lady?" Superman asked. He crossed his arms and turned his body away from Lex, so that his cape covered his body yet again. Lex smirked and leaned back in his chair. He turned when Stan, the server he'd employed for the evening, cleared his throat. "Sir," Stan ignored Superman. "Your guest is here." Lex smiled and stood. "That is your cue to leave. Go rescue Lois or some cat from a tree." Lex turned his back on the alien and faced the glass doors, heart speeding up. He'd waited so long for this and he wasn't about to let the alien ruin it. Lex walked to the table and opened the lead box that sat on it. He lifted the kryptonite ring from its velvet cushion. As soon as he placed it on his finger, Superman staggered backward. Lex spun around and walked toward him. "Go away," he growled menacingly. He stepped closer and watched the horrified look on Superman's face as the gem in the ring glowed a brilliant green. Lex laughed. "Maybe next time you should make sure that bitch can keep a secret." Superman scrambled away from Lex and fell right over the edge of the high-rise. Lex walked over to watch as the strongest being on the planet plummeted like a stone. Much to Lex's disappointment, when Superman was out of the ring's sphere of influence, he spun in mid-air and flew away until he became a dot on the horizon. Lex smiled and turned when he heard the foot falls behind him. "Bruce," he said with warmth, tucking the hand with the ring into his pants pocket. As always, Bruce was dressed in a black suit, probably worth more than what most people made in one month. Lex admired the lines of the perfectly tailored pants and then his eyes traveled up to Bruce's chest. "Lex. How have you been? Is everything all right? I thought I heard you talking to somebody." "Nobody of any importance," Lex said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It was just a pest problem. Now let's sit and catch up on old times. My chef has prepared a meal you'll adore." Bruce smiled and sat down in the seat across from Lex. They waited as the server popped the champagne bottle and poured them both a generous glass. The table was small and very intimate and Lex reached out for his own glass, brushing his knee against Bruce's leg. "It's been a long time," Bruce said, taking his glass in his hand. "Then a toast is in order," he said warmly. Lex smiled and lifted his glass in the air. "That is a very interesting ring," Bruce said thoughtfully. Lex held out his hand, displaying his newest piece of jewelry. Bruce took his hand to examine the ring closely. The sudden touch sent shivers that settled in Lex's chest. Bruce looked up from the ring, his touch lingering longer than was necessary. Lex's mouth went dry at the heated look Bruce gave him. "I just had it made," Lex said. Regrettably, Bruce pulled away from the touch much too soon. Stan returned with the first course of the meal. After he set their plates down in front of them, he silently retreated back into the apartment. Bruce and Lex ate quietly. Lex could relax now. He'd gotten what he'd wanted, and he knew his evening would not be interrupted by an uninvited guest. As the dessert was being served, Bruce cleared his throat. "So, I heard about this Superman." Lex sat back and frowned, sipping his drink. "Who hasn't?" "I heard he's invulnerable," Bruce said, his voice clearly laced with doubt. He leaned forward, a mischievous grin on his face. "No, he's not," Lex said with a smirk. "Well, most of the time he is. It seems he has a few weaknesses." Bruce sat back thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. Lex longed to feel the stubble, rub his face against it, and run his fingers through the dark hair on Bruce's head. He ached to touch Bruce even more, now that Bruce was so close. "How did you find out about that? I don't remember reading anything in any papers," Bruce said with a frown. Lex grinned wickedly. "Wouldn't you like to know?" "I hear you have a vigilante in Gotham." Lex watched Bruce very carefully. "The Batman." Bruce exhaled, throwing his napkin on the table. "Yes, well. No town is perfect. I don't really pay attention to that news. Those things should be left to the police, don't you think?" "Oh yes." Lex smiled and shifted, edging his seat closer to Bruce's chair. He grinned when Bruce leaned in closer. Lex tilted his head and shivered as Bruce's lips brushed up against Lex's throat. The combination of the champagne and the heat from Bruce's close proximity made Lex dizzy. He pressed his leg against Bruce's warm thigh, thrilled when Bruce didn't move away. "What took you so long to come see me?" Lex closed his eyes and leaned into Bruce's neck, lips brushing bare skin. "I've been busy." "With Dick?" Bruce jerked, and Lex suppressed the urge to smirk. Apparently his nerves and the amount of alcohol he'd consumed were taking their toll. Lex was losing his composure and he didn't care. "Grayson," Lex interjected before Bruce could respond. "Dick has moved out. He's going to college now." Lex nodded, his lips brushing Bruce's skin. Lex inhaled deeply, enjoying the heady scent of Bruce's cologne and the feel of the fabric of his shirt against Lex's cheek. "Bruce," Lex turned to press his mouth against Bruce's neck. The scent brought back a flood of memories Lex had thought long forgotten. His cock jerked as he mouthed the hard throat and reached out for Bruce's tie. "Lex, this isn't why I'm here." Bruce stood and broke the moment. Lex wanted to rage but he took a deep breath, fighting his impulse to make demands. Instead he lay back, sprawling casually. "Think of it as a bonus." Lex closed his eyes and trailed a hand down his chest to his hip. His body was still as slim as it had been ten years ago and it had been so long since he'd been with anybody. "I want you to stop the take-over." Bruce's voice sounded farther away and when Lex looked up, he saw that Bruce had moved to the balcony railing. Lex stood and walked to stand beside Bruce, tilting his hip to lean into Bruce. "What do you mean?" Lex said softly as he reached out to brush his palm across the close-cropped hair on the nape of Bruce's neck. Bruce turned and caught Lex's hand in an iron grip. "Don't fuck with me, Lex." The deep voice and the tight grip on his wrist sent shudders through Lex's body. "Bruce," Lex drawled. "All you have to do is give me this one thing and I'll do anything you want." Lex grinned and caressed Bruce's chest with his free hand. He fingered the silk tie suggestively. "I can't. That is not possible," Bruce replied firmly. Lex thrust suggestively against Bruce, all pretence gone. "Come on. It's not like we haven't been here before," Lex whispered seductively. "Lex. Don't. Things are different now." Lex chuckled and shifted his body, watching as Bruce bit his lip. "Bruce." Lex looked down at the hand still holding his wrist. "You can tie me up if you like." He looked back up into the smoldering dark eyes. "If that's what gets you up these days..." The eyes shifted and Lex saw the change happen. Saw that he had pushed just far enough. Lex did not flinch as Bruce dragged him into the penthouse and slammed the glass door behind them. Bruce roughly pulled Lex along. To Lex's delight, he was turned on and he couldn't stop himself. "No seduction. I'm just going to take you into the bedroom, and fuck you," Bruce said as he pulled Lex to the bedroom. Lex shivered and reached for Bruce's tie. "I wouldn't have it any other way." The room plunged into darkness. Lex smiled. Some things never changed. "Get on the bed," Bruce ordered. Lex's sight adjusted to the darkness and he could see Bruce's dark, hulking figure towering over him. Lex shivered at the deep, commanding voice. His cock was already hard and he reached down to squeeze himself. A strong hand grabbed at his arm and pulled him to the bed. "I don't have time for small talk. Just get undressed now." "Yes of course." Lex's hands shook as he stripped. For just a moment, he felt like that young boy who had first gone to the manor and had learned lessons he'd never forget. Bruce's hands were calloused, rough and Lex was already so hard before his pants fell to the floor. He barely had his tie undone before Bruce pushed Lex onto the bed and stood over him, eyes steely as he removed his own tie. He yanked it off and instead of tossing it aside, he reached out and grasped Lex's right wrist and pushed it above Lex's head close to the headboard, stretching Lex's arm painfully. He wrapped the tie around the thick oak pillar then around Lex's wrist. Lex watched as Bruce expertly knotted the silk fabric. When Bruce stood back up to remove his shirt, Lex pulled at this arm to find that he could barely move it. "Yes, Bruce," Lex moaned. His pants were yanked off and tossed aside without a second thought. Bruce was naked moments later, his own clothing now lying in a heap on the floor. He stood above Lex, idly caressing his own chest. Even in the dim light, Lex could see his cock jutting out. He eyed it hungrily, reaching out, but unable to get any closer because of the wrist restraint. "I assume you have supplies," Bruce said in that deep, resonating voice he always used when they were in the dark. Lex turned to look over at the bedside table. He was about to speak up but Bruce was already leaning over and reaching out to slide the top drawer open. He pulled out a few condoms and the bottle of lubricant Lex always kept in supply. In the darkness, Lex could see that Bruce had tilted his head. He shivered as a hand caressed his bare thigh and he parted his legs, eager to be touched. Bruce crawled between Lex's spread legs, one hand trailing across Lex's thigh until a finger brushed over Lex's already hard, straining cock which jumped in response to the gentle caress, and Lex threw his head back, moaning out loud. He closed his eyes. His hips jerked involuntarily at the touch of a tongue on the tip of his cock. In the back of his mind, he worried that he would hurt Bruce, but that thought quickly vanished when his whole length was swallowed down in one gulp. It had been so long since anybody had touched Lex like this. He'd been so busy there hadn't been time. Now he reached down with his free hand and tried to grip Bruce's short hair. It was difficult but not impossible. Then Bruce did something with his tongue that made Lex's whole body shudder. He cried out involuntarily as Bruce sucked him to orgasm. He tried to push Bruce away when he continued to suck at Lex's now-limp cock, but he was too weak. Bruce finally released him, kissing his way up Lex's chest until his lips hovered just over Lex's open mouth. Bruce's hot breath puffed across Lex's cheek. They turned their heads simultaneously as though they could read each other's minds and wet lips met dry lips in a hungry, passionate kiss. Bruce pushed his weight down on Lex, rubbing his long, hard, dripping cock against Lex's hip. "I get the feeling it's been a while for you," Lex managed between kisses. The nod in response was barely noticeable. Lex roughly caressed Bruce's chest and shoulder, sliding his hand behind Bruce's neck to pull him into a vicious kiss. Lex plunged his tongue into Bruce's mouth, but it wasn't long before Bruce had control of the kiss. Bruce cupped Lex's ass in one hand and lifted him from the bed, a dry finger sliding into Lex's crack. "It's going to hurt," Bruce said as he slid his finger in deeper. Lex thrust forward. The friction of their bodies rubbing together felt so good. "Stop teasing," Lex growled. He thrust his ass back trying to force Bruce's finger in deeper, but Bruce slipped it out. He was pulling away. Lex almost cried out in protest until he realized what Bruce was doing. Bruce knelt between Lex's legs, and prepped, sliding on a condom and stroking his own stiff cock with a generous amount of lube. He grabbed Lex's thighs and lifted him effortlessly. He swung Lex's legs over his shoulders and spread him wide, lining his cock up. Lex closed his eyes and relaxed. When Bruce pushed forward it wasn't gentle. He thrust in hard. Lex gritted his teeth against the penetration and gripped the bed sheets tightly. "Relax," Bruce coaxed; one muscled arm held Lex's left leg over Bruce's shoulder as he reached down and cupped Lex's ass, lifting Lex higher. Lex's mouth fell open. Bruce thrust in until he was balls deep and his coarse pubic hairs scratched Lex's skin. Contorted in this position, Lex was sure that either he or Bruce would break something, but Bruce held him steady, pulling out and pushing back in. The burn was a relief Lex hadn't felt in a long time. He reveled in it, refusing to shout out even when it hurt. Over and over Bruce slammed into Lex, fucking him in earnest. Lex opened his eyes and stared up at the dark figure looming above him. He pinched Bruce's nipple and shuddered at the response. Bruce slammed in deeper and leaned over him, mouth capturing Lex's lips in a hard kiss. "I could fuck you all night," Bruce muttered. To prove his point, he sped up his thrust, hips pistoning as he slammed into Lex, driving Lex's shoulders into the bed. Bruce kissed Lex once more and then straightened out to get a better angle. With a grunt, he slammed into Lex once more and came, pulsing deep inside him. He gripped Lex's half-hard cock in his hand and viciously stroked Lex, urging another violent orgasm out of him. After it was over, they collapsed in a hot, sweaty heap. Lex smirked at the sigh of relief that issued from Bruce. The cool air against his skin felt wonderful after the heat of the bedroom. Rather than bother to tie the sash, Lex allowed his robe to hang open. He'd slipped on a pair of fresh boxers, too hot to bother with more clothing. He leaned against the balcony railing and lifted the glass of brandy to his lips, sipping it slowly. Tonight had been a triumph. It was time to celebrate. Bruce was powerful in more ways than one and this was a perfect union. Lex would see to that. The sudden feeling of being watched overwhelmed him and he turned his head to see a figure floating on the distant horizon. It could be only one thing. Lex grinned and tipped his glass to the figure. He knew the alien could see him. "Did you enjoy the show, alien?" he whispered as he drained the last of his drink. He also knew that he'd been heard very loud and clear, because within seconds of his uttering the last word, his view was blocked by a barrel chest with arms folded across it. Lex had left his ring inside. He didn't bother to look up into the blue eyes. "You're up to something, Luthor," Superman grumbled, though Lex noted there wasn't much bite to his tone. He turned his back on the alien. "According to you, I'm always up to something," Lex taunted. He spun around to face Superman who had taken the opportunity to touch down and now stood just a few feet away from Lex, a look of irritation stamped on his face. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides and he looked on the verge of throwing a tantrum. Lex smirked when Superman's eyes trailed down and stopped at Lex's groin. Lex purposely tilted his hips in such a way that his robe would fall open to completely expose his bare chest. He hadn't showered yet and even out here in the fresh air he could still smell the scent of sex on his own body. "That's because you always," Superman started to say, his voice faltering as his eyes wandered up to gaze at Lex's chest. "Are, are," he added vehemently. With a violent shake of his head, Superman focused on Lex's face, his eyes blazing with something Lex could swear was more than just anger. He lifted his glass to his lips, but realized too late he'd already drained it. He hadn't intended to take his eyes off of the hulking figure. Seconds later his breath was in his throat when he found himself pinned to the wall of his balcony. The glass had slipped from his hand and shattered on the concrete floor. Lex stared past Superman's chest at the shards, too startled at his sudden position. Seconds later, Lex tried to recover his composure, glaring up into Superman's face. He was much too close for comfort and Lex's feet were off the ground held firmly by his upper arms. "Put me down," Lex glared defiantly up at sky blue eyes. Superman's jaw muscles unclenched and his glare faded, but he didn't release Lex. He leaned his face in closer. Lex pulled back, grunting when the back of his head connected with the wall. "I'll..." Superman started to say. "You'll what!" Lex shouted, hoping Bruce would hear. Lex wondering if this was it. Bruce was still in his bed fast asleep; unaware that Lex had left him for a nightcap. Lex's security would never reach him in time. The sudden silence that followed was punctuated by the whistle of the wind and a distant blare of a siren. Without any warning, Superman lunged at him, capturing Lex's lips in a brutal kiss. He pulled Lex's whole body in close, crushing him against his chest, arms wrapped tightly to hold Lex in place. His tongue plunged into Lex's mouth, forcing it open against Lex's will. The kiss was so brutal that it bent Lex's body at an odd angle. Lex gave in, kissing Superman back with just as much passion. He managed, despite all the strength holding him in, to pry one trapped arm from Superman's embrace. Lex reached up and grabbed a handful of black hair, pulling on it with all the force he could muster. The suit didn't hide a thing. The hard body pressed against Lex revealed everything including an erection Lex could feel pulsing against his thigh. Seconds later, Lex was in a heap on the floor, panting hard, Superman floating just a few feet from his balcony. Superman's eyes were wide with shock. A shock ran through him. That kiss, Lex knew that kiss. He'd known that kiss once before, but it couldn't be. Lex dismissed the thought as ridiculous, wishful thinking. He jumped up and rushed to the balcony, but Superman had disappeared. Behind him, the door slid open and Lex heard footfalls. Bruce walked out, groggily rubbing his face. "I thought I heard noises," he said as he stopped beside Lex. Lex knew it was no use searching the sky: Superman was long gone. He turned around and leaned heavily on the concrete wall, resisting the sudden urge to lunge over the edge just to get Superman's attention. "It was nothing," he said, reaching up to touch his lips, which were still tingling from the force of the kiss. The lobby of LexCorp had been teeming with people all morning. They'd set up a small stage at one end and folding chairs in front of it for the press. Every seat was taken and then some. Lex was not surprised at the turnout, considering the speculations that had been floating around. He straightened his lavender tie; he always dressed for success, but today he'd taken special care and pride in how he looked. He needed to, because today he was going make an announcement that would stun the world. A hand fell on Lex's shoulder and he turned to face his bodyguard. Mercy was also dressed for the occasion in a perfect two-piece suit. Lex resisted the urge to look down at her legs. It wouldn't do to be photographed ogling the help. He put on his public smile. "What is it, Mercy?" he asked. She motioned across the room and Lex turned to see what she was trying to draw his attention to. He pushed past her when he saw who he'd been waiting for. As he approached the two reporters, he marvelled yet again at the transformation Clark Kent had undergone since his days as a teenage in Smallville. Lex hadn't been this close to him in years. He'd seen Clark from a distance a few times, but Clark had never actually come to one of Lex's press conference. Perry had always sent Clark's partner, Chloe Sullivan. Gone was the shy, dark-haired farm boy; in his place stood a man. The thick-rimmed glasses did nothing to detract from Clark's gorgeous looks. He was dressed in a well-fitted gray suit with a red tie. At least Clark had finally done away with the flannel shirts and jeans. Lex guessed that in Clark's spare time he probably did still wear those flannel shirts. Chloe was dressed in her usual skirt suit. The blouse she wore matched the red of Clark's tie. Lex wondered absently if that had been an accident or on purpose. "Clark Kent and Chloe Sullivan," Lex called out as he approached them, holding out his hand in welcome. Clark took the offered hand automatically, shook it firmly, and then released his grip, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. "What's the big deal?" Chloe barked without a greeting. Lex grinned and offered his hand to her but she only glanced down at it, barely suppressing a sneer. Lex scrutinized her carefully, and lowered his hand. "You'll see soon enough," he said as he turned his gaze on Clark, who looked away. Lex could swear he saw a blush in his cheeks. Some things never changed. "I need to get some air," Clark said to his partner. He barely glanced at Lex before turning around and leaving. "That was short," Lex turned to Chloe, who was scowling as she watched Clark leave. "And strange since you're all he talks about," Chloe muttered under her breath; nevertheless, Lex heard every word. Before he could ask about it, Mercy gave the signal that it was time to start. "Excuse me, Miss Sullivan," Lex nodded and made his way back to the stage, stepping up to the podium. Mercy stood nearby, scanning the audience carefully. The room started to quiet down as soon as Lex tapped on the microphone. Everybody turned their attention to him. "Thank you," he started as he pulled out the prepared speech his publicist had given him earlier in the day. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I've called this press conference to announce my intentions of throwing my hat in the political ring." Lex paused as multiple voices called his name. Lex held up a hand to silence the crowd. "All questions will be answered at the end of this speech." He waited for the room to calm down, but it never happened. Suddenly, there was a blue blur and Lex heard what sounded like gun fire. Huge arms wrapped around Lex and before he could say anything more, his face was being pressed up against a familiar crest. There was shouting and screams. Lex heard Mercy call his name. He couldn't move and when he looked up, he was too stunned to speak. Superman stood over him, his arms around Lex and his body between Lex and the reporters. Their eyes locked. "Mr. Luthor," Superman's deep booming voice vibrated through Lex's body. His body was pressed tight against Superman. Lex swallowed hard, his throat going dry. "What happened?" Lex blinked with confusion trying to look around the hulking form in his way. Superman released Lex but kept a grip on Lex's arms, holding him firmly in place as Lex attempted to jockey for a better view of what had unfolded. "Somebody tried to shoot you," Superman said. He stared down at Lex and took a step closer, pressing his chest up against Lex's body. Lex raised his hands and pushed but to no avail. "Let me see," Lex protested. He looked up into determined blue eyes. At first Lex thought Superman wasn't going to move, but then he stepped aside. Lex walked past him reaching out to grip at Superman's bicep. Muscles quivered under Lex's touch, sending chills throughout his body. The room was in turmoil. Mercy stood over the unconscious body of a man, her arms held in a fighting stance. Every inch of her body was tensed, her high-heeled shoe pressed firmly into the man's neck. Police held back crowding spectators. As soon as she saw that Lex was safe, Mercy backed away from the man. The police move in and took him away as quickly as possible, and then herded the crowd from the room. Lex was amused that the whole time Superman did not budge an inch. He stood between Lex and the rest of the room with arms crossed. Flashes from cameras exploded as a few reporters managed to get close enough for a shot. Superman moved to block the cameras. "Thank you," Lex whispered, biting his tongue on the word alien. He stepped around Superman and placed a hand on his broad shoulder. "You can stand down now, big guy," Lex added, leaning in close to whisper into Superman's ear. Another flash went off as a report caught them. A police office grabbed the photographer and dragged him from the room even as he tried to get in one last shot. "Mr. Luthor, Superman," Chloe had somehow managed to elude officers who rushed at them, arms waving. "Can I get an exclusive? What was it like being saved by the alien you detest so much?" she called out. An officer grabbed at her but she managed to slip past and made it to the edge of the stage. Mercy was on her in a heartbeat, and gripped an arm as Chloe struggled and tried to break free. Lex watched as his bodyguard dragged Chloe from the room. He grinned up at Superman who seemed to be watching him expectantly. Lex just shrugged in response. They stood in the room alone. The sudden silence was startling after all the commotion. Lex reached out to touch him, but when he blinked, there was nobody there. It should have felt right. The party was a complete success. Everybody who was anybody had shown up to celebrate Lex Luthor's surprise announcement. Lex stood on the balcony sipping a martini. He'd come out here for the peace and quiet. Bruce had left hours before, only ducking in long enough to make an appearance. Lex had long since discarded his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white dress shirt. A few more hours and he could call it a night, and send all his guests home. He had been in the mood for a celebration, but something had changed and he wasn't quite sure what. Lex leaned against the concrete railing of his penthouse suite. The faint strains of something by Mozart drifted from inside. He turned and leaned casually with his back to the world. He was already a bit tipsy and when he lifted his glass to the sky to make a private toast, a cool breeze brushed past. Lex tilted his head and closed his eyes. He opened his eyes when he felt a ghost of a touch on his lips. "Lex," a low voice behind him said. Lex closed his eyes again and leaned back further. He could feel the hot breath on the back of his neck, and a tentative touch on his shoulder that he might just be imagining. He could hear the snap of fabric. Slowly, Lex turned to face his uninvited guest. He knew already what he'd see. Sure enough, when he opened his eyes, Superman hovered a few feet away, his strong arms folded in front of his chest. His uniform was so soiled you could barely tell what color it was. His hair was a matted tangled mess, caked in mud. A few stains looked like dried blood. "You look like you've had a hard night," Lex drawled. Superman frowned and took in Lex's direction. "You look like you've been celebrating," he said in a deep, booming voice. Lex swore he detected a hint of disapproval. He ignored it and tipped his now-empty glass. "You should get cleaned up. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to show up at a party all dirty?" The sentence was barely finished before Superman zoomed off and vanished from sight. Lex shrugged his shoulders and flopped down in a one of the deck chairs to wait. He drifted off into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the lights in the apartment had been lowered and the guests were all gone. Lex jumped when he saw that there was somebody sitting not far from him. All those encounters in back in Smallville had still left him a bit jumpy. Lex couldn't see who it was until the visitor leaned forward. Lex felt his heart rate increase. "Do you make it a habit of watching people sleep?" Lex asked calmly. He lay back casually, lifting a hand to cover a yawn. Superman had returned clean. His uniform was spotless. Nobody would have known he'd just recently been covered in muck. His eyes sparkled in the twilight. "There was an attempt on your life," Superman said. His voice was soft, almost as if they were lovers sharing an intimate moment. The tone made Lex remember the kiss and touched his lips. "That was a while ago." Lex threw his arms out in an open gesture. "I'm perfectly fine now." He narrowed his eyes. "You look fine to me," Superman said after giving Lex a once-over. "You didn't do that x-ray thing on me did you?" Lex said. "I did not," Superman squared his shoulders and leaned back, as though to settle in for the night. Lex shook his head at the audacity. "Just because you saved my life a few times..." "Thirty-two times," Superman interrupted. "Just because you've saved my life thirty-two times does not mean you're invited for tea," Lex stood and dusted himself off. "I already thanked you for your timely rescue at the press conference." He walked to the glass doors and stopped when he heard the chuckles coming from Superman. Lex didn't bother to turn around as he opened the doors and walked into his penthouse. Lex was surprised when he heard the door open a few minutes later. He'd already prepared for bed. His was about to slip into his pajama top when he heard the noise. Lex went out to investigate to find that Superman had entered his apartment. He stood near the glass doors to the balcony, arms by his side. "Why aren't you wearing that ring?" he asked in a low voice. "It clashes with my pajamas," Lex quipped. He eyed Superman warily then turned and walked back to his bedroom without another word. He wasn't surprised when he heard the door to his room swing open. Lex did not turn around to see who was there. If he had hair on the back of his neck, it would have been standing on end. He could feel Superman's gaze burn hot like a brand. Lex lowered his head and took a deep breath. "Maybe you've changed your mind," Superman whispered, barely loud enough for Lex to hear. Lex shook his head slowly. "No, I haven't." When he turned around the other man was gone. Sometimes Lex wished he could vanish just as easily. The rest of the week was uneventful. Lex worked until late in the evening every night, and each evening he would go out onto his balcony to sip a drink. Inevitably Superman would show up, floating a few feet away, his piercing eyes fixed on Lex's every move. Lex would stare back intently, wishing the man away. Occasionally, he would whisper some nasty remark and Superman would vanish. Lex was never sure if it was his words or if Superman had to rush off to rescue yet another damsel in distress. Lex found that as the days passed, he was less inclined to make a barb, and was becoming intrigued by his uninvited guest. This particular night Lex had suffered a headache all day. A deal he'd worked on for weeks had fallen through, yanked out from under him by none other than Bruce Wayne. Lex had been furious with Bruce, but the other business mogul had refused all his calls and been completely unreachable all week. Lex hadn't been able to get out of tonight's charity dinner, so here he was, on top of the second highest building in the city, staring blankly at the darkening sky. The party had gotten boring after a half hour. Lex had come out to watch the sun set. Deep colors danced in the sky and the trail of an airplane vanished into the horizon. Lex tilted his glass to finish his drink when the flash of blue appeared in his peripheral vision. Somebody from behind pushed him forward, Lex lost his balance, and fell over the railing. Lex did not scream. His first thought was that it would probably hurt when he hit the ground. His second thought was to wonder where Clark was. He dropped his glass and held out his arms. Closing his eyes, Lex recalled another time when he'd imagined he could fly. Something hit him in the chest with a force that almost knocked the wind from him. Lex opened his eyes wide to find he was no longer falling. He was in Superman's arms, caught just in time. They were sailing up straight into the sky, so high that the glow from the city lights was disappearing below them. Lex's heart pounded in his chest as the cold air sobered him. He wrapped his arms around Superman's neck and clung tightly. For the very first time since Superman had made his presence known, Lex was glad that Metropolis had its own hero. "Stay close, Lex," Superman shouted as they swooped through the sky. Lex bit back the urge to point out that he really had no choice. The feeling of nothing beneath them was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Lex had never felt so alive or aroused. His heart pounded and his body thrummed. He tightened his grip on the thick neck and pressed his face close to the broad chest. When they touched down, Lex did not loosen his hold. "Excuse me, Mr. Luthor," Superman said softly. Lex looked up into strong eyes and swallowed. "I believe this is your stop," Superman said. Lex nodded and released his hold just as Superman set him down gently. He kept one hand on Superman to prevent him from flying off suddenly. It wasn't necessary since Superman still had one arm tightly wound around Lex's body. Pressed up against each other so closely, Lex was sure Superman could feel Lex's erection. Lex watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, mesmerized by the motion. "Thanks?" Lex managed to say, though his throat had tightened. He was lifted off the ground as Superman pulled Lex in closer and thrust against him, claiming Lex's mouth with a passionate kiss. Lex parted his lips and plunged his tongue in deep, wrapping his legs around Superman's body. They stayed like that, tongues dancing and bodies grinding together. Lex's cock pulsed and he desperately wanted to get his clothes off. Suddenly he was too hot. The next moment Superman was pushing him away, panting hard. His lips red and his eyes dilated with passion. Lex felt a heady rush at the way Superman looked. He desperately reached out for the man who was holding him at arm's length. "I have to catch whoever pushed you," Superman said. His voice was a plea for understanding. Lex was about to demand that he stay with him, but in the blink of an eye, Superman was gone. Lex fell to the concrete floor of his penthouse balcony, screaming out a curse. Lex fell to the concrete floor of the balcony and screamed a curse before jumping to his feet and rushing to the edge: there was no sign of Superman. "They're probably long gone!" he shouted into the night. By the time Lex was ready for bed there was a soft knock on his balcony door. He was much too aggravated and tired to entertain anybody this late at night, but he opened the door anyway and admitted the intruder. Superman stepped across the threshold, looking as fresh and alert as always. Lex immediately resented him for it and turned around, heading to his bedroom. "Don't you want to know if I caught him?" Superman called out. Lex waved a hand without looking back. "I'm sure you did your heroic duty. Some of us are human and need sleep." Lex stopped in his tracks when he heard laughter coming from behind him. His shoulders tensed and he snarled, turning his head enough so that he could see out of the corner of his eye. Superman stood just behind him, relaxed and calm, his arms folded loosely across his chest. "You can be so grumpy sometimes, Lex," he said jovially. Lex spun around stunned at the casualness that Superman was displaying, not to mention the gall that he would act as though they were close friends. Lex narrowed his eyes. "If you think that just because our last few encounters ended..." In the blink of an eye, Lex was in Superman's arms, their lips crushed together. At first Lex struggled against the other man's grip, but Superman grabbed hold of Lex's wrists without breaking the kiss. With lips parted and eyes wild, Superman held Lex in his grasp. "I was hoping," Superman finally said. For just a split second Lex thought to deny that hope and lust, but his emotions won out. He dived forward and plunged his tongue past Superman's parted red lips. Lex hated living in denial. He always had. They stood like that in each other's arms, fighting for dominance of the kiss. Lex pressed against Superman, unable and unwilling to hide his erection. When they finally broke apart again, Lex pushed against the hard chest, but it was no use. Superman had effortlessly lifted Lex and was walking backwards toward the bedroom. "This won't work," Lex insisted as Superman dropped him on his bed. Lex fell back and tried to escape to the other side, but Superman was on him, pushing Lex into the mattress. He grabbed hold of Lex's arms and pinned them above his head. Lex lifted his body as far as he could and crushed his lips against Superman's open mouth. At the same time, he thrust up, grinding his erection against Superman's hard thigh. A moan rumbled through Superman, sending shivers of pleasure straight to Lex's groin. "What isn't going to work?" Superman said when he finally broke the kiss. He sat up quickly straddling Lex's hips. A thin beam of light shot from his eyes to the lamp at Lex's bedside. The light went out with a sharp pop. Lex jumped as the room was plunged into darkness. He instinctively reached out for the other man only to find empty air. Just as Lex was about to shout his frustration, the mattress dipped. His pajama bottoms and briefs were yanked off, just like the last time, when it had been dark and Lex had been stripped. "I wasn't going anywhere," Superman said in a deep throaty voice. Lex lunged at the sound of the voice, knocking Superman flat on his back. They were kissing again and Lex realized that Superman was no longer wearing his uniform. The feel of naked flesh beneath his fingers as Lex explored the hard body was exhilarating. Lex wasted no time. He straddled Superman's thighs and kissed down the bare chest. "Good," Lex muttered as he licked a peaked nipple and bit into it as hard as he could. Superman moaned with pleasure and arched his back. "That feel good?" It was a rhetorical question, but the response Lex received was more than enough as he bit the left nipple. He pinched the right one between his thumb and finger. Superman thrust up and Lex could feel the hard length of his cock just under his ass. He pushed down against it adding more friction. It had the desired effect. "Oh, fu-, harder," Superman cried out. Lex chuckled and complied with the request. Licking and biting and sucking his way down Superman's writhing body. His fingers ached but he didn't care. It was worth it to feel the body beneath him writhe in ecstasy, and to hear the moans of pleasure. Lex licked his way down to the bellybutton and marvelled at the softness of the skin beneath his tongue as he swirled his tongue around Superman's navel. He felt the gentle brush of fingers on his head. Lex shivered and licked down until his chin bumped against the already wet head of the cock. Without hesitation he took the thick head in his mouth and sucked on it. Superman shouted and his body jerked, pushing the cock deeper into Lex's mouth. Lex choked and pulled back, and then fell forward to lick Superman's ear. "You're exactly like humans," he said, a hint of amused malice seeping through the words. Superman's response was to flip them and pin Lex to the bed. He humped up against Lex, pushing his thick cock between Lex's legs. Their lips met in a savage kiss and, Superman plunged his tongue deep into Lex's mouth. Lex desperately tried to regain control but he was pinned and Superman was hooking his arm under Lex's right leg. He pulled it up and tilted Lex's body enough so that Lex could feel the shaft of Superman's cock rub up against his hole. They broke apart and readjusted their bodies. Lex didn't say a word as Superman rolled to one side just enough to grab a condom and lubricant from the nightstand, in the process knocking things to the floor with a loud crash. "I guess you haven't had any in a while," Lex said to hide any signs of nervousness. It wasn't every day that an alien invaded not only your home but your body as well, and Lex's passion-filled brain was unwilling to stop things now that they'd gone this far. Superman quickly prepared himself, and then lifted Lex's other leg so that both were now slung over Superman's shoulders. He pressed the head of his cock to Lex and pushed. Lex had expected it to hurt, but instead it was a slow thrust. Just as Lex was starting to feel the burn, Superman pulled back and eased in slowly again. He repeated that a few times, driving Lex mad until Superman pushed in balls deep and stopped. Lex felt the soft caress of a hand on his face. It was gentle, almost loving. Superman leaned in close, curving his body. Superman didn't last very long. After a few more thrusts, he shuddered as his orgasm overtook him. He slowly eased Lex's legs down and draped himself across Lex's body, wrapping his big arms around Lex. "Do you think we're a good fit now?" Superman whispered into Lex's ear. Lex turned his head and gently kissed the soft lips, all pretence gone. "Yes, Clark, I do." It was a beautiful day for an outdoor press conference. Lex stood near the podium, giving last minute instructions to Mercy. He surreptitiously scanned the room on the lookout for a specific report that had not yet arrived. Lex had made sure to invite the Daily Planet to the conference. He smiled when Chloe Sullivan walked through the door. Lex pushed past his assistant and approached Chloe with his hand held out. "Ms. Sullivan," Lex said with a smile. She eyed him with open hostility, rejecting his greeting. Lex lowered his hand, looking past her. "He's parking the car," Chloe said with a huff. She crossed her arms and they stood in awkward silence. "I told you before. You're all he ever talks about," she added with a bitter tone of her voice. "I appreciated..." Lex started to say until a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned and stared into deep green eyes, and a beautiful smile he'd never thought to be for him again. Clark gestured for Chloe to give them privacy and she did reluctantly. Clark shoved his hands deep into his pant pockets, a soft smile playing on his lips as they stood just looking. "You sort of left in a hurry last night," Lex said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Clark rubbed at the back of his neck and a slight blush tinted his cheeks. Lex smiled and scanned the room to be sure nobody was paying attention to them. Mercy had him covered. "Sorry about that. I had... stuff to do," Clark said. "You have a lot of... stuff to do lately," Lex drawled, arching his brow. Clark nodded and took a deep breath. "How long have you know?" "Since you kissed me, or since…" Lex leaned in closer, "...Superman kissed me," he finished with a smirk. They stood staring into each other's eyes, oblivious of the other people around them. "What about Bruce?" Clark asked nervously. Lex was amazed that Clark hadn't changed much from the days of Smallville. He still wore a cloud of innocence. A cloud that Lex knew was just a smokescreen. "He'll understand," Lex whispered. They broke apart as Mercy approached. Lex allowed himself to be led to the podium, though neither he nor Clark took their eyes off each other. His life had taken a turn he'd never expected and now it was about to change forever. Lex was sure that no matter what the future held, he wouldn't be facing it alone. END

"Daddy?" Jenny was finishing taking a bite of her sandwich. "Hmm…?" Michael had been contemplative, for awhile, not realizing he'd been staring off into the distance. "… did I do sumthin' bad?" "Wha--? No… nooo…" Michael shook his head, then responded. "Out of curiosity, why do you ask?" "… we talk a lot, at the tabil... yur quiet..." "Jen…" Michael was trying to find the right way to approach the subject of Jenny's fate in his life, her future with him "… is Brian okay?" "Yeah… of course he is. You heard the doctor. Brian just needs to take things easy. Don't worry about him. He's trying to make sure the ground remains under his feet today, is all. Extra cautions, make safer humans." "… is he sleepin'?" Jenny glanced over her shoulder, she could see Brian curled up on the couch. "Nah, don't think so. He's resting his eyes." Michael took a longer glance toward Brian than Jenny had. He knew what to watch for. Yeah, Brian appeared restful, peaceful. "I'll be going in soon to wake him up." "… oh, why?" " 'Cause I like poking at him, annoying him." Michael joked, not knowing if he really had to go into the discussion about waking people up every so often who had been hit in the head. "Jen..." This would be as good a time as any to broach his subject. "… yeah,, Daddy." "May I ask you a question?" "… I guess." "This is really silly, but if your mother and I gave you the chance to choose -- on your own -- would you go back to Toronto or would you stay here?" Michael was trying not to step on toes, treading lightly. He wanted to be fair to everyone. "And, sweetie… I want you to be as honest with me as you can." He grabbed for her hand. "I will always love you, no matter what choice you make." "… well, back home -- in Toronto… there's mommy, an' Gus… an' Linds... I miss 'em like they miss me..." Michael sat back, sensing Jenny's genuine love and care for her "family", even through the grief and battles. It was what she had as her own, for four years. Any normal person would be hurt by the slight, but Michael couldn't help feeling exactly like he and Brian had. Though they had intolerable and senselessly cruel family lives, it had been theirs, alone. "It's all right to feel that way. I understand." "… but i's weird... when 'm home, I miss 'em too... sumtimes, I don' like yellin' an' fightin'... mommy an' linds -- mommy an' Gus -- Linds an' Gus... there's nice times too... but when i's bad, I don' like talkin' out loud... so I get quiet... I hide, in my room...” Michael knew the longer Jenny had stayed out of her own life and the distraught environment in Toronto, the better her perspective had become. Jenny could see her emotions for what they had been and comprehend why she felt them. "I'm here, baby. You know you can tell me anything. I won't be angry." "… bein' wit' you an' Brian... I feel differ'n't... I don' like silence anymore, 'cuz stuffs in my head... you an' Brian don' fight... I don' see you fight like mommy an' linds... I like it here, at home... I don' wanna hide no more... I like playin' outside... an' if I live here, I wanna have some othur kids to play wit'...” Michael felt the squeeze of Jenny's hand to reassure him. She needed him to know she loved him, beyond words. He had done everything right, made the bad into good. "Your home is here with me -- always." "… an' Brian?" Jenny's eyes darted toward the living room. She realized she looked too long for her father to realize how she felt. "… I didn' know who Brian wuz 'til he came an' got me... I knew Gus had a Daddy too, but never…" She shook her head. "… he's…" She lifted her teary eyes to her father's equally filled ones. "… my first real bes' frien'... he never makes me feel dum' or stoopid... 'm silly sumtimes, but we can be silly togethur... silly can be fun.... I like laughin'... I, uh--" She tried to wipe away the quickly falling tears, her father's thumbs helped out. "He really scared you today, didn't he?" "… yup, my heart hurt an'… my tummy felt funny." "I was scared, too." "… you were?... but yur brave, Daddy." "Am I?" Michael was touched that Jenny would think that about him. "You really think so?" "… yup, like those pretty men who save Princesses..." "… Oh, gawd… that brave?" Michael took a huge swallow of iced tea. "I'm not sure Brian would like knowing you see him as a 'princess'." He actually liked the idea, but he didn't dare let Brian know. "… Daddy... you know what I mean." Jenny slapped his arm lightly. A smile on her lips. "Yeah, I do. I just--my imagination runs away with me sometimes." Jenny took some time to think. And like she told Brian, she said the exact thing to her father. "… I wasn't scar'd for Brian 'cuz you were there... I was… wow… you were smart an' made him all better." The memory still caught her in amazement. "Yeah… he tends to bring my 'hero' side out quite often. He's also a pretty special guy in his own right. Special to both of us, huh?" Jenny nodded her head with a wide smile on her face. "… he makes me laugh... an's reallyreallyreally kind an' a nice frien'... he reads me my storybooks, but tells jokes an' stuff... I like it most when he tells me stories he makes up." "Brian has 'stories'? Like fairy tale stories? Like your storybook stories?" Michael was flabbergasted to know this fact about Brian. Was Brian actually sharing stories of he and Michael… in their youth? Hmm… "… I dunno... I guess. … he doesn' read from a book... he said they're in his head." Jenny knocked on her own forehead, like you would a door. "… jumbl'd like puzzles so no one can know anythin'..." Michael loved that analogy for Brian. "You're gonna be one strange kid when you grow up." He knew he should regain control of the conversation before they made it all about Brian and reliving this morning. "But, though you like it here… you still miss Mommy, Lindsay and Gus?" "… yeah, I do... 'm sorry, Daddy." "Oh, Jen, don't be. It's really okay. See this smile…” Michael pointed tot he broad grin on his lips. “... it's because you're happy. I've always wanted what you wanted most for yourself. I'm not trying to cover up bad feelings inside." "… I wanna stay longur... I know they miss me an' wan' me back home.” Jenny stated clearly, knowing she was right because of the phone call with her Mommy earlier in the week. "Uhm… that's why I asked you this question." Michael knew Jenny was possibly thinking things weren't as different as they had grown into in such a short time. "… did I say a good ans'er?" "Sweetie, there really isn't a right or wrong answer. In truth, you never made a decision, either. You gave good arguments for both sides and you made me understand what you feel. That was the intelligent reply I was expecting from you." "… Daddy… are mommy an' Linds okay?" "Lindsay seems all right, I suppose. But your Mommy… that's something I don't know if we'll be able to find out. Right now, I have to say… no, she isn't." Jenny sat stunned. "… wha's wrong?" "Your Mommy and Lindsay have discovered that they can no longer be together. Living together in the same house." "… 'cuz of the shoutin'?" Jenny dropped her eyes, in thought. "Mostly." "… an' Gus an' Linds... they okay too?" Jenny raised her head to look at her father. "Lindsay is shocked, as she should be, but she's trying to build another home for her and Gus. Without your Mommy, it's kind of hard to do." "… does mommy hate us, like she sumtimes says?" Christ! Michael shut his eyes. "No, Jen. Baby, Mommy is in a very dark place right now. You remember how you felt, before you came here with Brian and me?" "… yup... I do." Jenny crossed her arms over her chest. "… mommy feels scar'd too… like me?" Michael nodded his head in agreement. "Sometimes she felt like that. Scared of what her life was turning into and how much she couldn't control any of it. Like… no matter how many people she's in a room with… she still feels alone. Like no matter how angry she becomes, it's followed by an intense sense of sadness. No matter how hard she screams or fights, no one is really listening or understanding her." "… is she gonna get help… like me?" “Yeah, but, unfortunately her complications and pain are a little more severe to handle. She might have to go away, somewhere, so other people can tend to her needs. She feels ashamed of what she's done, how she's ended up. She's a little confused about what she wants and who she is. Unsure of being able to handle other people around her, for now. She is certain of one thing, though.” Michael reached out to touch Jenny's shoulder, soothing. “I'm sure of it.” "… oh? what?" "You. She knows you love her, still. Even though she's made your life difficult. She loves you. Loves you enough to leave you in good hands." "… is Linds comin' to pick me up soon?" Jenny was a little relieved to know people were taking care of her mother, because she hadn't known how to help and her mother didn't really want Jenny's help, either. And even knowing that, Jenny felt a bit of sadness. "No. Not really." "... where do I go, Daddy?" Jenny was a bit stunned into disquiet with her future, where she would live now. Jenny was breaking Michael's heart. "You stay here… with me…" This was the first time he had ever said the words aloud, for his own ears to hear. "… an' Brian?" Jenny's eyes grew wide, startled as the tears reemerged. "Yesss, Lady Jenny… and me…" Brian's voice came out of the darkness of the living room. He had woken himself up, which was a very good sign for Michael. Brian stood next to Jenny's chair, reaching down to scrape the back of two fingers down her cheek, feeling wetness. He knelt on the floor, his face now level with Jenny. "You happy?" He raised an eyebrow in question. Jenny tilted her face to Brian's touch. She nodded her head, shyly. "No lie?" She knew he tended to make jokes of lots of things. "Hey… would this face lie?" Brian pointed to his face. Jenny gave Brian a “glare”, to which he smirked. "Okay… granted this face of mine has launched a thousand lies… not this time." Brian shook his head. "How long?" Jenny still didn't comprehend what this meant for her life and future. Brian glanced up at the ceiling, then back to Jenny. "How long do you feel like staying?" Jenny wiped at her tears with both hands. "Uhm… is forever okay?" "Oh… I don't know, Lady Jenny…" Brian growled, snatching Jenny out of her chair and holding her sideways under his arms. "... I think we can make those arrangements for her Ladyship." He made a swift turn as if he would head into the living room or maybe upstairs, with his baggage under his arm. "Okay, Michael… where shall we put her? The living room? Next to the window or fireplace?" Michael smiled behind his hand. He was caught, speechless and breathless at the same time. The two people in front of him always did that. Just took his breath away, yet could break his heart so easily. Jenny couldn't stop giggling, her face now going red from blood rushing to her head. "Brian…" She held onto his hip and butt. "… watch out… your head…" Brian looked behind him. "What about it?" "… sit down… you'll fall ah-gain…" Jenny demanded on a chuckle. Brian sat as Jenny commanded. He flipped her around so she sat, righted on his lap. She grabbed onto the table ledge to stop the world, in front of her eyes, from spinning. "… thank you." Jenny shook her head to clear her vision. "Anytime, Jenny-boo." Brian pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, wiping away remnants of tears. Jenny sat back against Brian's chest, looking at him with a signature crooked grin. She felt his radiant warmth from sleep, it drew her closer. "… you wan' me to stay?" Brian wrapped both arms about Jenny's little body, tightly hugging her close. "Yes, I do. I reallyreallyreally do. IdoIdoIdoIdoIdo…" He was almost making a soft song of it into her ear. "… can mommy come visit?" "Uh… don't know.” Brian wasn't about to let Jenny see his pettiness for Melanie Marcus, since she was Jenny's mother. “I know I don't want to see her, but you can." "Brian..." Jenny understood there was some strong feelings between Brian and her mother, often seeing it when he used to visit back home in Toronto. "Okay… for you, Lady Jenny, I will try to be civil. I know she loves you and you love her, but she's hurt too many of the people I love." "… you love me?" Jenny turned wide eyes on Brian, a hidden smile on her mouth. "Yeah… why's that so hard to believe?" "… I dunno... you don' hafta love me... but i's okay if you do." "Oh, really… why's that?" "… 'cuz... I love you too." Brian had to swallow quickly or he wouldn't have been able to talk at all. "Sweet! Mutual Love. Love-a-rama. Love Fest. Love-a-palooza." He continued to kiss and tickle Jenny until she went batty with giggles and smiles. He saw how oddly Michael was looking over at him. "What? Jealous?" "Envious. But… I can wait." Brian read it clearly through Michael's eyes -"I have you all to myself, later tonight."- and he felt the powerful sense of dominance. "Oooo… oh, my…" He feigned fake fear. "How do you feel?" Michael asked in all seriousness. "Good. Refreshed. Raring to go another knockout round or two." "You still wanna try that restaurant?" Brian looked for a wall clock. "Why? Is it that late already? Christ!" He saw it was only a little after one o'clock. "Oh, Dear God… I'm not a fragile flower, Michael. I'll be fine by tonight. So… what do we usually do around this time?" "… we watch TV… or videos… or play a game…" Jenny supplied the answer. "… Daddy, start'd me on some stuff for when I go to school...." Brian was impressed and looked to Michael, nodding his approval. Michael felt he needed to clarify. He wasn't being smothering to Jenny, like his own mother had been. "I'm only doing some light math… some words… reading a few things. Small stuff, just so it's not so scary." "Kindergarten. Jenny… it's a humdinger of a joyride." Brian told Jenny, imparting his adult wisdom. "Really?" "I don't really know… I've kind of forgotten everything before I met your father." Brian winked across at Michael. "… oh, did you meet Daddy at my age?" Jenny looked between Brian and her father. Brian chuckled deeply, shaking his head. "No." "Think your life would have been any better had we?" Michael raised a curious eyebrow. "Uh… I'm not really sure. I'd hate to find out and screw it up more than I have." "Agreed." The kitchen phone rang. Michael looked at Brian. "Well… it's not you calling me." He got up from his chair to go get the wall extension. "Obviously." Brian waited to discover who happened to be calling this early in the afternoon. "… 'ello?" Michael paced to the fridge, fixing a magnet and piece of paper. "uh-huh… yeah… uh… wait a minute…" He covered the mouthpiece to take a look back at Brian seated at the dining room table. "It's a guy -- Enzio? Do you know--?" "Yeah." Brian slowly rose out of the chair, depositing Jenny on the seat cushion. He moved to the living room to pick up the cordless. "Hey… Enzio!? Yeah… this is Brian Kinney. Hey… yeah…" He started to stroll away toward the front widow. "Oh… okay… do you mind telling me why?" Jenny scooted off her seat, picking up her plate, willing to come back and get her father's dishes in a bit. She ventured into the kitchen, placing the items in the sink. Michael hung up the phone. He took something from Jenny's hand to place back in the fridge. When he closed the door, his eyes became fixated on what he had been touching on the fridge surface. They were Brian's discharge instructions. He thought he had seen a word that stuck out to him, so he moved the magnet a little over… and his mouth hung open. No fuckin' way… a particular sentence stood out for him, and he shut his mouth and eyes. Crap… Brian would be pissed… royally pissed. He would wait for a moment of peace to break the bad news. It had been difficult enough to get Brian to go to the damn hospital. Now this… How could they be this cruel? Not only to Brian and his very nature, but to Michael. Could he bear it? Brian returned to the dining room, taking the chair Michael had left and hadn't retaken. "Well… that was the Chef whose restaurant we were going to go to tonight." He handed the dishes Michael had used to Jenny. "Yeah?" Michael solemnly walked back to take a different seat. The discharge sheet in his hand, folded in half. "… how is he?" "Family medical emergency. He would like for me to come another night. Is that okay with you?" "Oh, yeah… it's fine." Michael then pushed the paper toward Brian. "It's this I'm upset about." "What?" Brian asked out of curiosity. He opened the paper to see his hospital instruction sheet. "What's--?" Michael's finger pointed to right where he wanted Brian to look. "OH… Hell No!!" Brian wished his chair had rollers, then he could forcefully push himself backward. So, instead he got up. "… no fuckin' way! They can x-ray me… poke me… probe me… I'll even take their medicines and let you attend to me like you're fuckin' Florence Nightingale. But I draw the line at this…" He roughly pushed the paper back for Michael to have. He stood up, prepared to leave the room. He didn't want to hear another word about it. "Brian… don't…" Michael wasn't sure Brian could make it up the stairs, but he was definitely determined to run the full gamut of his frustrations out in his tirade. His anger was drawing him there anyway. Michael was chuckling behind his hand, his own frustration dissipating by watching Brian get irate. And looking utterly charming and adorable. "No… Michael…" Brian came back down only to make his point. "… they can control some things, but they're not telling me where and when I can have sex with you again. I won't do it. Not gonna… won't eveh… an' not possible. So there… I'm gonna shower. I feel icky. Join me if you want. I'll be up here for awhile So don't get worried." Michael wished he could follow, just to make sure Brian's anger wasn't genuine. He knew it wasn't. Brian would be fine. No one was going to command over Brian Kinney's bed. Michael went to help Jenny continue to clean the dining room table, the kitchen and then the dishes. Busy work tended to take sex off Michael's mind, but it only worked for so long. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ Michael and Jenny were playing a board game downstairs at the dining room table with Hunter. He was joining in the family festivities, then would join them for dinner, again. Brian was upstairs, no longer perturbed about “no sex for three days”… but god… the ache it initially brought him had been overwhelming. He knew he joked about it, but it had honestly hurt. It was like someone was taking away his right to exist. Sex with Michael was… life affirming, not to mention educational and thrilling and mouth watering and… he should stop with the adjectives because he could very well hurt himself right in this wooden swivel chair. Shortly before Hunter arrived, Michael had come upstairs to check on Brian. He had missed the shower and even missed Brian's small catnap. He did catch Brian in his office, briefcase open and files strewn over the desk and on the twin bed behind him. But Brian couldn't touch a damn thing. It was like his mind was draining. Of everything he had learned in school and college too. He just… wanted to melt into these three days and get them over with. Michael attempted to be of some help, but Brian simply let him sit in his lap and talk away about what he was going to do about the store and the interviews. Just something to fill the time and keep Brian from going crazy. Brian didn't mind the intrusion, especially when Michael sat over his crotch and played with his hair like it needed the styling. Michael had left once Hunter arrived. He mentioned to Brian to make sure he came to some kind of middle ground in his work when supper was ready in another hour or so. Brian was left alone again. A half-hour later, Brian was still sitting, contemplating… and spinning. Spinning helped more than anything. His client's product driving him insane. Which ways were better to serve the client, but yet… completely satisfy the consumer? His cell phone rang on the desk, but he had hooked the line up his Bluetooth ear clip. He didn't even have the strength to check his LCD screen to make sure it wasn't anybody calling to annoy him. "Brian Kinney." "Hey, Brian. It's me." Dammit… too late . Brian sat up from his slouched position. "Hey... me... how are you today?" Lindsay lightly chuckled, a certain dread in her voice. "Brian… stop. We need to talk. Or… I need to ask you a question." “I thought we talked already.” Brian wondered what more needed to be discussed. “You and Gus will be flying in on Friday morning. And you will be here by late afternoon." " We forgot one thing. " "Which was?" Brian knew he hadn't. "Where will Gus and I stay? We all can't be in the loft. I know it's large and it's your home, but not for three people. If Gus were still a baby, maybe, but--" "I'm Brian Kinney." Brian didn't mean to sound so egotistical, but sometimes Lindsay brought it out of him. “I've got it covered, Linds.” "Oh.. well, you didn't exactly tell me." Lindsay sounded frustrated already. "I knew where you'd be staying once we got off the phone. I thought…" Brian really wished Lindsay didn't let him assume so much of their talks, then maybe he wouldn't piss her off so much. “... since you hadn't made your own suggestions, that you were leaving it in my hands.” "Where?" "Michael's. There's already a bedroom for Gus… and, uh, you'll get the master bedroom." "Michael's? Why is he--? Why?" "Because that's where I am." Brian knew this day would come, but if he was witty enough and sarcasm oozed forth… maybe he could cover his tracks. He realized how much of this conversation he could control. "With Jenny?" "Yeah. She is Michael's daughter." "Does Ben mind?" "Don't know. Don't care." Brian could admit everything right here, but… this was too much fun. "Michael and I aren't asking Ben's opinion." There… that was enough mystery to keep Lindsay guessing. "Wait… what? What's going on Brian? What's happened?" "Why? What's it to you?" Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing for another distraction to take him away. "Lindsay, you have a place to stay for the weekend, before you leave for your new job on Monday. Isn't that enough?" "What's going on with the loft?" "None of your business. It's mine… and I can do what I want with it." "Are you selling it?" Lindsay waited, but Brian wasn't saying much of anything. He--he kind of sounded like he was angry with her. He was justified, but he usually cut her some slack. "Brian?" "Maybe. I don't know." Brian shrugged, then realized Lindsay couldn't see him shrug through the phone. "Where's Michael going to sleep?" Brian really shouldn't be smiling this much, but it tickled him to say this out loud, but yet admit to nothing. "With me." "Brian! Wha--?" "Like I said… nun-ya-biz-ness…" Brian figured he should take all of Lindsay's calls when he was feeling this way. "You're cranky and cryptic. Were you asleep when I called?" "Nah, I'm working. Or at least trying to work." "Oh, well… tell Cynthia I said 'Hi'." Brian then looked around him, recalling that he would have been at work, but Lindsay was clueless to that reasoning. "I will when I see her." A huge gap of silence followed. "You have all our flight information?" Lindsay began the dying discussion. "Yes." Brian leaned his head back on the chair. "Did you get the directions I emailed to you?" "Yes." Brian began to spin his chair with his feet. "Brian..." "Yes…" Brian had zoned out. The call was actually boring him more. What was Lindsay's point to this entire talk? "… uh, oh… sorry…" "I know you're busy, so I'll let you go. But I wanted to say that I really appreciate what you're doing for me and your son." Brian hated when she called Gus his "son". Like he would be something else... like a vegetable or a meat product. He sat back up, fixing his ear piece. "I know. You and I, sometime soon, are going to need to seriously sit down and talk about this situation. I'm no longer going to sit on the sidelines, got it? I'm playing in the fuckin' game this time." Lindsay shut her eyes. This was the talk she was dreading. Facing her mistakes. "I'm sorry, Brian. We can fix this. I know it. Together, you and I can fix this problem." "Gus… is not a problem." Brian rubbed a hand over his face. "Is this all?" "Yeah… but I, uh… I sometimes need to hear your voice." Blammo!! What?The Fuck? Brian closed his eyes, realizing he would need to nip this baby in the bud sooner rather than later. "Lindsay, I'm not--I can't--" Wow… he was actually going to hurt Lindsay's feelings and he felt bad. Kind of crappy. Not guilty, just saddened. She had brought them to this point. "I'm not going to be Melanie's replacement for you. I have my own life to live. Yes, you and I have a son, Gus… but nothing more. We're friends, that's where it's got to end. I'm not about to yo-yo emotions with you anymore." "Brian, look… I realize how upset this has made you, but--" "We're both adults here, let's start acting like we are. I--I have to focus on Gus now. I'm obligated to finally be a father so he knows one of his parents is cool with who he is. I can't have you hanging off me, all googly-eyed and panting after me… thinking there's going to be something more. It began and ended with Gus." Lindsay's connection was quiet, as if she's disappeared. "I, uh… I'm speechless. This isn't usually like you. I was looking for a friendly shoulder to cry on." "We both got one another through some tough times and we've somewhat evened the score. But this--this is bordering on an unhealthy relationship. You and I will always… always be good friends, but it's time you know there's a line you have crossed with me." "I--I--I'm not doing well with losing Mel. For good, this time. I just don't know what I'd do if something happened between you and I. I can't lose you too." "Lindsay, you're not. I'm here. I'm fuckin' helping you take care and raise our son properly with a loving home and a strong family life. What more do you want from me?" "You--you sound so confident in what you want--what you want for Gus too. I can almost admire it." "Lindsay, if I can do one good deed for you, it's to tell you this... if it was meant to be, it would be and it will be. Don't try to make something beautiful out of something really, really shitty." "Mel and I had seven years together. We had Gus. We had a wonderful life, but then… I don't know… it all fell apart. Us trying to put us and one another back together." "Were they all wonderful?" Brian doubted that only because he had spent a few times being Lindsays' “shoulder to cry on” prior to them marrying. "Huh?" "The years… were they all wonderful? Because, if my memory serves me correctly, there were some bad patches and some snags along the way. Maybe you two lasted the years you were supposed to… and that was it. Who the fuck knows." Brian rubbed at an eye, feeling sleepiness enter his body. "I can tell you… you both need a good long break from one another. And you need to find out who you are... and fucking be it, stick with it. Even if that 'it' means you're alone and so fuckin' lonely you ache from loss. Being in a bad relationship tends to show you how you've forgotten how to love the most important person in your life… yourself." "Wow…" Lindsay's voice sounded small and soft, like she was really listening for once. "Have you started going to therapy, Brian?" "No, I've come to a realization that I've had some good people in my life and they've taught me some worthwhile things I need to believe in. I've only just begun to utilize their teachings." "Thank you. I know you meant every word from the bottom of, if not somewhere in, your heart." Lindsay shook her head in wonder. "Are you sure you're not in therapy?" "Read a copy of Cosmo in the ER waiting room this morning." "COSMO? ER? Brian… it's not Jenny, is it?" "None of your business, but it wasn't Jenny. Glad you called. Gotta run." "Uh, okay… g'bye, Brian. And, I mean it, thanks for the unsolicited advice. Boy… you and Michael are a pair, aren't you? You both have made some good points. Maybe I'll start listening for once." "Just say we were right and you and Mel have been wrong like you know you want to." Brian knew that didn't sound cool, but… what the hell. "Bye, Lindsay." "See you Friday." "Yup." Brian rang off and proceeded to bury his head in his arms on his desktop. That had been harder than it looked. Whew! He… well, he kind of felt refreshed. Energized. He had told Lindsay off, but in a very calming, yet nurturing Brian Kinney way. He even impressed himself. He looked at the clock and decided to close his briefcase. He would head downstairs to join in the fun before dinner. God, man… the three days didn't look that torturous for some reason. Well… the sex could always be negotiable, because with Michael… touching fingers alone could be considered sex. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ "Okay… now… where were we…" "… Rudy… he ran away…" "That's right. He busted out of that dilapidated joint… and why?" Both Brian and Jenny were seated on the bed, Indian style, facing one another. The book sitting between them. Brian was in dark blue striped pajama bottoms and a navy blue wife-beater; Jenny was in one of her traditional thick nightgowns that reached her ankles. Michael was laying on the other side of the bed, leafing through a pile of applications. He was matching them with the interview checklists he had been using during his meetings with the potential employees. Jenny went on to discuss what had been leading up to the point they were at now in the book. "… he thinks his frien' -- Mr. Butterchurn…" Brian didn't think that was the right name. "Buttworth." Jenny giggled, because it sounded funny. The scraping of paper-on-paper was heard, Michael clearing his throat. "It's Butterworth. Mr. Butterworth. Farmer Butterworth. Neither of you got it right." Brian and Jenny shrugged, not really caring if the “peanut gallery” spoke up or not. They went back to their conversation. Jenny tried her explanation again, with the correct name. "… Rudy thinks Mr. Butt-er-wor-th… was gonna kill him… skin him… an' eat him in a stew for supper." "Right!" Brian nodded his head in agreement. "Wait! What? Really? Back up. The book… a children's book for your age group says… 'kill, skin, eat'…?" He tried to find the page where the words were printed. Michael saw Brian's frantic parental worry. He wanted to laugh, because Brian wanting to censor a children's book seemed hilarious to him. "Brian, you would have passed the part last night." Brian stopped looking, turning to look at Michael. "For your information, both Jenny and I were exhausted." He swiveled to face Jenny. "I know! Why don't we start this story over again." He shut the book and palmed the spine as if to slide off the mattress and run back to Jenny's bedroom to find the first book in the popular children's series. Jenny raised a bewildered eyebrow, not sure if she agreed to that or not. "There are sixteen books to Rudy's story, Brian.” Michael shook his head in complete doubt to Brian's calm and patience with storytelling from an actual storybook. “You're already on the tenth one." Brian decided Michael was feeling bored or neglected… or both. He completely turned to face Michael. "Look… Mr. Rudy, The Rabbit Aficionado and Party Pooper… you may have some specific, magnificently special rulebook you follow when reading storybooks, but I--I take a free-spirited approach to my reading." "What? If the ending sucks… move onto something else?" "No… I'm just finding out I'd feel better reading this if I had a parental Cliff's Notes version. There's no telling what I've missed. I've been reading her these books for the past few weeks. Do you know how much energy it takes for me to care about a fictional rabbit with bi-polar and anti-social issues? Now, I'm on the tenth book and you chose to tell me that I've sucked myself into the Rudy Realm of Constant Sorrow and Bouts of Serious Depression. Tell me -- whom is this Butterchurn guy? And why does Rudy not know why he should love him yet leave him or stay and be violently abused to the point of death and being served as his next supper? Somehow I've become lost somewhere and I need something explained. Or I will kill that damn bunny myself and end his self-torturing soul--" Brian had stopped… because he heard something weird beginning right next to him. Something he hadn't ever heard before. Jenny had begun to smile while her father and Brian's bantering had started, but now she was doubled over onto the mattress and couldn't stop laughing. She had watched Brian get riled up about Rudy… and the books… then looked at how calm and steady her father appeared, every so often paying attention to Brian's tirade. The smile on her father's face was what made her start. Michael peered over his knees, then dropped his legs and stared. Brian stared open-mouthed, not sure what Jenny was doing or when she would stop. They were both worried until she had fallen over on the bed, onto her side… so free, joyful and stretched out on their beautiful bed. Lost in her own happiness. "Jenny, wha-?" Michael had scooted up from his seat on the headboard. He was aligned with Brian on the bed. Jenny shook her head. "… sorry, Daddy.... you an' Brian…" She giggled, her shoulders shaking. "… you make me so happy... I hafta laugh… an' you two are yellin' -- kinda… i's--i's--" She held her belly, then patted it to fix her nightgown's material. "… so differ'nt... I like it… an' I have it… forever, like you said.... whooo, this is fun...” Now that they were silent, Jenny was simply reacting to giddiness still in her body. Brian had no idea how to reply. He glanced at Michael, his brow raising just as Michael's was… and they both couldn't stop grinning. Jenny was becoming a child… carefree and innocent… just being a kid. Not a little adult trapped in a child's body. She was allowed to be who she always wanted and… from her own lips… it was all due to them. Michael was about ready to approach Jenny, but Brian had this portion covered. It also gave him a good in to telling her about Gus. He placed a gentle hand on Michael's forearm, squeezing. Michael covered Brian's hand, squeezing in kind. "Say, Lady Jenny…" Brian moved about to stretch along with Jenny. His elbow bent to hold up his head. "… tell me, was it worth it? Breaking out of Toronto and coming here?" Jenny looked up at the design of the canopy above the bed. She liked it. Simple yet… interesting. "… I love it here.... an' the house..." Her head turned toward her father. "… Daddy…" Then her eyes shifted to Brian's face, hovering nearby. "… you… the store an' being able to help out… Gran'ma's Diner… all the people you an' Daddy know… Ted, Em… I like Hun'er… he's cool... I dunno... I wuz tir'd of bein' sad..." Brian reached out his free hand to touch a fingertip, tenderly, to Jenny's arm. "May I ask you something?" "… uh-huh... what?" Jenny decided she would lay like Brian, facing him. "It's Gus." "Is he okay?" Jenny's brow wrinkled since she now knew about the problems with her Mommy and Lindsay. "With everything that's going on with your Mom and Lindsay… Gus is going to need some help." "… help from me?" Jenny put her free palm on her tiny chest. No adults had ever asked her for her help. Ever. Michael drew up behind Brian, relaxing on top of Brian's hip. He simply watched the discussion between Brian and Jenny in amazement. "Help… from you… from me and your father. From all of us." "Oh..." That made much more sense. Gus always treated her all right, like a pain-in-the-butt younger sibling, so she had kept her distance. But then some days, he could be very kind. She just couldn't tell when that would happen. "… is he gonna be okay... wit' mommy not there?" "I think so. He felt like you did, before you came here. I hope he'll get better. He got into some trouble while you've been gone." "Really?" Jenny knew probably how too. "… wit' the boys he wuz hangin' wit'?" "You've seen them before?" Brian moved to lay on his stomach, drawing his arms up and crossing them to lay his head on, like a pillow. This caused Michael to move too. He straightened out his legs, aligning with Brian and relaxing fully at Brian's back. "… yup, but Gus didn' bring 'em into the house... he always follows rules..." "House rules?" Brian lifted his head as Jenny's head slowly nodded. "... shit..." He was continuing to find out what was really going on and being blown away constantly. "… they were okay, but... mommy got upset a lot if they didn' get done or not follow'd the way she lik'd..." "Angry? Angry enough to hurt?" "Hurt?" Jenny furrowed her brow. "Did your Mom use any kind of physical force to make Gus listen?" "No…" Jenny shook her head, but then she really didn't know what Brian was asking. "… I don' think so." She saw how worried Brian had become. She sat up, drawing over to him. She began to pet his forearm. "… he's okay, Brian... I know it." She sat back, her thoughts wandering. "… is Gus comin' here, wit' Linds?" "Gus will be living here with us. Not for long. Until Lindsay finishes her new job and finds a more permanent job and home for them. Once she does, she'll come back and take Gus with her." "… does Gus need a bedroom?... 'cuz I have one." Brian chuckled, shaking his head. She was so like her father. "I know you do, Lady Jenny… but that's your room." Michael snickered. "I'm not sure Gus likes pink, sweetie." Brian nodded his head, but grabbed for Jenny's hand. "I feel better knowing you'd give up your room for your brother… even if he is Gus." Jenny smiled. "… he's yur son, right?" "Yeah?" "… an' yur my Daddy's guy, right?" "Yeah… unfortunately for him, I am." Brian felt the soft spank to his buttcheek. “Ow...” "… an' 'm Daddy's girl?" This time, Jenny looked directly at her father. "Yeah… always…" Michael nudged Brian under him. "Don't forget Brian's girl too." Jenny nodded her head in agreement, then went on. "… an' Gus an' I share mommies… m mommy an' his mommy were together…" "Yes, Lady Jenny…" Brian knew Jenny was leading up to some type of conclusion through her tiny brilliant mind. "… an' if tha's all... then ev'ryone's fam'ly... Gus's fam'ly... he can stay." Brian didn't know what to say. In Jenny's childlike mind, she had figured everything out on her own. He was pretty choked up by her sentiment. I love Brian, I love Brian's son... he's good people. "You rock my world, Jenny-boo." He leaned over to snag her close. Jenny looked down at Brian. "… I'll rock yours back." "Oh! You will, will you?!?!" Brian brought out his hands, scrunching his fingers like an attacking tickle monster. "Comin'… to… get… you…" “No! Brian…! I'm nice! Don't tick--!” Too late. Brian removed himself slowly from under Michael and snatched Jenny's foot, dragging her across the mattress. She was reaching out for her father's hand, while laughing. "You're mine. I've got you." He picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. "I shall come back, Cap'n Mikey… Argh… and I shall discover your fabulous booty, Argh…" For some reason, Brian's tickle monster voice had a penchant for changing tones. Tonight was a pirate's voice, while yesterday had been some Eastern European scientist. Who knew who he would be tomorrow. Unpredictable… and completely lovable. Yeah… Michael's guy… ~~TBC...

Brian's head lay on Michael's upper back, he was crossways on the mattress, naked as the day he was born. One leg was bent and drawn up, the other placed straight, foot dangling over the edge of the mattress. He had been toying with the decorative head-roll pillow in his hands. Above his head, sculpting the entire canopy of their bed, was a fairly large circle. From four corners of that circle shot four lines. Those lines connected with the four bedposts. Above them, the thick bedposts inter-locked forming a perfect square of the bed frame. The bedroom set was unmistakably manly, but if Michael felt a bit on the flaming homo side and wished to drape gossamer panels through-n-through, the design wouldn't lose any more manliness. Brian was contemplating the circle's center as a "bullseye" or a "goalpost" for his pseudo-football game. All he knew was he would score two points for hitting the ceiling, dead center, and lose one for veering too far in the right or left direction. And if it fell off the bed, then it was a total wipe out. Michael lay on his stomach, his hands and arms tucked under his pillows and his faced mashed to the plush cover. He didn't mind being naked, like Brian, but he craved decency, so the light sheet covered him from waist down. He dozed on and off, bewildered how Brian could catnap so easily, still looking healthy and refreshed. When he opened his lids every so often, he saw the high toss of Brian's "football". He knew in a matter of minutes a game of one would be played. He scrunched his head more into the pillow, liking to watch Brian compete against himself. "Oh… hey… I called Lindsay back?" Brian could sense that though Michael was exhausted, and for good reason, he was still awake. He threw the pillow up, watching as it went more to his left, then came down and almost hit him in the head. "And?" Michael was wide awake now. He moved to rest on his elbows. "Thank you." "Huh?" Michael wasn't quite sure what Brian was thanking him for. He had been ready to tell Brian about his phone conversation with Lindsay, but he had been sidetracked. "She mentioned she called you here." Brian tossed the pillow up again, hitting directly center. "Score!" But when the pillow came down, the softness pelted Brian's groin. "Ugh…" He decided to stop while he was ahead or before he really hurt himself. He placed the pillow under his arm. "You must divulge your secret to dodging Lindsay from her entanglements. And… I'm thanking you for not overstepping boundaries with Gus. I value your opinion, I still want it and I will involve you. But you respected my space." Michael flipped over, onto his back. Brian lifted his head and now lay on Michael's upper chest. Michael brought up a hand to tousle Brian's hair, massage a bit of the scalp. The simple action was rather soothing and Brian closed his eyes. "You would do the same for me and Jenny." Brian felt the urge hit, needing to talk more than have sex again. He wormed his way out of Michael's hand, then landed on his stomach, the head roll pillow under him in a restful position. "Jenny is hardly as difficult as Gus. Besides, it seems easier to parent Jenny. I've messed up Gus' life enough for him to think his Old Man is kind of an ass." He shrugged as if thinking this was inevitable, especially since he had felt the same way about Jack around the same age. Michael reached out his hand, palm up, wiggling his fingers for Brian to give his hand over. "He doesn't think that." Brian obliged, only because he hadn't touched Michael's skin in, maybe, five minutes. "You think?" He tried a smile, but found himself fascinated by the way Michael's love matched his touch, the fingertips sending affection as well as his words. "Next, I'll be buying a La-Z-Boy recliner, start to wear my most unattractive, mis-matched underwear and I'll don a ratty terry cloth robe open just enough to show a bit of wretched nakedness. I'll scratch myself in strange places while guests are in our home. Then I will tell racially offensive and sexual-orientation jokes. And I might start watching a sport, like football. Somewhere where I can yell or scream at the television, inappropriately, when my favorite team or athlete makes a mistake I can clearly see and do better at. You know enough anger at the TV to get my old juices flowing. Oh… and I'll need you to fetch me beers and snacks." Michael's belly nearly ached he was laughing so hard. He sat up against the headboard, tugging Brian's hand in the process. But he wouldn't come closer. "You have worked too long in advertising. Enraged Couch Potato Kinney is not a good image to promote." He allowed their fingers to loosen, sitting back on the wood. "How do you think Gus sees me? His Pappy?" Brian sat up himself, putting needed distance between him and Michael's skin. He was tempted to seek it out again, but he would let Michael rest. He drew his legs tightly to his body, never realizing he gave Michael a peek-a-boo view of his pubic area. He kept the pillow strategically placed. Michael chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe like with Jenny and me. How they totally and completely love their mothers… but agonizingly ache to know their fathers, as they have never been given a chance." "What do you think we did to piss them off?" Brian liked these discussions. It gave him a clearer insight to Michael's working mind, how smart he had become without his doing. He decided to slide backward. The bedposts concaved a bit toward where they touched the mattress. It was a comfortable niche for Brian to lean back in, and gaze toward Michael, before he pounced again. "Who?" Michael's brow crinkled in puzzlement. "The Lesbians. Cagney and Lacey." Michael snickered, pulling his knees up to his chest. "Well, first mark against us is the fact we have a penis." Brian gave him that, so he tossed the "football" which Michael deftly caught. He twirled it about in his two hands. "Second mark is that even though we are gay men, we still hold a responsibility for wielding our power and control over everything and the universe for centuries." He tossed the pillow back to Brian, who chuckled on his catch. Brian nodded his head in acceptance. "And third I've always seen a lesbian as kind of the 'superhero' -- uh 'super-heroine'… of women's liberation." He didn't expect the sore reaction from his audience. Brian simply threw the pillow and it hit Michael in the shoulder and bicep area. "Ow-ch! No, look… they want freedom from everything male-oriented. They will totally disassociate from men completely, but will attempt to emulate them in every fashion in their relationships." He threw the pillow back at Brian. So there… "And they can't because they need our sperm to procreate." Brian stopped the tossing of the football to Michael and simply held on to the pillow. Soon he would rest it on his lap, knowing Michael's eyes kept trying to drop lower. "And our money, or at least your money." "A truth I've faced all too often." Brian made a bitter face. “Can I ask you something?” Michael reorganized a few pillows behind his back. "And, if I step over lines, you can refuse to answer." "Ask. For you, I'm an open book." Brian displayed his arms wide, but kept the pillow on his thighs. "If I'm quiet, you'll know I don't like the question." "Why do you give Lindsay money so easily? I know you feel you have excess at times, but what if you needed that money? Some emergency funds to help out elsewhere? Then where will you be?" Brian actually took time to think about his answer. He had been wondering, himself, what spell Lindsay had put him under the longer he was with Michael. It came so easy to say “no”, for Michael. But between Brian and Lindsay, not so easy. "Guilt, maybe. There may have been different issues forcing me to hand over blank checks, but it all boiled down to guilt." "For what?" Brian wasn't happy about admitting this, but it was as painfully honest as he could be. He always assumed Michael thought the worst of him, because people usually did. Slowly, Michael was changing that for Brian. Allowing him to speak about who he had been, knowing he wasn't that same person now or ever again. "Look, I may have been a cold-hearted pissy bastard, but I knew she liked me. I wasn't blind. I knew she had a crush on me from the beginning. She was confused about her sexuality. I heard about a boyfriend in high school, but she… uh, she was finding herself strangely attracted to women, as well." He crossed his arms over his abdomen, looking off in the distance in genuine thought. "I'm fairly certain, for Lindsay, it's not a question of sexual confusion, but more of a--she falls in love with someone's heart and personality, more than their sex." He thought that was the best way to put it, for him it sounded clear. "I wasn't hard to catch. Being as promiscuous as I was, even in college, men were more my style. I was gay and attracted to men -- bottom line." "Were you ever attracted to her?" Michael could almost find himself empathizing Lindsay's plight. Unrequited love of Brian Kinney. So if that was the case, why weren't they the best of friends? He didn't hate her or despise what she had with Brian, but she rubbed him the wrong way at times. Like she had some secret hold over Brian that could never be spoken of and she tended to use it in her favor to control him. "Initially, she was--she did a few things that reminded me of someone special." Brian looked at Michael under his eyes. He wasn't sure if it should be known it had been Michael Lindsay had reminded him of. Fortunately at that point in time, with Lindsay trying to test waters with him, Brian resoundingly couldn't deny his growing love for his best friend back home. Having Lindsay around, when Michael wasn't there, had kept him company in more ways than he liked knowing. "… but, alas, she didn't have the dark raven locks of the someone I adored above all others." He teased to make Michael aware he was okay, things were okay. "Flattering me will not change the subject." Michael flushed a little to know that while he was still at home, and Brian had been away at college, no moment ever passed where he wasn't on his mind at least once or twice. "Okay…" Brian splayed his hands, he had to get serious or Michael would think everything he said was a total joke. "… I felt guilty about knowing how much she probably loved and wanted me. Had things been different, had I been a weaker man in my character and confidence… she might have had her wish come true." "Would you have dated her in college? Possibly thought about a long life with her? Means you could have had Gus the natural way." Michael was relieved when Brian made a look of such disgust at the thought of a vagina in his fake past and future. "Well, more pleasurable than say -- jerking in a sterile cup after clinical masturbation." "While I like knowing in that scenario, there never would have been a 'Melanie'… I'm not sure going that route I would have had a son. Or maybe I would have never had a 'Gus'. And that's not something I'd like to think about, no matter how much trouble he gets in." Michael felt his heart swell at Brian's sweet sentiment. He could see the force driving through Brian's eyes, the unfulfilled love with his own father. "The unconditional love some fathers never show their sons. A never ending forgiveness too." Brian shook his head. "Kid never had a chance with Brian Kinney as his Pop." "You think sucking at life is in the genes? The DNA makeup?" "I haven't had my son as a steady constant in my life. I have yet to become a treacherous influence on him that Mel's been dreading for years. Still, he manages to always end up doing something wrong in someone's eyes." Michael realized Brian had simply deduced that anything, or anyone, within a radius of his keeping was doomed to fail. He scooted to his knees, crawling toward the corner bedpost Brian was hunched upon. He kicked open Brian's legs, sliding up the bed between his thighs. He curled into Brian's embrace, resting on his chest. He spread the blanket over them both. He had to disagree, but doing this -- he needed contact, touch with Brian. "I don't think this is something Gus can control, Brian." "What do you mean?" Brian rubbed the back of his hand over Michael's darkening stubble. He saw the nudge for attention, moving forward to lean his face on the side of Michael's head, inhaling his shampoo. Michael loved the tease to his earlobe. "Don't know, exactly. From what I could tell from Lindsay, it's as if Gus has absorbed your traits. The older he becomes, he's beginning to look like you… talk like you. Like he's mimicking your 'Kinney-ness', because it's who he is." Brian brought his head back, looking at Michael. "And this can be bad because?" "Drives Mel up a pole. I bet she thought she could rid herself of you, gain control. But she can't. She never had it. That's not something she takes lightly." Michael could speak from experience. The confrontations between he and Melanie had proven this to no fault. Brian took a long pause, leaning his chin on Michael's shoulder, holding him closer. "Has she hurt Gus?" Michael knew what Brian couldn't ask, point blank. "Oh… no… never. Never physically. If I heard correctly, Gus is being selfishly punished for simply who his father is and who he is becoming." Brian turned his cheek to rest on the protruding bone. "… shit…" He shut his eyes, wishing he could have changed things sooner. Gus hadn't seemed this bad when he was there for his birthday. Of course Brian had been focused on Jenny at the time, but… damn… "Great… she's given him more ammunition to hate me." “No. I don't think she did.” Michael reached out to cup Brian's biceps, soothing the skin. "The 'trouble' Gus pulled sounds like it's his fist attempt at a cry for help. Maybe he saw what we did for Jenny to get her out and sane. He could be lashing out for an escape. He knows he can't run away, but he knows where he wants to end up." Brian was ashamed to look into Michael's face. Like it should have been his main priority to take care of his own child. He faced away from Michael, but still wrapped him within his arms. "He needs me… needs us… but doesn't quite know how to ask." "Yeah… poor kid." Michael knew what Brian was trying to avoid. So he shifted, making it impossible for Brian to avoid looking directly into his face. He saw the pain and the regret, hating it existed, kept churning inside Brian's attempt to change for the better. He let a quirky smile out on his lips. "I'd say we weren't the best surrogate Mom and Pop for our kids, but… do you think we'd screw up any worse than they did?" Brian leaned his temple on Michael's, hearing Michael's affection for Gus in his voice. It always amazed him how wide Michael's heart could expand, but he was showing Brian exactly how it could be done. "I've sucked at life, in general. How 'bout you?" "Much the same… so…" Michael flourished his arms. "… we're perfect replacements!" Brian let out a spurt of laughter. "Biologically, they are our children. There's nothing wrong with us raising them." "No, except the doubters who live outside these walls. They're fairly certain we fuck up everything we touch." "Feel like proving them wrong?" Brian raised a curious eyebrow. He couldn't believe he was even contemplating taking in Gus, building this intricate family and life with Michael, actually loving it and wanting more. "I'm always game for a good showdown." "Then it's decided." Brian nodded his head. "Yup… so… when does Gus move in?" Brian leaned back, not expecting Michael to offer straight away. "Where would we--?" "Put him?" Michael looked off to the side, thinking. "I don't know. There's some space in the room where the office is. I'm sure we could think about adding something on to the backyard, an outside office space for you. Give Gus the office room for his bedroom." "You'd do that for Gus? Open your home up that easily?" Brian was speechless, his heart racing. He almost didn't know what to say next. Michael nodded, looking directly into those adoring hazel eyes. "Think Jenny will mind having her 'other' older brother here?" “I don't really know.” Brian shrugged one shoulder. "She's still worried about going back to Toronto, if that's in play. I think she's capable of coping, if we give her the space and a chance. As long as we let her know this doesn't change things here in this house. She will always have control like she has always had." He knew Michael would like his last comment. Michael slunk down to lean on Brian's upper torso. "Maybe it will help if we call Mel and--" Brian was emphatically shaking his head in disagreement. "No. Something tells me now isn't a great time to bother her." Besides, Brian would probably take the phone from Michael and give Melanie Marcus a few choice words about her terrible parenting skills. "If it does come to that, I'm the one making the call." "When?" "Give it another day or two. If all else fails, maybe by then she'll have come calling on you." Brian kissed Michael's cheek, moving it so that he was offering himself up as a seat for Michael to straddle. Michael rose to his knees, opening his legs, one on each side of Brian's hips. The backs of his thighs on Brian's. "Well… this is a phone call I will be dreading. I'd like to put it off until… uhm… infinity, please." He sucked in a quick take of air as he felt the fingertips sloping down his spread ass, seeking pleasure. He looped his arms about Brian's neck, crossing his wrists in a loose lock at the back of Brian's nape. The finger play was certainly causing him some instant desire that already lay buried. "God… what is wrong with us?" Brian snickered against Michael's open mouth. "We have it. Can't deny it." "You'll need to shower and go to work in another hour or so--" Michael couldn't even dare to look at the digital clock on the night stand. Time seemed to slow for them when they began, then sped up at the awkward moments toward the end. Moments when they knew they would have to face the world outside their bedroom. "I have to… uhhh…" He pushed and pulled away from Brian's tender care of him. "I'm gonna regret this in the morning, but… God… I want you again, possibly need you more than before." "What do you want most?" Brian's concentration was on watching Michael come apart in his arms, but he knew their talking wasn't finished. Michael was caught between pleasure and confusion. Oh, yeah… they had been talking before this. "Uh… excluding world peace?" As Brian laughed against the skin on his neck, Michael arched and flexed on Brian's hands and fingers. "I want Jenny--" He realized nothing more was there. Brian's attention to him was making him focus deeper, the deeper those fingers sought satisfaction. "I want--that's it." He swallowed, reaching out to grasp the bed post on either side of Brian's head. "I want her home. With me and you. This is where she belongs." He didn't know if he could withstand the emptiness any longer. "I want my daughter back in my life. I want my family. God, yeah…" He pushed against Brian's groin, telling him he'd be ready soon. "… and I want you…" "I think you said that already." Brian sheepishly smiled, knowing how wild Michael was getting. Soon they would go at it again, make their way into the shower… soap each other… try to dry one another off without having sex again… then possibly wash again… and they would attempt to rest in bed. Sleep was all relative, if what you were trying to do was make the night go by faster. But Brian and Michael always seemed to steal every second of the night, feeling robbed in daylight hours. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ Michael was asleep, on his stomach, waiting for Brian to return from checking on Jenny as she had gotten up. It was nearing seven-thirty, in another twenty minutes. Michael knew Brian would be gone again for eight more hours, possibly twelve if the clients were hesitant about contract signing or the avenues Brian was willing to take them down. He didn't know how he lasted the days. Not having Brian was less painful than having him and watching him leave for work. Just work, it was only a job, but Michael ached with the loss. He thought he would be gratified to a certain degree of having Brian. Only the more they were alone--together, like they had been from early morning until sunrise, the worse the cravings became. The "trigger effect" increased and anything was liable to set Michael off. Michael kept his eyes closed when he heard the door open. It was quite possible that Brian had brought Jenny in with him, but he didn't feel her gentle touch, trying to wake him, nor did he hear her voice. She must be awake, remaining in her room. He listened for Brian's footsteps, crossing the carpets and the effortless way he slid to-n-fro about the room, using the slumber of Michael as a moment to gather his work clothes. If backs could be graded, Michael would give Brian an A-… A, for the long sinewy frame and the bareness, the suppleness of his bone structure. Brian was muscular, but he didn't have to lift much or do any heavy activity to become so breathtaking and beautiful to Michael's eyes. He was born this way, never had to fight for a perfect weight. Oh… and the - (minus) was for… being so far away and not in bed. Brian stood in front of their shared closet, pulling out hangers of pants first, then button-down shirts. He mixed and matched until something gelled for him. The soft flow of the pajama bottoms on Brian's legs made Michael stare at the perfect ass for awhile, then glanced along the thick thighs and tapered calves, wondering something. Just a little curiosity he would love to discover. But he thought he would save that for later tonight, when Jenny was safe in her bed. Michael knew all he had to do was wait, Brian would return to their bed. Brian usually liked to prepare before preparing for dressing when the time came close to getting ready. He really didn't have to be out of the house until 8:15am or 8:30am, but he was always… always a stickler for being on time. Especially for work, his own ad agency. And it happened, Michael had waited patiently enough and the mattress dipped a bit from Brian crawling on the surface. He probably knew Michael was actually awake, simply playing their game of ignoring the obvious. So Brian was seated in his favorite perch, near the bed post, able to watch Michael as he slept. Able to kick him gently awake when the need arose. But there was a change, subtle, yet… so different. Brian began to crawl toward Michael, climbing over him and then straddling over his waist. Michael was up, so up he almost lifted his torso off the bed. But Brian was there to hold him back down. "Wha--?" He tried to turn his head, but realized he was imprisoned by the body laying on top of him. "Okay…" Michael agreed to lay back down, splaying his arms out from his sides. "… do your worst." He heard a strange sucking sound like… "What… in the world?!" "Stop, Michael. Close your eyes. Just feel what I write on your back." Huh? " Huh? Feel what? " On the pale naked back, Brian began to write with a wet fingertip. W-A-N-T… M-E… ? Once Michael realized what was going on, he chuckled. He knew what might be spelled next, but he kept his mind open. "Uh, yeah… that's obvious." N-E-E-D… M-E… ? Michael let out a choked sigh, nodding his head, but added, "Always…" He giggled a little when he felt the tender kiss to a shoulder blade. He lay his head on his pillow, hopeful for more wet graffiti on his skin. Brian didn't know he was breathing on the moistness, causing Michael to shiver. L-O-V-E… M-E… ? Michael shut his eyes. "Now… forever and… if possible, infinity." He was ready for it to have ended, but Brian wouldn't let him up. Brian added a bit more to this portion. Holding down the biceps with his hands to keep Michael from moving his arms on the bed, he took the tip of his tongue and began to sculpt each letter, kissing after each one. M… A… R… R… Y… M-… ? Michael didn't let Brian go any further. He flipped over, sending Brian on his back. " Don't! " He didn't mean to be so forceful, Brian thought it was simply being playful. Once he saw the serious sadness on Michael's face… he paused, his face blank. Michael opened his eyes, glancing at Brian's stunned look. "I'm sorry. You took it too far." He knew this time would come… someday . He hadn't known when, but he sure didn't expect it this soon and now. "Don't do this -- to us." “Don't do what?” Brian raised one eyebrow, protective of his heart. "You didn't even let me finish spelling. You don't know what I meant." "Do too." Michael hated that he sounded like a little kid. "Christ!" He covered a hand over his face, not knowing what to do next or how to react. All he knew was that what he was doing wasn't assuring Brian or making the sudden tension between them any better. "Look, Brian--" He reached out for Brian's forearm, grabbing the wrist. "So you think you know, but you never will." Brian furrowed his brow, wondering if Michael knew how bone crushing his hold was. "What? Teddy and Blakey can get hitched, but we--" "Brian, don't. Don't use them as an excuse. It's flimsy and it doesn't work." "That's not--" Brian didn't know what to say. "What would be your answer if I was serious?" He yanked his arm back, rubbing his reddening wrist. He moved, trying to hibernate near the bed post, not sure if he could remain next to Michael for awhile until they cooled down. "Oh, so you weren't serious just then?" Michael threw his hands up in grief. "Think marriage is still a lame joke? A matrimonial prison of monogamy?" "Michael, don't--" Brian softly begged, wondering when this had suddenly slipped out of his control and gone all wrong. "Don't what? Don't get frustrated when you keep making jokes about something special and sacred between two people, despite being gay or straight? I should know. I had one with Ben and it--" Brian was shaking his head in denial. "That's not what I meant at all." He glanced at Michael, in frustration, wishing he could hold him, touch him. But Michael didn't want any of that now. He wanted space. That… Brian could give him, easily. Michael raised sad eyes toward Brian. "What do you mean then?" "A guy can't test waters? May he send out feelers to know where he stands?" “Not you.” Michael shook his head. "Not Brian Kinney. Not my guy." Brian let out a small smirk. His Michael was still in there, just scared of the Kinney Fear of Marriage scenario and spiel. "Your guy?" He touched his chest in question to which Michael smiled and pointed at him. "Quit teasing me!" Michael threw the decorative head-roll pillow at Brian. As he went backwards to catch the awkward puffy roll, he forgot about the scrollwork connecting the lower portion of the bedposts and at the bottom of the bed. The sharp crack of bone on wood echoed in the silence. "Brian!" Michael was quickly attentive. He rushed to Brian's side, in fetal position. He was savoring his right temple at the hairline. "Ow…" He made a noise in the back of his throat from having heard the injury happen. "… sweetie…" He petted Brian's chest, wishing he would remove his hand so he could look at the skin. "… does it hurt?" Brian simply closed his eyes, finally tired, letting out a sigh. That crack to his skull was Fate's way of telling him he had approached the marriage question too soon. He liked having Michael's hands over him, the softness of his voice back. The attention to his bruised ego was what needed the most attention. "Serves me right. Kinney and matrimony don't mix." Michael frowned, backing up a bit. He crouched over Brian, crowding him. "No, that's not what I meant." He slipped off the bed, heading into the bathroom to get a cold washcloth. "Look…" He shifted slowly toward Brian, wondering if he was allowed back into his realm. He knew he had been angry long enough to push Brian far away, emotionally. He placed the cloth on Brian's forehead, using Brian's hand to hold it there. He didn't know if Brian wanted his touch at the moment. "… right now, we're barely a month strong on our own. I don't know if I could cope explaining all that's been happening, plus a wedding. And we haven't even told them about our relationship. It's easier to take things as they come to us. Go slowly. Take our time. I just separated from my husband. I got my daughter back and I don't--" Brian put a hand up, palm out. "Enough." He wasn't yelling, his voice was commanding. "Message received. Pardon while I go lick my wounds." He needed to use the bathroom door to create space or else he would scream. Not harm, not hurt… only himself. Stupid, stupid fool. He was at the sink mirror, pulling on the faucet spickets. The door opened, with a light push. "Not now, Michael." He tilted his head about, checking out the reddening skin on his forehead. He was only looking for cuts or blood. Because it hurt like a motherfucker. Michael had dressed in a pair of boxer briefs and a seen-better-days t-shirt. He knew Brian didn't mean for this conversation to pan out this way, especially not getting hurt physically. He sure hadn't expected that particular reaction from Michael. "Yeah, sorry. I took two pot shots at your pride out there and you hit your head. I owe you some explanations." Brian stared into the sink. "You don't ever owe me a thing." It wasn't meant harshly, because Brian knew how much Michael had to put up with his past bullshit. Having him finally take a stand, when he always knew serious topics just weren't the cup of tea to discuss, gave Michael plenty of wiggle room to make mistakes. "Would you let me--? I do--" "See how easy the two little words can be said." Brian weakly grinned, looking from mirror to Michael. Michael crinkled his brow before he caught on. He shook his head. Brian was trying so hard to act like he wasn't bothered by Michael's reaction to his simple question. Brian had every right to ask and discover what Michael's answer would be. Was Brian Kinney even worthy of marriage… and a wedding ceremony? "You have to know something." Michael climbed onto the bathroom counter space between their two sinks. "Hmm?" Brian thought he could use this time to start shaving, getting ready for work. Maybe he should just leave for work early all together. Michael took a deep breath, placing his palms together and resting them between his knees. "If I could--if it were possible, I'd marry you right this minute." Brian paused in squeezing out his shaving cream. "You would?" He glanced at Michael from the side of his eyes. "Scout's honor." "You were never a scout." "I had a crush on one. When I was little. At camp. He kissed me." Brian's eyes remained locked on Michael's face. "And you liked it, didn't you?" He reached over to chuck under Michael's chin. Michael grabbed the fingers, a bit more gentle with Brian this time. "C'mere." He motioned for Brian to come over, stand between his legs. He took the shaving cream can, squirting out the foam. He began to rub the soap on the stubble, laughing as he watched Brian puff out his cheeks and then pucker his lips. Before he went for the portable shaver, he bent Brian's head to tenderly press his lips on the discoloring skin. "Kisses make them heal faster. Ma used to tell me that." "Five out of four doctors say so too." Brian lifted his eyebrow, to see if Michael was paying attention to his joke. He wanted to touch Michael, hold his hips, but he couldn't without feeling a bit saddened and bitter at what faith he had lost. "I fucked it all up, didn't I?" He was turning his jaw line around for Michael to work on. Michael shook his head, pausing. "No, you didn't." "Not this. Before…" Brian's eyes were intense on Michael, wanting him to know how sorry he was. For everything he couldn't speak of. "… those years of friendship I wasted… needlessly… selfishly…" Michael smooshed Brian's lips closed, causing foam to end up on his hands and all over him. "We messed up. Hey, look at me." He snatched Brian's chin when he tried to avoid him. "I'm not admitting you were alone in this situation. I shared in the 'fuckin' up' department as well. If I'd only said one thing different. Had a little more of this and a helluva lot more of that…" "… we wouldn't be who we are right now, telling one another we were both at fault." Brian looked away, thinking. "Think it's always been in the timing?" "You mean… had we tried doing this our Senior year in high school? Would we have lasted or wanted to last… suffering everything we did when we weren't together?" Brian loosened his arms about his body, securing them to rest on the counter beside Michael's thighs. "No. I wasn't focused on anybody else. I only wanted out. Out of my father's house. Out of The Pitts." Michael was working on the upper lip, coming down the mouth's shape. "You going away to college would have put a much larger strain on us, had we been seriously dating. I don't think we would have lasted, either." "We nearly didn't last… anyway…" Brian recalled the past, staring down at Michael's head. "Eh… we managed to pull through, scathed but better for it. Though we liked being together, sharing our lives… we cold still strive for independence." "And now?" Michael looked at Brian, watching his lips smile, still covered with some shaving cream. "Well, you'd have to leave me. If you did, I'd die a little, but I'd move on." Brian chuckled, waving a hand. "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Why would I have to leave you for the fake scenario to work?" Michael picked up a small hand towel, rubbing off some of the foam leftover. "Wash our face, grizzly man." Brian proceeded to wash his face, completely. He poured out some musk into his palm, splashing his cheeks. "I, for your information, will not move from this spot." He washed his hands of the scent and wiped his skin clean. "Me, either." Michael pronounced in kind. "Well…" Brian thought about his wording. "… what I meant was -- never leaving you. Not ever leaving you in this bathroom." He squinted his eyes. "Is that what you meant?” Michael nodded on a light chuckle. “Yes, dear.” They were almost back to rights. Brian sighed, holding out his arms. "I'd carry you back to bed, but I may have concussed myself. And I don't wish to drop you on your perfectly rounded ass on the way." Michael waved his hand to ward off the worry. "I can walk." He slid off the counter, quickly washing his hands off, but only on the towel. He liked keeping the scent of Brian's shaving cream on his hands. "Here…" He quickly moved to take Brian's arm and elbow. "… I'll even guide you on your way back." "Sheesh... maybe you're the one who hit his head." "I can't take care of the man I love?" "Operative word being 'man'. Idiot, maybe, but not invalid or imbecile." Brian slipped on by, making a safe return to the bed. He climbed onto a side, they never chose particular ones. He made room for Michael to crawl in behind him. He simply needed to rest his head for awhile. Michael spooned behind Brian, sitting up higher on the pillows. He secured his arms about Brian's neck, pulling him flush to rest on him, like a human pillow. He took tender care of Brian, letting his head lay back on his chest. He was afraid for awhile there that he had scared Brian away. He hadn't meant to, but the way Brian was holding onto his arm, wrapped around him… he just needed the steady reassurance that things would be alright. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ When Jenny came down the stairs, she could see the table was set, breakfast was being cooked. Brian was leaning on an area of the kitchen counter, dressed for work, while her father was puttering about the floor. She hesitated to interrupt. They looked happy, laughing together at a mutual joke. She recalled coming down the stairs at home in Toronto, seeing her mother or Lindsay... not ever both. If they were together, there were shouting matches and doors slamming. Jenny stood quietly near an empty chair, simply content watching. Brian chuckled at something her father said and the silly antics he added making Brian almost choke on his sip of orange juice. "C'mere." Brian held out a hand for Michael to take. Once he snagged a few fingers, he flourished a suave move. They stood nearly chest to chest. Brian scrunched down to be level with Michael's face. "Just think..." He deeply kissed, his arms sloping down to Michael's waist, locking at the lumbar spine. "... I have tonight off. You, sir, can have me all to yourself." He dipped his head to kiss a piece of Michael's neck he knew would cause the knees to buckle. "Bend me to your will." "I seemed to recall both of us doing enough bending a few hours ago." Michael's snagged a hand at the back of Brian's hairline. "Not enough." "No. Never seems enough." Brian kept his face tucked into Michael's neck. "I wish--" "What?" Michael let his arm fall, rubbing Brian's back. "Seems silly..." Brian brought his head back up, taking a final gulp of the rest of his juice. "... making wishes that won't ever come true." "I'm here." Michael twirled in Brian's arms, making it seem like he was one "wish" of Brian's that came true. "Can I be of some help?" Brian traced a finger over Michael's cheek, ending at his lips. "If it were only that easy." He stared at the two pieces of plump flesh. Too much attention to them, making that sexy mouth look much fuller. It was no wonder Michael could still form words coherently. "Say it out loud. Maybe someone will hear." "I wish..." Brian still halted his speech. He sighed, then went on. "... that everything we wanted didn't have to come to us with a fight. Like it's not expected of us. As if we don't deserve this kind of happiness... every day.' “You could live like that?” Michael tilted his head, looking intently at Brian's eyes. "Having what you once hated that straight people have?" Brian shrugged one shoulder. "Why should they have all the fun? We need some 'glory', too. For every stupid prejudice we receive just for existing." "Is it possible to create a world like that? Where everything we want, or need, is easily attainable? And, really, does it make it less worthwhile if the road is less or more difficult?" "I don't know. I hate this. Wanting so much in this life I can't have. This house... you by my side... Jenny... Gus... my advertising agency... your comic book store. I want it all." “Are you patient enough to wait?” Michael couldn't help the tiny smile for leaking out. "Maybe those things will come to you?" Brian furrowed his brow in thoughtfulness. "Go on…" "Before, in your heyday of bachelorhood, did you ever think you'd be this passionate about complacency, remaining in one place for the rest of your life? Even monogamy? Giving yourself to me... your trust, your respect, your heart... everything you kept for yourself? All that you are and anything you thought you could be? Fatherhood and wanting to be there for Jenny and Gus? Needing their love and affection?" Michael soothed both hands down Brian's chest, playing with the folds of his suit jacket. "Don't you think, Mr. Kinney, you need to rest your weary brain and body and just let it all come to you? Because, shocking I know, you deserve everything. It's your time to be the man no one else believes you can be." “You really think that highly of me?” Brian had to look down, feeling tears gather, clogging his throat. "That I'm owed a patch of happiness?" "Yes." Michael laughed, shaking his head. "Will you sit back and allow us to do that for you? Stop trying so damn hard to figure it all out, attempting to find it on your own. That's what we're all here for. Me... Jenny... Gus... and uh, Hunter, if you don't mind. Ted.... when you can tolerate his squareness. Even Blake. And maybe... Emmett. But you don't have to if it's too much. Em can be a bit much for me at times." Brian smiled, a little shy. "Glad you're here to kick me in the ass. Set me right. Nobody does it quite like you." Michael rubbed a soft spot on Brian's cheek. "I'll always be here. Always." "Good... 'cause that makes me want to begin today even more." Brian quickly pecked Michael's mouth, extending the pressure for awhile. He picked up his briefcase off the counter. "Hey, tonight at dinner -- you and me – we will talk about that phone call to Melanie. Okay?" "Sure." Michael wiped hands on his hips. "Anything special you want for dinner?" He saw Brian's train of thought roll through his mind. Pervert. "... and no, I refuse to be the main course." He bowed like a lady in courtesy. "I'll take a 'midnight snack', if you're good for it." At Michel's snicker and agreement, Brian answered the dinner question. "Feel like going out?" "Not the Diner." "I didn't say the Diner was one of your choices." "Oh? Do you know of somewhere we can take Jenny? Is it new? Is it nice?" "Yup." Brian was almost on his way out of the kitchen, he kept hold of the wall's molding. "A potential client. Chef who owns his own restaurant. Family run, through-n-through. He went to cooking school over in Italy." Michael crossed arms over his chest. "But we had pasta last night." "There's other dishes on the menu. I hear he makes a mean hamburger." "Okay... sounds great. Maybe the food will be on the house." Brian turned his head, knowing exactly what made Michael agree. "How did I know you'd accept an offer of free food?" "Well, you do know me -- very well, I might add." Brian swiveled to head out. "See you when I see you." He had to get out soon or he would be here forever. "Bye, Brian. Call Jen down on your way out." Jenny finally jumped into view, spooking Brian. "… ''m up, Daddy!" She blocked Brian's exit. She walked toward Brian and grabbed for his dangling, empty hand. "… can I walk you to yur car?" Brian didn't know how to answer. Jenny was looking up at him with young "Michael" eyes. He was utterly speechless. "Sure." Jenny tugged, making their way to the front door. "… you gonna have a bizzy day?" Brian shook his head, wondering what secret Jenny had up her sleeve. "Nah, pretty light. Middle of the week, you know." Yeah… like a five-year-old child would completely understand. "… if Daddy an' I come see you, can we bring you lunch?" Jenny had walked through the foyer. "Bring me lunch. Lady Jenny, now you're talkin'." Michael shook his head as he watched Jenny, literally, drag Brian out the door. He wondered how long she had been standing in the dining room, listening. He didn't think much of it and tried to wrap his head around his To Do list for the store. He gathered dishes and food, waiting for Jenny's return so they could have their breakfast together. What he didn't expect was the blood curdling child's scream, then some yelling… "DADDY!" For a momentary second, Michael stopped and turned toward the living room window, thinking the neighbors were having quite a fight. Then something in the house crashed to the floor… shattering glass… and the curtains moved… Michael heard the quick footfalls of Jenny's shoes on the porch steps, then on the hardwood flooring. She frantically dashed in, having left the door wide open in her fright. "… Daddy! Come help… please! Brian… he…" Jenny's red, flushed cheeks were stained with tears. Her eyes were wide on her face, pupils dilated. "… he f-fell. He won' get up… he won' move…" Her shaking hands reached out for him to take them. "Daddy?!" "Dear God!" Michael was out the door in a flash, Jenny trailing behind him. ~~TBC...

He saw Brian on the ground as if he had fallen into the bushes lining the walkway to the car. Dear God… " Jesus!… no! NO! " Michael quietly begged like a child. About a billion medical conditions scrambled through his mind… save one. " Brian! " He kneeled, his thighs brushing up against Brian's back. He wanted to cradle him, hold him close, do something rather than sit here defenseless. He looked down and glanced about Brian's body. He didn't want to move him until he was fully awake again. Which he would be… yes, he would be . A dry sob formed in Michael throat, why in Heaven? Why? " Honey… c'mon… Brian… wha--? " He couldn't see what had happened… why? There wasn't anything around Brian to be suspect. Thank God Brian was breathing, the up-n-down motions of his chest were showing that fact. It… well, it basically looked as if Brian had fainted, because he appeared to be somewhat asleep. Jenny? Where was she? She was… as Michael glanced over his shoulder, peripherally, he saw her… standing silently, crying, wringing her hands on the porch. Oh, God… baby… sweetheart. " Sweetie… Jen… c'mere… " He held out his hand. "Daddy… I'm sorry… I didn' know…" Jenny grabbed her father's hand like a lifeline. She tucked her whole body into his side, as he stayed knelt on the ground. She simply sobbed in shock. "Hey… hey… calm down… he's okay. You did fine to come get me. Just… baby, tell me what happened?" Michael held Jenny's face in his hands, making her look into his eyes. To focus, assuage the fear of looking at a still and quiet Brian. He brushed back her dark ringlets. "… I wuz…" Jenny pointed toward the car. "… we got here... an'… I walk'd there... but Brian stopp'd an' then he…" She squeezed her eyes shut. She put a little palm to her temple. "… he went like this... an' fell..." She didn't dare look yet, so she simply gestured with her head. "Jen, I need you to do something for me. Look at me." Michael moved Jenny's chin again for her to raise her head. "Go into the house. Bring me -- two…" He held up two fingers. "… two bottled waters, from the fridge. And bring me a towel… one towel… I washed some last night so they should be folded and in piles on the kitchen counter. Got that? Two bottled waters and a towel from the kitchen." He needed to give her busy work to keep her occupied and feeling useful. “Can you do that for me, Jen?” "Yes, Daddy." Jenny reached up to squeeze her father's hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry." She bit her top lip to keep back tears and scurried off. Michael released a huge breath of relief. Dear God… Oh God… Brian had simply fainted, losing consciousness from the bump he had received on his head from the bed frame scrollwork. Once Michael had water, he could wake Brian up with no problem. But for now, he would take a few seconds to deep breathe and find his heart on the ground, probably laying under Brian. Michael wanted to kick him and kiss him at the same time. A couple of curious neighbors, who had heard Jenny scream and yell for her "Daddy", stood on their porches in curiosity. None curious enough to call an ambulance or the cops. Michael knew as long as he didn't freak out, no one else would. "… here, Daddy." Jenny handed her father the towel first, watching him lay it down on his thighs. Next was one bottle, then the second. She tucked a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear. She had found a ponytail scrunchie, discovering she couldn't be active with hair in her face. "… is Brian gonna--?" She put a hand to her mouth. "Die?" Michael smiled sweetly, then opened the first bottle to dampen the towel. "No, Jen. He'll feel awful, kind of like he wants to die, but no. He's gonna live." "… can I help?" Guilt pushed Jenny to try to do anything she could for Brian to be okay. Her voice sounded shaky, nervous. Michael decided that Jenny appeared calmer, somewhat. He didn't know when it happened, but she was okay on the surface, just a bunch of jumbled nerves and fear, underneath. "You can hold his hand. Sit over--" Jenny found herself a spot, taking Brian's limp hand in hers and placing palm to palm. "… yeah, that's good. He'll want to see your face when he opens his eyes." Jenny wrinkled her brow. "Why?" She cradled her hand, with Brian's, to her corduroy jumper front. "When he wakes up, he will feel as bad was you do, maybe worse. And he's gonna apologize… a lot." Michael lightly chuckled, then poured the rest of the water over Brian's head and face. Brian sputtered awake, stunned and a bit disoriented. He felt wet and dirty, learning he was laying curiously on the cold hard cement… and his hand was in Jenny's clasp. "Jen… wha--?" "… you fell, Brian." Jenny replied, reaching to smooth out his wet hair from his head. She made a face at the bruise growing on his temple. Something told her it wasn't a good thing to touch. Brian rolled his eyes, earnestly ashamed. "Was I graceful? Or did I lop over like a marionette?" He didn't like the film of tears in Jenny's eyes and the way she tightly held onto his hand. Like he could have been on his deathbed. "Your fath--Mich--" He looked over his shoulder, already feeling the intense warmth at his back. "Oh… hey…" He shrugged his shoulders, like it was his usual morning workout to faint on the way to the car. "Ask Jen… she saw everything." "Jenny… no… sweetie…" Brian tried to move, but the world became wobbly and titled. "Whoa!" Michael was able to catch him, settling him back on his chest. "Here." Michael opened the second water bottle, off to the side. "Drink this. Losing consciousness gives you dry mouth." He handed the bottle down to Brian. "Jen?" "Yes, Daddy?" Jenny let Brian's hand loose, wiping an entire sleeve under her leaking nose. Brian had to look away, shutting his eyes. "One more favor." Michael held up one finger. "... 'kay." Jenny mumbled as she stood up, not sure she wanted to leave Brian's side, just yet. "Go inside the fridge again. I need you to bring Brian something fizzy to drink. Like Ginger Ale… or Sprite… 7-Up…" "… 'kay." Jenny was about to move, but she bent down to kiss Brian's forehead. "Sorry, Brian." She softly petted his hair again, picking out a piece of wood shaving from the landscaping. "No… wait… no…" Brian tried to grab for Jenny's hand, but she was too springy and gone. "… shit…" Michael latched onto Brian's shoulder forcing him backwards to lay on him. "Ssshhh… lean against me." "Michael, I think she has some idea she almost killed me." Brian kept trying to move, but it was like something was holding him down. “I need to--” "Quit it! No. Sit still or you'll--" "Or I'll what--?" Brian attempted to sit upright on his own, his eyes almost rolled back into his head again. He leaned over to his left, proceeding to up-chuck the food he had eaten for breakfast in the bushes. "… or you'll throw up." Michael heaved a sigh. He glanced down at Brian's forehead, moving the spiked locks to see the bruise forming on the temple. "You hit your head harder than we thought." He stopped speaking, tightening his mouth from overwrought emotions. "I was fine before." "You were running on adrenaline, Brian. I should have insisted you stay home today." “I can't.”Brian sat back against Michael's chest, drinking water and taking the offered moist towel. "Even though it's a light day, we still have contracts to work on and clients' wishes to fulfill. I--my work is never done, even when I want it to be." "You want to do all this while being brain damaged?" Michael knew it sounded stupid, but Brian sometimes had no common sense about his own health. "Michael--" Brian wasn't offended, but there was a point of not being too dramatic about this. He just fainted. Simple. "No. I'm taking you to the Emergency Room. A quick check up to see if you're okay and then… maybe… I'll allow you to go into your office and work. For a few--a few… like four hours." He held down "four" fingers for Brian to clearly read. "So… what? You're going to cancel all those interviews you had set up, close the store… for me?" "If it helps to make sure you stay alive or upright all day… healthy and conscious… shit yeah! I'm the Boss. I can do what I want, when I want!" "Yes, Bossman!" Brian had to laugh. He couldn't see Michael's face, but he knew it must be on fire. "Sorry… I used my indoor yelling voice inappropriately." "It's okay." Brian sang sweetly, pushing back against Michael. “It was buffered with love.” Michael snaked his arms about Brian, from behind. "You fuckin' scared me." He muttered near Brian's ear. He kissed the non-injured temple. "Don't ever do that again." Brian took his empty hand to sooth Michael's forearm over his belly. "Thought you'd lost me?" "Yeah… 'bout a million-n-one things went through my mind. I even looked for a sniper's gunshot wound." "Well… Christ! That's not encouraging." "Daddy…" Jenny returned, slowly walking up beside her father on the sidewalk. She was carrying a glass filled with ice and some fizzy soda. In her other hand was a half empty can of the same soda, but a bendy straw poking out of the open spout. "… is this okay for Brian?” She had brought the “fizzy stuff” two kind of ways, unsure how Brian would want to drink. “... you drink brown bottle stuff wit' no glass, but… sumtimes you have iced tea, like Daddy, an' there's a straw... then othur times you like ice… so here…" She held out both items for Brian to have. And in that moment of thoughtfulness, Brian knew exactly what Michael had meant about waiting patiently for love and happiness to come to him… finally. "Jenny… have you ever wanted to visit a hospital's emergency room?" Brian decided he would suffer the tedious consequences for Jenny's sake and to save himself from Michael's wrath. What we won't do for love, huh? ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ Brian was grudgingly laying on the ER bed, one railing side down. They were going to put both up because of his recent fainting tendencies, but he gave Michael a look that told him… let's compromise… and he had gotten his way. Laying on his left side, he was pushed against the railing, his arm folded and drawn up under his head. He was looking across at Jenny, who was seated at his bedside in a chair. Jenny looked smaller, a little fear still in her eyes. She was trying to soak in her first experience in a hospital. Hands folded properly in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle. They had drawn the privacy curtain around Brian's ER cubicle. They could only see feet shuffling about. Brian was dressed in a hospital gown, naked upper torso, but he had resigned to keep his trousers on. He darted his eyes over toward Jenny, wishing she could look at him without wanting to tear up. "Were you scared?" Jenny's head quickly glanced up, her shoulders shrugging. "… yes, when you fell... but then Daddy came an' say by you... he knew what to do, how to help…" She sighed shutting her eyes and shaking her head, the memory so clear in her head. Her emotions in her throat, the fear and the intense pain in her heart. "… nope... but 'm worr'd 'bout you...” Briann settled further into the pillow, he made enough room for Jenny to climb up. "I, uh…" He hadn't apologized to her, because he was trying to formulate the best response to make her feel better. He doubted he could, but he would damn well try. "… no… don'..." Jenny slid down, got off the chair and walked to the bed edge. She stood next to the frame, making sure she wouldn't get in trouble for wanting to crawl next to Brian. "… do you—can I--?" Her fingers barely skimmed the hospital bed sheets. Brian smirked, coming closer to hold out his hands. "I'll tell The Doc the best cure for me is Lady Jenny. I'm the patient, I rule my care." He found a force of strength in him to pull her up. His arms were accidentally open wide and Jenny simply crawled within the circle. Her ear purposefully resting on Brian's heart, hearing its strong beat. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her soft plait of hair. God… she felt right being in his arms -- a sudden sense of love, loving. He knew he didn't have to say a thing to make it right with Jenny. She had found a way to make it right for herself. "And…" He spoke through her hair, settling to rest his cheek on the raven locks. "… now I'm fine." Jenny tucked her body into herself, snuggling into Brian. "… you goin' to work?" She felt the tears surface, but she liked their talking more. "Nah…" Brian began to comb through the dark hair, fanning it out on his body. Every so often, he twirled a piece around his fingers, making poor excuses for curls. "… I'm thinking of taking some good advice given to me and using a 'sick day'." "Neato." Jenny smiled against Brian's chest, she began to think of what they could do together. "… we can watch cartoons an'… Nick-lo-deon Jr.… I like the shows… or we can read… play games…" She knew Brian wouldn't agree to her Barbie-s or her dolls, so she hushed about them. Brian wasn't keen on any of those, but suffering through them was his way of making up for things he couldn't say. Just being able to see Jenny smile or laugh, he would put himself through worser tortures. "Are the cartoons educational?" He could go for South Park or Ren & Stimpy. He would even watch Animaniacs or Pinky & The Brain. But if she made him watch something… toddler-oriented… he would pretend to faint again and go sleep in his bedroom upstairs. Yes… he was a wuss. "… w'a's that?" "Hey… what about Sesame Street? I haven't watched that in a month of forevers." Jenny lifted her head, looking at Brian's face. Her eyes huge. Brian knew… Sesame Street? "Big Bird? Bert & Ernie? Oscar, The Grouch? Baby Bear? Elmo?" Brian had nodded his head, until the last two puppet characters. "Of course. It's been around since I was your age, an' even before that." "Really? I watched it when I was younger." Younger? What the--? "Lady Jenny, may I remind you… you're only four." Jenny sat on the mattress, still within Brian's arms. "In two months, I'll be five." She said it proudly, as if it were thirty-five. "… oooo… soooo old." Brian teased, feeling the tiny elbow jut into his gut. "Ufff…" "… imma be oldur than I wuz..." "Jenny, savor the age you are, no matter what. When you become old like me, you'll regret the losses." Brian rubbed the back of one finger down Jenny's flushed cheek. "Old? Older than five?" Jenny was curious to know how old Brian was, he acted younger than he made himself sound. "Much… much older." Brian saw a hand come between the part in the curtains, Michael slipping through backward to pull the section closed. "… Mich--" His voice caught at the look on Michael's face, the paleness… the shock… the, uh… dread? What had--? "We wondered where you got off to." He tried to make light of his own worry. The way Michael appeared surely couldn't be concerning his medical condition. There was nothing wrong with him, he was fine. He felt fine, besides the big lump on his forehead and the funny sensations in his stomach. The dizziness had lifted, but he was a little shaken when walking upright. As long as he had someone next to him to hang onto, he was fine. "I was nowhere." Michael didn't mean to sound cryptic, but this really wasn't the place he wanted to discuss his news -- shocking, jaw-dropping news. He wished he could tell Brian his appearance wasn't because of the news the Doctor told him. He was fine; Brian was as healthy as he had been before arriving. "Did the doctor come in to talk to you, yet?" "No. Just me an' Jenny… the last forty minutes or so." Brian joked, trying to make the scene lighter. He hadn't been bored, he was bewildered by how long Michael had been gone, wishing he would come back soon. "Oh…" Michael then realized he stayed away too long. "Well, maybe he was waiting for me to come back, so he could--" Come back? Where in the hell had Michael gone? "Mr. Novotny…" The tall, elder salt-n-pepper haired doctor strolled through the curtains. "… the nurse told me you'd returned. So… okay…" He seated himself on a rolling stool. He patted his thighs, having set Brian's medical records and some x-rays on the bed. Michael looked behind him and rolled over the bed table for the doctor to use as a desk. "Hey… thanks." The doctor pushed up his glasses on his nose. "… here are the Pros…" Taking the x-ray negative films -- a head series: including head X-ray and head MRI. He rolled over to a plastic box on the wall, reaching up to turn on a halogen backlight. "X-rays are fine. Both. No severe bone fracture shown and no internal cerebral damage." The doctor lifted up his eyes to see the little girl slip closer into Brian's clutch. "I, uh… saw..." He rolled over to pick up Brian's stack of charts they had collected. He opened the top one up first. "… from your old charts that you had testicular cancer. Your growth was removed – found to be benign. And you received some fairly intense, radical chemotherapy and radiation treatments." He then looked up to see Mr. Novotny slink up to stand behind Brian on the bed. A small hand coming out to lay on Brian's arm on the railing. The doctor waited for Brian to reply, but he saw so much more than he heard. "Yes, but…" Brian got a little uncomfortable. Michael had never been around for his initial treatments for his cancer. This was new for him. Damn, this was not the way he wanted Michael introduced to his medical health. "… I had a 99% chance of recovery. And, so far, I've been in remission state. Well, since the ending of those series of treatments and then a follow up biopsy, just recently." He had never had anyone in the room with him during his cancer scare. This would be as new to him too. "I know… and your chart clearly shows that. Look, I don't need to tell you how rough those treatments are, because you went through them and survived. But my point is this -- being a prior cancer patient puts you in a constant high risk category no matter how long ago the cancer struck. You have to realize… remember those drugs, they were not a walk in the park. What they do and did to your body. Especially your bones and joints. They were severely weakened. Not only had they seeped out every ounce of your energy, they stamped your mobility's future as being iffy. That would depend on how well you took care of yourself. The residual effects can sometimes last only weeks, months… Some even years following the treatments ending." Brian sighed, leaning his head back on the pillow. Damn… He closed his eyes, feeling Michael's other hand come up to brush back his hair. He looked over at him and gave a bittersweet smile. They were both understanding the news, good and bad. Brian would, literally, have to slow down. The doctor could see the little girl's intense gaze on him. Brian must take her to the playground often, so he knew how to ease everyones' fears a tiny bit. "So, Brian…" His patient raised his head back up. "… no swings or jungle gyms for you." Brian raised his eyebrow. "That's not a Con?" The doctor chuckled. Brian had a good disposition, despite hating the very sight and idea of hospitals. And he didn't seem to have much thought to doctors, but he respected their talents. "No Cons. Other than a lumpy forehead in a day or two. You don't seem too vain of a man…" He didn't catch Brian and Michael's little snickers under their breathes. "… there will be a dark red bruise first, followed by our traditional black and blue hues. Then our nasty, yucky greenish-yellow blend and shortly thereafter it will dissipate. The 'knot', as we medical professionals call it, will be filling with blood and/or puss. Which hopefully disappears on its own. If not, you'll come back here and have a cut-n-drip." "Excuse me?!" "Sorry… ER/Trauma lingo…" Using his hands and the tip of his pen, the doctor demonstrated on his own forehead. "We'll slice a cut on the skin of the knot and drain it. Best example… it's like a big pimple popping." "Yuck." Jenny made a sour face. Brian and Michael chuckled at Jenny's show of disgust. Yeah… it hadn't sounded appealing to them, either. "You can't do that now?" Brian didn't want to whine, because he didn't feel like returning anytime soon. The doctor quickly got up, walking toward Brian. He was tall enough to reach over and be able to touch Brian's temple, without Jenny being in his way. She still moved, a little. "Right now… the blood is beginning to work its way in." He lifted the butterfly bandage off to peek, then show Mr. Novotny. "See… kind of spider web-looking and severely red. Those are the blood vessels coming to the surface." He shifted, putting his hands in his labcoat pockets. "By tonight, it should start to darken, then tomorrow… Brian, you'll have a nice, shiny boo-boo." "That's it?" Brian wasn't spooked, minimally overwhelmed. He watched the doctor sit back on the rolling stool. He was reopening Brian's newer ER chart, scribbling things. "I have your discharge instructions here." The doctor tore off a color-coded copy for his patient. He then took out his pen and wrote lower on the paper. "I'll give you my beeper number, for emergencies." He clarified while looking over the entire paper again. "Pretty much what I discussed with you already, but I will add… no work for the rest of the week. Take these days, and even the weekend, to rest… relax. See how you feel on Monday." Brian opened his mouth to disagree, but Michael tightened his hand on his arm. "Let him finish, Brian." Brian tightened his lips, allowing the doctor to proceed. The doctor understood why Brian was frustrated. So he thought he would make a good enough plea. "What worried me the most was the delay in your dizziness and the fainting spell. It should have hit you once you woke up this morning or immediately after you hit your head. But, there are some medical oddities I can't define, so I leave that up for you to figure out. I know you don't want to come back here… nor do I or Mr. Novotny." He stood to hand over the DC instructions to Mr. Novotny's hand. "We're sending you home with some extra bandages and pain medications. You may develop a headache, but it's not a guarantee. It's a small supply of both, so only use them if you really need to. The nurse will have those bags for you when you're ready to leave." "Thanks, Doctor." Michael responded as he held out a thankful hand toward the distinguished medical professional. He folded the discharge paper, stuffing it in his pocket to peruse later. "Thank you, Mr. Novotny." The doctor was passing by the bottom of the bed, and all he did was lay a cold, yet gentle fatherly hand on Brian's leg. He shook it quickly. "Take care, Brian." "Yeah, thanks…" Brian waited until the doctor was entirely gone. "… thanks a lot." He then swiveled to glance over at Michael. "You hear that? Three days… no work? Does he know who I am? Does he think I just magically pull money out of my ass?" Michael had both hands around the top railing, he was ready to talk about something else. What had truly been on his mind when he first came into the ER cubicle. "Brian… hush up. Focus." "Focus? On what? Losing clients? Possibly… losing my business?" "Well, you're only human and I've never truly seen you take a vacation. 'Sides, what could go wrong if you leave Ted and Cynthia in charge? I'm sure they've gotten capable of knowing more about clients and their contracts than you do." Brian turned onto his back fully, staring wide-eyed at Michael. "What is that supposed to mean?" Michael snickered, shaking his head. Brian's ego was so fragile when it came to his business sense. "I don't know, but stop complaining. The problem is being fixed as we speak." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his cell phone. "I already put in a call to Cynthia. Anyway…" He was pushing some random buttons. "… Brian, I need you to concentrate on something else." Brian was happy for the change of subject. Anything to get his mind off where he was and having to skip work for three days. "What? What is it? You've been preoccupied since you came back." "You'll understand why… once you hear this…" Michael tossed over his cell phone, watching Brian pick it up. "Michael, what--?" Brian listened to the automated woman's voice saying to enter a voice mail code. "The code." Michael told him the numbers and he pressed the asterisks button. He could barely hear the voice. By plugging one ear, he discovered he recognized it as Melanie's, coupled with a lot of sobbing. "Whoa! What the hell did she say?" Two words stuck in his head, but he didn't believe them. Michael came around the other side of the bed, climbing up to sit with Jenny and Brian on the mattress. "Wait until the end, you'll get a prompt to repeat the message." Brian did exactly that, able to focus clearly on Melanie's words. "Oh… my…" He looked as if he was deflating air. "I, uh… when--?" He understood now why Michael looked so flabbergasted and bewildered. "She must have called late last night. I finished up some laundry, before I came up to bed… and put my phone in the charger downstairs. I never heard it ring." Brian fiddled with the phone, wishing to play the message again… just to be sure everything was true. "Did she seem coherent to you? I mean… beyond all the teary, blubbered words." Michael shrugged, unable to believe how Fate could have turned on a dime for him. "I don't really know. I'd like to think so. That's probably why she was crying. Finally getting a clear head and all." "This--" Brian turned his head to look directly at Michael. "This is--" "… too good to be true?" Michael smiled, lopsided. He really didn't know how to react. Good news and bad at the same time. "Like a miracle." Brian glanced down at the back of Jenny's head, realizing what this meant. "It's exactly what you--what we've wanted." His hand came up to brush through the long hair. Weird that his skin tingled now from the silky sensations. Jenny was… Jenny would soon be… Michael sidled closer to Brian's legs, leaning slightly on their strength. He looked at Jenny who innocently smiled up at her father. Michael couldn't even say the words. His hand slid up Brian's leg and reached out for a reassuring touch. Brian quietly obliged, squeezing the fingers. By the end of the week, Melanie will have sent legal papers to Michael's lawyers office, giving him full custody of their daughter. His parental rights reinstated. Jenny would be his… as she was always meant to be. Michael leaned on Brian, hanging on for dear life… in case he decided to faint too. Jenny crinkled her brow slightly, seeing a change in her father's features. His eyes danced with wetness. "You okay, Daddy." "Yes, baby… never better." "… see…" Jenny reached over to pat her father's thigh. "… Brian's all better... thanks to you." She nodded once in silent agreement with her own words. She sat between her father and Brian… content. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ Both Ted and Cynthia had completely understood about Brian needing to be away from the office for the rest of the week. They were earnestly concerned about their Boss, but not willing to constantly be on a "fainting watch" or possibly catching Brian doing further injury to himself. Not that they couldn't handle it, if it happened, but just nice to not have the worry at all. Brian was slouched on the couch, dead center, staring ahead of him into the fireplace. "Should I be hurt… or worried… or relieved that my troops feel better prepared without me to deal with our clients?" Michael chuckled, he was scooting in between the kitchen and the living room, putting things away. Cleaning up the mess from breakfast, packaging the food to reheat later on. "Brian, it's not a reflection of your work ethic. In fact, you specifically chose these two people to work closely at your side. They knew one day would come where they had to be you when you can't." "No one can be me, but me." Brian muttered, wishing he had enough energy to want to sit correctly, but he was oddly comfortable, crooked and sloppy on the cushions. "Thank God for that!" Michael teased, waiting for the moment Brian would stand and try the stairs. He wasn't willing to allow Brian to chance gravity that much… maybe later… when it was time for bed. "Feel like something for lunch?" He easily offered. The plates were still on the table for a meal of some kind. Brian did something -- he furrowed his brow. "Is it really that late?" “Almost noon.” Michael glanced at his watch. "I'm feeding Jenny. I could make you--" "I'm actually not that hungry. Something about seeing my digested 'breakfast' on the ground. Kind of quells hunger for awhile." Brian found if he shifted a little… he gained momentum to sink deeper into the cushions. "Oh, yeah… what do you want to do about tonight?" Michael had his cell phone in his hand. He came out to the living room, standing near the end of the couch. "Huh?" Had Brian missed a piece of conversation? “Your potential client. If you know the number, I can call and cancel the reservation.”Michael was leaning on the edge of the couch, anticipating a phone number. He found that if he was still, his hands actually shook. What was wrong? Was it nerves? Over what? "Michael… c'mere…" Brian was seated upright, patting the empty section of cushion beside him. "I have to--" Michael made a weak gesture with his phone and hand, toward the kitchen, where all the food was to make lunch. "Jen--she's--" "Jenny's outside, Michael. Preoccupied with her toys like every kid usually is." Brian didn't like the look to Michael's features, like a deer caught in headlights. "C'mere… I need you to do something for me." Michael tentatively walked closer, knowing what Brian might do. "I don't need you to coddle--" He moved quickly, caught between Brian's large knees and the coffee table. He was stuck, looking for an outlet. Brian had trapped him, right and good. "Look, I'm fine." He choked on a swallow. Only because now that the shock of knowing Jenny was finally going to be his daughter, for real, he could now refocus on what had scared him before leaving for the hospital. Brian -- still and not moving. Jenny's scream and her tears. The sheer fear of what he might have lost had things gone differently. Always wondering… why me? But he could clearly see Brian smiling and looking utterly gorgeous and… alive… living, breathing… wanting to touch… being. Michael wasn't sure he hadn't fallen more in love with Brian in this one second simply knowing he existed, right in front of him. Here to see another day. He only knew something in his mind had switched, one thought for a new one. Brian shook his head, seeing the telltale light shaking of Michael's hands as he clutched the phone to his chest. He was frightened of something, possibly something from earlier this morning. "No… you're not. If you don't come here, I'll have to get up from my very relaxed position… and make you." He wasn't sounding forceful or commanding; his voice was actually soft, like a whisper. He knew exactly what Michael needed from him. If only he would move… dammit… Brian motioned for Michael to take his outstretched hand. When he reluctantly did, Michael was brought down. He lay crossways on Brian's chest, half on and half off the couch. It worked for them. It looked awkward and uncomfortable, but it was often their way to simply lay on one another, even if it didn't look right. If they wanted, they could easily slide down to the cushions and lay spooned, Michael's back flush with Brian's chest. Only now, Brian was sitting straight, clutching Michael to his deeply breathing chest. Michael had a stranglehold of Brian's forearm across his upper torso. He could feel the face tucked, lips hibernating in his neck, warm breath flowing down his naked skin under his shirt. His initial fear of seeing Brian on the ground… sputtering him into talking. For the first time about his fear of long ago. "I stumbled upon Vic, much like you. So still… not moving…" "Jesus… Michael…" Were apologies worth much in this scenario? Brian shut his eyes, feeling the empathetic pain and heartache of entering the room where someone you loved had just died… and you didn't know. The constant suffering of always willing to be the survivor of a loved one's death. Vic… Ben and then Hunter, but surprisingly Michael almost skipped out on his own best friend's uncertain outcome. Brian held that as his most regretful action. Michael had never known, never got to "be there" for someone he loved. "Don't." Michael soothed a hand along Brian's naked forearm, feeling the light hairs under his palm. He needed to feel Life under him. Needed the touch of someone who loved him. It was the only way he knew he could speak. "You carry no fault here. Nor do I. I seem to attract Death. Death likes me. Likes to see me suffer and fumble, falter. Death's so unforgiving." He wasn't sure he could do this, but he was going to try. "But I fight it back, knowing I'll cope." He began to dry sob, memories flooding him of the very day. "Only regrets now." He bowed his head, the real tears falling unchecked. Brian knew what was coming next. He tried to prepare himself, but felt Michael needed him more. "Vic was in his chair, like he'd been watching TV for hours. He was cold… so cold. Like ice. I touched him… I thought--I thought he was just asleep, but the second we connected, I was chilled. Ice through my veins. I didn't know what to do or say, but I knew. He was gone. Just gone. Nothing. No more. I was too late. One minute earlier… would he have been alive?" Michael shook his head at what he had suffered for everyone. Keeping silent while trying to remain strong. Of wanting to crumble under the stress, needing the warmth of a friendly pair of arms. Not to talk, but just to let him be… sad. "Did I say anything to upset him? Had I said enough of how I felt, so he knew how much I loved him... wherever he was going? He left me and I didn't get to say goodbye." He leaned back on Brian, trying to control the wetness on his face. He wanted to scream, but this time he felt content to simply whisper the truth toward Brian. Only for him, so he would understand. "But then… can we ever say enough 'g'byes' to make the feelings last a lifetime? Just so the memories never fade away?" “I'm so glad you told me.” Brian secured both his arms around Michael, as he sunk them down to lay on their sides, spooning. "I knew there was something else besides--" Michael rolled to face Brian in his arms. His hands snaking up the folds of the shirt to touch flesh. Brian didn't know if he could find his next breath. Feeling those small hands on him, seeing Michael so enchanting, smiling yet with tears on his face. So deeply puzzling, yet captivated by his charm. "… uh, Melanie's call." Hazel eyes darted to-n-fro collecting images along the way. The back of his hand caressed down Michael's flushed cheek. "I can't promise I won't unexpectedly die on you. Don't make me…" Brian was positively caught by how intense Michael's stare was, but not on his face alone. Like he was trying to remember right in the moment. As if he would easily forget what Brian looked like. Michael didn't lift his eyes. He touched Brian's mouth, tenderly, watching the lips move… speaking so much of what was felt in the steadily beating heart under him. He thought he heard his name. "I know. I'm not expecting you to promise me the impossible. That's asking too much of anyone." "If I could…" Brian kissed the grouping of fingers, tracing his lips down the inside of the wrist, letting the hand rest on his face. "… know that I would do anything I could to live forever. If only for you." Michael shook his head, fingers lost in the satiny tangle of Brian's hair. "You shouldn't say that." "Why?" Brian quirked up one eyebrow. "Because that's what I wanted to say for you." Foreheads fell… meshing, like always. The energy… the jolt… the connection building and churning between both men. The love… genuine love… powerful love… intense and painful. Making the other breathe differently, knowing how much of a long empty road to their future they had together, but still feeling as if every second had to count, turning minutes into elongated hours. Wanting… Needing… Existing together. "Stop crying." Brian grabbed Michael's face in one hand as he was the first to lift his head, breaking the connection. Never letting his eyes move from Michael's. "Jenny will get worried. She's had enough scares for today." Michael wanted to savor every inch of Brian, images imprinted to make sure he could recall the intricate looks to the adored face before him. Never forget… always there. "I never knew. I didn't know that in one second of seeing you on the ground that I could lose you that quickly. I knew in my head, but seeing, with my own eyes. It just knocked me down. I wanted--" Michael felt the tears grow again, wanting to be closer to Brian, even in their clothes. Brian hugged Michael to his body, finally allowing him to bury his face. Giving him the justification to hide. "Ssshhh… ssshhh…" He felt the sobs on his chest, knew they would be the end of him. "Oh, Mikey… you fuckin' break my heart…" He rubbed and soothed Michael with his hand on his back, not knowing what to do to make it all better. He felt his own eyes pooling, never knowing tears fell. "I'm alive… touch me… feel me." He knew Michael could take good instructions, so the nimble hands search for skin. "No cancer. Just a knock on the head that might do me some good." He pulled back, caught up in having an emotionally wrought Michael in his arms. He couldn't help but want kiss it better. "We're fine." The first time he knew he was crying… he tasted his tears on Michael's lips. Felt the soft hands tenderly scrape his face, pushing and pulling, wanting more. Needing to know… for real… that Brian was here. "I've got you…" His hands surrounded Michael's face, holding it precious in his grip. "… you're in my arms for good. You're already in my soul… my heart… my body…" He dipped again to take a simple taste of Michael's lips. "Christ… you're my fuckin' next breath… you're everything to me… and so much more…" Michael put out a hand to fully cover Brian's mouth, making him stop speaking. He replaced fingers with his own lips. He was resigned now to ask out of sheer fear of wanting to know. Was this how Brian had felt? As his mouth found distance, he asked, "Marry me?" He didn't allow Brian to answer quickly, his lips were back… searching for his heart's fulfillment. "Before… after… during Ted's wedding… in, whenever, that…" He pointed behind his head, where the shelf carried the Terracotta planter. "… stupid-ass fugly plant sprouts, I don't know, buddin' fuckin' blood red roses… you are weddin' me… right and proper." He nodded his head in his own agreement. "I can't lose you…" His lips came down for another taste, but Brian wouldn't allow it. Brian wasn't angry. He was in thoughtful contemplation, but he was a little shocked. Hadn't they already broached this subject earlier? "I didn't hit my head to make you feel sorry for me. I'm not marrying you because you can't bear to see me die." "No… I don't mean that…" Michael touched Brian's face, gently caressing. "Well, then… what do you mean?" Brian raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Does the question matter more from you than from me?" "No, please, Brian. That's not--don't be upset. God--" Michael shut his eyes in silent frustration. He thought he felt Brian try to get up, but he had read it wrong. "No… don't… don't let me go…" He buried his head in shame, pulling Brian closer. Was this how he made Brian feel… for simply asking… wanting to know? "Stop me from talking. I'm scared. I'm babbling. Don't listen to me." As he shook his head, he felt the hand clamp his jaw, bringing his face up with lips connecting, softly. Michael sighed, resting against Brian's chest. "I love you… you're alive… I love you… you're safe… that's gotta be enough… yeah, I think so…" "Michael…" Brian whispered against Michael's mouth. "Hmm?" Michael opened his eyes, seeing hazel eyes grow darker. "You are so adorable when you ramble incoherently." "Hold me. I'll shut up." "Mikey…" Brian sang out sweetly, almost playful. He traced his index finger over Michael's face. "Brian…" "I figured it out." Michael heard the pride in Brian's voice. He looked into his face. “What?” "This…" Brian made a gesture to show the situation they were in, not to mention the position. "I think we've come to a weird compromising conclusion." He saw the wonder on Michael's face. "We're at a neutral point. This relationship is never going to be enough… for either of us." What was Brian trying to say? "But it's what we want ." "Exactly. But we keep discovering there's so much more buried underneath." "So when do we know when it will be enough and there isn't any more?" "I guess… when the time is right. But we seem to want the same outcome." Brian wasn't going to say it. It seemed a sore subject for them both. Marriage… seemed to be something they had both thought about and wanted with one another, but there was something in their way. "And when will we know the time is right?" "Later." Brian made a motion to show way, way into the future. "We have to be patient enough to know when the time is right." He saw Michael's worry on his face. He could say something, but not mention the exact wording. "Michael, it's in us both. To make the offer of our hands to the other, but we keep missing the beat." "But we're okay?" "Yeah." Brian kissed Michael to make him feel better. "We're stronger than we've ever been." "We can't be on the same page because the other person feels it's the wrong time?" Michael was slowly realizing what Brian was saying and it made sense. "Yeah." "We suck." Brian chuckled deeply, hugging Michael. He fixed them on the couch. "Nobody's perfect." He was now holding Michael on top of his chest. One of his favorite ways to sleep with Michael, wanting the gentle weight on his body. "Oh, well… you are sometimes." "Why, thank you." Brian got an elbow to his gut. "Ow." He made a sound with his mouth, like letting out a gulp of air. "Ego deflating." Michael didn't move, laying like water over Brian, surrounding him with every one of his body parts. "I'd enjoy being here with you like this, but Jenny will get hungry soon and I have to feed her." "Are you really prepared for this house to grow?" Brian combed back Michael's spikes. “You'll have two kids to feed soon.” "You mean the addition of Gus to our lives?" Brian nodded, kissing the top of Michael's head. “You do know this isn't permanent?” He moved his legs slightly, trapping Michael's between his. "Yeah, but… even for however long he's here, we still have a lot to accomplish." "And that was 'code' for?" Brian snickered, feeling Michael join in his laughter. "Fixing the damage that's been done. Making sure Gus knows we love him… we want him here… and, above all else, he's worth all the trouble we're going through." Brian grabbed Michael's biceps, lifting him upward and then along his body so their faces were inches apart. "I say the words almost secretly in our bed, but if I could ever tell you I love you more than that second… it would be now." Michael pecked Brian's lips, smiling on the skin. Brian crossed his arms down Michael's back, holding him captive. "Means a lot that you're willing to open your home to my son." Michael hovered over Brian's face, his hands on the couch arm above Brian's head. "Wherever I am will always be a home for you and Gus. I'd like to think of him as ours, you know… if it all works out for us in the end." "We should talk with Jenny soon." "Bedtime?" "If we told her about her own situation now, we could probably use tonight at the restaurant as a semi-celebration." Michael nodded his head. "And save the news about Gus until bedtime?" "If you want." "I think it's a great idea." Michael lifted one hand from the couch armrest, to tenderly touch Brian's face, simply fascinated. Brian felt trapped, bound and gagged by Michael's gaze. "Yeah… glad you thought of it." "Brian?" "Yeah?" "You can let me go now. I'm okay." "Oh… sorry…" Brian had forgotten he had bodily caught Michael. He loosened each of his muscles and bones, becoming limp and flexible under Michael. Michael had only moved his legs onto the floor, his chest and arms were still on Brian's body. "Don't apologize for that." He dipped his head to kiss a spot on Brian's neck. "I know exactly how you feel." He whispered his last words near the available earlobe, distracting Brian with a bite. "Ow…" Brian pouted to see Michael totally remove himself. "I'll just… lay here… and look good enough to eat." He attempted to put on a "sexy look" for Michael. Michael busted out laughing on his way back into the kitchen to start making a meal for he and Jenny. "You… crack me up… so… so funny. I think I'll keep you." Brian watched Michael leave, a little saddened to lose his presence, even though it was only in the next room over. He could close his eyes and listen to Michael as he puttered about the kitchen. He covered his face with both hands. Forgetting about his bruised temple. "Ow… fuck…" He flipped to his side, curling his body to find a comfortable position. His eyes looked up at the ugly-ass plant, realizing something peculiar. He lifted his head, looking at the plotted plant dead-on straight. On the floor, lay an overturned photograph frame. Glass shards littering the hardwood floor. Had that happened early this morning or when they were gone from the house? Brian looked back to Michael, who was still in the kitchen, opening the backdoor to take out some garbage. Brian kept in a crouched position, staying low to the ground. What he wanted to do was pick up the glass so Jenny wouldn't step in it. As he drew closer, the sheer curtain moved and -- if he hadn't hit his head and fainted today -- Brian would have thought he saw the shelving unit shift. The plant was… uh, literally growing before his eyes. Kind of like Audrey II in "Little Shop Of Horrors". Brian even heard a creaking sound, like someone trying to fit in a smaller size of jeans. Before the plant could eat him… (well, that's what Audrey II did to grow further)… he swept up the glass pieces with the back of the photo that had fallen out of the frame. He found some bowl to place the glass shards in, laying the photo on top. He picked the frame up, righting it to face him. He tried to catch the bigger glass that fell out, but wasn't expecting a metal scroll key to fall into his hand. A key? What? Brian then glanced at the photo he had sat off in the distance… and paled. Vic had his arm around somebody. A strange man. But the picture was faded, from another time period. It looked to have been taken on board a ship or caught in a severe windstorm. Vic could clearly been seen, for his light blond mop of hair. He was facing the camera. But the second man… his hair was blowing in disarray over his face. His back was to the camera, but he had turned his head at just the right moment to have the side of his face caught in frame. The pair of them together were striking, light and dark contrasting. Why would Michael have had this particular picture in his home with Ben? Brian glanced over at the frame again and hadn't realized a second picture having fallen at the exact same time. Two photos in one frame? The one that had been on top was one of Michael's school class pictures. Looking pathetically dorky, but so fuckin' cute at the same time. Brian rubbed a finger over Michael's young teen face, recalling this being the one vision that had helped him fall in love, originally. He pocketed both pictures and the key, meaning to find out some peculiar secrets that seemed to have been hidden. What did this mean? Brian heard the backdoor reopen, Michael coming back inside. He quickly hopped back onto the couch, hoping he lay in the same position as Michael left him. But he added his usual flourish of a dramatic arm over his eyes. Just for the right effect. Pretty soon Brian felt the tender care of a light blanket being placed over him… the kiss on his cheek and the scrape of a warm hand on his face… a finger curious to make sure he wasn't bleeding from his bedroom "war wound". He wanted to open his eyes, glancing up at Michael, if only to see love shining back at him or simply just to see his smile… but he was more exhausted than he realized. Michael would wake Brian in a half hour, making sure he hadn't passed out, only slumbering his pain away. He sat for a bit longer, watching sleep overcome Brian… lost in thought… Brian and him, their relationship… the addition of Jenny to the house… soon Gus joining them… and two occurrences where they both were ready for something pretty big… it wasn't that it would be overwhelming. Michael knew they could do it. Make the marriage work like they were making this relationship work. What he wasn't sure of was if he was enough for Brian? Would it be too much at some point? Would he one day wake up and find an empty space next to him in bed… no explanation to why… just dead air? No matter how often Brian did or said things to reassure Michael, his fear was there. See the rule was… everybody leaves Michael Novotny at some point and he's supposed to move on, be a better person. He will allow that person to leave, because he thinks they will be better for it. Somehow he had been destroying their life, not the other way around. And when they leave, he should be reassured because there's something better around the next corner. Or there was always Brian to fall back on, as his best friend, to make it all better. But for once in his life, Michael knew… beyond a shadow of doubt… he would do everything in his power to keep Brian. Even if it meant letting go of everything he believed he wanted for himself. Now though, if Brian left… he didn't have his best friend to fall back on, because he was in love with his best friend… So… what does he do? Michael was afraid to find out, so he would rather not make it happen at all. What he didn't know was that Brian felt the exact same way: same fears, same wants. And Brian would take the same measures to keep Michael happy. Even forgoing his bullshit bravado over gay marriage and "straight people values". He would marry his best friend without looking back with regrets, because Michael was the only man he had ever considered building a life with. The only person he would ever love completely. He was, also, pretty certain he was never enough for Michael… and one day he would wake up and get tired of Brian's crap… and he would be gone. No reason, just vanished into air. And Brian would be destroyed. But for once in his life, Brian knew… beyond a shadow of doubt… he would do everything in his power to keep Michael. Even if it meant destroying every shameless, selfish idea he ever had of being alone. Now though, if Michael left… he didn't have a best friend to fall back on, because he was deeply in love with his best friend. And that was just not the kind of shit he wanted to deal with, while coping with a broken heart. So they both clung, telling themselves they were both staying, only to allow the other the chance to leave. A silent battle neither man knew they were fighting and winning at the same time. The more time they were together, the stronger their love became, until they both felt like bursting from the pressure. It might take them awhile to figure it all out, because well… it took them this long to get here, so why rush things? ~~TBC...

Bedroom - Friday Morning ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He was pretty sure the noises he heard were part of his dream. Maybe he made the sounds himself. But one thing he had been definite about... he was hot... scorching... molten lava. He had been chilled, not cold, when he fell asleep with the warm body by his side. As he sunk deeper into dreams, the chill almost froze him. So he sought heat, not having to go far to find the radiance. He burrowed deeper, but now the warmth almost burned him, searing his nakedness. So... he woke up. Brian lifted his head, glancing about to check out the scene. He wrinkled his brow, not really knowing where he was. He had tucked his face in a trifecta of softness, warmth and human scent. Michael had been laying on his back, caught in a half-turn. He was either coming to or pulling from Brian. Brian's race to catch Michael's sudden movement had trapped him mid-turn. Brian's face had buried in the in between curve of Michael's neck and the mattress. They were sharing Michael's pillow. As Brian lifted more to look down their meshed bodies, all he saw was the monochromatic material of the light top sheet to the bed linens. He let his head fall back on plushness, groaning. Michael must have covered him, in an unconscious move to help aide Brian's growing need for warmth. Now... it was like Brian was on fire. He shuffled a little, resting his cheek on the round bone of Michael's shoulder. He was about to attempt to crawl from underneath, slinking away body part by body part, but he stopped when his palm barely scraped Michael's chest. He discovered where the "heat" had been emanating from all along. Michael was burning, throughout his body frame. Scooting to look down at Michael's face, Brian put the back of his hand on the pale forehead. No. No fever. Not even a trace of sweat. The hand moved down the cheek. No, still nothing. But when Brian reached the neck, collarbone and upper chest... the heat began to build. Brian didn't doubt if he went further down the "invisible flames" would be intense. Christ! Two days. Two whole nights of no real sex, meaning intercourse . Michael always fell asleep content, but as the early morning sun rose so did Michael Novotny. Brian could usually contain himself, able to control the hardness. Michael? Not so much. This was the second morning Brian had found Michael in this unbearable condition. Yesterday morning, he had caught the reaction in time, Michael easily waking up. They almost hadn't lasted the first night. By morning, they had to take separate showers, if only to give one another some "private" time to collect themselves. They knew what each had done, at breakfast curiously asking one another the "trigger" that set them off. Michael had closed the store again, staying home to watch over Brian and Jenny. He told Brian he would return to work on Friday, when Brian would be picking up Lindsay and Gus from the airport. Brian would be gone most of the day. Michael knew, on their last day of agreed abstinence, they both would be entertaining their minds with other things besides sex and one another. It wasn't that Brian didn't want Michael, that would never happen. But it had come down on them as Doctor's Orders. Then it had come to Brian as Michael's worry over him and taking things easy, wanting Brian to stick around for a lifetime or two. Then Brian had a personal goal of "We stayed away from one another for twenty years. Three nights is a walk in the park." But it wasn't so, not once they had been having a taste of each other. Brian slipped away from Michael, as stealthily as he could. Once he was on his right side, a good distance from Michael, he finally settled on the cooled bed space and detached himself from Michael's feral responses. No sooner had he shut his eyes in peace, his own libido tamed... here came Michael. He was pulled to Brian's back as if magnetized. Brian would have been fine if that was all Michael did. Brian allowed the kisses... on the nape, the shoulder blades. He even prayed he would feel those tender hands on his hips, sculpting down his abdomen and up to his breastbone. Oh, they skimmed pubic hair, but had quickly come right back to the curvature of hips, slipping over the rounded backside. Okay... that was new. Michael then proceeded to make some kind of animal noise, purring groans or something like a muffled squeal, begging for -- well, Brian couldn't really pay close attention. He began to recognize the sounds Michael was making in the back of his throat were the same noises that woke him up. Primal and passionate. Michael's fingernails embedded in Brian's skin, clawing... clamping and yanking him flush with his thrusting pelvis. Uh... no! This was where Brian had to draw the line. Brian thought Michael would wake up like last morning. He turned them both, his right leg slid between Michael's thighs, locking onto Michael's right leg. His palm pushed down Michael's chest to lay him back on the mattress, eventually climbing up to grab Michael's chin from the underside of his jaw. When Michael rolled, his arms raised above his head, fingers bending back on the headboard. He made that noise again, his pelvis undulating to some imaginary body either on or in him, a rhythm began. "Michael..." Brian whispered near an ear. The face flowed toward Brian's voice, languid eyes opened slightly, but the mind never registered reality from dream. "Kiss me now." "Michael, I--" Brian shouldn't have hesitated. Michael's raised right arm came around his neck and locked him to his chest. The two mouths were forced to meet, one pliant and one weakening by the seconds. "Mich--wait... no... wake up..." The kissing had always been great between them. Since the sex had started, kisses became earth-shattering. What Michael was doing to Brian's lips was other-worldly. "God, I--" Brian couldn't move, didn't want to move, except to top Michael. So simple to succumb, let the baser emotion build and have intercourse. But Brian knew Michael wasn't really present at the moment. He would never remember, no matter how well Brian explained it. If Brian pursued Michael's wants and needs, it would be like cheating -- but cheating on Michael with Michael. Sounded dumb, but logic didn't fit here. This was Michael's "private" time. Michael was too far gone to wake up and soon he would need a release or else reality would be too painful to face. Brian decided he would allow Michael to ride out the wet dream into completion, but Brian would be here as Michael orgasmed. It felt wrong to leave Michael alone. Afterwards, when Michael was fully awake, he would be worse than embarrassed. Brian had always wanted to work this type of kink into their bed. Now was as good a time as any... Brian worked his neck and head from under Michael's arm, keeping his own hand on Michael's neck. If Michael could feel touch on his hot skin, maybe he could cum sooner. Michael's hand reached out through mind-fog and latched onto Brian's forearm, he begged for gentle caresses on his face, neck and chest. Brian could see Michael's length was hot against his own thigh. Once flaccid and limp, now it was full of blood, stiff as a board and pulsating red. Moving his leg, Brian gave Michael the stroking sensations he needed. He was amazed Michael never once touched himself. Never even let one finger skip down to his growing cock. Brian marveled that Michael's imagination must be pleasurable beyond any reality. "... yes..." Michael begged again in his throat. "... yes... yes..." The words grew loud in tone as his ecstasy rose. His neck arched back and his pelvis jutted forward against Brian's thigh. Brian never thought he would witness anything as intoxicating as Michael falling to pieces in his arms, from no fault of his own. He felt bereft, but knew he was probably getting a small glimpse into what had carried Michael along all those years they came so close, but never followed through. He bent his head near Michael's ear, his forehead nudging. "I love you, Mikey." "Oh, gawd... I love you, too..." Michael moaned the words as if they were one, his body quaking. "Brian..." The begging undid Brian. He took his hand, palm down, beginning to delicately massage a way through the light spattering of dark hair, over the dips and curves of ribs. He barely reached the stair steps of abs when Michael arched again. Something seemed to be holding him back from release. "ssshhh-ssshhh-ssshhh... I've got you, Michael." Brian told the dreamMichael, so the realMichael could come back to him. His head turned to stare down the tiny body, watching and feeling the orgasm hit and completely shatter the sweet man under him. Nothing ever in Brian's social sexual life was more magnificent than observing the elongation of Michael's cock, the thickening and the pulsating, as his semen spilled over Brian's thigh. Brian nearly came, himself, his own cock tight, hard and squished to Michael's body. "Oh... gawd... ohgodohgodohgodohgod..." Michael painfully groaned upon his release. The intense jolt of pleasure causing him to open his eyes fully and blink twice, recognition of the face above him causing him to go still and frown. "Brian?" Everything had seemed so real. Had they--? "Michael, it's okay." Why did Brian sound regretful? But for who? For what? "What's okay?" Michael lifted his head, glancing down his body and catching sight of what had taken place while he had been... uh, dreaming. He couldn't even fathom what he had done. He was only worried about one thing. "Did I--did I say anything... uh, strange?" That's all Michael was worried about? Brian chuckled, seeing the fear... the shame, churning in Michael's eyes. "Michael... is that all?" "Uh... I'm sorry?" Michael reached up to pull his pillow over his face and proceeded to muffle a scream. Brian couldn't prevent himself from laughing out loud. He grabbed the pillow. He straightened his body to lay over Michael, keeping his leg where it was. "So what? You cum on me plenty of times." He didn't want to make a bigger deal about this than it was. Michael rose up onto his elbows. "But when I'm asleep?" Brian reached out to wipe a few drops of perspiration from Michael's face. He really gave himself a workout. "Hey... I tried to roll away. Even in sleep, your body can't get enough of my hot sex-i-ness." He softly bit a piece of chunky flesh. "Brian..." Michael covered one hand over his face. "Don't joke about this. I'm humiliated as it is. Brian lowered his torso, resting his forearms alongside Michael. He tried to nuzzle Michael's neck, dislodging the hand. "Don't be. It was the single most, sexiest... and breathtaking moment of my life..." "Really?" Michael muttered against his palm. "Seriously." Brian nodded his head, delivering kisses in sensitive spots. "Liar." Michael let his hand drop to Brian's shoulder, curving about the strong back, laying on the muscles. "Don't..." Brian's face was inches from Michael's. He knew if he moved, Michael would try to escape. "Hey... you're not going anywhere." "I wanna wash up. I'm all sticky... made you all sticky. I'll bring you a wet washcloth." Michael kept darting his eyes from the penetrating hazel ones. "Michael, you don't have to hide from me." "I can't--I can't help it." Michael shook his head, trying to look above, eyes to the ceiling. He felt tears building. "I--I just feel things and I need to feel them in the moment." "Awww... Mikey..." Brian moved up, hovering over Michael's face, making him look up at him. "I'm not--this isn't icky to me. What you did wasn't bad or wrong." He rubbed the back of his hand down a cheek. "Actually, I'd like to know if I can borrow that sensual imagination of yours. What the fuck had you so hot and bothered?" He sounded like he was honestly interested. "It was... uh... you." Brian looked bewildered for a minute. "Me? Wow... really? What did I do?" "… nuthin'..." Michael mumbled, rubbing his nose. Brian rolled his eyes. "Michael, 'nothing' doesn't make you ejaculate like Mount Saint Mikey all over you and my thigh." Michael bit his top lip, feeling Brian's cock pressing against him. God... if only they could. He closed his thighs, but that squeezed Brian's thigh too. Crap. "It's a, uh... newer fantasy of mine." "You have a collection?" "You say it like they're out on DVD." Michael was beginning to feel his shamed emotions quell. "I'd buy them if they gave me good tips on how to make you cum like that again." "Brian!" Michael swatted Brian, his belly chuckle prominent. "What? Okay... yes, I am vain. I am jealous of myself. I could have much worse problems." Michael closed his eyes, sighing. "I knew you'd tease me. You'll never be curious enough to care." "Uh... I do care. If I could have you falling apart like that in my arms every night, every time we have sex..." Brian really didn't know what to say here. "... words cannot express how happy I would be. Not to mention how pleasured you'd be." "This is not the conversation I want to be having with you in this bed this morning when we can't do anything about it." "You just did something." Michael thought about how honest he should be, but he knew Brian wouldn't let it die, if he didn't at least start to say the truth. "The other night, while laying in bed... I was watching you like I always do..." Brian realized too late Michael didn't want to miss a thing about his fantasy, even the tad boring bits. "You always watch me. Is this a long build up?" "Will you let me speak?!" "Okay... okay... simmer down." Brian then proceeded to pretend like he was going to lay his head on Michael's pillow. "Wake me when you get to the good parts." Michael gave him one of his "looks", telling him to pay attention or else. "Am I boring you?" "No. Not in the least." Brian perked right up. "Then... Shut.Up." Brian did so, smirking. He had been difficult long enough to distract Michael from his tears. He would let Michael speak about anything now. "Anyway... watching you -- you were only in your PJ bottoms and I've always liked the way these ones hug your perfect ass... so I'm looking and I'm thinking... I'm going out of my mind. I touch your ass all the time, during sex and I wondered, 'what would it look like if I--?'--" Suddenly Michael realized what he was about to say and stopped. "If? C'mon...” Brian went back to hovering over Michael's face. “... don't let me hang. Gotta be more." He brought his hands up, from leaning on his forearms, and gave his undivided attention to Michael's face. Fingertips brushed and traced, they were followed closely by lips and a tongue. Michael discovered he could speak if Brian was looking elsewhere. He stared at Brian and began to finish his response. "I wondered -- if our positions were reversed -- switched -- what would it be like? The look... the feel of taking you from behind." He left his comment at that. He dipped up to kiss Brian, a patch of neck skin visible. "Oh..." Brian paused in his care of Michael; his mouth took the shape of an "O". Well... he had his answer. "That's what got you off? Your new fantasy?" He seemed like he was earnestly thoughtful. "Have all your fantasies come true?" Michael nodded his head, before he actually spoke. "Yes." His fingers reached up to play with Brian's sideburns, feathering them out. "So far." His biggest one being Brian... here in his bed, forever. "Damn..." Brian bowed his head, hitting Michael's pillow over his shoulder. "See!" Michael tried to push Brian away, but he wouldn't budge or couldn't. They were still interlocked. "I knew you'd brush it off. Or laugh at me." Brian was chuckling. "I'm not, Mikey, I swear." He knew if he didn't speak soon he might get a pillow in his face. "Look... I'd be--I'd think--" He was trying to dodge Michael's hands from picking up the other pillow. "No... don't..." "Brian." "Michael... will you listen to me?!" Brian didn't want to be rough and grab Michael's wrists, so he simply kept his biceps down, which prevented the arms from wildly swinging for ammo. Michel stopped moving. "Okay... I'm already embarrassed. Whatever you say can't hurt me more." He lay down as if to take undo pain to his body, martyring himself on the bed. "Oh... you are so cute when you do that." Brian snickered, loving the feel of Michael under him. "You need to get ready for work soon." He looked to the digital clock. He sighed, staring straight down at Michael. "Tonight." He nodded his head as if making an agreed decision. "What?" Michael looked up in confusion. "I'm back on my Babylon shift." "Brian, it's still..." Michael was now attentive to Brian, placing a tender hand on his chest, checking out the disappearing lump on Brian's temple. It was still covered with a light bandage, but that was just Brian being Brian. Not wanting to mar his face any, plus... bandages got you sympathy. "No! Our three days are officially done later on tonight. So... let's do it. Let's plan this as our Babylon night." "Okay. Agreed." Michael looked a little pensive. "Why am I getting the feeling you have something more to say?" "Because I do." Brian smiled, then winked. "Ted and Blake are already taking Jenny until Saturday afternoon. All we do is get someone to watch Gus for a few hours, until he goes to bed. Then we come back home to our bedroom -- this bed... right here..." He patted the mattress. He could see the dawning on Michael's face. "What? What's wrong?" "You're not---you... no. You couldn't be." Michael forcefully sat up against the headboard, bringing Brian with him, but now he was laying in his lap. "Brian..." His palm caressed the cheek and jawline. "... you really wanna try tonight? After Babylon?" Brian secretly smiled, laying his cheek on Michael's belly. His arms came around the thin waist. His silent nod against Michael's body his answer. He had to admit he had thought about asking Michael one day, but afraid he would never take that kind of strange step out of their sexual realm. Brian feared he could be looked at as if he was a freak. But now to know Michael had thought the same scenario out -- being the Top instead of his usual Bottom position -- Brian was astounded to no end. Michael was breathless, and quite speechless. Brian would do this, for him? Simply overwhelming what this man would do. Even to fulfill a stupid fantasy. He sunk lower, sliding back under Brian, the sweetness of his kisses and caresses indicative of his quiet acceptance of Brian's response. "Let's stay in bed a little longer... I'll open the store later..." "Okay." Brian nodded his head, oddly shy, but his eyes intent on Michael's. "Thank you." "Why?" "For constantly being honest with me." Brian meant it for the way in which Michael allowed his body to fly freely in his keep. "I'd do anything for you... you know that?" Michael nodded his head, tears building up again. And Brian, happily, kissed them away. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ Kitchen - Same Friday Morning ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Michael?" "Hmmm..." "Look at me." Brian's voice alone should have been what called him back, out of a daydream state. Nothing was appearing to work, except for... Maybe he should... Brian sidled up behind Michael at the sink. He rubbed the shoulders, giving a little body shake. Realizing he would have to go further, the hands sloped down Michael's back, coming around to hug the motionless frame. Brian placed one palm on Michael's abdomen, soothing an easy caress. He relaxed his chin on Michael's shoulder as he stared, one-eyed, toward whatever Michael was interested in, off in the distance. When he saw nothing spectacular, Brian knew Michael was somewhere lost in his mind. Having an idea he was causing Michael to stare into space was both thrilling and scary. He hoped Michael got rid of this affliction once he showed to work at the store. "Mikey... this doesn't bode well for being a good employer. What's the sense in having a store filled with employees if all you keep doing is closing?" Michael gulped, turning in Brian's embrace. His stainless steel travel mug, sudsy and clean, dripping water on the floor and on Brian's shoes and jeans. "Oooo... sorry, sweetie." He shifted to get a towel, handing the material to Brian. Michael set his mug in the sink. "Water. That's all. No biggie." Brian kept the towel, never bothering to wipe away the wetness. His hands clenched the sink ledge, his arms on either side of Michael's body. Brian could see the frazzled mind churning, see the dark eyes focus and un-focus, words attempting to pass through Michael's open mouth, but no sound came. "Tell me..." Brian softly coaxed forward. "Just..." Michael shrugged, bringing his eyes to Brian's face. He hadn't shaved... god damn him. In fact, Brian was dressed in the other sexy manner he had perfected. Simple, really... well-worn jeans, expensive and bought tattered... white, ribbed wife-beater under a soft suede camel-colored button-down shirt. The shirt was left open to reveal the t-shirt's cotton; the t-shirt hem wasn't tucked in, bunched around the thin waistline. Michael grabbed the front two belt loops, dragging Brian toward his leaning form. "... you..." He breathed out one word against open lips, his tongue tasting minty teeth and, soon, warm tongue. Brian tightly clenched the sink ledge, knowing if he touched Michael he would make a tired-ass plea for himself that Michael should stay home, close the store. There was too much to do, responsibilities to stick to and obligations to fulfill. "I was prepared to be the Big Baddie this morning." He shook his head at the power Michael had over him sometimes. "How is it possible you can make me melt, yet... feel as strong as steel?" Michael brought up his hands, wiggling them beside his head. "Magic!" "Hmm... I don't usually like magic. Illusions are kinda cheesy mind-trick bullshit, but yours... yours I like very much." Michael tilted his head in awe, palm out to massage Brian's stubble. The feel under his hand was sensational. "Sometimes I want people to see what I see, when I look at you. Feel what I feel, when you look at me... or touch me. I've always needed them to realize how compassionate and gracious you really are." Brian nudged the hand in quiet tolerance. "Flattered, but I like my audience of one, thank you." He could feel the flush on his skin grow. He picked up the travel mug from the sink, drying it off with the towel in his hand. He sauntered over to the coffee pot where a new batch was finishing brewing. Michael hid his hands behind his back, liking when Brian's bashful side came out. The little boy who needed acceptance and love, wearing his heart on his sleeve. "But then I--I get freakishly possessive and think, 'fuck 'em'. That they never wanted you and you're all mine now." "Michael..." Brian chuckled, shaking his head. The coffee percolating ended, so he turned to pour out the steaming liquid in the steel cylinder. "You like me for my coffee skills and you know it." "Brian, not fulfilling a random fantasy of mine won't change my feelings for you." Michael took his time, feeling the room, sensing when he could approach Brian. Brian was keeping safe, avoiding eye contact and standing with his back turned. So Michael did as usual, filled the silence with his Brian and Michael Show "stories". "When I first saw you, at fourteen, I thought you hated me. You sure gave me cross-vibes. You kept being my friend, yet -- I dunno -- you were distant. When my crush-worthy lust renewed into love, I realized I wasn't sure I could ever love anyone else." He saw the shoulders move, like in a soft sigh. "In fact, whenever you'd fall asleep in my arms -- slowly opening up to me, telling me things; what was inside you even if it was fucked up and crazy -- you allowed me to 'see' you. The Real Brian. And I discovered I wasn't scared, I wasn't turned off. I, uh, kind of wanted more. That's when I drifted off in my head, as you dreamed in my arms. When I knew exactly what was going on, right in front of me." Michael was closer than he had been, standing behind Brian, slightly to the right, like he was trying to peek beyond his shoulder. Brian shivered slightly, closing his eyes. "It's three sugars, two creamers, right? I can get the quantities assbackwards sometimes." He lightly laughed at his own "elder" forgetfulness. He reached for a spoon to stir. His emotions were heightened, sentimentality unbalanced. All Michael did was take one step near, he shadowed Brian's right side. "... that's when I knew you were born for me." Brian faltered, wiping his thumb under an eye, one at a time. "I know it's a little jolting to hear this early in the day, but after years of hearing it screamed at you -- that no one really wanted you, no one wanted you to make it, even being born ; that you were, possibly, a mistake..." Michael made himself choke, not sure he could say the rest without holding Brian. He was trying to be kind, watching Brian suffer in quiet torture, but giving him space. He was right behind Brian. All Brian had to do was turn around and Michael would be right where he had always been. "I think, frankly, that's pretty shitty to do to an innocent child. And I, uh... tend to differ with those people who can't even give you one thread of a chance to make it right. I know you've made your mistakes, but those can easily be forgiven. I just don't know exactly where I'd be right now if I didn't have you--" "Shut up." Brian finally turned, his arms diving in, holding onto Michael as tight, and as close as he could. "… shutupshutupshutupshutup..." He nearly lifted Michael off his feet, clamping him to his chest. His fist bunched on Michael's back. His silent sobs sunken into Michael's neck and collar. He nuzzled his safety net, inhaling the scent to make it through the day. His Michael... His Mikey... His... so beautiful and awesome in his love and loving him. Michael practically emitted light from his features, shining down on Brian's darkness. He settled down, coughing and sputtering, wiping his sleeves on his face. He pushed Michael away, light in his roughness. "Would you get the fuck out of here already?!" His fingers snagged on the cuff of a sleeve, around Michael's wrist. He turned around to screw the lid on Michael's travel mug. Michael smirked, reaching out to keep a hand on Brian's puffy cheek. "I love you, too." His hand lightly brushed over the bandage on Brian's temple, sending it healing vibes. “I can't seem to stop.” He quietly wished for someone to watch over his guy until he could take over tonight. Brian shoved the cup in the middle of Michael's chest. He backed up, having to weakly lean on the kitchen counter. "I won't make you stop, either. So... keep up the good work. I may just impress someone else besides you and Jenny." "I won't hold you to that promise. I'm satisfied here at home." Michael made a quiet enunciation of "with you", pointing his finger toward Brian. Brian bit his top lip. "Yeah... me, too." Even looking at Michael, backing away from him to head out the door, was heart-wrenching. The last thing Michael did was make the hand gesture for "call me" with his pinky and thumb, and he was on his way out the door, toward his car parked behind Brian's car. Brian nodded his head, not saying one more word. He waited for the close of the front door and then he buried his face in his hands, crying residual tears. Leftover sorrow, but then there were happier tears. He noticed he still had the kitchen towel handy and wiped his face. Jenny would come down soon and they would start their morning jaunt and fill their afternoon together until Brian dropped her off to stay with Ted and Blake. His motivation after that would be to bring his son home. Home? Yeah, he was growing to like that word more and more, every day he was with Michael. He even found himself having to wipe under his chin, tears having escaped unchecked. So different than the sad ones of his youth of never understanding what he could have done to be hated so damn much. Relief overcame him of being loved and discovering the many ways in which he was lovable. So, so different... thanks to Michael. Yeah, Brian knew exactly what he would do to show his love and thankfulness for Michael in his life. He wished the evening arrived here faster, instead of actually having to function through the real twenty-four hours of the day. Much, much quicker in a time machine, even sleeping the day away until evening hours. He found himself chuckling. The more he was sharing his mind with Michael, the more he realized his own imagination flourished. And that's how Jenny found Brian... content and happy in the kitchen. She smiled broadly while making her way down the last steps toward the noises Brian was making in the kitchen. He must have heard her plop down on the hardwood floor after the last step on the stairs. "Cereal? Toast? Waffles? What's your tastes this morning, Lady Jenny?" Brian was busy, getting out a bowl, a small plate... ready to venture toward the fridge to know what Jenny might want for breakfast. But when he swiveled he found his body blocked as tiny arms raised up to him. "What?" "… I miss'd my mornin' hug an' kiss..." "Well... we can't have royalty wasting away without their daily dose of nuzzling." Brian hefted Jenny in his arms, high enough where she was level with his face. "Mornin' darlin'." He drawled as he hugged her close, pressing a series of kisses to her face. Jenny wrapped both arms about Brian's neck, squeezing tighter than she should. When she heard Brian gag, she giggled. She rested her head on Brian's shoulder, letting him move about the linoleum with her in his arms. "… did I miss Daddy leavin'?" "Yup. If you want, we can swing by the store and tell him 'g'bye', before you go see Ted and Blake." Brian wished she would agree, but it seemed like a lot for an already full day. "… nope... imma be okay... we talk'd when I woke up." Jenny lifted her head, grabbing for her favorite cereal box within her reach. She shook the box, like her father, checking to make sure there was stuff still in it. "… this one'll be all right." She handed it to Brian to pour out. "… wuz Daddy okay?" She only asked because her father seemed distracted, even though he talked to her. "Yeah... he's fine. He's just..." Brian stuttered, because he almost forgot how old Jenny was. Some days being the only person to talk to, she was the easiest person to listen, and halfway converse with. "... uh, worried about the new employee interviews." "… oh, oh-kay..." Jenny didn't say anything else. "… you oh-kay?" She rubbed his back, soothingly. Brian lifted an eyebrow. "I suppose. I've been better. But... I can't complain. Well, I could, but it would be useless, a bit silly." He shook his head at whining about missing Michael already. It was nice to have Jenny around to fill those empty spaces and stop the quiet from strangling him. "… what're we doin' today?" Jenny sounded excited. It had been awhile since it had been just her and Brian spending the day together. "Anything you want, Lady Jenny. Anything." "Really?" "No... you can't drive my car." Brian braced himself for that telltale Novotny swat. Once it landed on him, he leaned over to peck Jenny's chin and cheek and felt balanced, for once. Knowing exactly where he wanted to be and where he belonged. Kind of like slamming on the brakes of Life, full stop. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ Park/Playground - Mid-Morning Friday ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "… here... here's good." "No. No, I don't think so." "… why not?" "Because... we're, like, in the middle of everything. If we can see people, then people can see us. What we want is that bench." "… that one?" "Yes. That one." "… where?... the one there, near cars?... under the tree?" "It's cozy." "… i's too far from ev'rythin'... an'... I can't see the swings." "Wouldn't you rather be swinging than watching others swing?" "… nope... I don' know anybody..." "Neither do I, but I would go swing. If you wanted." "… why you wanna swing?" “Because... it's good to get out. See the world. Get some fresh air. Meet people. Make new friends. I should start bringing you here more often. Make this like a regular 'thing' for us..." "… can we sit here?" "Well, I suppose, since the other bench is so very, very far away." "… I can sit there, if you wan' me to..." "Nah, here's okay. I'll suffer for you." "… thank you." "Your welcome. Wha--? What are you doing? I could have helped you up here to sit." "… I can do stuff on my own." "But a bench is for sitting, not standing." "… I like standin'... I wanna see ev'rythin'... why you wearin' glasses?” "Sunglasses." "… huh?" "They're SUN-glasses. They're dark to block out the s-u-n." "… I don' see no s-u-n." "Ah-ha... wait until you learn about UV-rays." "... huh?" "Never mind." "… lookie... over there..." "Where?" "… the see-saw... the pretty lady wit' her baby?" "Do I have to?" "… uhm, she likes you." "She does not." "… uh-huh... she look'd when we got here." "And I won't look, because--?" "... you love Daddy." "Exactly, but also because... she's not really my type." "… wha'sa 'type'?" "She's a girl." "… yur funny... imma girl." "But I don't like you--like you like I like your father. I love you, but I wouldn't want to marry you." "… why?" "Well... you're a girl and your four... and, pardon me, but... ewww..." "… hehehehehe... you make me laff." "You make me happy." "... thank you... oh, lookie..." "What now?" "… a little boy an' girl, by the swings... an'--" "What?" "… take off yur s-u-nglasses an' you can see." "I don't see what you're--" "… there... the man... wit' the little boy an' girl..." "Yeah, what about him?" "... he likes you too." "Well... why don't you stop staring at them, pointing all willy-nilly, and they won't think you're trying to scope out prospects for me." "... but 'm jus'--" "Stop it." "… why?" "It's rude." "… he look'd first... an' he don' look like he's gonna stop." "Well... not if you keep staring." "… but 'm four... he's oldur than me... right?" "And they should know better, yes... I agree, but not everyone older than you is a mature adult." Jenny sighed, plopping down on the bench seat beside Brian. "Everyone is older than me." She grumbled out as she slid her tiny satchel to her front, placing it on her lap. The strap was criss-crossed over her chest. Brian leaned over to rub a finger over Jenny's puffed out cheek. "You'll soon reach an age where you'd wish for those days back." Reaching inside one of her satchel's pockets, Jenny drew out a small notepad and a sharpened Number #2 pencil. Barbie, of course, adorned the eraser top. In her childlike scribble, she assimilated writing as if she were taking dictation. She slowly mouthed-out the words and scribbled them as she heard the sounds in her head. Brian sat up, moving to relax in the corner. He looked over at Jenny, wondering what she might be doing. "Wha--? What's that?" Jenny didn't look up, using her lap as a desk. "... my no'book." Brian thought he missed a word or two. "Your what?' "… I take no'es... my no'book... words I hear." Jenny tapped on an ear Brian could see. "Who taught you how to write?" Jenny looked up, thinking. Right now her father was, but before... uhm... "… no one." She didn't know if she should tell Brian she had learned on her own. "… othur four-year-olds don' 'rite like me?" "Uh... they're too busy picking their noses, running with scissors and eating paste and construction paper. So... I have to say a resounding N-O." Brian paused, taking his sunglasses off finally, folding them and hooking them on his t-shirt collar. "Then again, I don't hang out with most four-year-olds." Jenny looked over at him as if to say, "who am I? chopped liver?". "Well... I didn't used to." Brian patted her shoulder weakly. "You should feel honored being in my rare company." Jenny sat back, sighing. "… am I bad for 'ritin'?" "No. Depends what you're writing." Brian realized he might be offending Jenny, so he tried to make her feel better. "What are you writing?" "… words." "Yeah, I got that. What kind of words?" "… stuff I hear... words lotsa people said to me... words Daddy, Gran' ma an' you said too..." "Me?!?" Brian choked out, patting his chest. "Jen... nonono... your father would kill me, if he knew you thought anything I said was brilliant or worthy of posterity." He swallowed, but then he wondered something. "You didn't write down any of the times I said swear words, did you?" Jenny shook her head, her brow wrinkled in deep thought. "… I don' know those words." "Oh... whew..." Brian pretended to fan himself. He liked hearing Jenny giggle. "You scared me there, Lady Jenny." "… I don' know 'em, but I don' know all words." Jenny folded back a page, holding out her no'book. "... wanna see?" "Oh, sweetie... no... I..." Brian put out a hand to ward off the toss. He wasn't sure she didn't have a bunch of "juicy" thoughts floating on those pages, like in a diary or journal. But she kept insisting, so he took it. When Brian glanced down, through Jenny's scribbling, there he saw... his words looking up at him. "... I WIL REECH N AYG WARE I WISH 4 THOZ DAYZ AGAYN..." Good God! What other incriminating evidence did Jenny have on him? Brian curiously flipped two pages back, perusing everything written. She was very thorough and clear. All in capital letters and she left spaces around each word or sentence to make sure she had written them correctly. When he began at the top of one page, Brian discovered another shocker. Jenny must have tried very hard to remember the words once they had come home from taking Brian to the Emergency Room. He could decipher three words describing his past medical history Jenny had overheard. CANSIR ... RAYDEEAYSHUN ... and KEEMO ... Jenny had attempted a fourth word, but its pronunciation went over her head, so she stopped at a certain point... TESTEEK... Brian snickered, a bit of shame on his face. Jenny had enunciated and spelled out "testicular" as best she could, but gave up. He was in awe; he didn't know what to do or say next. To know that Jenny had been so concerned with his welfare and health that she had attempted to write down some stupid words moved him beyond an ability to vocalize his own feelings. They touched his heart more than anything she could have done. Brian and Michael were sure she wasn't totally assured of things being all right, or “fine”, because the doctor had made such a bigger deal about Brian hitting his head. And this... cansir/cancer... had something to do with it. And she was willing to learn. Jenny could very well be a budding genius. She continued to astound Brian with her willingness to absorb everything around her. "Can I--can I show you--?" Brian reached around to bring Jenny closer. He put out a hand for Jenny's pencil, which she gave him. "… yeah... please." Jenny bit her thumb, like Brian. She leaned against his chest, looking down at her no'book in his lap as he wrote with her pencil in the spaces she had left. Brian was beginning to show Jenny how to correctly spell each word, giving her a smidge of an explanation and an example she could comprehend without confusion. But he wasn't touching that last word. No... not until Jenny was twenty-one and, of course, still a virgin. ~~TBC...

For a man, Michael had the daintiest feet. Brian quietly admired his most treasured possession, the person who was dearest to his heart… fulfilling his very soul. Upon entering their bedroom, he had made the choice to begin from the bottom and end up toward the top. Michael was laying in his favorite position. Half on his side, half on his stomach, with a leg drawn up. The dark raven head was buried under piles of decorative pillows. The soft puffs of breathes could be heard in deep sleep. Always… it was the gorgeously pale skin that drew Brian closer. Delicate and succulent, he enjoyed tasting every piece of naked flesh on his teeth and tongue when he found courage enough to make his presence known. Brian had made sure he was naked, as well. No sense in pursuing a nude, slumbering lover unless you were similarly attired. He wished he could have showered to wash off any trace of club smells, but he wasn't in the mood. He simply wanted who was laying before him. He caught a scent of vanilla… and a strong whiff of cinnamon. Michael washed the linens in consumer flowery detergents, but those reminded him too much of home. He knew a man's bed… certainly a gay man's bed… needed to represent two sides. A place of individuality and a safety from harm, like a sanctuary. Designing a signature scent then allowed the bed to become a sacred entity where lovers worshiped one anothers' bodies and said a quiet thankfulness for the time spent. Even if it was for only a few moments of intense pleasure. The fewest of lucky ones experienced this feeling daily once they found someone to spend years living with. Brian's bed used to need darkness and expensive sheets, just enough coldness to dis-invite any visitor to stay. He used to find his King-sized monstrosity a sanctuary, and a clear extension of his inner persona. Could be why Brian never felt comfortable in the bed, because he didn't feel quite comfortable in his own skin. With Michael, his bed had one simple trait fulfillment. Is it comfortable? Didn't matter the size, what it looked like… he simply wanted to sleep. Sleep to dream. Dream to live out his fantasies. Early on, Brian discovered his cure for sleepless nights was curling into Michael's arms. That had become his new sanctuary. Didn't matter the linens bought to adorn the mattress. What mattered was how tightly those small arms held him. Those nimble fingers combing through his tangled hair, as if sweeping away nightmares of his mind. Now… Brian's bed tastes were Michael's and he could care less what was put on the mattress and what always made the bed smell so inviting. As long as he found Michael somewhere within the sheets. Buried under those sweet intoxicating linens… always waiting. Waiting for Brian to come home to him. Brian contemplated the thin calf, hazel eyes trailing up the tapered muscles. The dark spatters of fine hairs covered the skin leading him toward more expanses of white flesh. A kneecap… then a thigh… flattened by sleeping pressure on the mattress under him. Brian noticed what interested him most, right now. Between the spread legs, up around the thighs… there was a hint of shadow. Coarse dark pubic hair, a limp lumpy sac and the promise of something more hidden underneath. Possibly hardening as Brian watched. Because even in Michael's dreams, he could feel Brian's presence and it was enthralling enough to make his body quiver and shook him to the core. He didn't know Brian was there, but in a bit… he will know for certain. Brian hadn't touched the body laying down. He was only seated on the bed, leg drawn up and simply soaking up the sight of Michael… in dreamland. The radiant warmth hit Brian as he pulled closer and closer to the powerful draw the body before him unleashed. He could no longer just look, he has to touch… caress… fondle. This is what made him breathe again. Brian slinked along the mattress, barely an inch away from Michael's curled frame. He pulled himself upward, hovering over Michael, placing one palm flat on the empty bedside next to Michael's head. He stretched out, letting his own body align with Michael's, rising and suddenly becoming powerless to the weight he needed to lay flush with the man under him. Reaching a hand back, Michael smoothed a palm down the rough cheek coming toward his face. "Hmm… you're home early." Brian released his body's stiffness, softly placing it on top of Michael's. "I heard this rumor -- something urgent to come home to. Needed my attention." He kissed the spot on the neck that sends Michael overboard, and licked a trail over the shoulder joint. He kissed a freckle. "Closed early. Patrons didn't know the time. Everyone was drunk or high. Bouncers come in handy on those occasions." For some reason, Brian was able to push his lust back, something else moved to the forefront. Not that he no longer wanted Michael – it was that he knew with Michael tonight he would show him everything he has. Michael would have no doubt that Brian loves him. He would treasure every curve and bend of Michael's body. He would try to pleasure his soul, if he could manage it. Michael was the most precious thing he had in his keeping and Brian knew that soon he would be settling old debts thought buried to make sure his future by Michael's side was secure. Brian already knew Michael wouldn't budge. Michael wouldn't leave him any day. Michael was Brian's safest bet. The problem came from… all the rest. Brian couldn't take any chances at losing. Not this time. Michael rolled over, opening his legs and letting Brian settle between his thighs. They were both hard… growing harder… but they were hesitant. "I thought about what you said." He tucked some hair behind Brian's ear. "… 'bout your dirty mouth?" Brian teased again. "Give it a rest, will you! No… that question you had about us. You know… the lust… the sexual fevers… why now?" "Yeah?" Hard to be curious when someone was suckling on your earlobe. "Think I found your answer." Brian felt the desire override his listening skills. "Later… right now, I've got more important things to finish." Michael took the dry hump of Brian's pelvis against his as a sign of what was to happen next. "Okay… later then." ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ He was sure once he opened his eyes it would be over. His fantasy lover would disappear and he would be left alone, solitary. How he used to like to be. How he could no longer be… or his heart would shatter to pieces. He knew, in that minute, he would cry and possibly die from the heartache. These days he had become familiar with having someone close, feeling someone near, knowing someone was thinking about him the way he was thinking about them. He could hear his name being called. He felt the gentlest of touches to his cheek, his jaw and then a finger drawn along his mouth. He knew his fantasy lover wanted him to look into his eyes, but he couldn't. Not now. It couldn't be over yet. He smelled the scent. His scent. His fantasy lover's scent. It's there when he wakes up… when his fantasy lover's not in the bed… when he's in a room his fantasy lover's been in. It surrounded him like air. It fed him when he was lonely, screaming for affection. He couldn't do this. He couldn't keep his eyes closed for too long or his fantasy lover would become frustrated and grow angry. Wanting the attention. Needing the fascination. Chained to the adoration. So he allowed one lid to lift, checking. Still there. Eyes shut. He opened eyes half-mast. Still there… under him… undulating… wanting more. Eyes shut. He knew now that if he fully opened his eyes this time and the fantasy lover left… he won't be able to breathe. He will die without… "Brian…" Michael was up on his elbows, watching Brian intensely, making sure his head wasn't in the clouds. He wanted… needed him right here. Right there with him. He soothed a palm down Brian's heaving chest. "Huh?" Brian opened his eyes. Instant relief. Michael… his fantasy lover… is still there and caressing his heated skin. "Sorry." He buried his head in shame, nudging Michael's body in apologies he can't claim, so he used the silence. He wasn't able to admit what was rambling in his mind. Always did when they began to have sex. Especially sex like this, where it's considered making love. "I, uh… let my mind wander too far." "Anything interesting?" "Nope." Brian moved back a bit, knowing what Michael intended for their first position. It wasn't needed… truly. They could go through the whole 101 Gay Sexual Positions and Brian would still be content with one. But he knew Michael liked the informal ones even less, so they are completed from the start. So… from behind… was always first. It could be the most savage or the most sensual. This time, Brian would work for both. He wanted to be inside Michael, almost hungry enough for the taste. But he liked the way Michael became once he was there, penetrating his core and riding him until he was assured of Michael's satisfaction, ejaculating once or twice on the sheets. They've perfected this position. They don't even consider this one their favorite, but they fulfill their animalistic emotions to prepare for the more pleasurable, loving ones. They could turn it into a game or they could make it subtly romantic. Brian has the rubbers, Michael's holding the tube of lubrication. When the time was right, Michael would pour out the liquid into Brian's hand. Brian chuckled lightly as Michael shook his ass as if he was backing into a garage. He knew Michael wanted him to grab his hips, holding them still as a guide. But… no… not now. Now was the time for foreplay. Of getting Michael as high as he could be without entering him. Brian wanted to know his edge of control. He wanted to be sure the barriers he broke down are secure enough to emerge again for another round. He requested a good dollop of lube. Michael knew he was in for a treat. He was ready, prepared for rear entry, but Brian had other ideas… and he was willing. So beyond willing at this moment. The pressure Brian placed on Michael's back was minimal, but he sunk as fast as he had gotten up oon his knees. Brian slid his body over Michael's leg, kisses going up the backs of his thighs and spine. There was licking, which was followed by a puff of air, making the moisture tickle. When Brian was lined up, body part for body part, he tucked a knee between Michael's legs and spread them. His rigid organ found the niche and settled comfortably, but not for Michael. It was a terrible tease. A play on what was to come for Michael that he couldn't bear for much longer because he could feel the pulse, its heat. He felt the thickness on his skin and he knews… in a few more minutes the elongated flesh would be forced inside him, stretching until it was painful then pleasurable… and he almost couldn't wait. But… Brian was here. He had come home to their bed and he was here. Michael would do anything… he would wait another thousand years for moments like these. Brian never used foreplay for much longer than necessary. He could tell when Michael was ready. He had been nudged by the quivering ass cheeks calling out for him to seek his gratification. He needed a few more minutes to secure Michael under him. He knew his organ's length could hurt and he refused to do that to Michael. He widened the legs more, his palms pressed down on the mattress, underneath Michael's arms. There could be no movement from the man under him, Brian has imprisoned Michael simply by using his own body frame. The coolness of the lubed fingers sweetly tickled. They surrounded the anus and teased. First one entered, Michael fell back. Once the first had enough, he let the second and third one join in. Each new finger caused Michael to jerk with intensity. He knew Brian was attempting to prepare him for his thickness, knowing how sore he could get afterwards. With the lubing finished, Brian started his teasing of Michael's pliant body. Brian bit, nipped… he tasted the sweat at Michael's nape and hairline. He placed his cheek on the raven hair, lost in the softness. Better than his favorite pillow. He had been moving slowly, up and down, raising and lowering his cock along the inside of Michael's thighs. He wished he could touch Michael's cock, knowing it was as hard and leaking of precum as his was. At hearing his name sweetly called out on a whisper of breath, Brian slid through the tight anal cavity, causing Michael to suck in air. They both wanted this since before he left for Babylon and it's beyond either of their imaginations of how the sexual action would feel. The shock of the sensation… of skin on skin… of cock drawn up… the mesh of sweaty bodies… it's almost too much. Brian filled Michael as fully as he could, without cumming unexpectedly in the tip of the rubber. He could insert less of an inch more, but he had to stop. God… he had always been able to withstand multiple orgasms, multiple times, with multiple partners. Why was it that with Michael--why does he feel like cumming the second he was inside? Why does he feel satisfied with one fuck? Why?… why?… why…? No answer would enter his head because he was too involved in the moment, and he doesn't ever want to miss a thing. Michael felt like sobbing from the pleasure. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. He hated it from behind because he loved Brian's eyes and treasured his features delicate nuances. Without being able to look at Brian's face, Michael's almost able to disbelieve this was actually Brian. So many lovers, wishing they were Brian. But as he took the thick cock up his ass, felt the strong chest over his back and heard the whisper of his name on Brian's lips in his ears. He knew it was a dream come true and he wanted to sob… but this time not for pleasure, but for pain. A good pain. A nice, warm, good pain. Bittersweet pain. Too long of a time to have waited for a heaven like this. He ached… as he tried to regulate his breathing. Brian felt the hand reach behind him, catching his head, fingers tangling in his hair. He knew now… Michael wanted to change this position. He waited and they rose together. As they lifted, they move closer. Brian could penetrate harder, faster and Michael leaned backward to reach out for the headboard. His palms were flat on the wood. He pushed, checking for durability. "Do it." Michael begged, his lips dry… his mouth watering. "Michael… no…" Brian wasn't willing to do this because he knew right now that Michael was so tight. He won't be able to take much more. "You know you want to. I want you to. Do. It." Michael bears down, expecting the powerful rush of flesh. Brian didn't know if he could, but for Michael… he would attempt anything once. But if Michael showed any sign of unbearable pain, he promised himself he would stop and pull out. He had to assure Michael of something before he began. Let him know he was safe and they can end this now, if he wanted. He wasn't loved for his sexual prowess. He was loved because he was… Michael. Dipping his head near Michael's ear, Brian tucked his face to Michael's cheek. "I love you." "I know." Michael smiled sweetly, showing Brian every inch of his trust with his body. He opened wider to take in everything Brian had to give him. As Brian slipped away, he managed to snag his jaw. "I.Love.You." This was the declaration Brian needed to know that everything was all right. That anything was possible. Even someone unconditionally loving a selfish bastard like him. Brian began slowly, pounding in one stroke… two strokes… three. Each time going deeper. He figured out a smooth rhythm, which Michael's learned quickly and their bodies moved in tandem. Their conduction was flawless… Brian modeled his frame to Michael's. His hands on Michael's, his arms along Michael's, his chest to Michael's back. Who knew who came first, but neither of them knew they were finished. They fell back. Brian took Michael safely in his arms, holding him to his chest… his erratically beating heart nearly exploding out of his skin. He lay on his back, soaked in the pleasure of after-sex. Of still being inside Michael… pulsating and spent… Michael doesn't move, because it had been too perfect. It was where he had wanted to be all his life. Where he knew he had belonged. If he moved, Brian would… and he didn't want to let go of Brian just yet. Brian didn't want to close his eyes, because he feared if he did Michael will just disappear. And if that happened, Brian knew his life was over. Brian held Michael tightly to his shivering body, Michael closed his eyes and lay content against Brian's strong, enveloping arms. Michael didn't move a muscle, but he knew he couldn't because Brian had him – captive, in more ways than one. ~~&&~~&&~~&&~~&&~~ "So tell me. What was it about? What I said? Uh… earlier. Pertaining to that… wait, I liked how you said it… 'lust feve-h'… that overcomes us. One or the other, or both. You know, at the oddest of times." They were both still naked, post third or fourth orgasm. They weren't keeping track or watching the time. They had catnapped during the in between minutes. This was the precious time they knew they had for conversations, once they had been fully satisfied, ready to allow sleep to overcome them or just simple peace and quiet. Their bed was always their place for solving problems and figuring out how to make their lives better. Plus… it was really the only safe place for them to be connected and close, skin on skin, locked in their embraces. Kissing, touching, loving in plain sight. Michael was laying on his back, light bed sheet drawn up to his waist. Brian was beside him, on his stomach, his right leg was tucked between Michael's. The skin on their biceps were touching, merely skimming. Brian was resting his cheek on a pillow. If he was hopeful enough, Michael knew pretty soon Brian would shift over to his pillows. Usually didn't matter how they started, always in the end they shared pillows, blankets, bed space. "Simple really." He shrugged as if it had been staring him directly in the eyes. "I don't know why neither of us could figure it out." Brian leant over, near Michael's ear. "Is it kinky?" He was back on his pillow, grin stuck on his face. Michael scrunched up his face. "No. Rather boring." Brian reached out a lazy hand to press his index finger on Michael's crinkly nose tip. He almost didn't seem bothered by the touch. "You see… I'm pretty sure when we met…" "… it was love at first sight." Brian filled in the blank spot, trailing the finger down the slope of flesh under Michael's nose, tracing the full lips. Michael laughed, grabbing Brian's hand and spreading the fingers on his bare chest. "So… it was the same for you?" His brain even amazed himself at times. "Wow. I actually guessed on that one." He petted Brian's hand. Brian scooted over, knowing Michael might keep his hand for awhile. "You know, you have this thing about you. I'd call it a 'glow', but that sounds really gay. So, I'm gonna go with… 'essence'. You have a strong essence." "Why… thank you. Compliments aren't required, but I'll take them nonetheless." Michael rubbed his hand up and down Brian's arm, shaping the soft muscles. "Sorry…" Brian shook his head, tucking his face to Michael's shoulder, finally taking pillow space. Michael simply moved a bit more to his left. "… I distracted you. Go on." Michael was patient. "Don't ask me why we waited so long to try to be together-together. Like a couple. It's almost like we felt the 'urge'… the want… the primal need for the other person. Before, when we tried to pursue the feelings, something prevented us from going beyond a certain point. Now that we're exclusive to one another--" Brian lifted his head, drawing up his right arm to lay his head on top of his hand. "… when the 'urges' strike, we go for it. No holds barred." One finger began to drum on Michael's rib, caressing the soft skin. "Yeah, but I had a better way of putting it.' "Oh?" Brian raised an eyebrow curiously. "We are making up for lost time." "You think either of us has come to this bed with guilt?" Brian bent to Michael's ear. "Because… I'm not." He ended the point with a kiss to the drying skin. Michael shook his head, letting his head tilt left, looking across the room. "I'm not either." Why did he feel so free with his honesty? When he hadn't been in a relationship like this with Brian, he had hid this kind of stuff for years. Hmm… very peculiar. "Good. I'm assuming I got tired of nearly driving myself bat-shit crazy, stopping from feeling the way I do about you, about us. What we have now. I thought for sure it would scare me. The unknown… the surface mundane…" "… the freedom of safely placing your trust in another's hands." Michael supplied his own reasoning. "Yeah, if anything, you are more aware of me these days than you ever were." Brian was fascinated by how well Michael "fit" him, in more than one way. "It's like you can almost sense what I'm about to say or do before I even think about doing it." "… like an orchestrated symphony." Michael added. "… or a well choreographed dance." Brian followed Michael's addition. "In those first few days of you staying here, I thought the sex -- not just the nights you and I made love…" Michael turned on his side, sidling closer to Brian's chest. Michael's legs now sneaking for the space in between Brian's thighs. "… but sex, in general… I figured we were squeezing in nearly twenty years of unrequited sexual tension. Like we were afraid it wouldn't last. If we both wanted this relationship bad enough… it would disappear before we got to experience all that we wanted, had hoped for." “And now?” Brian wrapped his arm secure about Michael's waist, pulling him flush with his pelvis. "What changed your mind in this new theory?" Michael felt chilled for only a second, before he bowed his head, snuggling his entire body into Brian's blanket of flesh. He kissed the inside slope of Brian's shoulder, moving his nose along the neckline. "You." He licked, and blew on the moistness. "Me?! What did I do?!" Brian liked to sound shocked. He probably already knew, but hearing the words from Michael always assuaged the frightened emotions. "What you keep on doing. For me. For Jenny. You're there for us. Not just in the ways most dutiful parents are, but even more. You come into this house, even after a tough day at work and it's like you've left every worry at the door. You come to me in this bed and you finally see… me." Michael never lifted his head once to look at Brian's face. "Most importantly… my daughter, Jenny… you've given her an incredible outlet for her feelings. You've given her validation for emotions she's supposed to not have. And you've allowed her into your life, handing her one of the most selfless, precious gifts you gave to me… your friendship." Brian pressed a palm to the back of Michael's head, fingers caught in the tangles. "Michael, don't…" “No, let me speak.” Michael pushed away, looking over at Brian whose eyes had dropped. "Because I think too many times we've tried to respect one our spaces and be more sensitive than we ought to be. The worst thing you or I could ever do now is leave something unsaid. Or think the other person doesn't need the words to be spoken. It's important for each of us to know what we've done and what we mean to one another." He reached out to pet Brian's cheek, his thumb moving over the rough stubble. Brian nudged into Michael's palm. "You're so much better at this stuff than I am." Michael went back to sinking into Brian's chest, but kept his head higher on the pillow. His eyes connected with hazel depths, heads laying on the same plushness. "I had a better childhood environment than you did. My feelings weren't labeled as 'useless shit'. I had a life that cultivated being true to your feelings and becoming honest to a fault, no matter the consequences.' Brian shut his lids, shifting slightly to mesh his forehead with Michael's, seeking solace. "Even looking back on my childhood… I envied you, immensely. I didn't really need the father bits, but what I mostly resented was losing Mom." He shook his head as if he was still trying to figure out what he did wrong, even at thirty-nine. The kisses Michael was giving him, on his skin, made it a little tolerable. "That's why I clung to Debbie more than I should have. I thought you had a great mother, until I could see for myself what the word… 'smothering' meant. But I would have given everything for Mom to treat me like Debbie treated me." Brian heaved a sigh of lost regrets he couldn't fulfill. "Took me the longest to warm up to Vic." He smiled, his heart growing soft at the mere thought of Michael's sweetheart of an uncle. "Maybe because I was what he used to be, before he got sick. Cock of the Walk… struttin' like it was nobody's business what he had cooked up. And we idolized him like a freakin' rockstar." Brian felt tears pooling, opening his eyes to see Michael was similarly moved. "God… do you remember how he looked back then?" At Michael's smile and nod, he went on. "He was sa-mo-hokin' hot!" He knew Vic was an emotional heartbreaking subject for them both to approach. So he always did… cautiously. Michael rolled over, onto his back, loving when Brian situated his body to fit around him on his shuffle. "Yeah! I'd seen him in normal clothes, every day. But then he'd go out at night and… whoa! Never failed to knock me for a loop to see him dressed up in his 'party clothes'." "Travolta in 'Saturday Night Fever'… had nothing on Vic. In fact, he would have worshiped the ground Vic strutted on." Brian found himself admiring the older man more and more as he, himself, became older. "Poor Vic." Michael chuckled, thinking back to that sad, pathetic time in their lives. "Instead, he had us two… Vic's Boys, he used to call us. The Irish Mick and The Italian--" Brian shook Michael lightly, teasing him shamelessly. "Pony… oh gawd… The Italian Pony. That's right… he'd wink, nudge you with his hip and say, 'One day, son, you'll grow up to be a stallion'. It took everything in me to not crack up laughing at your face as he said it." Michael was lost in his own embarrassment. "Oh, yeah… you can laugh. Like my nickname didn't cause me enough shame. Sheesh. Do you remember those stories he told us? Those straight clubs in New York and Los Angeles… orgy VIP sections that would make your toes curl, your body shiver with chills. Somewhat like Studio 54... gone abstractly wild." "… every one of them chock full of romper-room gay sex and an abundancy of rooms pouring with illegal drug use. Well, for those times. Jesus…" Brian looked off into the distance, still marveling Vic had survived those times to tell some pretty dark secrets. "… we think Babylon was crazy." "I know…" Michael was amazed Vic had made it out alive, sick but surviving. Brian let his head fall to Michael's, softly pushing. "I miss him… you know." He searched for one of Michael's hands, needing to grasp his fingers, play with the digits. "I do. More and more as I get older." Michael frowned, not sure if he felt like crying or if his heart just expanded more from feeling the intense love for his beloved uncle, who had been more of a father to him than his own. "Especially for Jenny. He would have adored her." Brian reached over and wrapped he and Michael's own arm about Michael's waist. "Yeah, he found ways to make me proud of being my own father to Gus. He liked the kid. Sometimes I--if I'm quiet enough, and I close my eyes tight, concentrating--" He sighed, trying that exact maneuver, but failing. "He's with us. Always." "You really believe he loved us that much?" Brian wasn't trying to sound doubtful, he was simply amazed the emotion had been there. Vic didn't speak it, you almost felt it or he said it in his words to you. And they didn't have to be a lot of wordy-words -- just enough to make you turn your head and think, even when you thought you had thought through it all. Michael chuckled, because this very idea had always helped him cope with the great loss upon Vic's death. "Who do you think is watching over us now? Helping us… guiding us… getting us through our tough times?" Brian dipped his head, finding a spot to rest his cheek on Michael's shoulder, squeezing the small body to his warmth. "I like that. It's a comforting thought." "It's kept me strong. Knowing Vic would support us together, no matter what." Brian smiled sweetly, feeling his agreement spread through his body. "Hey… do you think he had a 'might have been'?" Michael tilted his head, his cheek landing on top of Brian's head. "Do I think Vic had a 'Michael'… to his `Brian'?" His arm came up and encircled Brian's body to his side. "Uh, okay… sure. Don't know that I like sounding as if I were a 'textbook scenario'. But yeah, I do." Brian was actually more sure as he continued to think on the facts they already had. "Think we may have already met him?" “I don't know.” Brian had to recall too many faces to begin to make choices. "Before he got really sick, Vic had a lot of random boyfriends." For a minute, Michael responded with an idea in his head. "Wouldn't it be cool if we tried to look for him?" “He could be dead.” Brian shrugged, sighing heavily. "He could have been The One who infected Vic." Michael forgot about his freaky idea and moved on to something else. "Do you know I don't really know how Vic became infected. One day Ma just crumbled to the floor, right before me. Like she'd known the day would come." Brian wasn't really ignoring Michael, he simply remained back with Michael's original idea. "Or he could be very much alive. He's been wondering, all this time, where Vic went. If so, did he know Vic was sick? Was he worried about him? Or did Vic break his heart too and never shared his secret? Better still… did Vic tell him and his 'Michael' rejected him, without a breadth of understanding thus breaking his hear--" He knew he had gone off on a tangent, so he lifted his head to stare down at Michael. "I heard what you said." "I know, but… whoa… can of worms, here!" Michael wanted to laugh out loud. He had actually heard passion behind Brian's voice as he had spoken those scenarios. “Are you writing a novel or something?” "No." Brian let his eyes drop to Michael's pale skin, attention to a gathering of freckles. "I leave that drivel to writers. Like you and your ex-Benjamin." He hoped that covered his slip. "Ben is 'mine' no more." Michael made a face with minimal grief, more like… bewilderment. "Oh? Benny found a new disciple to worship at the Altar of Pecks?” Michael cracked up laughing, his belly wiggling. He shoved at Brian's shoulder. "Stop!" He wasn't bothered by the news of Ben having a "boyfriend". It was just how fast he had found a new replacement for Michael at his side. Had Ben already been scoping out prospects? "I was a little stunned when Hunter told me. Mind you, I tried to play it like I had known already." "I think you do. Or… we do. Betcha it's that prissy professor friend Ben had over when we brought Jenny home a month ago. You remember?" "HIM?" Michael didn't doubt it, but… that guy? "Really? You think?" "Sometimes, Michael, like minds attract." Which wasn't a very good example for them. "Hey, they probably find special time to stroke one anothers'… uh, egos." Brian winked in a very special tease to show Michael he knew Ben's taste in men seemed to be getting worse. Michael rolled his eyes and tried to figure something out. "He was so-so--" "Puffy? Poofy? Stuffy?" Brian thought about more adjectives. Michael looked into Brian's face, searching for something. "He did wear a lot of wool." "He owned a Lexus SUV. He might own his own herd of sheep." Michael shoved Brian, trying to sit up against his pillows. "Have you ever been with someone long enough that after you leave them, you attempt to compare yourself to their new… interest?" Michael was never one to assume Brian considered Justin anything close to a serious relationship. He knew Brian used it in these circumstances as his best, most recent example of what resembled a relationship in his eyes. And Michael wasn't offended. He figured he owed Justin a few “thank you-s”, just--he wished Justin hadn't been there. Been there and stolen so many special moments he wished he could have been there for Brian. If anything, Michael had tried to instill in the boy that if he wanted Brian as his "boyfriend" so badly… he had to act like one and respect Brian's heart. Unfortunately, Justin couldn't grasp that Brian had a special sticker on how to handle him with care, and patience hadn't been one of the boy's strongest virtues. He prepared himself for a few minutes of hearing Justin's name. "Justin… with The Fiddler. That was enough to confuse me." Brian knew Justin was a sore subject between them. He had grown to wanting to talk about his years with the young man more with Michael. Only so he could tell Michael how he wanted to do things differently and not fuck up so badly. But… Justin was a no-no word he treaded on lightly. Michael slunk out of Brian's reach, drawing his knees up to his chest. The sheet still covering his lower limbs. "I heard through the grapevine that David actually went back to his wife. He tried to work it out with her, for Hank's sake." Brian was a tad thankful, yet… stunned. "You made a misguided straight man, who tried to be gay for more than seven years… go 'straight' again? Whoa… you win this round." Michael simply stared at Brian, until he lowered his silly grin. "Think Justin found someone new?" "Don't know, don't care. I hope so, though." Brian shifted, knowing for the few minutes of Justin's name being uttered, he couldn't touch Michael. So he sat up against his own pillows, a few inches from Michael's side. He kept his hand on the mattress between them, hoping Michael would subtly scoot over to touch him. He could wait… maybe… "The last thing I want…" He shut his eyes, letting his head rest on the headboard, looking up at the canopy portion of the bed frame. "… is him coming back and thinking he can simply begin again with me." Michael was taken aback by the conviction behind Brian's voice. He could almost believe Brian was fully over Justin. He followed Brian's move of leaning back on the headboard, then turned his head to stare over at Brian, who could feel his eyes burning into him. Brian put out a hand. “I know very well that I wouldn't. I'm with somebody else." Michael realized he was too quiet, too serious. Possibly scaring Brian. He couldn't do this, in their bed. "Oh… who?" "oh, har-har... you are so… not funny." Brian tried not to laugh, even at his own fallacies. "But you laughed." Michael sent Brian a sweet smile of reassurance. “I heard you.” Brian slid over, on his knees. He seated himself in front of Michael. "Michael… look at me." He caught the tip of Michael's chin, forcing him to look in his eyes. "I.Wouldn't." Michael didn't move to hold Brian, he felt how he always felt hearing about Justin and the life that Brian could have had without him. "I know. I heard you before." Brian wasn't going to move his eyes from Michael's gaze. It was the only way for Michael to know he was telling a truth. Eyes… he knew how much Michael loved his eyes. "I need to know that you believe me. I'm not straying. Ever. You've got me trained too well." He tried to tease, but it wasn't making Michael become any happier. "Man!" Michael let his arms fall to the bed in mild frustration. "Not you, too! I wish I didn't have to hear all these dog scenario words and analogies… tamed, trained, on a tight leash, straying… in accordance with you!" Brian heard the way Michael attempted to stick up for his reputation, loving the way his anger could work. Being pissed at Brian, yet still protective with everything in him. Even in simple word placement. "Well… it figures. They already think you've followed me for years like a puppy dog." Michael's unbent his knees, his legs pushing at Brian's body. "You are here…" He pounded a fist on the mattress. "… by your own free will." "Free will? What's that?" Brian taunted, a side of his mouth lifting in a tease. He pulled the sheet over his body, moving his legs to lay along Michael's and on top of them. He was hovering over the small frame. He was being allowed back in Michael's realm. He liked these moments, the push-n-pull of Michael's emotions… frustrations and desires. He swung his body down, fully on top of Michael, palms on either side of Michael's arms. He felt the hands clench his hips, keeping him close and closer. "Okay… I don't doubt you won't stray from me, but can you, at least, stop referring to yourself like a dog?" "Yes, Michael." Brian dipped low to press a tender kiss to Michael's hairline, beginning a trail along the side of his face, coming up around his jaw, ending at the chin… desperately wanting the lips again… Michael was keen to Brian deepest needs… and kept his mouth out of reach. Oooo , clever... Brian thought to himself, two could play at this game . He took his left index finger, starting from the dip in Michael's throat, tracing an imaginary curvy line. It sloped down the upper torso, around a pert nipple, up and down the middle of his ribcage, settling around his abdomen, then curling and twisting the light hairs leading down into the crest of dark pubic hair. "I'll agree…" Brian knew if he glanced into Michael's face the dark brown eyes would look almost black. Pleasure was awesome on Michael's handsome features. Licking a circumference of the exposed nipple and teasing the tip, he lightly blew. "… if you accept my promise…" Michael lifted up, face hidden in Brian's tousled hair. He discovered the curve of an ear lobe and took a taste, whispering low with want. "… Brian… yes…" He begged for pleasure, knowing he could get what he wanted if he just succumbed to the acceptance of an easy promise. "… do I have to do anything?" Brian shook his head. He shifted, deft at grabbing both their hardening shafts, rubbing and sending friction up their bodies in sync. "Just stand around and look pretty…" He stole a kiss on Michael's open mouth. His wet lips slipping down Michael's neck, nipping and suckling the pale beauty of white skin and blue veins. "I promise…" He stuttered, his own eyes fluttering between opening and closing. His breath wafting over Michael's naked flesh. "… that if anyone… namely the unnameable one… re-enters my life…" He didn't know what he had begun, but he could sense his growing want to be inside of Michael once again. "… our world… I will be the one to reveal our relationship…" He let go of Michael's cock, unable to want to speak another word. He grabbed Michael's hands, trapping the wrists on the pillow. "Oh… gawd… I want you… again… need you…" He pushed once against Michael's groin, using a leg to spread Michael's thighs. "Sorry…" "Don't be." Michael moaned, arching his neck. "I want you, too. I need you… again…" He could almost melt at the desire stewing around in him to be let out. He pretended to fight under Brian's weak trap. "If you want… I know some cheap advertising rent space…" Brian nudged Michael's cheek, murmuring in his ear. "Do you know?" "What?" Michael was lifting his legs, up and around Brian's waist, allowing him access. "He's not in their wedding, but he's on the guest list." Brian was momentarily confused. Who was he again? "He's invited to Ted and Blake's nuptials?" Justin wasn't really on his mind right now. He wanted to forget that life and concentrate on the present and the future with the gorgeous man under him. "Yes!" Michael groaned out on a rise of pleasure. "Oh…" Brian faltered against Michael's undulation against his body. "Yeah…" Michael let out a quick breath, awkwardly reaching for a condom. Brian took the rubber to sheath himself as quickly as he could. "Any RSVP, yet?" He really wished they would both shut up. "Ted hasn't said. I haven't asked. Not on my mind." "Mine either. Ted would love to rub it in my face. No doubt." "Yeah… so… you might have to keep that promise…" Michael begged this time with his eyes, reaching up to bite at Brian's skin above him, licking the sweat. "Oh… I will." Swiftly, Brian entered Michael. "… I will." He rolled once on a slide into Michael's center, allowing the small man control. Once releasing Michael's wrists he reached back, fingertips on the wooden headboard. He was relieved when Michael didn't rise above him, riding out the euphoria and plunging down savagely on his hardening cock. He moved one hand, palm down to place gentle pressure on Michael's gyrating hips, fingers scraping down and fondling their tight connection. Michael squeaked against his lips, their tongues battled for dominance. He shuddered at the feel of Brian caressing him where he was penetrating. Michael never moved from his adherence to Brian's naked chest. As if sweat had power to turn to glue. Michael lay his right cheek over Brian's heart, content with listening to the erratic pulses churning through Brian's body under his control of their position. Michael's own organ lay hard and crooked between their perspiring stomachs. "Your other hand…" "Yeah…" Brian removed his hand from Michael's ass and did his lover's bidding. "… I'm already there." ~~TBC...

When Alex Russo is eighteen, she dials her brother's number at college with shaking hands, and tells him that their parents are missing. "What do you mean, missing?" Justin demands, as Alex glares at her phone like she can strangle him through it. "Did you, like, make them disappear as part of some nefarious plan? Yet another Alex Russo scheme gone wrong? Maybe they just went somewhere and didn't leave a note." "They always leave a note! I came home from my morning class and no one was here! Except customers! Waiting for sandwiches, Justin!" Angrily, she spreads mayonnaise on a wheat bun, then adds ham, cheese, tomatoes, pickles and shredded lettuce during the long pause. Waiting for Justin to say something, anything. Waiting for Justin to tell her that yeah, he knows where their parents are, that they haven't just disappeared. He doesn't do any of that. Alex can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, and then she says, "I have work to do," and hangs up. Justin's there an hour later, right after Max gets home, and for twenty minutes during which Alex thinks she might lose her mind, they keep making sandwiches and serving them. Until Justin says, "Fuck this," and makes a Closed due to family emergency sign for the front door. He slaps it up, then says, "Loft, now," and they all go. * Justin finds Alex working the sub shop, a mask of angry indifference covering up what he knows is fear. He wants to grab her and pull her close, suddenly sorry for not coming home for weeks and now only coming because something is wrong, but it's too busy. He throws on an apron and listens to the clock tick as he makes sandwich after sandwich with an uncharacteristically silent Max at his elbow, until he knows they are all going to explode if they don't talk about this. He makes a sign and tapes it to the door, pushes all the customers out with coupons for free side items, and hauls his sister and brother upstairs. "They were just gone!" Alex shouts once the door is shut. Max looks between them both and sinks down onto a chair, his face pale. Justin takes a deep breath and physically pushes his sister onto the couch, linking their hands together, struggling for the right thing to say. Finally he settles on, "I don't know any more than you do, Alex," and it feels like taking the easy way out. "How could they disappear?" Max asks. "What would someone want with them? They only - make sandwiches." "It's because we're wizards," Alex replies, her voice full of bitterness, turning on the couch away from Justin even though he doesn't let go of her hand. "You don't know that, Alex," he says, trying to stay calm. * She tries to get away from Justin but it doesn't work; he won't let go of her hand, just keeps their fingers tightly wound together. Alex doesn't want to think about the summer before he'd left for college out of state, how she'd spent all of it in a constant heat wave of being aware of Justin, for what had felt like the first time in her life. It had been weird and confusing, and had only been made stranger by the way that Justin had looked at her. Like he'd felt it, too. She doesn't want to go back to that. Not now. Not when Justin is only here because their parents have disappeared. And he's trying to tell her that she can't assume it's because they're wizards, which is a bunch of bullshit. "Why else?" she snaps at him. "Why else, Justin?" "I don't know," he says quietly. "What do we do?" Max says then. "Go out and look for them? Keep the shop open? What?" "I don't know!" Justin shouts, letting go of her hand so he can make an angry gesture. Good, Alex thinks, get angry. She wants him to be mad. She's seen Justin flustered, confused, disappointed, but she's never seen him really angry. Even when Juliet had broken up with him so she could date another vampire, he'd just been resigned. It's silent and tense for several minutes, then Justin says, "Maybe we should call the police." Max wraps his arms around his knees. "Don't you have to wait like, twenty-four hours?" "Not in New York," Alex murmurs, suddenly tired, the last of her adrenaline rush fading out. She leans against Justin and he slides his arm around her shoulders, hugging her tight. She has to push hard against the urge to cry. "We should figure out if it's something magical first," he says after another long silence. "Before we go to the police. I could try the crystal ball. Some spells. But I need you guys to help. I haven't done anything but really basic magic in - in months." * Nothing works. All three of them cast spells long into the night. They leave magical messages for everyone they can think of. And then there is nothing to do but wait. It's past midnight when Max falls asleep on the sofa, shadows under his eyes. Justin snags the blanket from one of the chairs and lays it over him. Then he looks at Alex, slumped on the other chair. "I'm sorry," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say. It's horrible, this helpless feeling. "I'm sorry I'm not good enough to figure this out." "Justin, no," she replies. Her voice is shaky. "Come on. You're tired, I can see it in your face." She sits up enough so there's room on the chair for both of them, and pulls him down next to her. "C'mon," she whispers again. He's too tired to resist. Sleep deprivation makes him sloppy. Makes him want things like Alex's warm touch, things he'd sworn he wasn't going to let himself want again. He leans against the back of the chair and she moves into his arms, settling against him. "Maybe someone will have an answer in the morning," he murmurs into her hair. It's short again, barely to her chin, and there are deep red streaks. He wonders what else he's missed in the last few months. "Yeah." It's just a sigh, warm breath against his neck. "Can we sleep right here like this?" "Sure." * Alex wakes up when the sun hits the windows, her whole body stiff from sleeping slumped on top of Justin in a chair. She gets up slowly, carefully. He's snoring slightly, and his hands twitch when she's out of reach, but he doesn't wake up. Max is missing from the couch, and Alex guesses he's gone back to his own room. She goes to check, to be sure, needing to know that he hasn't disappeared as well, and finds him burrowed underneath the blankets of his bed. Alex hovers in the doorway for a few seconds, unsure if she should wake him up and tell him he should go to school, or if she can call him in sick. She's still standing there when Justin comes up behind her and touches her shoulder. "Do you think Max should go to school today?" she asks. "Look at you, all concerned with attendance," he teases, then muffles a yawn with his hand. "I think Mom and Dad would be cool with him staying home. Besides, we might need his powers." In the morning light, something occurs to her. "Do you think something's gone wrong with the wizard test and stuff?" Stranger things have happened to them. "I really don't know," he says softly, and she knows they're both remembering the Caribbean. "Come on, what about being a wizard has ever made sense," he tries to joke. But it falls flat between them and Alex doesn't know how to reply. She pushes away from the doorframe. It might feel weird, but she's glad that he's here. "I'm, um, going to make some breakfast. You want anything?" "Whatever you make." He's all rumpled and sleepy and she's willing to bet he's got as many aches and pains as she does. "Thanks." Justin catches her as she slides past, and they hug. "I'm glad you're here," Alex whispers in his ear, holding tight to the strength of his shoulders, being held by the span of his hands around her waist. "We'll figure it out," he promises. * Alex looks tired and pale, and as she starts to walk away from Max's room, Justin reaches out for her. He wraps her up in his arms and is grateful when she hugs back. She murmurs that she's glad he's here. Justin holds her a little tighter for a second, promising that they'll figure it out. Even though he doesn't have a clue what's going on. She wanders off to the kitchen. He goes to his room and just stands there for a few minutes. It looks the same as it always has - maybe a little cleaner than the days when he was living in it. He fights the urge to fall down onto the bed and sleep another few hours. Sometime today, he might need to go through the portal to the magical world, and it's been long enough that he needs to brush up with the spellbook for a while first. So he showers fast and throws on some clothes still in his dresser, and goes to see if Alex needs help. Max is up, sitting at the counter skimming the paper and drinking a glass of orange juice. There's one waiting for Justin, too, and coffee brewing. "You drink coffee now?" he asks Alex. "Black as the night," she replies. "Pancakes or pancakes?" "Anything, Alex." He slides into a chair. She shrugs. "They were in the freezer." Then she passes the syrup from the refrigerator as the microwave dings and, after the syrup, the plate of pancakes. All three of them eat from it without talking, knives and forks clinking until it's gone. Justin licks the sticky syrup from his fingertips but barely tastes it, sees Alex lick it from the corner of her mouth. "So now what?" she asks. "Yeah, now what?" Max echoes, slowly stirring spoonful after spoonful of sugar into the cup of coffee he's just poured for himself. Most of the time, Justin forgets that his little brother is growing up. But he's nearly seventeen, almost to the final stretch before taking the test. Justin remembers how hard he'd studied. It seems like forever ago now. "I guess we should see if anyone's gotten our messages," he says, and they all go down to the Lair. There's not a single response. Justin is dumbfounded. "I don't understand it. Even Kelso?" "He should have at least sent something." Alex clutches her mug of coffee. "There's nothing from anyone?" Max asks, leaning over the magic mailbox. "Look again." "There's nothing," Justin whispers. Then he grabs the nearest wand he can see and aims it at the portal. "These are things that Wizards do; open, Portal, let us through." There's nothing. Not a flash, not even a faint glow. He tries again. Alex tries. Max tries. Nothing. "What does it mean?" Max shouts, banging into a table and sending books flying. Justin finds Alex's hand without even realizing what he's doing. "I guess it doesn't mean anything," he says dully. "I guess we either call the police and tell a fuckload of lies, or we wait, and try until something works." Max makes a frustrated noise. Justin knows the feeling. "I'm going outside," Max says, stomping towards the stairs. "I'll be back later." "Take your -" Justin starts, but Max is already gone. * Max storms out, and Alex keeps holding on to Justin's hand. They stare at each other for a few minutes. She wants desperately to ask what they're supposed to do now, but she's starting to understand that he doesn't know any more than she does, and she doesn't want to hear him say he doesn't know. So she reaches up with her free hand to touch his face, hesitantly. "Sorry you had to come back to this." "Not your fault." Justin's shaking his head. Alex doesn't know what to do. "Justin -" "Not your fault, Alex," he repeats. "And yeah, there is so much irony in that statement." She grins despite herself. "Are you gonna write me a note so I don't flunk out of my stupid sculpture class?" "You? What about me?" "Do you need to go back?" she asks, realizing she doesn't want him to. Yeah, there'd been about three minutes after she'd discovered Jerry and Theresa were gone where she hadn't wanted to call him, but now that he's standing in front of her, Alex is seeing how much she's missed him. His fingers tighten warmly on hers. "I'll send a couple emails. I should be okay for a few days, and I don't have classes on Fridays anyway." Alex makes a mock-surprised face and can't resist needling him a little bit. "What do you mean, you're not taking classes five days a week? What happened to the kid who would have gone to school twenty-four hours a day if he could, huh?" "Ugh, bio lab happened," he groans, letting go of her hand to reach up and rub at his face. "You don't do much magic there, do you?" she asks, although she's already guessed the answer. "Is it that obvious?" She shrugs. "Kinda." If she's being honest, she doesn't do much outside of home, either. Sometimes getting on the subway to go to class feels like leaving magic behind. "I get it, Justin," she says, before he can try to explain; it's Justin, of course he would want to explain. She takes her coffee mug from the table. "I don't want to be in here any more." "Me neither," he murmurs. But something in her still pulls, still wants to be close to him, and in the loft they turn the television on to find a morning talk show and curl up on the couch together. Alex drags his arms around her waist, beyond caring that it's weird. * Justin presses his face into Alex's hair as Regis talks about the latest American Idol scandal. She melts back against him, pulling his arms tighter. "Little Miss Needy," he whispers in her ear, hoping she won't take it the wrong way. "Shut up," she grumbles. She digs her fingers into his arm for a second, enough for it to be painful. "I can still hurt you." He doesn't doubt that she could. "Oh, the days when you only cared about making my life a living hell." She jabs him in the stomach with the pointy bit of her elbow. "Ow, that hurt." "Be quiet, I'm trying to watch Regis." Justin presses his face against her neck for the sole purpose, he tells himself, of being an asshole and distracting her. Instead of pinching him, she whimpers and moves against him, and he can't hold back his gasp. They both freeze. "Alex, what-" She turns over in his arms. "Shut up, Justin, just - shut up," she breathes. "And kiss me. Don't talk. Kiss me." He does. It's a lining up of open mouths, no tongue, not even that dirty of a kiss, but. The touch jolts through him unlike any kiss he's ever been a part of before; like molten gold the feeling spreads, lighting up every muscle and crook of bone in his body. It's over sooner than Justin would have liked, because Alex's whole body hitches when her breath does, and the movement breaks them apart. "I'm sorry," he says, even though he's not sure what exactly he's sorry about. Everything, maybe. Alex scoffs. She doesn't move away from him. "Sorry for what?" Justin lets his eyes drop to her mouth. Sometimes she's so inscrutable that it's hard for him to judge how she wants him to play things. Summer could have been his imagination, after all. "For not doing this before now," he answers, and kisses her again. * Don't make me spell it out for you, she thinks, but Justin's gaze flicks to her lips and she hopes he gets it. It feels like forever rolls through the room, careening into the walls, before he says, "For not doing this before now." Then he's kissing her again, for real this time. It's wet and messy and exactly the kind of kiss Alex likes, trading off control, back and forth, taking and being taken. Justin's mouth is warm and she can tell that he's trying not to demand too much. It's way more of a turn on than it should be. Downstairs, a door slams and they break apart again. Alex feels like her heart is beating out of control as she rolls off the couch and to her feet, making it to the nearby chair before Max comes in. She pretends like she's really into whoever this musical guest is on Regis & Kelly, and then she remembers she doesn't like country music all that much. Justin is asking Max what the weather is like outside. Alex rolls her eyes. "Kinda weird," Max answers, summoning a bottle of water from the fridge. It bumps into the wall, but it gets to him. "Feels like that goofy stillness there always is before a storm. Or after a storm. Except it's supposed to be nice all week." "If by nice, you mean ass-freezing cold," she jumps in. They both stare at her. "What? I was listening. For once." "I don't get it," Max says to Justin, ignoring her contribution. Alex turns her attention back to the television, pulling the blanket from the back of the chair up around her head. She feels tired and alive all at the same time and she wants to close her eyes and think about Justin's hands, but she also wants to close her eyes and cry at how empty the house feels without her parents. Only a few minutes pass before she can't stand it and announces, "I'm going to my room," and escapes to take a shower. * Max keeps talking as Justin pretends he's not watching Alex walk from the room. He manages to say, "No, I don't know," at the appropriate time and Max doesn't notice he's stopped paying attention to the conversation. "Should we open the shop today?" he asks, interrupting what his brother is saying about his jogging route. "No." Max looks at him like he's crazy for suggesting that they work if there's a reason not to, even though Justin is fairly certain that Max will be the one taking over the family business in a few years. And it's not like Justin wants to spend all day making sandwiches and refilling salt shakers and trying to remember his dad's recipe for potato salad, but he'd figured he should at least bring it up. He stands. "I'm going to try the Portal again." In the Lair, there's a message from Kelso. No idea. Maybe it's a test! Maybe they ran away to Aruba! Justin flings the scroll away in disgust. "Ran away to Aruba," he mutters. "In the middle of lunch." Max holds up his hands, shrugs and makes a face all at once. "I know, I know. Stranger things have happened in this family." Saying it out loud seems to lighten the mood somewhat. "You know," he tells Max, "just because I called you in sick to school today doesn't mean you get to slack off and not do whatever homework you didn't do last night." "Sure it does!" Justin rolls his eyes, but doesn't push it. The last thing he wants is for Max or Alex to accuse him of acting like a grown-up while their parents are gone. "You don't have to hang out with me, you know," Max says, reaching for one of the comic books he keeps stashed around the Lair. He kicks his feet up on the table. "I can entertain myself." It's a total brush-off. Justin's been gone for months and his little brother still doesn't want to hang out with him. He coughs, feeling awkward. "I gotta go email my professors anyway." Max waves, not looking up from his comic. Justin goes back to the loft and digs his laptop from the backpack he'd brought home and abandoned by the door the minute he had walked in. He emails the professors he needs to, and has just opened his econ syllabus to check how behind he'll be for missing two classes, when Alex comes out of her room. Her hair is wet but combed, and he can see a few drops of water still running down her jaw. She wipes them away when they reach her chin. "Hey." "Hey." "Whatcha doin'?" "Homework," he groans, navigating through folders, trying to find the file for his English paper. "Don't you have any?" "Uh, I'm only taking art classes at the community college?" Alex waves her hands in the air in her classic 'my brother is stupid' way. It's less annoying than he used to find it. And it figures that she'd still be trying to find ways to get out of homework, but if she watches television all day, he'll never get his own papers done. "C'mon, come chill on the couch with me. With your drawings or whatever." * Sometimes, Justin is dumb about stuff, seriously. She wipes more water off her neck. Should have dried her hair better, but it's not like she's planning to leave the house today. He's still looking at her like she's crazy, though. "I guess I could do my sketches for my lame sculpture class," she grumbles, and goes to get her sketchbook and pencils from her room. He's moved over on the couch when she returns, so she sits down cross-legged in the warm spot he'd left and adjusts her cutoff yoga pants over her knees before pulling her sketchbook into her lap. It's quiet for a while as she tries to decide how to best stretch out the angles for her warped toaster sculpture, and then there are just the soft pencil noises as she sketches out the cartoon tongue that will replace the normal lever. Justin bends down to dig for something in his backpack, and she reaches out without even thinking about it and threads her fingers through his hair. It's soft against her skin, no product in it to keep it a certain way. "You let it grow," she murmurs absently, drawing a pair of oversized lips around the tongue. "Yeah." He straightens up, holding a battered copy of Hemingway's complete works, full of sticky notes. Then he leans over her shoulder a little. "Is that a toaster?" "Yep." Justin keeps leaning over, watching her draw, and it's really distracting. He's not wearing the same cologne that he'd been slapping on for years, and instead of smelling like ginger and cedarwood and whatever else it is, he smells like clean soap and the dryer sheets Alex knows their mom had tucked in his dresser when he'd left for college. It's also more than a little awkward because she has no idea if he's going to want to talk about the kissing. Or if he's going to want to kiss more. She shouldn't want to keep the kissing going, but she does. "Is this why you transferred out of state?" she asks suddenly. "What?" He draws back a little, and when she glances at him, he looks confused. "Because you wanted to kiss me." "I wanted to go to a school with a decent engineering program," Justin replies, but he says it haltingly, in the way that Alex knows means he's just making it up as he speaks. "No, it makes sense now!" "Alex-" "Is the guilt eating you up inside?" she teases, poking him in the side. Justin slides his hand around the back of her neck. His palm is warm, and his fingers slip through her still-damp hair. "Not as much as it should be," he breathes, and Alex shoves her sketchbook and pencils on the floor so she can reach for his waist, skim her hands around his hips and up over his back. She expects at least a flash of weirdness when he pulls her into his lap, but there's nothing but the desire to be right where she is, opening her mouth under his. They stay that way for a long time, until Alex hears Max banging his way through the sub shop, and she tries to go back to her sketches but she can't concentrate. So she announces she's going to make herself some lunch, and tries to ignore the way Justin's hand brushes over her thigh accidentally on purpose when she gets up from the couch. * Later, Alex finds him in the Lair, sitting motionless on the sofa. "Justin?" "Hey," he says, his voice rough. Alex is going to take that to mean he hadn't had any luck this time either. "You okay?" she asks instead. Justin doesn't answer. He holds out his hands instead and Alex goes to him without a second thought. "We sure spent a lot of time sitting around," she says, aiming for flippant and conversational but somehow ending up with tired, crumbling edges instead. "Also eating." Justin tugs her down onto his lap. "What is there to do but wait?" "The Portal still won't open?" "Won't do anything." "I just don't get it," she sighs, leaning forward against him, laying her head on his shoulder. "How many weird things have happened to us over the years, you know? But this feels so different." He walks his fingers slowly down her back as he says, "I know." Then he walks them back up again, slides them through her hair. "I like the red streaks," he murmurs, "they're sorta fierce." "Thanks," Alex breathes. Her heart is starting to beat faster, speeding up again like it's been doing whenever she's this close to him. She's suddenly aware of how she's straddling his hips, of the heat building between her legs. Intent sparks between them like the coarse strike of a match, a flame popping in the dark. "Alex," he murmurs against her neck, "what are we doing?" She makes up her mind. "You're gonna touch me." His indrawn breath is sharp and loud in the otherwise quiet room, like he can't believe she's giving him permission to do this, an unasked question lingering in the sliver of space between them. "Yes," she says firmly, "I want you to." His hands move slowly up and down her back again, like he's not sure what to do, so Alex reaches back. But when her hands touch his, instead of letting her pull his arms back around so she can put them where she wants them - her breasts, she really wants him to touch her breasts right now - Justin catches both her wrists in one hand and holds them tight there at the small of her back. It's Alex's turn for a sharp inhalation. "Justin, what..." The hand not holding her wrists slips around her waist, flat palm skimming over her body. He stops with his hand at her belly button, and ducks his thumb under the elastic band of her yoga pants. It's a small move, but it's so weighted with intent that it feels like the biggest thing in the world. Alex looks up at him and he's staring at her like he can't believe she's letting him get away with this. She squirms a little against his hold, wanting to run her fingers over his face and pull him in for a kiss, but he doesn't let go. The hand on her stomach drops a few centimeters lower. Alex huffs a breath, because it's maddeningly slow, the way he's tracing the waistband of her panties back and forth and back and forth, working the edge of his thumb under the elastic a tiny bit more with every sweep. "Justin," she whines, rolling her hips, "please -" He squeezes her wrists lightly. "You wanted me to touch you, so let me touch you how I want to." She whines again, high in the back of her throat, feeling like her breath is rasping dry through her mouth. Justin ducks down and kisses her, wets her lips and tongue with his, and slides his thumb down where she wants it, strokes firmly over her clit while she moans into his mouth. Alex isn't inexperienced. Were this any other guy, she'd rock her hips, press herself onto his touch, urge him back just a little further to slip inside her with two fingers, maybe three; get off on it before he fucked her so that she'd last longer while he did. But it's not any other guy. It's Justin, and he just keeps rubbing the pad of his thumb in circles over her clit while she gasps and gets wetter and wetter. She gasps again when he nips at her bottom lip and pulls back from the kiss, whispering feverishly, "I need to see, Alex, I want to see, let me," and they're both working to push the stretchy pants and her panties down enough that he can see her without her having to get too far off his lap. It doesn't work too well. Justin tips her sideways off of him as she groans, pulls the clothes down her legs and off while she lays on her back on the couch. He pushes her thighs apart and she lets him, digging her fingertips into the velvety cushions, feeling the flush in her face increase. Even her earlobes are tingling. She glances at his crotch, can see the outline of his cock against his sweatpants. "Not fair," she pants, "you get to look and I don't. Take your pants off." * All Justin can think is that he wants to taste her, and that they're going to make a mess and stain the couch, when she tells him to take his sweatpants off. "No," he says, in a voice that sounds weird to him. Alex pouts, which should be bizarre and hilarious and all sorts of other things, because she's laying with her legs spread and he can see everything, just like he wanted to. She's so wet he can smell it. The tops of her thighs are slick. "Why not?" she asks. "Because I can't do this here, in this room." "Oh, I think you could," she says, and palms his cock through the material, and Justin somehow groans, chokes, and gets his aching erection out of her reach before he gives in and takes her. She pouts some more. "I'm not going to have you for the first time on a damn couch," he manages to get out, "in a room where we can't lock the door." Understanding sweeps across her face. "Oh." As if to illustrate his point, there's a loud banging noise, and a flurry of shouting. Alex's eyes get huge. "That sounds like -" "Mom and Dad!" Justin closes his eyes and thinks about chemistry equations and anatomy lab and fetal pig dissections as fast as he can until his erection has mostly faded, and when he's opened them again, Alex is dressed. The smell of arousal is still in the air, and he sees her grab her wand and wave it away. Then she snaps her fingers, and he immediately feels cleaner. "Um, thanks." "Yeah. We'll... with this later. Come on!" They hurry to the loft, not touching, and spill into the room where Max is hugging their mother and their dad is making a lot of wild gestures with his arms. "Where where you?" Justin shouts at the same time Alex shouts it, and Jerry and Theresa look at them both in surprise. "We got caught in a Time-Stop Tornado!" his dad exclaims, looking excited about it. "Never heard of a Time-Stop Tornado," Justin starts to say, but Alex says it faster, with "and we thought you were dead or something!" at the end. Justin sits down heavily on the couch, feeling dazed. "Oh, kids," Theresa says softly, as Max dives in for another hug. "I'm sorry we had you so worried." "You can't get out of a Tornado until it decides to let you out," Jerry adds. "I ran out down to the corner to get some of that cheese that the lady with the cart sells, you know the one, and when I didn't come back right away your mom came out to check on me, and we both got caught in it." Justin can see that Alex is near tears, and he understands the feeling. His head is spinning like the time he drank the punch at a dorm party, which means that any second, a headache is going to crash down like a ton of bricks on his head and then he's just going to want to throw up. * Alex is sure this would be hilarious if this were a movie. Doubly hilarious if it were one of Justin's silent movies. Jerry's already got the overacting down pat. But since it's her life and she's already at 110% emotional capacity, she just wants to cry. She'd hug them, but part of her is worried she still smells like sex, and that is definitely not something she wants them knowing anything about. So she says, "We kept the sub station closed while you guys were gone. Sorry." "It's okay, honey," her dad replies. "Justin, I'm sorry you had to come home from school." Alex sees Justin shake his head next to her and shrug. "I'm not." "How come we couldn't open the Portal?" Max asks suddenly. "You can't open the Portal?" Jerry asks and so they all go to the Lair, even Theresa. Alex is really, really glad she did the cleaning spells as she slumps behind the desk. She can't sit on the sofa. It's hard enough to ignore the way her body is screaming at her to finish what she and Justin had started. She puts her head down on her arms as Justin does the spell to open the Portal and it doesn't work. She can imagine the confused look on her dad's face well enough. Then she hears books being opened and closed and moved around on shelves, and then Jerry says, "Aha!" "Aha what?" she asks without looking up. "Celestial interference," Justin reads; she can tell he's reading. "It must have caused the Time-Stop Tornado, and made it impossible for the Portal to open, and..." Justin trails off and clears his throat hurriedly. Alex is glad her head is down, because her cheeks flame. But her parents must miss it, because neither one of them prompts Justin to finish his sentence. Celestial interference must have been the reason they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other. She gets up and leaves the Lair. * Justin stops talking before he says what he shouldn't and ten seconds later, Alex walks out of the room. "Justin," Jerry says. "Justin!" "Yes! What?" "Could you still get mail?" "Yeah," Justin answers, and spends the next few minutes explaining what they'd tried. "We thought something bad had happened to you both," he tells his parents. "Alex was convinced something had gone wrong because we're wizards." Jerry and Theresa exchange a look that Justin definitely doesn't miss. "What is it?" he asks. "Was she - not wrong?" "Well, she was, this time," Jerry says. "But I heard from Kelbo a rumor -" "Everything's rumors with Kelbo," Theresa interrupts. " - a rumor that there are some wizards not happy with the mixing of wizards and mortals, that's all," Jerry finishes. "It's probably nothing. Sometimes he completely blows things out of proportion, and sometimes he's drunk - Theresa, don't give me that look!" "You're going to scare our kids that something a lot more worse than a Time-Stop Tornado is going to happen to us, Jerry!" She gestures towards Max, who Justin had almost forgotten was in the room, and Max looks a little bit terrified. "Whoa, whoa, we're all adults," Justin breaks in. "Or close enough," he adds, mostly to Max. "Thanks," Max says. "You're welcome. Dad!" "What now?" Justin waves his hand in the air. "Explain!" "There's nothing to explain," Jerry says firmly. Justin opens his mouth to protest, but his father holds up his hand. "Nothing to explain, Justin." "Yeah, right," Justin sighs. He's suddenly exhausted, tiredness seeping through his bones. Too much has happened today. "If that's all, I'll just go back to school." He turns and goes back out to the sub station, only to see Alex sitting at the counter, half a brownie on a plate in front of her. "Hey," she says glumly, "you leaving?" "Since Mom and Dad are back, I probably should." He reaches out and snags the rest of the dessert. "You okay?" Alex snorts. "Half an hour ago we were going to have sex, and then our parents came home and ruined it," she mutters under her breath, just as everyone else spills through the freezer door. Justin decides that going back to school is probably his best bet. * Obviously they're not going to be having any meaningful conversations about this with their parents even anywhere in the house. Alex sighs. She licks her finger, then dabs the brownie crumbs from the plate. The look on Justin's face is clear - he wants to get as far away from here as possible. "I don't blame you," she says to him. "Justin, you should at least stay for dinner, honey," Theresa says. "No, I should go," Justin replies, still looking at her. Alex makes a face at him, but she doesn't look away, because the last thing she wants is for either of her parents to ask if she and Justin had a fight or something. She stays sitting at the counter as everyone else goes upstairs and eats another brownie. Justin comes back down alone, his backpack over one shoulder. "How are your teleporting skills?" he asks without preamble. "Okay, I guess. Why, you need help getting back to Connecticut?" "No, you're going to come to me once everyone else has gone to bed." He sets a slip of paper on the counter. "I am?" "And we're going to finish what we started." His voice is low, promising, and Alex's whole body throbs. "It's not just celestial interference?" she breathes, half to him and half to herself, shock rooting her to the spot. "I guess we'll find out." Justin leans in and kisses her hard and quick, and yeah, she still wants him. Then he vanishes. * Later, after she's said goodnight to her parents and brushed her teeth and has locked the door to her room, she snags the piece of paper from on top of her dreser. She fixes the address in her mind. "Transportation, that's the biz; I want to be where Justin is." A flash and then she's stumbling, coughing from the smoke. Arms catch her, wrapping strong around her waist. "Ugh, I hate teleporting," she wheezes, grimacing at the way her stomach is twisting. "Gimme a second so I stop feeling like I'm gonna hurl." Justin waits patiently, and after a minute of feeling like her stomach is trying to escape her body, Alex straightens up and smiles at him, queasiness forgotten. He smiles back. "I admit, I was kinda worried you wouldn't show," he says, raising an eyebrow. Alex reaches up and presses her thumb to the middle of his bottom lip. "Gotta finish what we started," she says, and then they're kissing, Justin's mouth desperate on hers. When they stop to breathe, she glances around the room. Most of it is freakishly neat and organized, and there's a pile of robot parts in one corner. Justin must catch her looking, because he says, "That pile's actually not mine. They're Mike's. My roommate. Owner of the unmade bed." "And is Mike going to be returning to his unmade bed at all tonight?" Alex asks, raising an eyebrow. Justin grins. "Nope. Mike's girlfriend goes to Goodwin and he spends Thursday night through Sunday at her crappy apartment in the ghetto part of town." He lets go of her long enough to reach out and do something with a mess of wires running to and from an iPod on the desk, and music starts, so Alex figures it must be some kind of engineer geek stereo. "Hey, this is a good song," she says, surprised, tapping the beat out against his shoulder and swaying a little closer. Justin chuckles and moves with her. His hands are firm on her hips. "What, you don't believe I listen to things that aren't heavy metal?" "No, I don't," she says dryly, and tips her head to bring her mouth close to his. "Justin." "Alex." Alex opens her eyes and looks up into his, searching, realizing that the part of her that's holding back is the part of her that's still waiting for him to push her away. But his hands only shift a little on her hips, and then Alex realizes they're moving to the music in a lazy sort of way, except for how she can feel his erection low against her belly, and there's an answering throb beginning between her legs. "So we've got all night?" she whispers in his ear, reaching between them to slip her fingers under the edge of his shirt, press them to the trail of hair leading down from his belly button. Justin's breath stutters a little. Then he grabs the bottom of her pajama top and pulls it up over her head. She feels her nipples tighten in the cooler air, and fights the urge to close her eyes as he looks at her. He looks for more than a few seconds, and she squirms. "Justin, c'mon, you've seen me naked before." "Not like this," he says in a matter-of-fact voice. He pulls his own shirt over his head, shucks his sweatpants. Alex takes a deep breath and shimmies out of her pajama shorts; they fall in a pool of warm satin at her feet. "I guess we both skipped underwear," Justin adds, and ducks in to kiss her, hard, as she laughs. Then he says, "Bed, now." * The bed is lofted high enough to fit a dresser and a mini-fridge underneath it. Justin boosts himself onto it, then helps Alex up. She climbs into his lap immediately, letting her whole body press forward towards him, and slides their lips together. "Are you sure?" he murmurs against the corner of her mouth, sliding a hand over her bare thigh with an upwards trajectory, but he pauses before he reaches his destination, waiting for her answer. "Shut up, yes," Alex growls, dropping an arm from around his neck. Justin sucks in a breath when she licks her palm, and another sharper breath when she wraps her hand around his dick. The smile that spreads across her face is just as sharp. He's not sure how time both speeds up and slows down. It seems to take forever to tug her down onto the bed and push her thighs apart, but once he's got his mouth on her, curling his tongue over her clit and sliding his fingers into her, it goes way too fast. She comes before he feels like he's had his fill, musk-salt-bitter over his lips as she wails and drags her fingers through his hair. "Justin," she whimpers as he traces his tongue over her again. "Too much." Justin turns his head and presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, waiting. Time slows down again as she rubs her heels on the sheets, sighs, and pulls him up by the shoulders. Her neck is damp with sweat when he nuzzles it. "Justin," she breathes again, hooking a leg around his. "Condom?" he manages to ask. The head of his cock slides over her thigh and he swallows hard. "I did a spell." He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving this to magic," he says, and reaches for the wallet on his desk. This takes forever, too, and he's afraid for a second that he's fucked it all up when he can't get the foil packet open and has to rip it with his teeth. But Alex just rubs her heel over the back of his leg and distracts him by absentmindedly touching her breasts with her fingertips. He forgets what he's doing for several seconds, watching her, but then the bitter taste of the lube reminds him, and he spits the edge of the packet from between his teeth. "Like this?" he asks, meaning their current position, because Alex seems like she'd want to be on top, but she misunderstands. "You don't know how to roll a condom on?" "No, that wasn't what I meant." He demonstrates that he indeed does know how, and watches a wolfish grin pull at her mouth. "Are you a virgin?" "No. Are you?" "No." She says it with a scoff. "What I meant was, did you want to be on top?" Justin clarifies, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth, or maybe just those words. They're in his tiny dorm room in his tiny bed and the light is still on overhead. He wishes suddenly that he had candles. Then he remembers he's a wizard, and with a snap of his fingers, the harsh florescent is replaced by mellow gold. Alex smiles again and flips them over. * The light changes. She smiles in approval, not only because she'd been sort of wondering if they were actually going to do this with the stark overhead light still on. Then she flips them over, a knee on either side of Justin's hips. She's still a little shaky, a little breathless, and Justin's got a tight grip on her waist, like he thinks she could just melt into nothing at any second. She might. It was good; she's not going to deny that he knew what he was doing. She tries not to think about the girls he'd practiced on. "Ugh, wait," Justin mumbles. He lets go of her and flexes his fingers, closing his eyes for a second. There's a tiny spark in the air, like flicking a lighter that won't catch, and then he grins. "I always wanted to try this, but. You know." She can't hold back her gasp as he skims his fingertips over her sides, the magic warm and teasing like bubbles popping along her skin, all her nerve endings snapping to attention like soldiers. She squirms, whispers, "Please, now, you jerk," and Justin guides himself into her. It's better than it should be, at first. Going back to sex with mortals is going to be lame. She says as much and Justin ruins the good part by laughing so hard that he totally loses his rhythm, causing Alex to lose hers. She starts to laugh, too, and then curses Justin as he takes advantage of it to turn them over again, thrusting into her and pressing his face into her neck, breath still hitching with mirth. She pulls on his hair in retaliation. He comes first, with a shaky moan that's hot against her shoulder, but she can't be disappointed when he slides a shaking hand between them. His fingertips are still sparking with magic. Three seconds against her clit and Alex is coming harder than she ever has before. "You just cheated at sex," she says, when she can breathe again. Justin smirks. * "I should go home," Alex sighs, as the sunlight starts to curl around the edges of Justin's tightly-closed blinds. "I'm supposed to work this afternoon, and I need to go to school to prep the stuff for my toaster sculpture." Justin squints at her. "What happened to sleeping Saturday away?" "I would rather sleep," Alex grumbles, stretching in what Justin can only describe as a petulant manner. "But I can't take the furniture design class I want to take unless I pass the sculpture course." "Prerequisites, thwarting college students everywhere," Justin teases. Alex gives him an unimpressed look, but cuddles up next to him anyway. "Oh, so you're not going?" She yawns. "In a couple minutes." This should be weird, laying here naked next to her, but Justin's pretty stuck on the idea that so much in their lives was weird to start out with. "So what now?" he asks, twirling a few strands of her hair around his index finger. The magic he'd conjured up had faded hours ago; his touch is back to being the same as ever. Alex shrugs, knocking their shoulders together. "Last summer," she says finally, "was it just me?" His heart lurches in his chest. "Uh." She climbs over him to get out of the bed, dropping lightly to the floor. "I didn't have underwear, right?" "Nope." It's almost funny. "And it wasn't just you." "Without underwear?" "Last summer." Alex looks up, her eyes wide. "Oh." Justin feels like he should say something to get her to stay, to make her drop her clothes back onto the floor, to convince her to climb back up onto the bed with him, but he doesn't know what those words would be. So he just watches her get dressed instead. "So, you should come home more often," she says when she's done. "Yeah?" Alex nods, pushing her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears. "I bet Dad would even give you a couple shifts in the restaurant." "Oh, shut up," he grumbles, and flings his arm out in her direction. Alex steps in, and he spreads his palm wide over her hip and tugs her towards the bed. "And here going to school out of state was supposed to be getting me out of making sandwiches on the weekends," he says. "Nope, no luck." She grins and leans down. Justin kisses her softly. "Really, I should go," she mumbles against his mouth. He nips at her bottom lip. "Justin. I should go." "Yeah, okay." "Bye," she says, and the blue-white light swirls around her from toes to the top of her head, and then she's gone. Justin stares into the empty space for a long time. He feels almost like his phone never rang at all except for the indescribable feeling in his chest, a weight on him like something's sat down and refused to move. He looks at where she'd been a while longer. Eventually, though, he can't stop his eyes from closing and he falls asleep.

"You're sure I look okay?" Tony asked again, adjusting the collar of his black silk shirt. Abby rolled her eyes. "For the millionth time, Tony, you look fine. Now when are we meeting these friends of yours?" "We're picking them up in twenty minutes. Which means we have to leave now." Tony grabbed his keys and held out his arm for Abby; she laughed and took it, kicking up the hem of her long black skirt as they went. Tony wondered if Gibbs would kill him for admiring the way Abby looked in the white linen blouse and black and purple corset that went with it. The way she was dressed...he couldn't not look. Her breasts were there, and--right. Car. Time to go. They slid into the car and wound their ways through the streets of DC to park in front of Joshua and Stephen's building. "You want to come up?" "Absolutely." She got out of the car and skipped up the stairs next to him. For once, Tony didn't hear music. He knocked, waited a moment or two, and was about to knock again when the door swung open. "Tony! Hey!" Joshua pulled him into an impromptu hug. "C'mon in. Stephen's on the phone--Ruth called, and he doesn't get to talk to her much, so...and this must be Abby, right?" She laughed. "And you're Joshua?" "Guilty as charged." Joshua grinned, then winced. "I shouldn't say that to feds, should I? Especially given--well, anyway. Yes, I'm Joshua, and even for a confirmed gay man such as myself, Abby, I have to say that you look stunning. That corset is gorgeous!" "Thank you! I have a friend who designs them." Abby curtsied. Joshua glanced back into the apartment. "You guys want something to drink? We've got water, Stephen's sludge--" "He drinks Gibbs-strength coffee," Tony translated. "And some juice, or I could make tea." Stephen wandered by, dressed in pure black from head to toe; he had a cordless phone pressed against one ear. He waved at them, listening for a moment before continuing his conversation--apparently in Hebrew. "You'd think Hebrew would be more dangerous than English over there, but what do I know?" Joshua shrugged. He wore a deep blue shirt with vertical white chalk stripes and faded jeans, but his feet were bare. And for once, Tony noticed, he didn't have paint in his hair. "Where's 'there'?" Abby asked curiously. "Iraq. She's a photojournalist." Joshua grimaced. "Currently the black sheep of Stephen's family, thus saving him from the title. Not only is he gay, you see, but he's shacked up with an artist--and in a family where the other respective spouses are two lawyers and a professor, that's a definite no-no." "I can imagine." Abby grinned. "But I bet you're more fun." He laughed. "Depends on who you talk to, darling." Abby turned around, looking at the apartment. Her eyes went wide and she stopped, staring at the bed. "Wow," she said, shaking her head. "I saw it on the--well, sorry about that, but--it's still amazing to see this in reality." She shivered, walking over to it. "How much did it cost? How long have you had it?" "We got it at cost, so it wasn't that bad," Joshua said, following her. "And we've had it..." He turned to Stephen, who was just hanging up the phone. "Babe, how long have we had this?" "Eight months, give or take," Stephen answered, walking over to them. "Sorry about that, guys--I don't get to talk to Ruth much. You look good, Tony." "Thank you. And this is Abby." She grinned. "That's me. Hi!" She held out a hand and Stephen took it, returning her grin. "I love your hair," she said. "And your bed is...something else." "The hair's mine. I can tell you where to get the bed if you want one." Stephen smiled and turned to Joshua, brushing off his shirt. "No room in my current place, plus I'm not that hard-core, but maybe in future." Abby shrugged. "You never know." "No, and Stephen, I do know how to dress myself," Joshua said, pushing away his hands. "See? I even picked clothes with no paint on them." "I laid out your clothes," Stephen reminded him. "Did you really?" Joshua blinked. "When did you do that?" "When you were in the shower." Stephen patted him on the shoulder. "It's the paint fumes." Joshua glared at him. "You do realize where we're going tonight, don't you?" he said evenly. "Yes, I do." Stephen smiled at him blandly. "And you do realize that it wouldn't be at all out of place or even out of character for me to drop you, don't you?" Stephen just raised a brow. "But we have guests," he pointed out. "Are they always like this?" Abby asked Tony in an undertone. He nodded. "Pretty much." She grinned. "I love your friends." "Abby, you normally hate my friends." "Well, yeah, that's because you normally have boring friends. These two? They're cool." "Push it any further and I will drop you, Stephen," Joshua warned him. "Or you'll try." Stephen smiled and turned to get his shoes. Joshua's hand tangled in his hair, pulling him back. "Enough," he said, voice low. "I don't know what Ruth said and I don't know what's going on with her, but we have friends here and I'm not spending the night dealing with you pushing me in front of them. Understand?" Stephen's eyes closed and he swallowed, once. "Yes," he said quietly. "I'm sorry." Joshua let him go. "Do you need to stay down?" he asked matter-of-factly. Tony was surprised to see Stephen hesitate before shaking his head. "No," he said, running a hand through his hair. "No. I'm fine. I'll--I'll let you know." "I'll probably know before you will," Joshua said wryly. "Wow," Abby murmured. "Talk about power play." "It doesn't bother you?" Tony asked her sotto voce. "God, no. It's insanely hot, not to mention incredibly cool to witness. I mean...wow." She shook her head. "Sorry about that," Stephen apologized, looking at Tony and Abby. "I--" He sighed. "My sister's in a fairly dangerous part of Iraq now, and...the rest of the family's putting a lot of pressure on her to come home, which means I get to be the shoulder to vent on." "Sounds tough," Abby said sympathetically. "And can I just say how cool that was?" Joshua grinned. "Thanks, I think." "Tony mentioned you weren't vanilla," Stephen added, a bit more composed. "Do you mind if I ask which way you go?" "Not at all. I switch, and I don't really have a pref. I mean, normally I sub, but I don't mind topping given the chance, although I do better topping women than men." Abby shrugged. Tony stared at her. "Since when did you go both ways?" She looked at him. "You didn't know I did?" "Um, no?" Stephen laughed. "And I'll bet you didn't know he did either." Abby waved a hand. "Of course I knew. He pinged my bi-dar the day I met him. No straight man spends that much on clothes." "I know straight men who do!" Tony protested. Both Stephen and Abby looked at him. "Denial," they chorused. "This is going to be an interesting night," Joshua said, looking between the two of them. "Stephen, where are my shoes?" "On the shoe rack, where they're supposed to be," Stephen told him. "That's why I couldn't find them." Joshua went over to the shoe rack and pulled on a pair of blue tennis shoes. "So," he said cheerfully. "We ready to go?" ***** The club was kind of neat, Tony admitted. Long bar against one wall, tables and booths around the main floor. There was a dance floor, but it was pretty empty. And there was a raised platform he didn't understand. "Performance stage," Stephen said quietly, nodding at it. "You can reserve it in advance, or use it when you show up if no one's booked it. There are a couple of other rooms for smaller shows as well." "Have you ever used it?" Tony asked. Stephen smiled and shook his head. "Neither Joshua nor I are into exhibitionism. As I'm sure you already knew." Tony grimaced. "Yeah, well. Do people use it often?" "On the weekends, there's generally a show every night, and during the week...it depends." Stephen shrugged and slid into the curved booth. Tony slid in next to him, and Abby took the seat across from him, on Joshua's right. "The smaller stages are more popular. Not too many people can handle--or want to handle--the main stage." "I'll get us drinks," Joshua said, and Abby slid out of the booth. "Tony?" "Just water, thanks," he said. "I know what you want," Joshua said to Stephen. "Abby?" "They have Red Bull here?" "Be right back." Joshua headed to the bar, chatting with the really tall redheaded bartender. "It's not as full now," Stephen said. "But by ten, this place will be packed. I checked with Nicolas--that's the owner--and he said no one had reserved the main stage for tonight." Tony had to admit, he was relieved. He wasn't sure he wanted to see that. As he looked around, he saw people in various combinations of leather and metal, some coming perilously close to public nudity. Some were dressed like Joshua, and he saw two women come in who looked similar to Abby. One was holding a leash, attached to the collar of a man walking behind her. "It's mostly just a place for people to hang out and relax. They'll turn up the music when it gets more crowded, try to get people on the dance floor. But there aren't too many places those of us in the lifestyle can go to hang out and relax with others." Stephen shrugged. "This is normal, Tony. Or...mostly normal." "We're normal now?" Joshua asked, returning with a bottle of water, a can of Red Bull, and two bottles of juice. He slid one across the sleek black table to Stephen and kept one for himself. "You'll never be normal," a woman's voice said teasingly. Tony turned and saw a tiny woman--five feet, max--standing by their table. She had the dusky skin and features of a Filipina, and her long dark hair streamed down the back of her midriff-baring tank top. With it, she wore faded low-rise jeans and a chain-link belt, fastened with a padlock. The loose end of the chain hung down her left hip, almost to her knee. She had wide leather cuffs around each wrist, laced tightly. "He won't, no. I can at least pass." Stephen grinned. "Jill, these are our friends Tony and Abby. Tony, Abby, this is Jill, the manager. Her husband Ewan's the bartender." Tony looked back at Ewan--probably six-six, maybe more--and looked at Jill again. "Yes," she said dryly. "I'm four-eleven and he's six-five. And yes, we're married." She smiled and held out her hand. "Pleasure to meet you," she said, shaking hands with both of them. "Jill's living proof that you don't have to be tall--or built--to be a good top," Stephen said with a smile. "She's Ewan's Mistress as well as his wife." Tony shook his head. "Wow," he said. Jill's smile sharpened a bit. "New here, Tony?" "Yeah." He looked at her--even sitting, he barely had to look up. "That obvious?" She laughed and leaned in, trailing a finger up his throat. "You're in good company," she said softly, silkily. "But if you're interested in more of a hands-on demonstration..." Her nail scraped a line back down, tracing the tendon. Her perfume was subtle, heady, and Tony swallowed hard, trying not to react too visibly. "Jill," Joshua said sharply. "Back off." She straightened up slowly. "I'm just making the boy an offer," she said sweetly. "He's not interested." "How do you know?" Jill asked with a feline smile. Joshua met her eyes steadily. "Because he's mine for the night. And I'm telling you he's not interested." Tony thought briefly of kissing Joshua out of gratitude. "And her?" Jill asked lightly, running her fingers over Abby's hair. "Is she yours too?" Abby looked up. "No," she said softly. "I'm a free agent." "Mmm." Jill stroked her fingers down Abby's cheek. "Pretty girl," she murmured. "Come find me later if you like." Abby's eyes were wide; she nodded. "I will," she said, and Tony had never heard her sound that submissive in his life. "Jill..." Joshua warned her. "Enough." Jill shrugged carelessly. "I'll be around if you need me." She blew Tony a kiss and walked off, hips swinging. Tony watched her go and decided two things: One, that she was tiny, but built. And two, that she was damned scary. Stephen blew out a breath. "Jill...comes on strong," he said carefully. "She lives the lifestyle, she works it, and sometimes she forgets not everyone else does as well." "I got that impression." Tony twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a long drink, trying to settle his nerves. "Open marriage?" Abby asked curiously. Her voice was back to normal, Tony noticed gratefully, although her face was still a bit flushed. "Yeah." Stephen sipped his juice. "Somewhat, although they've settled down a bit since Nina was born. She's their daughter," he explained. "Two years old and the spitting image of her mother. Ewan's going to be in trouble when she gets older." "If she's anything like her mother, I'd say so," Tony said with a shake of his head. Joshua laughed. "So would I." "Do you come here often? I mean, if you know Jill and Ewan that well?" Abby asked. "We come a few times a month, when we can. But I built the place." Stephen grinned. "Not all my commissions come through my office." "Built?" Tony blinked. "The building doesn't look that new." "It's not, no. I worked with Nicolas--the owner--on remodeling and rebuilding it from the inside out." Stephen took a drink of juice, looking around. "It's the third club I've worked on. There's another one in DC I did, and one in Philly." "In exchange for the work, Nicolas gave us free membership--well, in addition to paying Stephen, of course." Joshua grinned. "It worked out well." "I'd say so," Tony said, looking around. "Nice job." "A lot of this is thanks to the decorating, and I had nothing to do with that. I just helped him design it." "You did your apartment as well, right?" Tony asked. "I mean, I'm guessing." Stephen grinned. "Yeah. The one apartment wasn't big enough, so we talked to the owner and got approval to remodel. And pretty much wherever we could take down interior walls, with the exceptions of the bathrooms, we did." "Why not just move somewhere else?" Abby asked. "Light." Joshua grinned. "That apartment gets great natural light. It's almost impossible to find a place in this area that has it. I lucked out." "Never argue with an artist about light," Stephen added wryly. "You'll lose." "Don't argue with me about most things," Joshua teased. "You'll lose." "Oh?" Stephen raised a brow. "I seem to recall differently. In fact, weren't you the one who said it was hard to win an argument with me outside of bed?" "Hard, but not impossible," Joshua countered. "Well, no. Nothing's impossible. Some things are just more unlikely than others." "Are they at it again?" an amused male voice said on Tony's left. He turned, looking up to see a tall, lanky blond standing there, dressed in tight black jeans and a black T-shirt that glittered when he moved. He wore a silver ring on the middle finger of his left hand and there was an emerald stud in his left ear. "Hi," he said cheerfully. "I'm David." Tony shook the man's hand. "I'm Tony," he said. "And I'm Abby." She grinned. "I'm guessing you know these two?" "From way back." David grinned and rocked back on his heels. "Stephen was one of my first friends in DC." "There aren't too many kinky gay Jewish men in the area, at least that I've found," Stephen said, laughing. "Tony, would you let me out?" "Oh--sure." Tony slid out of the booth, standing to let Stephen out. He noticed that David was just about his height, maybe half an inch or so taller. "I didn't think you were in town," Stephen said, leaning up to kiss David on the cheek. "Got back last night. Thought I'd come by and relax, see if anyone was performing. Alas, no, and I'm destined to be disappointed with you two." To Tony's surprise, David wrapped an arm around Stephen's waist and kissed him slowly. "Room for one more in the booth?" Tony was even more surprised to see the amused, tolerant look on Joshua's face. "For you, always," he said. "Come, have a seat." David ended up on the outside, putting Tony between him and Stephen. "How was the tour?" Stephen asked. "Long. Tiring. And as much as I love my group, I never want to see them again." David groaned. "Until rehearsal tomorrow." "Rehearsal?" Tony asked. "I'm a musician. Clarinetist. I perform with the Baltimore Symphony and a chamber group--well, wind quintet. The group just got back from a tour of the Northeast--Pennsylvania, Jersey, New York, Delaware, and I don't remember if we hit Massachusetts in there or not. It all kind of blurred together after a while." David rubbed a hand over his face. "And now I'm back to the symphony." "What he's not telling you is that he's the first clarinetist of the quintet and the second clarinetist of the symphony," Stephen added. "You don't look old enough for that," Abby said cheerfully. David laughed. "I'm older than I look. Or you can call me a prodigy, if you like." "I'd call you other things, but apparently you're gay." "Beyond hope, yes." David winked at her. "Ask Stephen." "Trust me, Abby, it's for the good of all gay men to have him on our side." Stephen grinned. Tony thought that he hadn't seen Stephen this relaxed with anyone before, even Amy and Paul. It was interesting, to say the least. And there was a vibe between them--but wait. If they'd been lovers, why would Joshua be so relaxed? Unless he didn't consider David a threat, Tony thought. "And the loss of all women, I'm guessing." She sighed. "Were you two involved or something?" "For about two months," Stephen confirmed; David started laughing. "Then we realized we were hopeless." "I think you turned to me in the middle of sex and said 'This just isn't working, is it?'" David got out, still laughing. Stephen snickered. "And you said 'No. Want to go get Chinese?'" "And that was the end of a relationship that should never have been and the beginning of a beautiful friendship." David wiped his eyes with his forearm. "So what are you doing here?" It took Tony a moment to realize the question was aimed at him. "Oh," he said in surprise. "I...well, I don't know." He looked at Stephen, a little helplessly. "Tony's learning about the lifestyle," Stephen said smoothly. "He's not really certain of a lot of things, so I invited him out with us for the evening." "Mmm. This is a good place to come for that. And you, Abby?" David asked. "I came along for moral support. And to see what it's like here." She grinned at him. "I love the eye candy." "Can't blame you there." David grinned back. "I do too." He turned, giving Tony a very deliberate once-over. Tony took a swallow of water, drinking a little too fast. But--oh, what the hell? "I can see your point," he said, returning the look. Truth be told, he could. David was attractive, with wavy blond hair, green eyes, and a lean runner's build. And being friends with Stephen was an automatic plus. Question was, did he play, and which way did he go, and why the fuck was Tony thinking about this anyway? David laughed and clapped Tony on the back. "I like you," he said. "Ah--thank you." Tony grinned a bit sheepishly. He looked around the club, a little surprised when he saw how full it was. "Should be starting the music any time now," David commented. "Jill likes to wait until it's fairly crowded, or until she's sure she's not getting a performer." As if on cue, the music began, a deep bass beat pulsing through the club, the song one Tony didn't recognize. People began to get up, moving to the floor, either by themselves or in pairs or groups. Abby watched them, practically bouncing in her seat, before sliding out of the booth. "Who's dancing with me?" she demanded. Joshua laughed and stood up. "I will." He took the hand she offered and followed her to the dance floor, where they were swallowed up by the mass of people. David watched them for a moment before laughing and getting up as well. "I've been on the road for almost three weeks," he said cheerfully. "I need to move!" He waved at Tony and Stephen before heading for the floor. Alone in the booth, Tony figured he could ask. "I'm a little surprised Joshua--" "Doesn't mind David?" Stephen finished. "David was my last lover, before Joshua. He's a close friend--probably the closest one I have, outside of Joshua and my family. And there is absolutely nothing between us. There never really was, but we thought otherwise for a little while." "Gotcha." Tony drank some more water, watching people dance. "He's a top," Stephen added. "A good one. He doesn't play as hard as I do. Then again, most people don't." "I got that impression," Tony said dryly. Stephen just laughed, unoffended. "If you're interested in a hands-on exploration, you can't do much better than David. And from the look he gave you, he'd love to explore." "Do you play matchmaker often?" Tony asked, not sure whether to be amused or exasperated. "Hardly ever. I'm not even trying to do it now. Just giving you a piece of advice." Stephen smiled and finished his juice. "Thanks. I think." Tony capped his water bottle, and for a while they just sat and watched the dance floor. It was nice, to just watch. Relaxing. The trappings were different, and Tony was pretty sure he wasn't going to find people on their knees wearing a collar and a leash at a regular club, but a lot of it was still pretty much the same. He saw Abby dancing with some random people, and he caught glimpses of Joshua and David as well; they looked to be having a good time, although they weren't dancing with each other. "We're not that different," Stephen said, as if echoing Tony's thoughts. "Not in a lot of ways." "I really wish I knew how you read my mind," Tony said wryly. "You're as bad as my boss." "It's not that hard to do when you're looking around like that." Stephen grinned. "And I'm not sure whether to be flattered or wary that you're comparing me to your boss. He's about as scary as Jill." "He didn't seem to get much reaction out of you in interrogation," Tony pointed out--and immediately kicked himself for bringing it up. "Joshua would have told you otherwise." Stephen laughed. "I exploded at him after. And you really don't ever want to face my temper." "It's worse than mine," Joshua confirmed, sliding into the booth. "C'mon, babe. Let's dance." Stephen groaned. "Joshua, I thought you said you weren't going to drag me on the floor." "I'm not dragging. I'm...encouraging. Strongly." Joshua grinned and kissed Stephen's cheek. "Please?" David came over, laughing. "Come on, Stephen. I haven't gotten to dance with you in months." "I haven't seen you in months," Stephen pointed out. "Exactly. C'mon." "Do you hate to dance or something?" Tony asked. "No, he loves it. And he's good at it." Joshua stood up again. "That's why he doesn't want to dance in public." "I don't get it." Tony shook his head. "Neither do I. C'mon, babe." Joshua held out a hand. "I promise I'll behave, even." "You never behave," Stephen told him. "I'll try?" Joshua gave him a little-boy grin. The music changed then, and while Tony didn't recognize it, Stephen apparently did. "Oh, you bastard," he swore at Joshua. "You--" "I play dirty." Joshua grinned. "Come dance with me." Stephen groaned, but slid out of the booth. "What's with the music?" Tony asked David. "It's kind of their song. Care to dance?" David asked. "I promise I won't bite unless you ask." You can't do much better than David. "Sure," Tony said, getting up. To his surprise, David took his hand, lacing his fingers through Tony's. "I like you," David said as they walked to the floor. "And you've got Stephen's stamp of approval, which is not easily given. So I'd rather not let you get away before I have a chance to get to know you better." "You barely know me," Tony pointed out. "How can you like me already?" "I'm a good judge of people." David laughed and pulled Tony onto the dance floor. "And as I said. Stephen likes you." "Do you know how we met?" Tony asked, beginning to let himself move to the music. David shook his head. "I've been out of town." "I'd recommend asking him. It'll be...an interesting story." Tony wondered just what Stephen would say. "I'll do that. But I'd rather dance with you. Especially given that." David nodded over to his left and Tony turned his head, looking at Stephen and Joshua dancing, pressed so close against each other they looked like one person in the shadow of the crowd. Stephen shook his hair back, leaning back, and Tony saw him laughing. "They'll be on the floor for hours," David said, watching. "I hope you weren't planning on going home early." "Gonna give me a reason to stay?" Tony asked David teasingly. "I'd love to." David's hands slid down Tony's back, settling on his hips. "Absolutely love to." He pulled Tony closer against him, even as his hands moved down to Tony's ass. "We can talk later." Tony rested his own hands on David's waist. "I like that idea." Dancing with David was fun; he was an excellent dancer--Tony supposed that given his profession, it wasn't too surprising. He also liked to stay in contact with Tony, whether his hands were on Tony's hips, his ass, his shoulders, or anywhere else. Tony had to admit, he liked it; he hadn't gone clubbing in a long time and he'd missed this, the sheer fun of being on the floor with someone else, surrounded by the crowd, music pounding and lights flashing. But eventually he needed a break--and some water. He tugged David off the dance floor, heading for the bar. David laughed and followed, sliding onto a stool and pulling Tony back against him. "Hey, Ewan," he said cheerfully. "Two waters please?" Ewan--whose coppery red hair was matched by fair skin and bright green eyes--nodded and slid two bottles across the bar to them. "Having fun, you two?" he asked. Tony twisted the cap off his bottle. "Yeah," he said, looking up at David. "You?" "Oh yeah." David opened his water, drinking deeply. "How's it going over here?" "It's a good night." Ewan smiled, looking out over the club. "Definitely a good night. Busy, but aren't they all?" "Not too busy to give your wife a kiss, are you?" Jill purred, sliding onto a stool. She leaned over and hooked a finger through the ring in Ewan's collar, pulling him in for a long, deep kiss. "Never too busy for my Mistress," Ewan said softly, kissing her hand as he pulled back. She laughed and turned to face Tony and David. "He's such a sweetheart. Having a good night, boys?" David's hand tightened on Tony's shoulder. "Just fine, Jill." Jill gave him an amused look. "Relax, David. I don't poach. And it's been made very clear to me that your boy is off-limits." "Good," David said evenly. "I will say this much," she said, getting off her stool. "You've got excellent taste." She patted Tony on the cheek--she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. "Bring him by sometime. We'll save a stage for you." She blew Ewan a kiss and headed off again. Ewan shook his head. "She's in rare form tonight." "Any idea why?" Tony asked, trying not to watch Jill's ass under her jeans. "I've been married to her for five years, she's the mother of my child, my Mistress, and her mind is still a mystery to me, most of the time." Ewan grinned and moved down the bar to serve a couple people before coming back. Tony turned around to look up at David. "First Joshua claims me for the night, then you. I'm beginning to feel like a kid's toy here, or the last piece of candy in the bowl." "Mmm. Candy." David cupped Tony's face in his hands. "I never could resist candy," he said with a grin. As first kisses went, it was--whoa. Hot and sweet and potent and David was very, very definitely in charge, even with just his hands on Tony's face. They were both a little breathless when David pulled back. Tony felt more than a little dazed. "You okay?" David asked softly, stroking Tony's cheekbone with his thumb. Tony took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, voice a little more unsteady than he'd wanted it to be. "I'm...whoa. Yeah." David laughed. "God, you're hot," he said, his hands still on Tony's face, thumbs caressing his skin. "So sweet." "Um--" Tony pulled David's hands away. "I haven't--" "With men? Or with kink?" David interrupted. "The--the second one." Tony hoped the flush in his face could be attributed to the kiss. "I'm still new to all this." "Mmm." David smiled and linked his hands together behind Tony's neck. "I'll have fun teaching you." And maybe he would, and Tony couldn't imagine a reason for him to say no, but David's matter-of-fact assumption..."That's assuming I say yes," he said. David grinned. "Gonna say no?" "You going to let me think about it?" Tony countered. "Don't push him, David," Ewan said mildly. "If Jill has to behave, so do you." Tony winced. "No offense, Ewan, but your wife scares me." "Most people with any sense are scared of my wife. And that includes me." Ewan grinned and moved down the bar. "Whew!" Joshua came over to them, draping an arm around each of them. "Having fun, boys?" He grinned, hugging them before stepping back. "I need a break and something to drink." "What about your other half?" Tony asked. Joshua laughed. "Take a look." He gestured expansively and Tony looked at the dance floor to see Stephen surrounded by people, apparently oblivious to anything but the music. "He doesn't get off the floor once I get him on the floor, and he's damned good, so everyone wants to dance with him. I think it's the yoga." Joshua laughed again. "Hey, Ewan, can I--" A bottle of juice sailed down the bar and Joshua caught it neatly. "Thanks!" Ewan grinned. "Sure I can't tempt you?" Tony was surprised to see Joshua's face go--well--he didn't really have a name for it. "I've told you before," Joshua said. "I don't share." He opened his bottle, drinking. "How many times are you going to ask?" "Don't blame me, blame my wife," Ewan said cheerfully, apparently unaffected by the cool power in Joshua's voice. "Do you know how much she'd give to get you two on the stage?" "Not going to happen, Ewan." Joshua took another drink, looking between Tony and David. "And I've interrupted something here. Tony, if you want, we'll find our own way home. Just let me know." "Not Stephen?" Tony asked. Joshua grinned. "No." Tony blinked, watching Joshua toss the empty bottle into the trash and walk back to the dance floor. "Joshua's going to drop him," David said quietly. "It's the main reason Stephen doesn't get on the floor. He loves to dance, and he doesn't care who he dances with, once he's into it." "But Joshua does." "Stephen's his," David said simply. "And like you just heard--Joshua doesn't share. Watch." There was a little bit of space around them now. Tony watched Joshua curl his hand around Stephen's neck, watched him lean in close and whisper something before kissing Stephen, hard. And-- "Oh my God," Tony managed, watching Stephen just...slide down Joshua's body, kneeling in front of him. David grinned. "They're something else." "And you--are you--" "I'm not as hard-core as them," David said easily. "And I'm nowhere near as possessive as Joshua. I still don't share, but not to that extent." He traced the line of Tony's jaw. "I don't care who you dance with, just who you sub for." "I don't sub for anyone right now," Tony managed, even though he felt more than a little lightheaded. "Mmm." David kissed him again, lightly. "Sure about that?" His fingers ghosted over Tony's throat. "I won't hurt you, Tony," he murmured. "I'll take care of you." Tony wanted to believe him. "I...you know, Stephen showed me? A little, I mean. Freaked me out." He grinned sheepishly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for this." "Freaked you out because you liked it?" David laughed. "Me too, my first time. And you should have seen me the first time I tried topping someone." "Didn't go so well?" Tony asked. "Not so much, no." David shrugged. "If you're not interested, it's cool. If you are...so am I." He winked and turned back to watch the dance floor. Stephen wasn't on his knees anymore; his back was pressed against Joshua's chest, Joshua's hands over Stephen's on Stephen's thighs. His head was back against Joshua's shoulder, and his eyes were closed. Tony watched them move to the music, suddenly overcome by a wave of longing. What they had was something--God, he wanted it. And he didn't know if it was the kink or the sheer love he saw between them, or both, but he wanted it. "Supposing I'm interested," he said to David. "What then?" David smiled. "Come home with me, and I'll show you." "I can't--Stephen and Joshua came with me, and Abby." Tony grimaced. "I--" "Stephen and Joshua will get themselves home. Trust me on that one. Actually...I think they might be leaving," David said, blinking. "Something must be bothering one of them, because normally they'd stay all night." "I think it's Stephen's sister," Tony said. "He was talking to her before." "That'd do it." David fell silent as Joshua and Stephen walked over to them. "We're getting out of here," Joshua said with an easy grin. "It's an easy ride on the Metro. Or we'll call a cab. Either way, we're cool." He clapped David on the shoulder and gave Tony a half-hug. "Take care of this one," he told David. "He's a good guy." "Okay for me to say goodbye to him?" David asked Joshua. Tony blinked in amazement. Okay to say goodbye? Joshua looked at Stephen, then nodded, stroking Stephen's hair back. "Come on up a bit, babe," he said quietly. "Just to say goodbye. Okay?" Stephen nodded. "Yes, Joshua." Tony stared at him. This...this was nothing like the man he'd met and talked to. This... "Take it easy, okay? I'm around if you need a shoulder." David hugged Stephen like there was nothing out of the ordinary. "I'll remember." Stephen hugged him back. "Take care, Tony. I'll see you around." He hugged Tony briefly. "Ah--yeah. You too." Tony grinned. "You ready to go?" Joshua asked Stephen, resting his hand on Stephen's back. Stephen nodded. "Just...get me home," he said quietly, leaning into Joshua. "I will, babe. Come on." Joshua kissed the top of Stephen's head and they left. "What..." Tony stared after them. David blew out a breath. "Something's really bothering Stephen. I've seen him stay down before. Hell, I've seen them spend the night here with him down like that, but...for him to want to get home that badly means something's bothering him, and he needs Joshua." Tony shook his head, remembering some of the harder scenes on the recordings. "I don't want to know," he said fervently. "No, you probably don't." David smiled faintly. "So where's your other friend?" "I--you know, I don't know. I saw her on the dance floor a while back, but...I haven't seen her in a while." Tony looked around, but he didn't see Abby. "She'll turn up." David grinned. "So. You have to take her home." "No, to my place. She left her car there." David smiled and ran a finger up Tony's neck. "So instead of me taking you home, how about you take me home? I didn't drive." "I...could do that," Tony said slowly. "Do you want to?" David asked simply. "I won't do anything you don't want, Tony." "Would I lose insane amounts of masculine points to admit that I'm kind of nervous?" Tony asked sheepishly. David laughed. "No, and even if you did, I promise I wouldn't tell." He kissed Tony again, drawing him closer. "You've got nothing to be nervous about," he murmured in Tony's ear. "I'll take good care of you, Tony. I'll give you what you want." His tongue flicked over Tony's earlobe. "Promise." He kissed the spot right behind Tony's jaw, lips tracing a path back to Tony's mouth. "I've got you," he whispered, right before he kissed Tony again. Tony groaned and fell into the kiss, hands on David's arms for balance, vaguely aware that one of David's hands was around the back of his neck and the other was on his face, holding him close. It was...amazing. "Just relax," David breathed against his lips. "You don't have to worry about a thing. I've got you." He swayed a little, grateful for David's support. "That's it, Tony," David praised him. "See how easy it is?" Tony nodded; his head felt light, but his body felt heavy, limbs relaxed and full of lassitude. He sighed, letting David draw him in closer, stroking his hair and his face. David kept murmuring to him, praising him, and always, always touching him. He had no idea why this had scared him before. It felt so...good now. Almost natural. Abby skipped up to them, looking at both Tony and David before bouncing in glee. "So cute," she said, grinning. "Isn't he adorable?" Tony had no idea whether she was speaking to him and didn't really care. David laughed and pressed a kiss to Tony's hair. "So sweet," he said affectionately. "Where'd the power play boys go?" she asked, looking around. "They left," David told her. "I'm thinking Stephen had something on his mind he couldn't bury entirely." Abby grimaced. "He didn't seem to, when we came here. But something was bothering him before we left." "Stephen tends to worry things over in his mind. Odds are this one wouldn't stay quiet and Joshua noticed." David shrugged. "They'll be fine." "Cool." Abby nodded. "Well, if you two would like to go, I'm cool with that. I mean, I'm having a blast, but Tony here looks...well." She grinned. "He's so cute!" Tony roused enough to make a face at her. "Are we leaving?" he asked, looking at both of them. "I think so." David stroked the side of his face. "You okay to drive?" "Oh yeah." Tony grinned and shook his head, feeling the light-headedness dissipate. "No one drives my baby but me." "Got it." David grinned and slid off his stool. "Just like no one touches my clarinet but me." Tony's head had cleared a bit by the time they reached the car, enough for him to think about what he was actually doing. "David--" He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "It's not that I don't want this. You. Whatever. Abby, shut up." She covered her mouth to hide the snicker. "But...you deserve the truth, which means you really need to talk to Stephen about how we met before this goes any further." Tony blew out a breath. "Okay?" David nodded. "You've piqued my curiosity, but okay. I'll talk to Stephen this week." "I can still drive you home," Tony offered. "Too much temptation." David grinned. "I'll take the Metro. It's not far." He kissed Tony lightly and headed off into the night. "Okay," Abby said once he was gone. "That was completely noble and also utterly idiotic." "He deserves to know, Abs." "You're making this such a big deal!" she exclaimed, gesturing. "It's not!" Tony looked at her evenly. "How long did it take you to get over nearly proving I'd killed someone?" As he'd thought, she subsided, looking down. "You don't play fair," she muttered. "It's a similar situation. David deserves to know I nearly put his friend away for murder." Tony opened the car door. "C'mon, Abs. Let's go home." on to part two

Part 3: Yours Thundercracker was slouched on the berth in his quarters, trying to focus on the datapad in his hands and ignore the nagging ache in his valve, when Skywarp returned. "Hey, TC," Skywarp greeted him. "Hey, 'Warp," he replied absently. "How'd it go?" "Got it," Skywarp replied smugly. "Stupid squishies never even knew what hit 'em." "Good job," he said, not raising his optics from the datapad. Skywarp plucked it out of his hands, "You been reading all day? Sheesh, TC; you're so boring." He glared at him. Skywarp responded by tossing the datapad over his shoulder-vent and climbing on top of him, pressing in close, getting right in his faceplate. "Missed you," he said, low and suggestive. He pushed him away. "Not in the mood, 'Warp." "Aw, c'mon, TC!" Skywarp replied, pawing at his wings and grinding enthusiastically against him. "I've been on my own all day! I'm all wound up, I wanna 'face." "I don't," he said coldly. Skywarp grinned. "Not yet you don't," he said slyly, reaching down to grope his panel. Thundercracker hit him. His optics widened in shock even as his fist crashed into Skywarp's faceplate, knocking him clean off the berth. He hadn't meant to do that; he hadn't meant to hit 'Warp – he hadn't even been doing anything all that annoying! "What the frag, TC!" Skywarp said from the floor, sounding aggrieved and more than a little torqued off as he struggled to his feet. "I should kick your skidplate for that!" "You could try," he growled back, but he didn't mean it. Skywarp opened his mouth to issue a retort, raising a fist to hit him; Thundercracker met his optics squarely, challenging him with his gaze. The blow never came. Skywarp's fist quivered for a moment in midair, and then lowered. "What is with you, TC?" he asked. "You suck a bird up your turbines, or what?" Thundercracker flinched inwardly at his tone. Skywarp sounded almost painfully bewildered. An unfamiliar surge of guilt rose up in his spark, smothering his mild irritation. He was being an aft; he knew that. Skywarp hadn't done anything to slag him off; hitting him had been pure reflex. Skywarp stared at him for a moment more, then sat down on his berth with a huff, regarding him with that reproachful, kicked-turbopuppy look he got when Thundercracker refused to help with one of his pranks. The feeling of guilt grew. He'd been looking forward to seeing Skywarp when Megatron had issued his summons; he'd known at the time 'Warp would be equally eager to see him. He tried to imagine how he'd feel if 'Warp had returned and greeted him with a cold glare and a punch in the faceplate. "C'mere, dimspark," he grumbled begrudgingly. Skywarp beamed and bounced up off the berth, tackling him. Thundercracker grunted as he suddenly found himself with an armful of enthusiastic Seeker. "What's the matter, TC?" Skywarp crooned teasingly, groping for his wings. "You miss me that much? Huh?" He shook his helm in resignation, smiling in spite of himself. "Yeah, 'Warp. I missed you." Skywarp laughed at that, clearly delighted. An astrosecond later, his expression shifted from smug and playful to dark and seductive. "You wanna 'face me?" he purred suggestively. "Yeah," he said. It wasn't a lie; with Skywarp pressed this close to him, his circuits had begun to heat up a little. He reached up to trace Skywarp's intakes, rumbling with desire. Skywarp leaned eagerly into the touch, stroking his wings. Thundercracker groaned, pressing into his hands, leaning forward to grind his cockpit against Skywarp's. Why had he been so resistant? This was nice. But then Skywarp flexed one of his ailerons, and amid the surge of pleasure Thundercracker was unpleasantly reminded of other hands, other touches recently bestowed on him, touches that had been far less welcome. He drew back slightly, uncertain. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea… Skywarp frowned when his efforts failed to elicit the response he was expecting, but a moment later he grinned wickedly, his optics lighting with lascivious mischief. Pulling away from Thundercracker's hands, he sat up and edged backward, reaching down to rub Thundercracker's panel. "Open up," he said. Thundercracker eyed him warily. The last time Skywarp had said that to him, 'Warp had used his glossa – on his valve. Thundercracker had never felt anything like it – it had felt incredible, so good that by the time he'd stopped, Thundercracker would have done virtually anything to feel Skywarp's spike inside him. He'd wanted 'Warp in his valve so badly it was almost frightening, but in the end it had been worth it – he'd overloaded hard when Skywarp finally jacked in, so hard he'd nearly offlined. And as unbelievable as that was, a few kliks later, Skywarp had overloaded him again. The memory alone made him shiver with lust, a slow shudder running through his frame. But in spite of that, he was hesitant to comply. The ache in his valve had diminished only slightly in the intervening joors, and while Skywarp's attentions that day had felt good enough to make Thundercracker temporarily forget the pain of the injuries he'd had at the time, those injuries hadn't been to his valve. As sore as it was now, the mere thought of letting Skywarp 'face him made him want to wince. Skywarp noticed his reluctance and started pouting, eyeing him sulkily. "C'mon, TC," he said petulantly, drawing out his nickname in a wheedling whine. "Starscream's not the only one who can suck a spike; I'm good at it too!" Suck a – oh. That was different, not to mention highly appealing. He'd assumed Skywarp was after his valve, but that obviously wasn't the case. He transmitted the command to retract his panel without a second thought, rumbling in anticipation as his spike extended. Skywarp keened eagerly, holding his gaze as he maneuvered himself into position to take him into his mouth. Thundercracker groaned as 'Warp's lip components closed around his spike, drawing him in, his optics dimming as he gave himself over to the sensation. Skywarp hummed as he worked him with a steady rhythm, his hands sliding up Thundercracker's thighs, urging them further apart. Thundercracker complied with the tacit request, spreading his legs wider and suppressing a wince as the movement put pressure on his damaged valve, sending a sharp twinge of pain shooting through his circuits, drawing a soft grunt from his vocalizer. He did his best to ignore the painful reminder and focus on the pleasure 'Warp was providing him, reaching down to stroke Skywarp's helm with an encouraging rumble. He wasn't going to think about Megatron. He was going to relax and enjoy this – Skywarp hummed eagerly around his spike, leaning in closer to try and take in more of him – inadvertently placing most of his weight onto Thundercracker's parted thighs. Thundercracker twitched and cried out, his spike retracting abruptly in response to the sudden burst of unexpected pain, the damaged sensors in his valve singing a strident chorus of agony. Skywarp's optics widened in surprise – and then narrowed in suspicion. He opened his mouth to say something, but Skywarp was already moving, seizing his legs and yanking them upward, hoisting Thundercracker half off the berth with a reverberating snarl. Far from pleased at being so rudely upended, Thundercracker immediately began to struggle, clawing at the berth and nearly kicking 'Warp in the faceplate as he endeavored to free himself, but his hands couldn't get a purchase on the smooth metal; he didn't have the leverage he needed to escape Skywarp's determined grip. "Let go of me, 'Warp!" he bellowed threateningly. He felt unspeakably vulnerable, his spark pulsing in apprehension – the position Skywarp had him in was disturbingly reminiscent of the one Megatron had chosen – "Let go of me, or I swear I'll kick your fragging head in!" Skywarp ignored his threats and protests, nimbly ducking the kicks Thundercracker aimed at his helm, his attention focused on Thundercracker's interface array. "Your valve is scuffed, TC," Skywarp said quietly. Thundercracker's spark sank. He ceased his struggles, going limp in Skywarp's hold. "Let go of me," he said again. This time it wasn't a threat. Skywarp released him abruptly; he fell back to the berth with a loud clank. His circuits burning with humiliation at Skywarp's impromptu inspection, Thundercracker sheepishly closed his panel and sat up, glancing nervously at his trinemate. He couldn't see his face. Skywarp had turned his back on him. 'Warp's hands were clenched into fists, his posture tense, his wings quivering minutely. "'Warp –?" he ventured hesitantly. "You just couldn't wait, huh TC?" Skywarp said bitterly. "What are you talking about?" he said, frowning in confusion. Wait for what? "Who was it?" Skywarp asked, his vocalizer low and strained, trying for casual but coming out forced. "'Warp, what –" Skywarp rounded on him, his optics blazing a livid crimson. "Who. Was it?" he demanded. Thundercracker's optics widened in shock. Skywarp was angry. Angrier than he'd ever seen him. "'Warp, come on –" he began. "Couldn't have been Screamer," Skywarp spat venomously, his lip components contorting into a scowl. "He'd never do it, not in a million vorns. So who was it? Who'd you let 'face you?" Thundercracker stared at him, stunned. A curious pulse ran through his spark. 'Warp wasn't just angry, he was incensed, literally trembling with ill-concealed rage. It didn't make sense. 'Warp had never cared who he 'faced before – although admittedly Thundercracker didn't get around nearly as much as Skywarp himself did – so why was he slagged off now? "What difference does it make?" he asked defensively. "I'm the one who gets your valve, TC!" Skywarp shouted. "Not some other fragger, me!" he said, indicating himself with a jerk of his thumb. Thundercracker couldn't believe his audials. Skywarp was jealous, angered by the thought of some other mech gaining Thundercracker's attentions, enraged at the discovery of evidence that Thundercracker had been fragged by someone else! …jealous the way he'd been jealous whenever 'Warp went flitting off to get his gears stripped by some other mech, or when he'd leave their quarters abruptly – sometimes in the middle of an interface – to respond to one of Megatron's...service requests. Thundercracker had always been ashamed of those feelings, of his own weakness for having them. He wasn't supposed to care about that; Decepticons never cared about things like that, never forged personal ties – The revelation made his spark swell with sudden, inexplicable joy. Skywarp was jealous of him, too. "'Warp…" he said softly, overcome by emotion. "I –" "Who was it, TC?" Skywarp persisted, unaware of his epiphany. "I wanna know who it was! Who's the fragger you liked so much you couldn't wait for me, you just had to open up and spread 'em?" Thundercracker's circuits heated in outrage. Skywarp thought he'd wanted to be fragged? That he'd actually gone looking for it?! "I didn't have a choice, you stupid –!" he blurted out before he could stop himself, muting his vocalizer an astrosecond too late to contain the inadvertent admission. Skywarp stiffened, his optics widening. An astrosecond later they narrowed again, and 'Warp looked, if possible, even angrier than before. "I'll kill him," he growled viciously. "Tell me who it was, TC!" he demanded. "I swear, I'll rip that fragger's spark right out of his chamber! Who was it? Who forced you?" His spark surged with another irrational burst of joy at Skywarp's words, even as his processor declared them an empty threat. Even if it hadn't been Megatron, even if it'd been what Skywarp assumed, a fellow soldier assaulting another, not simply a superior exercising his right to command a subordinate, he knew Skywarp would never do it. For all his faults, Skywarp was loyal – perhaps the most loyal 'Con in the ranks. He'd never murder another Decepticon, not for something so…so petty. "It was Megatron," he said. "While you were gone he summoned me to his quarters." "Oh," Skywarp said, visibly wilting, his anger dissipating like smoke. He slouched back against the wall, his shoulder-vents slumping in defeat. Thundercracker did the same. Their wingtips scraped with the movement. For several kliks they sat in tense silence, not looking at one another. "So, uh…Megatron commed you, huh?" Skywarp ventured cautiously. He glanced over at him, but 'Warp wasn't looking at him. He was staring up at the ceiling, studiously avoiding his gaze and looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Yeah," he said. "He commed me." "What about Starscream?" Skywarp asked. "Repair bay," he said shortly. "Fragged him off right after you left, told him his new plan wasn't worth scrap or something, got slagged for it. I don't know the details. Didn't ask." "Huh," Skywarp said. "Guess that makes sense. Never thought he'd comm you though." "Neither did I," he rumbled bitterly. "Dunno know why he did." "He likes Seekers," Skywarp said with a shrug. "Ol' Megs, he's got a thing for Seekers." "Yeah. I kinda got that," he replied dryly. The way Megatron had touched him had suggested intimate knowledge of a Seeker's frame. It wasn't an uncommon fetish among Cybertronians; Seekers were considered highly attractive, and had a reputation for always being up for a 'face or a 'facing. "Probably figures we're all the same," he muttered. "Yeah, I guess," Skywarp said. "He definitely knows what he's doing though, all the right spots..." He trailed off, falling silent for a few astroseconds, then spoke up again haltingly, "You, uh…you probably liked it a lot, huh? Him 'facing you?" Thundercracker turned his helm to stare at him incredulously, but Skywarp still wasn't looking at him. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, his lip components curved in a faint, worried frown. "Was he…" Skywarp laughed nervously, reset his vocalizer and tried again. "D-did you like it better with him than with me? Is that…is that why you don't wanna 'face me now?" He couldn't believe his audials. "I didn't like it at all," he said, using his patented 'Warp-you're-an-idiot tone, carefully enunciating each word. Skywarp finally looked at him, meeting his gaze with startled optics. "You didn't?" "No," he replied emphatically. "It sucked slag." Skywarp looked shocked, confused, and faintly dubious. "But…Megatron's good in the berth," he said. "I mean really good. And he's – you honestly didn't like it?" "No," he repeated with exaggerated patience. "I didn't like it." Skywarp looked nonplussed. "Not even when he overloaded you?" "He didn't overload me, dimspark," he retorted derisively. "He fragged me. And I didn't like it, because I never like it. I hate being fragged in the valve." Skywarp stared at him, taken aback. "You liked it when I did it," he said reproachfully. He huffed irritably, his circuits heating with embarrassment. "That was different," he muttered. "How?" Skywarp sounded genuinely puzzled. He rumbled in frustration. "I don't know, 'Warp," he said impatiently. "It just was." Silence. Thundercracker couldn't really blame Skywarp for his confusion – he shared it. He honestly didn't know why it had been different those times 'Warp had done it to him; it should have been the same as it always was, the way it had been the first time he let 'Warp have his valve. That night in the brig, that day he'd been shot down – "Was he angry?" Skywarp asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. "When Megatron commed you, did he seem torqued off?" He gave him a puzzled glance. "Not really," he replied. He thought for a moment, and shrugged. "Maybe a little." "So when you got there, he just jacked in?" He shook his helm, "No, he – I thought he was going to; he pushed me down on the berth – but then he just started feeling up my wings." "Hard, or soft?" 'Warp asked. He thought about it a moment. "Hard, I guess," he said. "But not too hard," he amended. "It was rougher than I normally like, but it wasn't – it didn't hurt or anything." Skywarp turned to face him fully, placing his palm flat against Thundercracker's wing at the juncture where it met his chassis. "Like this?" he asked, pressing hard as he slid his hand along its length, concluding the stroke by wrapping his fingers around the tip and squeezing firmly. Thundercracker's core temperature spiked, and he gasped and shuddered at the wave of pleasure being fed back through the stimulated sensor nodes. "Yeah," he said, his vocalizer clouded with a hint of static. "And you didn't like that?" Skywarp asked in amazement. Thundercracker wasn't offended by the question; because of the way they were wired, the layout of their sensor nets, few Seekers would turn down a request to interface after a little wing play, regardless of who was giving it. That was just the way it was. "Well, yeah," he admitted with a half-shrug. "That part was okay." "But then he jacked in?" Skywarp guessed, continuing to stroke his wing slowly, almost lazily. "No, he –" Primus, this was embarrassing. He grimaced, shifting uneasily, leaning unconsciously into Skywarp's touch, into the comforting warmth emanating from his frame. "When I opened up, he…he stuck his fingers in me. You know." Skywarp seemed surprised. His hand paused in its movement. "Did you like that?" "No," he said. The hand resumed its gentle stroking. "It hurt?" Skywarp asked. "…not exactly." "So it felt good?" "No, it felt like he was shoving his slagging fingers up my valve," he snapped irritably. "He did that for, I don't know, at least a breem – felt like slagging forever – then he jacked in." "Oh," Skywarp said, edging closer. "Tried to, anyway," he muttered, reaching for 'Warp's cockpit, absently running a hand over it. Skywarp drew back slightly to stare at him in bewilderment. "Tried to?" He shrugged uncomfortably, focusing his attention on his hand sliding over the yellow glass of Skywarp's cockpit, on his fingers tracing the seams. "I didn't try to stop him or anything," he said. "He just…he just didn't fit. Couldn't get in all the way." "Oh," Skywarp said again, giving a little hum of encouragement in response to his touch. "He's sort of...big," he added lamely, still stroking. He wasn't, really. But he'd felt big. "Yeah," Skywarp said reminiscently, his lip components twitching into a goofy grin as he arched into his hand with a groan. "Yeah, he is." Thundercracker gave him an exasperated look. He wasn't about to admit how scared he'd been, how certain he was Megatron was going to slag him, but it would have been nice if 'Warp could have at least shown a little sympathy. Skywarp's expression sobered. "Did he get slagged off when he couldn't get in?" he asked. "Is that when he started hurting you?" "Kind of," he said. "Said I was resisting him. I told him I wasn't, that I just wasn't used to it. Being fragged, I mean." "Did he believe you?" "I guess," he replied. "At first he didn't say anything. Then he –" he broke off abruptly. "What?" "He went for my spike," he muttered sheepishly. "Wow," Skywarp said, easing into his lap, straddling his thighs. "You're lucky – he never touches mine." "I didn't feel lucky," he grumbled. "I felt like an idiot." Skywarp's hand drifted down to his panel, caressing it lightly, entreatingly. "But you like that, don't you?" His panel clicked open obligingly, his spike extending into 'Warp's waiting hand. "Usually, yeah." Skywarp's fingers curled around it, stroking along its length, drawing a faint groan from his vocalizer. "So you didn't like that, either?" he asked. "I didn't like him doing it," he said, shifting his hip plate a little, pushing into 'Warp's hand. "It didn't feel right, him touching me like that." "You said you didn't overload," Skywarp mused, his hand pumping idly, his movements slow and languid. "Did you tell him to stop?" He made a derisive noise. "Yeah, right," he replied. "Mostly I just tried to relax. Figured he'd leave off my spike if he could get in my valve. I was right." "And that's when he fragged you?" "Yeah," he said. "Took him forever to finish, and he kept making me move around, but in the end he got off and told me I could go." "He didn't hurt you? I thought he hurt you." "A little," he said with a shrug. "Mainly because he took so slagging long. Plus the last position he had me in was kind of – he kept poking me in a really sensitive spot." Skywarp's hand paused in its motion, eliciting a groan of disappointment. "Sort of on top, kinda towards the back?" he asked, cocking his helm inquiringly. "Yeah," he said. "Practically pounded me through the slagging berth. Scraped my wings up, too." "Oh," Skywarp said, frowning faintly. "Could have been worse," he said with a shrug. Skywarp's frown deepened. "I guess," he said, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Could have been a lot worse, believe me," he said, shifting his hips a little to nudge 'Warp's hand with his spike, a not-too-subtle reminder not to get distracted from the task at hand. Skywarp let go, much to his disappointment. But before he could protest, 'Warp opened his panel and lifted off of him, positioning himself over his spike and then easing back down again, engulfing him in the snug, slick heat of his valve. Thundercracker groaned approvingly as he slid into him. Skywarp's valve felt warm, safe and familiar, his sigh of pleasure soothing to Thundercracker's audials. He ran his hands up 'Warp's thighs, resting them on his hip plate as 'Warp began to rock gently in his lap. "Mmmm," Skywarp hummed appreciatively, his internal fans switching on. "You feel so good, TC. You always feel so good." Thundercracker groaned again, his own cooling fans activating, his hands moving from 'Warp's hip plate to his wings, gently flexing the ailerons as he leaned in close to mouth his cockpit. "So do you," he rumbled back. "Wanted to make you feel like this," Skywarp moaned, rocking faster. "Wanted to be the only one." He lifted his helm to stare at him in surprise. "I've done it before, 'Warp," he said. "Maybe not a lot, but you're not the only mech to get in my valve. It's not like you broke my seal." Skywarp paused in mid-motion. "Oh," he said, crestfallen. "Right." He looked so disappointed Thundercracker felt compelled to offer him some form of consolation. "I never overloaded with any of them, though," he said. "I only ever overloaded with you." Skywarp grinned at that. "Yeah," he said proudly. He resumed his rhythm, grabbing hold of Thundercracker's wings for support as he began to ride him in earnest. "Only with me," he panted. "You only overload for me." The words sent a chill through his spark. Skywarp noticed his distraction, the way he tensed beneath him. "What's wrong?" "Megatron," he said. "I think he was annoyed that I didn't overload for him. He said…he said next time, he'd make me." Skywarp halted abruptly, his hands stilling on Thundercracker's wings. "He said that?" he asked. "That he wanted to frag you again? That he'd overload you?" "Yeah," he said. "But I won't do it. If he summons me again, I won't go." Skywarp stared at him in dismay. "He'll slag you, TC." "Probably," he agreed grimly. Skywarp shook his helm. "No," he said, wrapping his arms around him. "TC, no." Thundercracker embraced him in return, rolling them over and pressing him back onto the berth, his spark pulsing in its chamber. "I can handle it," he said. Megatron would most likely beat him to scrap for refusing, or worse, beat him to scrap and then frag him – but he said it anyway. He'd have said anything to take that look off 'Warp's faceplate. "He won't deactivate me," he assured him. "He can't afford to – the Autobots outnumber us as it is. Starscream's done a lot worse, and he hasn't offed him. I'll be fine." Skywarp was shaking his helm and seemed likely to argue, so Thundercracker kissed him, slow and deep, tasting the faint traces of energon on his glossa. Skywarp whimpered and clung to him, kissing him back with ardent fervor, his legs drawing up to twine around him, wrapping tightly around his waist components. Thundercracker began to move again, thrusting into him slowly, matching the rhythm with his glossa, sucking lightly on 'Warp's lip components, his hands drifting over Skywarp's wings and cockpit, exploring every inch of him with gentle caresses. Skywarp moaned against his mouth, rolling his hips to meet each thrust, but after a klik he broke the kiss, panting. "You have to do it, TC," he said. "You have to – he won't give up – he'll hurt you –" Thundercracker drew back slightly, pausing in his rhythm to gaze down at him, drinking in the sight of him like high-grade. Primus, he was so beautiful. "I know," he said. "But I won't do it, 'Warp. Not again." "It's just 'facing," 'Warp said, his tone almost pleading. "He's not so bad; you could –" He kissed him again to muffle his entreaty, renewing his thrusts, plunging his spike deep into that warm, eager valve until Skywarp shuddered and moaned, arching beneath him. "Stupid, stubborn slagger," Skywarp hissed, breaking free of his mouth and scraping his hands roughly over his wings, seizing hold of his ailerons and twisting them hard, making Thundercracker gasp with a mix of pain and pleasure. "You want me to do it, 'Warp?" he growled, quickening his pace, pumping his spike rapidly in and out of Skywarp's valve, punctuating his words with fierce thrusts. "Just let him frag me whenever he wants?" "Yes," Skywarp mewled, grinding feverishly against him, his hip plate rising to greet each stroke. "Yes, yes, anything, yes!" "You want me to overload for him, like I do for you?" he rumbled aggressively, pounding into him, swift and merciless. "You wanna share me with him?" Skywarp gave a low, keening whine, shaking his helm, his fingers scrabbling at his wings, seeking purchase and finding none. Thundercracker drove into him again and again, pushing ever closer to the brink, striving desperately for that moment of blissful release when time stopped and nothing mattered but those few stolen astroseconds of ecstasy, free from thought or fear or reason – A curious hissing noise distracted him, a sound of depressurizing hydraulics and shifting metal that made him falter in his frantic rhythm, and suddenly he was bathed in a brilliant, shimmering light. Skywarp had retracted his cockpit, exposing his spark. "I don't wanna share, TC," Skywarp whispered, clinging to him. "I wanna be yours. I want something that's just ours; yours and mine." Thundercracker stared at him in stunned disbelief, shaken to the core by the sheer enormity of what Skywarp was offering him. The light of 'Warp's bared spark washed over them, a scintillating eldritch glow that pulsed and throbbed like a living thing – which of course, it was. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Skywarp's offer was humbling and terrifying and utterly insane, and his processor kept insisting that he shouldn't even be contemplating it, but he'd still had to override the command to open his own chestplates at least twice already. Within its chamber, his spark was rebelling against all common sense, swelling and reaching for Skywarp's, threatening to burst free and take him of its own accord, pulsing with recognition and a sweet, terrible longing, yearning to merge with an ache so deep and profound it almost hurt – A low, helpless groan escaped his vocalizer as he surrendered to his spark's desire, stopped transmitting the override code and allowed his chestplates to part, baring his spark in return. The combined light of their pulsing sparks blinded his optics, but he could hear Skywarp moaning at the sight, whispering his name as Thundercracker leaned into him. He cried out in startled ecstasy as their sparks touched, pleasure shooting through him like a thousand overloads packed into the space of a single astrosecond, only it didn't stop, it went on and on. The shifting coronas of their sparks blended and overlapped, small threadlike tendrils of energy rising up to coil between them like a hundred tiny hands, reaching out and grasping hold of one another, drawing them in... Their cores met, met and merged, and suddenly he was inside Skywarp – no, he was Skywarp, and Skywarp was him, and Thundercracker didn't know anymore where one of them ended and the other began. Caught up in the onslaught of sensation and emotion, he resumed his thrusts, driving his spike into Skywarp's valve in sheer desperation – it was too much, too much and yet not enough, he needed to move, to ground himself in that tight, exquisite heat – Skywarp keened hungrily, crushing him close, trembling and straining, his hip plate surging up to meet him, caught up in the same urgent need for release from that overwhelming, all-consuming ecstasy. Their fevered coupling strained the connection between their sparks, made them shift against one another as their bodies moved in unison, the crackling tendrils of energy stretching almost to the point of severance and then pulling back in again, causing the waves of pleasure to swell and ebb in synchronous rhythm, growing and building and oh, Primus, he could feel him, not just the exquisite friction of his spike sliding in and out of Skywarp's valve, but Skywarp's pleasure, Skywarp's need melding seamlessly with his own, and beneath it all that part of him-not-him that was essentially, inherently Skywarp – selfish and cruel, sly and teasing, mischievous and playful and impulsive and passionate and, and – Skywarp loved him. Thundercracker sobbed through his intakes as the certainty of the emotion flooded over him, merging with the intense pleasure coursing through his circuitry. Beneath him, he heard Skywarp whimper and knew he'd had had a similar revelation, learning the truth at last that Thundercracker had denied for so long, hidden even from himself – He loved Skywarp, too. The realization was accompanied by a burst of elation he sensed was not entirely his own, a feeling of unutterable joy and unrestrained adoration suffusing their sparks and sending them crashing into overload, their systems overwhelmed by pleasure and emotion too vast to be contained, and in that moment of perfect union, Thundercracker felt with absolute certainty the simultaneous assertion wordlessly voiced by their conjoined sparks – I'm yours. He onlined wrapped in Skywarp's arms, his circuits humming with a curious contentment that was unlike anything Thundercracker had ever felt before, a sense of peace and fulfillment and languorous bliss that made him cycle a slow, shuddering sigh through his intakes, settling deeper into his lover's embrace. Skywarp stirred at the sound, onlining his optics, and Thundercracker met his gaze with a look of affection, feeling his spark pulse in recognition even though they were no longer merged, their chestplates having closed as their systems rebooted, breaking the connection. "Hi," Skywarp whispered. "Hey," he whispered back. 'Warp's lip components quirked in a triumphant smirk. "You love me," he said smugly. "So do you," he retorted, too amused to sound convincingly defensive. Skywarp's expression softened. "Yeah," he said, and Thundercracker felt it, felt the truth behind the words, felt the emotion that inspired them. His optics widened in alarm. Skywarp tensed under him. "TC? What's wrong? You're scared." He could still feel him, feel 'Warp's confusion and concern, emotions that were not his own coursing through his spark! He drew back, disturbed by the sense of other within him, even though the presence was one he recognized, one he trusted. "What is it, TC?" Skywarp asked. "Why are you afraid?" "How do you know I'm afraid, 'Warp?" he asked pointedly. Skywarp frowned in puzzlement for all of an astrosecond before realization dawned. "I can feel you," he whispered. "Primus, TC, I can still feel you!" He was frightened; under the circumstances there was no way to deny it. He raised himself up on his elbows, trying to lift off Skywarp, to pull away, but 'Warp's arms tightened around him, preventing his retreat. "What is this?" he asked, unable to conceal the quaver in his vocalizer. "Why didn't it go away?" "I think…it's a spark bond," Skywarp replied hesitantly. "I think it's supposed to be like this." He could feel that too, 'Warp's uncertainty, but also his happiness – Skywarp liked the idea of being bonded to him, of being able to feel him all the time, even though what he was feeling in that moment could have only been Thundercracker's growing apprehension. "You don't have to be scared, TC," Skywarp said. "You never have to be scared with me." He couldn't help but be calmed by that, because Skywarp's reassurance went beyond mere words. Thundercracker could feel 'Warp's trust and devotion washing over him, resonating truth to his very core. Overwhelmed by the implications, he sank slowly back down into his embrace. "What did we do?" he whispered. "We spark-bonded," Skywarp said. "I heard about it once, a long time ago – back on Cybertron, before the war, lots of mechs and femmes did it. But no one really does anymore. I'm not sure why. I know you're afraid, TC, but I know you wanted it, too. I felt it." That, too, rang true. He had wanted it. He still wanted it. To be his. "Don't you see, TC?" Skywarp said. "It doesn't matter anymore. Not Megatron, not Starscream, not any of it – no matter who we 'face, who 'faces us – we'll always have something they can never touch, something that's just ours." That was…comforting in a way Thundercracker hadn't expected it to be. "Yeah," he said, feeling a significant degree of tension lifting from his frame – but not all of it. Skywarp's words had reminded him of the unpleasant reality he'd been trying to forget. "I don't want to do it again, 'Warp," he said. "It's better, knowing you –" he faltered, shaking his helm, and pressed on, "it's better, but I still don't want to do it." Apparently it was a perk of their fledgling bond that he didn't have to explain what he meant; 'Warp knew. "I don't understand," Skywarp said. "I know you didn't like it, but I don't get why. It's just 'facing, TC. He didn't hurt you, and as long as you don't slag him off, he probably won't. He'll probably even overload you. What's so bad about that?" "I hate it," he said, his fuel tank churning in revulsion, his CPU assaulted by memory files of being held down, of being derided and humiliated, used and hurt – Skywarp stared at him. "You really do," he said, startled. "Why, TC?" "Because I hate being used like that!" he burst out, his circuits heating with shame. Skywarp's optics widened fractionally, and Thundercracker felt more than saw the comprehension dawn in them, realizing too late that his emotions had communicated far more than he'd intended to reveal. "Someone did force you, didn't they?" 'Warp asked carefully. "Not Megatron, not like that – someone else. They made you do it. They hurt you." He couldn't lie. With their new empathic connection, 'Warp would sense it. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "When?" "Cybertron," he replied shortly. "A long time ago." "Who was it?" Skywarp asked. "What was his name? Did you know him?" He didn't want to tell 'Warp who it had been. They hadn't known each other then, but Skywarp had trained under Steelwing, too – all the Seekers of their generation had. Back then, Steelwing had been regarded by many as a hero, a veteran of numerous successful campaigns. Everyone had admired him, eagerly swapping tales of his exploits. When Steelwing had ordered Thundercracker to report to his office, he'd been elated, imagining with naïve enthusiasm that the renowned warrior must have recognized some unique merit in him, that he intended to give Thundercracker some special assignment or honor, maybe even take him under his wing as his personal protégé. He'd been so proud to have caught the legendary commander's optic, to have impressed him enough to be singled out from his peers. He'd gone expecting praise. He'd gotten something else. "It doesn't matter," he said. "He was deactivated a long time ago. He's rust." "Did you kill him?" "No," he said. "Primus, 'Warp, I was –" He huffed through his intakes. "He died in the war, like a lot of mechs. I didn't kill him." "I would have," Skywarp said. "If he'd done that to me, I'd have killed him." "No you wouldn't," he replied bitterly. Any more than you'd kill Megatron, he thought. Pit, you'd probably be jealous if you knew. Your trinemate got fragged by Steelwing, lost his seal to a living legend – what Seeker wouldn't envy that? The bitterness underlying his tone was only a fraction of what he actually felt, and Thundercracker could sense Skywarp's curiosity, his concern, but 'Warp didn't press him for details, instead reaching out to stroke his faceplate, regarding him with sympathetic optics. For some reason, Thundercracker didn't feel compelled to object to the coddling gesture. "I'm gonna fix it, TC," Skywarp assured him. "I'll figure out a way to deal with Megatron. I'll take care of it." He meant it; Thundercracker could feel that. The sentiment echoed through the bond, filling his spark with Skywarp's determination. In his own way, 'Warp was trying to comfort him. A part of him wanted to believe it, to believe the pulsing of his spark that told him his lover really could fix anything, surmount any obstacle, but Thundercracker knew reality had a way of dashing idealistic dreams. "Okay, 'Warp," he said. "Whatever you say." *fin* (for now)

"I don't like it." General Hammond gave a slight smile and raised his eyebrows at his maverick colonel. It was reassuring to know he really did know his people as well as he hoped - he'd been laying odds on O'Neill making some sort of remark when the computer had spat out their latest possible destination. If the colonel had no other qualities, Hammond would have kept him around for his entertainment value alone. Hardly a typical military man was O'Neill, with a tendency to think independently and often from the heart. That applied to both work and his private life, the general thought, flicking a glance at the civilian archaeologist who was sitting, watchful and unusually silent, beside O'Neill. Hammond suppressed a smile as he considered just how well he did know the colonel. A lot more than O'Neill would be comfortable with. No, O'Neill was not a typical military man at all. Just look at him - sitting with his forearms placed flat on the table, fingers interlocked, damn near slouching, his grey and silver-streaked hair sticking up in defiant little tufts. Somehow he managed to look rumpled even when his uniform was freshly pressed and his hair flattened into submission. People sometimes made the mistake of thinking he was sloppy. After five minutes or their first run in with him - whichever came first - they didn't make that mistake again. Quite simply, the colonel was Stargate Command's finest officer. His flaws made him more human. Considering the purpose of the stargate and the number of alien races they were encountering, being human was what it was all about. That even applied to the United States armed forces. Hammond decided today was a good day to play Bing Crosby to O'Neill's Bob Hope. "What don't you like, colonel?" "C'mon, sir. I mean, P3R666. Does anyone else smell trouble here?" Appeal on his face, O'Neill glanced around at his team before his attention settled on Jackson. The general looked over at Doctor Jackson, who could always be relied on to be the voice of reason - or the goad, depending on his mood and the situation. Jackson was a good man and damned useful, for a civilian - hell, for anything. Very useful, period. After four years he now looked comfortable in uniform, as if it fitted and was appropriate, rather than giving him the appearance of a boy playing soldiers. His hair was just about the only thing that set him apart from the rest of the team, the scientist either tired of his former crop or, more likely, he had forgotten to get a haircut. He was looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with that eager beaver quality that could make Hammond feel about a hundred years old. The probe had picked up a glimpse of writings at their latest destination and Doctor Jackson was clearly itching to go. Forced to sit and wait, he was giving an admirable portrayal of patience - the pen being twisted and twirled between his fingers was his one giveaway and the only release for his pent-up energy. Faced with O'Neill's appeal for support, Daniel tugged at his earlobe, gave a little sniff, and in a lecturing tone the others at the table were familiar with began, "While '666' was commonly thought to be - " "Oh, god. You're not going to start spouting all that archaic mythology stuff, are you?" "Only if you annoy me." A grin flashed across Daniel's face, brief and quick as summer lightning. There was a small, choked sound from across the table and O'Neill glanced over at an amused Carter. Even Teal'c looked as though he might be about ready to smile. Possibly. If the wind blew in the right direction. The colonel shook his head at them then turned to the man next to him, a wry twist to his lips. "I'll take that as a threat." Hammond caught his eye and the colonel's smile broke free. O'Neill gave a shrug then glanced across the table at SG-1's alien member. The Jaffa had resumed leafing through printouts of the images transmitted by the probe that had been sent through to P3R666 that morning. "Teal'c, you saw the symbols for this cursed planet General Hammond wants to send us to. You know anything about it? Maybe legends about people being swallowed up by giant worms - that kind of thing?" "I know nothing of it. To my knowledge it has not been visited by the Goa'uld - not in recent history." Hammond assumed an air of quiet satisfaction, playing the role of patient patriarch that was a lot more fun than hard-nosed general. "Colonel, does that put your mind at rest?" He linked his hands and rested them on the table, awaiting O'Neill's response. "Oh, sure." His voice at its driest, O'Neill informed the rest of SG1, "I'd just like it noted that I do not wish to leave my poisoned, battered, and probably decapitated corpse to medical science." "Why not? Medical students have a terrific sense of humor," Jackson murmured, before he read the coordinates for P3R666 - and promptly sneezed. *** "Got a supply of tissues with you?" Daniel looked up from fastening his boots to find Jack looming over him. He straightened up, his glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. "You have to admit, I'm a lot better at traveling than I used to be. Three years ago I only had to look at the gate and I'd be sneezing. My allergies have been okay lately." He settled his glasses more comfortably on the bridge of his nose then regarded Jack thoughtfully. There was a teasing note in his voice as he added, "Maybe I'm just allergic to you." "You think? We could test that theory." O'Neill took a couple of steps closer to the other man who took an instinctive step back. The scientist had lost his usual composure. Normally he carried about him an air of quiet confidence and expectation - when he wasn't bouncing around spouting theories and getting excited over something or other. Now Daniel was most definitely ruffled. He watched O'Neill with wide, faintly wary eyes. Jack's gaze dropped to the slightly parted mouth, a smile blossoming on his own lips as he waited for Daniel to make some retort. For once it appeared Doctor Jackson, fluent in twenty-three languages at the last count, was at a loss for words. Definitely a 'dear diary' moment. "Sir? General Hammond wants to have a word. Something about a senator you annoyed?" With superb control, O'Neill didn't leap back or so much as twitch, although Carter had startled the hell out of him because he'd been so wrapped up in Daniel-watching. He turned to see she was observing them, trying to keep the curiosity out of her voice and expression - and failing dismally. "Oh for cryin' out loud. The guy deserved it," he declared but didn't elaborate further. "I'll see you at the gate." He strode off, throwing over his shoulder, "We'll test your theory after the mission, Daniel." Alone with Sam, Daniel opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and closed it with a snap. Looking faintly apologetic and more than a little hunted he slid past the woman and headed toward the gate room. Alone, Carter stared after Daniel, a frown on her face. After a moment the furrows smoothed and there was a definite smile on her lips. *** "Oh, this is nice." O'Neill's disparaging eyes took in the crumbling and mostly empty temple into which they had just entered via the stargate. "I could do things with this." "Drapes, sir?" Carter suggested a shade too brightly. O'Neill raised his eyebrows at that. "I was thinking of grenades but soft furnishings might work." Seeing Carter was examining the DHD, he asked, "OK?" "It looks good, sir." "Great. At least we know we can leave this dump." "I have found something that will interest you, Daniel Jackson." Daniel peered around the pillar he was examining to where Teal'c was standing, holding a stack of very thin black squares. They looked like slate but when Jackson wiped a small section they had the sheen of polished onyx. He held one up and light caught the white shapes that were cut into its surface. "Please tell me that stuff is just for decoration so we can get the hell out of here." Daniel was examining the pictographs with a poorly suppressed air of excitement. He was practically quivering, an energy about him that reminded O'Neill of the stargate when it was being powered up. "It has to be writing. In fact, it seems to bear some similarities to - " "Do I need to know?" "What?" While being interrupted mid-flow was hardly an unusual occurrence, it still seemed to catch Daniel by surprise. "We don't have a lot of time here, Daniel. It's a recon. In-snoop-out, remember? So, is it something I need to know and know right now?" "Well, no." Jackson's excitement was a little dimmed by O'Neill's dampening question. Jack was grateful for this - it was damned hard trying to follow one of Daniel's lectures when you were busy speculating what it would be like to have all that energy and passion directed in other ways. "OK. Then pack 'em up and let's go take a look around. Who knows what other delights lie ahead?" Outside the air was what an optimist might call bracing. There was a salty tang to it and the reason for this quickly became apparent. In all directions they were surrounded by water. The temple they had just left was situated on top of a mountain. And there were no trees, for a change. There were two identical temples on peaks to the left and right, sloping ridges of rock linking the three summits - a fluke of nature and natural erosion that gave the area a feeling of balance and symmetry. More temples. Great, thought O'Neill, just what he needed - further signs of an ancient civilization which SG1's very own Indiana Jones wannabe would want to study. Which would mean a return trip. Which would mean standing around trying to look useful, or if he was really lucky passing shovels and brushes to Daniel, while the man crawled about on his hands and knees having orgasms over some ancient sacrificial altar. An unexpected rush of heat swamping him, O'Neill searched about for a distraction. "Moss and rocks. Well that's different. We need trees for oxygen, right, major?" "There are probably more complex forms of vegetation beyond our visual range. We'll need to launch a UAV, colonel." "Right. So you get to play with the plane, huh?" Carter grinned. "Play? Colonel, I'm a serious scientist. The UAV is just an expensive research tool." "So you had nothing to do with the words 'The Tau'ri Belle' and that weird picture thing painted on the side?" "It was a woman posing as Atlas with the Earth on her shoulders. And why would a serious scientist do that, sir?" "Jack!" O'Neill looked round at the sound of his name to find that Daniel had wandered off a little way and was using binoculars to stare off to the east, Teal'c beside him. Daniel paused to check he had O'Neill's attention before continuing, "That temple over there seems to be less damaged than the others. Also it looks as though there might be symbols on the pillars but there's so much fracturing on them and the binoculars aren't helping a whole lot." "Ah. Hiking. Climbing. Sea air. This'll be fun." Teal'c raised a questioning eyebrow, lips pulled down to demonstrate his skepticism, but he made no verbal remark. "Carter, Teal'c, you go check out temple number two. Daniel and I will go check out temple number three over there," he nodded toward the temple to the east, "and we'll rendezvous back here at the gate at 1800 hours. Then home sweet home." "Jack, I - " Daniel began but was cut off by a raised hand. "There's probably nothing of use in there." "Jack..." "Ah-ah-ah!" O'Neill looked across at Jackson and waited until the younger man showed signs of remaining silent for at least five seconds. "But if you do find anything you think our favorite linguist here might enjoy then bring it back or record it. The usual drill." He turned back to Daniel. "OK?" "OK. Oh, look for more of these," Daniel asked Carter and Teal'c, removing two of the black squares from his bag with something approaching reverence. Seeing this, O'Neill hated whatever-the-hell-they-were already, and mentally filed them under 'Things to distract Daniel from'. The damn universe seemed to be full of 'Things'. * "What you got?" Jack's voice whispered against Daniel's ear, startling him. He swung his head round toward the sound, only to discover brown eyes inches from his own. Brushing back the hair that was in his eyes, he swallowed and tried to remember how to breathe. Fortunately his body took over while his brain was still treading through molasses and he took a deep breath - and got a noseful of warm Jack O'Neill, which meant he forgot how to breathe all over again. He closed his eyes for a second and licked his lower lip, mouth moving slightly as he muttered to himself in a valiant attempt at a little self-control. His voice as soft as O'Neill's, he finally managed to tell him, "Not a lot. The majority of the images aren't ideograms as I'd thought. Instead they seem to represent letters. Possibly. I really haven't studied it long enough, I have no point of reference to - Why are we whispering?" Jack's smile was wry and affectionate. "You looked so solemn. It felt like I was in a library." "You've read books?" Jack nudged the other man's head with his knuckles, warmth flooding through him when he saw Daniel's grin. "Surprisingly, yes. Last month I read 'History of the World'. So what do you think of that, huh?" "I'm impressed." "You should be. It almost killed me." The colonel gave a theatrical shudder. "So many words!" "Which part did you get up to?" Jack's chin lifted, eyebrows arching over eyes that glinted with mock offence. "You don't think I finished it, do you?" Daniel suppressed an involuntary snort. "I ask again - which part did you get up to?" "I'm hurt." Jack's smile grew warmer. "Homo erectus." The air around them suddenly seemed thicker, harder to draw into the lungs. Of their own accord, Daniel's eyes slid down to Jack's mouth. As he watched, it seemed to draw closer. He swallowed. "That's pretty early." "These things take time. I'm not sure what comes next." "Probably Homo sapiens." Jack blinked then cleared his throat. "Yeah. Uh, we should head back now. You can go over the video footage from the other temple when we get back, maybe find your 'point of reference'." "That would be nice. Unlikely, but nice." "You got everything you need?" Jack asked as he helped Daniel slide his rucksack up his arms and onto his shoulders. Tugging the bag until it was centered on Daniel's back, he rested his hands on the scientist's shoulders and awaited a reply. Acutely conscious of Jack's hands, of the thumbs resting against the nape of his neck, Daniel had to resist the urge to push back against the slight contact. "Yeah, I have everything I need - for now." As soon as Jack removed his hands and strolled on ahead, Daniel found he could breathe comfortably again and his heart rate slowed down to its normal pace. He wasn't sure if he was glad about that or not. * They followed the route they had taken before, though there was little choice in the matter - here the rock had been worn smooth and the going was fairly easy. However it narrowed until it was little more than a three-foot wide ridge, sides sloping steeply until they were submerged beneath the dark choppy waters more than a thousand feet below at its lowest incline. O'Neill shivered despite his warm clothing. The probe that had been sent through to this planet had indicated cool temperature and slightly lower levels of oxygen, though the atmosphere was far from inhospitable. With the setting of the sun - a little earlier than expected - and the rising of the planet's two moons, the temperature was falling. And that was one hell of a drop to the ocean. He should have insisted they left the temple earlier but he'd got caught up watching Daniel, something he would have to keep a check on. As it was, they were going to be a little late. He could see the gate temple about a mile away, though no Carter and Teal'c as yet, but didn't dare push the pace. Jackson was in front, O'Neill very aware that Daniel had once told Carter he had a problem with heights. Carter hadn't been sure if that had been a joke or not. Whatever the case may be, he seemed fine right now, moving easily, a bounce in his step that was no doubt due to today's discoveries. Hell of a thing to be jealous of something created by a bunch of dead aliens. O'Neill's mouth thinned in self-derision. Daniel could get a little distracted at times like this, so caught up in his thoughts and theories that he wasn't quite aware of his surroundings. True, it hardly ever happened on a mission, but O'Neill wasn't about to take any chances. After Sha're had been - had died - Daniel had become withdrawn and far too quiet. For a while it felt like they were losing him, bit by bit, day by day. It had taken Daniel months to recover and nearly a year before he was back to his old self. Now he had him back there was no way Jack was going to lose him again. He'd die first. Which was why he was watching Daniel like a hawk, his gaze fixed on the sun-lightened brown hair and definitely not drifting any lower than that - no sir! - so Jack could keep an eye on him and stop him from - O'Neill's foot slid out from under him and he was falling. * Daniel heard the scrape of rock, heard Jack's bitten off "Shit!". Spinning round in time to see the other man sliding over the edge, he threw himself forward to try to catch him. His hand met air, Jack just beyond his reach. Scrambling to the edge of the ridge, he peered over, fear making his gut twist sickeningly. Biting back the sound that tried to escape him, he called down to the man who was lying in a heap on a ledge twenty feet below him. There was no answer. "Jack!" Daniel waited for a moment but there was still no response. Not thinking clearly, desperate to reach the other man who was quite possibly dead, he began to climb down. He was within ten feet of Jack when both handhold and foothold gave way. Rock dust and stones rained down on him as he tumbled down to land sprawling across his friend. There was a low groan. "Jack - God. You're alive. Come on, speak to me," he urged, his voice surprisingly calm and steady despite his fear. "Get off my leg!" "What?" It took a few seconds for relief to turn to comprehension. "Oh, sorry about that." Daniel shifted until he was crouched next to the other man. "I have to check you over. Lie still, OK?" A quick but thorough examination revealed that Jack was, by some miracle, relatively uninjured. There was a shallow scrape above his right eye that was bleeding profusely. Several deeper cuts on his arms were also bleeding but more sluggishly and were no danger. There were numerous scrapes and bruises visible through his torn pants, especially along the right thigh. His right knee was starting to swell but was unbroken, proving Jack O'Neill was either damn lucky or he really was the thick-skinned, thickheaded grunt he sometimes pretended to be. Daniel sat back on his heels and took a moment to collect himself, the knowledge that Jack was all right coursing through him. Reaction began to set in, sweeping away the wonderful calm that always served him well in a crisis. The hands tugging his dust-covered hair were shaking uncontrollably. Closing his eyes he bowed his head, folded his arms tight against his chest, and tucked his hands out of sight where their betraying tremors could not be seen. "Hey, Danny." The soft voice made Daniel's eyes snap open and he lifted his head, eyelashes tangling with the strands of hair that had fallen forward. "Yes, Jack?" "You OK?" "Am I - ?" Daniel began to laugh though he tried to stop, conscious of the edge of hysteria that tinged it. He coughed, choked, then managed to swallow the sound before he lost control of it. "Yes, I'm OK. So are you, by some miracle." "Luck of the Irish." "You were born in Chicago." "My Granny was from the Emerald Isle, wouldn't you know, Danny Boy," said Jack in what he optimistically - and erroneously - believed to be an Irish accent. "Yeah?" Daniel shook his head at the other man, aware Jack was trying to lighten the mood and make him smile. Arms folding tight together as he tried to lose the image in his mind of Jack lying in a crumpled bloody heap, he attempted a smile but the fine muscles of his face were too tight to comply. "I think the lucky Irishness runs out after a few generations and a few thousand miles. Don't rely on it." There was a frown on O'Neill's face as he regarded Daniel, seeing the tension on the man's face and in his body language. He moved to stand, felt pain lance through his leg, and decided sitting down was a really good idea. Daniel went down on his knees beside him, sitting back on his heels. "Rest that knee, Jack. I wish we had some ice." "I don't," Jack said with meaning. "Antarctica was enough ice to last a lifetime." "Ah, yes. The second stargate would be pretty useful too. Right about there," Daniel said, waving a hand at a spot on the ledge ten feet away. "Let me clean those cuts up." "Be gentle with me," Jack said absently, his attention fixed on the pallor of Daniel's face. "You know, I can do most of it myself. You're sure you're OK? I didn't pull you down, did I?" "Ah, no. I climbed down. Believe it or not, I'm here to rescue you." Daniel tore open packets and handed antiseptic to Jack so he could clean up his thigh. "Yeah?" Jack tilted his head and looked from Daniel to the rock wall above them in a pointed fashion. "And who's going to rescue you?" Reaching out, he plucked a sliver of stone from Daniel's hair and tossed it aside before he began cleaning the wound on his thigh, visible through the torn pants. Taken aback, Daniel opened his mouth to reply but no sound emerged. He blinked, cleared his throat and tried again, with more success. "I was hoping to do it myself but the wall here is pretty sheer and with your leg out of action - It's up to Sam and Teal'c." He paused, watching Jack clean up his thigh for a moment, then continued, "Once they realize we're missing they'll start a search. It's quiet up here so we'll hear them and can call for - Hey, I have a flare right here! Standard issue. See." Daniel fired the flare and watched as it rose up rapidly, suspended for a moment in the darkening sky. Then he looked back at Jack, his expression rather smug. "That's the SOS taken care of. Later we'll use one of the guns to make some noise and get their attention. You have to learn to trust me, Jack." Daniel had about him an air of calm confidence and satisfaction. Seeing Jack was staring at him he opened his eyes very wide and radiated an innocence that would have put the Madonna to shame. O'Neill regarded him with suspicion. "Admit it. You just remembered about the flare." Daniel acquired selective deafness and looked over the edge of the ledge. "Wow. It's a long way down." "Yeah." Jack gave the waters far below what was meant to be a brief glance, then froze. "What were you thinking, Daniel? Why the hell did you climb down instead of going for help?" "You weren't moving. You could have been bleeding to death unable to help yourself. Your heart could have stopped. Your breathing - " "I was winded!" There was a moment of silence. "Well how was I supposed to know that? I called but you didn't answer." "If you'd given me a chance - " "You could have waved a hand or something. Why did you have to scare me like that?" Daniel said accusingly. "I fell down a mountain!" "Twenty feet, if that. It could have been worse." "Well you shouldn't have come down after me!" O'Neill pointed out, focusing on his main complaint. "I had my reasons." "They weren't good reasons!" "Go to hell." "What did you say?" Tilting his head as if to compensate for some hearing problem, Jack raised his eyebrows, mouth parted as though ready for a retort if the younger man dared to repeat his words. Daniel Jackson was not known for backing off from a challenge. Add to that the fact he was highly annoyed and it was remarkable that his reply was a softly spoken, "I think I said it pretty clearly. Oh, I'm sorry, I was forgetting my place. Go to hell, colonel." "Listen you little - ah!" Jack's attempt to stand up was quickly aborted when his knee reminded him why being vertical was a bad idea. His face twisted with pain and he sank back down. "Ah, shit." "Jack, are you all right?" Anger forgotten, Daniel was beside his friend instantly, an arm going about the tense shoulders. "Damn leg hasn't been the same since Carter tried to set it. Believe me, she was a lot gentler fixing the DHD." Teeth gritted to still any further sounds of pain - and to control the urge to complain about it to Daniel while the man offered lots of sympathy - Jack settled back down, leaning into the support offered. He let himself be shifted around until he was pressed up against Daniel's solid warmth and enclosed in surprisingly strong arms, Daniel's back against the rock wall. Sweat gleamed on Jack's face and throat as he willed the pain to go away so he could enjoy the moment fully. "Don't tell Carter I said that," he muttered gruffly. "No, of course not." Seeing Jack hadn't treated his facial injuries, Daniel eased away and reached for the basic First Aid kit. "Let's see to those cuts on your face, OK?" Jack opened his mouth, about to protest, but wasn't sure whether it was because he wanted Daniel's body against him again or if he was afraid what might happen if the man got too close. In the end he said nothing. Taking Jack's silence as consent, Daniel took the other man's face in his hand, tilting it at various angles while he cleaned up the shallow scratches. He concentrated on his task, trying not to notice how close his fingers were to Jack's parted lips or how warm Jack's breath was against his throat and face. Even the skin beneath his fingertips seemed to burn with an added heat though the man showed no signs of a fever. His task completed, Daniel shifted round until he was in his former position, sitting against the rock wall with Jack propped against him. Surprised when Jack made no protest he decided he really must be feeling like crap so he put a hand to Jack's head and drew it down to his shoulder. Other than a deep sigh the injured man made no comment. They remained like that in silence for some time. Aware of the peculiar contentment that came from sitting on a ledge with Jack O'Neill in his arms, Daniel rested his cheek lightly against Jack's hair. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said before." "Hey, I know." Jack swung his head round just far enough to glance at Daniel, and almost bumped noses with the man. Frozen into immobility by unblinking blue eyes, he could do little but stare until physical functions returned. He wanted, rather badly, to remove Daniel's glasses - almost as much as he wanted to kiss him. His tongue flicked out to wet his dry lips, eyes fastening on Daniel's mouth before he averted his face. Trying to speak, his voice came out as a husky croak so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Me, too. I just got a little mad because - well. You know I - ?" "I know." "Good." Jack faced front once more, feeling self-conscious and grateful he was past the age of blushing, if he ever had. "It's just that I'm supposed to be in charge and - I know that you're capable - but you are a scientist and a civilian and - I worry. You know." "Actually I don't. Are you saying you don't think I should be on the team?" Jack's head whipped back at that. He frowned at Daniel. "Where the hell did you get that idea?" "I don't know. You said - " "Damn it. You throw yourself down a mountain - " Jack began what was obviously going to be a long list of complaints. "I did not throw myself down. I climbed down to offer my assistance. Next time I'll leave you to rot." "Would you?" Jack stared at his friend who, despite his words and tone, was unconsciously rubbing his hands up and down Jack's arms as though trying to keep him warm. While the hurt look Jack was wearing was patently false, Daniel felt himself melting. "Don't tempt me. You're an idiot. You know that?" "Of course. You're so smart you frequently make me feel like one." There was a look of horror on Daniel's face. "But you're intelligent, intuitive and - God, I never meant to make you feel - " He suddenly caught sight of Jack's twitching mouth. "You are a shit, Jack." "It's been said before. You going to stay mad at me or settle down?" "Like a good boy? I'll work on it." Shaking his head and muttering softly to himself, Daniel tightened his arms around the other man. They remained silent for a couple of minutes but Jack was beginning to get distinctly twitchy. The temperature had been steadily dropping which meant he was pressing back against Daniel for warmth. Which also meant he was becoming extremely aware of how close their bodies were and arousal right now really wasn't a good idea. Even more worrying, he was in danger of saying stuff, sentimental stuff, that would only embarrass the hell out of them. "So, what about that Anubis, huh?" Jack said brightly. "What about him?" Daniel asked absently, head cocked as he listened to the wind which had picked up and was sending the temperature plummeting. He eased Jack even closer than before, unashamedly cuddling the other man. Distracted by warm air gusting rhythmically against the top of his head, stirring his hair, Jack took a moment to respond. "Daniel, it's jackal head or sport, probably hockey. You decide." "Actually, I have been thinking about the people who must have lived here. You remember those glass tubes back at the second temple? Imagine them with liquid and bubbles inside." "Bubbles? Like the fish-guy had?" "Nem." "What?" Jack found he had to raise his voice as the wind grew stronger, howling up from below to buffet them. He pressed back against Daniel, finding comfort there even if he would have vigorously denied needing such a thing. With luck it would become too damn cold for arousal. Which just went to show that, contrary to popular opinion, he was an optimist. "His name was Nem. He was from a race called Oans, an aquatic people." "Didn't he - ? Christ. This wind's getting loud. If Carter and Teal'c show we won't hear a damn thing." Jack broke off, suddenly aware his words were hardly likely to engender confidence and hope. He tried again. "Didn't this Nem guy show you some writing he 'persuaded' you to translate?" Jack tried to keep the anger out of his voice but he could hear it creeping through despite his best efforts. Fact was, remembering how Daniel had been treated by Nem, recalling how SG1 had been lead to believe he was dead, summoned up a fury that was usually reserved for the Goa'uld. He felt a hand brushing across his hair and began to relax as Daniel's unconscious efforts to soothe him worked like a charm. "Yes. Cuneiform. But that was an Earth writing and he could have been checking to see if I recognized it, as that would suggest I was from Earth. His own language may have been very different. He certainly picked up English very quickly, though he may have had some knowledge of it already since half the universe seems to speak it. Sam thinks there's something within the gate itself that - " "Daniel? Please. Let's stay away from gate technology." "Well I don't really understand much of it myself, Jack. Anyway, back to this place. Look at it. Water everywhere. The temples look about two thousand years old and unless they wanted the stargate out of reach except by boat, or something catastrophic happened to the ecosystem, who else could live here but an aquatic race? They might still be here, watching us from the water." "You know, I really wish you hadn't said that." "Too late." "Like us. We were already going to be late leaving the temple when we did. Now - " "We could have left earlier," Daniel pointed out mildly. "We would have but somebody had to be dragged away from their pictures." O'Neill smiled to himself. More than three years had passed since they had first met and Daniel hadn't changed much - thank god. Still the same guy he had fallen in love with. It was good to have a constant in his roller coaster life, even if he'd probably never get up the courage to tell him. "Pictographs. And I don't recall you telling me we had to leave." Picking up on his friend's pissed tone, and uncertain as to how he'd riled the man, O'Neill patted the hand on his forearm. In as soothing a voice as was possible in high winds, he said, "You were having fun." Abruptly the hand was removed, as was the support offered by Daniel's body. "I'm not some little kid you have to humor, Jack. I can take orders," Daniel said, getting to his feet and walking away near to the edge of the ledge. Caught by surprise and feeling cold without the other man's warmth against him, Jack said unthinkingly, "Since when?" "And what is that supposed to mean?" Daniel swung back round to stare down at O'Neill. Jack frowned as Daniel was buffeted by the wind, hair flying wildly around his face. "Will you get away from there and sit down, this damn wind will have you over." "No. What did you mean?" "That! Exactly that! I tell you to do something and you do your own thing. You have a problem with taking orders." "Just stupid ones." Pausing only to kick a stone from the other side of the ledge, Daniel sat down, a couple of feet from the edge, his back propped against the rock face. He glared at Jack steadily, only blinking when the wind whipped his hair in his eyes. The hands resting on his bent knees were clenched. Jack didn't know whether to hit the guy or kiss him silly. "So now you're calling me - " Jack's voice changed from belligerent to commanding. "Daniel, come closer." "Why?" "Dammit, will you do as I say!" There was no need for Jack to elaborate further as the ground suddenly shifted beneath Daniel. Eyes locked on Jack, he inched his way closer, taking care not to make too sudden a move while fighting the instinct to scramble to safety. There was a cracking sound, the rattle of stones, and suddenly he was slipping back. "Daniel!" Jack lunged across and caught the other man, the move jarring his knee. He bit back a curse and ignored his injury, focused on pulling Daniel to safety. He had the other man in his arms on the far side of the ledge just as the rock surface where Daniel had been sitting fell away. Pulling Daniel tighter against him, Jack stared at the empty space where Daniel had sat. When it looked as though the immediate danger was over he let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding and loosened the deathly tight grip he had on his friend's forearms. "Well that was interesting. You think we can avoid repeating it, though?" He was proud of the fact his voice was fairly steady but this example of superb control seemed to have been lost on his companion. Eyes very wide and fixed on the void that had been his perch, Daniel looked as though he was in a state of shock. Given the near-miss and the precariousness of their current position, it was understandable. His voice as gentle as it had ever been, Jack coaxed, "Hey, Danny. You think you could come back to me, here?" The gaze that was turned on Jack was shocked but did not have the frozen quality Jack was expecting, and for that he was grateful. If he needed to Daniel could go into shock later, now would be too damned inconvenient. "I almost fell... " Time for the prosaic voice, good for bringing eager astrophysicists down to Earth, for cutting through hyperbole and for calming good-looking archaeologists who you desperately wanted to cuddle and not let go of. "Yeah, well you didn't. So just sit tight, OK?" Jack tried to pull Daniel back against him, a reversal of their former positions, but Daniel wouldn't comply, twisting round to face Jack until they were practically nose to nose. "The ledge isn't going to hold, is it." There was a calm certainty in Daniel's voice and on his face that spooked Jack. Also, he'd clearly seen the cracks in the ledge that seemed to be lengthening and heading their way. Too damn analytical by half, that was Daniel. "We're going to be fine." His gaze bored into blue eyes, willing Daniel to believe him, willing it to be true. It couldn't end like this. It wouldn't, dammit! He wouldn't let it. Daniel's voice was infinitely gentle as he asked, "What if we're not? We're going to die here, aren't we. This is how it ends." "Look. We are not going to die on this stinking ledge. You got that?" Daniel continued to stare, his face strangely serene. Then he took Jack's face between his hands, and kissed him. It was several seconds before Jack could comprehend what was happening and by the time his brain was functioning his lips were his own again, tingling and icy as the cold wind tried to rob them of moistness and lingering sensation. Cool fingers traced his cheeks, jaw, then brushed gently over his mouth. He felt paralyzed, unable to do little more than watch, open-mouthed, as Daniel drew back. "I love you, Jack." Loud as the wind was, Jack heard the words. Daniel got to his feet. He took a step back. Then another. Which was why the rope thrown by Teal'c hit him squarely on the head. * If he didn't get out of this infirmary soon, he was going to kill something, slowly. O'Neill had told the doctor there was nothing wrong with him, which was probably not the smartest thing to do as Fraiser had got a determined gleam in her eye and had set about proving him wrong. As he'd suspected his knee was swollen, nothing spectacular but it would give him hell for a couple of days before it settled down. Apart from that, the cut on his leg that had needed a couple of stitches and minor contusions, he was fine. General Hammond had already stopped by so the formal debriefing and reports were not due until 1400 tomorrow. So now he was stuck waiting for the doc to return his clothes so he could go after Daniel. The look of horror on Daniel's face when Teal'c and Carter had shown up to rescue them would have been funny for the irony value, except Jack wasn't ready to laugh. It should have been an incredible moment, one to treasure - after all, he'd been crazy about Daniel for what felt like forever, his apparent death on Apophis' ship during the attempted attack on Earth driving home the fact he was in love with the guy even if he could never say it out loud. Daniel had kissed him. Daniel had said he loved him. Daniel had stepped back, toward the edge of the crumbling ledge, ready to die to save Jack. Daniel was going to regret he'd ever been born. * Daniel's apartment was in darkness when Jack finally got there. Tugging at the collar of his open-necked dark green shirt and wiping damp palms down black pants, he wondered why the hell he was feeling nervous. Determined to keep his cool, Jack rapped three times on the door, careful not to disturb the entire block. No response. He tried again, a little louder. Same result - or lack of. It dawned on Jack that maybe Daniel wasn't going to answer. After ten minutes of thumping on the door, yelling from half the neighbors in the block, and a brief but intense 'talk' with the block's security man, it finally occurred to Jack that Daniel might not be home. He raised his hand in farewell to the guard, having flashed his I.D. and convinced the man he was concerned for Doctor Jackson's health: "You know these scientist types, overwork themselves when they have flu then don't eat ... " At a loss as to where to go and finding that Doctor Fraiser had been right about the wisdom of resting his swollen knee, he headed for his car and decided to go home and confront Daniel at the base tomorrow - only to find the missing scientist sitting on his porch steps. Clearly having showered and changed - his hair was now minus its covering of dust - Daniel plucked at the pale chinos stretched across his thighs. The black sweat top looked familiar and Jack recognized it as one he had lent the man years ago. He resisted the urge to ask for it back, right there and then, and strolled over with his hands in his pockets, trying to look calm and collected. Daniel was watching him closely as he walked toward him, probably checking for homicidal impulses. That was good, at least the guy still had some sense of self-preservation. "Hi, Jack." "'Hi, Jack'? Do you realize I've been looking all over for you?" "Oh." Gesturing toward Jack, Daniel explained, "I figured you'd have the sense to rest your leg first - but would be chewing at the bit while doing so. I thought by coming here I'd make it easier for you." "You didn't." Staring at Daniel and waiting for him to look away first, Jack was none too pleased when he maintained his usual direct right-through-to-the-soul gaze. Giving it up as a lost cause, Jack muttered, "You better come in," and stepped past the other man, gritting his teeth as he jarred his leg, determined not to limp or show any kind of weakness. He didn't bother waiting for Daniel but was aware that he was getting to his feet and following. "You want a beer?" "Sure." Daniel sounded a little subdued, which was gratifying. "You do understand that this isn't a sign you're off the hook." Jack's voice was flat, a warning. "No. Even the condemned man gets a last meal, right?" "Something like that." "You should rest that leg. You want me to get the beers?" "It's fine. Go through to the living room." Jack resisted the urge to give Daniel a gentle push in the right direction. In his present mood the other man would wind up head first through a wall - or face down on the floor. "Den seems more appropriate given the circumstances." Jack stared blankly for a second, caught up in images of Daniel on his belly with his ass in the air, before the reference caught. His face tightened. "The thorn thing with the lion, right? This isn't going to be that easy." Head tilting a fraction, Daniel gave the other man a measuring look, noting the tension in the body, especially the shoulders, and rigid jaw. "No, I guess not." Teeth gritted, Jack waved in the direction of the living room. "Go. I'll get the beer." Daniel sat, tense and awkward in an armchair, waiting for Jack to return, aware of every sound coming from the kitchen. He heard the sound of the coffee maker being filled which gave him some small hope; if Jack was bothering to make him coffee instead of handing him an unwanted beer then the situation wasn't totally grim. He made an effort to relax as he heard Jack coming back, so fixed on this effort that the heat seeping through the mug of coffee caught him by surprise and he almost dropped it. Jack took a seat opposite, watching the man from the sofa, their positions identical to those of the first time he had brought Daniel to his house. Then he'd looked like a kicked puppy, having lost his wife and home within a matter of hours. This was an older Daniel, one who had faced further tragedy and personal suffering - a Daniel who had lost many of his soft edges and was tougher in most senses of the word. Yet he was watching Jack with - yep. It was that same kicked puppy look. Which right now made Jack want to kick even harder. "Relax will you. I'm not going to bite." Jack swept his eyes over Daniel, taking in the frozen expression, the slumped shoulders and wary eyes. "Though I might beat the crap out of you if you don't start talking, fast." Startled by the threat, Daniel stared at Jack and saw that he wasn't joking. He had seen those eyes warm with amusement, hot with anger but rarely this cold and never directed at him. He had felt many things for, and about, Jack O'Neill. For the first time he was actually afraid of the soldier, not so much of the physical threat, though right now that seemed very real. Fear came from knowing Jack had the power to hurt him, to cut him clear through flesh and bone and straight through to the soul. This man could destroy him as completely as any Goa'uld technology. It was a terrifying thought. He searched for words that might placate. "I thought we were going to die." "Yeah, I caught that." "That kind of situation makes people say things they don't mean or say things in a way that more time and thought would have them say differently." Jack's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to bullshit me, Daniel?" "What?" "You are. You're trying to lie. To me. Others have tried that. Bad idea." Eyebrows arched over the metal-rimmed glasses though the eyes themselves were momentarily obscured by reflecting light on the lenses. "Are you threatening me?" "Yes." "Oh." Daniel scratched his cheek and reconsidered what he was about to say. He took a sip of coffee, to buy some time to think and burnt his tongue. "I realize you have a problem with what I said." "No, I don't." Caught by surprise, Daniel could only stare for a moment before he recovered. "You don't?" "No. What I have a problem with is someone handing something to me on a plate that I've been wanting for too damn long then snatching it away from me. You could say it ticks me off." "You wanted - ?" "Stop!" The order cracked out like a whip, sudden and meant to sting. Slowly removing his glasses, his gaze fixed on Jack, Daniel blinked but other than his lips parting and his eyes widening there was little reaction. "Just...shut up and listen for once. You were going to - What are you doing?" Daniel paused in the middle of getting up. He'd been about to go to the other man, a smile blossoming on his face, but Jack's cold voice stopped him dead. "Sit down." "I'm sorry. I thought you just said you felt - well, the same as me." "So? I haven't finished. You think it's that easy?" "It could be, yes." It was said with a hint of a challenge. For the first time Daniel looked as though he was beginning to relax. Pausing only to swipe the hem of his sweat top across his lenses, he slipped his glasses back on then sat back to watch the colonel. Jack raised his eyebrows. "You are an optimist, aren't you, Daniel? Well here's a newsflash. It's not that easy. You were going to kill yourself. You tell me - you tell me what I want to hear then you plan on doing that." "It looked like the whole ledge was going to crumble under our combined weight." "You knew that for a fact?" "Well. The cracks that were appearing all over it gave me a clue, yes." "It would have held." "You knew that for a fact?" Daniel challenged, deliberately echoing Jack's words. Seeing the anger flare up in his eyes, he added, "I couldn't be sure." "Then we take that chance." Daniel bit his lower lip, head ducking so Jack couldn't see his expression. His reply when it came was almost inaudible. "I don't take those chances, not with your life." "I noticed!" Daniel's head jerked up at that and he seemed surprised that Jack was still annoyed. Eyes narrowing, he jumped up and began pacing, as if sitting still for so long was too much for him. His arms joining the fray as though their waving about would add emphasis to his words, he snapped, "I was trying to save your life!" "I didn't want you to!" Jack bit back, beer slopping over his hand as he shot to his feet but still in control enough to keep his distance. When Daniel took a step closer, he growled, "Back off." "Fine." Daniel folded his arms and glared. Jack eyed him warily, as though Daniel might suddenly spring at him. He was as unpredictable as a cat. After a brief moment of heavily charged silence, Daniel said in a goading tone, "So you'd rather be dead, is that it?" "If it meant you dying, yes." The quietly spoken words calmed Daniel as nothing else would. Low-voiced and gentle, Jack asked, "Tell me. If our positions had been reversed how would you feel?" "They have been." Jack blinked at that. "When?" "The time we went to find Ernest Littlefield. The castle, remember? You came back for me knowing the place was ready to fall down around us. When I would have stayed, you waited for me to come to my senses. We both could have died." "That was different. I'm the commanding officer, SG1 is my team and my duty is to keep my men safe." "Now who's trying to bullshit whom, Jack?" Unable to hold the other man's gaze, Jack glanced down at the beer bottle he still held in his hand and placed it on the floor with infinite care. "That's not bullshit." "Yes it is." "No." Jack shook his head but there was little conviction in his voice. "Yes," Daniel said softly, nodding. "Bullshit. You know and I know that you would do the same for Sam or Teal'c and probably anyone else who needed it of you. It has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with who you are. You can't help it, it's in your nature to protect." "So you're saying it's in your nature too?" "Yes. If I would do it for Gairwyn or Shyla, of course I would do it for someone I love. And to expect any less of me - Well, it's unrealistic and unreasonable. I can't change. And if you'd been able to move around a little quicker on that leg of yours you'd have probably beaten me to it." "I don't want you to die." The words fell into a sudden pool of silence. Daniel had to swallow before he could answer. "I didn't." "You could have." "And tomorrow I might get killed driving to the base. We don't know what's going to happen, here on Earth or on any of the planets we visit. The thought of losing you scares the hell out of me too, Jack. It scares me every single day. Every time we go through that stargate. So what do we do about it?" Jack sighed heavily, fingers raking through his hair. He knew when he was beaten yet for a man who had been defeated both expression and voice were surprisingly hopeful. "Live for today?" "I was hoping you'd say that. Can I come closer now?" "Why?" "Because I want to kiss you again and I don't have five feet long, prehensile lips." "There's an image," Jack managed to murmur before Daniel's swooping mouth landed squarely on his own. It was a simple press of lips, yet it still managed to quicken Jack's pulse. Gently breaking the kiss, chest to chest, groin to groin with Jack, Daniel murmured, "You want to make out on the couch?" Smiling at that, Jack shook his head a little in mock admiration. "You smooth talker, Doctor Jackson," he said huskily, reaching for Daniel's glasses and easing them from his friend's face with infinite care. Folding the arms down, he placed them on the coffee table then took up his former position, pressed up against Daniel. "I offer myself body and soul and all I get is the infamous O'Neill sarcasm." Deeply inhaling Jack's scent, a heady mix of warm flesh, aroused male, and a faint trace of cologne, began a lazy rocking of hips and pelvis. Trailing his forefinger down Jack's cheek, down to the smiling mouth, Daniel coaxed, "You have a bed, too. A big comfortable bed. I want to make love to you, and quite frankly I don't think the couch will be big enough." Hands sliding down and around to grasp Jack's ass, Daniel tugged the man even closer. Stroking his tongue across Jack's lips until they parted for him, he slipped inside, slowly and thoroughly exploring taste and texture, drinking in the other man until they were both dizzy. When Daniel released his mouth, Jack could do little but gulp for air. "Hell of a lung capacity you got there, Danny." "You have the most beautiful mouth," Daniel said softly, eyes hazy as they roamed over Jack's face. "I love this," he added, teeth nibbling on Jack's narrow upper lip before licking it lightly until it glistened. He licked his own lips as though to catch any lingering taste of the other man. "I know what this is," Jack managed to say with an admirable degree of coherency, given the circumstances. "It's a ploy to embarrass the hell out of me." "Oh, Jack. I haven't even begun," Daniel said, sounding a little amused and thoroughly besotted. "I think the bedroom would be a good idea." "Great plan, colonel." Hooking his finger over Daniel's collar, Jack led the other man up the stairs, trying to ignore the hand that was stroking his butt. As they reached the top stair the hand grew more adventurous and slid lower, almost causing Jack to stumble. "Will you quit that?" he growled softly, pressing Daniel up against the wall before kissing him fiercely, tongue pushing through to claim the slick heat of Daniel's mouth as his hips snapped back and forth, grinding his lengthening cock against Daniel's growing erection. Words came out in a throaty rumble. "Mmm, that's good. Wanna feel you, Daniel. All of you." Drowning in lust-lit brown eyes and a mouth that seemed intent on devouring him, Daniel gasped, "What about the bed?" "Should have thought about that before you - ah!" For a brief second Daniel thought the other man had come to a premature climax, before he realized it was pain rather than pleasure on Jack's face. "Jack? Are you OK?" "Yeah. Damn leg just - I think maybe the bed is a better idea, much as the thought of fucking you through this wall appeals." "Sounds good. Hold that thought for later. But are you sure you're up to this right now?" Several long, wet, noisy seconds later Daniel answered his own question. "Oh, yeah." He followed Jack into the bedroom, eyes locked on the man as he went about the room, drawing curtains, switching on the lamp. His gaze roamed from eyes to mouth to crotch then all the way up again, pausing to drift over throat and shoulders. "You should lose some clothes, Jack. They spoil the view." Finding himself pushed back onto the bed by a very determined Doctor Jackson, Jack lay compliant as he was stripped bare with superb speed and efficiency. The break in the proceedings allowed some of the blood to divert to Jack's brain. Arousal dipping to a more bearable level, he was able to watch as Daniel removed his shorts while every nerve in his body screamed at him to cram his cock in the guy's mouth. Daniel was clearly gone, all that wonderful energy and intensity he usually reserved for work focused entirely on Jack, as he had longed it to be. It was a hell of a thing. Used to taking the lead in such matters, it came as something of a shock to discover that not only were you prepared to let someone else take control, but it was a hell of a turn on too. Surprisingly unworried by this revelation, Jack flexed his toes, wriggled his butt further into the mattress and went from relaxed to boneless in two, deep, shuddering breaths. "You ever heard of savoring the moment?" he asked teasingly, reaching down to slide his fingers through sun-kissed hair that felt like silk. Clearly, most of Daniel's blood supply was vacationing down south, the face that rose up flushed with arousal, eyes heavy-lidded and the pupils so large the blue iris was eclipsed by velvet blackness. Blinking, it clearly took him a moment before Jack's words registered. Then he bent his head and swallowed Jack's cock. Bucking once before he got the reflex under control, Jack groaned long and loud, the words 'Oh god' bursting from his lips mingling with throaty sounds of pleasure. Desire rushed up to cloud thought, racing through his body, heating his blood, until it felt as if liquid fire ran through his veins. It must be love, some distant part of him thought hysterically, as he reached for Daniel, hauling the other man up until he could kiss him. Certain he could taste something of himself mingling with Daniel's sweetness, Jack's tongue plunged deeper, hungry, possessive, staking a claim there as he intended to stake a claim elsewhere, making Daniel his. One hand clenched in Daniel's hair to hold him in place, the other snaked down to unfasten the man's pants. Bare flesh met his questing fingers and he wriggled and tugged urgently until Daniel's cock was pressed against his own, which was still slick with Daniel's saliva. Sliding the hand round to slip between the cleft of Daniel's ass as it twitched and flexed with every thrust, Jack circled a forefinger around the anus, teasing himself as much as the man grinding against him. They rocked together, hardness to hardness, hot and slick as they ground against each other, panting, guttural demands and breathless pleas for more, harder, faster, racing towards a dizzying climax. * Mouth open and slack against Daniel's throat, Jack groaned softly, lapping at the salt-sweat skin that fluttered beneath the onslaught of the wildly beating pulse. "Ja - ?" Pleased to hear Daniel sounded as wasted as he was, Jack managed to utter, "Uh?" Daniel attempted to distribute his weight onto his knees and elbows so as not to squash the man beneath him. Letting his head flop down on Jack's chest, he listened to the gradually slowing heartbeat while he rubbed his nose into aromatic chest hair. "You still alive?" From somewhere, Jack found the energy to laugh, albeit weakly. Daniel's ragged panting stirring his chest hair and tickling his nipples, Jack wrapped his arms around Daniel and tugged him down until his lover was once again completely slumped on top of him - a substantial weight that restricted his breathing but satisfied him on some soul-deep level. "Don't know. Tell you in a week." There was a muffled laugh followed by a contented sigh. "You going to sleep now?" "Yeah. You going to take off the rest of your clothes?" asked Jack, voice hopeful. "I think I should. I want to be comfortable when you fuck me against the wall." Jack choked. Open-mouthed he stared up at Daniel who was still astride him. Seeing the look on the other man's face, Daniel gave a grin. "You did promise. Through the mattress would be good too. Fast and hard or slow and sweet - I'll let you decide. Tomorrow, colonel." Carefully he rolled off Jack, surreptitiously checking his leg injury in what he hoped was a casual fashion, before stripping off. Aware of this concern, Jack was swamped by a rush of warmth and tenderness that was as exhilarating as desire. Biting back words he had always had difficulty saying and wasn't sure he could ever say again, he turned onto his side to watch as Daniel finished undressing. You're a barbarian, Jack thought to himself as he took in the sight of his lover. Smooth chest, muscles in all the right places, and skin just begging to be licked and stroked. All that on offer and he'd just grabbed at it and - Well so had Daniel, he comforted himself, smiling at the memory. He was one lucky son of a bitch. He realized his lover was watching him with a questioning look and his smile deepened. Reaching out to stroke along the dip of the waist and down one firm thigh, his fingers played with the light dusting of hair there. "How come you started calling me colonel all of a sudden?" he asked absently, focused on the contrast of his tanned hand against the paler flesh of Daniel's flank. "Just showing I still respect you, sir," Daniel murmured softly, smiling when Jack's attention snapped back to his face. "Go to sleep, Jack. Trust me, you'll need plenty of energy in the morning." "What, no long talk about our future, about how things will change?" "No." Reaching up to sift his fingers through the sweat-damp spikes of hair that fell onto Jack's forehead, Daniel added, "You're all mine. The rest of the universe can go to hell if they object." Breath catching in his throat, Jack reeled under the impact of the simple yet significant words. Seconds passed as emotions and thoughts coalesced. Then Jack O'Neill drew his lover closer, pressed his mouth against the hollow of Daniel's throat, and began to say the words he had thought himself unable to voice.

Bang – there was you Too gold, too blue You told the truth I cried. You flew. You called me mad (and I am mad) as a hatter Some fall in love… I shatter - Magnetic Fields Day One Lex: The car is speeding towards me but then Clark is there, and he collects the car around himself like a shawl then throws it off. He looks at me and there’s something in my eyes but before I can say anything I’m in his arms and wind whips past us, I can’t see what’s happening, I think I hear Julian crying again and I try to tell Clark but can’t hear my own voice. Everything stops and we’re not in Metropolis anymore, it’s a street with palm trees, and I can’t tell if I’m awake or not. Clark tells me we need to call Toby. I say we have to go back and get Julian. “Focus, Lex,” Clark says, and he grips my shoulders and stares into my eyes. His eyes are intensely green and I focus. “You’ve been drugged. We have to get you to Toby. What’s Toby’s phone number?” So I tell him, and Clark uses a pay phone that’s suddenly right there next to us, and some people walk by with a baby that isn’t Julian and there’s a soft breeze on my skin and I think I smell the ocean. And I think Clark isn’t human. And I’m pretty sure I’m awake, or as sure as I’ve been lately, and then Clark hangs up the phone and pulls me into an alley and wraps his arms around me, and I’m about to laugh because there’s a part of me that even now is thinking Jesus, finally! except I don’t get the chance to say that because the wind whips up again and I’m pressed against Clark’s chest and maybe he’s trying to kill me too but if he is I like his method better than my father’s. Then we’re outside Toby’s house in Metropolis and Clark sets me down on the stoop and rings the bell and nothing happens. “It’s not safe here,” I say, and Clark says “It’s the best we can do,” and that doesn’t make it any better, and nobody answers the door and I say “There’s nobody home” and Clark says “I’ll try around back” and when he gets down the steps the door opens and I get shot and die. Clark: “Lex!” Clark leapt up the stairs to catch his friend as he fell. Quickly checking Lex for blood and finding none, he turned furiously to the grizzled form leaning against the doorframe. “What the hell did you do?” Toby lowered his gun. “Easy there, tiger. It’s a tranq dart. You told me our boy is psychotic and I don’t fancy getting clocked on the head.” “So you shot him?!” Toby shrugged. “He’ll wake up in a couple hours. You want to bring him inside, or do you want to stay on the stoop here?” He withdrew into the house. Clark stared after him, scanning through the door and then the walls, before lifting Lex carefully and going in. The spacious living room had no working lights, a charred fireplace, odds and ends of furniture, and veritable warrens of dust bunnies on the floor, illuminated by slanting rays from a row of windows. “Set him there,” Toby instructed, gesturing toward a disreputable-looking sofa. More efficiently than Clark would have expected, he rolled up Lex’s sleeve and drew two vials of blood. “Just hang tight for a while,” he said, “and I’ll see what we’re dealing with.” He left them alone. Standing guard over Lex, Clark narrowed his eyes to follow Toby’s progress around a corner, through the kitchen, up a back staircase, and into what had to be his lab. After watching him unearth some inexplicable high-tech equipment from a mountain of fast-food containers, Clark turned his attention back to his unconscious friend. Probably for the best that Lex couldn’t see his surroundings, he thought, wiping a bit of drool from the corner of Lex’s mouth. Some time later, Toby returned. “We’ve got good news and bad news,” he announced. “Good news is, you were right; he’s got enough psycho-juice in his bloodstream to kill a horse.” Clark blinked. “That’s the good news?” Toby grinned. “Well, it means he’s not crazy. Or, not crazier than he was, anyway. You said on the phone he still has lucid periods; that’s a good sign. With anyone else the kind of dose he’s been getting might do some permanent re-wiring, but Lex is a little special. He ought to be able to shake it off.” As the words sunk in, Clark let out a sigh, feeling like he’d been holding his breath for days. “God. That’s… That’s great. Thank you.” “Yeah, you might not want to thank me just yet.” Toby cocked his head. “Bad news is, I can’t do shit for him. It’s not like there’s an antidote. You’ve just got to wait for the drugs to work their way out of his system. With the amount we’re dealing with, we’re talking three or four days at least. Maybe more.” Clark glanced at Lex. “But then he’ll be alright?” “I’m not sure you get my drift, Sparky. Our buddy here is going to be off his nut for another three or four days. As in, hallucinating, unstable, paranoid, and violent. And I’m sure as shit not babysitting for him.” Toby ran a hand through his greasy hair. “I’ve got a straightjacket I can let you have, and some sedatives, but that’s about all I can offer. If his father is after him the way you said, you’ll want to get him far away from here. Sooner than later, if you wouldn’t mind.” His tone of voice made it clear that he didn’t really care whether Clark minded. “Where are we supposed to go?” *** Day Two Lex: I wake up because the baby is screaming and screaming. I can’t tell where we are and my head is killing me but it doesn’t take long to find Julian so I calm him down by rocking and singing to him. Once he falls asleep again I look around. We’re in a bedroom I don’t recognize and out the window there’s nothing but a yard and a lake, and I don’t know what’s going on but I have to protect the baby. I hold Julian and try to get my thoughts together because so much has been happening and it’s hard to hang onto it all. But I remember the assassin and Morgan Edge’s new face and the sweatshop and my father and a gun and I remember Clark. With the car. I put Julian in his crib and try the door and it opens and I’ve never seen this house before but I find Clark in the kitchen. I have to get past him so I can rescue the baby from wherever we are and then I think I have to kill my father but Clark is saying that I slept a long time and we’re safe here and something about whose house this is. “Are you thirsty?” he asks and I tell him I am and he offers me something in a glass and then I know for sure that Clark is behind all of this. And I call him on it and he looks at me with those big lying eyes that I know better than to trust, and I ask what my father has on him and who else knows about him and he looks scared and he’s blocking my way to the front door. I tell him I’m leaving and he says I can’t and I say that’s kidnapping and he says it’s for my own good and when I try to force my way past him I can’t move him at all. So I stab him with the knife I snuck from the kitchen while he was pouring my drink but the knife breaks and Clark grabs my wrists and twists me around before I can get away and I’m yelling that he should just kill me already and get it over with but don’t hurt my brother and he’s holding me saying he’s not going to hurt me and I start kicking and I can’t reach him but I break a chair and I’m yelling so loud my throat hurts and Clark won’t let go, he just holds me with a vice grip until I’m losing my voice and then I hear Julian crying again and I beg Clark to let me go to him but Clark won’t let go and Julian keeps crying and I don’t even know what I can feed him if he’s hungry and I know Clark is going to kill both of us if I don’t kill him first and he won’t let me help the baby and then I’m crying too and Clark’s saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” but he really isn’t. Clark: Lex sobbed hoarsely in his arms, and Clark was beginning to think the straightjacket might have been a good idea. At the time it had seemed unspeakably cruel, to truss Lex up unnecessarily. But Clark couldn’t see how he was going to restrain him for another three days or more, and while Lex couldn’t hurt Clark, he could very plausibly hurt himself. Or, considering the chair he’d already trashed, the house they were using. He eased himself and Lex to the floor, until Lex lay limply in his lap, shuddering and weeping, spent from his struggle. Clark tried to rock him a little, heartsick at his friend’s suffering. It looked to be a long three days. Gradually Lex’s sobs diminished and his breathing steadied. Clark held as still as he could, figuring they should both conserve their energy. “Clark?” Lex’s voice a calm rasp. “Yeah, Lex?” “Where are we?” “Louisiana. Toby told me about this house. He knows the guy who owns it, or something.” Lex pulled himself up to a seated position and wiped at his swollen face. “Louisiana. You want to be a little more specific?” Clark watched him warily. “Napoleonville.” Lex stared, his mouth quirking ever so slightly. “You’re kidding.” With a small smile, Clark shook his head. “Where the hell is Napoleonville?” “South. Nowhere in particular. I needed a place where your father wouldn’t find you.” “My father.” Lex reached up to massage the back of his neck, his head at a weird angle. “My father killed his parents.” “I know. Listen, your father’s been drugging you. Do you understand? He paid Darius to put something in your scotch. That’s why you’ve been…” “Losing my mind?” Clark winced. “Yeah. But you haven’t lost your mind. You’re just hallucinating.” “Hallucinating.” Lex rubbed his neck some more, then got up and went into the kitchen. Clark followed. “That’s very convenient for you, isn’t it?” He rummaged through cupboards until he found a glass, and filled it with water from the tap. “It’s the truth, Lex. You have to believe me.” “I do believe you.” Lex took a long drink, then made a face and spit water into the basin. “God, this tastes like pond scum.” He eyed the glass suspiciously. “It’s just water.” Clark spoke with the same tones he’d use on a spooked horse. Lex rolled his eyes. “I know it’s water, Clark. I’m insane; I’m not an imbecile.” Despite himself, Clark laughed. “So I guess the hallucinations explain how you could throw off a speeding car like it was nothing, right? Or how we could be in Metropolis, then in California, then back in Metropolis again, all in about ten minutes?” He schooled his face into perfect blankness and waited for Clark’s response. It came as a whisper. “We were never in California.” Lex simply watched Clark for a beat, then took another sip of water. “Of course. And I can trust you, because you’d never lie to me, Clark, would you?” After a long pause, Clark said, “Toby said it should take a few days before you stop feeling the effects of the drugs. They were dosing you for a couple weeks at least. So you’ll, uh, feel more like yourself in a few days. We just have to wait.” “I feel quite a lot like myself right now, actually.” Lex looked Clark up and down. “Are you human, Clark?” “So it would really help if you tried to remember that you’re, well, tripping. That’s what Toby said to tell you. He said it’s like a bad trip.” “When exactly did I see Toby?” “You were unconscious. He tranquillized you.” “So now you’re saying Toby drugged me. That seems to be a popular sport these days.” “Lex, I swear to you, I would never let anyone hurt you.” Clark took a step closer to Lex, but Lex backed away. “Hurt me by, oh, say, shooting me with tranquillizers? Or holding me hostage? Or, I don’t know, playing gaslight with my mind until I don’t know what’s real anymore?” “Lex—” “Or surely you’d never let anyone hurt me by lying to me again and again, and keeping me from ever seeing the truth. Because of course you know how that would hurt me. Right?” “You need to calm down—” “You calm down, Clark! I don’t exactly feel like being calm right now!” Lex began rifling through kitchen drawers, muttering under his breath. “What are you doing?” “I just need to find something.” He went for the knife drawer but Clark stopped him, so instead he smashed his glass against Clark’s face. *** Day Three Lex: When I try to escape Clark is always at the door before I reach it and when I hit him with things he doesn’t even react. I’ve been waiting more than 24 hours for him to fall asleep and he hasn’t ever closed his eyes. He didn’t seem to feel any pain when I stabbed him even though his shirt has a hole in it now but he hid everything sharp after I tried to slash my own wrist when I realized I’d never get away from him. I was hiding in the bathroom at the time and I had water running and I’d said I was going to take a bath and he had let me close the door but I don’t know how much that mattered because one second I was by myself and holding a blade above my arm and the next second Clark was there and my hands were empty and what had once been scissors were a crushed metal ball. He looks at me like my friend the farmboy and he says he cares about me but I don’t know what he is and I don’t think he’s ever going to let me go. Which maybe means that whatever my father did worked and I’ve completely lost my mind, or possibly Clark works for my father (is owned by my father?) and keeping me prisoner is the new strategy. But Clark says he’s saved me from my father and part of me believes him. He says this is all a drug trip and maybe it is, and maybe in another few days I’ll understand how we got here without a car and why the only friend I’ve ever had is invulnerable and unstoppable, like some character too farfetched for even Warrior Angel. He won’t let me leave but when Julian cries he helps me sing him back to sleep. Clark: Lex sat on a stool at the breakfast counter, watching with undisguised fascination while Clark prepared their lunch. The attention made Clark uncomfortable, but then again, it did make it easier to keep an eye on the guy. Clark had hidden the can-opener down by the lake along with all the other sharp implements, so he ripped open a can of tomato sauce with his fingers and dumped the sauce in a pan, then crumpled the can into a ball, making sure all the ragged edges faced inward. He set the saucepan on the stove, next to a large pot of water. He’d shut off the gas feed to the house, just in case Lex tried to rig an explosion, so he used his heat vision to boil the water and simmer the sauce, alternating his gaze between the two. When he added pasta to the water, Lex asked, “Have you ever tried a crème brulée?” Clark glanced up rapidly, burning a streak across the countertop and almost setting Lex on fire before he remembered to shut his eyes. He hadn’t slept in way too long. “God, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” “It’s a custard dessert with a layer of caramelized sugar on top. They make it with a blowtorch, customarily.” Clark cracked one eye open, then both. The scorched formica gave off a nasty smell, but Lex still sat, unperturbed. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot, and deeply shadowed from sleeplessness, and his skin was a little sallow, but other than that he looked alright. “I don’t really cook much, at home,” Clark said. Lex glanced at the stove. “I guessed. Though I’m surprised your mother hasn’t tried to teach you.” “What makes you think she hasn’t tried?” “I think if she had tried, she would have succeeded.” Clark smiled. In fact there were a few dishes he knew how to make, but without knives or fresh produce – and it wasn’t like he could leave Lex and go shopping – his repertoire was limited. Thankfully, the house had been well stocked with canned goods. “She thinks I should be in an asylum,” Lex added. Turning his focus back to the stove, Clark said, “She was just worried about you.” “I don’t blame her. I’m worried about me too.” “I won’t let anything happen to you, Lex. I promise.” “Oh, I know. That’s my father’s department.” Clark didn’t answer, busy adding spices to the sauce and keeping the pasta boiling. “Tell me, when does he get here?” “Who?” “My father.” That got Clark’s attention. “Your-- Lex, your father isn’t coming here.” “I know you’re going to sell me to him. I imagine he’ll pay quite a bit.” “I would never do that. That’s—” “Insane?” Lex smiled, almost pleasantly. “Why bother lying about this? I thought you’d decided to let it all hang out, now that I’m a dead man anyway.” “You’re getting confused again. Remember the drugs.” “How could I forget? The drugs that make me hallucinate. Did my father engineer you, Clark? I had no idea his research had gotten so far.” “What? No!” “Or, wait, he put you on that bridge, didn’t he? When I hit you with my car? I should have seen it, I just never thought he’d have that kind of patience. But now it makes sense. He gives me a ‘friend’ who’ll get close to me, watch over me – are the Kents on his payroll too?” “Lex, stop it!” Clark came around the counter and grasped him by the shoulders. “This isn’t you. Think about what you’re saying.” “Oh, I’ve *been* thinking about it. I’ve had nothing else to do for two days. So I’m just asking, when is he getting here?” “He isn’t coming!” “Don’t fucking lie to me! Christ, I thought we were past this!” “I’m not! I haven’t lied to you since we’ve been here, Lex, I swear.” “You’ve never told me anything but lies. Since the day we met. You’ve been manipulating me this whole time!” “No! I hid things from you before, I admit it. But not anymore. Lex, please, concentrate, you’re losing it again—” “California.” Lex’s voice was almost a growl. “You lied about California.” “You—” Clark stopped short. “What?” “Yesterday. You said we never went to California. But we did. When you ran with me after the car. When you called Toby. The palm trees, the ocean? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? And now you fucking deny it!” “Lex…” Clark looked at him helplessly. “We were in Florida.” Lex blinked. And blinked again. And then his face fell. “Fuck, Clark…” His lower lip quivered; his shoulders started to shake. “Shh…” Clark gathered Lex to his chest, holding onto him as he fell apart. “Hey. Shh. It’s okay.” “It’s not fucking okay!” Lex sobbed, clutching at Clark’s back. “Jesus, I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m sorry, Clark. God, I’m so sorry.” “It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.” Clark closed his eyes as he hugged his friend, who shook and keened, murmuring apologies. *** Day Four Lex: To be insane is a nightmare that doesn’t end. To be only partially insane is much worse. You have enough command of your faculties to recognize when you’re spouting nonsense, but you still can’t stop yourself. Your brain shorts out from time to time, and when it comes back online you find yourself acting like a fool. When you’re completely insane, everything unfolds with the horrific logic of a dream, and it all matters enormously but at the same time you’re removed from it. As you regain your wits that removal disappears, and you start to understand the damage you’ve done. It’s enough to drive a person crazy. Clark fixes my meals and cleans up my messes and proves beyond doubt that he isn’t human, because no human being would be this good to me. I’ve done everything I could to hurt him during the last few days, and he forgives me every time. Remorse is a permanent lump in my throat. He massages my neck, loosening muscles that have been agonizingly clenched for longer than I can remember, and it feels so good I weep. I can feel a thousand knots letting go inside myself. It’s more terrifying than madness, than guns. If Clark were anyone else I would hate him forever for seeing me this vulnerable; instead I am lastingly grateful that he can’t be killed. Last night he found a bag of marshmallows in the back of a cupboard, and he roasted them for me with his eyes. He has finally stopped hiding from me and I want to tell him that I’m a danger to him, that he was right not to trust me with these secrets of his, but the words won’t come out. All I can do to repay him is swallow the questions I want to ask, like I swallow everything else: his kindness, my attraction. We spooned on the bed last night, Clark wrapped around me, saying we both needed the rest and he needed to be sure I wouldn’t leave. He wasn’t wrong but I wanted the contact even more than I wanted the sleep. Exhaustion claimed me, though, and I drifted off feeling safe for the first time in ages. When I woke up Clark was still curled against my back and my pillow was wet. Clark: The sound of a door opening jerked Clark out of a deep sleep, and he rolled over to see Lex emerging from the bathroom, trying to smooth a shirt that was rumpled from several days’ wear. “When did you… I didn’t hear…” Clark scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned. “What time is it?” “Eleven. I’ve been awake for a few hours. But I only got up a short while ago.” Clark swung his feet to the floor and sat, blinking himself into alertness. Lex smelled of soap, and his skin was rosy and damp. “Did you take a shower? Jeez, it must have been freezing.” With no gas to fire the hot water heater, it had been reduced to a storage tank. “You should have shoved me or something, I could have warmed it up for you.” Lex shrugged. “You needed the sleep. Anyway, the cold water was…refreshing.” He headed for the kitchen so Clark padded along behind him. They ate breakfast in silence. Lex studied his plate while Clark tried to be subtle about studying Lex. It was clear that he was doing significantly better – his violent outbursts had gotten rarer and rarer, and his eyes had lost that panicky, confused look – but over the last twenty-four hours he’d grown subdued, and emotionally fragile in a way that hurt to see. Clark had the feeling that dark things were still going on in Lex’s mind, and he had regained enough control to keep them from getting out but that didn’t necessarily mean he felt okay. His pulse still stuttered and jumped for no apparent reasons, and when they had lain down together the night before Clark had pressed against him, wishing he could protect Lex even from his nightmares. Maybe it was the fatigue, or the relief of finally letting Lex see what he could do, but he found himself feeling more and more possessive, and he’d had to restrain himself from nuzzling Lex’s scalp. “I’m not going to attack you, you know.” Lex didn’t sound angry, only weary. “You really don’t have to monitor me like that. Though I can understand why you might think otherwise.” “No, I know. I wasn’t…” Clark hoped he wasn’t blushing. Lex’s gaze returned to the crumbs on his plate. His whole manner radiated defeat. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, Clark. I’m a recovering psychotic with a sociopath for a father. Everything’s peachy.” His voice was entirely flat. “You’re not psychotic, and I meant besides that. What’s bothering you?” Lex shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled. “Bad dreams.” Clark watched him to see if he’d say any more, but he didn’t, so eventually Clark gathered up their plates and took them to the sink. After he’d washed up, he went back and sat beside Lex, who hadn’t moved. He waited. “Clark? Did I hurt Lana?” Clark wasn’t sure how best to answer the question, and while he groped for words, Lex’s eyes widened. “Oh, god. What did I do?” “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t yourself, Lex.” “What did I do? Please, you have to tell me. Is she dead?” “No, no. She’ll be okay. I think. Her leg was broken in a few places, and she has some broken ribs, and a pretty bad concussion—” Lex blanched. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “What the fuck did I do to her, Clark?” Suddenly Clark understood. “Oh! No, it wasn’t you – you pushed her into a horse’s stall. She got…well, trampled. A little bit.” He winced as he spoke. Lex just stared at him. “It wasn’t your fault, Lex. And she’s going to be okay.” “You think.” “Yeah.” Clark had left Lana in the hospital, hot on Lex’s trail. He really wasn’t sure what was happening in Smallville now. It had all seemed less important than keeping Lex safe. “I have these bits and pieces of memories. I’m trying to put it all together but…” Clark laid a reassuring hand on Lex’s shoulder. “I know. It must be hard.” “No. You don’t know.” Lex’s expression was bleak. “I can’t tell how much is real. And the thing I’m afraid of is that. That it all is. Clark, I think I hurt… There was a truckdriver. I think I may have killed him.” “A truckdriver?” Clark frowned. “I don’t know about any—” “It’s how I got to Metropolis. We can’t all run as fast as you can.” Clark sat back heavily in his chair. “Oh.” “I’m not sure, though. Maybe I just knocked him out and carjacked him. I can’t remember. I don’t even know if I want to remember.” Confronted with the possibility of additional crimes Lex may have committed, Clark had no idea what to do about it. He tried to think how his dad would handle the situation, but that was really no help. Instead he channeled his mom; he took Lex’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay. I promise it is.” “You can’t know that. Clark, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You have no idea how much. But if my father wants to hurt me, he won’t give up. And whatever I’ve done, I need to pay for it.” He flinched. “Make up for it. Somehow. Jesus, I ought to be locked away.” “No.” “I should. Where I can’t hurt anyone.” Lex gripped Clark’s hand and looked at him gravely. “Where I can’t hurt you.” “You can’t. Literally.” Clark leaned towards him. “Haven’t you learned anything these last few days?” Lex attempted a smile, but it wobbled. He raised his free hand and traced the side of Clark’s cheek. “I don’t want to. I hope you know that.” On instinct, Clark closed his eyes and turned so his face rested more securely in Lex’s palm. “I know,” he said. For a minor lifetime there was no sound but the two of them breathing, no sensation but the feel of fingers in his and the tingling warmth of Lex’s hand against his face. “Clark,” Lex murmured. Clark opened his eyes to see him looking desperate and absolutely lost. His stomach sank as though he’d swallowed a brick, and he jerked away. God, he’d been poised to take advantage of his best friend at a time when he was at his most defenseless; Clark didn’t think he’d ever be able to look in a mirror again. He made himself sick. “I’m sorry—” “No, it’s me—” They both got up from the table hurriedly and backed away, avoiding each other’s gaze. *** Later Lex: Clark keeps himself busy all day repairing things around the house that I’ve broken, and the message comes through loud and clear: I’m the lunatic and he’s the dutiful caretaker. I can understand why I might have read more into his intentions, why I wanted to. I’m weak right now and he’s strong; I’ve been wrong in the head, and Clark does nothing but make things right. He’s nursed me back to health and I’m not the first to mistake that for love. But the way he recoiled from my advance this morning had an eloquence that all his kind words could never mask. Of course he didn’t complain; we’ll add this to the long list of sins for which he forgives me. And I’ll know my place from now on. I stay out of his way and work instead on formulating plans. People I’ll need to contact, measures I’ll need to take before I can go home. Seeing to Clark’s safety comes very high on this list. Possibly first. It won’t have escaped my father’s attention that Clark disappeared at the same time I did; no doubt he’s been looking for us both. I need to come up with a cover story for how Clark was able to drop off the radar, and I need to clear it with the Kents and get Clark home before anyone digs up proof that he’s been with me. Assuming they haven’t already. I also have to develop some strategies to contain and protect Clark’s secrets, as well as contingency plans in case they ever get out. I owe him my life several times over by now, and while I know he can handle himself, I wouldn’t be able to call myself his friend if I ever let anything happen to him. Late in the afternoon he comes to see me, and he’s nervous. He steps into a patch of sunlight and twists his hands in his shirt-tails, and for an instant he’s the bashful high school student I first knew, the mystery I’ll never solve and never get tired of. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. “How are you feeling?” he asks. “Better. Thank you.” He nods. “That’s good.” I was right; Clark is too tactful to mention a single untoward thing I’ve done. “Listen,” he continues, “do you want to go outside? I mean, it’s a beautiful day, and there’s this lake out there that we’ve barely even seen…” Outside. I suppress a tremor of fear at the thought. “Are you sure that’s safe?” “I’m pretty confident you’re not about to drown yourself, if that’s what you’re asking.” If I didn’t know him well, I wouldn’t be sure that he’s joking. But I can hear it in the dip of his voice. “And anyway, I know CPR.” “That’s very reassuring.” “Come on,” he urges me. “Don’t tell me you’re not itching to get out of here.” I never want to leave. But Clark extends a hand to me and I take it, and he draws me after him out into the light. Clark: They walked a long expanse of overgrown lawn and stopped at the edge of the lake. The afternoon was warm and calm, the water’s surface glassy, with a family of ducks paddling quietly by as if demonstrating how to be. Lex stared at them for a long time. “You were right,” he said. “It’s good to be outside.” He sat, pulling off his shoes and socks and sinking his toes into the grass. Clark did the same. “I was kind of raised to believe that fresh air makes everything better. It goes with the whole farm thing.” Lex watched the lake. “I don’t know how to thank you, Clark. For everything. This week has to have been hell for you.” “I’m glad I could help. Though I might not say no to a truck this time.” “A truck wouldn’t begin to cover it.” He looked over at Clark, far too solemn. “Do your parents have any idea where you are?” Clark had barely thought about his family in days. “There wasn’t really time to tell them. I had to get you somewhere safe.” “They must be worried.” “I’ll explain it to them when I see them. It’ll be okay.” “I think you should call them from Metropolis,” Lex said gently. “Are we going back to Metropolis?” “I’m not. Not for a while, at least. But you should. It’s where you went the last time you ran away, and if anybody’s monitoring your parents’ phone calls I want them to think you just ran away again. I don’t want my father knowing you’ve been helping me.” Clark frowned. “Where are you going to be?” “I don’t know yet. There’s a lot I’ll need to do before I let my father know I’m still alive. We’re fighting a war, and I’d hate to see you caught in the middle of it. You should go home. Get back to your life.” “What if I don’t want to leave you? You shouldn’t be alone.” “It’s too dangerous for you to stay with me.” Lex’s eyes shone, reflecting the sky. “You’ve done enough. Your family needs you. Lana needs you.” Yeah, but I need *you*, Clark wanted to say. Instead he said, “But I could help you. I want to.” His words only seemed to make Lex sadder. “After all the things I’ve done…” “It wasn’t your fault. And we can fix it. Nothing’s happened that can’t be undone.” “There are any number of things about the last week that can’t be undone.” He looked pointedly at Clark until his implications sank in. Clark felt blood draining from his face. “Oh.” “I’ll never tell anyone. What you can do. I swear.” “I…” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I never told you before.” “You had every reason not to. I’d have lied too, if it had been me.” “Yeah, but I wanted to. So many times. You… You did hit me with your car, on the bridge.” “I kind of figured. It’s alright, Clark.” “There’s more.” “There’d have to be.” In all the times Clark had imagined having this conversation, he’d never pictured it like this. Among other things, he’d expected Lex to show some curiosity. The fact that he wasn’t perversely made Clark want to volunteer more. “I can read the caves. The language on the walls. I know what all the legends mean.” “Clark—” “And I’m allergic to meteor rocks. The green ones. They make me sick.” “You don’t have to—” “I’m not from this planet, Lex. I’m an alien. You’ve been right all along.” “I’m in love with you.” All further thought got wiped right out of Clark’s head. “You…” He blinked rapidly. “What?” One corner of Lex’s mouth smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything about it. But if you’re going to tell me all your secrets like that, it seems only fair to tell you one of my own.” “Lex. You. You love me?” “You shouldn’t trust a raving lunatic with sensitive information like this, Clark. I don’t know how much more my brain can take. Seriously.” “And you won’t— Why not?” “Why not what?” “Why not do anything?” Lex gave a wry smile. “You’re my friend. That’s enough. I’m not that crazmmmph” and he got cut off by an eager, wet kiss. Which deepened and lasted until they were both panting for breath. By the time Clark pulled away, Lex had his hands threaded through his hair, and he was staring at him in shock. “Tell me I’m hallucinating again.” The grin spread over Clark’s face as he tried to smoothe the wrinkles from Lex’s brow. “You’re completely crazy.” “No shit.” “Can I kiss you some more?” “God, please. Yes.” They came together again, and this time Lex took the lead, kissing Clark with passionate fervor and climbing onto his lap. Clark wrapped his arms around him, holding him close while Lex sucked on his tongue and ground against him so that he felt Lex’s erection pressing against his belly, and his own answering hardness straining his jeans. He moaned as Lex nibbled at his jawline, sucked on an earlobe, scrabbled at the buttons on his shirt with a frenzy that seemed just a little too desperate. Reluctantly, Clark pulled himself back until he could see the feverish glaze in Lex’s eyes. “Whoa. Slow down. Are you okay?” “Fuck me, Clark. Now. Too many goddamn buttons…” “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you, just calm down a little. What’s going on?” Lex choked on a laugh. “This isn’t real and oh god please fuck me before I snap out of it. Please.” He succeeded in getting Clark’s shirt undone and pushed it back from his shoulders, hungrily latching his mouth onto an exposed nipple. He bit and Clark’s eyes rolled back in his head, but even so he pried Lex away from his chest as gently as he could. “Wait. Look at me.” He gazed into Lex’s eyes with intent focus. Lex’s breath shuddered as he gazed back. “This is real. Trust me.” “I do trust you.” He seemed astounded by his own sincerity. “It’s just that I’ve wanted this for so long, I can’t believe I’m actually getting it.” “I wouldn’t lie to you.” Clark smiled softly and leaned in, placing tender kisses on Lex’s eyelids. Slowly, carefully, he unbuttoned Lex’s shirt and peeled it off him, then pulled off his own. And he lay Lex down on the grass, running his hands all over his trembling body. Caressing his chest, his belly, his legs, with soothing strokes that made Lex whimper with pleasure. He drew Lex’s arms up above his head and kissed him, then slid down to lick and nip at his sides, where his ribs were too plainly visible. He hadn’t even realized how thin Lex had grown in the last few weeks. But this wasn’t the time to concentrate on that; instead he dipped his tongue into Lex’s bellybutton, and Lex’s hips strained upward while his slender fingers grabbed at Clark’s hair. “Please, Clark.” Lex pulled him up for more kisses, stretching him out on top of him so that their whole lengths pressed together. He grabbed Clark’s ass and pulled him down, grinding their cocks together, and they both groaned. Clark dipped his head to suck on Lex’s neck while Lex slid his hands beneath the waistband of Clark’s jeans. Even shirtless, belly to belly with their arms wrapped around each other, legs intertwined, they still wore too many clothes and Clark really had to do something about that. He kissed his way down Lex’s chest, stopping to tease a nipple with his teeth while his fingers undid Lex’s pants. And then he continued his downward progress, nuzzling Lex’s groin briefly while he stripped him of his pants and boxer-briefs. Lex’s cock lay stiff upon his belly, as smooth and hairless as the rest of him, and he raised himself up on his elbows to stare at Clark, his blue eyes laser-bright. He was wanton and hard and beautiful, but Clark spared only a moment to admire the sight before he shucked his own pants and boxers, then skimmed up Lex’s body as if diving into a shallow pool. He licked a wet stripe up Lex’s cock and on up the center of his torso until they lay flush together, cock against cock, and he claimed Lex’s mouth in another devouring kiss. Lex hooked a leg around the back of Clark’s thigh and thrust up against him, breaking away from their kiss to lick his own palm, then reaching down between them to take them both in his spit-slicked hand. “God, Lex…” Clark was conscious of wanting not to hurt his friend as he pressed him into the ground, but Lex’s grunts and the feel of him, the friction of Lex’s cock sliding against his own, were making him lose control. He couldn’t stop but didn’t trust himself; the best he could do was to take his hands off Lex and drive them into the earth beside his head, squeezing handfuls of dirt as he pumped again and again into Lex’s fist, the pressure rapidly building. He buried his face in Lex’s neck, and Lex’s gasps came faster and harder and he made a noise in the back of his throat that almost pushed Clark over the edge. “Clark – look at me,” Lex begged from between gritted teeth; “I need to see you.” So he raised his head once more, and the look of ardent concentration on Lex’s face was all it took. He felt it like an explosion deep inside himself; the orgasm rocked through him as he spilled all over Lex’s belly. “I love you too,” he whispered as the shockwaves receded, and Lex came with a strangled shout that may have been Clark’s name. Clark rolled off him, sticky and drained and goofy-happy, grinning up at the sky, but as he regained his breath he realized that the sounds he was hearing from Lex weren’t just gasps and panting; Lex was crying. And laughing. And quaking violently. “Lex? Are you alright? Oh god, did I hurt you?” “No, Clark. I…” Lex trailed off into another round of hysterics, and Clark began to worry that sex had been a very, very bad idea. “Okay, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?” He could barely speak between giggles and sobs. “I’m, uh, just a little broken. I’ll get it together. You’ve got to – hoo! – give me a minute.” He pressed his hands against his face and calmed down marginally. “Whew. Sorry, Clark. I’ve. Hah! Been a little tense.” “Did I do something wrong?” “Not at all.” Lex took his hands away and his voice was dead serious. “God, Clark. You’re perfect.” He snorted out another laugh. “Though I did just commit another felony. Sex with a minor.” He giggled helplessly for a minute. “I really am criminally insane.” Clark watched him with cautious amusement. “Yeah, you’re a real criminal mastermind.” That only cracked Lex up even more. “You can be – hee! – my minion. I’ve always wanted one.” “Are you always like this after sex?” “Never.” And with effort, he got himself under control. Fixing Clark with an earnest gaze, his lips twitching, he asked, “Will you be my sidekick, Clark?” “I thought only superheroes had sidekicks. The villains get henchmen or something.” “You’re right. And you are better suited to the hero role anyway. Considering your abilities, and everything.” He pressed his lips together but couldn’t suppress another attack of the giggles. “You’re super!” “Don’t say it,” Clark warned. “Thanks for asking!” Lex rolled on the ground, laughing so hard he had to clutch his belly. Clark rolled his eyes and just waited. Eventually Lex’s hysterics petered out and he lay on his side, gradually settling down. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, with a deep sigh. “I’m usually much more dignified than this. After sex.” “Feeling better?” Lex sat up and smiled at him. He looked tired but it was a real smile, a Lex smile. “Yeah. Thank you.” “I meant what I said, Lex. I love you. And I’m not going home without you.” “Clark, you have to know how dangerous this could get. I don’t want you to lose any more of your life than you’ve already risked for me.” “You are my life.” Clark hadn’t realized the truth of this until he said the words. “And I want to help you get back everything that’s been taken from you.” Lex raised a hand to stroke Clark’s cheek. “I know I should fight you on this. But I honestly don’t have the energy right now.” He kissed him again, and it was different this time: slower and steadier and sure. Clark cupped the back of Lex’s neck and they rested their foreheads against each other. “Please at least run to Metropolis and call your parents,” Lex murmured. “Don’t tell them you’re with me. Just let them know that you’re alright.” “Fine. But I’m coming right back.” “It’s not safe for you. Being with me.” “But it’s my choice.” Lex didn’t argue. Clark got dressed and looked down at him where he still sat naked on the grass. “Will you be okay? I’ll be back soon.” He nodded. “I’ll be right here.” Clark smiled, and with a whoosh and a breeze he was gone.

~*~ You are drunk and you are surly In Latino lover mode We all know what's on your agenda We've broken the code Oh I've got no right to lay claim to her frame She's not my possession You c*nt. Get your hands off my woman motherfucker . --- Looking back, I'm not entirely sure who was to blame. Cobb, perhaps, for insisting we woo our new client with any means necessary? Eames, for suggesting the club and plying the man with drinks? Or even me, for not being as restrained as I might otherwise have been under any other circumstances? Of one thing I am certain though: There's now one asshole will think twice the next time he decides that he's God's Gift to Women. --- Things started pretty much as any new client meeting tended to. As in quiet dinner in the kind of restaurant where the menus don't print prices next to the dishes and if you have to ask you obviously can't afford it; a little chat about how what was required, what we could do, how we could do it, all the various and sundry minutiae that went into winning over the prospective customer. Eames, Ariadne and I had all sat in a neat little row drinking mineral water, eating arugula and angel hair pasta and talking nineteen to the dozen. Perhaps then was when I should have noticed that our latest catch was paying far too much attention to my architect, regardless of the fact she was flanked by two serious and dangerous (even if I do say so myself) men or that on her left hand was a tastefully chosen and very visible diamond engagement ring. The guy was one of those new media, information tech types who wore glasses he didn't need (I knew he'd had laser vision correction years before), snorted when he laughed and probably sucked at gym class in school because he spent all day sitting on his ass in front of his Apple Mac wearing a pocket protector while getting an indoor tan. Now, of course, he was personally trained into sleek muscularity, had a two hundred dollar hair cut and his sweater vests came courtesy of Paul Smith rather than Casual Corner. His name, although I would rather rinse my brain out with bleach than recall it, was Justin Folds. Or, as he preferred, "Justin Folds, re-inventor of social networking and the digital medium." Perhaps I would have liked him better had he not repeated this little spiel after shaking hands with each one of us. Or if in Ariadne's case he hadn't taken her hand and planted a wet kiss on the back of it. Eames had caught my eye right as Folds was smacking his lips on her skin, and I knew from his reaction that my face must have been a shock, even for the laid back forger to see; "Eyes like paper cuts, a mouth so sour it could curdle milk and eyebrows knotted like shoelaces, Eames had remarked later, I thought you were going to knock his block off then and there." But to give him credit, he had kept any smart remarks to himself and interposed his own hand over Fold's friendly gesture, smiling like a Cheshire cat and saying "What, no kiss for me?" While Ariadne made a moue of disgust and wiped her hand discreetly on a tissue. She took my hand under the table as we sat down and placed it firmly on her knee, doubtless trying to reassure me that she had no interest in him whatsoever or his feeble attempts at flirting. And they were feeble. He even tried a few pick up lines, for fuck's sake. That old hackneyed one about her father being a thief, which no matter how you do it always makes you sound like a dick ("Hey, was your father a thief?" "What the fuck, asshole? That's my father you're talking about!") To give Ariadne all credit, she simply laughed it off politely as if he was making the funniest joke since humour was invented by that road crossing chicken but it made me grab her leg so hard I swear I would have left a bruise if I'd have held on any longer. She changed the subject, kept him on track for a few minutes, then he tried some godawful schtick about how her legs must be tired because she'd certainly been running through his dreams all night, making her snap sharply that it was unlikely since we'd only just met. Which deterred him for a little longer, but didn't manage to quell him entirely because lord help me, when he was two thirds of the way down the bottle of the very expensive Mouton Rothschild he'd ordered, he licked his finger, touched her sleeve and snorted "Let's get you out of those wet things, eh?" Luckily his own hilarity at the joke covered up the fact we were all sitting facing him like a line of statues with almost identical expressions of disbelief, horror and, in my case, anger. Ariadne instantly jerked her arms off the table as if it was on fire, tremors of suppressed tension coming off her in waves. I was busy wondering if stabbing him with my butter knife would count as assault with a deadly weapon and having to physically work to unclench my jaw from the rictus it locked itself into. Even Eames, a man who can tell jokes so blue they should carry a parental advisory sticker, was looking at him like he'd just stripped naked, jumped on the table, started waving his cock about like a finger puppet while making it talk in a silly voice and singing I've Got A Little Something For You. We had reached the dessert course (sorbet for us, some tarte or other for him) and I was looking forward to getting the hell away from him and his roving eyes, crappy jokes and appalling social graces when, like a child discovering holding his breath will make his parents do whatever he wants, Folds announced in the loudest voice possible he wanted to "go somewhere with a bit more life for a nightcap." Never mind he was in one of the best restaurants in Paris, drinking fine wine out of Baccarat crystal stem ware and spilling his three star Michelin food over a damask table cloth, oh no. I was all for throwing my napkin on the table, taking Ariadne's hand and just walking out when Cobb's last instructions came back to me: "Woo him however you need to." Not that work had been thin on the ground for us recently, but a well paying client meant more time out of usual semi legal environment and would see us all clear to take a vacation, something we were desperately in need of after an almost non stop year of mind crime. So I could see his point, even though at the time I thought it meant just tolerating some braying ass for a little while longer. So I turned to Eames, the professional sheen on my stuck on grin trying not to crack, and asked if he knew anywhere. And by anywhere, I meant somewhere close to our apartments and relatively discreet since with the amount of alcohol slopping around Folds' system he was likely to yell something revealing at precisely the wrong moment and I had no desire for the good people of Paris to decide it was time to call the gendarmes on us. Eames made a face. I realised he must have been hoping I'd put my foot down since I knew he was meeting Ellie later. But he rallied, beamed like Folds was his newest, bestest pal in the whole wide world and suggested a little place that he would just love. ~*~ Octoped, you've got six hands too many, And you can't keep them to yourself You're too fat and too old to marry So they left you on the shelf Oh I've got no right to lay claim to her frame But you soiled my obsession You c*nt. Get your hands off my woman motherfucker --- Eames must have used our taxi ride to the basement bar to send Ellie a message, since when we arrived she was waiting at a corner table in the dimly lit room with five chairs neatly arranged around it and a bottle of whisky set dead in the centre next to a bucket of ice and five glasses. It took both Eames and I to get Folds across the floor without staggering and to drop him into a chair alongside Ellie, who favoured him with a charming smile as he struggled to focus on her face. "Ah, another beautiful woman!" He grabbed her hand and repeated his lip smacking routine on her, while next to me Eames bristled like a porcupine. "I want to be the thorn between two roses!" He turned, grabbed Ariadne by the wrist and pulled her into the chair next to him so hard she didn't so much sit as fall. "You know you've arrived, don't you, when you're the man surrounded by beauties like these, hey guys?" He threw an arm around the backs of Ariadne's and Ellie's chairs while giving us a huge shit eating grin. I was on the verge of reminding him, rather forcefully, that neither woman was there because he was charming, intelligent or even particularly talented when Eames pulled out my chair, inching it deliberately close to Ariadne's, and pushed me into it with a firm hand. As soon as I was seated I slipped one discreet hand around her hip, she leant into me almost reflexively and I could feel the tight lines of her back and shoulders. Folds' was making eyes at Ellie's cleavage, so I took advantage of his distraction to press a cautious kiss on Ariadne's temple, hoping to smooth out the faintly pained look she now had marring her face. She closed her eyes briefly and let out a long, quiet sigh when my lips met her skin, making me realise that for as much as I wanted this night over she probably wanted it twice as much. Eames nodded to Ellie, who by now looked like she wanted to dump the contents of ice bucket in Folds' lap then crown him with the empty vessel. But showing remarkable restraint, instead she reached out and started to pour him a generous shot of whiskey. Eames took advantage of him fixating on his drink to unpeel his arms from the women's chairs and prop him on the table instead, with a sharply jocular "You'll need one hand to drink with, old man." But I noticed that when he took his seat he was practically in Ellie's lap and slung a territorial arm around her shoulders for good measure. "A toast!" Folds practically yodelled when he had his glass. "To youth, beauty, " he leered at Ariadne and Ellie who recoiled, "and making a lot of money!" This was directed at Eames and I, making Eames' mouth twist slightly in repulsion and setting my own face in stone. I can clearly remember asking myself at this point, as we all half lifted our glasses and mumbled a response, if he could possibly get any worse, and deciding no, he would be face down in a puddle of alcohol before that happened. --- My mistake, if I can be said to have made one, was to go to the bathroom. On the face of it it seemed like a good moment; Folds was dancing, or rather staggering in time to, the music of the small house band while Eames and Ellie swayed neatly around the floor together, keeping an eye on him. He had taken a fancy to a rather neat looking blonde who didn't seem to mind his crude ways or the smell of drink, and she was holding his hand as he gravitated around the jive, the bunny hop and the waltz. Ariadne was still leaning against me, her body softer and her face lacking it's previous bitter twist. "God, what a knob." She fired each word out with relish, resting her head back on my shoulder. "Picking up slang from Eames now?" "It fits him, don't you think? He's the knobbiest knob in Knobville." She smiled into her whiskey and melted ice. "King Knob the First of Knobania. Captain Knob of the first battalion..." "I get the idea." We watched as he tried to twirl his lady friend and all but sent her into a table, making us both wince. "But I have to agree." "How long before we can leave, do you think?" She put her glass down heavily. "I'm tired, sick of being drooled on and I've heard enough bad lines to last me the rest of my life. I think Eames can handle him from here, don't you?" She turned her head to fix me with one of her intense, dark looks. One of the ones that pretty much always, no matter what the circumstances, make me putty in her hands. I risked another glance at Folds, who seemed far too busy dancing to notice us. Eames caught my eye and tipped me a careful nod over Ellie's shoulder, that hopefully being his private code for I've got this one, Arthur. "Yes, I think he's more than up to it. I'll just use the men's room then we'll go, OK?" She smiled gratefully and kissed me gently. "OK." --- I will swear to this day that I was only gone for two minutes at most. One hundred and twenty seconds, give or take a couple, out of sight of Ariadne, Folds, Eames and Ellie. But apparently this was more than enough time for the situation to go from 'fine' to 'shit storm'. --- The first thing I saw was that Folds was back at our table, his blonde dancing partner abandoned on the sidelines of the floor like a discarded toy. He had his back to me, but Ariadne was at such an angle that I could tell that he had one hand tight in his, the other on her ribs and his face far too close to hers. She was evidently resisting him, her free hand square on his chest to push him away while she was plainly repeating the word No; but he was simply ignoring her and pressing in closer, closer, until he made the biggest mistake of our short acquaintance. He put his tongue out and licked her face. He licked Ariadne's face. 'My architect! My fiancée! My goddamn woman!' My brain screeched as red mist descended like a storm cloud. He had dared to put his hands on her then to wipe his filthy mouth over her skin. My blood boiled, every muscle in my body tightened in fury and I swear I would have shot him from where I was standing had I not wanted the satisfaction of seeing the look on his face when I beat his sorry ass into the floor first. I was across the floor so fast the room span around me. I heard Ellie gasp Eames' name, noticed him turn in slow motion then start, horror writ large on his face as he grabbed her in one hand, doubtless trying beat me to the table. But there was no way in hell I was going to allow that. Folds' voice was clear as I rushed up behind him, my right hand closing on my gun. "Aww, baby. Don't you like me? If I work with you you're going to have to be nicer to me than this." That was it. I was going to destroy him, Cobb be damned. Ariadne's head tilted up, away from him and in doing so she saw me. At first her face showed a mixture of relief, fury and utter disgust, but then her mouth and eyes widened into three Os as she absorbed my outraged expression, her arm shook as she forced Folds back, cannoning him into me as I reached out to grab the little shit. My left hand clamped down on the nerve bundle at the base of his neck so hard my knuckles turned white, ignoring his sudden yelp and wriggle of pain. The barrel of my gun slammed into the back of his head like a punch, knocking what breath he had out in a rush. I leant over him, his squirming lessening by the minute as I squeezed tighter, every fibre in me just waiting for a single word command ("Fire!", "Kill!", "Break!"). I have no idea where it came from, but I spat my next sentence into his ear, ladling every syllable with the promise of a slow, painful demise: "In the immortal words of The Darkness: Get Your Hands Off My Woman, Mother Fucker." He froze, his hands still on her wrist and abdomen. The room was deathly quiet all of a sudden. Even the band had stopped playing. You could have heard a pin drop except for the faint whimpers of Folds as he wilted in his seat. "Did you not hear me? Let Go Of My Fiancée. Now." I jabbed my gun against him as reinforcement. "OK, OK man. We were just having a little fun, that's all, that's all, I swear." He babbled stupidly. Fire raged in my brain; a little fun, was it? To go around grabbing at unwilling women who were saying no with every single word and gesture? I was going to administer the world's first Glock assisted castration, no question about it. "Let Her Go." I clamped down so hard he slid off his chair and onto his knees by Ariadne's feet, his face going pale green, his eyes bulging and rolling in his head but his hands finally leaving her. Ariadne pushed her chair back in a screech of protesting furniture and was immediately on her feet, her hands scrubbing at her face and body before her eyes settled on the kneeling boy quaking in front of her. "You fucking piece of shit!" She yelled, her face white with anger. "How fucking dare you?" She put her left hand out, knuckles first and for one terrible second I thought she was going to punch him in the face. "Do you see this?" She shoved her ring in his face. "Do you see this, shit for brains?" He nodded weakly. "Answer me!" Her voice was hoarse with fury. "Yes." He managed after I prodded him sharply with my gun. "Do you know what it means? Do you know why I've got a fucking ring on this fucking finger of this fucking hand?" He trembled in my rage frozen grip but didn't interrupt. "It means that only one person on the face of this fucking Earth is allowed to touch me like you tried to, and even he would never do so without asking my fucking permission first." Folds mouth moved silently as she carried on, perhaps praying for deliverance or some avenging angel to come and whisk him away. Not on my watch they aren't, buddy. "And do you know why it's him and only him, you jumped up, egocentric, misogynist prick? Do you even have a clue?" His head shook and he mumbled something like oh god, please... " It has nothing to do with how much money he has, how strong he is or how fucking fantastic he is in bed..." In the background I heard Eames mutter "Arthur's good in bed? Oh please, don't let her go into details on that. My imagination can't take it." Then the faint omph as Ellie smacked his arm. "...it has every fucking thing to do with the fact that he has never, ever treated me as anything less than a intelligent, capable human fucking being, not some kind of tits and ass doll for him to paw at whenever the mood takes him. Do you understand that, you repellent little scum bag? You bottom feeding, shit eating, stinking parasite? How dare you do that to me! How fucking dare you!" Her eyes were wild and her teeth bared in a snarl. "Apologise." I ordered, shaking him for emphasis. "I'm sorry." He quavered faintly, looking up at Ariadne's enraged face. "Properly." I hissed, my own anger still razor sharp. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to touch you like that. Please, forgive me. I'm so sorry, so very, very sorry. Don't kill me. I should have been more respectful of you, I know that. Oh please, I won't ever do it again, I swear. Don't hurt me, please, don't let him hurt me." His voice wailed and sobbed as the unmistakable smell of urine rose from him. "Jesus," Eames sounded disgusted, "he's wet himself, for goodness sake." Ariadne's eyes met mine over Folds weeping, shaking form. She looked drained, her anger banked to a flicker in her eyes and her arms wrapped around herself in a hug. I raised both my eyebrows at her and she nodded once. She was done with him, and so was I. "Eames," I said tightly, "We're all leaving. Make sure no one saw anything before we go, is that clear?" He glanced around the room, and I saw the patron nod from behind the bar at Eames' gesture, the meaning plain; a few hundred Euro should see us clear, no question. "Perfectly." He replied smartly as he reached for his wallet. I slid my gun away, then with a last, disgusted shove threw Folds to the floor where he landed in a blubbering heap. "Never try anything like that again, do you hear me?" He made a soft noise of assent. "She's spared you worse. I would have left you for dead. Be grateful I listen to the woman I love." He mumbled thanks and groped towards Ariadne's feet, making her step away sharply and me kick his legs none too gently to stop him. "Don't try and contact us. We have no interest in you, your business or your money." I sneered, then stepped over him and wrapped my arm around Ariadne so she was tight to my side. "Let's go." I said to her quietly, turning our backs on the human waste on the floor behind me. "Eames, are we good?" I raised my voice, bringing him bustling up from the bar with a shark toothed grin and ferociously amused blue eyes. "Perfect, Arthur. All done and dusted. Ellie, my sweet?" He smiled charmingly as he wrapped his jacket around her bare shoulders and chivalrously offered her his arm. "Shall we?" In a tight knot of four we swept up the stairs and into the quiet Parisian night. --- Ellie hugged Ariadne goodbye outside our building. I heard her whisper softly, asking if Ariadne was OK, rubbing her back while Eames and I shuffled our feet, hands jammed into our pockets. She let go eventually, kissing both Ariadne's cheeks and saying that she admired what she had said, Folds was a jerk off and to forget him. Her eyes met mine briefly as Eames took her back under his arm, wishing me a calm good night with a nod of her head. Eames saluted me shortly as they disappeared up the street, finally leaving us alone. Ariadne took my hand and we went quietly up the stairs, neither of us saying a word but our grip like a vice on each others fingers. She remained admirably calm until our front door was shut, when she turned and slammed her fist into it in fury. "How could he? How could anyone do that?" Her eyes were dark and her features bitter with disgust. "He was drunk, you're attractive and he isn't used to people telling him no. It wasn't your fault." She ripped off her jacket and dropped it on the floor. "I feel..." Her skirt followed, the zip tearing open, then her shoes wrenched free and thrown down with two thunks. "He made me feel..." She yanked off her blouse. "Disgusting! He made me feel like dirt!" Her pantyhose laddered as she tore them away, shaking them free of her fingers. "Why the hell didn't I stop him sooner?" Her panties landed on the pile, then she jerked off her bra. "God, he was touching me! I can't wear these things again," She kicked the pile of clothes on the floor, her hands fisting and her face screwed up, "I want to burn them." "I'll get rid of them." Her arms felt cold when I took hold of them, the muscles tight and hard under my hands. "God, I want a shower. I want to scrub him off me." She jerked in my grip, reaching for her hair and pulling it down. The clip joined her clothes on the floor. "I've got to get him off me." Tears of rage ran down her face and I wanted to hold her so badly my chest ached, but I didn't want to, I couldn't, smother her. I leant forward and put a kiss on her forehead. "Go and wash up. I'll get rid of this," I toed the discarded clothes at my feet, "I'll make some tea." She slumped suddenly, like a puppet that had had it's strings cut. "Go on." I kissed her again and pushed her carefully down the hall. To my immense relief she went, her footfalls slapping on the bare wood, but I didn't dare move until I heard the rush of falling water. Her clothes lay is a warm, perfumed heap, the scent of whiskey and her filling my senses as I gathered them up. I recognised the suit as one she'd brought just after she came to work with us full time, twirling in front of me with a smile and asking "Do I look like a real extractor now?" The underwear was the plain kind she preferred, Italian silk in deference to her improved status. And the shoes...I had brought her those and my anger flared again, making me want to hurl something through a window in rage. He'd even made my gift to her seem polluted. I stuffed everything into a trash bag, tied it in a knot and shoved it into the cupboard under the kitchen sink. Once the door was closed I exhaled in relief; at least one part of this was dealt with. --- Ariadne was in the shower so long I considered breaking the door down, but eventually she emerged swathed in two enormous white towels to find me sitting up in bed, half reading and drinking tea. In all honesty what I most wanted to do was go back out, find Folds and force feed him my Glock, but killing him wouldn't undo what he'd done and Ariadne would probably feel no better for knowing he was dead. "Hi." She sat down next to me and I noticed her left cheek was red from having been scrubbed at so ferociously it had all but broken the skin. "Hi. How are you feeling?" She shrugged and sipped her tea, then put the cup down on the night stand. "Clean." She supplied pointlessly, picking at her towel before turning to look at me. "Thank you for what you did in there." "You're my woman." I grinned at her. This drew a small smile, much to my relief, doubtless reminding her of the first night we had ever spent together. "You really can't go around calling me that. I'm not your possession." She replied with arched brows. "No. If you belong to anyone it's yourself. But I warned you once that I was greedy, didn't I? I should also have told you I absolutely will not share you with anyone." I cautiously put both arms around her and felt her relax against me. "And anyone who tries to touch you like that again will regret they ever even thought of it." She shivered slightly and put her free hand up against my face, taking in my now serious look. "Would you have killed him?" She asked quietly. "I wanted to." The words were bitten off. "But it wouldn't undo what he did. And he wasn't worth the bullet." Her eyes searched my face. "I've never seen you like that before. I thought you were going to break his neck." She licked her lips nervously and I noticed her pupils were blowing wider. My god, was she aroused by the thought of me doing that for her? "I...No one touches you without your permission. He broke that rule. I wasn't going to let him get away with it. I will never let anyone get away with something like that where you're concerned." I leant down and put a small kiss on her cheek, then whispered in her ear. " Anyone, anyone in the world, who harms a hair on your head answers to me." She shivered again and pressed into me. "Arthur," she said breathlessly, "Can you do something for me?" I ran a light touch over her bare shoulders before I answered. "Anything you want." She arched her head back so I could dust her throat with kisses. "Fuck me. Fuck him off me and out of me." Her voice sounded raw as she grabbed my shoulders hard enough to leave ten small bruises. "Are you..." "I'm not made of glass!" Her eyes flamed as I looked up at her. "I want you to fuck me. I want to own you. I want you to screw me into the mattress so hard that neither of us is in any doubt who we want to be with." She wrenched the towel off her body and I could see she'd scrubbed her abdomen as hard as her face, an angry scarlet blotch covering her fine skin from her navel to her breasts. I winced unconsciously. "What did you do to yourself?" I tentatively put my finger tips on the hot skin. "God, Ariadne. He wasn't worth this." She was silent as I brushed the raw spot, her chest heaving from her erratic breathing. "I'll do anything you want, you know that. But let me do something about this first." She opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. "Lie down and stop arguing." I found some aloe in the bathroom cabinet, and when I came back to the bedroom she was on her back, her hair drying on the pillows and her face hovering somewhere between tension and tears, making me want to punch Folds all over again. This was his fault, his doing, and now we were stuck in the aftershocks. But I couldn't, I would not, take it out on her. So I kept my voice neutral when I spoke. "It's cold, so you're going to feel this." I sat down next to her and as carefully as I could I started to rub the gel across her stomach, paying attention to her slight jumps and inhales of breath when I hit a particularly broken patch or other. "Never do this again, do you hear me? Never. I know you don't need me to protect you, but I want to. Let me." I put more aloe on my hand, turned her face and smoothed it over her abraded cheek. "I can take care of myself." She said quietly. "You can. But I am here and I want you to know that. You are the one thing..." My throat closed when she looked at me, her need and anger so raw I couldn't finish. No one warns you that love is fierce. That love is the killing rage as well as the gentle caress. I saw it in her then, that for as much as I would have spilt blood for her she would, she could, do the same for me, tearing through the world like a chainsaw. That she loved me with a fury that made me breathless, and for all that she knew I cared about her she hadn't fully realised until now that I felt the same thing for her. She reached up and wound her arms around my neck, pulling me down possessively, so my lips were a fraction of an inch from hers. "Arthur," she said firmly, her voice stronger than it had been all evening, "Fuck. Me. Now." Her mouth closed over mine, prying my lips open with her tongue and curling around mine. I wanted to resist her, but seeing all the fierce need and desire burning in her had ignited something in me that I was finding myself unable to fight. She arched against me, her nipples hard points pressing into my skin as she devoured me and I answered her with everything I had, my hands grabbing her breasts and massaging them roughly until she broke away from me in a pained little moan. "God, I love that sound." I managed before I replaced one hand with my mouth, sucking down on the cherry red nub as she writhed against me, moaning over and over as I worked her. Her fingernails scratched down my chest, fumbling towards my cock and squealing impatiently when she couldn't reach me. "I want to touch you." She bit the words off then moaned again as I took more of her breast into my mouth, my tongue desperate on her tender flesh. "In a minute." I garbled the words as I switched to her other breast, feeling the wetness she was rubbing into my stomach and pressing one hand against her there, there until she was thrusting into me like a woman possessed. "I want, I want, I want..." She panted furiously, then bucked under me, throwing us both over so I was underneath her and she was sprawled over me, leaving me cursing her training regime for having made her strong enough to do so. Her hand immediately closed over my cock, pumping me in her warm little fist as she wriggled downwards, opened her mouth and... "Oh fuck, Ariadne." My head arched back as she sucked me down, her free hand scratching over the dark hair at my groin, tightening into it as she went down on me, licking and pulsing her lips around me, taunting the tiny spot just under the head of my cock that made me want to lose it in her until I was yelling the apartment down. She shifted her grip, working me into full hardness as I groaned and pleaded with her. "I love that sound." She growled up at me, her eyes dark, her hair falling over her face making her look feral, a wild thing that was going to devour me whole. She shifted , crawling over me so her skin was gliding over mine and I could feel the sheen of sweat on her as she moved. "Now, Arthur." She rasped. "Fuck me now!" My hand fumbled desperately towards the night stand drawer, but she grabbed hold and brought it back to her hip, sitting up so my erection was lying right in front of her, glistening wet with precome and her saliva. "No. Bare." She demanded. "I want to feel you come inside me." "Ariadne, we can't. You might..." She took me in her hand again, pumped me twice, then spread her thighs and sank over me, my brain fusing at the tight, hot wetness of her pussy. Ariadne paused for a second, biting her lip, her body adjusting to fit around me, something that always made me desperately aroused. I had once promised her she would never need to fit anyone but me, and knowing that she still needed a minute to do so, that I was filling her so completely she had to wait a little before she could move, always awakened some base, carnal impulse. She sighed, rocked her hips back and started to ride me in earnest. "I don't care." She murmured, leaning over me as she pounded her hips against me, my hands on her back and hers braced around my shoulders. "I want you to." Her eyes bored into mine. "Fuck me, Arthur." She demanded, as I raised my lower body and started to thrust into her from underneath as she started to moan and growl again, tightening around me as if she could keep me inside her forever. "Fuck me," She gasped, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," I swore, grabbed one of her breasts which was bouncing in time to her thrusts and pinched the nipple, making her face contort with pleasure, her mouth falling open and her eyes screwing shut. "Touch yourself." I ordered roughly, and one hand moved between us, circling her clit in tight, rapid strokes. "Talk to me. Tell me what you want." My voice was grating as I moved in her, the joy of her body over mine making me desperate. "Fuck me," She repeated. "Come inside me. Mark me. Make me..." Her head lolled back as one thrust drove deeper. "Make you what?" I slammed up into her so hard she shook. "Make you what, Ariadne? Make you what?" "Make me come." Her voice was a barely intelligable gasp. "Make me come. Come inside me. Make me pregnant, Arthur, fuck me so hard you make me..." She drove down with an another animal sound "...pregnant." I shouldn't have found that arousing. I shouldn't. We'd barely discussed it, for God's sake, other than admitting at some stage we would like to be parents, but I had never thought that the idea of...knocking Ariadne up, to be base about it, would make me even hornier than I was already. Somewhere inside me, some primal part of my brain clicked on and screamed "Do it! Make her yours! Mark her! Possess her!" It made me grab hold of her, roll us over like she had to me so her legs splayed then locked around my ass and pound into her like a man possessed. "You want that?" My hair fell in my face, I was hot with sweat and exertion. "You want that? Say it again!" She powered into me, the bed heaving like a boat in a storm. "Make. Me. Pregnant." Her teeth were bared as she spat the words back. "Fuck me! Come inside me! Do me until I can't walk straight!" Her body arched up, her mouth seared across mine, I was groaning and cursing. "Do it, Arthur." One hand fastened around my neck, the other was over her clit, she was moaning again as my thrusts got more erratic, my body hurtling into an orgasm so hard I thought it would make me black out, my heart hammering in my chest, my lungs tight as she arched into me, squeezing me so tight I yelled her name, spilling my seed inside her in a hot flood. --- "Do me until I can't walk straight?" I had her wrapped around me, warm, sticky and satisfied. Her hair tickled the end of my nose as she tucked her head into the crook of my neck. "I got carried away." She admitted quietly, her hands smoothing over my chest. "Sorry." I kissed the crown of her head. "It was what you needed. Don't apologise." Her grip on me tightened. "The whole pregnant thing, I..." "It's OK. You're still on the pill, and it's not as if we couldn't manage if you were to..." "...have a baby." Her lips met my neck then she propped herself up on her elbows. "What I meant is, I don't know where it came from. I just wanted..." She tailed off and frowned at me. "I'm not going anywhere, Ariadne. And you don't need to have my baby to tell the world you're with me and no one else." I reached out and cradled her head in my hands. "Although..." I smiled at her, " any baby of yours is going to wrap everyone around it's little finger, if not for the way it looks then the way it charms, outsmarts or just plain bulldozes them." She rolled her eyes. "As if any child of yours would be any different, Arthur." She leant over and kissed me fondly. "I can see it now, a mini you with it's crayons organised by color and neatly folded onesies in it's dresser, telling me it wants it's milk at precisely one hundred and one degrees and making you read aloud from Newton's treatise on optics before bed." I snorted with laughter and she managed to smile back. "Look," I managed carefully, "When's your week off again?" "Next week." She drew an idle spiral over my chest. "I'll go out tomorrow and I'll get a test, just in case." "So, even your sperm are goal focused now?" I sat up and looked at her properly. "No, it's a precaution. And some candy bars," I added as an afterthought, making her swat me on the arm. "No hitting in bed." I admonished. "Damn you and your observant ways." She huffed, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "If I'm pregnant it's going to be a hell of a lot more than buying candy bars for you." "If you're pregnant, and the key word here is if, " I took hold of her, "I am going to buy you candy. I am going to rub your back. I'm even going to read every damn baby book Mal ever forced on Dom until his face went white and he did that look he does when Eames mentions going out for a team drinking night." I kissed her and let her curl into me again. "I'm going to buy baby clothes. I'm going to build a crib. I'm going to drive you nuts making you take vitamins and do breathing exercises. I'm going to let you complain you've got fat feet and I'm going to hold your hair back when you throw up in the mornings. I'm going to..." "OK, OK. I get it. I never knew you were so damn romantic. " She chuckled sleepily. "And if I'm not?" "I can wait." I lay down, pulling her with me and dragging the comforter over us both. "After all, you're my woman and I'm not letting you go anywhere." "Damn right." She yawned and I felt her warm breaths, her drowsy smile, on my shoulder as she replied. "And neither are you." ~*~

Mulder surveyed the debris left in the warehouse, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Goddamn it. He should've known. Just yanking my chain again. The bastard. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Scully." "Hey. It's me. Remember that lead I was following? Well, they've cleared out. There's nothing left." There was a silence during which he envisioned the disapproving look Scully'd given him as he left the office. She had a lot to be disapproving of, he had to admit. He'd told her about the new lead on more alien rebels, without telling her where he'd come by this lead. And he'd insisted on going to check it out alone, leaving her with the joyless task of facing Skinner. He had his own reasons for keeping Krycek's involvement to himself, but he refused to examine those reasons too closely. Especially when he realized that part of his disappointment at finding the place empty was that Krycek wasn't there. From the other end of the connection, Scully sighed wearily. Mulder checked his watch and saw that it was past midnight on the East Coast. "What did Skinner say?" he asked, although he could imagine exactly what Skinner said. "He said you'd better come back with a damn good lead. Some tangible evidence this time would be nice, too. He was--" Mulder could hear her smile in her voice "--skeptical." Mulder chuckled. "You don't say." He looked around the warehouse again, examining the shadows and dark corners where the cold gleam of the fluorescent overhead lights didn't reach. "I'll go through what's left. Maybe I'll get lucky and find some of that tangible evidence Skinner is so fond of. And if not ..." "If not, you're coming back on the next plane out of Oakland and facing Skinner yourself," Scully said firmly. Mulder poked at a pile of burnt cloth with the toe of his shoe. "But you'll be there to hold my hand?" "I'm hanging up now, Mulder." The line cut off. Mulder tucked the phone back into his coat and retrieved his flashlight, choosing which corner to try first. He took two steps and froze. Oh, shit. "Hello, Mulder. How's Scully these days?" Mulder spun around and switched on the flashlight, shining it directly in Krycek's face. Krycek winced and squinted in the white glare. "Scully's doing great. Throw me your gun." Krycek smirked, lifting his hand to block the light. "I already did, asshole. Don't tell me you've forgotten our last night of passion." Mulder approached cautiously. "You ram my head into a table and kiss me on the cheek and that's a night of passion?" Krycek shrugged. "With your social life, I'd say so." Mulder was close enough now, so he punched him in the face and felt a satisfying thud against his fist. Krycek frowned and winced again, wiping blood from his nose. Mulder moved quickly, determined not to lose his moment of control. He set the flashlight aside and produced his handcuffs, joining Krycek's right wrist to his own left. He frisked Krycek, confiscated his gun, and held it to Krycek's neck. "What're you going to do, Mulder?" Krycek asked, lifting his chin so the gun barrel was poised against his adam's apple. "You know what? I think we're going on a road trip." ----- More fucking handcuffs. Goddamn it, his wrist was still raw from the last time. Although being handcuffed by the well-manicured man did not have the same je ne sais quoi as being handcuffed by Fox Mulder, Krycek had to admit. Under other circumstances... He reluctantly gave up considering those other circumstances as Mulder steered the rental car onto a freeway ramp. Krycek glanced around, looking for a road sign. "Where are we going?" "Right now, we're going to my hotel." Krycek grinned at him. "Oooo. Why didn't you say so?" Mulder shot him a look. "Don't even think about it. That was temporary insanity. It won't happen again." Krycek caught glimpse of a sign and saw they were heading northeast. He settled back in the passenger seat, wiggling his fingers to keep the blood circulating. "I'd hardly call your insanity temporary, but, whatever." He closed his eyes and let himself sift through memories he'd been keeping buried. The heat of Mulder's bare flesh. The smell of his skin. What his cock had tasted like. The sound he made when he came. Maybe Mulder was right. Maybe it was only temporary insanity, and would never happen again. But he felt like he'd been the insane one. ----- Mulder drove on, thinking, This was not a good idea. Bad idea number one had been not to shoot Krycek on sight. Bad idea number two had been to leave him conscious. And bad idea number three was taking him back to the hotel. It was easy to tell Krycek not to think about it. Not so easy was keeping himself from thinking about it. This is completely insane. Having a plan would've been nice. Kidnap Krycek and do what with him? Hold him. Kiss him. Bite him. Fuck him. Okay. Wrong plan. Mulder by-passed the exit closest to his hotel so he could keep thinking. Given his track record, he had to admit that killing Krycek seemed unlikely, no matter how tempting that option was. So he examined his other options. Taking Krycek back to DC to answer for his crimes seemed to be the logical choice, but its weak point was the reliance on established means of justice. And the lack of personal revenge satisfaction. But it was the only option that would keep Krycek with him. Goddamn it. ----- As they entered the hotel room, Krycek looked around and took note of various details: the bland but tasteful hotel chain furnishings, the appallingly ugly art print on the wall, Mulder's laptop on the bed. The bed. As mundane as it was, it was inspiring a lot of distracting images of him and Mulder in flagrante delicto. He brought himself back to the present by saying, "The girl at the front desk is crushed, you know." "Huh?" Mulder asked. He produced the key to the handcuffs and unlocked the left one. Krycek watched him looking around for a place to secure it. "She saw us holding hands and the look of disappointment on her face... I think she had high hopes for you." Mulder yanked on the cuffs and led him to the bed. Oh Mulder. Stop anticipating my most disturbing fantasies. "The guy in the elevator, though," he continued. "I think we may have made a new friend there. I felt sure he was going to invite us up to his room." =Clank.= Mulder cuffed him to the bed frame. Krycek sat down and gazed up at him. There was a look in Mulder's eyes that Krycek instantly recognized. He'd seen that look before. Oh yeah. The war of desire and dismay, want and reluctance. If he stared at that look much longer, and thought about its implications, he was going to be very hard very quickly, and he couldn't count on Mulder cooperatively bringing him off. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said. The look disappeared, replaced by irritation and a hint of 'what have I gotten myself into.' What have we both gotten ourselves into? ----- He should, Mulder reflected, just handcuff Krycek to the bathroom sink and leave him in there. There was just a little too much temptation in this situation, and if Krycek hadn't broken the spell, Mulder would probably be humping him by now, and that was an uncomfortable realization. No matter how many times he silently told his cock to forget it, it wasn't listening. He undid the cuffs from the bed frame and held onto them while leading Krycek to the bathroom. Krycek stopped just inside and hesitated. "Uh... you'll have to help me." Mulder glared at him. "Why?" Krycek cleared his throat and looked around the room. "My arm... Uh, some guys cut my arm off. In Russia, after I got away from you. And with the handcuffs and all..." Mulder's gaze immediately shifted to Krycek's left arm. How could I not notice? How could I not know? But he hadn't. Had just registered the basic shape of Krycek with two shoulders and two arms. Never noticed what was now so obvious: the slightly awkward angle of the arm, the smooth and sculpted hand that was an unnatural beige. His first reaction was a renewed relief that he'd been able to escape a similar fate. Quickly replaced by an embarrassed shame for feeling that way, and after that, just a numb confusion because he wasn't sure what he should be feeling. Guilt? Pity? Satisfaction? "Oh," he said, still at a loss for words. But Krycek saved him from having to react by bringing his focus back to the here and now. "Yeah." Krycek sounded impatient. "So I really have to piss, okay? Are you gonna help me, or what?" Mulder quickly reviewed his choices, not liking any of them. "If I take the handcuffs off, can you manage?" Krycek nodded and held up his right wrist. Mulder got the key out and freed Krycek from the cuffs. Then he drew out his gun, stood in the doorway, and aimed it at Krycek's back. Just to be on the safe side. "I'm not going to get any privacy here, am I?" Krycek complained. "Nope." Krycek gave a short sigh of disgust and went about his business. Mulder started counting the tiles on the wall, pretending he wasn't watching. As his gaze surreptitiously roamed over the curve of Krycek's ass, he found himself wondering how Krycek managed to fit himself into such tight jeans with only one good hand. Krycek finished and turned around, zipping up his jeans. Mulder readied the handcuffs again. "You're a prick, you know that?" Krycek said, looking at the handcuffs. "Coming from you, that almost sounds like a compliment." Krycek smirked at him -- that damnably attractive smirk, which had haunted both his nightmares and his wet dreams. "Coming from me, it is a compliment." Mulder started to snap the cuffs around Krycek's right wrist. "Can't you leave those off? Just trust me not to run?" Krycek paused. "Okay. Stupid question. But I'm not going to run, Mulder. There was a reason why I was waiting for you, you know." Mulder considered. He didn't like the sound of that, but was instantly curious as to what it meant. He shoved the handcuffs into his coat pocket, but kept his gun drawn. "What reason?" Krycek smiled ironically. "I wanted to make sure you were still listening to me. Still doing something with all the leads I've been giving you." "Making sure we don't all go the way of the dinosaur?" Krycek's smile faded and there was a coolness in his eyes. "Yeah." Mulder chuckled. "That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard, Krycek." Krycek stepped closer and smiled again. Mulder started to release the safety on his gun. "Would you believe I just wanted to fuck you?" Oh yeah. Now that I believe. ----- "It's not gonna happen." Mulder sounded so certain. Krycek hated that. He moved in until they were almost touching. Mulder pressed the gun against Krycek's neck. "I should blow your head off." Krycek stared into Mulder's eyes, thinking, You probably should. Free us both. But it was too late for that. He knew it and Mulder knew it, and he could tell by the heat emanating from Mulder's body just how much Mulder knew it. He tilted his head, brushing the gun aside with his cheek, and kissed him. He tried to be slow, gentle, under control, but the taste of Mulder's lips was too much, too powerful. The jolt to his system stripped away all his defenses and pretenses and he grabbed Mulder's hip and pulled him closer. Mulder responded, gratifyingly, intoxicatingly, and Krycek thought how much easier this was. Become lost in each other and never resurface. What was there to resurface for? Mulder pushed him against the door frame and crushed their groins together. Krycek moaned into the kiss and clutched Mulder's ass. The door frame was breaking his spine, but he was so dizzy with lust he didn't care. He felt Mulder's erection sliding around under those smooth, well-cut trousers, seeking and finding his own with breathtaking accuracy. The cold barrel of the gun caressed his temple as Mulder held him, and Krycek imagined it going off by accident. He started laughing. Please don't let it go off before we fuck, oh god. Mulder was as much chewing on him as kissing him, but he drew back from the laugh. Krycek rubbed against the gun. "Wanna put that away or are you kinkier than I thought you were?" Mulder grimaced and put the gun back into its holster. Krycek seized the opportunity to pull back from the door frame and kiss and bite Mulder's neck and jaw and cheek. "You want me, baby, don't you?" he breathed into Mulder's ear, and felt a shiver of response. "I'm not your baby," Mulder hissed against his neck, molding his hands to Krycek's ass, rubbing and squeezing. They stumbled towards the bed together and Krycek could not stop laughing. He felt so high, but this was better than any drug. This was stupefying lust and longing and the promise of skin-searing sex. This was hatred and love so close together, so intermingled, it was impossible to tell them apart. While Mulder stripped with shaking hands, Krycek managed to tear off his own clothes. He started to unfasten his prosthetic arm, but hesitated. "Is this gonna bother you? It's easier for me without it..." He trailed off because Mulder looked so unsure. No, no no no no. I need you sure. I need you... Mulder touched his left shoulder, a tentative, gentle touch. "I don't know. Go ahead and take it off." Krycek removed it slowly, recognizing the curiosity in Mulder's eyes as Mulder watched him. Waiting for the revulsion. Trying not to feel like a circus freak. He cast the fake arm aside, off the bed, and stared at Mulder until Mulder met his stare. And he wasn't prepared for what he saw. Mulder didn't care. Curiosity satisfied, it was back to lust. Krycek shuddered involuntarily and closed his eyes briefly, breathing deeply and trying, oh god was he trying, not to come. Not yet, oh please not yet, oh fucking jesus. ----- Mulder stared at the body before him and saw only what he remembered and what had always turned him on more effectively and more powerfully than anything else on earth: craving, need, plain and simple and stunning want. Okay, if he were a hundred per cent honest, the hacked-off stump of an arm was pretty unattractive, but he really didn't care. It was still attached to Krycek, and for whatever damnable and harrowing reason, Krycek he found attractive. Found beautiful. Wanted with every cell in body. Krycek had his eyes closed and was panting. Mulder smiled a little. Jeez, and I think I'm bad when I'm this horny. He flirted with the idea of touching Krycek's cock and watching him explode, but aside from the sheer vindictive evil of it, it would be an unsatisfactory climax for him, as well, because he knew the sight of Krycek coming would set him off. How pathetic are we? We can't touch each other because we're so fucking desperate for each other? He chuckled quietly and Krycek opened his eyes. He seemed to catch the joke and smirked. "Are we ever going to have sex here, or just sit around and think about it?" Krycek murmured, sliding a foot along Mulder's calf. Mulder gave him what he hoped was a mysterious smile and leaned over the side of the bed, looking for Krycek's leather jacket. Krycek flashed him a grin as he found it and hunted through the pockets. "Aren't you lucky? I always come prepared." Krycek's toes scratched at Mulder's ankle. Mulder fished out the tube of lubricant and uncapped it. "Must be that Boy Scout training." "Something like that." When his gel-smeared fingers eased into Krycek's ass, Mulder had to steady himself. The aching throb that went through his cock resonated in his entire body and made his ears ring. The only anchor Mulder had was Krycek, watching Krycek gasp down a breath and spread his legs wider and dig his fingers into the blanket. Oh yeah. This I need. Waiting no longer a viable option, he wrapped his arms around Krycek and shifted him until Krycek was over his lap and they were sitting up, facing each other. All his weight balanced on his knees and calves, and Mulder knew he was going to pay for it later but there was something so damned sexy about this, and before he could even reconsider Krycek had engulfed his cock and was holding it inside his hot, hot, tight, tight body, and if the ache he'd felt before had been bad, well, this one was so much worse -- so much better -- he might go blind. Krycek held onto him, sinking his fingers into Mulder's hair and breathing against Mulder's ear, not moving, not yet. Just the steady thump-thump of his heart, which Mulder felt against and around him. He locked his arms around Krycek and his hands restlessly wandered over the smooth skin of Krycek's shoulders and back and ass. He drew out the exquisite torture as long as he could stand it -- which wasn't very long -- then he had to move, had to rock and thrust and pump and fuck Krycek with all the strength and fury and desperation he had. Krycek responded by giving it all back to him, in spades. Rocking and thrusting with him, and viciously squeezing him. Clawing at him, sinking his teeth into Mulder's shoulder and neck, and ramming his cock against Mulder's stomach. As if they were fighting and fucking each other simultaneously, and Mulder wasn't sure which was driving him more insane. He pushed and buried himself in Krycek's heat until the frenzy overtaking him plateaued for a brief instant, collapsing into shockwaves of life-force as he came. He couldn't breathe or see or move when he felt Krycek trembling and tightening around him, felt thick, creamy pulses against his skin, the same rhythm as the heartbeat that held him. Time ebbed around them as they held each other, fires dying into breath and flesh and tiny shudders. Mulder rubbed his hands over Krycek's sweat-moistened back and opened his eyes to see the twitch of pulse in Krycek's neck. He kissed there, then found himself kissing anywhere, everywhere. Krycek was panting against his shoulder, slumping and resting all of his weight on Mulder. Mulder realized his legs had gone numb. Ah hell, who needs legs anyway? ----- "I wish I smoked." Krycek stretched, then relaxed again into a pleasantly rubbery, boneless state of existence. After a moment of silence, he glanced over at Mulder, who had one arm slung over his head and looked similarly boneless. "I used to," Mulder said. "Really? Why'd you quit?" "It's bad for you." Krycek grinned and stared up at the ceiling. "So are a lot of other things." "Tell me about it." Mulder's tone of voice didn't quite make it sound like a joke, and Krycek felt suddenly sober. He knew why, too. They were both thinking the same thing, after all: what now? Of course, he knew what now. What now consisted of figuring out why his employers had cleared out of Oakland. He'd been so careful setting this up. What had tipped them off? He really needed to know, and he really didn't want to think about it right now. Fuck. He hadn't wanted to come back to reality so soon. The trouble with sex with Mulder was that it didn't go on forever. And when it was over, they were back to square one. Pawns on some giant chessboard pretending to be knights. He squirmed until he was sitting up. "Know what I could go for right now?" "What?" "A steak sandwich. Nice, lean steak done medium rare and really juicy, on a soft roll, with lettuce -- cold, crispy lettuce and not that wilted shit you always get -- and fresh tomato slices. Maybe a little A-1 sauce, a little mustard." His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled. Mulder was quiet for a long moment, then he said, "With a beer. A cold, imported beer. Bass, or maybe Heineken, in a pinch." "I'd settle for a Corona." He looked over at the clock on the nightstand. It wasn't midnight yet. "Does this place have room service?" Mulder sat up and gave him a disgusted look. "I'm not ordering room service for you. Aside from trying to explain it on my 402s, it's the principle of the thing." "Steak, Mulder. Dripping juice over the roll. The tomato and lettuce getting a little salty..." With a low growl, Mulder reached across him for the phone and punched a number. Krycek smiled, satisfied, and closed his eyes, listening to Mulder negotiate with room service. After a couple of minutes of "uh-huhs" and "I sees," Mulder said, "They don't have steak sandwiches. I'm getting us two chicken quesadillas and two beers, and if you don't like it you can starve, for all I care." Krycek sadly let go of the picture of the ultimate steak sandwich he'd been savoring in his head and opened his eyes. "Order some extra guacamole and I am so there." ----- For a guy with one arm, he doesn't have any trouble shovelling that quesadilla away. Mulder was famished, himself, though, so he couldn't really talk. It was almost 1 a.m. and he was wired. After that bout of mind-blowing sex, he'd expected to slip into a stupor and sleep through the uncomfortable aftermath, but it hadn't happened. He was stuck with Krycek now, and he still didn't know what to do with him other than drag him back to DC. The question was, how could he justify driving him back across the country, instead of flying? Well, you see, sir, I just had to have sex with him a few more times, and it's too damned difficult on an airplane. In coach. Perhaps if the Bureau had sprung for first-class seats--? He watched Krycek licking away a smear of guacamole from his lower lip and pondered the concept of "a few more times." More like a few million more times. Damn him. ----- Krycek grabbed the pillow under him, crammed his face against it and growled in frustration. "What's up?" He flopped onto his back and glared up at Mulder. Fucking insomniac Mulder, who would drive any sane person to madness. He spoke slowly, trying to be calm. "If you have to watch TV, can't you watch something else besides infomercials? If I hear about the E-Z Learn Phonetics System one more time, I'm going to get my gun and shoot either you or the TV, I haven't decided which." Mulder brandished the remote smugly and shrugged. "You can learn a lot about the current state of American society by watching infomercials. Besides, the only other option is the Spanish channel. And it's showing infomercials. In Spanish. Your call, Krycek." Krycek looked around the room. "Where'd you put the guns?" "Forget it." Krycek squinted across the room at the channel box. "Don't they have pay-per-view porn?" "Forget that, too. I already racked up that room service bill I have to explain." "Like you'd have to explain your porn fix to anyone. Get real, Mulder. I bet Skinner budgets it into your travel allowance these days." Mulder clicked off the TV and dropped the remote on the floor. "Keep being an asshole. You're making this much easier for me." He slid down under the covers and rolled onto his side, but Krycek knew he wouldn't go to sleep. Krycek closed his eyes and tried to doze off, but it was too late. His mind was awake now, thinking about things he'd rather not be thinking of. After a while, he asked quietly, "Easier? Does that mean there's a hard part to this?" He waited and waited for an answer. Mulder wasn't asleep. No fucking way. He was just about to turn him over and get an answer, damn it, when Mulder said, voice muffled by blankets, "Yeah, there is, okay? Now go to sleep." Like he could sleep after that revelation. ----- The maid woke them up. Mulder's body jerked awake and he sat bolt upright, taking a deep breath. He glanced over at the door, heard a quiet, accented "Sorry," and thanked every god known to man that he'd put the chain on last night. Krycek stirred next to him, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and cursing in Russian. "What time is it?" "It's a quarter to ten. Check-out is at noon." "What's the grand plan, Special Agent Mulder?" Krycek asked in a grating, sing-song voice. Mulder didn't grace him with an answer and got out of bed, gathering his clothes. "Hey Mulder." He stopped at the foot of the bed and draped his tie over his shoulder. "What?" Krycek sat up and ran his hand through his hair, which stuck up in funny-looking, attractive clumps. "C'mere. I want to ask you something." "You can't ask me like this? What's the joke, Krycek?" Krycek gave a frustrated sigh and said, "Just get over here, okay? It's not a joke, not a trick." Mulder doubted that very much, knew this was just another chain-yanking, but since he'd already checked to make sure both guns were in his laptop case, he figured there was little harm in going along with it. Maybe. He dropped his clothes and went over to sit on the edge of the bed. "Okay, ask." Krycek reached out and ruffled Mulder's chest hair with his fingers. The touch sent a sliver of heat through Mulder's veins and he started to move Krycek's hand away. Instead, he found himself stroking it, feeling the strength and formation of the wrist muscles, and the light dusting of hair on Krycek's forearm. Beautiful hands, he thought, then corrected himself: beautiful hand. "What did you want to ask me?" Krycek gazed up at him with what was very much a come-hither look, and that made the sliver ignite more fires. "Don't you like to be fucked? Are you, like, hung up about it?" he asked, in that soul-shredding, sexy whisper. Mulder tried to form words but all he could do was swallow. Krycek's gaze was relentless, never letting him go, and his fingers were moving constantly, twisting and swirling in his chest hair. Mulder cleared his throat and smoothed his hand along Krycek's arm, up to his elbow. "I'm not hung up about it." As if to punctuate his reply, his cock twitched against his thigh. Krycek noticed, smirked at him, and rubbed Mulder's left nipple. "Well, that's good," Krycek murmured slowly. "Because my next question was going to be: why don't you come back to bed and let me fuck your brains out?" Mulder straightened his spine and let his hand drop, swallowing again and feeling his cock lift higher. "When you ask so sweetly, how can I say no?" he joked, voice a little shakier than he wanted it to be. Krycek's smirk became a smile. A smug, satisfied, cat-with-canary smile, but it was still turning him on so much that Mulder pulled back the sheets to uncover Krycek's naked body. He gazed down at Krycek's cock, full and flushed and hard, and before he could stophimself, he moaned softly, "Oh christ, yes." Krycek cupped the back of his neck and kissed him, slow but hungry, and Mulder squirmed onto the bed, straddling Krycek's legs. Just as Krycek broke from the kiss and took the tube of lubricant from Mulder's offering hand, the phone rang. Mulder stared at it for a split second, brain suddenly kicked from the fog of lust where it wanted to be. Then he leaned over and grabbed it. "Yeah?" "Mulder?" Scully. Mulder could actually feel himself blush guiltily, as if she knew, as if she could know. He slid closer to the nightstand, precariously balanced on his knees. "Yeah, it's me." "Why aren't you on your way back? Did you find something?" He could feel Krycek writhing around him, then behind him. There was a low, evil laugh against his back, and Krycek whispered, "Say hi to Scully for me." Mulder wanted to shoot himself for being so turned on by that damned laugh. He held the phone closer to his ear, as if to block Krycek out of existence, and said, "No... um, yeah, actually, I did. I'll explain later. It's complicated." Scully gave one of her 'here we go again' sighs and said, "I don't think Skinner will accept that answer. He said..." The rest of her sentence became a blur of words and sounds as the sensations his body was experiencing overloaded his mind. A firm grip on one buttock, a blast of hot breath between his legs, making his balls ache with fullness, then the slow, savoring, slippery lick that teased and opened him. He bit his tongue to keep back the groan. "Listen, I'll have to call you back. I'll come home today, I promise. Just keep Skinner at bay, and it'll be worth it, okay?" He spoke rapidly to block out any "ohhhhs" and "ahhhhs" that were lurking in his throat, awaiting their escape. He heard her protest, then grudgingly give in, and hung up as soon as he could, throwing the receiver into its cradle and leaning back into the intoxicating feel of Krycek's tongue rolling inside him. Knowing, at the edge of his consciousness, that he was going to feel guilty about this later, but right now... ----- If Mulder'd said no, Krycek decided he would have had to shoot one of them, just to end his misery. But Mulder hadn't said no. He was, in fact, saying YES YES YES with every breath and sigh and moan and languorous motion of his hips. Responding to Krycek's torturous teasing, pleading for more with his body, until Krycek couldn't hold back any longer. Krycek was rock hard, and the fire coursing through his veins blurred his senses from the world around him. He wanted this so much. And when he entered Mulder, he thought his heart would stop from the pure pleasure, the perfection, of it. He'd never dreamed it would be this good, with Mulder welcoming and fitting to him, wanting more, always wanting more. Krycek had to stay still and inhale a deep breath to keep from just falling into this heaven and never recovering. He was supporting himself on his arm and he knew this wasn't going to work, goddamn missing arm, so he shifted, urging Mulder to move with him until they were sitting. Mulder on his lap, sitting like rowers, Krycek thought, and moved, rowed, and Mulder rowed with him. Back and forth, gliding, up and down, flowing, bodies perfectly in synch, moving as one. Krycek held Mulder and kissed his neck and treasured the feel of his skin. Mulder rubbed against and around him, and reached to caress Krycek's legs. Caution and deception had melted away with the first moan from Mulder's lips, and Krycek gave everything he had, everything he felt, knowing how vulnerable he was and, for once, not caring. If Mulder knew, and if he cared, he didn't show it. Instead, he returned it all and kept asking for more, writhing so invitingly, tilting his head back and uttering non-words that fell as wisps of air against Krycek's cheek. When Krycek reached to stroke Mulder's erection, the quiet groan of pleasure in response was a shock of raw, addictive joy that pushed Krycek deeper. He pushed until he filled Mulder's body, silky heat that wrapped around him so perfectly. He moved faster, building to the rhythm that was spurring them on, until Krycek felt Mulder buck and twist in his arms, felt the grip of Mulder's body tighten as they crested together. Falling, collapsing, the world around them becoming kaleidoscopic fragments because the only reality was the fusion of their bodies and the energy burning off of them. When the world reordered itself, Krycek was slumped against the headboard and Mulder was slumped against him. Krycek moved his fingers and felt Mulder's cock, warm and soft and sticky. He played with it gently until Mulder took his hand and moved it higher. He flattened his palm over Mulder's stomach and rubbed it, fingertips straying into the soft nest of Mulder's pubic hair. I don't want to go back. Not yet. Please. ----- Mulder leaned his head against Krycek's and dozed. He didn't want to move, didn't want to think, didn't want to do anything but savor this. Before they reconstructed their suits of armor, just this. Sprawling together in the strange bliss of fulfillment and loss. ----- In the rental car, Mulder sat with the map on his lap, gun in one hand in case Krycek tried to escape. As he traced a spaghetti tangle of highway with his finger, looking for the airport, Krycek asked casually, "Have you ever been across the Donner Pass?" Mulder looked up. "Why do you want to know?" Krycek shrugged, paused, seemed to come to a decision. "Okay. There's a place over in Nevada where they might have taken the alien. It's a long shot, but--" The fury rose inside him so quickly, Mulder had the gun to Krycek's head and the safety cocked before he knew what he was doing. "You fucking bastard. You knew all along and you weren't going to tell me." Krycek didn't flinch, but kept his gaze locked onto Mulder's. "I didn't know, and I still don't. It's a guess. I thought they'd be at the warehouse, but they weren't. You may find this hard to believe, but some people don't trust me enough to tell me everything." Mulder glared at him, cursing himself for thinking that having sex with Krycek made a difference, somehow. Lessened the sting of reality, when instead it just added the poison. "I don't believe you. The man who sent you-- he would've told you." "No one sent me. Besides, not everyone trusts him. These aren't trusting men, Mulder, something I'm sure you can appreciate. They have a hundred guys who can do what I do. I'm not in on everything." Mulder kept the gun barrel pressed to Krycek's temple. "Then why do they even bother with you?" Not voicing the question in his head, why do I bother with you? Krycek smiled. "Because I'm better than the other ninety-nine. I'm smarter than they are. But that's the very reason why they don't trust me. They know I'm smarter, and they know I know more than I should. Their reason for keeping me is also the reason they can't use me as much as they'd like. You can see the irony of the situation." "Yes," Mulder said drily. "How unfortunate." Krycek stared into his eyes, still smiling, and whispered, "Are you going to blow my head off, or what?" That smile could be lethal, in more ways than one, Mulder decided. He could feel the trap around them: desire becoming a physical presence that would keep them bound. Kill him or kiss him-- the choice was always the same. "Would it make any difference if I did?" Krycek moved his head and rubbed his mouth against the gun. "No. Not to me." Then he kissed the gun barrel. Mulder lowered the gun and put it away. "You're psychotic, you know that?" Krycek sat back in the passenger seat. "You're the expert." ----- The long drive across the Sacramento valley finally gave way to the twists and turns of the Donner Pass. Mulder entertained Krycek with the story of the Donner Party, a band of average, hard-working pioneers who became trapped in the Sierras during a hard winter and resorted to cannibalism. It was the kind of black, bitter tale Krycek imagined Mulder studying before flying out west. Boning up on the local history of misery. It was a good thing he never got car sick, he thought as the car coiled up the mountains, constantly adjusting speed. He watched the picture postcard scenery winding past them, and thought about sex. Sex with Mulder. Flesh-tingling, soul-stealing, head-blowing, fantastic sex with Mulder. It had to end, so it ended. In the way that things that could never be over ended, he thought with a smile. No. It'll never be over. As long as I breathe, I'm going to think about it. Remember it in some tiny part of my consciousness. Feel it in my balls and my brain and my heart until the memory of it torments me to death. He could only hope Mulder was facing a similar hell: to be haunted the way Mulder was going to haunt him. The trouble was, he couldn't be sure of that. Mulder wasn't giving him any clues. And the idea that Mulder might escape this fate pissed him off so much he half-wished the whole goddamned consortium would be waiting for them and finish them off. Okay. That was silly. If he couldn't keep fucking Mulder forever, he was going to let the world be destroyed? A nice revenge, but it lacked subtlety, maybe. Besides, if he were completely honest with himself, it wasn't just the fucking, was it? No, the worst thing about it was that the fucking was the least of it. It was being wanted, and being wanted by Mulder, that had him hooked like a loser smack addict. He liked the analogy and played with it in his mind, imagining this interminable car ride as the first taste of cold turkey in a rehab clinic. He pictured the cheap, plentiful whores of New York and Los Angeles and Moscow and labelled them methadone. Then he sobered, considering the outcomes. Total rehabilitation, or overdose. He wondered which Mulder would prefer. ----- The eastern sky was losing its yellow brilliance to the rose-grey beginning of dusk when they reached the unmarked dirt road that veered away from the Truckee and into the desert hills. Mulder drove the car across country only a jeep could handle effectively, and wondered how much deeper into a trap he could go. Follow Krycek, lose my soul. And all sense of reasoning, apparently. And, damn it, it wasn't just the sex. As mind-altering as the sex was, it didn't erase what had always been there between them. A subtle, sly bond that only tightened and made itself known when they were about to kill each other. He couldn't name it, and wasn't sure he wanted to, but he knew it was there. If only it were just the sex. ----- "What do you mean, no one sent you?" Leave it to Mulder to resume a conversation hours later. "Words of one syllable, Mulder: no... one... sent... me." Mulder scowled at him. "I don't believe you." Krycek watched the cloudless sky. "I know you don't." Mulder was quiet for a moment, then said, as if asking himself, "If no one sent you, why would you tell me anything?" Good question. One that had various, complicated reasons he didn't like to explore, much less confess to Mulder. "Maybe I just want you to save the world." "Why? Because you're done screwing it over?" Krycek smirked and stared at the passing desert. "If only." ----- He stopped the car where Krycek told him to, although Krycek admitted he'd never been here before, and wasn't sure they were in the right place. Déja-vu all over again,he thought as he walked over tough desert ground in his work shoes while Krycek easily kept pace in rubber-soled boots. They followed a trail into the hills and it looked like this was going to turn into a trip to nowhere, when he spotted it. Nestled at the foot of the next hill, a white, cylindrical building. As they approached, he could make out more structures around it. They looked like solar panels, ringing a giant satellite dish. Krycek stopped and sat down to catch his breath. "This must the place," he said, nodding ahead. "Looks like the Ponderosa to me." Mulder sat down next to him and loosened his shoelaces. He squinted at the white building and tried to make out more details. "What I can't decide is if you're just trying to walk me into my early grave through sheer exhaustion, or if the idea is to drag me out here to see me fail so I'll have a coronary while I'm beating the hell out of you." Krycek chuckled. "You keep thinking I want you dead. You gotta work on that paranoia, Mulder. A guy might develop a complex." "A little late for that," Mulder intoned somberly, standing up. "Come on, Little Joe. Hop Sing is waiting." ----- The place was deserted, or seemed to be, when they reached the fence. It wasn't a tricky fence to de-trigger and open, which Krycek chalked up to the consortium's total arrogance as well as the fact that they were hundreds of miles from civilization, and casual interlopers were unlikely. They entered the compound and Mulder drew his gun, but was still being too picky to give Krycek his. The place was definitely consortium, Krycek could feel it in his bones. While Mulder wasted time examining the solar panels, Krycek made for the building, which emitted a faint hum. It was an ominous sound, and he just hoped to hell that the building wasn't an underground bunker. Shit. It was an underground bunker. He quietly called Mulder over, standing in the entrance way and looking down into the black depths. The hum hadn't grown louder when he opened the door, a fact that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He really hated shit like this. "Well?" Mulder whispered. "I don't think they're here. But if they are, they're down there." He heard Mulder's feet shuffle over the floor, then a quiet clank as Mulder stepped onto the metal spiral staircase leading down. From the failing outside light coming in through the doorway, he could make out Mulder's shape descending. He did not want to follow. He did not want to go down there. At all. Not even for Mulder. He knew, with utter and complete certainty, that the second his feet touched that staircase, the door behind him was going to slam shut, and they were going to be trapped here. In total blackness, that unknown hum and the sounds of their own hearts beating driving them mad, until they shot themselves, or became animals and savaged each other for an insane survival. God, how Edgar Allen Poe can you get? He checked around the door for unseen bolts and catches, but didn't find any. He made sure it was open all the way, then looked around for something to wedge against it, just to make sure the wind didn't blow it shut. He couldn't find anything heavy enough located conveniently nearby, so he sacrificed his prosthetic arm, and was morbidly pleased with the aesthetics of the arrangement. If anyone came along to lock them inside, they might just pause at seeing a dismembered human arm stuck through a doorway. Then he gathered his breath and followed Mulder down the staircase. ----- Mulder nearly jumped out of his skin when Krycek joined him at the bottom of the stairs. The place was pitch black, and Krycek had been impressively silent on his descent. Years of practice, no doubt. He couldn't see or hear a damn thing, except for that constant humming sound, which he assumed must be an air system. He felt around for his flashlight, wondering whether it was a good idea to have both hands occupied, or if he should put away his gun. As he switched on the light, Krycek hissed, "Fuck, Mulder. What are you trying to do? Get us killed? Put that away." Mulder aimed the light at him. "If there's no one here, it doesn't matter. If they're here, I'd rather see them before I draw my last breath, wouldn't you?" "It's not a scenario I like to give much thought," Krycek muttered, moving ahead. As he did so, Mulder noticed Krycek's left sleeve dangling, empty. "Hey, what happened to your arm?" Krycek stopped by a glass-sealed entrance way, peering inside. "I'll tell you l-- Shhh. Did you hear that?" Mulder had. He waved the flashlight around, searching for its source. The sound grew louder. Footsteps, but just one man. The impeccably groomed man stopped and said in a cold, civil, British accent, "Mr. Krycek, come here." Mulder glared at Krycek, revolted again by the layers of deception the man was capable of, and wishing he'd killed him twenty-fours ago. But Krycek didn't move. He stayed where he was and said, "No." The well-manicured man didn't seem to like that. He took a step closer. "What you're looking for is gone, Mr. Mulder, and this game Mr. Krycek has been playing with you has to end." Krycek glanced over at Mulder and shook his head. "No. Really, Mulder. I--" "You what?" Mulder hissed. He pointed the flashlight at Krycek's face. "It wasn't a trap," Krycek whispered rapidly. "Or if it was, it wasn't for you, it was for--" "Mr. Krycek!" The man's voice echoed through the bunker. Then all hell broke loose. A siren went off, and red, glaring lights lit up the bunker, bathing it in a blood-hued glow. Mulder dropped his flashlight and raised his gun, scanning for the hordes of uniformed men he expected to see any second. The man barked something about "against our orders" to Krycek, but the siren drowned out most of the words. He stepped behind the spiral staircase and almost slipped as his shoe touched something slimy and sticky. He crouched down to examine it when Krycek shouted out, "Run!" He looked back and saw the well-manicured man aiming a gun. At him. Then Krycek blocked the view, coming between him and the man, yelling over the siren, "Get the hell out of here, Mulder. Now." Mulder rose, yelling back, "There's evidence here, Krycek. I can't let them destroy it. It's here." Krycek ran over to him and grabbed his arm, pushing him at the stairs. "Run, Mulder. Get away. I'll take care of this." "No way..." The first shot flew by his ear as he started to argue. Krycek pushed him again, and Mulder started up the stairs, the siren and lights and confusion preventing him from thinking too hard about it. He knew there was evidence down there, and if he could just get out and get help, maybe they could save it. If Krycek held them back long enough... He reached the top of the stairs. Yeah, right. Like Krycek's holding anyone back. This was just another fucking trap. Believing that made running away easier, anyway. ----- Assistant Director Skinner closed the file folder on his desk and sat back. "Two back-up teams failed to find any evidence at the site." Mulder shifted in his chair. "Yes, sir. I know." "And you knew nothing about Agent Mulder's sudden jaunt to Nevada?" Scully clasped her hands over her lap. "No, sir. Agent Mulder broke contact with me approximately twelve hours before the incident described in his report." Mulder heard the unhappy, betrayed undertone in her voice and silently sent her a thousand apologies, wondering not for the first time if he really had been temporarily insane. Skinner's glare returned to Mulder, causing him to shift again. "And you did all of this alone? Without back-up? Following an anonymous lead? Leaving your partner behind? How do you explain this, Agent Mulder?" Mulder cleared his throat. "It's all in my report. I think if you'll just re--" Skinner dropped the report into a drawer and slammed it shut. "I've read it. Your explanation doesn't satisfy me. You've brought nothing back to justify your actions. Your hotel bill lists two room service dinners, a fact you keep dismissing, but which points all too clearly toward someone else's involvement in this mess. I want to know who you're protecting." Mulder stared back, determined not to blink first. "No one. I'm protecting no one." They sat in silence until Skinner blinked and stood up, resting his hands on his hips and pacing to the window. "You're dismissed." ----- The e-mail was short, unsigned, from the obviously-faked address of "[email protected]," and the headers, which Mulder had the Lone Gunmen trace for him, led back to a large public library in Toronto. He knew who it was from, and tracing the address only gave him the illusion of a connection. All it said was, Keep looking up. (The End)

It's a little after midnight when they pull into the motel; it's the kind of place where the half the neon letters are burned out on the sign and the woman behind the counter looks like a desiccated mummy somehow brought back to life. The blacktop of the parking lot is pitted and scarred, riddled with potholes carrying a couple inches of stagnant water. On a night when they hadn't dealt with a blown tire and six hours loitering on the side of the highway, Spencer would be a little bit concerned about the likelihood of finding roaches in the bathroom. However, he feels like the back of his eyelids are coated in sandpaper and Brendon's hands are tucked in his back pockets, forehead pressed between Spencer's shoulder blades. He just wants a fucking bed and a door that locks. "Here," Zack says, pressing an actual key into Spencer's hands in lieu of a card. "You guys are...seven." "Vintage," Brendon says, tucking his chin to Spencer's shoulders. His hair tickles the skin behind Spencer's ear and he smells like sweat and cheap soap; Spencer's doesn't give a goddamn. He wants Brendon naked as soon as possible, because the rough press of Brendon's tongue will do more to melt away the day than any hot shower or massage. Zack shoos them away and goes to distribute the rest of the keys to the crew. Room seven is halfway down the row of doors facing the parking lot. It's reminds Spencer of Psycho, which would probably be funnier if it wasn't the ass end of morning and a little, tiny, bitty bit creepy shuffling along the cracked pavement. "Oh my God," Brendon mumbles in Spencer's ear as he fumbles the key in the rusty lock. "Hurry up." "Fuck off." Spencer awkwardly pushes his elbow into some soft part of Brendon, then ignores the resulting squawk of protest. The key finally gives, sliding into place. Spencer is totally prepared to ignore spiders, cockroaches, mice, and suspicious stains, so long as the promised bed exists at all. "Here, impatient. Jesus." They tumble into the room and, well. It's not the worst room Spencer's ever slept in. But it's lurking dangerously close to the bottom ten. The wallpaper's faded to the point that the original patter has all but disappeared, and the carpet's threadbare in a large handful of places. Brendon flicks the switch beside the door and a single lamp sullenly buzzes on, casting a muted, gloomy glow. "How posh," Brendon says wryly, dropping his backpack. Spencer tosses his duffle into the same corner and raises an eyebrow. Brendon's hair sticks up in random tufts and his shirt is just a little bit too small. Spencer kind of wants to eat him whole. "Do you really care?" * Half an hour later, they've each taken a short shower on their own and a longer one together, letting lazy kisses linger under the spray until the water turned from tepid to flat out freezing. Now Spencer's on spread knees in the middle of the bed, hand wrapped around the rickety wooden headboard so tight he knows it's going to physically hurt to unclench his fingers when they're done. His hair's stuck to his face in sweat damp clumps and Spencer really, honestly doesn't give a shit, because Brendon's pushed in deep with his hands anchored on Spencer's hips. "Brendon," Spencer huffs out, dropping his head between his arms and pushing his hips back. "Come on, Bren. Please." Brendon's breath comes hard enough for Spencer to hear it and feel the whoosh of hot air against the skin of his upper back. "I'm here." Brendon presses a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to the back of Spencer's neck, on that one spot Spencer's never told anyone about. "I've got you." His hands run up Spencer's sides, following the line of his ribs and Spencer is going to fucking die or come or something if Brendon doesn't start moving. "Please." Spencer snaps his head up and back, knocking into Brendon's forehead. "Please. Brendon. Come on." Slowly - so damn slowly - Brendon starts to pulse his hips. It's too measured for Spencer's taste, too gentle and tentative, but it's something and the groan that spills out of Spencer's mouth comes from deep in his gut. Spencer's hard enough for it to almost hurt and there's way to get any friction on his dick, short of letting go of the headboard and doing it himself. Honestly, he's not sure he could actually let go at this point. Even so, his hips stutter fruitlessly against the heavy, hot air of the room as Brendon picks up the pace into something faster and harder, driving in deep like he has something to prove. "More, Bren," Spencer says through gritted teeth. "Fuck." He can feel Brendon's face pressed to the middle of his back and Brendon's hands have settled back on Spencer's hips. The headboard actually slams against the tissue paper walls and shakes lose a little bit of plaster. They're going to get so much shit in the morning from whoever got the room on the other side. Spencer doesn't give a shit. It's become par for the course this tour, getting ribbed over bleary-eyed, early morning coffee and flipping off anyone who loudly speculates what was going on in their room last night. Brendon starts to lose track of the rhythm and Spencer knows that means he's close. "Come on, come on." Without warning, the mouth that's been leaving messy kisses on Spencer's shoulder blades, sucking hard at overheated skin with the intent of leaving bruises, bites down on Spencer's shoulder. Except. It's not just a nip like Brendon usually does, it's his teeth sinking into Spencer's skin hard enough for a shock of pain to cut through the haze and jolt down Spencer's spine. It's enough to have Spencer arching hard, hands spasming off the headboard of their own volition, reaching around to curl tight into Brendon's head. It's enough to have Spencer coming hard, without a hand on him. * Spencer wakes up before Brendon, like always, and stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom in a zombie state. In the less forgiving glare of daylight, the room looks twice as pathetic. The tub has a highly suspect grayish crust along the rim and caked at the drain and spigot. Spencer fumbles with the knobs and first gets a blast of icy water that quickly settles into a tepid trickle. "Awesome," Spencer grumbles, gingerly stepping into the tub. He wishes he had those nylon shoes his mother used to make him wear in the pool when he was a kid. The water, close to lukewarm against his forearm, feels a whole lot colder running through his hair and down his back. Goose bumps spring up on his arms and, Jesus Christ, Spencer is preemptively calling first shower at the venue. Brendon will probably argue that mentally calling something doesn't count, but Spencer has a height and weight advantage, so he'll win the inevitable fight. Or they can share. Spencer's not picky. The soap dish doesn't have any actual soap in it, but it does have a half-empty travel sized bottle of nondescript shampoo. Spencer squirts a small amount into his palm, decides to ignore the strange ammonia scent that floods into the shower, and starts scrubbing at his hair. His scalp doesn't start to itch or burst into flames, so he counts it a win. Ten minutes later, the water's slid back into so cold he could probably chill beer in it, so Spencer shuts off the water with an ominous, clanking gurgle. Two towels hang on the bar next to the shower and Spencer, being a good person and decent human being, only takes one. It's roughly the size of a postage stamp, rough as sandpaper, and worn translucent in a couple places, but it's better than nothing. Standing on the stained linoleum, Spencer quickly towels off. Making a pass over his shoulder, he has to bite back a surprised hiss at the sudden sting that shoots over his skin. "The fuck?" Spencer mutters, turning his back to grimy mirror. High on his shoulder, just off the ridge of his shoulder blade, he has a oblong bruise sunk into his skin. It's bright, livid purple, ridged with a regular series of darker spots along the edge. Spencer has a moment of wondering whether he was the victim of a prank he's since forgotten about or if he got abducted by aliens or someshit. Then, in a rush, he remembers. Bed frame. Brendon. Brendon's teeth. "Shit," Spencer huffs out, pink coloring his cheeks. Brendon fucking bit him and Spencer came and he's never going to be able to live that shit down. Ever. By the time Zack's come to pound on the door and tell them both to get their asses in gear, the bus is leaving in twenty and they will leave the pair of them behind, Spencer's already dressed and lacing up his sneakers. Brendon rolls out of bed, bleary and beautiful, and thumps Spencer on the shoulder, "Why didn't you wake me up? Worst fucking boyfriend ever." His hand hits the bruise and Spencer winces, trying to blush, stammer, or get hard. * The entire rest of the day is just. Well. It's fucking weird. It feels like every goddamn time Spencer shifts, the mark on his shoulder lets out a friendly little twinge to remind him that it's there. He tries carrying his backpack on the other shoulder, but that feels oddly unbalanced, like he's walking crooked and listing. The strap presses against the bruise, too, and Spencer has to school his face into a calmness he doesn't really feel. Brendon keeps casting him looks from the corner of his eyes and, eventually, pulls him aside after sound check. "No, seriously, is something wrong? You've been weird all damn day." Spencer almost instinctively reaches up to press his fingers to the mark. Like that wouldn't be the most unsubtle of all possible reactions to something that really, honestly isn't at all worth the internal freak out he's having. "I'm fine, Bee. I slept weird." "Right." Brendon raises his eyebrows and folds his arms over his chest. "I totally don't know you at all and, thus, buy that." "Hey." It's cheating and Spencer's knows it, but he crowds into Brendon's personal space, pressing their hips together and sliding his palms up Brendon's arms to curl around his neck. He feels the moment when Brendon's resistance drops away and he leans into Spencer. "I'm fine, loverboy." Spencer kisses him, patently aware how easy it would be for someone to catch them and not giving a goddamn. Two days later, the bruise is faded enough for Spencer to not be so aware of it all the fucking time. Two days after that, the colors faded enough for it to start looking like an old bruise and Spencer feels confident in passing off the whole biting/coming bit as an aberration brought on by a creepy motel and lack of sleep. * "This," Brendon says, executing a neat little twirl in the middle of the room, "is what a fucking hotel night should look like." Spencer laughs, tossing his bag onto the king sized bed(yeah, that's right, it's a fucking king and Spencer is going to flop down spread eagle in it and revel) and arching his back. He has no idea who they pleased enough to justify a night in an actual five star hotel and not a shitty motel in the ass end of nowhere, but hell if Spencer's going to complain. Even the carpet underneath his feet feels thick and luxurious. Were they a little later in tour and home felt farther away, he's probably be tempted to roll around on the floor, rubbing his face into the rug. As it is, his fingers are itching to feel up the towels stacked neatly in the bathroom and the five hundred count sheets. And Brendon, of course. "So." Brendon sits on the end of the bed, leaning back and spreading his legs just enough for the invitation to be hinted at rather than explicit. A rush of heat thrums out from Spencer's spine, settling warm and hot and heavy low in the pit of his stomach. "C'mere." "Subtle, Bren." Spencer's pulls off his tee shirt as he crossed the room, tossing it aside to land in a puddle by the desk underneath the window. Brendon pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and smiles, hooking his hands in the waist of Spencer's jeans. "Subtlety is over-fucking-rated, babe." Their clothes get shucked off and shoved aside with practiced ease. Brendon's stupidly tight jeans take a little wiggling and maneuvering to get off and Spencer almost takes a knee to the kidney in the process of removing their sneakers, but. They're in a fantastic room and they played an electrified show and they're both turned on and happy and, really, these are the moments they live for. "I want to fuck you," Brendon says with perfectly calm honesty, pushing Spencer down onto the bed. The sheets do feel as good as Spencer imagined, soft and crisp and clean. Brendon kneels between his legs and circles his hand around both their cocks. "How does that sound?" Spencer makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a gasp, pressing his hips up off the bed and into the heat of Brendon's fingers. They have condoms and lube ready, because nothing kills the mood like having to put pants on and go running to Zack to ask him to go the nearest CVS and pick up supplies for them. Spencer hears the pop of the cap opening and wet sound of Brendon slicking up his fingers. "So fucking pretty," Brendon murmurs, kissing the bend of Spencer's knee. He traces a wet line along the crease of Spencer's hip to his balls, along his ass to press against his entrance. Spencer keens softly, lifting up his hips and forcing himself not to press down. "Fucking tease. Come on." Brendon chuckles, low and suffused with heat, then eases two fingers in. It burns a little, but Spencer's never been one for gentle sex and he likes the sensation of really being stretched. He goes from half way there to hard in the time it takes for Brendon set a rhythm fucking Spencer with his fingers. He crooks them every now and then, just barely brushing against that spot that has Spencer's nerve endings shorting out from how fucking good it feels. "Want a third?" Brendon asks, using his free hand to give Spencer's a dick a couple of quick, rough strokes. "No," Spencer grits out. "I fucking want you." "So impatient," Brendon teases, but he tears the foil on the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it on. Spencer hates the loss of friction on his dick and the fingers in his ass; he can help pushing himself closer to Brendon, needing the slick feeling of their skin touching. Brendon pulls Spencer legs up, settling them on his shoulders. He kisses at Spencer's knee again, flicking his tongue at the triangle of freckles. "Hey, I got you," Brendon says. "Look at me." Spencer forces his eyes open and sees Brendon, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. His hair sticking up in tufts and he is so stupidly fucking beautiful, Spencer doesn't even know. "I know," Spencer says, trying to keep his breath even. "Please, Bren. Please." The first push in is always a little much, skating the fine line between more and too much and Spencer doesn't even try to bite back to guttural cry that blossoms up out of his chest. He curls his hands in his own hair, because he needs something to hold onto as Brendon pushes in with driving steadiness. He's not shy about this anymore and Spencer loves it, would beg for it. They haven't been able to do much more than steal a few kisses here and there over the past four or five days; that shouldn't be enough to have them both resting on hair trigger responses, but it is. Spencer will never get enough of Brendon, his skin and his mouth and his dick, his hands curled around Spencer's thighs. There's a sound to when they fuck like this, the wet slap of skin and Brendon's huffed out breaths and Spencer's groans. He's so hard he's leaking, but he doesn't wrap a hand around his dick. It's always been that way, Spencer hanging on until it's Brendon's hands or mouth pushing him over the edge. Spencer's eyes are closed when Brendon bends down, but he can feel it of course. It's almost too much to ask of his flexibility, but Brendon licking at his collarbone in counterpoint to the movement of his hips is never something Spencer's going to say no to. His tongue is rough against Spencer's slick overheated skin and curls his fingers in Brendon's. Kisses and nips, Brendon sucking hard to leave hickeys that they'll both laugh about in the morning. It's almost too much sensory input and Spencer still fucking wants more. Brendon scrapes his teeth against the rise and Spencer cries out, arching into the rough press. And then, fuck, Brendon bites down and there aren't words for the sharp, brilliant sensation that floods through Spencer's brain and along every fucking nerve he has. He comes with a cry, pushing into the sting. * The bruise is purple and blue. There are actual indent of teeth on Spencer's collarbone that match up perfectly with Brendon's teeth, deeper where his incisors are. He tries not to stare at it as he brushes his teeth, but it's hard. His free hand keeps trying to move off the counter and press his fingertips against it. Pain has never been something that's made Spencer particularly hot and heavy, but. The dull ache radiates out through his skin and into his muscles and lingers. Shaking his head, Spencer's spits into the sink as the bathroom door swings open and Brendon shuffles in. He's sleepy eyed crumpled from sleep, yawning and scratching his stomach. "Morning." Brendon comes up behind Spencer, tucked his face to the curve of his shoulder and wrapping his arms around Spencer's waist. He smells like sweat and whatever detergent the hotel uses on the sheets. "Hey." Spencer manages to press an awkward kiss to Brendon's forehead. He's always like this first thing, warm and malleable and clingy. Spencer cups his hand underneath the faucet and slurps the water into his mouth, swishing for a few seconds. Brendon hands start roaming up and down his belly and sides; his mouth moves in soft little kisses on Spencer's neck that tickle. Spitting, Spencer's shimmies a little, pushing is elbow into Brendon's side. "Tease." "Mm." Brendon snuffles. "You love me." "True." Spencer shifts around, settling with his ass leaning against the counter so they stand with their chests pressed together. He loops his hands around Brendon's waist, loosely lacing his fingers in the small of his back. "We really, really don't have time," Spencer says conversationally, easing his knee between Brendon's legs. "Just saying." "I know," Brendon groans, dropping his forehead to Spencer's chest. Involuntarily, Spencer makes a noise in the back of his throat. Brendon snaps his head back, brow creased. It takes all of a grand total of three seconds for his eyes to zero in on the mark and another two before he, always the tactile one, is gently probing it with the tips of his fingers. "Is this from last night?" "Yeah." There is no fucking logical reason for it, but Spencer's beginning to get a little bit hard. He shifts his hips, pushing off the counter and snaking out of Brendon's arms. "It's no big deal, Vampira." * The show that night isn't weird, exactly. The crowd is good, yelling with the lyrics to the old songs and just yelling during the new ones. Brendon makes a crack about them being able to remember the lyrics faster than he can and they laugh affectionately. Spencer plays a rimshot and Brendon looks over his shoulder, blowing a kiss than half the audience can easily see. It's more so that Brendon spends half the show with his back turned to the crowd, playing to Spencer. He even comes up onto the riser a couple times, like he's some kind of punk rock god who can jump eight feet into the air and land on his back, still crashing out the chords, not a label-defying front man in a neat suit and tie. After the encore, Brendon jumps back up, planting his feet on either side of Spencer's stool. His wraps one arm around Spencer's shoulder, "So I don't fall on my ass," and punches the other into the air. His fingers dig into the bruise and Spencer so badly wants to push that off as an accident, but Brendon's not really that accident prone. Spencer pushes a fist into his belly, hidden by the drums arrayed in front of him, and wonders if this fucking teeth mark to hard dick correlation is some kind of screwball Pavlovian response. * For two weeks, Brendon keeps his teeth to himself. He leaves behind a wide and varied array of other reminders scattered like landmarks across the topography of Spencer's skin - hickeys on his chest and neck, scratches over his shoulders and down his back, bruises in his hips and ass - but no more bites. Spencer can't decide if he's relieved or perversely disappointed. By the grace of whatever fickle gods govern the interstates, they get to the Iowa venue an impressive four hours early, which gives Spencer and Brendon a little time to linger on the bus while the techs get to putting everything together. "Have fun playing video games," Zack says over his shoulder as he thumps down the bus steps with one eyebrow raised. Brendon grins sweetly and waggles his fingers in farewell. "We will." Not even five minutes pass before Spencer's stretched out as much as possible along the small couch in the lounge. It's barely wide enough to accommodate the span of his shoulders and he has to bend his knees, but with Brendon's weight pressed between his shoulders and hips, Spencer can't honestly say that he minds all too terribly. Brendon's so warm and he smells like cinnamon pop tarts, chapstick, and faintly whiskey. "You remember the first time we did this?" Brendon asks, lightly grinding his hips down. He's half hard and they both know they won't have time or space to really do anything until they get to the hotel, but the promise has appeal in and of itself. "The first time we made out? Or the first time we made out on a bus?" Brendon laughs, settling his elbows on either side of Spencer's head and tangling his fingers in Spencer's hair. "The first time we made out was in the bathroom of the Smoothie Shack while I was on break. You spilled a banana mango passion down your front and I was helping you clean up." "Mm." Spencer sneaks his fingers up under Brendon's tee shirt. His skin is soft underneath Spencer's fingers as he traces the ridges and bumps of his spine. Brendon shudders, just a little; he's ticklish there. "Some help you were." "You weren't complaining." It's warm inside the bus, with mid-afternoon sunlight pouring in through the tinted windows. The TV's on, but someone muted the volume so the local newscast plays in on silence. They're showing some story about a dog and a toddler. Spencer pushes his knee into Brendon's hip and Brendon rubs his thigh up against Spencer's crotch. "And the first time we made out on a bus was...the first time we were ever on a bus, I think." Spencer groans softly, pressing his fingers into Brendon's muscles. "You came in your basketball shorts." "Well," Brendon chuckles, low and tinged an octave lower. "You were on top of me." "You're on top of me now," Spencer says inanely and Brendon laughs again, pushing their hips together with decidedly more purpose and intent. Words trail away as Brendon dips down for a kiss. It's dirty in the way Spencer has always been stupid for, ever since he was a seventeen year old kid suffering through the crushing throes of lust over the stupid guy with a bowl cut who was going to sing in their band. Spencer's gained six inches of height and fifty pounds of weight and slightly sharper features since then, but Brendon has always known just which buttons to press to go sliding underneath Spencer's skin. He fits there easily and that's how Spencer likes it. Spencer drags up Brendon's shirt as they kiss, rubbing his palms over Brendon's back and sides. He heads lower too, of course, because Brendon has an ass that doesn't quit and Spencer's always found it prudent to appreciate Brendon's attributes. He's wearing bright blue underwear, because he's an endearing loser, and Spencer flicks at the elastic waistband. Brendon squeaks out a noise into Spencer's mouth, pushing his hips back into Spencer's hand. They don't have time, they so emphatically don't have time. It's not near enough to make Spencer stop. Brendon slides his tongue along Spencer's bottom lip. It's half gross, half unbearable fucking sexy, which is a contradiction Spencer's gotten used to when it comes to half the shit Brendon pulls. Grinning, Brendon trails the tip of his nose over the curve of Spencer's cheek. His breath is hot against the rest of Spencer's skin and, seriously, Brendon can tease just by standing within six feet of Spencer wearing yesterday's shirt with his hair sticking up in the back. When he goes out of his way, it's unfair is what it is. Spencer surges up, chasing Brendon's mouth with a low sound that very well could be considered a growl. Brendon laughs, pulling his hands back to push Spencer flat down on the couch at his shoulders. Brendon has this tendency, every now and then, to get a little pushy and Spencer, contrary to everything he would have expected about himself, is remarkably okay with that. Brendon snakes one his hands down and shimmies it up into Spencer's shirt, then pulls his blunt nails down in a wandering line to Spencer's waist. "Fuck," Spencer gasps out, arching up. In retrospect, Spencer's never able to tell whether Brendon specifically planned it or whether it was one of those in the moment things. Regardless, while Spencer's too focused on the blunt, near burn of Brendon's nails makes tracks in his skin, Brendon bends down for another kiss. But instead of just kissing, even their usual level of rough with bruising teeth, Brendon bites down hard on Spencer's bottom lip. It's a little bit like someone clamped a couple of jumper cables on Spencer's nerve endings and revved the engine. He goes from half hard to aching in what feels like a matter of seconds, digging his fingers into Brendon's skin and letting out a cry that almost makes the fucking walls of the bus shake. Brendon pulls on Spencer's lip, still caught between his teeth, and keeps Spencer pushed down. When he does let go, Spencer whimpers, fucking whimpers, while his scrambled brain tries to sort everything back into something approaching logical sense. Brendon's cheeks are flushed hectic red and his eyes are bright as he sets back, settling his weight on his knees with his weight pressed against Spencer's thighs. He looks like debauchery personified, lips just a little bit swollen. Spencer swallows hard, shoving his hair back from his face and trying not to fucking wiggle too much. "What?" "You like that," Brendon says and it's very definitely a statement of fact rather than a question. "Biting. You like that." A ridiculous, tangled flux of emotions crash through Spencer's brain. It's weird, it's really stupidly weird and he doesn't know where the hell it came from. He was never the kid who has fantasies about vampires swooping into his room in the middle of the night to take him away and spend the rest of a nighttime eternity gnawing on his neck. He doesn't dream about people taking chunks out of him after he and Brendon have fucked. Spencer's never been like that and it's not like that. "I don't -" Spencer begins, shying away from Brendon's eyes. "It's not anything." Brendon reaches down and curls his fingers around Spencer's chin, pulling his gaze up to meet Brendon's eyes. "Don't lie to me, Spence." Brendon's flushed with what looks, oddly, like excitement and fucked if Spencer can decipher what the hell exactly that's supposed to mean. Spencer just likes Brendon, is the thing. He likes when Brendon pushes his way into Spencer's personal space and stays there, like he has every right to exist in the same air. He likes when Brendon gets just a little bit rough, pining Spencer against the mattress with all the force he's got in him. He just. He fucking likes when Brendon leaves tangible reminders scattered across his skin. "So what?" Spencer fires back, licking his lips and trying to keep his stupid, needy hips still. He's still hard. "So what if I do?" Brendon slowly breaks into a wide, toothy smile. Spencer has a split second of thinking about pod people and sexbots before Brendon falling back down and kissing Spencer hard. A slight shock of pain bursts out in tandem with pleasant shocks down his spine. Brendon presses his tongue against the indents on the soft tissue of Spencer's lip and that's so goddamn good Spencer almost makes a truly embarrassing noise. And just as suddenly, he's tumbling off the couch and shoving his feet into his flip flops. "Seriously?" Spencer rolls onto his side, resisting the urge to pull his knees up to his chest. "Brendon, what the fuck?" "Hey." Brendon reaches out, tucking Spencer's hair behind his ear with a smile. "Tonight." * Spencer stumbles his way through sound check and meet and greet, tripping over his words and his feet. He feels like he hasn't really come down from the afternoon on the bus and Zack asks at least four times if he's okay or if he needs anything. In contrast, Brendon's going a mile a minute. He jokes around with the techs and keeps his cool when some wire gets crossed with another wire and they spend fifteen minutes in feedback hell before things get switched around. He's kind to each kid at the meet and greet, accepting their trinkets with genuine graciousness and spending a second with his attention zeroed in on each of them. Truth be told? It makes Spencer a little bit nervous. This off-balance feeling, this not knowing what the fuck is going through Brendon's head or what he's thinking sits uneasily on Spencer's skin. He likes being in the know and having some measure of control over everything that goes on in his life. He grabs Brendon's arm just before they go on stage and murmurs in his ear, "What are you planning?" Brendon turns, circles a hand around Spencer's wrist, and pulls his free hand up. He kisses Spencer's knuckles and digs the tip of his fingers to the pulse point. "You'll find out, I promise." Brendon's never had a better show than the one they play that night, but Spencer counts it as a win that he only fumbles half a dozen time. * Between the venue and the hotel, Brendon's animated and chatty. He and Zack talk about movies they want to see and albums they want to buy and whether or not they'll be able to find that one taco place in Texas with the really good enchiladas. Brendon's hand stays on Spencer's knee, thumb lightly arcing against the fabric of his jeans. Spencer watches with his heart thumping hard beneath his ribs. It almost seems like with just a little more effort it could come busting out. He doesn't really know if it's nervousness or excitement or fear or all of it crammed into once space too small. Zack steals a couple glances from the corner of his eye, but Spencer sets his jaw and doesn't look back. He's fine. The label's offered a couple times to start forking over for separate hotel rooms, but they've always waved away the offers with half baked excuses about wanting to give the under appreciated techs the space they deserve. The real reason, of course, is that it's hard to get naked and rub against each other when they're being housed two doors down from each other. Zack hands them one card key in the lobby and waves in the direction of the elevators. Brendon hooks one hand casually around Spencer's elbow and pulls across the marble floor. At one in the morning, there aren't too many people around and they get one whole elevator all to themselves for the ride fourteen floors up. The walls are some burnished, reflective material that casts them in indistinct, mutated forms between the artistic swirls. The doors slide closed with the sedate tone of a bell and Spencer's almost expecting it, but he still makes a soft noise in the back of his throat when Brendon crowds in close until Spencer's back hits the wall. Despite Spencer having at least three or four inches on Brendon, he still feels the strange, appealing sense of being held in place by Brendon's presence. Their hips press together and maybe it's just the adrenaline high of the show still pumping through Brendon's veins, but he's well on his way to ready. "Hey," Brendon says, "Hi, Spence." He runs his hands along Spencer's shoulders and down his arms, leaning in for a rough, claiming kiss. It's almost the same as before, the way Spencer's mouth flares in a combination of sharp stinging and a deeper rush through his veins. Accidentally, Spencer groans low and deep in his throat, curling his hands in Brendon's collar and pulling him closer. "Like that?" Brendon asks. He's not teasing, is the thing. There's a genuine need to know in the words. As the door slide open with another muted ding, Spencer nods. Their room is halfway down the hall. Brendon's hands are steady as he pushes in the card, waits for the little light underneath the handle to turn green, and opens the door. Spencer follows him in feeling they've somehow gone back to that first night in Brendon shitty little apartment with the mattress on the floor and the roaches in the wall. The idea then, at least for Spencer, had been to take some of the weight from Brendon's shoulders. There's enough light coming in through the windows for Brendon to not flick to switch to turn on the brighter ones. He turns, circling his hands around Spencer's wrists. The calluses rubbed into the pads of his fingers and palms and rough in the best way. "I have an idea," he says, pulling Spencer hands up and kissing the inside of each wrist, where the skin is translucent enough to see the blue spiderweb of veins. Spencer likes control, but the other side of that coin is a bone, deep implicit trust in Brendon. "Okay," he says, drawing out the syllable slightly. Brendon smiles and lets go of Spencer's arms. He's almost thrumming with energy, feeding off some source that Spencer can't give name to, but can sense. "Okay, so. Get naked and lay down on your back," Brendon says. It's between a request and a command, hovering in the place where Brendon both expects Spencer to do it without question and demand more answers before they go any further. Taking a deep breath, Spencer toes off his sneakers and pulls his tee shirt off over his head. There's no way for undressing to be anything but a little bit awkward, but he can feel Brendon's eyes roam appreciatively as he shucks off his jeans and boxers. Naked, Spencer shivers slightly at the first burst of cooled air as he crosses the room and lies down on the bed. There aren't any squeaking hinges here or water stains that might or might not have the face of the Jesus rendered in light brown if you squint and turn your head. The comforter is soft underneath his back and ass and the bed dips just slightly. "Put your hands over your head," Brendon says, running a hand through his hair. "And hold on to the headboard, okay?" The head board is made of a dark wood and the slats are just narrow enough that he can comfortably curl his fingers around them. He's been naked in front of Brendon a thousand times before in the time that they've known each other, from fucking to just having to change back stage in a small room. But Spencer doesn't think he's ever felt this exposed, laid out on the bed with Brendon standing over him. He kind of. Likes it? Brendon kicks off his shoes and sheds his shirt, jeans and socks quickly. He's got a little bit a farmer's tan shadowing his arms from all the hours they've spent outside and he just looks good. Spencer licks his lips and tightens his fingers around the slats. He wants to touch is the thing, but he can wait. Grinning, Brendon climbs onto the bed and crawls his way up the length of Spencer's body. He settles with his knees bracketing Spencer's hips and waist. For a moment, he just runs his hands across Spencer's belly and up over his chest and shoulders, flicking at Spencer's nipples and pressing the pads of his fingers to the lingering bruises and marks dotted over his collarbone. "This okay?" he asks. Spencer's hard pressed to bite back the groans slowly building in the base of his chest. He loves this kind of thing; Brendon slowly teasing him until he feels like he's actually going to shatter apart. It's a little bit like torture. "Okay. Good." Brendon laughs softly. It's a nervous tick of his, little giggles that come bursting up whenever he's trying to pretend he's not really worried. In a way, that makes Spencer feel better. This whole stupid fucking thing with the teeth and whatever. At least it's not just him. Brendon scoots back a few inches and bends over so the top of his head rests comfortably right under Spencer's chin. He's like a damn heater, exuding warmth across Spencer's torso while his hands restlessly trace a path up and down Spencer's side. The first kiss is teasingly light on Spencer's adam's apple. It's a brief press of his lips, almost chaste. Spencer still feels it down to his toes; he has a moment of thinking scattered thoughts about anticipation heightening the pleasure or something like that, but they don't last long. Brendon moves down a little more and finds one of the fresher hickeys on the ridge of Spencer's collarbone. He seals his mouth over the marked skin and sucks hard. Spencer makes a sound, high pitched a mewling. His shoulders lift up off the mattress and it's only the hard dig of Brendon's fingers into his sides that brings him back down. There aren't words to describe what it feels like, the hot flush of heat that rockets out down his veins and nerves and settles insistently over his body. His toes actually curl, is the ridiculous thing, like he's some hero in a crappy gay romance novel who can't manage to even look at his love without getting hard. Brendon's hips are pulsing lightly, probably independent of any conscious thought. It's enough for Spencer to get a kind of teasing friction that can get him hard, but definitely not off. Brendon pulls off and licks at the bruise. The rough scrape of his tongue sends little flares of aftershocks shooting out along Spencer's skin. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut and pulls in a long, shaking breath. Some part of his mind still insists that this is the most fucking ridiculous thing that has ever happened to him in a long and storied history of ridiculous things. But that voice keeps getting quieter. "Love you," Brendon barely murmurs, mouth pressed against Spencer's body. He finds the same spot and scrapes his teeth against it. Spencer can't bite back the groan, he can't. Brendon's never been particularly gentle in bed, but this is a whole different level of purposefulness. It's not as sharp a sensation, but an ache that slowly radiates out away from the bruise and settles into Spencer's muscles and bones. He doesn't realize he's pulling hard against the head board until Brendon's hands trace up his side and curl around his biceps, kneading into muscles. "Hey, I've got you." It takes a conscious expenditure of effort, but Spencer relaxes his arms. "Breathe," Brendon says, rubbing his thumbs in a circle. They stay that way for maybe thirty seconds, maybe an hour, however long it takes for Spencer's breathing to settle back into normal rhythm and his heart to reluctantly slide out of his throat and back to its normal place in his chest. Brendon inches back down his body, settles his weight on Spencer's hips with his hands on Spencer's side. He leans over again, blowing out puffs of warm air that make Spencer fucking tingle. They're both hard; Spencer wonders where the fuck they left the lube, because he's going to be pissed if they have to put the brakes on to look for it. Brendon zeroes back in on the same spot that's still distantly throbbing. He flicks his tongue out, teasing against the raw skin in tandem with his hips grinding down against Spencer. Spencer sucks in a hard breath and tightens his fingers. In the back of his mind, he thinks it's probably going to hurt to unwind them when he and Brendon are done, but he really doesn't give a shit. This isn't like anything they've ever done before. Brendon scrapes his teeth other the bruise again, then shifts his entire body slightly and bites down. Spencer cries out like someone punched him or shocked him or both and he bucks up off the bed. His shoulders protest the angle and Brendon has to put the full force of his weight into Spencer to push him back down. It's that same thing, that electric sensation like he's been attached to car a battery controlled by someone with a lead food. His eyes shut and, for a split second, he thinks he actually sees sparks dancing behind his eyelids. "Jesus motherfucking Christ," he pants out and Brendon laughs, high and half hysterical. "You really fucking like that," Brendon says, words tripping over themselves as they tumble out of his mouth. Spencer opens his eyes and looks at him. From the low angle, Brendon looks bigger than he really is. He's going got patches of hectic color splashed high on his cheeks and beads of sweat collected at his temples and along his hairline. Spencer tries to shrug, but it doesn't really work. Want cycles insistently, low in his belly. He wants to get off and he wants Brendon inside of him and wants, wants, wants. "Yes, fuck. Brendon." "See," Brendon says, shoving his hair out of his eyes and rubbing his palm across his forehead and cheeks. "I've been thinking about biting you for a long time, but I was never sure what you'd say." He bends down and seals his mouth around Spencer's nipple. It's blatant cheating since he knows that Spencer's nipples are one of those spots that make his brain short out. Spencer has a moment of being indignant, then Brendon pushes down his teeth and pulls and coherent thought goes flying out the window. Spencer feels a little bit like his heart is being torn out by the fucking roots. "Fuck." Brendon let's go and chases the bite with a sloppy kiss. "You don't even know what you look like. What you sound like." There's a sarcastic reply hovering somewhere in Spencer's throat, but he can't seem to get it to come out. His brain is too busy short circuiting. Brendon bends back down, anchoring himself with hands planted on either side of Spencer's chest. He starts with sucking kisses, the kind that Spencer's used to. One right in the center of his chest on his breastbone, then another along the bottom point where his ribs sweep up and come together. He suctions on hard enough for Spencer to feel a pop of release when he lets go. Every couple marks he chases the kisses with a thumb pressed hard into the mark left behind and Spencer comes up off the bed a few inches, letting out little gasping cries. They've mussed the comforter and sheets enough for him to be able to feel the fabric bunch and move under his heels as he digs them into the mattress. "You are so fucking much, Spence," Brendon huffs out around the level of Spencer's belly button. He pushes back up and then it's not just kisses and sucking, suddenly it's his teeth and Spencer can't do anything but wail and hold on. There's a bite on his collarbone that shocks out along the ridge of bone. Then another in the meat of Spencer's chest where he swears to God and all the saints he can actually feel each individual press of teeth into his skin. He's so fucking hard, pumping his hips up for any friction he can find. Spencer hasn't come without being touched since he was sixteen and existing in a constant fog of perpetual arousal. Now, though, he thinks he might be in for a fucking encore. Brendon pushes lower and nips once lightly at Spencer's belly, then chases that small sting with another bite that hurts, but in the way that makes Spencer arch up into Brendon's mouth. He's going to have so many bruises in the morning, oval patches of blue and purple with darker marks from the points of contact. Another on his belly, hovering to the right of his bellybutton. Brendon's scooting lower and lower on his body. Spencer wants to tangle his fingers in Brendon's hair to push him down and direct his mouth, but he's not sure he could unwind his fingers even if he needed to. Brendon releases his teeth and chases with a kiss, running his tongue along the indents pressed into Spencer's skin. Spencer can't breathe, he can't think. It's overwhelming and he doesn't have words to explain why this, Brendon's teeth, do this. It's ridiculous, in a sense, and he doesn't care. He's so close. Brendon pushes himself back and Spencer lets out a soft cry at the loss of contact, pushing his hips up and not finding the friction he needs. "It's okay," Brendon gasps out, "Spence." "Hold on for me," Brendon says, voice pitched low and filled with gravel. He bends down and Spencer hears the impatient snick of a zipper being shoved open; when Brendon comes back up, he's holding a half empty tube of lube in one hand. "I'm going to fuck you." Spencer twists his hips and curls his toes into the mattress. He wants so badly he can feel it throbbing in his skin and dick. His balls are drawn up tight against his body, aching for release. Brendon pops the cap and slicks up his hand and fingers. With a smirk, he tosses the bottle aside. It thumps against the wall and slides down to the carpet. Brendon hauls one of Spencer's legs up to his shoulder and traces a line along his hip with one finger. It's shockingly cold and Spencer whimpers, shaking his head back and forth against the pillow. The tip of Brendon's finger pushes against his entrance and Spencer keens, flexing his hips back. He doesn't honestly know if he can handle it without coming all over himself, but he wants. "Don't come," Brendon says, licking a stripe on the side of his knee. "You can hold on." He pushes two fingers in right off the bat and it's very nearly more than Spencer can take. He likes it rough, but this is different. The rough slid of skin against skin, Brendon's calluses scraping, is almost more than Spencer can handle. The burn of stretching walks a fine line between not enough and too fucking much. Which. The bites are doing the same goddamn thing. Spencer pushes his hips back on Brendon's fingers, fucking himself with impatience and raw need. Brendon doesn't stretch him for any longer than he absolutely needs to. In some part of his brain that's still given to coherency, Spencer has a moment of wondering if that's because he knows Spencer likes it or if it's because Brendon doesn't know how long he can hang on. Brendon takes Spencer other leg and pulls it up onto his shoulder; they don't usually fuck like this, with Spencer on his back, and the angle is different. When he opens his eyes, he can see sweat beaded on Brendon's collarbone and deep, dark cast to his eyes. "Can you wait for me?" Brendon gasps out, lining his dick up. "Spencer, can you hold on for me?" Spencer frantically nods his head. It might be a lie, but he'll do everything he can to hold on. Brendon pushes in with merciless precision. It boggles Spencer's mind how he can possibly be so fucking in control, but he is. It isn't gentle or easy or reckless or any of the adjectives that usually free fall through Spencer's mind when he's being fucked. It's Brendon, somehow, finding a way to give Spencer the hardness he craves and still exact a pointed measure of control. Brendon is in charge here; he's going to get what he wants and give what he feels and nothing more. It doesn't take long before Brendon's hips start to lose their rhythm in the rush of sensation. Spencer's literally seeing bursts of sparks behind his eyes, multicolored and brilliant. When Brendon comes, it's with the first really broken noise Spencer's heard, curling in on himself with his fingers digging bruises into Spencer's thighs. Spencers dick lays heavy and throbbing on his stomach. He can't stop his hips from pulsing; he thinks he might not last as long as it takes from Brendon to finish him off. "Please, fucking please," Spencer begs. "Brendon, fuck. Please, please, I need. Please." Brendon lets Spencer legs fall down to the floor and crawls up his body, pressing their chests together. He curls a hand around Spencer's dick and jerks him twice, roughly. He dips his head and presses an open mouthed kiss to Spencer's shoulder, then sinks his teeth down in a bite that echoes that first night in the crappy motel in the middle of nowhere. Spencer comes with an inarticulate shout, throwing his head back into the pillow and shaking apart. He feels stripped open and raw, like his nerve endings have been exposed to unfiltered touch and there's no disconnect between touch and sensation. Brendon very nearly collapses on top of Spencer, both of them gasping for breath in the heightened, post-coital aftershocks. By the time Spencer's vision has sorted itself out and his brain's put itself back into some semblance of order, Brendon's rolled to the side and started rubbing at his wrists, murmuring, "Hey, come on. Let go, Spence." True to prediction, the joints of Spencer's finger creak and protest as he slowly unlocks each digit and peels them away from the slats. He winces slightly at the ache in his shoulders as he pulls his arms down. Brendon pulls Spencer's hands to his mouth and kisses his palms, massaging the tips of his fingers into the tendons of Spencer's wrists. "So," Brendon says eventually. "That was fun." It's so fucking ridiculous it startles a laugh out of Spencer and once he's started, it's hard to stop. It was fun. It was fun and ridiculous and Spencer thinks he will probably never be able to think about biting without blushing and stammering, bu that's okay. We all have our things. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," he shoots back, lazy. "Oh, yeah. It was just me." Brendon rolls his eyes, but tempers it with a grin and manages to wiggle the blanket out from under their legs and toss it across both of them. He snuggles in close, wrapping an arm around Spencer's stomach and hooking his leg over Spencer's thigh. "But seriously. You okay?" Spencer rolls his head to the side. When he flexes the muscles of his stomach, he can feel a dozen or more places where it pulls slightly in warning of the bruises that are to come. When they wake up, he'll probably look like he went ten rounds with a piranha. Whether he won or lost is up to interpretation. "Yeah," Spencer says, craning his head up and leaning in for a kiss. "Yeah, I'm really good.

Entry tags: fandom: merlin, fic: two weeks notice, genre: angst, genre: au, genre: drama, genre: fluff, genre: humor, genre: prompt/challenge response, genre: romance, pairing: merlin/arthur, rating: nc-17 Merlin's going away party was in full swing. There was music and balloons wishing him luck in cheerful bright lettering and even cake. The only thing missing was Merlin. The door to Arthur's office clicked shut, drowning out the sounds of chatter coming from the office party. Merlin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the solid wood. He doubted anyone would notice he'd slipped out of his own party, and even if they did, he doubted they'd mind. Merlin wasn't exactly the life of the party right now. Merlin opened his eyes and heaved a sigh into the empty office. For the first time in the past year that Merlin could remember, Arthur hadn't come in to work today, and the place felt strangely subdued, as if even the glow from the fluorescent lights wasn't enough to illuminate the office without Arthur's shining presence to add to it. The flat had felt the same way when Arthur neglected to come home last night. Home. Merlin needed to stop thinking about it like that, especially since he'd moved out all of his things that morning. Merlin slowly walked up to Arthur's desk, tracing a finger over the edge. The polished wood grain was smooth under the pads of his fingers. Merlin hesitated a moment before sinking into the high backed leather chair behind Arthur's desk. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought he could detect a faint hint of Arthur's stupidly expensive, animal-tested aftershave lingering in the soft leather. Before he could think better of it, Merlin picked up the phone and was halfway through dialing Arthur's mobile when he slammed the phone back into its cradle. A second later, he picked it up again and dialed Gwen. It rang three times, and then Merlin didn't even giver her time to stutter out a hello before he said, "I think I've really screwed up." "Merlin?" Gwen asked, puzzled. "What's wrong?" "I've lost him, Gwen." Merlin didn't bother to mention the insanity of losing someone he was planning to leave in the first place, but thankfully Gwen didn't mention it, either. "Don't say that, Merlin," Gwen replied, ever hopeful. "What's that UniKORN slogan you and Lance are always spouting off about? Nothing's ever really lost as long as there's someone left who's willing to fight." Merlin let out an aggravated sigh. "And what if I don't want to fight for him anymore? I'm not even sure that I ever want to see him again. What he did, Gwen, it was unforgivable. And then he didn't even have the guts to come into the office and face me today. The least he could do was come in and let me call him a prat to his face." Merlin knew Gwen heard what he meant: I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. "I know you're angry at him right now, Merlin, but if you love him as much as I think you do, you'll find a way to get past it. I had to fight for Lance, and it's the best thing I ever did." "Yeah?" Merlin was quietly hopeful. "Of course," Gwen answered, but then there was a brief shuffle on the other end, and Merlin had to hold the phone away from his ear as Gwen gave a completely uncharacteristic shout. "I swear to god, Lance, if you leave the toilet seat up one more time I will personally organize a hunting trip to the Serengeti!" Merlin stared at the phone in his hand with dumbfounded shock before mumbling, "Er, Gwen, if now's a bad time, I can—" Gwen gave a rather frustrated sigh and barreled right over Merlin's protests. "Look, Merlin, if there's one thing I've learned, it's that when you're fighting with the person you love, those are the times you need to fight the hardest for that person. You can win him back. You just need to try." Merlin thought about that for a moment. He hated how small his voice sounded as he asked, "What if he doesn't want to be won?" Gwen didn't say anything, and Merlin thought it was because she was too nice to say, "Then there's really nothing you can do." Two Weeks Notice (5/5) Arthur spent Merlin's last day at Morgana's flat. It wasn't so much hiding as it was strategically avoiding things he very much didn't want to deal with at the moment, like seeing Merlin's face. Of course, there was also the fact that Morgana would eventually come home, and Arthur didn't want to deal with her rather vocal disapproval, and it wasn't like he could stay away from his own flat forever. When Arthur walked into his flat, he already knew that Merlin was gone. The flat was quiet in a way it never was, even when Merlin was sleeping, as if his mere presence vibrated the air in a different way that Arthur could sense. Before Arthur could think better of it, he found himself poised at the open doorway of Merlin's bedroom. Merlin had never had many belongings, but the room seemed emptier without everything haphazardly scattered about, Merlin's presence inflicting itself on Arthur's life with a casual type of conquest, as if he belonged from day one. But now, the walls were bare, the closet was empty, and the bed was even made. Arthur scowled at the neatly tucked corners. He hoped Merlin had at least had the decency to change the sheets after he and Will— Arthur slammed the door shut and stomped up the stairs to the roof, suddenly feeling like his own flat was suffocating him. The rooftop provided no relief, however, considering the first thing that greeted Arthur once he threw the door open was Merlin's bloody stupid garden. Arthur closed his eyes against the sight and his mind was immediately assaulted with images from the night before. Merlin's lips pressed against Will's, Will's hands curled around Merlin's hips, Merlin's mouth pink and shiny with Will's saliva. Arthur took an involuntary step back and felt something crunch under his heel. He looked down to see shards of green glass littering the roof and a red stain soaked into the concrete. Arthur toed a green sliver of glass, then viciously ground it to powder under his sole, his teeth grinding in his skull to match. In a blind rage, Arthur stomped to the enclosure and ripped down an entire wall of netting. The butterflies, idiotic as their keeper, didn't realize they were suddenly free. A few fluttered past him in an awkward, lurching arch, but most seemed perfectly content to rest lazily against the brilliant golden petals. Arthur momentarily considered the logistics of herding butterflies before his gaze caught an odd green shape hanging from one of the leaves. Upon closer inspection, Arthur realized it was a cocoon from some late blooming caterpillar who clearly didn't have the sense to realize that by the time it emerged the temperature would be steadily dropping as the leaves changed from green to red and gold. It would be too late. Awareness, when it finally hit, plowed into Arthur with the force of a steamroller. Merlin's voice rang through Arthur's head as if being shouted through a megaphone. I can't believe you're not even going to try to be the person you could be. It's not impossible for someone to change. Even someone as pig-headed as you. Merlin may be an idiot most of the time, but there was always the rare occasion that he surprised Arthur with his insight. On those rare occasions, Arthur tended to listen. He didn't even know if he wanted Merlin back, or if he'd ever had Merlin to begin with. What he did know, however, was that he'd gone back on his word and hurt Merlin deeply. He also knew that he was not the type of person who would betray a friend. He liked to think he was better than that. Perhaps it was time that he started to act like it. With one last look at the cocoon, Arthur very gingerly lifted the pot and carried it inside to the warmth of his flat, setting it on his desk like some bizarre token of inspiration. Then Arthur sat down to write the most difficult speech of his career. Merlin had his feet propped up on the cracked plastic of the break room table, his electric blue apron in his lap and a soy milk latte slowly cooling at his side. Hollyoaks reruns were quietly playing on the ancient telly in the corner, but Merlin was only half paying attention. He'd stopped following the show once John Paul and Craig rode off into the sunset together. Lucky bastards. Gwen burst into the break room and made straight for the telly. "Oi! I was watching that!" Merlin protested. "No you weren't, you were sulking," Gwen informed him sternly before stopping on the channel she wanted. Merlin glanced at the screen to see Arthur bloody Pendragon staring back at him from the televised groundbreaking, looking golden and beautiful in the sun, and Merlin promptly said, "Oh, no way." He half rose from his seat and practically shouted, "Hell no, Gwen." Scarily strong hands gripped him from behind and pushed him back down into his seat. Lancelot's voice was grave as he said, "It's for your own good, Merlin. The sooner you conquer your fears, the sooner you can get back to the noble fight." Merlin sighed. He knew Lance was hoping Merlin would put his name back on the regular volunteer rotation at UniKORN, but the truth was Merlin wasn't even sure if he wanted to go back. The whole thing just seemed so pointless now. Gwen twisted the volume knob, and Arthur's voice rang out clear and strong through the break room. "—thank everyone for being here today. This development will create new jobs as well as a unique source of entertainment and commerce for families in the area. It is a step towards progress for the community, and a promise on behalf of the Pendragon Corporation to always value the people of London." Merlin let out a short angry groan and began to stand up, but Gwen put a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder, rooting him in place with a glare worthy of Morgana at her most terrifying. Merlin reluctantly turned his attention back to the telly and sullenly watched Arthur flip through the note cards in his hands. "But to truly prove to someone that you care about them, you must also be honest with them. I learned that lesson the hard way. There is…was someone in my life that I was not honest with, and I hurt him very deeply." Merlin stifled his gasp of surprise. "I gave my word to him that I would do everything in my power to save a portion of this land as a nature reserve, to safeguard the rare species of butterfly found only in this one unique piece of land. He put his trust in me, and I betrayed that trust. And for that I'm sorry." Merlin tried very hard to ignore the sudden pounding of his heart, hammering against his ribs as if trying to leap from his chest. "But there is one thing I won't betray, and that is my duty to the company, and to the people of London." For a moment, Merlin felt the swell of bitter anger rising like a lump in his throat, but Arthur's next words made Merlin swallow it back down again. "It is the duty of the Pendragon Corporation to look not just to the present, but also to the future. This small slice of land should remain undeveloped, preserved for future generations of Britons." Merlin shuffled closer to the Arthur on the screen, as if the image were really Arthur and Merlin could see if he was telling the truth just by meeting his eyes. As Arthur continued, his voice softened slightly, and it was difficult to tell on the crummy TV, but Merlin thought he saw the corner of Arthur's mouth quirk up wryly. "If there is one thing this man has taught me, it is that two very different things, as different as concrete and nature, do not have to be in constant opposition. They can come together; complement each other in a way that creates something surprisingly harmonious. The Pendragon Corporation would be honored to be a part of that. "But more than duty, more than honor, it is the way we treat those we care about the most that defines us. I am ashamed to say that I have treated this person very poorly. He believed in me, and I let him down." Arthur's head dipped slightly in a gesture Merlin knew to be disappointment, the same as he knew the gesture was always accompanied by the slight tightening of the lines around Arthur's eyes. "You see, this man, despite being stubborn, and unwilling to compromise, and having terrible fashion sense," Merlin snorted, but didn't look away, "He's…he's very like the butterflies he hopes to save…A little awkward and unconventional, often overlooked, but when you look closely, rather…rather unexpectedly beautiful. And one of a kind." Merlin didn't realize how closely he'd scooted towards the TV until he fell out of his chair and his bum hit the hard tiled floor. It didn't even faze Merlin's avid concentration on the screen. Arthur had stopped using the note cards, and he wasn't even looking into the camera anymore. He was staring off somewhere into the middle distance, his voice taking on the slightly bewildered, fond quality it always had when Merlin did something unexpectedly useful. "And even though I've said cruel things and driven him away…he's become the other side to my coin. He balances me out. He makes me whole." Merlin suddenly wondered if there was some sort of air quality advisory he'd missed, because he was finding it incredibly difficult to breathe. Arthur cleared his throat and seemed to come back to himself a bit. "And so, we will be keeping a portion of this land undeveloped, because the Pendragon Corporation values the people of London, and because… because I value him. Above all else." Arthur nodded and walked off the screen amid a frenzy of noisy questions and flashing camera bulbs. Reporters onscreen immediately started rhapsodizing and predicting the effect on the market. Merlin stared at the screen, transfixed, but not seeing any of it. Gwen crouched at Merlin's side and wrapped her hand lightly around his elbow. When Merlin turned to look at her, he had a feeling the watery shine to her eyes was reflected in his own. Merlin's voice was raspy and broken, barely functional as he choked out a nonsensical, "Gwen…I…" Lancelot's keys landed in Merlin's lap. "You should take my car," Lancelot said. "It's a Prius." Merlin drove like a bat out of hell. He wove in and out of lanes and ran traffic signals with a degree of frequency that had him surprised he even made it to the Camelot hotel in one piece, let alone without getting pulled over for reckless driving. When the lift door didn't immediately pop open the moment Merlin pushed the call button, he had to physically restrain himself from simply running up thirty flights of stairs. He thanked a mixture of sentimentality and absent-mindedness that he'd neglected to remove the key to Arthur's flat from his key ring, and a moment after he fumbled it into the lock he was racing up the spiral staircase, somehow knowing with a certainty that was a little frightening that Arthur would be on the roof. Merlin didn't waste time to catch his breath before he threw open the door to the rooftop, sucking in great lungfuls of crisp near-autumn air as he took in the sight before him. Arthur was seated under the canopy of netting, one wall duct-taped in place. Arthur's laptop was resting on his knees and he was staring at Merlin from behind the wire-rimmed glasses he pretended not to need unless he felt like playing at being terribly serious and mature. Merlin mindlessly opened his mouth without a clue what to say and was mildly appalled when the first thing that came out was, "I didn't sleep with Will." Oh, way to bollocks that right up, his mind supplied helpfully. Arthur's raised eyebrow seemed to agree. "Er…I mean, I saw your speech," Merlin added inanely. He was beginning to wonder if it was even possible to salvage this conversation into the mutual unrepression of emotions he'd envisioned whilst weaving death-defyingly through traffic. When Arthur's only response was to blink stoically from behind the ridiculously aesthetic frames, Merlin decided the only thing to do would be to lay it all bare. After all, it was sort of his turn. Steeling himself, Merlin took a step forward and said, "Arthur…You're the reason I get up in the morning." Arthur's eyes widened, and Merlin took a shaky breath before he continued, "And it's not because I need to lay out your clothes and cook you breakfast and drag you out of bed…although, right, that's part of it, but…It's…It's not about the job, Arthur. Not entirely, anyway. I mean, there's the running and the fetching and the washing and all that, but there's more to it than that. You're a great man, Arthur. When you're not being a great prat. And I don't…I don't want another job. I'm happy to serve you, until the day I die. Or, well, I guess I would prefer it to be more like the day I receive a fairly generous retirement pension, but, um, you get my meaning." Taking another step forward, Merlin felt his hands shaking but his voice was clear as he said, "And even if I really hate this job sometimes and I still think you're a giant prat, I wouldn't…I don't want anyone but you." Arthur took off his glasses and set them aside, presumably to better stare at Merlin. For once, Merlin had absolutely no clue what Arthur was thinking. His stoic stare could have meant he was simply as floored by Merlin's admission as Merlin himself felt, or it could just as easily mean that Arthur thought Merlin had gone off the deep end. Finally, when Merlin could no longer stand the suspense, he said, "Arthur, would you please say something?" After another interminable moment, Arthur looked away from Merlin's eyes and said, "I have to get back to work." Merlin blinked. "Oh." Arthur, still not looking at Merlin, said, "I have to present the new proposal to my father tomorrow morning, so…" A muscle in Arthur's jaw twitched, but other than that his face was devoid of emotion. "Right. Of course. I'll just…" Merlin made some obscure gesture over his shoulder towards the door. When Arthur gave no indication that he cared one way or the other and continued to stare anywhere but at Merlin, still with that same inscrutable expression, Merlin just gave a half-hearted nod and turned to leave. Each step away hollowed out an aching chasm in Merlin's chest. How could he have been so wrong? He'd been so sure that he could patch things up with Arthur, that they both wanted the same thing. He knew that Arthur's speech had to mean something. Merlin's confession may not have been quite as eloquent, but was it really bad enough for Arthur to give up a second chance? Sure, they would probably always fight like cats and dogs, but their good times would be just as fierce. They would be the stuff of legend. How could Arthur be willing to throw all that away? As Merlin slowly made his way to the door, he distantly wondered how he ever hoped to put his heart back together when it had been shattered so completely. Merlin's hand was on the door when he was grabbed and spun around by the shoulder and another hand was buried in the hair at the base of his skull and Arthur was kissing him like both their lives depended on it. It only took a split second for Merlin to wrap his arms around Arthur's neck and kiss him back with everything he had. In that moment, everything seemed to slide perfectly into place, as if the only thing Merlin had ever needed for the world to make sense was Arthur's lips on his. The kiss was hot and slick and a bit sloppy, more desperation than finesse, but Merlin didn't care, couldn't even think past the litany of yes, yes, yes and finally. Merlin clung to Arthur's shoulders as Arthur pressed him back against the door, practically devouring each other's mouths. It was everything Merlin wanted, but he was still frantic for more. Then Arthur wedged a thigh between Merlin's knees and pressed so close it would take a crowbar to pry them apart, and Merlin guessed it would only take another two minutes of this before he came in his trousers in the middle of the bloody rooftop. Summoning his few remaining wits that weren't keeled over in ecstasy from the way Arthur was biting and sucking on Merlin's bottom lip, Merlin mumbled breathily between messy kisses, "Arthur. Bed." Arthur made a noise that could have been approval or could have been some nonsensical cross between a grunt and a sigh. Then he crashed their hips together in a way that pressed their cocks together almost violently through their clothes, and Merlin decided two minutes was now more like two seconds. He shoved at Arthur's shoulders until Arthur released him with a frustrated groan, putting enough space between them for Merlin to suck in a shuddering breath. Arthur's look was beyond predatory, his mouth swollen and wet and his dark eyes fixed on Merlin's lips in a way that made it clear it was taking all his will power not to just dive right back in, and it took Merlin a good long second to remember why he couldn't let Arthur do that, at least not yet. Fixing his gaze on Arthur, Merlin repeated in a voice he barely recognized as his own, "Arthur. Bed." Arthur's expression shifted into a grin that was positively manic, then he hefted Merlin aside by his hips and unnecessarily kicked in the door to his own flat. Arthur practically carried Merlin down the spiral staircase, pushing and pulling and manhandling him like the eight stone weakling that he was. Their hands tugged frantically at clothing, hungry for skin but not willing to stop kissing or allow even an inch of space between them as they tried to touch each other everywhere at once. Just negotiating Merlin out of his t-shirt involved a tangle of jammed elbows and crushed toes, and Merlin only managed to get the top three buttons of Arthur's shirt undone due to blind luck and a few furious yanks that made Arthur wince in sympathy for the fabric. Arthur was amazed they didn't manage to accidentally kill each other before they made it to solid ground. They were waylaid momentarily when Merlin stumbled into a priceless Tiffany floor lamp and sent their bodies lurching into the back of the couch, hips colliding on impact and god, Arthur didn't even care that the lamp shattered into a thousand pieces because Merlin just grunted and pressed his thigh harder against Arthur's cock. Arthur groaned and latched onto Merlin's ass, grinding their hips together. Merlin shuddered and ripped his mouth away from Arthur's, gasping hot against Arthur's neck. And because Arthur was maybe a bit of a prat and couldn't resist, he grinned against the shell of Merlin's ear and said, "That's coming out of your pay, you know." Merlin's indignant squawk could have been a protest or it could have been because Arthur chose that moment to bite down on Merlin's earlobe. Arthur slid his hands up the hot, bare skin of Merlin's chest and took Merlin's face between his hands, pulling him into another searing kiss and opening wide around Merlin's tongue. Merlin gave up on the buttons of Arthur's shirt and his hands dropped to fumble at Arthur's belt. Digging his fingers into Merlin's hair, Arthur shoved them both off the couch and started dragging Merlin back towards the bedroom. Despite Arthur's impatient prodding and maneuvering and tugging, they tripped over each other's feet twice before Merlin pulled back just enough to say breathlessly against Arthur's lips, "Dammit, Arthur, my ears are not handles." The backs of Arthur's knees collided with the edge of his bed as he moved his assault to the soft skin below Merlin's jaw and said, "It's not my fault you're incapable of walking and undressing at the same time. Really, Merlin, I thought you said you were good at this." Merlin glared, and the next thing Arthur knew his trousers were undone and he was flat on his back in the middle of his bed. Merlin descended on top of him with hands shoved up under Arthur's mangled shirt and Merlin's mouth hot on his neck and fine, yes, that was actually quite impressive. Merlin practically growled as he said, "Maybe if you'd stop being so damn pushy all the time—" Arthur slid his hands down the back of Merlin's trousers and pressed his hips up, dragging their clothed cocks together and making Merlin cut himself off with a gratifying hiss. "Someone has to lead, considering you're clearly rubbish at it. You couldn't even manage my shirt buttons." With a furious heave and what could only be described as an animalistic grunt, Merlin ripped the last two buttons from Arthur's shirt. "What is it with you and destroying my shirts?" Arthur said shakily, more than a little breathless because wow, hot, and then he let out a rather unmanly yelp as Merlin latched his mouth over one of Arthur's nipples and did something lewd and indecent and incredible with his tongue. Arthur clung to the back of Merlin's neck and arched desperately and whispered, "Oh, fuck," because it felt like every single nerve ending in Arthur's body was suddenly connected to the tip of Merlin's tongue. "I see what you mean…about the tongue thing," Arthur gasped out helplessly. Arthur could actually feel the smugness of Merlin's smile pressed up against his skin. "You haven't seen anything yet," he gloated, and then he began pressing a line of hot kisses down the length of Arthur's body. Before he even reached the waistline of Arthur's trousers he was already shoving them down past Arthur's knees, boxers and all, before apparently abandoning the endeavor in favor of palming Arthur's cock and sucking the head into his mouth. Fireballs exploded behind Arthur's eyelids. Merlin's tongue deftly swirled around the head and teased at the slit, and Arthur may have made a noise in a register only audible to dolphins and household pets. Then Merlin pulled off Arthur's cock and just grinned, because he was a sadistic cockteasing bastard with a death wish. He let his bottom lip glide over the tip of Arthur's cock, pink and shiny and slick, then said almost conversationally, "Do you think this is a good time to negotiate a pay raise?" Arthur fisted his hands in the sheets to keep himself from throttling Merlin, if only because it would result in the worst case of blue balls in his life. "Merlin," he warned through gritted teeth. Merlin, however, just lapped a stroke up the underside of Arthur's cock and curled his tongue against the bundle of nerves at the base of the head in a way that sent bolts of lightning shooting to the palms of Arthur's hands and the soles of his feet. Arthur bit his lip and tried not to writhe mindlessly as Merlin remarked casually, "Or maybe my own office? That would be nice." Arthur groaned and said, "I'll make you the bloody VP of cocksucking if you want, bloody hell, just, god, Merlin, get the fuck on with it." Arthur didn't have to see Merlin's smirk, since he could feel it against his shaft. "You really are biologically incapable of asking for anything nicely, aren't you?" And, because Arthur didn't care one shred about his dignity as long as he just got Merlin's mouth on him sometime in the next ten seconds, he choked out in a voice was perilously close to a needy whimper, "Merlin. Please." And then Merlin took him in nearly to the root, and it was so good Arthur's back arched with a wordless cry and his heart shuddered to a stop in his chest and his brain lit up like a fucking firecracker. Arthur abruptly came back to reality to find Merlin's hand light on his face and the other tight around the base of his cock, Merlin's voice drowning out the white noise in Arthur's head. "Arthur, not yet. Stay with me. I'll be damned if I've waited all this time for you to go off in the first five minutes." "Bastard," Arthur said, but it came out as almost a keening sob. Arthur decided that if Merlin wanted to make this a battle of wills like everything else they ever did, then he wasn't above playing dirty. Grabbing Merlin's wrist where it rested against Arthur's cheek, Arthur deftly sucked two of Merlin's fingers into his mouth. "Fuck," Merlin said with feeling, his eyes gone wide and dark. Arthur's hands were shaking with need as he curled them into Merlin's hair and pulled him into a wet kiss. "Merlin," Arthur moaned into the kiss, barely drawing back far enough to get the words out. "We have time later, we'll go slow, just…no more waiting." Arthur was sick of waiting. He wanted this so badly, had wanted it for so long without even knowing he wanted it, and that somehow made it worse because it had been building up inside him like an avalanche, silent and overwhelming and burying Arthur until he couldn't even breathe. Merlin's breath was coming in hard, short pants against Arthur's mouth. "Alright, this one time," he breathed. "But you owe me." Then he moved back to Arthur's cock, and this time there was no more messing around. He set a hard, fast pace, sliding his mouth up and down the shaft and fluttering his tongue in a way that stole the air from Arthur's lungs. He slipped his wet fingers into Arthur's ass to the first knuckle and a ragged thumbnail scratched lightly over soft skin just behind Arthur's balls and Arthur was gone. He was ripped apart and put back together in a span of seconds, and apparently his brain was put back together wrong because his limbs refused to move and his eyelids wouldn't open and he couldn't do anything besides just lie there and breathe. Merlin assumed, quite rightly, that Arthur was very close to blacking out, and said, "Oh, no you don't. Arthur! Don't you dare pass out on me, you bloody git!" Arthur distantly recognized the sound of Merlin shucking his own trousers, however he wasn't able to do much besides let his knees fall open so Merlin could settle into cradle of his thighs, rutting into the skin still slick with Merlin's spit. Merlin's cock was rock hard as it dragged across Arthur's, still sensitive to the point of pain, but he clutched weakly at Merlin's shoulders. He felt Merlin's hips rolling into his, pressing him into mattress. He managed to shake one leg free of the trousers confining his ankles and curled his leg over Merlin's thigh, bare foot tucked against the back of Merlin's knee. It was all Arthur could do to just lie there and moan weakly as Merlin used his body, taking what he needed, what Arthur was more than willing to give. Merlin kept making needy little noises against the side of Arthur's neck, and Arthur turned to mouth hotly to the pointed curve of Merlin's jaw and Merlin came with a desperate cry. As soon as he'd finished, he grumbled, "I should have known you'd just lie back and make me do all the work, you lazy ponce." Arthur meant to say, You didn't give time to recover properly. I'd just had my brains sucked out through my cock, I can't be blamed for my actions. What he actually said was, "Nnuhunh." He tried again, but this time with better success. "Not my fault you're so bloody impatient. Didn't even get my trousers off." "Nobody was stopping you from doing it yourself, you know." At Arthur's meaningful eyebrow, Merlin said, "What, so now it's my job to undress you, too?" Arthur stared up at ceiling and silently considered it. Merlin, unfortunately, cut short that train of thought before it even left the station. "Forget it. I'm not bloody undressing you, Arthur. At least not until you learn the meaning of 'reciprocity.'" Arthur absolutely did not pout. "I think I liked you better with my cock in your mouth. You were actually quiet." Arthur had about a half second warning before his smirk got smothered by a pillow. If Merlin had any fears of falling victim to pattern and being summarily kicked out of Arthur's bed in the morning, they were quickly dispelled when he woke in the predawn hours to find Arthur clinging to him like a limpet and tracing lazy patterns across his hipbone. Smiling, Merlin kissed the side of Arthur's neck and fluttered drowsy eyes open to find Arthur already awake and watching him. Arthur smiled softly. "Go back to sleep, Merlin," he said, so Merlin did. Several hours later, Merlin had a much more unpleasant awakening. He was jolted to consciousness by the sound of shattering pottery and Arthur's muffled swearing coming from the next room. Grumbling sleepily, Merlin stood and wrapped himself in the duvet because it was far too early for complex tasks like tracking down his clothes. He lurched groggily down the hall until he got to his once-and-soon-to-be-again bedroom and squinted into the too-bright morning sun. Arthur was dressed only a pair of pajama pants and crouched over something on the floor. "Whadyu doin'?" Merlin mumbled. Arthur turned, and Merlin could barely make out—was that dirt in Arthur's hands? "Ah, sorry. Did I wake you?" Merlin groaned as if to say, Yes you bloody well woke me up at whatever ungodly sodding hour of hell this is, now explain yourself! Merlin rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand and refocused on Arthur. This time he was able to make out broken terra cotta shards amidst the small pile of dirt on the ground, and cradled in Arthur's palms was an uprooted Mortius flower. Merlin blinked at it blearily, bemused. Arthur, however, was a git, so he only said, "Well, now that you're awake you can help clean this up. Fetch a broom and dustpan." Merlin glared in a way he hoped communicated, You know fucking well I refuse to do any work until I've had coffee, and, You begged me to let you come last night. You don't get to order me around again ever. Judging by Arthur's soft expression, however, what Merlin had actually communicated was more along the lines of disgruntled puppy. Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed in a way that suggested any further interaction with Merlin would tax his patience to the limit. He grabbed the priceless (and unbelievably ugly) Ming vase from a nearby bookshelf and stuffed the plant into it, then replaced it on the shelf. It was only then that Merlin realized the entire bookshelf was full of the Mortius flowers from the rooftop garden. A quick glance around the room confirmed that all the plants had been moved into the room and were adorning practically every horizontal surface available. "What the…" he muttered eloquently. Arthur straightened his back and jutted out his chin in that way he always had when he was feeling defensive. "I figured if the garden was going to survive the winter, then it needed to be moved indoors." Merlin frowned. "And you decided my room was a suitable greenhouse substitute?" Arthur went back to gathering up the broken pottery shards and setting them on the shelf. "Well, it's not like you'll be using it," he answered blandly. Merlin suddenly felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Merlin wasn't moving back in? "I…I won't?" Arthur snorted and looked at Merlin as if he was particularly dense. "Of course not. Don't be daft, Merlin." Merlin slumped against the doorjamb, pulling the duvet tighter around his shoulders. "Oh," he said quietly. He realized it may have been too much to hope for, that he would get his old job back. If nothing else, they'd both proved that working with each other tended to be a rather volatile situation, so maybe Arthur thought living together would be too much, after everything that had happened. He knew they'd both hurt each other, and he hadn't expected things to immediately go back to how they were, but he'd at least hoped…He'd hoped. And…And even if Arthur decided that it was too hard, that he just couldn't…God, if he couldn't… "Merlin," Arthur said, suddenly right there in front of Merlin and cupping his jaw between his hands and looking at him with such exasperated fondness it was physically painful. "You really are positively useless before your morning coffee, aren't you? You won't be using it because you'll be staying with me. In our room." "Oh," Merlin said, and then, "Oh." He promptly wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and kissed him with all the elated passion he could feel lighting up in his chest, letting the duvet pool around his feet. And as he fell backwards onto the bed and pulled Arthur down with him, he saw out of the corner of his eye a jar, and an empty chrysalis, and a newborn butterfly spreading its wings. Two Weeks Later "MERLIN!" Merlin was in the kitchen making scrambled egg-substitute when Arthur barreled out the bedroom door wearing only black socks, blue boxers, an undershirt and a red tie draped across his shoulders. Combined with the stormy expression on his face, Merlin thought he looked bloody ridiculous. "Merlin, you daft clod! Care to explain why all of my shirts are suddenly pink?" Arthur shouted, brandishing fistfuls of shirts in each hand. Merlin turned back to the non-eggs to hide his sheepish grin. "I, uh…may have accidentally washed your favorite red shirt with the whites." He snuck a glance at Arthur from under his lashes. He was learning just how quickly that look could get him out of trouble. "It's not like you can't just buy new ones," he suggested helpfully. Arthur pursed his lips like he was holding back all the shouting he really wanted to do. After a minute, he simply let out in a frustrated huff, "Honestly. Worst assistant I've ever had. Why do I even put up with you?" Merlin smirked. "I can think of a few reasons." He cocked one eyebrow and licked his lips. Arthur's gaze caught on Merlin's mouth as Merlin ran the tip of his tongue slowly over his bottom lip. Arthur narrowed his eyes and dropped the shirts to the floor. "Right. Just so you know, when my father asks why we're late to work again, I'm blaming you." The next thing Merlin knew, he was being hiked up onto the granite countertop as Arthur devoured his mouth, and all Merlin could think as he stripped Arthur of his shirt was, Oh. Kitchen. Haven't done this one yet. Later that morning—much later, but Merlin couldn't really bring himself to feel guilty about it—Merlin gulped down the last of his coffee and trailed after Arthur as they scurried into the office. (Of course, Arthur wouldn't call it scurrying, because Arthur Pendragon did nothing but stride purposefully.) Arthur was so busy spouting off a list of errands for Merlin that neither of them noticed Morgana waiting impatiently outside Arthur's office. "Where have you been? You've kept Kanen waiting for over an hour!" "Relax, Morgana. I doubt he'll mind, considering he's waiting for us to finalize crushing his pathetic little company into the ground." "Fine, just hurry up, would you?" As she turned to go back into Arthur's office, she gave him a quick smirk and said, "By the way, pink suits you." Arthur scowled, then turned to Merlin and said, "And before the end of the day, you'll need to go buy me an entirely new wardrobe to make up for the laundry fiasco." Merlin rolled his eyes. "Right. I'll just pencil that in between our lunch meeting and my battle to the death with the bloody copy machine, shall I?" The corner of Arthur's mouth quirked up in a reluctant grin before his expression shifted into the slightly mischievous one Merlin had just begun to recognize in the last two weeks. "Speaking of penciling things in, meet me in the eighteenth floor supply closet in an hour." Merlin's eyebrows lifted and his voice dropped to a low murmur. "I thought you said you wanted me on your desk this afternoon." Arthur's grin was a little wicked as he leaned in and brushed his lips over Merlin's. "I don't see why we can't do both." Merlin couldn't help but smile into the kiss, which turned into a ridiculous giggle when Arthur rather unsubtly groped Merlin's ass through his trousers. Morgana's voice called out from Arthur's office, "You have just lost all future mocking privileges. At least I never put on a show for the staff." "No, you just watched them put on a show for you," Arthur replied, reluctantly releasing Merlin and heading towards his office. "Which reminds me…Merlin, make sure you disable the supply closet security camera." Merlin couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a brief, disappointed pout cross Morgana's face. Once Arthur and Morgana were headed to the meeting, Merlin watched them go and then headed to the office right next to Arthur's, unable to wipe away the goofy grin he'd had plastered on his face for the last two weeks. It only broadened in surprise when Merlin caught sight of the small framed picture setting on his new desk, surrounded and half hidden by the unicorn figurines he'd never quite been able to throw away. He picked it up, feeling his heart melt into a stupidly mushy, warm puddle in his chest. It was a picture of a rose in full bloom inside a simple black frame, and underneath the rose the caption read, Destiny: You were meant for me. Perhaps as punishment. Merlin smiled, then set about settling into his first day as the Pendragon Corporation's Vice President of Environmental Relations. Oddly enough, Merlin's new job still involved a great deal of washing Arthur's socks. fin

Entry tags: fandom: merlin, fic: two weeks notice, genre: angst, genre: au, genre: drama, genre: fluff, genre: humor, genre: prompt/challenge response, genre: romance, pairing: merlin/arthur, rating: nc-17 Merlin very gingerly lifted the steaming mug of coffee to his lips. He found that the less he moved, the less likely it would be that the army of angry rhinoceroses in his skull resumed their assault on his brain. "Merlin!" Arthur shouted from inside his office, and Merlin jumped, sending half his coffee down the front of his shirt. The rhinoceros in his right temple snorted disgruntledly. "God, what now?" Merlin muttered, half-heartedly scrubbing at the stain on his shirt. Arthur was being worse than usual today. Merlin knew enough about Arthur to know that he typically reserved this particular level of pratliness for times when he had especially difficult meetings with his father or for that one time that he'd been unable to avoid the run in with Sophia from accounting. In any case, Merlin knew that Arthur tended to deal with unwanted emotional stress by making everyone around him just as miserable as he was. Merlin was used to suffering Arthur's occasional tantrums, but his current raging hangover had severely shortened his patience. It was made even worse by the fact that Merlin had caught Arthur staring at him several times earlier that day, eyeing him with a level of scrutiny that suggested he was calculating the exact moment he expected Merlin to keel over atop his desk. Odder still was the fact that whenever Arthur deigned to speak to Merlin, he refused to look Merlin in the eyes. And to top it off, Merlin still hadn't found time to have his morning coffee! "Merlin!" Arthur shouted again. "I'm not paying you to sit around on your skinny arse! If I have to call you again, I'm taking it out of your pay!" Merlin groaned and shuffled his way into Arthur's office, mug cradled protectively between his palms like a security blanket. Or a shield. "Yes, Your Majesty?" Arthur threw him another of those looks that seemed to scream I'm not looking and Merlin restrained the urge to beat him about the head with his own stapler and tell him to stop being so bloody cryptic already. It wasn't like Arthur not to tell Merlin what was bothering him, even if what was bothering him happened to be Merlin. Actually, on those occasions he seemed especially eager to let Merlin know about it. "The company gathering is coming up next month, so you'll be helping Morgana to plan it this year. I'll have her forward the first list of tasks for you to complete by the end of the week. I also need you to pick up my new suit from the tailor's and there's a stack of files in my inbox that need to be copied. And for god's sake, do try not to injure yourself or the copy machine this time." The brief pause in Arthur's rapid-fire list of tasks was the only hint that Merlin wouldn't like what he had to say next. "And I won't be able to make it to lunch today." Merlin's head snapped up in surprise. Arthur hadn't missed a lunch meeting since…well, since they'd started having lunch together, during Merlin's second week as Arthur's assistant. Merlin felt his brows knit together in concern as he asked, "Is everything alright?" "Of course everything's alright," Arthur snapped, exasperated, but he still refused to look directly at Merlin. He rummaged through the files spread out on his desk and said, "Believe it or not, I do have more important things to do than babysit you during our lunch hour. You'll just have to survive without me for a few days." Merlin cast a narrow-eyed glare at the side of Arthur's face. "However will I manage?" he replied flatly. He left without waiting for Arthur's dismissal, squaring his shoulders as he took the stack of files and prepared to do battle with his arch nemesis, the copy machine. Merlin knew whatever was bothering Arthur had to be something more upsetting than usual, but he tried not to worry about it for now. He had learnt early on that Arthur's temper burned hot, but it burned fast, and he'd best let him have his snit and work it out of his system. It might take a day or two, but eventually things would get back to normal. Two Weeks Notice (3/5) The venue for this year's company gathering was Morgana's idea. Arthur should have known it would be a disaster the moment he sent Merlin over with his list of suggestions and she replied, "Not another banquet, Arthur. All we ever do is host banquets. If I ever see another roast pheasant I can't be held accountable for my actions." So, instead, she had come up with the brilliant plan that they have the company gathering at the Isle of Avalon, a video arcade for grown ass men and women who felt that behaving like twelve year old hooligans on a sugar rush was acceptable public behaviour. Arthur promptly blamed Merlin. Arthur's juvenile delinquent of an assistant was currently across the crowded arcade, inexplicably beating Gawaine's arse at Wii Boxing and having a bloody fantastic time if Arthur were to judge by the bouts of enthusiastic flailing going on. Arthur hated the fact that he could pick out Merlin's laughter ringing through the casino-like noise as if he was standing right next to him. Despite the fact that Merlin had clearly not remembered That Night, Arthur had decided that it would be better to create a bit of professional distance between them. He wasn't sure if That Night was simply an alcohol-and-loneliness induced mistake or if Merlin had somehow developed…feelings. Either way, Arthur knew enough about Merlin to know that even if he did want a tumble with his assistant (which he did not), he wouldn't be able to keep it casual, because Merlin didn't do anything casual. Everything with Merlin was one extreme or the other. Arthur wasn't opposed to the occasional drunken fumble with a co-worker, but he knew from experience that office relationships were doomed to crash and burn in a truly spectacular fashion. He'd learned the hard way with Sophia. In any case, Arthur was willing to take responsibility for having let this thing with Merlin go too far. He'd allowed Morgana to goad him with advice on "bonding" and the next thing he knew, he was offering to save ugly brown butterflies from starvation and affectionately teasing Merlin about his bleary eyed, zombie-like demands for morning coffee. If he'd maintained the proper Boss-Assistant relationship, he wouldn't be in this predicament. The only solution was to pull back to a respectable distance. What Arthur hadn't counted on, however, was how difficult it would be. He'd gotten used to having Merlin around. He never realized how often he'd felt Merlin's constant presence until suddenly, he was actively seeking reasons to stay away. He never realized how often his eyes sought Merlin out in a crowd until he was forcing his feet not to carry him across the room towards his assistant, meaning he was stuck here trying very hard to ignore the way he felt a little off balance without Merlin at his side. Arthur watched as Merlin did a completely ridiculous little victory dance and clapped Gawaine on the back, who promptly stepped aside to let Galahad battle the champion. Arthur quietly stomped on the urge to go over there and challenge Merlin to a game of Wii Fencing just to wipe that idiotic grin off his face. Merlin was really terrible with a sword. Even if the sword was technically imaginary. Trying to distract his attention from the spectacle his assistant was making of himself, Arthur pulled out his new mobile and attempted to get an update on the market forecasts. Word that Mercia Incorporated was courting merger deals with several companies had yet to hit the press, but Arthur knew that once it did the market would go haywire, and he wanted to stay on top of any changes. However, once Arthur tried to log on to his phone, the screen gave a strange sort of flash and blacked out. Arthur cursed his luck. Arthur's new phone was an incredibly expensive but untested prototype, and as such, some of the more obnoxious bugs had yet to be worked out. It was so new it didn't even have a model name, but Arthur had taken to calling it The Merlin due to its stubborn refusal to do what Arthur wanted most of the time. He was jabbing angrily at the buttons when he heard a familiar and entirely unwelcome voice call out with a cheerful, "Hello, Pratdragon." Arthur turned and glowered, offering the only greeting he felt appropriate given the circumstances. "Will, what the hell are you doing here? This is a private party for employees of the Pendragon Corporation." Will's grin was entirely too self satisfied for Arthur's comfort. His suspicions that Will was up to something were confirmed when Will replied, "Bayard invited me." Arthur steadfastly didn't scowl further. Arthur had invited Bayard to the company gathering in hopes that it would foster a relationship between Mercia Incorporated and the Pendragon Corporation. Will's company, Ealdor Enterprises, was one of the companies being courted by Mercia Incorporated for merger deals alongside the Pendragon Corporation."Apparently, Bayard appreciated my suggestion that a little direct competition could open his eyes about what kind of people he's considering handing his company over to." Arthur felt his jaw clench. Will's company was still small, but it had shown impressive growth, and with Will fighting dirty there was the possibility that Bayard could be swayed, especially if Will tried to play up the "morality" angle. Will had founded Ealdor Enterprises on a platform of ethical business practices when Will's father had been forced to take the fall for Enron-like levels of corporate corruption. It hadn't had anything to do with the Pendragon Corporation, of course, but that didn't stop Will from lumping all companies—besides his own—together as selfish and immoral. Arthur resented it. Maybe some of father's business decisions had been questionable, but they were always motivated by looking out for the company and its employees, and Arthur loathed the implication that he personally was anything but honourable in his business decisions. Naturally, he and Will had hated each other from the moment they met. "So tell me," Will said, voice dripping with smarmy sarcasm, "what does a soul go for these days at the Pendragon Corporation? I'm sure Bayard is dying to know." At that moment, Arthur was sorely tempted to kill two very annoying birds with one stone and shove his misbehaving phone down Will's throat. Then, just when Arthur was sure his night couldn't get any worse, he caught sight of his assistant rushing up to them, and he groaned. "Arthur!" Merlin called, cheeks flushed pink with childish excitement (and probably more than a little alcohol from the open bar) and hair a complete and utter disaster. "Arthur, there's this game, you've got to try it! You stick your head in this thing, and it's got handles, and you spin around, and it's like you're in this machine gun turret and you shoot down enemy bombers and they explode right in front of your face and—" Arthur couldn't quite stamp out the hint of fond exasperation in his tone as he said, "You do realize you're not actually twelve years old, right? And aren't you a pacifist?" Merlin froze in the middle of a rather interesting contortion of limbs that Arthur assumed was meant to demonstrate the contraption's workings. He blinked once, then said in a pout no grown man should have been able to pull off, "It wouldn't kill you to have some fun once in a while." "Your new boy toy is right, Pratdragon. It might do you good to pull that bloody great stick from up your arse, before it has to be surgically removed." Merlin suddenly turned towards Will as if just now noticing there was a third party to the conversation. He looked between Arthur and Will with a warily raised eyebrow, and Arthur sighed. He supposed introductions really couldn't be avoided. "Will, this is Merlin, my incompetent assistant. Merlin, this is Will, my mortal enemy." Will rolled his eyes and offered Merlin a handshake in greeting. "Keyword being 'mortal.' I at least hope he pays you well to do all the jobs us mere mortals have to do for ourselves. Although if not, I suppose the benefits make up for it." Arthur choked on his drink and Merlin sputtered like an outboard motor. Arthur wondered if it was too late to warn Merlin about Will's tendency to rile people up by stating whatever outlandish and inflammatory things fell out of his otherwise useless brain. "What?" Merlin finally managed, and Arthur doubted the flush in his cheeks was still due to the alcohol. "I don't—I've never—It's not like that!" When Arthur recovered enough from his choking fit, he added, "You think I—with Merlin? Have you gone completely mental?" Will shrugged. "Never figured you to be the discriminating kind." Arthur may have had some very fuzzy memories of a very drunk night when they'd first met back at Oxford involving some possible groping, followed by a surprisingly solid fist connecting painfully with his jaw, but he's tried very hard never to dig too deep into the events of that particular night. Clearing his throat, Arthur replied haughtily, "I learned from my first mistake with an idiotic dolt with more ideals than brains. I don't plan to make it again." After a beat of stony, infuriating silence, Will turned his attention to Merlin and asked deadpan, "So honestly, you're just withholding sex until you get your raise, then?" Merlin, Arthur was surprised to see, looked furious enough to murder an entire litter of kittens. "Right now, there's not enough money in the world for me to get on my knees for either one of you bastards." With that, he stomped off towards the bar. Arthur was more than half tempted to go after him, either to steer Merlin clear of any further alcohol consumption because the man was a horrid lightweight, or to figure out what the bloody hell Merlin was so upset about. But that would have defeated the purpose of keeping his professional distance, so he simply clenched his jaw and rooted himself to the spot. At Arthur's side, Will said cheerily, "I like him. You haven't managed to kill his soul yet." He continued to watch Merlin stalk away through the crowd with a thoughtful look on his face. "Fantastic arse, too. I can see why you hired him." Arthur's jaw was clenched so tightly he swore his teeth were moments away from shattering as he ground out, "Bugger off, Will. Before I have security throw you out." Arthur decided the best method of distraction for the rest of the night would be to actually do his job and woo Bayard with a mixture of entertainment and shoptalk. Bayard seemed fairly amenable all evening, though that might have been due more to the steady flow of free alcohol than the way Arthur kept slyly pointing out the benefits of a future merger. Arthur was steadfastly focused on performing his duty for the company when Morgana sidled up beside him with a smile that belied the nervous tension in her eyes. She lowered her voice to a level only Arthur could hear and said, "We've got a bit of a situation." There could be only one 'situation' Morgana would come to warn him about, and Arthur was painfully aware that he hadn't spotted Merlin anywhere in at least the last hour. Not that he'd been looking for him, or anything. Arthur manfully refrained from rolling his eyes and pitched his voice to match Morgana's, "Dear god, what's he gotten himself into now?" Morgana's eyes flicked silently across the room, and Arthur turned to follow her gaze. He easily identified Merlin playing some dancing game with another figure that Arthur couldn't quite make out in the dim orange glow let off by the arcade games. He was stomping and hopping about and flapping his arms like some sort of deranged attempt at flight, but other than that he looked fine. Arthur didn't know what kind of situation Morgana could have meant. If she wanted Arthur to rush over and save Merlin from making a complete fool of himself in public, she clearly didn't understand that things like this were a near-daily occurrence as far as Merlin was concerned. Arthur considered telling Morgana to sod off and let Merlin make a spectacle of himself in peace, but then he saw Merlin pull some sort of difficult-looking move that sent him tipping backwards and nearly off the podium. The figure at Merlin's side shot out a hand and caught onto the small of Merlin's back, steadying him. Arthur's brief flash of relief for Merlin's safety was overshadowed by the sudden, violent urge to rip the man's arm from its socket. Then the figure turned and Arthur caught a glimpse of Will's profile, smiling at Merlin and not removing his bloody hand, and Arthur's rage level went from 'dismember' to 'kill.' He excused himself from Bayard's side, citing urgent company business, and then stomped across the room to deal with whatever the hell Will thought he was trying to pull. As Arthur drew closer, it became blindingly apparent that Merlin was far too drunk to even stand upright, let alone wobble around on some dancing game's footpads like a large, gangly bird having a stroke. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "Arthur!" Merlin exclaimed, apparently delighted to see him despite the fact that only an hour ago he'd stormed away from Arthur in a huff. Arthur put his hands on his hips and felt disturbingly like a put upon parent. "Merlin, come down from there. I'm taking you home." Will sneered. "He's not your dog. You can't order him around and expect him to obey." "You keep your fat head out of this," Arthur warned. Merlin leaned over the railing and slurred in a very serious tone of voice, "Arthur, you shouldn't be so hard on Will. He's not as bad as he seems at first. Kind of like you, actually." While Arthur tried to figure out if that was a compliment or an insult—or a bit of both—the next round of the game started. Merlin gave a whoop of joy and was just about to once again start hopping about on the footpads like a jumping bean dropped in a bottle of tequila when Arthur decided he'd had enough. He reached out to grab Merlin's wrist, but he apparently had underestimated the level of uncoordination that even Merlin could achieve. Merlin spun in a wobbly arc, twisting his feet beneath him and promptly toppling off the podium and into Arthur's arms. Merlin just hung there for a moment, looking as if he was vaguely trying to determine which way was up, but Arthur's brain was too stunned to move past the thought of Merlin in his arms. It should have been an incredibly awkward position—and it was—but it was also rather…pleasant. Arthur could feel the hot flush of Merlin's skin underneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. He was surprised by how far his arms were able to wrap around Merlin's scrawny chest. He pressed his hands down a little harder and counted the ribs under his palms, silently wondering if Merlin was somehow managing to starve himself with his ridiculous vegan diet. Merlin's face was only centimetres away, and Arthur watched as Merlin's eyes cleared and his lips pursed slightly into a confused frown. Merlin's hands tightened marginally on Arthur's shoulders, his thumbs tucked snugly under the fold of Arthur's collar. "Arthur, what—?" Arthur released him abruptly and stepped back, and though he didn't exactly mean to shove Merlin away, he watched as Merlin stumbled backwards into Morgana and was barely saved from toppling to the floor by Morgana's scarily fast one-handed grip. Arthur couldn't quite bring himself to feel bad about this resulting in half of the Cosmo in Morgana's other hand spilling onto her new shoes, despite the livid glare she shot his way. Disdainfully smoothing out invisible wrinkles from where he'd had Merlin pressed up against his chest, Arthur mocked, "I know coordination's not one of your strong suits, but really, do you have any natural talents?" Merlin righted himself with more than a little help from Morgana and a bright flush rose to his cheeks. "Let's see…I'm not naturally rude or insensitive." "So that's a no then," Arthur deadpanned. "I have talents!" Merlin protested hotly. "I can…I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue!" He promptly grabbed the cherry from Morgana's drink and popped it into his mouth, presumably to demonstrate. Arthur belatedly remembered where a discussion of Merlin's talents had led them last time and decided he needed to get Merlin out of here before things got out of hand. Grabbing Merlin's arm in a bruising grip, he began hauling him towards the doors. "Okay, that's it, we're leaving." "You really are a bloody caveman, aren't you? I may have always figured you for an arrogant arse, but I never figured you for being the type to drag off someone too drunk to say no." Arthur cast an incredulous look over his shoulder, because what the hell was Will on about? Did Will think he was actually defending Merlin's honor? "Go back to your game, Will. Maybe this time try to find a little less hapless partner." "Do you think you could do better?" Arthur raised an eyebrow, because surely Will wasn't serious. It was a game designed for preteen girls. "I know I could." Will's response didn't miss a beat. "Prove it." Arthur didn't even notice the crowd that had gathered until they all seemed to settle into a shocked hush. No one, no one issued a challenge to Arthur Pendragon unless they had some kind of foolhardy death wish. Arthur narrowed his eyes, then propped Merlin up against the Mrs. Pacman and stepped onto the small podium. The hush of the crowd immediately erupted into excited chatter. "Bring it on, you sodding git." Will's smile was unbearably smug. "Brave words, Pratdragon. Have you ever even done this before?" Arthur's condescension was scathing. "Believe it or not, some of us have more important things to do with our lives than sit around playing a child's game." It shouldn't have been possible, but Will's smile actually got wider. "Right, then. We'll start you out on something easy first." Merlin was playing at the standard level, so Arthur grudgingly agreed to keep it set the same. "Prepare to have your arse served to you on a silver platter," Arthur said, and then they began. The whole thing was ridiculously easy. The steps were fairly repetitive and predictable, and given that Arthur had taken a lifetime of private fencing classes, he took to the rhythm of the music the same as he took to the rhythm of the thrust and parry. The only times he faltered were whenever he looked over to check Will's score, which usually resulted in a missed step, sometimes two. For the most part, however, Arthur had to refrain from rolling his eyes at the simplicity of it all. Then the final scores were plastered across their respective screens, and Arthur's jaw hit the floor along with everyone else in the crowd. "I lost?!" "The game doesn't lie," Will said, clapping him genially on the shoulder. "I hope you like the taste of failure, Pratdragon. You'd best get used to it. Now, if you'll excuse me…" He trailed off and flicked a glance over Arthur's shoulder. Arthur turned to see Merlin still sulking where Arthur had left him. When Arthur turned back, Will was eyeing Merlin like the prize in one of those claw machines just before it dropped down the chute and into his waiting hands. Arthur was overwhelmed with the sudden desire to punch Will's weaselly face in and shout, "Stay the hell away from him!" When Will moved to step off the podium, Arthur settled for crushing Will's bicep in his grip and growling, "That was just a practice. Let's do this for real this time." Will winced a little at Arthur's fingers digging into his arm, but his grin stayed plastered to his face as he said, "I'd love to wipe the floor with you again, but—" "You won't," Arthur said, deadly serious. Now that he knew the stakes, he wouldn't lose. He may not want Merlin for himself, but he'd be damned if he'd let this smarmy bastard get his grubby mitts all over him. Arthur grinned, baring his teeth. "Winner takes all." Will's resolve visibly faltered. Arthur's grip tightened. If Will backed out now, he was a coward, and Arthur would lose what little grudging respect he had for Will as a businessman. After a moment, Will jutted out his chin in what Arthur supposed was meant to be his game face and said, "Alright. You're on." They started by resetting the levels. Arthur upped his level to "Difficult." Will scowled and matched him. Arthur hesitated a moment, then raised his eyebrow in challenge and moved up to "Maniac." Will's foot hovered over the controls for a heavy moment while the crowd held its collective breath, then it settled back at his side. The crowd let out a collective sigh, either of relief or disappointment, Arthur couldn't tell. He was too busy smiling thinly at his preliminary victory. This time, Arthur was ready. He never let his eyes leave his own screen. The steps started out easy enough, but after a few seconds, Arthur became aware that it was only just a warm up. Arthur had always excelled at footwork in his fencing classes, but this was something else entirely. A sparring partner usually needed to stop and rest every so often, if only for a moment. But Arthur's feet flew over the control pads in a constant flurry of motion as he battled the game, the steps so convoluted he found himself contorting in all sorts of strange ways as he tried to keep up. His hands cut through the air as he desperately fought to keep his balance, and he suddenly had a greater understanding for the deranged flapping he'd witnessed from Merlin earlier. He felt a thin layer of sweat soak into the hair around his face and into the collar of his shirt. The crowd let out occasional cheers or shouts at the more difficult manoeuvers, but he remained focused and watched his scores climb. Will could not win. Arthur refused to accept the possibility. The image of Will's hand on the small of Merlin's back and Merlin's besotted smile flashed through his mind, and Arthur growled and attacked the footpads with increasing ferocity. It was almost a shock when the song ended and Arthur's feet stuttered to a halt. His knees felt a bit wobbly and he grabbed onto the handrail at the side for support. Then the screen flashed out the results, declaring Arthur the unequivocal champion, and he couldn't help the victorious shout. He turned towards Will, fully prepared to gloat, only to find that Will had somehow disappeared. Arthur thought for a moment that he would have to re-evaluate his assessment of Will's cowardice, but when he turned towards where he'd left Merlin waiting for him, he saw that Merlin was gone too. Arthur immediately suspected foul play. He shot a look over the crowd's heads and instantly recognized the unruly mop weaving its way through the mob, supported by Will at his side like some conquering hero. Arthur saw red. He brushed past Morgana and the rest of the crowd virtually parted before him like the Red Sea, falling over each other to get out of his path. "You coward!" Arthur shouted, hauling Will around by the scruff of his neck. Will replied with more than a little frustration and sarcasm as he said, "Well, you looked like you were having such a good time, I didn't want to spoil it by wiping the floor with your pompous arse again." Arthur didn't loosen his grip. "Admit it. I was winning, and you chickened out." Will scoffed indignantly. "You weren't winning!" "Yes I was! Merlin, you were watching. Back me up, tell him I was winning." Merlin, however, seemed quite content to stare at them vacantly and chew on the inside of his cheek. "Merlin." Will gave him a strange look. "He seems a little busy right now, actually." Arthur's temper was reaching heretofore uncharted levels. "Busy? What're you—" But at that moment, Merlin reached up and pulled the cherry stem from his mouth, holding it out proudly. "See? Told you I could do it." Arthur was fully prepared to let loose some of his encroaching rage, but then he got a good look and all his anger dissolved in the face of sheer, dumbfounded awe. "Is that a double knot? How could you manage that? You can barely stand up right now!" Merlin just grinned beatifically. "I'm magic!" Will's voice was even more amazed than Arthur's. "That's…really impressive, actually." A deaf, dumb, and blind man could have caught the speculative gleam in Will's eyes, but because this was Merlin, he simply increased the wattage of his smile and replied with an earnest, "Thanks." Arthur grabbed hold of Merlin's arm and unceremoniously began dragging him away towards the exit. By the time the lift doors opened to the top floor, Arthur had Merlin over his shoulder because the bloody idiot had apparently lost all ability to stand under his own power. Morgana, who had joined them after the fiasco in the arcade, went ahead of them and opened doors, while a semi-conscious Merlin mumbled what Arthur gathered were disparaging comments about Merlin's view of Arthur's arse. Arthur was just grateful they made it to Merlin's bedroom without Merlin puking spectacularly down Arthur's back. Arthur flopped Merlin down on top of the mattress with a bit more force than was advisable for someone in Merlin's state, but he refused to feel guilty about that. He sat at the foot of the bed and began removing Merlin's shoes with very little finesse, grumbling angrily, "Considering you're my assistant, I spend an awful lot of time taking care of your drunken arse." Merlin didn't respond, however, as he was already well on his way to being passed out. Morgana's voice was deceptively light as she asked, "Do you think we should change his clothes?" Arthur paused with Merlin's left shoe half removed and turned to find his stepsister giving Merlin a frankly assessing gaze. Catching Arthur's look, she shrugged and said blandly, "It was only a suggestion." Arthur rolled his eyes and went back to removing Merlin's recalcitrant footwear. "If you want to make yourself useful, go fetch a glass of water and some Paracetamol for the morning. I have a feeling he'll need it." Once Arthur had dropped Merlin's right shoe alongside its mate on the floor, he looked up to see Merlin watching him with bleary, glazed eyes. The calculating look on his face reminded Arthur far too much of the way he'd looked at Arthur just before the ill-advised kiss. Arthur cleared his throat and stood, grabbing a blanket from the closet, but he could feel Merlin's gaze like a warm touch on the back of his neck. "Arthur, what's wrong with me?" Merlin slurred quietly. "At present, large quantities of alcohol." Arthur unfurled the blanket and draped it over Merlin's prone form, tucking it in around his shoulders and trying desperately not to meet Merlin's eyes or realize how the action brought their faces closer together. Then Merlin reached out and wrapped long, fumbling fingers around Arthur's wrist, and that plan was shot all to hell. Merlin's eyes were glassy and earnest, his hair curled messily around his face and shining with the pale light filtering in through the window. Arthur thought, for a brief moment, that he could see what everyone else saw when they looked at Merlin and got those ridiculously soppy looks on their faces. "No, I mean…why don't you like me anymore?" Arthur froze, face close enough to see the watery moonlight reflected in Merlin's half-lidded eyes and Merlin's loose grip holding him in place. He felt like he'd been kicked in the chest. Morgana, of course, chose that very moment to come back into the room. From her position framed in the doorway, she glanced between Arthur and Merlin with her ever-discerning gaze and an odd mixture of frustration and pity flickered across her face. She very clearly wanted to say whatever was on her mind, but in an uncharacteristic display of discretion, she instead set the water and tablets on the nightstand before quietly exiting the room. Arthur swallowed thickly. Merlin really had it all wrong, as usual. The problem wasn't that Arthur had stopped liking Merlin. It was that Arthur was just beginning to suspect that he might possibly like Merlin too much. "Go to sleep, Merlin," Arthur replied brusquely, easily extricating his arm from Merlin's grasp. Merlin's eyes were already drifting shut as Arthur spoke, and by the time Arthur turned to close the door behind him, Arthur caught a glimpse of Merlin comfortably starfished across the giant mattress before the door quietly clicked shut. He leaned his forehead against the door for a half-second, just long enough to heave a sigh, before he turned away and found Morgana lurking at the end of the hallway, a curious expression on her face. "If you're afraid of Merlin leaving you, then pushing him away isn't exactly the best solution." Arthur's spine stiffened. "Don't be absurd, Morgana. You've been at those harlequin novels of yours again, haven't you?" He tried to brush past her, but she clamped a surprisingly strong hand on his arm. She looked up at him with the strange gleam in her eyes that made Arthur feel like she was seeing far more than she was letting on and said, "You can't protect yourself forever Arthur. It won't go away, no matter how deeply you bury it." Arthur pulled free of Morgana's grip and strode angrily towards his own room. "For once in your life, Morgana, mind your own business," he snapped furiously. "And you can let yourself out." When Merlin heard about losing the Mercia merger to Will's company, he knew Arthur would be thrashing around the office like a wounded bear. Merlin treaded lightly for most of the day, but when the sweet intern who left vegan brownies on Merlin's desk for his birthday ran out of Arthur's office in near hysterics, he decided he'd let it go on long enough. Stepping into Arthur's office, Merlin glared and said, "Is it physically impossible for you to act like a decent human being?" Arthur met his glare head-on and dialed his own a few notches higher. "You can't talk to me like that. I'm your superior, and you'd do well to remember that." Merlin threw his hands up in bewildered frustration. "I've always talked to you like this! It's never bothered you before." "Yes, well, that was clearly a mistake," Arthur replied in his haughtiest tone. "I've been far too lenient with you. If I hadn't been so worried about you making a fool of yourself I wouldn't have been forced to leave Bayard in order to make sure you didn't drown yourself in alcohol." It took several shocked moments for Arthur's words to percolate. "Wait, are you trying to blame this on me?" The look on Arthur's face could have lit kindling. "Considering I don't recall having to haul anyone else's drunken arse up thirty floors, then yes, I'd say that means I'm talking about you." If it had been anybody but Arthur, Merlin would have recoiled from the genuine, startling anger he saw in Arthur's eyes. "Maybe next time I'll just let your new best friend Will deal with you." Merlin felt his face contort in disbelief. It was true, Merlin and Will had gotten on surprisingly well despite their rocky introduction, but once Will had apologized and Merlin had opened up about his volunteer work, Will had seemed suitably impressed. If Merlin had eaten up the sparse praise like candy, it was only because he'd been suffering from its very persistent lack for quite some time. "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea," Merlin replied, tone deceptively calm. "It would be nice to hang out with someone who thinks I'm good for something besides polishing his bloody boots!" Arthur's jaw clenched. "You're forbidden to associate with that git. I won't have my assistant betraying the company by aligning himself with the company's enemies!" "Wait, so now you're going to start telling me who I can and can't be friends with?" Arthur looked on the verge of shouting something else, but then he simply turned to the files on his desk and said flatly, "Get out of here, Merlin. Some of us have actual work to do today." "Arthur—" "I said get out of my sight!" Merlin choked back the words threatening to burst out of his mouth and turned, slamming the door behind him. "You don't understand, Gwen. He's intolerable! And he's actually getting worse!" "Oh, come on, Merlin. He can't be as bad as all that. He agreed to keep some land undeveloped on the shopping centre project, didn't he?" she said, her voice muffled behind the fitting room door. "Well, yes. But only after he threw me in the lake. And that's not even the point. The point is that he's being an even worse arse than usual, and I've no idea why. It's all I can do every day not to stab him in the eye with my pen!" "I think you like him, really," she said, then added darkly, just barely loud enough for Merlin to hear, "Even if you do complain about him constantly." "I do not like him!" Merlin countered vehemently. "And if I complain about him, it's only because he's the most annoying, arrogant, selfish pratface to ever walk the Earth." Gwen's voice singsonged melodiously through the door, "Methinks you doth protest too much." Merlin hoped Gwen could feel the power of his glare even through the door. "You know, you've been insufferably cheerful ever since you got engaged." If his comment came out a little sharper than he intended, he doubted Gwen noticed. "Look, Merlin, maybe…maybe you just need to be patient," she continued, her voice gentle. "He'll come around, in time." Merlin felt his mouth twist in distaste. "Gwen, I don't…" His voice trailed off, unable to actually say the words I don't have a giant crush on my priggish arse of a boss. Mostly because he knew it to be a lie. Gwen's face popped into view over the door, smiling sweetly as if she could read his thoughts. "Yes you do. And don't worry, things will work themselves out. You'll see." Merlin raised an eyebrow. She really was being intolerably blissful as of late. "Like they did with Lance?" Gwen's smile turned into something a bit more sheepish before she ducked back behind the door. "Well…no, not quite…" she muttered. "Gwen?" Merlin was suddenly curious, and a bit concerned. "Is there something you need to tell me?" "Um, well, you see…I had to propose to him, actually. It's not like I think he wouldn't have done it himself, or that he didn't want to, because he obviously did, but he kept getting distracted and running off to Borneo to save those pygmy elephants, or off to West Africa to save that weird flower that looks like a 12-foot penis, or whatever, and I just…If I hadn't done it myself, I would have been waiting forever." Merlin could hear the self-deprecating smile in Gwen's voice without needing to see it. "So maybe there's a lesson there, after all." The door swung open then, and Gwen stepped out in a sleeveless white wedding dress, effectively stealing whatever reply Merlin had begun to form. She fidgeted a bit with her skirts and asked, "How do I look?" Merlin stared. She looked nervous and terrified and overwhelmingly, radiantly happy. She was undeniably glowing. "Oh, Gwen. You look beautiful." And for the first time since that phone call, Merlin didn't feel that small bitter pang of self-pity that had been tainting his happiness for his friend. He truly meant it, with all of his heart. Gwen smiled and took Merlin's hand in both of hers. "Merlin, if I hadn't taken a little initiative, I'd probably still be waiting for Lance to figure things out. Maybe…maybe all Arthur needs is a little push?" Merlin smiled and squeezed her hands. Only Gwen wouldn't think twice about listening to Merlin prattle on about his problems while in the middle of what should rightfully be a time singularly devoted to her own happiness. "Listen, Gwen, I'm sorry I've been such a boor this last month. Not a whole lot of people would put up with me like you did, and well…just, thanks. You're a great friend." A faint blush coloured Gwen's cheeks at the praise, and then her grin widened. "Well, you're still my maid of honour. Let's see if you're still saying that when you see the bridesmaid's dress I've picked out for you." Merlin barked a laugh, but something on Gwen's face made him suddenly very worried. "Wait, that was a joke, right? You were joking." When Gwen just turned and shut the door to the changing room, Merlin's eyes widened. "Oh, god. Please tell me you were joking." Merlin had meant to take Gwen's advice. He really did, but it was difficult to find a suitable way to work, "Arthur, you're an insufferable arse, but I think I'm in love with you," into a conversation about the many and varied ways Merlin failed at washing Arthur's socks. Arthur wavered between extremes. There were weeks when Arthur was running him ragged with chores all over town, and it was all Merlin could do just to find time to sleep and eat—let alone have enough time to work out how to have the most difficult conversation of his life with the most difficult person he'd ever met. Then there were other times when it felt like Merlin was on a six-inch leash, and those were almost worse, because Merlin barely had enough time to breathe before the next orders were out of Arthur's mouth. Merlin was trying to be patient, but they hadn't found time to have coffee together in over a month, and hadn't had lunch together in even longer. Eventually, Merlin just stopped asking. He hoped Gwen was right, and things would work themselves out in time. But when Will called and said he wanted to meet up for a business proposition and drinks, Merlin was lonely and haggard and desperate for just a moment away. He said yes. Merlin had learned his lesson by now (mostly) and limited himself to one pint for the night. He had worked through 3/4 of it so far, so Merlin was pleasantly buzzed by the time Will finally confronted the topic they'd been dancing around all evening. Namely, the fact that Will wanted to offer him a job at Ealdor Enterprises. Once Merlin picked his jaw up off the floor and recovered enough to speak, he stuttered out, "But I already have a job." Will scoffed into his beer. "I'm sure it's delightfully rewarding to run a bunch of pointless errands for Arthur bloody Pratdragon, but at Ealdor you'd be working with the civil engineers, making sure all their designs are as environmentally sound as possible. Don't tell me you'd rather skivvy for some pompous rich brat?" Merlin honestly didn't know how to answer that, so he didn't. Will sighed. "Look, Merlin, I know this must seem to be coming out of the blue, but I've been thinking a lot about what you said to me the other night, that whole thing about fiscal versus environmental responsibility, and it may have been mixed quite liberally with a bit of drunken ranting, but I think you've got a point. I also think you've got the type of vision that I—that Ealdor would need to make it work." Merlin tried to wrap his brain around what Will had just asked him. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime, but when Merlin considered the fact that he would have to leave Arthur to do it, it became considerably less appealing. Merlin privately wondered why he still felt such loyalty to a man who these days barely had time to look at him, much less speak a civil word. Hoping to deflect Will's attention as well as satisfy his own curiosity, Merlin asked, "What have you got against Arthur, anyway?" Will glared morosely at the bar top. "I know him. I've dealt with men like him before. All he cares about is himself and getting ahead, and he doesn't care who he has to step on to get there." "Arthur's not like that. We're…friends." Merlin frowned at his own words. More and more, he was beginning to doubt if that was true. Will voiced the thoughts Merlin wasn't willing to admit to having when he said, "You may think that now, but just wait. He won't think twice about throwing you to the wolves if it suits him." There was a sullen pause, and then Will continued tentatively, not really looking at Merlin."Whatever he's paying you, I can offer you more." Merlin answered quietly, "It's not about the money, Will." Will's glass clunked down to the bar top with a bit more force than necessary. "Then what is it about, then?" Merlin sighed. How could he explain it to Will if he couldn't even explain it to himself? Even on a good day his job left him miserable and exhausted, but then Arthur would look at him and grin at some private joke and Merlin would think, This is it. This is right where I'm supposed to be. Except that Arthur hadn't smiled at him in months. Taking a deep breath, Merlin said, "I trust Arthur. I believe in him. There's greatness in him, if you just know where to look." Will downed the last of his drink and frowned. "This is a chance for you to be great for yourself. Just…think about it, alright?" Merlin held his gaze for a long time before he gave a small, reluctant nod. He kind of hated himself for even considering it, but two weeks later, he still hadn't said no. Merlin practically leapt out of the cab, tossed a fistful of money at the driver and rushed through the doors to the hotel, frantically shouting into his phone, "Arthur, dammit, pick up! I know your phone's a piece of shit, but if you're not answering your phone because you're unconscious and trapped under something heavy, then why the hell did you dial me instead of Emergency? Hold on, I'm—I'm here, so—bollocks." Merlin clicked his phone shut, giving it up as a lost cause. The lift ride seemed interminable. Merlin rode it up thirty floors, his worry ratcheting skywards along with each cheerful beep of the lift as the numbers climbed. Images kept flitting through his mind, each one worse than the last. Just as Merlin's mind conjured up the image of Arthur bleeding to death all over that expensive Oriental rug that Merlin hated, the lift doors opened and Merlin realized he'd been holding his breath for the last ten floors. When Merlin burst through the door to the flat, he found Arthur face down not in a pool of his own blood, but face down and getting the tension worked from his shoulders by Greta, his massage therapist. Merlin's dread flipped to rage so fast it was staggering. "By god, Arthur, I hope you're paralyzed or dying from one hell of a Swedish deep-tissue-related injury, or I swear I'll—" Arthur's smarmy voice interrupted Merlin's burgeoning rant. "Greta, I'm suddenly feeling a pain in my ass." Merlin's rage frothed and boiled over. "I thought you were dying, you prick!" For one murderous moment, Merlin very seriously considered the logistics of making that true. Greta apparently took the look on Merlin's face as her cue to flee the premises, and she rushed out of the flat like she was desperate to escape World War III. Which, Merlin supposed, wasn't that much of a stretch. "Why the bloody hell would you think that?" Arthur said, glancing up at Merlin for the first time. "And what the hell are you wearing?" Merlin looked down at his shiny pink shirt and black tux, and the realization that he had just run across town looking like the freakish lovechild of a penguin and Liberace only made him even angrier. "I was Gwen's maid of honour, alright? And don't you dare say anything about it, because all you're wearing is a towel and you texted me that you needed me right now, in the middle of a wedding, and then you weren't answering your phone, and I thought, 'Surely, Arthur wouldn't call me out of Gwen and Lance's wedding unless it was an emergency. He's not that much of a bloody pillock,' but clearly I was wrong!" By the time Merlin was finished, he could feel how red his face had become and he swore he was seconds away from having steam billow from his ears. All Arthur did was gawk at him, one hand holding the towel precariously low on his hips and broad chest sprinkled with fine golden hair and Merlin's life was so wretchedly unfair because he was absolutely furious and he should not want to jump Arthur for anything right now other than to punch his bloody daylights out. Arthur's gobsmacked voice brought Merlin's attention back to his face. "You left a wedding? Why the hell did you leave a wedding?" Merlin clenched his fists and said very slowly through gritted teeth, "Arthur, why did you call me?" Arthur, not seeming to sense that he was treading on seriously thin fucking ice, simply replied, "I need you to take a look at my speech for the groundbreaking, put in some of those environmental facts you've been spouting off at me ever since we met. And I need you to put together my knight costume for that environmental benefit you and Morgana are planning. You'll need one too, of course. Something…servanty." "My god, Arthur. This couldn't wait? The benefit's two weeks away! Are you completely incapable of doing things for yourself?" Arthur's dismissive eye roll grated on every single one of Merlin's already frazzled nerves. "In case you've forgotten, Merlin, it is in fact your job to see to my needs." Merlin felt something inside him snap, and he heard himself say flatly, "Not anymore, Arthur." Arthur's brows knit in confusion. "What?" Merlin took a deep, unsettling breath. "I quit," he said, proud that his voice only wobbled a little. "The only reason I took this job in the first place was to get you to preserve some of the land from your money-grubbing developers, and I've got that, so now I'm done. I can't take it anymore." Arthur was still looking at Merlin as if he'd suddenly started doing back-flips across the room while professing his love for meat and big oil companies. "You're serious?" "Yes," Merlin replied, surprised to find that he meant it. "Consider this my two weeks notice." Arthur gaped at him for a very long time, and then his jaw abruptly snapped shut in a scowl. "No." Now it was Merlin's turn to be nonplussed. "No?" "No! I forbid you to quit," Arthur said, lifting his chin imperiously, as if he could simply command Merlin to stay like some bloody royal decree. Merlin felt his rage once again bubbling to the surface. "You've nowhere to go, no qualifications; nobody will even consider hiring you! You're lucky you even got this job. It's not like 'avoiding oncoming traffic' is something you can put on your CV!" Before Merlin could think better of it, he opened his mouth and said, "I've already been offered a job, Arthur." Arthur seemed even more shocked by this than he had by Merlin quitting. His voice was pitched so high he practically squeaked as he demanded, "What? With who?" Merlin swallowed, squared his shoulders and said, "With Will. I had drinks with him the other night. He offered me a job as their environmental advisor." Arthur collapsed into a nearby leather chair as if his legs had been knocked out from under him. Merlin was reluctantly grateful the towel stayed put, because he didn't think he could have this conversation with a naked Arthur and still escape with his sanity intact. When Arthur spoke, his voice was surprisingly cold. "And what did you tell him?" Merlin found himself matching Arthur's tone. "I said I'd think about it," he replied. "Though I suppose I know what my answer is now." "I suppose you do," Arthur said, clenching his fists. He stood and turned his back on Merlin as he stalked towards his room. "You'll be telling him 'no' first thing tomorrow morning," he called without looking back. "Arthur—" "That's an order!" he snapped, slamming the door. That night, Merlin didn't stay at the flat. He must have been quite a sight when Gwen opened the door to find him on her doorstep, because she took one look at him and pulled him into a hug. It may have been their wedding night, but Lance made up the guest bed without being asked. He'd never been more grateful for his friends in his life. When Arthur walked through the door to his office, Morgana was already there waiting. "What the hell did you do to Merlin?" "Damn it, Morgana!" Arthur snapped. "Can't this wait? I haven't even been in the building for ten minutes!" "Considering the first thing Merlin did this morning was turn in his resignation to Uther, I think ten minutes is more than enough time for me to figure out you've been a bloody twat!" Arthur spun on her so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "He did what? He can't quit! I wouldn't let him!" Morgana crossed her arms and gave him a cold glare. "Yes, well apparently he went over your head. So let me ask again: What the hell did you do?" "I didn't do anything!" Arthur protested hotly. "He's the one being unreasonable! I've given him a fantastic salary, free room and board, and now he decides to up and quit just because I've asked him to do his bloody job." "Clearly, you did something." Morgana countered. "Merlin cares about you, anybody could see that. He never would have put up with you this long otherwise, so if even half of that dim-witted brain of yours is in proper working order, you'll do whatever you can to make him reconsider." Arthur wanted to tell her, "Not bloody likely," but by the time she left with a scathing glare in parting, Arthur could feel her words itching under his skin like a rash. Arthur felt very much like he'd walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone. The thought of Merlin leaving was unfathomable. He tried to imagine it, to really picture going about the rest of his day to day life from now on without Merlin's constant, irritatingly enthusiastic presence, and he just…couldn't. Arthur frowned. Damn that man for worming his way into Arthur's life and shaking it up so thoroughly. If anyone had told Arthur a year ago that he would be friends with his completely incompetent idiot of an assistant, that he would harbour something like fondness for those gigantic ears and that dopey smile, he would have laughed in their face before promptly firing them for being quite clearly out of their mind barmy. But Merlin had become even more than a friend. He'd become indispensable. Clearly, Arthur was doomed to an eternity of having the worst personal assistant in history. Incredibly, he found he didn't exactly dread the thought of spending the rest of his life with Merlin at his side. Part 4 .

Entry tags: fandom: merlin, fic: two weeks notice, genre: angst, genre: au, genre: drama, genre: fluff, genre: humor, genre: prompt/challenge response, genre: romance, pairing: merlin/arthur, rating: nc-17 Arthur absently shifted the file in his grip, turning the corner to Morgana's office just in time to see Owain trying, unsuccessfully, to nonchalantly slip out the door. His hair was a mess, his tie was crooked, and the buttons of his shirt had been done up wrong. His shirt tail was hanging out his open fly. Arthur raised an eyebrow and Owain blushed fit to put a tomato to shame, then dashed off as fast as he could without overtly running, trying frantically to put himself to rights along the way. By the time Arthur burst through Morgana's doors, she was blessedly decent. (He'd waited a few moments outside Morgana's office, because the last thing he wanted to see was his wicked stepsister with her blouse undone.) She didn't even look up as he slapped the file down on her desk, too busy staring fixedly at her computer monitor. Arthur scowled, but before he could open his mouth Morgana said, "Did you know there's a security camera in the eighteenth floor supply room?" Arthur's frown deepened. He frantically tried to remember if he'd ever had any…private meetings with Sophia (or, admittedly, a few of the other office secretaries) in that supply room. "No," he answered, really hoping this wasn't going where he suspected it was. Morgana smirked. "Neither do Gawain and Galahad." Arthur's ire rose. Was everyone in this sodding company fucking each other? "That's what you and Owain were in here doing? Watching ill-begotten porn about your coworkers?" When Morgana simply shrugged and continued to stare at the screen, Arthur let out a frustrated groan and reached over to yank the power cable from Morgana's monitor. He caught a flash of the screen before it blessedly went black. "And really, Morgana, Owain?" Arthur continued, latching onto any subject that would drive out the image of the two interns going at it like rabbits in grainy black and white. "I should fire him, just on principle. I had hoped he had brains enough not to drop his trousers the first time you flashed your breasts at him, but clearly I underestimated his intelligence." "Or you underestimated the power of my breasts. I've been assured they're quite spectacular," she countered, grinning maniacally as Arthur grimaced and steadfastly refused to consider the impressiveness of his stepsister's cleavage. Really, Arthur should have known better than to get drawn into this kind of conversation with Morgana. She took too much delight in horrifying him to within an inch of his sanity. He always came away from their private meetings feeling like the inside of his head needed a good scrubbing out with the most powerful antiseptic money could buy. "Admit it," she continued, "you're just jealous that I got to him first." Arthur had been assaulted with far too many traumatizing images in the last thirty seconds to form a coherent retort, so he was left to sputter the first indignant thought that formed in his mind. "You did not!" "Three months ago," Morgana said pleasantly. Arthur eyed her skeptically, because he'd never known Morgana to date anyone longer than three weeks. Apparently reading his thoughts, she added, "We have an open relationship." Arthur narrowed his eyes and said in a tone that was not at all petulant, "He's not even that good." Morgana's expression reminded Arthur of how a cat might smile around a mouthful of canary. "Perhaps you just never gave him the right incentive to perform." Arthur opened his mouth to protest either the affront to his dignity or the truly terrifying images he was now being forced to contemplate, but Morgana spoke first. "Speaking of incentive, how are things working out with that new assistant of yours?" Arthur flopped down into the chair across from Morgana's desk and let out an irritated sigh to disguise his relief at the change of subject. "Abysmally. He's quite possibly the worst assistant I've ever had." "He can't be all that bad. He's only been here a week. He needs time to adjust." Arthur leveled Morgana with an incredulous glare. "Yesterday, he tripped over a network cable and catapulted his coffee mug face down onto his keyboard." "So? Accidents happen, that doesn't mean—" "Our network is wireless." "…Ah," Morgana said, not very successfully hiding her grin behind her hand. "Well, perhaps what he needs is a gentler touch?" Arthur eyeballed Morgana warily. "If you're implying what I think you're implying, the answer's no. You'd probably wind up giving him a venereal disease, and I fail to see how that will improve his work performance." Morgana's eye roll was epic. "I mean, perhaps you need to try an approach that doesn't have all the finesse of a crazed grizzly. Ask him about his friends, or his hobbies, or compliment him once in a while. Maybe offer to buy him lunch and actually talk to him, instead of ordering him about all the time. Find a way to bond with him. You might find yourself actually liking him." Arthur boggled at the thought. "Are you saying I should seduce Merlin? Have you developed syphilis and finally gone mental?" Morgana's lips pursed. "I'm just saying, Arthur, that it might be beneficial to develop a little mutual respect. For his sake as well as yours." Arthur was loath to admit it, but she potentially had a point. It was impossible to miss that Merlin and Arthur mixed about as well as oil and water. Most of this was due to Merlin's blatant refusal to show Arthur the respect he clearly deserved. Maybe a shared activity or two would give Arthur a chance to impress upon his assistant Arthur's brilliance and prowess, and Merlin would finally acknowledge that he couldn't spend all afternoon ignoring Arthur's requests in favor of looking at 'lolcats' and playing Bejeweled. "I'll take it under advisement," Arthur said, tossing the monitor cable into Morgana's hands. "And I'll be informing security that they need better firewalls on the CCTV feeds." Arthur turned his back on Morgana's scowl, but she called his name when he reached the door. When he glanced back over his shoulder, she was looking suspiciously coy. "By the way, if you're really not interested in Merlin, do you mind if I…?" She wasn't serious. She couldn't possibly be serious. This was Merlin. All the same, Arthur felt his fist grip the doorknob with white knuckles and his voice was dangerously close to a growl as he said, "Keep your claws out of him, Morgana." Morgana's answering grin was eerily similar to the one she'd worn when they were ten and she'd caught him sneaking handfuls of cookies before dinner. "Just checking," she said airily. Two Weeks Notice (2/5) "Hunting," Merlin said, aghast. "You want to take me hunting." Arthur was nonplussed. "Stop being such a girl, Merlin. It's good fun." Merlin felt quite sure his eyes were going to pop out of his head and roll around on the desk. "Arthur, I'm a vegan!" Arthur snorted dismissively. "It's not as if I expect you to actually shoot anything. Just carry my pack and ammunition. And for once, do try and keep your mouth shut." Hunting was a complete disaster. Whenever Merlin wasn't lecturing Arthur on the inalienable rights of cute fluffy bunnies to go on producing even more cute fluffy bunnies until the world was positively overrun with large-eared rodents, he was doing his best to scare away all the game. He crashed through the underbrush like a drunken rhinoceros. He dropped all of Arthur's crossbow bolts in a crash that sent a flock of birds into startled flight. And the one time Arthur had miraculously spotted a doe through the trees, Merlin had very loudly snapped a branch underfoot and then somehow managed to look both defiant and innocent in the face of Arthur's murderous frustration. Still, Arthur thought the whole thing was almost worth it when the next morning he made Merlin fetch Arthur's coffee in a mug that read, Meat is Murder. Tasty, tasty murder. Merlin's ensuing glare was priceless. In the end, Arthur decided just having lunch with his assistant would be a better attempt at this whole 'bonding' thing. He never really intended for it to become a regular event, but after the first few times, Arthur found he'd grown rather addicted to seeing what spectacularly hilarious faces he could get Merlin to make just by revealing the contents of his lunch. The (one and only) time Arthur brought a veal sandwich and Merlin threatened murder if he ever brought it again, Arthur had to marvel at the irony. Still, Merlin seemed equally amused by Arthur's reactions to whatever tofu-soy-seaweed concoction he'd thrown together, so it was really a win-win situation. The lunch meetings failed to improve Merlin's work performance, but at least they were entertaining. Two weeks into his job as Arthur's assistant, Merlin replaced the poster outside Arthur's office door. Gone was the regal lion, and in its place was a rather put-upon looking lion with a cub climbing all over its face. Underneath, the poster read, Nepotism: We promote family values here - almost as often as we promote family members. The poster was up for two days without so much as a glare from Arthur, which was very disappointing, and also hilarious. Arthur may not have noticed the change, but almost everyone else had. The rest of the office regarded Merlin as either crazy or brilliant. Bartholomew, the terrified intern, was convinced that Merlin had brass balls the size of pie plates. Then Morgana stopped by. She eyed the poster and raised one perfectly sculpted brow in Merlin's direction. Merlin just shrugged in what he hoped was an apologetic manner. (He figured she knew the poster's sentiment wasn't directed at her, but she was still very scary, and Merlin knew better than to piss her off.) Morgana stepped into Arthur's office, and there was a blessed thirty seconds of silence behind the deceptively placid closed doors before a very unmistakable voice bellowed, "MERLIN!" Merlin smirked, already beating a hasty retreat to the break room. Arthur's response to what he internally referred to as the "Nepotism Incident" was to place another, very large poster on the wall right across from Merlin's desk, depicting a Great Dane towering over a Chihuahua. This one said, Intimidation: No one can make you feel inferior without your consent, but you'd be a fool to withhold that from your superiors. Merlin had been in the office for five minutes before Arthur's Excalibur let out the irritatingly cheerful chirp that signaled a new text. He smirked when he read Merlin's words. I'm pretty sure these posters were intended as jokes, not royal edicts. Arthur's answer was to send Merlin for more coffee (it really wasn't much of an excuse, given that Merlin was something of a wizard with the coffee machine and Arthur had become a bit of an addict) then he changed Merlin's desktop background to a picture of one horse sniffing another horse's arse with the subtitle, Flattery: If you want to get to the top, prepare to kiss a lot of the bottom. Arthur used one of Merlin's brightly colored post-its to scrawl out the message, They're not edicts, but they're good advice, and stuck it to Merlin's monitor. When Merlin brought Arthur his coffee, he was wearing an obscenely large grin as he asked, "So, does that make you the horse's arse in this scenario?" Arthur scowled into his coffee. Perhaps his plan had backfired. Once winter hit, Merlin learned very quickly that whenever it snowed, Arthur would want stew. Merlin had tried on several occasions, and with varying levels of unsuccess, to substitute a hearty vegetable soup. Eventually, Merlin decided that drastic measures needed to be taken. Merlin kept his face carefully blank, trying to look harmless and innocent and completely above suspicion as he spooned the stew into Arthur's bowl. He probably failed miserably, but luckily Arthur was too busy scrolling through the latest market forecasts on his Excalibur-Blackberry-iPhone-thing to notice. He was so enraptured with the financial reports he'd already taken several bites before he paused, reluctantly shifting half his focus to the meal in front of him. "What kind of meat is this?" he asked curiously. "It has a very strange texture." Merlin took a bite of his own stew and replied in a cautiously neutral tone, "It's pork." Arthur scoffed, his attention now fully focused on the bowl. "This isn't pork. It's too spongy. And the flavor is all wrong. What is it? It's, um…" He took another bite and pondered. Merlin caught the exact moment Arthur puzzled it out, his face shifting from mildly intrigued to horrified realization. "…This is tofu, isn't it?" Merlin smirked and helped himself to another spoonful. "Stop being such a sissy and eat it. It's not that bad, really." Arthur looked like he was barely restraining his gag reflex. "Not that bad? Merlin, I would rather eat rat stew than this vile concoction!" Merlin frowned. "That can be arranged," he muttered darkly. "Look, I'm not making separate meals for the both of us, so it's this or nothing." Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you starve me to death, you'll no longer have an employer, and therefore you'll no longer have a job." Merlin didn't bother to temper the glare he shot across the table. "Believe me, Arthur, that's not much of a threat." Arthur's mouth twisted furiously before he spoke, his voice close to a shout. "Well maybe I should do you a favor and sack you then!" That finally pushed Merlin's temper over the edge. Throwing down his spoon he stood and yelled, "Go ahead! I never wanted to work for your arrogant arse, anyway!" Arthur stood and met Merlin's gaze. "Good! I'll be able to hire a decent assistant for a change!" "Fine!" "Fine!" "Arse!" "Moron!" Slam. Slam. Merlin fumed in his room for a solid six hours before his roaring stomach overruled his roaring fury, and he slunk back to the kitchen. He hiked himself up onto Arthur's expensive granite countertop and sullenly ate his stew, making sure to leave as many greasy fingerprints on the polished stone as he could. It wasn't like he'd be cleaning it up tomorrow. Merlin had finished half the bowl when Arthur's bedroom door opened and he stepped out wearing his pajama pants and Oxford Blue t-shirt, looking deliciously sleep rumpled despite the fact that his slightly bloodshot eyes showed he'd been doing about as much sleeping as Merlin had. It made Merlin want to choke Arthur with his spoon out of spite. Arthur spared Merlin an inscrutable glance then proceeded to completely ignore Merlin's presence as he puttered around the kitchen. Merlin ignored him back as best he could, but his traitorous eyes refused to obey his commands and seemed drawn to Arthur of their own volition. He spent an embarrassingly long time sneaking glances at the pillow creases on Arthur's cheek and the way his hair stuck straight up on one side, and then, very belatedly, Merlin realized Arthur had just prepared his own bowl of leftover stew. Arthur hiked himself up onto the countertop alongside Merlin, bare feet dangling above the ground and spoon in hand. Merlin was openly staring now as Arthur poked his spoon tentatively into his bowl and began picking out tofu chunks, then depositing them into the bowl in Merlin's hand. This went on for several silent minutes, until Arthur was apparently satisfied that all nefarious bits of soy product had been safely shoveled into Merlin's bowl and he took a healthy bite of the mushrooms and vegetables left over. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to make me a steak once in a while," he said into his bowl. Merlin raised an eyebrow. "No, I…I suppose it wouldn't." Arthur hazarded a sidelong glance in Merlin's direction, and their gazes held for a few moments before they both dissolved into sloppy half-grins. Arthur nudged Merlin's ankle with one bare foot and said, "Eat your horrid stew. You look like a bloody stick figure." Merlin's grin widened and they ate the rest of their stew in happy silence. It was a cold, rainy February morning when Arthur opened up his office to find a rolled up poster on his desk. He unrolled it to view the giant image of a luminescent pearl and the words underneath that read, Beauty: If you're attractive enough on the outside, people will forgive you for being irritating to the core. Attached to the poster was a neon pink post-it with Merlin's distinctive scrawl. Fine, you win. Consider this sufficient flattery for you to stop leaving BLOODY UNICORN FIGURINES ALL OVER MY DESK. Arthur smiled. He knew the My Little Ponies would finally get a reaction. "Merlin!" Arthur shouted into the flat. "Where's my brown jacket with the silver buttons?" Arthur continued rifling through the mess Merlin had made of his closet and waited for Merlin to stammer out his answer. When the flat remained stubbornly silent, Arthur shouted, "Merlin, you daft twit! My jacket? Where is it?" When Arthur still didn't get a response, he gave up the search and stomped his way to Merlin's room. "So help me, Merlin, if you've lost my favorite jacket, I'll—" But Arthur never got to finish his threat, because when he opened Merlin's door he realized Merlin wasn't there. Arthur could see a pot of water boiling on the stove, so Merlin couldn't have possibly gone far. A quick perusal of the flat revealed a shaft of light filtering through the partially closed trap door that led up to the roof. Curious, Arthur ascended the spiral staircase and climbed up onto the roof. Once he emerged into the warm spring sunlight, he spotted Merlin fussing with a rather large tent made of white netting that definitely hadn't been there before. "Merlin?" Merlin's head snapped up in surprise, his fingers instantly tangling in the netting he was trying to hang between the supports. "Arthur? What're you—I didn't—ah!" Merlin apparently lost his battle with the netting, getting it twisted around his feet and tripping in the mess. He fell to the ground with a spectacular crash as the sheet of netting and two of the support poles fell with him, one of them bouncing off Merlin's thick skull before skittering to the concrete. "Ow," Merlin groaned pathetically from his knotted heap. Arthur unceremoniously hauled Merlin to his feet and began the epic struggle to disentangle his limbs from the netting. "Before I met you, Merlin, I never thought miracles were possible." Merlin smiled blindingly at him, one arm contorted in a way that couldn't be comfortable. "Really?" Arthur allowed himself a small smirk and attempted to gently extricated Merlin's arm without dislocating it. "Yes, really. If I hadn't seen it for myself, I never would have believed it possible for someone with your level of coordination to survive this long without spectacularly killing themselves. Congratulations, you're a miracle." Merlin scowled and flailed his way out from underneath the rest of the netting on his own. "Care to tell me why you've chosen to risk your life on my rooftop?" Merlin scrubbed a hand through his unruly hair, making it stick up in even more crazy tufts. "Er…It was supposed to be a surprise." At Arthur's raised eyebrows, Merlin continued in a rush. "Look, I know you didn't want one, but I couldn't let all this space go to waste, and I figured if you didn't like it, well, it's not like you ever come up here anyway, and—" "Merlin," Arthur said, "Did you make me a garden?" Merlin's cheeks tinged pink. "Erm, sort of?" Interest piqued, Arthur pulled back the wall of netting and stepped under the canopy. There were two tables running the length of the tent, each lined with rows of small yellow flowers. There was another table at the end of the enclosure that was piled high with empty jam jars topped with cheesecloth, and inside each jar was a tiny fluttering insect. "So, maybe not a garden in the traditional sense, but…a butterfly garden is still technically a garden." Arthur's voice was stuck somewhere between incredulous and mildly insulted. "You built me a butterfly garden." Merlin let out an annoyed huff from somewhere over Arthur's left shoulder, and Arthur didn't need to see him to know he was making his patented face of pained endurance. "Before you open your mouth and devolve into full-scale prat, let me explain why this isn't the affront to your rugged masculinity that you think it is." Arthur crossed his arms and shifted his attention to his assistant. "Alright, then. Enlighten me." Merlin picked up one of the pots housing the yellow flowers. "This is the Mortius flower. Mortius balorus, actually. It only grows in the undeveloped area south of London. The area you plan to turn into a new shopping centre." "Oh, here we go again," Arthur groaned. It seemed like every time he turned around, Merlin was finding some way to bring up the land development deal. Arthur had even gone so far as to show Merlin the figures, to make him understand how very much money the Pendragon Corporation stood to make from this deal, but even that hadn't managed to shut him up. Arthur was about to open his mouth and tell Merlin to forget it because he simply didn't want to hear any more, but then Merlin's hand clamped over his mouth and Arthur was really too stunned to do anything but stare at his assistant. It was purely due to the shock of Merlin's impudence and had nothing to do with the warmth of Merlin's hand or the fact that Arthur could smell the lingering scent of soap on Merlin's skin. Merlin continued to prattle on as if Arthur hadn't interrupted him. "The Mortius flower is the only food source of the silver spotted skipper, which is a declining species. If you tear up all the land where the flower can grow, the butterflies will die of starvation." Arthur pried Merlin's hand off his face and said, "I still don't see why I should care." At Merlin's utterly crestfallen look, Arthur almost wished to take his words back, but he kept his mouth stubbornly silent. Merlin was nothing if not persistent, however, so he stomped his way over to the stack of jars and grabbed the top one, thrusting it into Arthur's hands. "You should care because you'll be wiping out an entire species! Forgive me for thinking that should matter. I thought you'd—I thought I saw something in you. Something that made you better—made you more than just another suit. Maybe I was wrong." Merlin stared straight into Arthur's eyes as he spoke, and Arthur could feel the challenge issued by his words. Arthur frowned and stood up a little straighter under Merlin's scrutiny. "My responsibility is to the people of my company, not some insect. Saving this butterfly won't put food on my employees' tables." "You're the one in charge of the project, Arthur," Merlin countered. "Surely there's a way for you to do both." Arthur spent some time contemplating Merlin's ridiculously earnest face. Almost as an afterthought, he turned his attention to the jar in his hands. The tiny butterfly inside wasn't quite what Arthur expected. It was brown, with white and orange spots on its wings, making it look more like a moth than a butterfly. It was also horridly disproportionate, with a large body and a giant head and rather too-small wings that beat frantically as it flailed about inside the jar. Arthur couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. He could see why Merlin felt such a connection to the ridiculous little bugger. "It's rather ugly for a butterfly. Shouldn't it at least be blue or yellow or something?" "It's an insect, not a sports car," Merlin replied defensively. "Just because it's not shiny and flashy like you doesn't make it any less important." Arthur snuck a sly glance at his assistant, who was busily studying the butterfly's uncoordinated flight path around the jar. His lips were pursed in a way very much resembling a girlish pout. "Why am I not at all surprised you've made it a personal quest to save a bunch of butterflies and flowers?" Merlin ignored the jibe and smiled. "I think she likes you." Arthur turned his attention back to the jar to find that the butterfly had alighted on the bit of cheesecloth underneath the place where Arthur's index finger had curled over the lip of the jar. He could feel its wings fluttering against the pad of his finger. When he looked back up, Merlin was wearing such a soft expression that Arthur had to stare and try to place it. It wasn't often that anyone looked at Arthur with such unguarded affection. Arthur's veins were flooded with an unfamiliar warmth. He cleared his throat abruptly and thrust the jar back into Merlin's grasp. "I'm sorry, Merlin. My primary duty is to the company." Oddly, Merlin's soft smile didn't falter. "I know you'll find a way, Arthur. I believe in you." Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him that even if he found a way, it would likely result in a loss of profits, and his father would never stand for that. Arthur was loath to admit it, but Merlin was rather good at guerrilla warfare. Merlin had launched his covert operation several weeks ago. It had started out as something fairly harmless. He would slip conservation articles into Arthur's financial reports. He signed Arthur up for several mailing lists, meaning Arthur's email and phone had been inundated with messages devoted to the silver spotted skipper. He brought in flower cuttings from his rooftop garden, "To brighten up the office." He even set Arthur's computer to redirect him to the skipper Wikipedia page every time Arthur tried to log on to Yahoo!Games (which happened a lot, actually). None of this, however, prepared Arthur for Merlin's grand stealth attack. Arthur stabbed furiously at the intercom button. "Merlin, where are the blasted reports for the Mercia merger? The meeting starts in ten minutes!" Merlin's tinny voice replied through the speaker, "They're in your top left desk drawer, and no, it doesn't." Arthur retrieved the folder, answering distractedly, "What are you on about, Merlin? You're making even less sense than usual." "I mean no, the meeting doesn't start in ten minutes. It's cancelled." Now Merlin had Arthur's full attention. "You cancelled my meeting?" "It was Morgana's meeting, actually. And she's the one who cancelled it." Arthur threw open the door to his office. "Why wasn't I informed?" Merlin smiled, looking entirely too complacent. "Because it only got cancelled about fifteen minutes ago, and I've been too busy arranging your other meeting to tell you." "What other meeting?" Arthur asked, suspicious. Merlin was being far too efficient. "The one I've been arranging. Really, Arthur, are you even listening?" Arthur glared. "It's times like this that I truly wish the stocks were still a socially acceptable form of punishment." "You just want an excuse to throw things at my head," Merlin replied airily. "We should really be going. Your helicopter is waiting on the roof." Arthur blinked. "You called in my helicopter for a meeting?" Merlin didn't pause as he continued to prod Arthur into the lift. "Well, I know how busy you are, and the meeting's rather far away." Fifteen minutes later, as they were hovering over the future site of the Pendragon Corporation's new shopping centre, Arthur glared at Merlin and said, "There's no meeting, is there?" Merlin's grin was completely unapologetic. "There are definitely advantages to being the person in control of your schedule. I'm surprised I didn't think of this a long time ago, actually." They landed near the edge of a crystal blue lake ringed by those familiar yellow flowers. The sun was shining as if it couldn't wait for spring to tip over into summer. The birds were chirping and insects were buzzing and a cool breeze wafted over the water and Merlin was prattling on about whatever it was he wanted to show Arthur, but Arthur wasn't paying attention to any of it because five seconds after landing his Excalibur had beeped with two messages. One was from his father demanding to know why he wasn't at the office and another from Morgana saying she'd take care of it, and oh, this day just kept getting better and better. "Arthur, you're not even listening!" "That's because I'm trying to figure out how to explain to my father that I was abducted by my personal assistant!" Arthur shouted, frantically texting Morgana in the hopes she wouldn't wind up making things worse. Arthur was halfway done when Merlin uttered a grunt of frustration and grabbed the phone out of Arthur's hand. Arthur could only watch in helpless, numbing shock as sailed in a high arc through the air. It fell into the lake with a soft plop. For a few seconds, it seemed even the birds and insects had all been stunned into silence. Arthur wasn't sure there were words in the English language capable of adequately expressing his rage, so he settled for stating the bloody obvious. "You threw my phone into the lake!" Merlin crossed his arms defiantly. "You can get another one!" Arthur's volume rose to impressive decibels. "No, I can't! That was an Excalibur! It was the only one in existence! And you threw it in the bloody lake!" Merlin failed to look suitably contrite. "Oh. Well…Now you know how the silver spotted skippers feel." Arthur felt his lips thin and his face go red with fury. His fists balled at his sides. He twisted one hand into the collar at the back of Merlin's shirt and began unceremoniously hauling him towards the water's edge. Merlin stumbled along under Arthur's guidance. "What? Arthur, just—What are you doing?" "If you're so interested in communing with nature, perhaps I should hurl you in the bloody lake!" Merlin frantically dug his heels into the mud. "Wait, this isn't—Arthur, relax. This isn't going to get your phone back!" "No, but it'll make me feel better." At the water's edge, Arthur gave Merlin a harsh shove and watched his assistant teeter helplessly forward, arms pin-wheeling wildly. He had a moment of smug satisfaction before one of Merlin's flailing limbs caught Arthur's sleeve and they both went crashing into the freezing water. The moment Arthur broke the surface he was already sputtering in incoherent fury. Then Merlin had the nerve to turn to him and say, "While we're in here, want to fish out your phone?" Arthur growled and shoved Merlin's head under the water. Merlin kicked him in the shin. By the time they dragged themselves ashore, they were both shivering and exhausted and covered in mud and pond scum. Arthur pulled the itchy wool blanket tighter around his shoulders as the helicopter soared almost silently over London. Arthur watched the buildings roll by, mostly to keep himself from looking at the drowned rat sulking in the seat across from him. Arthur had never known Merlin to be this quiet since the day they'd met. The fact that he wasn't speaking a word told Arthur all he needed to know about how upset Merlin was. Eventually, he heaved a sigh and said, "This really means a lot to you, doesn't it?" Arthur could see the sarcastic remark on the tip of Merlin's tongue, but Merlin instead simply replied, "Yes," and continued to glare sullenly at the buildings below as if they'd done him some great personal injustice. Another several moments hung heavy and silent between them, and then Arthur said, "I can't promise anything. But maybe I can look into…donating a portion of the land as a nature reserve. Or something." Merlin's stony expression slowly melted into a smile. "I always knew there was a heart buried underneath all that Armani," Merlin said quietly. Arthur felt his own lips turn up reluctantly. "Yes, well, you still need to do a great deal of laundry when we get home. We both smell like rotten fish." Merlin wasn't really sure at what point their regular lunch meetings graduated to actual restaurants instead of simply hanging out in Arthur's stupidly large office, but he was fairly certain it was around the time he threatened to plan a stealth mission to replace Arthur's Polish sausage with soy sausage. Arthur, of course, had ridiculously lavish tastes so they usually went to restaurants where patrons had to sell their first born child into indentured servitude for an entrée that would easily starve a mouse. Merlin complained about this mostly on principle, because the food was actually quite good. The wait staff knew their orders by heart by now, so as soon as they were seated Arthur took the lemon from Merlin's water and squeezed it into Arthur's glass, followed quickly by his own, because for some reason Arthur enjoyed the mouth puckering sensation. He eyed Merlin over the rim of his glass and said, "Care to explain to me why I spent half the morning convincing the civil engineers that you weren't attempting a hostile takeover of their department?" Merlin cringed around his mouthful of honeyed bread roll. He was hoping Arthur wouldn't hear about that. "They were planning to put a bloody great fountain in the middle of the lake!" He protested defensively. "Do you have any idea what that would do to the fish spawning cycle? Not to mention the water fowl population!" Arthur's no-doubt witty rejoinder was cut short when their plates were set in front of them: the braised lamb and grilled truffles for Arthur and the chicken, tomato, and cucumber salad for Merlin. Merlin grimaced at the expected but still unwelcome meat and pushed his plate closer to Arthur's. With something like exasperated fondness, Arthur shuffled his own roll onto Merlin's plate to replace the one Merlin had already scarfed down and said, "Still, maybe you should refrain from taking your coffee with you the next time I send you down there to evaluate the project estimates." Merlin sighed and continued loading his fork with the truffles from Arthur's plate to replace the chicken Arthur was spearing from Merlin's salad. "Look, that was not my fault. I trip over that table leg every time I have to go down there, so they really should have known better than to leave their blueprints in a potentially vulnerable position. Maybe you could go down there yourself, but no, you took one look at that feng shui nightmare and now you're too afraid you'll fall and develop a debilitating injury that will put a premature end to your illustrious future fencing career, or whatever your excuse is." Unloading the truffles from his fork, Merlin looked down at his plate, ready to tuck into his salad and said, "…Chicken." Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What? I beg your—" "No, Arthur. Chicken." Merlin pointed at the lump of meat with his fork. "Oh, right." Arthur distractedly speared the slice of chicken and popped it into his own mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "So I should warn the engineers you won't stop pestering them until they've removed the fountain, then?" Merlin rolled his eyes but couldn't help the way his mouth turned up wryly at the corner. "Yeah, probably." Merlin was dead asleep when Arthur burst into his room, shirtless and barefoot in only his pajama pants, and yanked down the covers on Merlin's bed. Merlin jerked awake, took in Arthur's state of dress and the fact that it was fucking 6:00 in the morning, and groaned into his pillow. "Oh, dear god, not another one," he moaned. "It's too early for me to be kicking out another of your trysts." Arthur ignored him and flopped down onto Merlin's bed like a giant…floppy…thing. It was possible that Merlin's brain was not quite fully awake. "It's never too early for a man to want his own bed to himself, Merlin," Arthur said, and Merlin refrained from pointing out that Arthur certainly had no compunction about taking over Merlin's bed the morning after each of his one-night stands. Though, he never took over Merlin's bed in the way that Merlin sometimes, very rarely, thought he might want. Just a little. Merlin sighed. "At least tell me it's a man this time." Arthur's malicious glee was all the answer Merlin needed, and he stifled a groan. He had a habit of unintentionally making women burst into hysterics before they were out the door. Arthur, of course, found this hilarious. "I made sure to wake her on my way out, so she should be dressed by the time you get there," Arthur said, and Merlin thought bitterly that Arthur had no right to sound so jovial at bloody sunrise, especially when he'd gotten laid and Merlin obviously hadn't. "How considerate of you," Merlin mumbled. "I'm sure she'll appreciate being fully clothed when she gets tossed out on her arse." Merlin paused to allow Arthur the eyeroll Merlin knew he couldn't resist, but then a thought struck his slowly awakening brain. "Wait, didn't you call me on your date last night?" He propped himself on one elbow and stared blearily at Arthur. "You pretended to be on a business call because you were bored with this girl's conversation." Arthur practically leered. "It wasn't her conversation I was interested in." Merlin collapsed back into his pillow, longing for sleep. Or death. Whichever meant he didn't have to leave his bed. "I'll go if you can remember her name." There was a pause long enough for Merlin to gather the faint hope of victory. He raised an eyebrow at Arthur, but the annoyingly sunny smirk never left his face. "You'll go because it's your job," Arthur countered. "You know, contrary to what you may believe, I'm not actually Pepper Potts." "Don't be ridiculous. I'd never confuse you with Pepper," Arthur snorted. "You look much better in a skirt." "Oi!" Merlin snapped, launching his pillow at Arthur's face. The prat easily deflected it, of course. "It was one time, and you swore never to speak of it again!" Arthur, now laughing and holding Merlin's pillow hostage, started shoving Merlin out of his own bed. "I made no such promise. Now go," he ordered with a rather forceful kick. "And don't make this girl cry like you did the last one!" Merlin grumbled as he stood, and he glanced back just in time to see a half-naked Arthur roll into the warm spot Merlin had just vacated and bury his face in Merlin's pillow with a satisfied sigh. Merlin knew from experience that by the time Merlin returned, Arthur would be asleep, his golden, toned skin glowing in the light of sunrise, his limbs sprawled out over the sheets as if he were as comfortable in Merlin's bed as he was in his own. Merlin wondered what he could have possibly done in a past life that would earn him this kind of punishment. There were good parts to the job and bad parts, and then there were parts that made Merlin feel like a ten pound lead weight had just been dropped on his chest. Getting to look and never, ever touch…that was definitely one of the worst parts. They were arguing over yet another horrid tofu creation when Merlin's arse started playing the theme song to Doctor Who. "Gwen!" Merlin answered the phone, triumph already in his voice. "Back me up, here. Arthur says—" Merlin abruptly came to a halt, standing frozen with the phone to his ear, the wide smile slowly melting from his face. Without conscious thought, Arthur rose from the table and was halfway to Merlin's side when Merlin waved him off. Merlin smiled again, though it looked decidedly different from his smile of a moment before. This one looked forced, and a touch brittle. "That's…That's really great, Gwen. Congratulations. To you both." Merlin turned his back on Arthur and continued quietly, "No, no, I'm fine. And of course I'll be there. It's just…I'm a little shocked, I guess. Three months is coming up awfully fast." Merlin ran a hand through his hair and Arthur saw his shoulders sag a little. "Right, I do know how badly you always wanted a summer wedding." Merlin sighed, and even without looking at his face, Arthur could tell he was wearing a rueful smile. "Listen, Gwen, I'm really happy for you. Give Lance a hug for me, and I'll take you both out tomorrow to celebrate. Yes. Right. See you then." Slowly, Merlin clicked the phone shut, and there was a moment of heavy, awful silence before Merlin turned, watery smile not at all convincing as he announced with a pathetic attempt at his usual level of enthusiasm, "My best friends are getting married!" Their eyes held for a moment, but then Arthur had to look away from what he saw there. "Right then," he said flatly. "Guess this calls for a celebration." He headed to the cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Scotch he'd been saving for a special occasion. He took out a couple of tumblers and poured three fingers into each glass. He didn't miss the grim set of Merlin's mouth as he handed over one of the glasses and said, very sensibly, "Let's get drunk." Half an hour and only a fifth of Scotch later, they were sitting up on the roof facing Merlin's shabby garden, the cold concrete wall at their backs a stark contrast to the heavy warmth of Merlin's head on Arthur's shoulder. The uncharacteristic moroseness had vanished from Merlin's face as soon as the alcohol took hold. He had given up his cheerful pretense and settled into explaining his view of the situation with the same kind of indignant, insubordinate tone he used when pointing out the many and varied ways he believed Arthur was being a stubborn arse. It was surprisingly comforting. "I really am happy for her…him…both of them. I am," he slurred as if Arthur had been protesting his words. "And alright, maybe there was that whole awkward situation where Gwen had a crush on me and I had a crush on Lancelot, but that was ages ago! We're over that. They're my mates—of course I want them to be happy! It's just…It's not fair! I deserve a wedding too, dammit!" Arthur practically choked on his Scotch. He raised an incredulous eyebrow, mind reeling at the thought of Merlin in a white dress and veil. "Don't worry, Merlin, I'm sure you'll make someone a lovely wife someday. As long as your husband doesn't expect any decent cooking or cleaning out of you that is." Merlin spared him a drunken glare before barreling on, working himself up to a good rant. "I think I've suffered enough in my life," and here he made a very demonstrative wave of his half-empty glass in Arthur's vague direction, but continued on before Arthur could properly chastise him. "Karma owes me a hell of a lot, by now! I'm not asking for Prince Charming, or anything. Just somebody who's nice, and generous, and clever, and has a great sense of humor, and has all the same ideals, and is a good listener, and brings me soup when I'm sick, and brings me flowers for no reason, and kisses well, and looks good naked…although, that last one's really more of a bonus than a requirement." Arthur rolled his eyes. "Right. Clearly, you're not asking for much." "And okay, so I'm not rich and gorgeous or anything," another vague gesture in Arthur's direction, and this time Arthur felt his chest puff up, just a little. "But it's not like I'm a horrible catch!" Merlin continued, outraged. "I've got these ears, but I'm not grotesque, or anything. And I'm actually quite good in bed." Arthur choked again, and then decided it would be much safer just to set the glass aside for now. "Not that I get much chance to practice. The last time I had sex was…" Merlin nearly went cross-eyed trying to drunkenly count on his fingers, "God, it was eight months ago, when I started this job. You remember Owain from marketing? You can ask him. He'll say I'm good." Arthur scowled. Now he really was going to fire that man. "Hmm. Maybe you should get Owain to write an advertising campaign for your 'skills.'" Arthur's tone was not the slightest bit peevish. Really. Merlin snorted then asserted with all the enthusiastic earnestness of the very, very drunk, "If I did, then I'd have men lined up around the block for me. I can do things with my tongue that would make your eyes roll back in your head." Arthur swallowed and tried incredibly hard to shake the sudden images that sprang to his mind. "Seriously, everyone would want me. You'd even want me, if you weren't such a prat." And alright, Merlin had clearly entered the delusional state of his inebriation. Because while Arthur could admit that there was a certain kind of idiotic charm about Merlin that some might appreciate, he was still Merlin, the worst assistant Arthur had ever had, and Arthur definitely did not want to bed the man, no matter how curious he was about the things Merlin could do with his tongue. And Arthur probably should have said at least some of that aloud, instead of staring dumbly down and ostensibly contemplating Merlin's rather soft-looking hair, because at Arthur's prolonged silence Merlin's head came up off Arthur's shoulder. He turned to fix Arthur with an inquisitive stare, head cocked and eyes glazed with alcohol. Arthur could practically hear the gears in Merlin's head fuzzily grinding through the alcoholic sludge of his brain before they abruptly came to a halt. "Oh," Merlin said. Then he grabbed Arthur's head and pulled him into a horribly sloppy, messy kiss. Arthur froze, dumbfounded. The kiss lasted all of two seconds before Merlin's mouth slid away and he slumped against Arthur's shoulder, passed out from only two and a half glasses of Scotch. By the time Arthur recovered from the shock, Merlin was snoring softly against his chest, and Arthur was steadfastly ignoring the way the breeze felt intolerably cold against the lingering warmth of his lips. He needed to haul Merlin inside before they both caught a chill, and he needed to unwrap his arms from his assistant's shoulders, and he needed to pray that in the morning, Merlin wouldn't remember a thing. Part 3 .

Entry tags: fandom: merlin, fic: two weeks notice, genre: angst, genre: au, genre: drama, genre: fluff, genre: humor, genre: prompt/challenge response, genre: romance, pairing: merlin/arthur, rating: nc-17 At first, Merlin didn't say anything about the few extra errands added to his usual list of duties. There was the crate of organic green tea shipped directly from China (and probably grown in Taiwan) that he had to pick up at the docks, then the complete library of vegan cookbooks (not printed on recycled paper, of course) that he had to gather from various bookstores downtown, and the bamboo-and-hemp robe (which was surprisingly warm and soft, actually) that he had to pick up from the specialty shop on the other side of London. But Merlin drew the line when Arthur sent him out over his lunch break to get the designer faux leather watch Arthur had specially commissioned from Armani. "I'm pretty sure giving me presents doesn't work if you send me out to pick them up myself," Merlin pointed out, voice steeped in frustration. "And just for the record, it sort of defeats the purpose of giving me eco-friendly gifts if I have to waste petrol driving all over London to get them." Arthur looked bemused. "Then I'll buy you a Prius." Merlin threw the watch box at Arthur's head. Two Weeks Notice (4/5) Merlin glared at the cup in Arthur's hand as if it contained battery acid, or possibly the blood of helpless kittens. Arthur stood his ground, but when Merlin turned his glare on Arthur, he winced. "Look, I didn't think the bloody thing would be so impossible to operate. You do it every day, and you're an idiot!" Merlin's glare intensified and Arthur re-evaluated his word choice. This was what he got for trying to do something nice, like make Merlin's morning coffee. Arthur thought of the noise the coffee machine had made as it died, sounding an awful lot like the horrible death rattle of a beast who'd had its plans for world domination foiled, and said, "If you ask me, we're all better off this way. That thing was bound to take over the world eventually." Arthur raised a hand to rub over his forehead just to check that Merlin wasn't burning a hole into his skull with the laser-like power of his glare. Merlin looked as if he wouldn't mind living under a fascist dictatorship ruled by machines if it just meant he got to have coffee. "Starbucks isn't even organic," Merlin muttered darkly. Arthur stubbornly didn't retract the steaming cup. "It's this or nothing," he said. Merlin's fury began to visibly waver. After a very long beat, he reached out and took the cup from Arthur's hand. Arthur only dared to linger a moment. He wasn't totally convinced Merlin wasn't planning to dump it over Arthur's head. He turned to head back into his office, and he heard Merlin call after him, "Did you at least—" "Yes, I remembered the soy milk," Arthur replied, not turning around. Once he reached his desk, he hazarded a surreptitious glance over his shoulder to see Merlin staring morosely at the cup cradled between his palms. After a lengthy contemplation, one hand moved the cup towards the trash bin before it stopped, hovering precariously for several seconds. Then Merlin brought the cup back and resolutely lifted it to his lips. The mammoth coffee machine was well and truly dead, but Arthur made sure there was a coffee setting on Merlin's desk every morning. The first time they'd gone out to lunch together in months was when Arthur forcefully dragged Merlin out onto the streets of downtown London. He had apparently planned the whole thing, complete with a vegan wrap for Merlin and a steak sandwich for himself. The weather was overcast and threatening rain, but Arthur insisted they walk along the Thames as they ate. It was all so terribly thoughtful and something that might even be called sweet if coming from anyone but Arthur, that Merlin kept wondering if he needed to run home and check for a pod under Arthur's bed. Conversation was stilted and tense and full of the painfully polite small talk usually found only on first dates. And the whole thing inexplicably felt like a first date. There was one horridly awkward moment where Merlin caught Arthur staring thoughtfully out over the water, breeze gently ruffling his hair, and all Merlin wanted to do was reach out and hold Arthur's hand, and it all just reminded him of why he was leaving in the first place. "Arthur," Merlin said quietly, interrupting Arthur's rant about some muck up in the accounting department, "it's not that I don't appreciate the effort. I do, but…I'm not changing my mind." Arthur's expression shut down to the carefully blank look he'd cultivated for difficult financial negotiations, but his knuckles were white on the railing at the water's edge. "Why not?" Merlin just stood next to him on the walkway, silently gazing at the same nebulous point in the distance that seemed to have fixated Arthur, and thought desperately, Because I can't have you, and it's time that I moved on. When it seemed apparent that Merlin wasn't going to answer, Arthur said curtly, "Fine." And then, because he couldn't seem to resist, he added, "But really, Will?" A rueful smile tugged at Merlin's lips and he shrugged, saying simply, "It's a once in a lifetime opportunity." Arthur's voice was unnecessarily harsh as he said, "He only wants you because you're mine." Merlin's anger flared, sharp and hot. "I'm not some toy you can refuse to share with the other school kids," he replied fiercely. Arthur's hands twisted as if trying to wrench the metal railing in his grasp, but his chin dropped to his chest and he said softly, "I know that, Merlin. Just…please." The request tore Merlin in two directions at once. A part of him—a very strong part—wanted nothing more than to give it another shot, to try and pretend that every day by Arthur's side, so close but just out of reach, watching him waste his potential to be something more, wasn't slowly breaking his heart. The other part, the part Merlin was just starting to listen to, kept telling him to get out while he still could, to find his own happiness separate from Arthur's. Merlin stared hard at Arthur until finally, Arthur dared to look up and meet Merlin's eyes. Merlin wasn't sure what he was expecting to see, but he knew at once that even if he had no intention of going back to work for Arthur, he couldn't take that job with Will, not if it meant hurting Arthur. "…Okay," he said. "But that's the last thing you get to ask of me. I'm still leaving tomorrow, so don't ask me to stay," Merlin stated, then added to himself, because I don't think I'm strong enough to tell you no. The only sign of Arthur's relief was an almost imperceptible loosening of his features. Their gazes held for a good long while, until finally, a strange look flickered across Arthur's face and he said, "When this is all over, after tomorrow, I mean, do you think we could—" Arthur's question was cut off when his phone rang. Merlin determinedly quashed the hope that had sparked in his chest and made his heart flutter against his ribs, because surely Arthur hadn't been about to ask what Merlin was hoping he would. The phone rang again. It was the tone especially assigned to calls from Arthur's father, but even so Arthur hesitated a moment before reaching into his pocket. He answered with a curt greeting, suddenly all business. He listened for a few minutes, nodding in a way that Merlin doubted he even knew he was doing, and then agreed to head back to the office right away before ending the call. "Don't tell me," Merlin said. "Urgent business?" "Afraid so," Arthur agreed with a half-smile. "Looks like we'll have to cut lunch short today. Raincheck?" Merlin grinned. "Fine by me, as long as you agree not to make me lunch ever again." Merlin gratefully tossed the remains of his wrap in the nearest rubbish bin. "And you call my cooking terrible." "You have no room to talk when most of your tofu creations taste like waterlogged cardboard." Arthur scowled, but there was the hint of a smile behind his eyes, and Merlin felt that stubborn spark of hope reignite. Arthur was more than a little distracted as he manoeuvered the halls to the CEO's inner sanctum. Sometimes Arthur thought his father had purposely designed the building to make his office as inaccessible as possible, in the hopes of warding off people not brave enough to run the gauntlet and thus unable to survive the full force of The Pendragon Glare. Arthur, however, could walk these halls in his sleep, and so he advanced easily through the labyrinth of twists and turns while his mind occupied itself with idle thoughts, mostly centering on his soon-to-be-ex-assistant. Though just a few days ago that thought would have filled Arthur with a disquieting kind of dread, the situation no longer seemed as dire as it once had. Just because Merlin was leaving the company, it didn't necessarily mean he would be out of Arthur's life. If nothing else, there was the possibility that they could at least continue to have their regular lunch meetings, something Arthur fully intended to ask Merlin about once he finished this meeting with his father. Arthur knocked once on the heavy, foreboding oak doors before stepping into his father's office. "You wanted to see me, Father?" Uther looked up from his reports with a bleak expression. Of course, the only reason Arthur could tell it was bleak was because he'd become attuned to deciphering his father's facial expressions over the years. Uther had carefully cultivated an air of fierce disinterest that worked well on outsiders and served to keep investors in line. "Yes, I was hoping to go over your reports on the shopping centre development south of London." He stood and came around to the front of his desk. Uther hadn't addressed Arthur from behind the desk since the day he'd become an Executive VP and proven himself to be the deserving heir to the company Uther had worked so hard to build. "I know I approved your plans to keep a portion of the land undeveloped, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to retract my approval." "What?" Arthur flinched as if his father's words had struck a physical blow. "It was a noble idea, Arthur, but it's just not feasible. It cuts too far into our profit margin." Arthur felt his stomach drop. "No, it doesn't have to. Read my proposal again. I looked into some new vendors, and I found we're being overcharged by nearly 350 percent. If we just—" "It's still too wide of a margin, Arthur," his father said, his tone broaching no argument. "Some of the more prominent investors are unhappy with the direction of the project, and we can't afford to lose them. With the economy being what it is, we need this build. If the company falls, we'll be left with nothing." Arthur refused to give up. He had too much resting on seeing this through. "There must be something we can do. We can find new investors," Arthur protested. Uther fixed Arthur with a stare as hard and cold as his voice. "My decision is final, Arthur." Arthur knew that was his warning to let it go, but he pressed on. "No, I don't accept that," he said, meeting his father's stare and drawing himself up to his full height. "I won't fail you. I can do this, if you'll let me." Uther's voice was nothing short of a command. "The only thing you're going to be doing is making a public statement at the groundbreaking ceremony thanking our investors." Uther moved back towards his seat behind his desk, a none-too-subtle signal that the meeting was concluded, but Arthur couldn't back down, not when he was about to lose everything for a second time. Arthur had never begged his father for anything in his life, but he came as close as he dared with his next words. "Please, Father. You can't ask this of me. Merlin would never forgive me." "I'm not asking," his father snapped, harsh and angry. "The policies of this company are not dictated by the whims of your errand boy." "Father—" "Damn it, Arthur, that's an end to it!" Uther bellowed, and Arthur finally was forced to admit there was nothing left to be done. He felt his fledgling reconciliation with Merlin slip through his fingers. "Arthur, breakfast is ready. I made scrambled eggs." Well, it was egg-substitute, really, but Arthur didn't need to know that. Merlin shoveled the not-eggs onto two plates along with a healthy side of turkey bacon for Arthur. By the time he'd poured the juice and Arthur still hadn't dragged himself out of bed, Merlin decided it was going to be one of those mornings and got a cup of ice water to go dump over Arthur's head. But Merlin was disappointed when he went into Arthur's room to find the bed still made, apparently not slept in since two nights ago. Merlin frowned. Arthur had texted last night to say he would be out late and not to wait up, but it wasn't like Arthur not to come home, no matter how badly the meeting with his father must have gone. The flat was large, but there weren't a lot of places for Arthur to hide. That just left one possible option, however unlikely it may have been. On impulse, Merlin grabbed his jacket from the hall closet and, upon seeing Arthur's jacket was hanging alongside Merlin's, grabbed it as well, then headed for the roof. The days were still as warm as ever, but a bit of a chill had begun to creep into the early mornings, hinting that autumn was just around the corner. Merlin's suspicions were confirmed when he stepped out onto the roof to find Arthur standing there in the same clothes he'd been wearing yesterday. If he heard Merlin's approach, he gave no indication, instead eerily focused on the distant skyline to the south. "Arthur, what are you doing up here?" Arthur turned his head slightly at the sound of Merlin's voice, but his body didn't follow. "I wanted some fresh air." Merlin refrained from commenting on the unlikelihood of that statement being true, given that Arthur had repeatedly stated that he had spent loads of money on a special air filtration system so that he didn't need to worry about things like fresh air. Instead, Merlin held up Arthur's jacket and Arthur slipped his arms into the sleeves with what appeared to be almost instinctive reflex, the action well-practiced between the two of them every day for the past year. The wind kicked up a bit around them and Merlin shivered. "You must be freezing," Merlin commented mildly, taking one of Arthur's hands between his and trying to rub some warmth into the frozen skin. "Arthur, your hands are like ice! Have you been out here all night?" Merlin continued to vigorously rub Arthur's hand between his, pressing his fingers to Arthur's palm as he tried to bleed some of his warmth into Arthur. Then Arthur's fingers slowly curled and twined with Merlin's. For a moment, Merlin felt a flash of heat where their skin touched. He was sure Arthur must have noticed, but when he looked up to Arthur's face, Merlin found Arthur's expression to be almost unbearably sad. "I…I made eggs," Merlin said lamely. "I hope it's real eggs this time, and not those terrible fake eggs." Arthur's tone was appropriately disparaging, but that look of sadness never left his eyes. A long moment passed, and then Arthur brushed the pad of his thumb lightly over Merlin's knuckles before dropping his hand. "What will you do with your garden?" It took Merlin's thoughts a moment to catch up. "Oh, well, it's technically your garden, really, so I…I was thinking I'd leave it here, actually." Arthur's gaze shifted over Merlin's shoulder to fix on the garden behind him, and Merlin added, "But you've got to promise to take care of them. The new butterflies should be emerging soon, but the flowers still need fertilizer, and water of course, every day, and make sure you—" "I'll hire someone." The corner of Arthur's mouth quirked up, but Merlin noticed it didn't quite reach his eyes. Merlin ignored Arthur's uncharacteristic moroseness and tried to shift Arthur's mood to more familiar territory. "It's not like you're incapable of doing your own chores," Merlin chided. "Though I suppose you do have a tendency to muck things up if left to your own devices." Arthur raised one haughty eyebrow. "At least I'm not an insufferable know-it-all." Merlin raised an eyebrow to match. "No, you're just an insufferable prat." This time, when Arthur smiled, it felt more real. "I find you…annoying." Arthur's tone was so unbearably fond that Merlin momentarily lost his ability for rational speech and only stuttered, "Yes, well. Likewise." Arthur's expression briefly brightened before settling into something a bit softer. "I'm glad you're here, Merlin." Merlin blinked. "Where else would I be?" Some of the sadness from earlier crept back into Arthur's gaze just before it shifted to once again look out over the city. "Well, after tomorrow…" "Oh. Right… tomorrow." Merlin instantly felt a bit silly. Of course he wouldn't be expected to see Arthur again after tomorrow, but he found he'd been hoping all the same. But this was what he'd wanted, to be away from Arthur's constant, thankless demands and his own pathetic attraction. Merlin tried to sound more cheerful than he felt as he said, "Tomorrow I need to look at your speech, polish your costume for the benefit, then I'll be out of your life forever." Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin saw a muscle in Arthur's jaw twitch. A moment later, Arthur's voice was all business as he said, "Listen, I need to tell you something. I—" Arthur paused and chanced a look at Merlin, his shoulders slumping a little as their eyes caught briefly. "I'm sorry it's been so unbearable for you these last few months," he finished, looking away again. Merlin shrugged, trying to convince himself it didn't hurt that Arthur's apology was too little, too late. "Not at all. I'm looking forward to going back to The Smithy. I've missed it." Arthur swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Then I guess it's good you'll be leaving soon." Arthur sounded like he meant the exact opposite of that. Merlin quietly echoed the sentiment. "Yeah, I guess so." Arthur should have known better than to let Morgana plan the benefit ball. Someday, her extravagant tastes and love of melodramatic romance novels (which Arthur had found hidden under her bed as a teenager) was going to be the death of him, if for no other reason than the fact that he would die of embarrassment from being in her proximity. He had a sneaking suspicion tonight would be that night. The ballroom of the Camelot Hotel was done up to look like the massive banquet hall of a medieval castle, with tapestries and torches and medieval costumes and court jesters and minstrels, and how the hell Morgana had talked their father into wearing a crown for the event Arthur hadn't a bloody clue. Arthur himself was dressed as a knight, in shining armor and chain mail. It was ridiculously heavy but when it caught the firelight it made him look quite dashing, if he did say so himself. Besides, he got to carry around an actual, real sword all night, and he'd had a great deal of fun earlier twirling it around and listening to the 'swish' sound it made as it cut through the air. Arthur eyed the absurd, completely out of place disco ball hanging from the crystal chandelier on the ceiling as it spun lazily and caused dim spots of light to go dancing across fire lit tapestries. Then his gaze drifted to the figure standing under the ball, spots of light twinkling over the dark hair and pale complexion of Arthur's assistant, and Arthur was suddenly knocked off his feet by a wave of blinding, naked want. Merlin was gazing about the room with the kind of big-eyed amazement that seemed to pervade his entire presence, but for once Arthur was grateful for his assistant's constant air of distraction. He hadn't caught sight of Arthur yet, so he didn't see Arthur staring at him in slack-jawed wonder. Merlin was wearing a simple tunic with a red silk doublet, the lacings pulled tight across his chest to fit his lean form, a leather belt wrapped around his narrow hips. Sleek black leggings melded into black leather boots that covered slender calves, and Arthur wondered why the hell he'd never noticed before just how incredibly long his assistant's legs really were. Arthur felt like he was seeing Merlin for the first time, but at the same time there was something incredibly familiar and right about all this. Merlin's eyes found him, and a wide smile blossomed across his assistant's face. At that moment something hidden in the back of Arthur's mind, something fundamental that had been lingering in his chest since their first meeting, finally clicked into place. Merlin caught Arthur staring and looked down at himself, then shrugged one shoulder questioningly. The small movement drew Arthur's eye to the fit of the doublet across Merlin's shoulders, but even as he felt his mouth go dry he knew what Merlin meant by the gesture was an innocent, "How do I look?" Arthur licked his lips and swallowed hard, trying to manage any expression besides stunned awe. He allowed his gaze a few more moments' helpless indulgence before he offered a small nod. Merlin's pleased smile lit up the room. Arthur didn't know who moved first, but the next thing he knew they were crossing the floor towards one another as if locked in a trance; Arthur dodging and sidestepping anyone who crossed his path without taking his eyes off Merlin, like he might disappear if Arthur looked away. Once he was within arm's reach Arthur noted that the lacings of the shirt and doublet were open at the neck, revealing the delicate hollow where Merlin's collarbones met, and Arthur had to stop himself from reaching out to trace the dip with his fingers, to see if the skin there was as soft as it looked. "Merlin, you look—" Arthur clamped his mouth shut on the rest of the thought in an attempt to keep himself from behaving like more of a besotted fool than he already was. Merlin's grin turned self deprecating and he took another glance down at himself. "It's not too much? I know you said 'servanty,' but I figured it's a party, so—" "No. No, it's—" Arthur cleared his throat and tried to sound as dismissive as possible. "It'll do." Merlin's smile curved into a smirk as he said, "Well, you haven't seen the whole outfit," and produced a giant, red, feathered monstrosity that he promptly set upon his head. Arthur let out a startled huff of laughter which Merlin matched, but then Arthur found himself reaching out to pull the appalling hat off of Merlin's head. "Any other day, the role of Court Jester would fit you admirably," he said, smoothing out Merlin's ruffled hair with fingers that seemed to have developed a mind of their own. "But tonight, I think…" Arthur trailed off as his focus was captured by the silky black lock between his thumb and forefinger. He let his hand slide lower until his thumb grazed the very edge of Merlin's cheekbone, resting there, and a tiny intake of breath alerted Arthur to the fact that he had probably taken the moment far beyond the accepted levels of propriety allowed between a boss and his assistant. But when he flicked his eyes back to Merlin's face, Merlin was grinning, wide and surprised and happy in a way that Arthur hadn't seen on him in a long time. Something indefinable swelled in Arthur's chest. The air hung heavy and charged between them, and Arthur felt his blood rushing through his veins at near warp speed. Merlin's gaze dropped to Arthur's lips at the same time Arthur leaned incrementally closer. "Merlin!" an unwelcome and far too jovial voice called out to them. Arthur jerked his hand away from Merlin's face, breaking the moment just as Will drew close. "My god, you look fantastic!" Will said with open admiration, passing a brief glance over Merlin from head to toe. He then had the gall to reach up and trace the fine gold embroidery near the collar of the doublet. Arthur's hand twitched before he managed to reign in the overwhelming impulse to draw his sword and club Will's thick head with the flat of the blade. Arthur flicked a look back to Merlin to find his assistant's eyes were still locked on Arthur's face, and Merlin's grin was far too shrewd for Arthur's comfort. Will finally seemed to grasp that nobody's attention was on him and said haltingly, "I'm sorry, did I interrupt something important?" "No," Arthur started, then coughed and tried to sound a little less like he'd been caught having very impure inclinations towards his assistant. "No, of course not. Just, you know…business." Merlin was still looking at Arthur with eyes that held a knowing glint and amusement and promise, such promise that Arthur's fingers twitched again, this time with the desire to drag his assistant to the nearest darkened corner and do everything in his power to remove that insubordinate smirk from his face. "It's nothing that we can't finish later," Merlin added, and Arthur's heart did a somersault inside his chest. "Oh, good," Will said, sounding relieved. "For a minute there, I thought you might be discussing the land development fiasco." That, apparently, was enough to tear Merlin's eyes away to fix pointedly on Will. Arthur, however, found himself suddenly paralyzed, his chest filled with cold lead, forced to watch Merlin's features as the carpet was ripped out right under his feet. "What?" Merlin asked, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows. "I know it hasn't officially been announced yet, but I just overheard two of your investors discussing it. They sounded pretty relieved that the nature reserve donation had been rescinded." Merlin stared at Will in incredulous, numb shock for a good five seconds, and then his features crumpled into some bizarre mix of disappointment and fury that only Merlin could have pulled off. When he turned that look on Arthur, it struck like a physical blow. "Is that true?" Arthur's stomach gave a particularly violent and painful twist because god, it had only taken a moment for everything to come together then fall apart before his eyes, and he would give anything, anything, to get Merlin to look at him the way he had been less than thirty seconds ago. "Merlin," he said quietly, apology already forming on his lips. But Merlin just took a hasty step back, and Arthur didn't even realize he'd moved forward until Merlin held up his hands as if to keep Arthur at bay, jaw tight and eyes burning with betrayal. "I can't believe—You said—" "I told you I couldn't promise anything, Merlin." Arthur didn't even care that a panicked edge had started to creep into his voice as Merlin took another distancing step back. He reached out a hand to wrap around Merlin's upper arm, the silk warm and soft beneath his fingers. "Merlin, please. Let me explain." Merlin wrenched his arm away, his expression morphing into a determined sneer that looked completely out of place on Merlin's features. "Don't bother," he spat. "I wouldn't trust anything you had to say to me, anyway." And with that, Merlin turned on his heel and stalked off, Arthur's eyes losing him as he disappeared into the crowd. Will had been standing silent witness to the whole exchange, but he chose that moment to try to take off after Merlin like some conquering hero. Arthur's hand twisted in the shoulder of Will's shirt and he wrenched Will back in place with a fierce tug. Will's eyes widened, but he stood his ground. Arthur swallowed past the angry lump in his throat and said, slowly, "That was a low blow, Will." Will sneered dismissively. "Oh, come down off your moral high horse. You did this to yourself. Merlin's well shot of you, if you ask me." Arthur's fist shot out and connected to Will's jaw with a solid crack. The next thing Arthur knew he was shaking off the hands of the three men holding him back, Will was cradling his jaw like the pansy he was, and Arthur was storming away, making sure to head in the opposite direction he'd seen Merlin leave. Fuck Merlin. Fuck him and his stupid face and his ridiculous grin and his damned coffee and the way his hair curled around his too-large ears and his idiotic, self-righteous arse. He really was the worst bloody assistant Arthur had ever had. Arthur was lucky he was never going to be seeing Merlin again after tomorrow. Arthur was rather unsurprised when that thought didn't make him feel any better. At all. Merlin had commandeered an entire bottle of the most expensive champagne he could find and was well on his way to getting righteously sloshed in a back hallway when Will found him. "Don't say it," Merlin warned, brandishing the bottle like a weapon. "If you dare say 'I told you so,' I will break this bottle over your fat head." Will raised both eyebrows. "I wasn't going to say that." "Yes, you were. Don't lie," Merlin countered belligerently, then downed another healthy swig from the bottle. "Arthur's a liar. I hate liars. They lie. I'm glad I don't work for him anymore," Merlin concluded vehemently. Maybe if he said it strongly enough, it would make his chest stop hurting. Will held his hands in front of him as if warding off Merlin's imminent attack. "Alright, maybe I would. But I promise I won't, if only because you're kind of bloody terrifying right now." Abruptly, all the fight went out of Merlin and he sagged against the wall. "I thought he could be different. I thought…" I thought he could be someone greater than he is. "I don't know what I thought." Will settled against the wall next to Merlin, taking the bottle from his lax fingers and tipping it back to his own lips. He downed a healthy three swallows and passed it back to Merlin, then said, "C'mon, mate. Let's get the hell out of here." Arthur was not brooding. He was simply staring out the window so he didn't start searching the room for Merlin's face. Again. He knew he wouldn't be able to take the look of hurt and betrayal he found there. It didn't matter now, anyway. Arthur had bollocksed everything up quite splendidly. There would be no coming back from this. Arthur heard the clicking of Morgana's heels as she approached, and Arthur thought that only Morgana could transmit disdain with simply the rhythm of her steps. Her voice was sharp and authoritative at his back. "If you don't go after him, Arthur Pendragon, then you're an even bigger fool than I thought, and you deserve whatever misery you have to endure for the rest of your sad, pathetic existence." Arthur could think of a great deal of uncharitable remarks to make in response, but in the end, it would only prolong the torture of this particular conversation. Instead, he settled on the truth. "He doesn't want me." "After what you did, I can't say that I blame him." Arthur's jaw clenched. "I didn't have a choice." "You always have a choice. Sometimes you have to do what you know is right, and damn the consequences." Very slowly, Arthur turned to meet her eyes. She was wearing the completely exasperated expression she used when she thought Arthur was being so utterly dense that he needed the obvious spelled out for him in bright, flashing neon letters. It was an expression she only used when she knew Arthur would be forced to admit she was right, no matter how much he hated it. As her words slowly sunk in, Arthur felt a wide, hopeful smile creep across his face. "Have I told you lately how very, very much I despise you?" And Morgana, because she understood, simply rolled her eyes and said, "God, men. It's as if you're all horribly allergic to just saying what you mean. You'd be totally useless without me, you know that?" Arthur's smile widened as he felt the tightness in his chest loosen, then re-coil as something very much like anticipation. He needed to find Merlin. He could still make this right. Morgana, because she was a little bit scary and omniscient, said, "He's probably up in your flat, sulking." "I guess you think this means I owe you," he mock scowled. Morgana's grin was devilish. "Make me your best man at your wedding and we'll call it even. I'll even throw you a killer bachelor party." "It's up here!" Merlin called, motioning with the half-empty champagne bottle. He stumbled his way up the spiral staircase with Will close behind, which was really a stroke of luck when Merlin began to wobble backwards and Will caught him with an arm around his waist. Merlin didn't think it was strictly necessary that Will leave his hand there as they climbed the rest of the stairs, but seeing as how Merlin was beginning to see double he wasn't opposed to the helping hand, as it were. Merlin draped his free arm over Will's shoulders, finding him surprisingly solid when he leaned in for support. When they both emerged onto the roof, Merlin gave a grand gesture and announced, "There it is!" He turned to see Will looking a bit bemused. "You know, when you said you wanted to show me something back at your flat, this wasn't what I pictured." Merlin abruptly deflated. "You don't like it,'" he grumbled. "Arthur didn't like it, either. I thought he was just pretending, but apparently not. Unless he really was. How should I bloody know? Arthur's a very good liar." "He's also a moron," Will supplied easily. "What he did to you, Merlin…I would never do something like that." Merlin sloppily patted Will on the back and nodded in a way that would have had him face down on the concrete if it wasn't for Will's arm still tight around his waist. "You're a good friend, Will," Merlin acknowledged gravely. Will gave a funny kind of snort, and after a moment said, "In the interest of honesty, I think there's something I need to tell you." Merlin frowned and turned to look curiously at Will, slightly listing to one side. It took a few moments before he was able to focus on the side of Will's face. "I meant it when I said I see a lot of potential in you, Merlin. But that's not the only reason I wanted to hire you." Merlin blinked hazily. "Oh?" "I thought—I hoped, really…" Will paused, then gently took the champagne bottle from Merlin's hand. After downing a healthy swallow, he turned so he was looking right in Merlin's eyes. "We have a lot in common, you and I. I was thinking we would…make a very good team. Together." Before Merlin could puzzle out what Will meant, he was surprised to feel Will's mouth pressed up against his. The kiss was more than a little unexpected, but once the initial shock wore off it was actually…quite nice, really. Comforting, in a way Merlin hadn't realized he'd needed. Will's lips were soft and dry, and Merlin found himself flicking out his tongue to wet them. Will angled his head to deepen the kiss, and that's when the sound of shattering glass made them spring apart. Arthur was practically whistling by the time he made it back to the flat. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was convinced he could work things out with Merlin. He still had no idea what to do about his father, but he would find a way to compromise with the developers in the morning. Right now, though, he needed to see Merlin, to set things right between them, to get things back on track to where Arthur was now able to admit they'd been headed all along. Merlin wasn't in the flat, so that only left the roof. Arthur impulsively grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack, then wondered if maybe he was pushing his luck. He was going up there to work out a business negotiation, not to have some romantic rooftop rendezvous. He put the bottle back on the rack, then made it halfway up the stairs before he went back and grabbed it again, as well as two glasses. It never hurt to bring a peace offering to a negotiation. Wine and glasses in hand, Arthur raced up the stairs. He took three steps into the cool night air and froze. It took his mind several staggering tries before he was able to absorb the tableau in front of him, to register the unfathomable image of Merlin and Will in each other's arms, in what was clearly a passionate embrace. Arthur felt his heart sink like a stone into his stomach, and the bottle slipped from his fingers to shatter on the concrete. Merlin turned, startled, then felt his eyes go impossibly wide. "Ar-Arthur?" he stuttered in shock. Arthur met his eyes, and Merlin had already had his heart broken once tonight, it should be impossible to do it again, so how could he explain the way he felt when he saw the look on Arthur's face? Very belatedly, Merlin extricated himself from Will's arms. Taking a shaky step forward and feeling suddenly very, very sober, Merlin said, "Arthur, this isn't…I can explain." Arthur turned and stormed back down the stairs to the flat. Merlin didn't even hesitate before he followed after him. Merlin caught up to him at the lift doors, where Arthur was frantically jabbing at the call button as if that would make the lift come any faster. "Arthur, please, can't we talk about this?" "I don't need an explanation, Merlin," Arthur told the lift doors. "We're both adults, and I'm well aware of what sorts of activities you have planned for the evening." "Planned? Wha—No, Arthur, it wasn't—it was an accident." "What so, he just tripped and fell on your tongue, then? Is that it?" Arthur snapped, then jammed the call button again with a bit more force. Merlin felt his temper flare in a way that only ever seemed to happen around Arthur. It was as if the man had completely forgotten the way he'd completely betrayed Merlin's trust only a few short hours ago. "I don't see what gives you the right to start acting like a jealous boyfriend! You're the one who lied about the one thing I have ever asked of you!" "Not all of us can live in whatever happy fantasy land you've created inside your head, Merlin. Some of us have to live in the real world. And in the real world, not everything works out with a pretty pink ribbon to tie it all up neatly. Things are complicated, and sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good." Merlin huffed a humorless laugh. "Don't talk to me about sacrifices, after wasting a year of my life working for you. You're just trying to cover your own arse." "Better covering my arse than offering it up to anyone who'll take it," Arthur spat, motioning towards the roof and, presumably, Will. Merlin swallowed thickly until he was sure he could speak without his voice betraying how much Arthur's words had hurt. "Don't be like this, Arthur. You're better than this. If you would just—" "I'm not one of your stupid little animals, Merlin. I don't need saving." "I can't believe you're not even going to try to be the person you could be!" Arthur kicked the lift door in a fit of rage and whirled on Merlin, shouting, "This is who I am, Merlin. I'm sorry if it's not good enough for you, but not everyone can measure up to your exacting standards." He motioned again towards the roof, just to make his point quite clear. The doors to the lift pinged open, and Arthur hastily stepped inside. Merlin's hand shot out to hold the doors open and he leaned forward to meet Arthur's eyes with a fierce stare. "I don't want perfection, Arthur. Perfection is boring. But I also don't want to work for something—or someone— that I can't believe in." Arthur's eyes were furious and hurt as they met Merlin's, but it needed to be said. "You know, Arthur, it's not entirely impossible for someone to change. Even someone as pig-headed as you." And with that, Merlin stepped back and let the lift doors quietly glide shut. Merlin stood watching the space where Arthur had been for a long time before Will's hand settled on his shoulder. "He doesn't deserve you, you know." Merlin blinked away the sting in his eyes and said, "Actually, that's just it. I think maybe he does, but he won't even try." Part 5 .

I shift my bag to my other shoulder and look again at my watch. Second thoughts, maybe? Scully set this evening's agenda, but I'd still put even money on her backing out. This downtown park by the lake is nice but I was hoping for some company. Then I look up, and there she is, walking towards me, smiling. I smile back, not least because of the way the summer breeze sweeps a few strands of hair into her face and wraps her loose, short dress around her thighs. I have always loved being out on the road, but now more so than ever. I'm used to the idea that I am probably always under surveillance at work and even at home. Scully is most emphatically not used to the idea. The Gunmen do the best they can, sweeping our apartments for bugs every week, but Scully remains dubious. I think maybe she suspects Frohike of installing his own devices, although she hasn't said as much. He wouldn't dare. After that Vegas stunt, the Gunmen have been on their best behavior, well aware that next time, she might actually carry through on her threat to maim them, in some secret untraceable way that only FBI doctors know. I don't disabuse them of the notion, partly out of self-interest, and partly because they're right. Still, she can't quite shake the idea that someone is watching, and while she's not exactly inhibited, she is... muted. Out of town, though, is a different story. Once our work is done, that is. My already wandering thoughts scatter for good when she kisses me. This is the Scully I dream about, the relaxed and playful one, the Scully who isn't an out-and-out exhibitionist but who also doesn't think the Eleventh Commandment is "Thou shalt not be affectionate in public." Then she pushes her tongue into my mouth and runs the heel of her hand up the length of my erection. Oh my. I think I can safely interpret this to mean she isn't having second thoughts about tonight. In response, I reach under her skirt, and lightly scratch a fingernail up the inside of her thigh, making her rise up on her toes and arch against me with a low moan. Damn. At this rate we'll be back in the hotel room in minutes. I pull away. "You're late." "I know, I know, I'm sorry." She leaves one hand on my chest and turns slightly to look over her shoulder at the crowd, headed, like us, to Grant Park to see the Blues Festival. "There must be half a million people here tonight, Mulder. I even had trouble finding you once I got here. I bet everyone says 'meet you at Buckingham Fountain' without considering that everyone else in the city is doing the same thing." I glance up. She's right, there are people everywhere, scruffy sellers pushing shopping carts filled with inflated animal balloons on sticks and other doodads, older couples carrying coolers and lawn chairs, pretzel carts and churros vendors, clumps of teenage boys in baggy clothes laughing and shoving each other, on display for girls pretending not to watch. The whole city is a little giddy. Must be the prospect of a warm June night, after an endless, cold, gray winter. The fountain shoots water 100 feet into the air, the top of the plume fanning out in the evening breeze. Down, boy. "I might forgive you," I say. "If you're nice to me." She looks at me through half-lidded eyes. "Mulder, I'm always nice to you," she croons, "Unless you ask otherwise." I wasn't aware you could feel your own pupils dilate, but Scully teaches me something new every day. "Promises, promises. No fair trying to distract me, Scully. We were talking about you, and about being late. What do you suppose I should do about that?" "I can think of a couple of things." Scully rubs up against me again, making me regret my earlier decision to wear jeans. I lean down to kiss her again, running my hands from her ribcage to her hips, smoothing the soft material over her body. Reaching around to rest my hands on her ass, I can feel the outline of her underwear. "I thought I told you not to wear anything under your dress." She leans back in my arms to look up at me, laughing, keeping her hips pressed against me. "Mulder, you have to be kidding me. It's breezy out here by the lake and there are so many people around. I didn't want to risk it." "Take them off." I purposely keep a straight face, knowing full well that if she wants to back out of this little game, I'll agree, no questions asked. "What?" Her wide eyes stare up at me. Embarrassment and arousal chase a blush across her cheeks, twin imps racing hand in hand, chortling wildly at having left common sense bound and gagged back at the hotel. "You heard me. Take them off, or I'll take them off." Scully closes her eyes and swallows, a small smile on her lips, a nervous smile, but a smile nonetheless. I start to reach up under her dress. "Stop. No. I'll do it." Leaning her forehead against my chest, eyes shut, as if no one can see her if she can't see them, she quickly yanks off her panties. "Now what?" "Give them to me." I put them in my pocket, well aware that this little maneuver has not gone unnoticed by the milling concert-goers drifting towards the bandshell. What do I care? We're never going to see these people again. I'm sure they've seen worse. And truth be told, the risk appeals to me, almost as much a turn-on as seeing her do something I wouldn't have predicted in a million years. Master profiler, my ass. I shake my head slowly. "It's early yet, and already you're not doing what you're told. You know what that means?" "Yes." She bites her lower lip, stares at her sandals. * * * I think I've died and gone to heaven. I stare at the hotel ceiling waiting for my breath to slow down, smiling. Some shameless wheedling and two equally brazen fingers had finally convinced Scully that a morning at the Art Institute could only be followed by an afternoon in the bleachers at a Cubs game. Tomorrow. We still have tonight, and I'm in the mood to play. I roll onto my side, propping my head on my hand and tucking my body around Scully as she groans and stretches her arms towards the headboard and her feet towards the end of the bed. She wriggles back down under the covers and I rest my hand on her stomach. "So, Scully, what do you want to do now?" "Take a shower." "No, I mean after that. Want to walk out to the pier, get something to eat, and pretend to be tourists?" "Mulder, we can't *pretend* to be tourists," she laughs, "we *are* tourists. We don't have to be back in D.C. until Monday and I, for one, intend to forget about anything but having fun until then." I lean in to kiss behind her ear, using my nose to nudge her hair out of my way. "Mmm, that sounds promising. What did you have in mind?" "Get your mind out of the gutter, Mulder," she says, not sounding too convinced that she wants anything of the sort. "But you could have a lot of fun down here with me, Scully. C'mon. If the adventurous Special Agent Dr. Scully came out to play with the dashing Agent Mulder, what would she want to do?" She laughs and turns onto her right side, facing away from me. I curl tighter around her and my right hand creeps towards its usual position, trailing her stomach to cup her left breast. Humming, she nestles in some more. "Scully..." "Mulder..." she mimics my voice, laughing at me. "No, seriously." Suddenly, I was dying to know. "What... I don't know." She buries her head further into the pillow, instead of giving me the standard impatient Scully look that should accompany this statement. I wait her out. "C'mon, Scully. I know you've thought about it. All you have to do is ask. I want to know. Really." I circle the soft skin around her nipple with my fingertip. "Mmmm... Stop that, Mulder. You don't really want to know, you just want to tease me." "No, I don't. I swear, I'm not teasing." "You are, Mulder, you can't help it. And you're tickling me." She grabs my hand and cups it back on her breast. "Knowing you, I'll say something and you'll either make a joke or you'll ask me a million questions, and turn this into some kind of therapy session. Either way, I'll end up feeling foolish. Forget it." I wish I could see her face. She doesn't sound mad, just amused and matter of fact. Wheedling already worked once today: Do I dare try it twice? "Scully, with my video collection, I am in no position to make anyone else feel foolish. Tell you what, I'll make it easy on you -- I'll guess and you tell me when I'm getting close." "You'll guess." Distinctly dubious. "Yes." "Right. Won't your guesses tell me more about you than the other way around?" she asks, pleased with her observation. "Only if I guess wrong," I laugh. "Anyway, that'll make it a two way street. What do you say?" "Mulder...," she sighs, and I know I have her. She laughs when I squeezed her breast. "Okay, fine, I can see I'm not going to be able to talk you out of this. You guess, and I'll lay here and dream about a shower." "See? We're already off to a good start. Just close your eyes and dream while I think for a minute...." I slowly run my fingers from her hip up to her neck and lean in to whisper in her ear. "And as I recall the facts, you seemed to really like blindfolding me that time. Is that it, Scully?" I roll her onto her stomach and straddle her legs so I can massage her neck and shoulders. "Do you fantasize about being in control, about bending me to your will? Can you picture me, blindfolded, tied to your bed, naked, waiting for you, not being able to see you, touch you, taste you, just waiting, straining, begging for you to touch me?" Speaking of two-way streets... "Pretty picture, Mulder. Okay, I admit, that was fun." "Fun? That sounds a little lukewarm, Scully." "Hardly lukewarm, Mulder. It *was* fun. But it wasn't about control." I just look at her. She opens her eyes and twists her chin over her shoulder to look at me. She flashes a quick grin before letting her head flop back on the pillow. "Well, mostly it wasn't about control. I would say the fun part was figuring out exactly what would make you come so hard, you'd scream and pass out." Ah. Focus, Mulder. I kiss as much of her mouth as I can from this angle. "Well, that's not quite what I had planned for tonight. You haven't answered my question: What would make you scream?" "What makes anyone scream?" Her eyes were closed again. "Maybe it's generally the thrill of wanting something you think you absolutely shouldn't want." I lift myself off of her and roll her back into our spoon position, guessing it would be easier for her to talk without looking at me, wrapped in the heat of my body. "Scully, I believe that was a classic example of holding a topic at an analytic remove to distance yourself from its impact. I don't want to know what you think about fantasies in general, I want to know what you fantasize about. So what is it you shouldn't want, Scully? What can I give you that you can't ask for?" "I thought you weren't going to analyze me, Mulder." She lay silent for a moment. "Besides, I can't ask you for what I fantasize about because you can't give it to me: I would be happy just being able to walk hand-in-hand with you on the Mall without worrying that it will be used against us somehow, or that we were being pasted into some Consortium family photo album." Ouch. "Scully..." My arms tighten around her and I sigh into her hair as the old guilt washes over me. "I wish I could give that to you." "I know, Mulder. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the game by getting serious. It's just..." She rolls in my arms and kisses me until I smile, running her hand through my hair. "I wonder sometimes, you know. Whether I'll ever have the courage to ignore the fact that we might be watched. There are times when I want to just throw up my hands and screw you silly, but--" "It just takes practice, Scully." And then there's humor as a distancing mechanism. Choose your weapon. She cocks an eyebrow at me. Yes," I say firmly. "And I would be happy to offer my services, gallant guy of the 90s that I am." "Mulder, what *are* you talking about?" "About releasing your inner exhibitionist." She giggles and I continue, delighted. "You've said it's easier for you when we're out of town, and here we are out of town. I saw something about a blues festival tonight on the lakefront. Just you, me, and three million Chicagoans in the dark. How about it? Practice makes perfect, you know." "Mulder, you're nuts." "Yes, and you love me anyway." I kiss her on the nose. "I do, but I could never--. You really are out of your mind." She leans back to look at me and suddenly I know I'm on the right track. She's trying hard to hide it, but I am looking equally hard. "Come on, Scully. You know you want to." It's worth a shot, anyway. "Trust me, I'll make it worth your while. Remember? It's my turn to make you scream. All you have to do is behave yourself." "Behave myself or behave you?" "Yes." She is quiet, her breath shallow and quick. I lie still, fighting off panic until finally she looks up at me and takes my breath away. I would give anything right now to have a camera to capture her expression, the way her blue eyes glow with desire, fear, and a beautiful hungry playfulness. What have I gotten myself into? I hope to God I remember how, so I can get into it again. "Okay, Mulder, you're on." We lay there quietly for a few minutes, before I kiss her ear and roll over to the other side of the bed, swinging my feet to the floor. She rolls over to face me, still wrapped up in the blankets. "Where are you going?" "Out. I'm going to rustle up a picnic dinner. Meet me by Buckingham Fountain at seven. Don't be late. And, Scully?" "Yes?" "Don't wear anything under your dress." * * * I watch Scully closely to see what she will do, if she will keep going. She digs her fingernails into her palms and takes a deep breath. "Sorry." "No problem. You're not getting off that easy, though. Enjoy the concert, but don't forget how this evening is going to end." A bluff. I think. I get a small smile, no teeth, her face still rosy with embarrassment and arousal. She slides her arm around my waist, tucking her hand into my back pocket, cushioning me from the bag banging against my hip. I kiss her and drape my arm across her shoulders as we walk towards the bandshell in the flow of the crowd. When we are about as close as we can to the concert area, I pull a small blanket out of my bag to spread on the grass. We sit side by side, legs stretched out, munching on the sandwiches I brought and waiting for the music to start. All around, people sprawl on blankets, most of them eating and surreptitiously pouring the contents of paper-bag covered bottles into plastic cups. Others wander through the maze of blankets, trying not to step on anyone, and vendors hawk snacks, balloons, and a rainbow of glow-in-the-dark plastic strings that are pretty popular, judging by the number of people wrapped up like weird alien tribesmen. I buy a nice glowing green one for Scully to make her laugh as I wind it around her wrist. On more than one blanket, couples kiss, their legs entwined as if half of Chicago weren't swirling around them. Scully seems particularly entranced by the pair three blankets over, hypnotized by the gentle rocking of the woman on top. "See something you like, Scully?" She jumps a little, then speaks absently, not turning her head. "No, no. Not really. Ouch!" She massages her thigh where I pinched her and glares at me, her pupils huge in the fading light. "You like to watch, Scully?" "Not really, Mulder. Anyway," she drops her voice, "that's your department, remember?" She laughs, knowing full well that letting me watch her is one of my favorite Scully fantasies. And memories. Trying to turn the tables, Scully? I don't think so. I grin and reach out to whisper my fingertips across the inside of her wrist. "So what's your excuse, Scully? Being out in public really does turn you on, doesn't it?" There's that look again, hunger fueled by trepidation. People in the front start standing up and clapping, triggering everyone behind them to do the same, so I stand, and put out my hand to help Scully to her feet. She takes it and rather gracefully folds her legs under her to lift herself up, using my hand for leverage, thereby managing not to flash the people behind us. "Mulder, I can't see a thing. What's happening?" She tries standing on her toes and craning her neck. I admit, I am more interested in the muscles in the backs of her legs, but I look out over the crowd. "About what you would expect. The band is playing. They look pretty old, actually. They don't move much, other than to play. You aren't exactly missing a floor show." I reach out and pull her towards me, wrapping my arms around her. She responds by crossing her arms in front of her, nudging my fingers apart to nestle her fingers in mine. We stand like that for a long time, swaying to the music. I lean in occasionally to kiss her on the top of her head or on her ear, which makes her hum in a gratifying way. At times like this, I can almost believe life could be this simple. The sun was long gone, taking the crowd's inhibitions with it. Toe tapping turns to outright dancing around us and we both laugh at a particularly flamboyant display next to us, neither of us inclined to dance but happy to be part of the crowd. Then as the first strains of "Sweet Home Chicago" blared across the park, the crowd really starts to go wild, hooting and hollering and singing along. "Oh, I wish I could see. I know they aren't doing anything but I wish I could see the whole crowd." I look around. Scully isn't the only short woman here. Here and there, women sit on their boyfriends' shoulders. Husbands? Partners? I wonder what term Scully would use. Partner, probably. And me? We aren't married, and girlfriend just sounds too juvenile. "Light of my life" is probably a little too much information for casual conversation. Partner it is. I kneel down. "Hey, partner, climb up on my shoulders." "Mulder! Are you out of your mind?" I squint at her, puzzled by her vehement reaction. It's not like others aren't doing the same thing. "Mulder, I am not wearing any underwear," she hisses through clenched teeth. "You can't be serious." Oh, yeah. My cock jerks to attention in my jeans. I forgot about that. Unbelievable. I fix her with a glare. "Get over here, Scully. Now." She strokes my shoulder, trying to figure out a way to convince me to drop this. "Mulder..." "Scully..." She glances around quickly, and with a deep breath, lifts her leg across my shoulder. I grab both of her feet and stand up, glad I've been more faithful about going to the gym lately. Not that she's heavy, but I'm not as young as I used to be. She grabs my hair to balance herself. "There. Can you see?" "Yes. There are thousands of people here, Mulder. Everywhere I look." My head rests against her stomach, bobbing with her breathing. I look around, making her laugh and lightly slap my head when I rub my cheek on the inside of her thigh. So soft. I lick the spot I rubbed and her hands tighten on my hair. What the hell is she doing? I can feel her lightly squeezing and relaxing her leg muscles around my head, rubbing herself against my neck, leaving a warm, wet trail on my skin. My temperature shoots up about four hundred degrees. I close my eyes, and reach down to arrange myself more comfortably in my jeans. Her hands tighten on my hair as her rubbing speeds up. My knees can't take much more of this, never mind the rest of me. "Scully." I squeeze her ankles sharply and she freezes. "Don't you dare come on my neck." The guy in front of me whips his head around, disbelief and hope in his eyes, as if he can't quite believe what he thinks I said is really what I said. You haven't heard anything yet, buddy. I ignore him, but Scully gasps, as if suddenly aware she was six feet in the air in an awfully short dress. I drop to one knee, twisting to guide her down to the ground. Her face is red, at least what I could see of it, even though she's facing me. She keeps her head down, studying her fists. I sink to the blanket, pulling her down with me. "Sit down, Scully." I spread my legs apart and she sits on her knees between them, still not looking at me. I lean forward to kiss her gently, trying to reassure her without words. She must need less reassurance than I thought, for soon the kiss heats up, our tongues pushing at each other, tangling and darting away. I slide my hands up her sides and flick my thumbs across her nipples. She moans into my mouth. "Please, Mulder." "Please what, Scully?" "Please, I can't take much more of this. Let's go back to the hotel." I seriously considered her proposal. Honest. I would like nothing more than to bury myself in her up to my spine, but she seems pretty turned on out here already. "No, the concert isn't over yet. That's what we came here for, right?" "Yes, but we saw the concert. Let's go." She wraps her fingers into the top of my waistband to tug me closer and leans in to run her tongue along the edge of my ear. Oh God. I swat at her hands and she sits back quickly, puzzled. "I said no, Scully." I reach out and grab her wrists, my fingers tangling with the glowing string she still has wrapped around one wrist. "Turn around." I make a turning motion with my hand. She looks at me skeptically but turns. "Stay on your knees, though." I scoot up close so I can whisper in her ear. "Scully, you keep disobeying me, and I really can't ignore that anymore. You wore underwear when I especially told you not to, you resisted getting up on my shoulders and then you almost brought yourself off up there for all the world to see. Now, the question is, what should I do about it?" She shifts slightly, pulling her legs apart a little farther. I reach around her to grasp her wrist, unwinding the plastic string. She is panting, there is no other word for it. "Is this exciting, Scully? Are you wondering what I'm going to do? Hmm? Maybe I won't do anything, maybe I won't even touch you. What if I just left you like this, Scully? Do you want me to touch you?" "Oh, God. Here? Um... No, we can't, Mulder." "Okay. We'll just sit here and listen to the music. In the meantime, you can think about what will happen when we get back to the hotel." I use the tip of the glow-string to trace a line along the neckline of her dress. She shivers, "uh, Mulder, maybe... um--" Encouraged, I repeat the move on the hem of her dress, rubbing the plastic string against the inside of her thighs. "Oh, God, Mulder, please." Her eyes flutter shut. "Please what, Scully? Please stop?" I move the string slowly over her thigh and she rocks back against me. "No!" She looks around nervously, but the crowd was too caught up in the music to hear. Her eyes close again, and her voice drops to a harsh whisper. "Touch me, Mulder. Please touch me." "That's better. See? All you had to do was ask nicely. Now put your hands behind you." Her eyes open, though she immediately does as asked. I quickly tie the string around both wrists, pinning her hands behind her. Her breath speeds up, her whole body tense with anticipation. "Now here's the deal, Scully. Don't you dare move. If you move, I will stop, and I won't wait to get to the hotel, I will put you over my knee right here, with all these people watching. Do you hear me?" She moans, low and deep in her throat, and I briefly regret my decision not to go back to the hotel. "I will, you know. And no one will stop me. This is a big city, Scully. No one gets involved in the city. They've seen it all already. Don't move. Do you understand me?" She wiggles, and nods. I sneak a peek, not surprised that her eyes are shut again. I bend my legs up on either side of her to shield us as much as possible. I don't want to get arrested for lewd behavior, despite what I said about uninvolved city folk. Her position lifts her up off the blanket enough for me to reach underneath her dress from behind. Very slowly and lightly, I trace a finger from her clit down all the way back between her cheeks. She shivers but doesn't move. With my other hand, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear so I can watch her face. "You like that?" I do it again. "I think you do, Scully. My finger is dripping wet. Wanna see?" I bring my hand around in front of her face. There is no way in hell she is going to open her eyes, I can tell, but her tongue flickers in the corner of her mouth. God, I love this woman. "Lick it, Scully. Taste yourself on me." She opens her mouth, closing it around my finger, eyes closed, cheeks aflame. My cock throbs, jealous. "Good girl. You have a beautiful mouth, Scully. Have I told you that before? You do. And I have plans for that lovely mouth tonight." I pull my finger out and trace it down her chin, between her breasts, underneath her skirt. I begin to stroke her again, reaching further to slick my fingertips, smearing, massaging her clit in small circles, gradually increasing pressure and speed. "What are you thinking about, Scully? Are you thinking about all these people around us, wondering whether they see you, whether they know exactly how hot you are, how desperate you are? Or are you thinking about my finger in your mouth, about what I intend to put in your mouth later? Are you thinking about how my cock feels in your mouth, Scully? Because I am." Her chin on her chest, she hums. With my other hand, I reach in from behind to slip two fingers inside her. She arches her back, lifting her ass off her heels. I pull my fingers out immediately. "None of that, Scully. I warned you. Unless you want to find out what else is in my bag, I strongly suggest you don't move again." Her muscles clench, but she settles back down. I thrust my fingers in and out, using my other hand to rub small circles around her clit. "Open your eyes, Scully." "No, I can't." She shakes her head, launching a bead of sweat down the side of her face. I lick it off. I can feel the heat radiating from her. "Scully, how will you know if anyone is watching if you don't look?" Her eyelids pop open but slam shut almost immediately, and she groans. "No, it's too much, I can't, I..." I can feel her first convulsions around my fingers, her body quivering from the effort of keeping herself still, each breath quickly caught and held between her slightly open lips. Won't be long now. I crook my fingers inside her, changing the angle. One last gasp and she stiffens as the full force of her orgasm hits, biting her lip to stay quiet, swaying only slightly, her head falling back against my shoulder. I can't say I made her scream, but this is still without a doubt the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life. Comets screeching across the sky have nothing on a red-haired star imploding into a black hole of ecstasy. I wrap my arms around her as she glides back down, gasping for air, her breathing slowly returning to normal. "God, Scully, that was incredible," I murmur into her hair, dropping kisses on her forehead, and anywhere else I can reach while I untie her hands. Silence. Uh-oh. "Scully?" "I'm fine, Mulder." Shit, now I'm scared. "Scully..." "No, really, I'm fine. You're right, that was... incredible." She tilts her chin up and I kiss her, relieved. "Um, Scully?" "Yes?" Bliss, thy name is Scully. "Let's head back to the hotel." Don't get me wrong, Scully, I love that you look like an eager kid who just discovered a new toy, but if I don't get out of these jeans and into you soon, I'm going to have a coronary. She looks at me with a mischievous smile, guessing the reason for my sudden hurry, and slowly, oh so slowly, untangles her limbs from mine. I gather up the blanket and shove it back into my bag while looking around to reorient myself, desperate to find the train station. Time to go, time to go, timetogo. "Hey, Mulder?" "Yeah?" "How crowded do you think subway cars get? I lean in to kiss behind her ear, using my nose to nudge her hair out of my way. "Mmm, that sounds promising. What did you have in mind?" "Get your mind out of the gutter, Mulder," she says, not sounding too convinced that she wants anything of the sort. "But you could have a lot of fun down here with me, Scully. C'mon. If the adventurous Special Agent Dr. Scully came out to play with the dashing Agent Mulder, what would she want to do?" She laughs and turns onto her right side, facing away from me. I curl tighter around her and my right hand creeps towards its usual position, trailing her stomach to cup her left breast. Humming, she nestles in some more. "Scully..." "Mulder..." she mimics my voice, laughing at me. "No, seriously." Suddenly, I was dying to know. "What... I don't know." She buries her head further into the pillow, instead of giving me the standard impatient Scully look that should accompany this statement. I wait her out. "C'mon, Scully. I know you've thought about it. All you have to do is ask. I want to know. Really." I circle the soft skin around her nipple with my fingertip. "Mmmm... Stop that, Mulder. You don't really want to know, you just want to tease me." "No, I don't. I swear, I'm not teasing." "You are, Mulder, you can't help it. And you're tickling me." She grabs my hand and cups it back on her breast. "Knowing you, I'll say something and you'll either make a joke or you'll ask me a million questions, and turn this into some kind of therapy session. Either way, I'll end up feeling foolish. Forget it." I wish I could see her face. She doesn't sound mad, just amused and matter of fact. Wheedling already worked once today: Do I dare try it twice? "Scully, with my video collection, I am in no position to make anyone else feel foolish. Tell you what, I'll make it easy on you -- I'll guess and you tell me when I'm getting close." "You'll guess." Distinctly dubious. "Yes." "Right. Won't your guesses tell me more about you than the other way around?" she asks, pleased with her observation. "Only if I guess wrong," I laugh. "Anyway, that'll make it a two way street. What do you say?" "Mulder...," she sighs, and I know I have her. She laughs when I squeezed her breast. "Okay, fine, I can see I'm not going to be able to talk you out of this. You guess, and I'll lay here and dream about a shower." "See? We're already off to a good start. Just close your eyes and dream while I think for a minute...." I slowly run my fingers from her hip up to her neck and lean in to whisper in her ear. "And as I recall the facts, you seemed to really like blindfolding me that time. Is that it, Scully?" I roll her onto her stomach and straddle her legs so I can massage her neck and shoulders. "Do you fantasize about being in control, about bending me to your will? Can you picture me, blindfolded, tied to your bed, naked, waiting for you, not being able to see you, touch you, taste you, just waiting, straining, begging for you to touch me?" Speaking of two-way streets... "Pretty picture, Mulder. Okay, I admit, that was fun." "Fun? That sounds a little lukewarm, Scully." "Hardly lukewarm, Mulder. It *was* fun. But it wasn't about control." I just look at her. She opens her eyes and twists her chin over her shoulder to look at me. She flashes a quick grin before letting her head flop back on the pillow. "Well, mostly it wasn't about control. I would say the fun part was figuring out exactly what would make you come so hard, you'd scream and pass out." Ah. Focus, Mulder. I kiss as much of her mouth as I can from this angle. "Well, that's not quite what I had planned for tonight. You haven't answered my question: What would make you scream?" "What makes anyone scream?" Her eyes were closed again. "Maybe it's generally the thrill of wanting something you think you absolutely shouldn't want." I lift myself off of her and roll her back into our spoon position, guessing it would be easier for her to talk without looking at me, wrapped in the heat of my body. "Scully, I believe that was a classic example of holding a topic at an analytic remove to distance yourself from its impact. I don't want to know what you think about fantasies in general, I want to know what you fantasize about. So what is it you shouldn't want, Scully? What can I give you that you can't ask for?" "I thought you weren't going to analyze me, Mulder." She lay silent for a moment. "Besides, I can't ask you for what I fantasize about because you can't give it to me: I would be happy just being able to walk hand-in-hand with you on the Mall without worrying that it will be used against us somehow, or that we were being pasted into some Consortium family photo album." Ouch. "Scully..." My arms tighten around her and I sigh into her hair as the old guilt washes over me. "I wish I could give that to you." "I know, Mulder. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the game by getting serious. It's just..." She rolls in my arms and kisses me until I smile, running her hand through my hair. "I wonder sometimes, you know. Whether I'll ever have the courage to ignore the fact that we might be watched. There are times when I want to just throw up my hands and screw you silly, but--" "It just takes practice, Scully." And then there's humor as a distancing mechanism. Choose your weapon. She cocks an eyebrow at me. Yes," I say firmly. "And I would be happy to offer my services, gallant guy of the 90s that I am." "Mulder, what *are* you talking about?" "About releasing your inner exhibitionist." She giggles and I continue, delighted. "You've said it's easier for you when we're out of town, and here we are out of town. I saw something about a blues festival tonight on the lakefront. Just you, me, and three million Chicagoans in the dark. How about it? Practice makes perfect, you know." "Mulder, you're nuts." "Yes, and you love me anyway." I kiss her on the nose. "I do, but I could never--. You really are out of your mind." She leans back to look at me and suddenly I know I'm on the right track. She's trying hard to hide it, but I am looking equally hard. "Come on, Scully. You know you want to." It's worth a shot, anyway. "Trust me, I'll make it worth your while. Remember? It's my turn to make you scream. All you have to do is behave yourself." "Behave myself or behave you?" "Yes." She is quiet, her breath shallow and quick. I lie still, fighting off panic until finally she looks up at me and takes my breath away. I would give anything right now to have a camera to capture her expression, the way her blue eyes glow with desire, fear, and a beautiful hungry playfulness. What have I gotten myself into? I hope to God I remember how, so I can get into it again. "Okay, Mulder, you're on." We lay there quietly for a few minutes, before I kiss her ear and roll over to the other side of the bed, swinging my feet to the floor. She rolls over to face me, still wrapped up in the blankets. "Where are you going?" "Out. I'm going to rustle up a picnic dinner. Meet me by Buckingham Fountain at seven. Don't be late. And, Scully?" "Yes?" "Don't wear anything under your dress." * * * I watch Scully closely to see what she will do, if she will keep going. She digs her fingernails into her palms and takes a deep breath. "Sorry." "No problem. You're not getting off that easy, though. Enjoy the concert, but don't forget how this evening is going to end." A bluff. I think. I get a small smile, no teeth, her face still rosy with embarrassment and arousal. She slides her arm around my waist, tucking her hand into my back pocket, cushioning me from the bag banging against my hip. I kiss her and drape my arm across her shoulders as we walk towards the bandshell in the flow of the crowd. When we are about as close as we can to the concert area, I pull a small blanket out of my bag to spread on the grass. We sit side by side, legs stretched out, munching on the sandwiches I brought and waiting for the music to start. All around, people sprawl on blankets, most of them eating and surreptitiously pouring the contents of paper-bag covered bottles into plastic cups. Others wander through the maze of blankets, trying not to step on anyone, and vendors hawk snacks, balloons, and a rainbow of glow-in-the-dark plastic strings that are pretty popular, judging by the number of people wrapped up like weird alien tribesmen. I buy a nice glowing green one for Scully to make her laugh as I wind it around her wrist. On more than one blanket, couples kiss, their legs entwined as if half of Chicago weren't swirling around them. Scully seems particularly entranced by the pair three blankets over, hypnotized by the gentle rocking of the woman on top. "See something you like, Scully?" She jumps a little, then speaks absently, not turning her head. "No, no. Not really. Ouch!" She massages her thigh where I pinched her and glares at me, her pupils huge in the fading light. "You like to watch, Scully?" "Not really, Mulder. Anyway," she drops her voice, "that's your department, remember?" She laughs, knowing full well that letting me watch her is one of my favorite Scully fantasies. And memories. Trying to turn the tables, Scully? I don't think so. I grin and reach out to whisper my fingertips across the inside of her wrist. "So what's your excuse, Scully? Being out in public really does turn you on, doesn't it?" There's that look again, hunger fueled by trepidation. People in the front start standing up and clapping, triggering everyone behind them to do the same, so I stand, and put out my hand to help Scully to her feet. She takes it and rather gracefully folds her legs under her to lift herself up, using my hand for leverage, thereby managing not to flash the people behind us. "Mulder, I can't see a thing. What's happening?" She tries standing on her toes and craning her neck. I admit, I am more interested in the muscles in the backs of her legs, but I look out over the crowd. "About what you would expect. The band is playing. They look pretty old, actually. They don't move much, other than to play. You aren't exactly missing a floor show." I reach out and pull her towards me, wrapping my arms around her. She responds by crossing her arms in front of her, nudging my fingers apart to nestle her fingers in mine. We stand like that for a long time, swaying to the music. I lean in occasionally to kiss her on the top of her head or on her ear, which makes her hum in a gratifying way. At times like this, I can almost believe life could be this simple. The sun was long gone, taking the crowd's inhibitions with it. Toe tapping turns to outright dancing around us and we both laugh at a particularly flamboyant display next to us, neither of us inclined to dance but happy to be part of the crowd. Then as the first strains of "Sweet Home Chicago" blared across the park, the crowd really starts to go wild, hooting and hollering and singing along. "Oh, I wish I could see. I know they aren't doing anything but I wish I could see the whole crowd." I look around. Scully isn't the only short woman here. Here and there, women sit on their boyfriends' shoulders. Husbands? Partners? I wonder what term Scully would use. Partner, probably. And me? We aren't married, and girlfriend just sounds too juvenile. "Light of my life" is probably a little too much information for casual conversation. Partner it is. I kneel down. "Hey, partner, climb up on my shoulders." "Mulder! Are you out of your mind?" I squint at her, puzzled by her vehement reaction. It's not like others aren't doing the same thing. "Mulder, I am not wearing any underwear," she hisses through clenched teeth. "You can't be serious." Oh, yeah. My cock jerks to attention in my jeans. I forgot about that. Unbelievable. I fix her with a glare. "Get over here, Scully. Now." She strokes my shoulder, trying to figure out a way to convince me to drop this. "Mulder..." "Scully..." She glances around quickly, and with a deep breath, lifts her leg across my shoulder. I grab both of her feet and stand up, glad I've been more faithful about going to the gym lately. Not that she's heavy, but I'm not as young as I used to be. She grabs my hair to balance herself. "There. Can you see?" "Yes. There are thousands of people here, Mulder. Everywhere I look." My head rests against her stomach, bobbing with her breathing. I look around, making her laugh and lightly slap my head when I rub my cheek on the inside of her thigh. So soft. I lick the spot I rubbed and her hands tighten on my hair. What the hell is she doing? I can feel her lightly squeezing and relaxing her leg muscles around my head, rubbing herself against my neck, leaving a warm, wet trail on my skin. My temperature shoots up about four hundred degrees. I close my eyes, and reach down to arrange myself more comfortably in my jeans. Her hands tighten on my hair as her rubbing speeds up. My knees can't take much more of this, never mind the rest of me. "Scully." I squeeze her ankles sharply and she freezes. "Don't you dare come on my neck." The guy in front of me whips his head around, disbelief and hope in his eyes, as if he can't quite believe what he thinks I said is really what I said. You haven't heard anything yet, buddy. I ignore him, but Scully gasps, as if suddenly aware she was six feet in the air in an awfully short dress. I drop to one knee, twisting to guide her down to the ground. Her face is red, at least what I could see of it, even though she's facing me. She keeps her head down, studying her fists. I sink to the blanket, pulling her down with me. "Sit down, Scully." I spread my legs apart and she sits on her knees between them, still not looking at me. I lean forward to kiss her gently, trying to reassure her without words. She must need less reassurance than I thought, for soon the kiss heats up, our tongues pushing at each other, tangling and darting away. I slide my hands up her sides and flick my thumbs across her nipples. She moans into my mouth. "Please, Mulder." "Please what, Scully?" "Please, I can't take much more of this. Let's go back to the hotel." I seriously considered her proposal. Honest. I would like nothing more than to bury myself in her up to my spine, but she seems pretty turned on out here already. "No, the concert isn't over yet. That's what we came here for, right?" "Yes, but we saw the concert. Let's go." She wraps her fingers into the top of my waistband to tug me closer and leans in to run her tongue along the edge of my ear. Oh God. I swat at her hands and she sits back quickly, puzzled. "I said no, Scully." I reach out and grab her wrists, my fingers tangling with the glowing string she still has wrapped around one wrist. "Turn around." I make a turning motion with my hand. She looks at me skeptically but turns. "Stay on your knees, though." I scoot up close so I can whisper in her ear. "Scully, you keep disobeying me, and I really can't ignore that anymore. You wore underwear when I especially told you not to, you resisted getting up on my shoulders and then you almost brought yourself off up there for all the world to see. Now, the question is, what should I do about it?" She shifts slightly, pulling her legs apart a little farther. I reach around her to grasp her wrist, unwinding the plastic string. She is panting, there is no other word for it. "Is this exciting, Scully? Are you wondering what I'm going to do? Hmm? Maybe I won't do anything, maybe I won't even touch you. What if I just left you like this, Scully? Do you want me to touch you?" "Oh, God. Here? Um... No, we can't, Mulder." "Okay. We'll just sit here and listen to the music. In the meantime, you can think about what will happen when we get back to the hotel." I use the tip of the glow-string to trace a line along the neckline of her dress. She shivers, "uh, Mulder, maybe... um--" Encouraged, I repeat the move on the hem of her dress, rubbing the plastic string against the inside of her thighs. "Oh, God, Mulder, please." Her eyes flutter shut. "Please what, Scully? Please stop?" I move the string slowly over her thigh and she rocks back against me. "No!" She looks around nervously, but the crowd was too caught up in the music to hear. Her eyes close again, and her voice drops to a harsh whisper. "Touch me, Mulder. Please touch me." "That's better. See? All you had to do was ask nicely. Now put your hands behind you." Her eyes open, though she immediately does as asked. I quickly tie the string around both wrists, pinning her hands behind her. Her breath speeds up, her whole body tense with anticipation. "Now here's the deal, Scully. Don't you dare move. If you move, I will stop, and I won't wait to get to the hotel, I will put you over my knee right here, with all these people watching. Do you hear me?" She moans, low and deep in her throat, and I briefly regret my decision not to go back to the hotel. "I will, you know. And no one will stop me. This is a big city, Scully. No one gets involved in the city. They've seen it all already. Don't move. Do you understand me?" She wiggles, and nods. I sneak a peek, not surprised that her eyes are shut again. I bend my legs up on either side of her to shield us as much as possible. I don't want to get arrested for lewd behavior, despite what I said about uninvolved city folk. Her position lifts her up off the blanket enough for me to reach underneath her dress from behind. Very slowly and lightly, I trace a finger from her clit down all the way back between her cheeks. She shivers but doesn't move. With my other hand, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear so I can watch her face. "You like that?" I do it again. "I think you do, Scully. My finger is dripping wet. Wanna see?" I bring my hand around in front of her face. There is no way in hell she is going to open her eyes, I can tell, but her tongue flickers in the corner of her mouth. God, I love this woman. "Lick it, Scully. Taste yourself on me." She opens her mouth, closing it around my finger, eyes closed, cheeks aflame. My cock throbs, jealous. "Good girl. You have a beautiful mouth, Scully. Have I told you that before? You do. And I have plans for that lovely mouth tonight." I pull my finger out and trace it down her chin, between her breasts, underneath her skirt. I begin to stroke her again, reaching further to slick my fingertips, smearing, massaging her clit in small circles, gradually increasing pressure and speed. "What are you thinking about, Scully? Are you thinking about all these people around us, wondering whether they see you, whether they know exactly how hot you are, how desperate you are? Or are you thinking about my finger in your mouth, about what I intend to put in your mouth later? Are you thinking about how my cock feels in your mouth, Scully? Because I am." Her chin on her chest, she hums. With my other hand, I reach in from behind to slip two fingers inside her. She arches her back, lifting her ass off her heels. I pull my fingers out immediately. "None of that, Scully. I warned you. Unless you want to find out what else is in my bag, I strongly suggest you don't move again." Her muscles clench, but she settles back down. I thrust my fingers in and out, using my other hand to rub small circles around her clit. "Open your eyes, Scully." "No, I can't." She shakes her head, launching a bead of sweat down the side of her face. I lick it off. I can feel the heat radiating from her. "Scully, how will you know if anyone is watching if you don't look?" Her eyelids pop open but slam shut almost immediately, and she groans. "No, it's too much, I can't, I..." I can feel her first convulsions around my fingers, her body quivering from the effort of keeping herself still, each breath quickly caught and held between her slightly open lips. Won't be long now. I crook my fingers inside her, changing the angle. One last gasp and she stiffens as the full force of her orgasm hits, biting her lip to stay quiet, swaying only slightly, her head falling back against my shoulder. I can't say I made her scream, but this is still without a doubt the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life. Comets screeching across the sky have nothing on a red-haired star imploding into a black hole of ecstasy. I wrap my arms around her as she glides back down, gasping for air, her breathing slowly returning to normal. "God, Scully, that was incredible," I murmur into her hair, dropping kisses on her forehead, and anywhere else I can reach while I untie her hands. Silence. Uh-oh. "Scully?" "I'm fine, Mulder." Shit, now I'm scared. "Scully..." "No, really, I'm fine. You're right, that was... incredible." She tilts her chin up and I kiss her, relieved. "Um, Scully?" "Yes?" Bliss, thy name is Scully. "Let's head back to the hotel." Don't get me wrong, Scully, I love that you look like an eager kid who just discovered a new toy, but if I don't get out of these jeans and into you soon, I'm going to have a coronary. She looks at me with a mischievous smile, guessing the reason for my sudden hurry, and slowly, oh so slowly, untangles her limbs from mine. I gather up the blanket and shove it back into my bag while looking around to reorient myself, desperate to find the train station. Time to go, time to go, timetogo. "Hey, Mulder?" "Yeah?" "How crowded do you think subway cars get?

Peter un-wrapped the blood-pressure cuff from around his patient’s arm and offered a reassuring smile to her worried husband. This close to Christmas the mall was filled to bursting with shoppers all exuding seasonal cheer as they tried to ram their shopping carts into spaces far too small to accommodate them. Helen had been caught between a frantic family of six and a pile of discount DVD players when she’d collapsed with an angina attack. David, her husband had called for help and now Peter was checking to make sure Helen could be with her family for Christmas. She has three daughters in Tulsa and does Peter have a number she can contact him on? Just in case her heart starts acting up again? “You can call emergency anytime Helen,” Peter assures her gently. Fingers ghosting over the equipment in his kit, counting and checking to make sure he isn’t leaving something dangerous behind. Deliberately ignoring Mitchell’s wide grin, Peter chats a little more about big family Christmas dinners that need to be cooked and how rude everyone is this time of year before being engulfed in a warm, coffee smelling hug. Mitchell is vibrating with laughter as they head back to their bus, the multitude moving out of their way in an unconscious respect for their uniforms. “Stop it,” Peter orders with a faint blush. “She would have proposed right there on the floor if her husband wasn’t standing behind you.” The bulky red-head teases, opening the ambulance door and climbing in. “Although I think he was just as smitten, maybe they wouldn’t introduce you to their daughters after all…” “You are so funny Mitch, I’m gonna need to give myself a shot just to calm down.” Peter swings into the driver’s seat and contemplates leaving Mitchell behind in the vehicular push and shove of the car park. The red-head settles in beside Peter. “You’re just too nice you know Petey-Pete? They tell you all about their lives and you eat it up like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. You got to keep some distance you know? You’ll burn out from feeling too much otherwise.” “Maybe.” But Peter is non-committal. He genuinely likes talking to people, hearing their stories, getting to know them. After the crazed drama that has been his life for the past year, it’s a nice change to relate to normal people with normal lives. As for burning out…been there, done that. ****** For Peter, Friday afternoon shift finishes at 8pm, allowing just enough time to get home, find something to eat and crash into bed. He has Saturdays off for the next six months and usually gets up early to make the most of his free time. Flicking his locks into place as he checks the mail, Peter tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter and opens the fridge. Eyeing some left-over pizza dubiously, Peter thinks he should call Clair to see what she is doing while visiting his mother, they could have dinner at…. Very, very slowly Peter closed the fridge door, his heart beginning to pound like poor Helen’s. “Hello Peter.” Deep velvet voice that causes a shiver of both excitement and fear to race along his nerves. Turning carefully, Peter looks searchingly around the living room of his apartment until he spots a pocket of shadows beside the door to his bedroom. Something glints in the light from the kitchen. “Sylar,” he breathes. The shadows move and he can see black clad shoulders, some kind of long coat, and the slightly paler black of skin at around face height. Peter glances at his door, how many feet is it from where he’s standing…or maybe…? “You’ll never make it.” Staggering confidence. Peter bristles; he’s fought the killer to standstill and kicked his ass again at Primatech. But that was before. Taking a long breath, Peter breaks and runs. All his fear and adrenaline channelled into a desperate sprint. But not for the door…for the window. He almost makes it. Shoulders curled in to take the impact of the glass, Peter sees a splash of yellow from headlights in the street below, just as a telekinetic band encircles his waist and he is wrenched backwards. Flat on the floor, Peter pushes and twists but he knows it’s hopeless. The casual strength of Sylar’s favourite power is horribly familiar to him, an almost citrus flavour to the press and crush of a killer’s will. Refusing to fight anymore, he lays still and concentrates on keeping his fear under control. Ominous footsteps across his polished floorboards and then Gabriel Grey looms over him, his height magnified by Peter’s supine position. Expecting either a razor pain on his forehead or a full body teke press, Peter is surprised when Sylar sinks down to sit cross-legged beside him, resting elbows on knees and giving the pinned nurse a once-over. “Claire stabbed me in the head with a piece of glass…I thought of you.” The light from the kitchen reveals Sylar’s compelling face, strong brow currently furrowed in thought, black stubbled jaw and a wide neat mouth that under any other circumstances Peter would have considered intensely attractive. Of course ‘other circumstances’ also assumes that the face’s owner isn’t about to butcher him on his new rug. “She mentioned it.” Not glass, anything but glass. What do you do with something that killed you? Peter didn’t want to die at all, but having shards of glass near him during his work is beyond uncomfortable, glass and Sylar in the same room is terrifying. “How did you..?” “Fire melted it; lovely feeling it was too, healing fourth degree burns. But you know what that’s like don’t you Peter?” Sylar always laces his name with a resonant curl, like he tastes it every time he shapes the letters with his lips. Wondering why he is asking questions of the psycho killer, Peter notices for the first time that he isn’t held to the floor by a huge palm of power but more like a bug skewered by a needle. Only his hips and back are anchored; arms, legs and shoulders are free to move. Peter keeps himself as still as possible despite this as he isn’t sure if the lack of pressure is deliberate or an oversight on the other’s part. “Why did you run toward the window Peter?” Gaze locking with Sylar’s bitter chocolate eyes, Peter bites his tongue. “Because your fire escape isn’t the most secure in the world,” Sylar continues thoughtfully. “Why wouldn’t you try for the door? Hmmm, and you were running so fast….Peter?” A sing-song lilt has entered the velvet voice as thoughts whirl and connect behind the killer’s eyes. “Were you going to fly Peter?” Shit, shit, shit. Should have gone for the door. Peter thinks desperately, “Only one lock on the…” “You’re ly-ing.” Now the telekinesis crawls up his chest to gently encircle his throat. “You have a power, you can fly can’t you Peter?” Unmistakable glee. Now Peter begins to fight, kicking and pushing against the invisible force, reaching for Sylar. If he can just touch… “Now don’t be like that Peter.” Sylar leans forward and whispers so close to Peter’s ear he wonders if he can copy a power by that minimal contact. “I would love to fly, but I don’t want to take the risk. I didn’t come to kill you and now that you’re back among us with gifts well...” a pause while Peter fights an involuntary shiver at the warm breath caressing the sensitive skin near his hairline. “…I’m still not going to kill you. Good bye Peter.” Standing in one long graceful movement, Gabriel Grey walks to the window, heavy boots reverberating to where Peter lays trapped on the floor. “You should eat more. Svelte is perfect on you, skinny is not.” Peter watches for long seconds after the window closes behind the killer, slowly sitting up when the telekinetic hold finally disappears. “The fuck?” ***** The following Friday is foretelling a particularly nasty winter ahead. Grey skies and a chill wind serve to throw everyone’s karma into chaos, causing more brawls and accidents in one day than in the last month combined. Peter finishes dressing after a long hot shower and is wandering towards his kitchen when he notices a shadow on his fire escape. Holding still, he looks harder and determines that yes, indeed, there is a man sitting on his fire escape landing. In October. In the cold. Wishing he could be the kind of person to just drop the blinds and go on with his evening, Peter slides up the glass and leans against the white window frame. Chances are better for him exposed to the open sky anyway and it’s not as if the guy couldn’t have just barged in like he had the previous week. “Should I even ask?” He questions as goose bumps not entirely from the cold pebble his skin. In the light from Peter’s apartment, Sylar looks relaxed, elbows on raised knees, head resting comfortably against the cold iron of the hand rail. A polite smile graces the serial killer’s lips as midnight eyes wander over Peter’s form. “You were a little bit upset last time I came in without an invitation, so…” The smile takes on a taunting edge as Peter processes the concept of being ‘a little bit upset’ about last week’s home invasion. “So you decided to linger outside my window in the freezing cold instead?” He can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice, because there is no way in hell Sylar is actually being considerate of Peter’s personal space. Sylar shrugs with an inherent grace Peter is suddenly fiercely envious of. How dare such an attractive creature be such a monster? If his heart-rate wasn’t climbing with slow-crawling fear, it would likely being doing it from proximity to the dark clad man anyway. Crossing his arms, Peter starts to rub them to create some warmth and to banish the chill of fear as well as desire. Dark eyes watch the movement, long fingers flick suddenly and Peter stiffens in surprise. But the citrus caress of power doesn’t touch him; instead he feels a gentle thump as his winter coat, discarded onto his sofa earlier lands across his shoulders. “In or out Peter, you’re letting the warmth go, hovering there like a nervous colt.” The smile is gone and dark eyes look away from Peter, down the alley towards the lights of the traffic beyond. Pushing his arms into the sleeves, Peter climbs through the window. Unable to hide his caution he avoids being too close and settles down with his back against the brick of his building, sock-clad feet near Sylar’s big boots but not touching. Crossing his arms tightly he feels the cold creep into the fabric of his jeans and wonders what the hell is going on. In a frightening display of intuition that Peter would suspect is telepathy if Matt hadn’t called him this morning, Sylar answers Peter’s thought. “When Angela told me I was your brother I thought I had finally found a reason for being.” The words are clear; unemotional even delivered in velvet beauty. “A family to be a part of, parents I could respect, brothers to share the world with.” Peter clenches his teeth against a sudden burst of disgust. His mother had certainly used a very powerful weapon against the man next to him, the lure of family to control someone who is essentially uncontrollable. “A family that spends more time fighting than sharing Sylar.” He corrects sharply, unwilling to hear praise of the flawed ensemble. “We yell and snipe, insult and interfere in each others lives. Petrelli is Italian for manipulate you know. You met my father.” ‘And killed him with me.’ Peter’s conscience supplies ruthlessly. Sylar looks back at the bitterness lacing Peter’s words. “I would have fit right in then, wouldn’t I?” Peter ignores the question. “I never thought you were my brother. Mom could rival Lindeman for pulling strings, but she is ferociously protective of us. She keeps trying to steal Claire away to Europe to keep her safe.” A fond smile rises to his lips at the thought of his adored niece. “There is no way she would let Dad take away a child of hers...no way.” Looking over, Peter catches Sylar staring at his mouth and ducks his head self-consciously. Lately he’s rarely bothered with his appearance and it’s unsettling to feel aware like this with Sylar the Crazed Murderer for God’s sake. Sternly ordering himself to get a grip, Peter sneaks a glance and finds another smile crossing the strong handsome features. “I’m glad now that we’re not brothers Peter.” The velvet voice goes a seductive tone deeper. “Let’s just say that brotherly feelings would have been a poor substitute for what’s between us.” Peter blinked. “Blood, death and violence you mean?” Gabriel Gray laughs out loud. A gorgeous shock of sound that moves blood from Peter’s extremities to other vital areas and echoes delightfully down to the street below. “Maybe,” chuckling, Sylar rises to his feet in one fluid movement and Peter scrambles up so that he can’t be loomed over. Not anymore than normal anyway. A warm hand catches his elbow and steadies him. Stunned Peter doesn’t even think to flinch away. “But not anymore, I haven’t wanted to kill you in, well…it’s been months Peter.” It has been. Peter was the one responsible for most of the aggression in their recent encounters. “Going to fly?” The question seems innocent, until Peter looks into midnight eyes seeing a feral light deep within. “I never said I could fly.” Fingers dropping from Peter’s arm, Gabriel steps back, face suddenly closed, eyes going hard. Peter regrets the words, but… “It’s too cold anyway.” He confesses, looking back into the warmth of his apartment, then glancing up to see triumph light the taller man’s features. “Stay warm Peter.” A hand reaches forward and Peter holds still as long, strong fingers twitch the collar of his coat into place then caress down his arm and wrist. Peter sways forward at the touch, only to find Sylar rising up, the scent of citrus in the air as powerful telekinesis lifts him up to the roof and away. Shivering from a combination of cold and several other feelings, Peter climbs back in his window. Everything Sylar said was twined with some other meaning that Peter will review again and again until he can understand what is going through the killer’s mind. Why was he visiting Peter without intention of violence? Why linger in his home, then the next week hover outside his window in the chill of late fall? What is going on? ***** Waking slowly to the delicious feel of cool clean sheets, Peter sighs in the bliss a shift-worker feels when realising he doesn’t have to go back to work for hours yet. Thursday evening is assigned as apartment cleaning time and fresh laundered linen rustles gently as Peter stretches and curls his toes in smooth cotton. Cracking an eyelid he notices that it’s well past sunrise and he should probably be doing something useful before his shift, but given he had two fatalities in the last 36 hours he decides that he deserves to be lazy for a change. Rolling onto his stomach, Peter rubs a pesky itch on his nose into the pillow before settling in for another long sleep. Opening his eyes to check the time on his alarm clock, Peter’s breathe freezes in his throat with sudden agonising fright as he sees Sylar lying beside him on the bed. Sylar lying beside him on the bed. Gabriel Grey, clothed in his typical midnight attire, booted feet crossed at the ankles, chin in hand as he causally watches Peter die of shock right in front of him. Sylar in his bed. Sylar. In. His. Fucking. Bed!! With an sharp indrawn breath that scalds his throat, Peter rears back from the serial killer in his bed, and stumbles to the floor then to the wall before regaining full control of his limbs and accelerated heart rate. “What the…? You can’t just…Get out you maniac!” Ignoring in the fact that he sounds hysterical, Peter manages to summon a truly massive glare and aims it directly at his unwelcome visitor. What can only be described as a smirk graces Sylar’s lips, dark eyes wandering from Peter’s naked feet, up his pyjama clad legs and bare chest to the tangled mess of his hair. If Peter didn’t know any better he would swear the killer had just checked him out. A shiver trails down his spine at the idea. “You just run through every emotion on high speed don’t you Peter?” Sylar does the complete opposite of Peter’s demand and sprawls across the bed, head on the pillow Peter just vacated, feet almost reaching over the far edge. Resting his cheek on the slightly dented cotton, Gabriel sends a wicked look at Peter through his lashes as he takes a long deep breath in through his nose. In a re-run of last week’s emotional shock, Peter realises he can’t force Sylar to do anything. Standing three feet away and giving orders is about as effective as stamping his foot and probably just as humiliating. Turning on his heel Peter snatches a long-sleeved t-shirt off his cabinet and heads for the kitchen. Sylar may get his kicks out of invading other people’s privacy, doesn’t mean Peter has to stand here and watch him. Only a few minutes later, Peter is staring thoughtfully at two mugs on his kitchen counter as footsteps precede his guest into the kitchen. Not even looking away from the boiling kettle, Peter asks, “Are you going to kill me?” The scrape of one of his chairs being pulled out from the breakfast nook. “Not today Peter.” Sylar’s dark velvet voice is magnified in its beauty by Peter being unable to see the man. “Hurt or threaten me? Wreck my stuff? Make me late for work?” “No Peter. Should I promise?” A thread of amusement sprinkled through the velvet now. Peter suppresses an answering smile. Turning around he gestures to the steaming mugs in front of him. “Coffee then?” He knows he sounds wary and why not? He’s entertaining a murderer. Something that could only be called surprise crosses Sylar’s strong features, brows arched suddenly, lips parting in a way that Peter argues with himself isn’t as appealing as it looks. “Yes. Thank you.” Manners that must have been ingrained since birth come to the fore and Peter winces at the courtesy shown him. This is getting just a bit surreal. A bit? Taking a long drink of his own wickedly black coffee, Peter watches the other man as colliding emotions finally come to an accord. Sylar isn’t going to hurt him. Hasn’t laid a finger on him in their last half-dozen or so meetings and actively helped him during the chaos of Pinehurst. So what the fuck does that mean? Peter just can’t really maintain fear of the man anymore and that is likely a dangerous, dangerous thing. Sylar coughs uncomfortably and Peter realises he must have been staring at the man’s mouth while he was drinking. Hoping to God his cheeks aren’t colouring, Peter drags his eyes upwards and sees Sylar looking away, gazing out the window as he toys with the small chip in the mug’s handle. What the hell was Gabriel Grey doing here? That he would break in and ruthlessly impose himself, then feel uncomfortable with basic hospitality? Peter has to find out. “Please understand I’m not going to hurt you,” he reassures Sylar, setting his cup aside and straightening from a slouch on the bench. “What?” Head snapping back to him, Sylar’s gaze becomes sharp, standing so quickly the cup spins a moment on the counter. “You can’t hurt me Peter; I thought we’d established that.” Somehow he holds his ground when Sylar steps closer, using his height to loom in a way that Peter, now his fear has abated, finds really, really irritating. Tossing his head a little to keep the hair out of his eyes, Peter looks up those few important inches and replies, “I know it won’t last, but I remember when I had Claire’s ability and I’ve got a few hours at least…” words cut off as long fingers grab his upper arms in a crushing grip that will leave bruises later no doubt. “What won’t last Peter? What have you…?” That ferocious intelligence clinks into place, bitter chocolate eyes find the coffee mug on the breakfast nook and return to Peter full of accusation. For some reason he can’t explain, Peter’s gut churns with guilt. “I’m sorry, but I have to know what’s going on with you….” Fingers gone from his skin, Sylar turns too fast and stumbles against the door frame as he makes for the living room. “I promise I won’t let you be hurt.” Peter vows as he follows the staggering villain. “I promise.” When Sylar finally collapses just shy of the front door, Peter crouches down beside him and carefully checks his pulse. Strong and steady. Not entirely confident he has as many hours as he would like, Peter snatches up the phone and wonders how he’s going to get the bigger man off his floor. ***** Two hours later, Peter has clean teeth, neat hair, an ex-cop and a geneticist in his living room. Oh and a drugged up serial killer. “Peter I cannot tell you how dangerous this is. We should call Noah and let him take care of everything.” Mohinder reminds him with his gentle intensity. It’s fairly decent of the man to even be helping them considering the immense hatred the scientist feels for Sylar. “I know Mohinder, but there is something going on with Sylar and I need to know what it is.” Peter had called in his reinforcements as soon as he was sure the killer was out cold. Matt had agreed in a heartbeat, Mohinder tagging along because if it involved Gabriel Grey then it involved him. “Besides, Bennet is retired, doesn’t even have anywhere to keep him now. I don’t even know if anyone can hold Sylar with all the powers he has.” “You caught him,” Matt tells Peter, adjusting and checking the weapons, all but one of which will be useless if everything doesn’t go according to plan. “Yeah.” Peter can’t even explain why he feels so bad about that. Maybe the expression on Sylar’s face when Peter had offered the coffee, like he’d never had anyone make him a drink before. Shoving his feelings aside to be examined at excruciating length later, Peter takes his position just behind Matt’s shoulder and readies the syringe in his hand. Mohinder stands behind the chair Peter has hauled the killer into, long-bladed hunting knife inches from Sylar’s skull, ready in case everything goes to hell. As it probably will. “Okay, in I go.” Matt declares and sits forward in his seat directly in front of Sylar. It’s a credit to his immense courage that when Peter asked him to telepathically enter a serial killer’s mind there was only three seconds of hesitation. That and the promise of a tranquiliser in the bicep if Matt starts freaking out and trying to kill anyone. For Peter it only takes about ten minutes. His own experience with Matt’s power is one of simple influence rather than scanning so he has no idea how much time passes for Matt and Sylar, but from the way Matt keeps leaning forward and Sylar’s occasional jolts, it isn’t quick or pleasant. “Peter?” Mohinder’s knuckles have gone white around the knife handle. “Just a little more time Mohinder, Matt said he’d come out and give us an update, just wait till then. Please?” What would he do if Mohinder tried to stab Sylar…stop him? God Peter what the fuck have got yourself into? “Whoa, that hurts,” Matt growls, leaning back and releasing Sylar from his mental attack. “Matt?” Mohinder’s voice reveals his stress. “No, no Mohinder I’m fine. Don’t do it yet.” Rubbing his face hard with both hands, Matt looks up at Peter. ”You’re right, there is something very wrong in his mind, but I don’t know if it’s a new kind of wrong or if he’s always been this way.” “Can you heal it?” Peter keeps his emotions firmly under wraps. “I don’t know...maybe.” Matt looks thoughtfully back at the slumped figure in front of him. Mohinder shakes his head in the negative. “It’s too risky. This whole idea is insane.” “I know Mohinder,” Peter agrees, it isn’t Matt he has to convince, it’s the doctor. “But right now we only have one way of stopping him, “ a gesture towards the huge blade in Mohinder’s hand. “If Matt can do anything to heal Sylar from the inside, then stabbing a man in the head isn’t necessary.” “He killed you.” The words are stark in their truth. Peter tastes the memory of blood in his mouth. “I know.” “I watched him do it. I carried your body to your mother and witnessed her face when she saw you. He killed my father and over a dozen others, he doesn’t deserve to be helped Peter.” No, he doesn’t. “You’re right…I…” “I’ll do it.” Matt takes the argument away from them both. “Matt please...” Mohinder begins. But the stocky policeman holds up his hand. “I saw more of his victims than either of you and I know what he did to each and every one of them. I have a chance to fix this, to repair whatever damaged this man and I’m going to take it.” Even Mohinder closes his mouth at the tone of promise coming from Matt. “But keep those ready just in case.” A last lingering look into Mohinder’s eyes and then Matt puts his concentration squarely into the battle for a man’s sanity. Only a moment or two later Sylar starts to jerk, his whole body reacting to Matt’s attempt at healing. “Come back here Gabriel, don’t run.” Matt mutters under his breath. “You don’t need to fix them all, you know how they work now.” “Get out.” Slurred from the unconscious man’s lips. “Matt, he’s waking up.” Peter warns, finger’s tightening on the needle. “You already know why…not your parents, you didn’t need to…it isn’t broken.” Matt’s one sided conversation continues. Long fingers, once relaxed, suddenly fist and all the books in Peter’s apartment fall to the floor. “I know he’s not broken…you can’t…ahhh, there it is…almost….but it’s so simple Gabriel you could…” A full-body flinch and doors rip off their hinges, hang suspended in midair like balloons. “…Gabriel…you only get to have him if you fix the problem…the hunger is the problem….” Sylar’s head lifts, his eyes open and fix on Matt’s face. Mohinder pulls his arm back, blade catching the sunlight and refracting a thousand times across the room. “…Gabriel it’s broken…FIX IT!” Matt’s command echoes through all their heads as Sylar stands up, eyes blazing with fury. Matt, returned to the present, is flung across the room, Mohinder pressed with equal force to the wall behind him. A single flick of the hand and the hypodermic in Peter’s fingers is embedded in a nearby floating door. The citrus thrill of Sylar’s telekinesis catches his throat and lifts him with careless ease. Tugged up and forward until they are nose to nose, Peter claws at his strangled neck. “Oh I’m going to punish you for this Peter.” The once-velvet voice is raw with murderous intent. Peter gasps in enough air for a few words. “Did…you… do… it? Fix…it?” A slight head tilt as the killer looks inwardly for a moment. Midnight eyes widen. “What did you do?” But the invisible grip had robbed Peter of air; the world goes smudgy around the edges. “Whatever you did, I’m going to come back and make you pay. Very. Slowly.” The threat is whispered against his lips. Peter hears it just before the world goes grey and all is swallowed in the sound of shattering glass. ****** Four weeks later, Peter closes the door behind his guest and almost nervously crosses to his kitchen. Pulling down two coffee mugs he flicks on the kettle and pastes on a smile for the other man. “Nice place Pete, you live here long?” Tom stands at ease near Peter’s book shelf, looking at the small items that make up one man’s life, probably wondering what they each represent. Shrugging, Peter makes coffee and forces his mind away from the memory of the last time he’d made hot drinks for two. “A few years.” Now that he has Tom back to his home, he feels unaccountably shy. The cop had asked him out months ago, but Peter hadn’t accepted till recently. Hadn’t even thought about seeing anyone while the threat of Sylar’s return lingered in his thoughts. The first Friday after what Peter now terms the Cosmic Matt Telepathy Fuck Up, he’d had Noah Bennet stationed on his couch with several deadly firearms and many, many sharp pieces of metal. It had come to nothing. Sylar hadn’t showed. Embarrassed but relieved, Peter had thanked a disappointed Bennet and then survived a fraught week of paranoia until the bespectacled man had returned unasked the following Thursday. Still no sign of the serial killer and Peter felt his fear recede. Now filled with more information about guns than he ever wants to know, Peter has resumed his normal schedule and accepted Tom the Cop’s invitation to dinner. Sylar had probably lost whatever weird interest he’d had in the nurse anyway and was off terrorising some other part of the country. Of course that meant Peter is smote with guilt about letting the man go free when he could have ended him. But that guilt is useful in smothering a smaller one regarding certain hotly inappropriate thoughts about the touch of Sylar’s lips and the look of intent in his eyes during their last encounter. Tom, funny, tall, blond and built, was a gorgeous alternative to Peter’s right hand and the fading scent of a serial killer on his pillow. An option that would move to an even better level of distraction if they could get through coffee without Peter freaking out or calling the other man Gabriel by accident. Fingers tickling down his ribs knocks Peter from his thoughts, bringing him back to the very real, very nice man in his apartment. “Show me your bedroom?” Gentle words whisper into his ear, lips touch Peter’s neck in small, soft kisses. “Please?” Turning into the circle of the other man’s arms, Peter leans up and kisses Tom, eyes closing on the handsome friendly face. The wrong face. Just as Peter deepens the kiss, opening his mouth to a courteous tongue, Tom’s mouth is…gone. Hands that had been lingering on Peter’s ass pull away so violently he staggers forward with their momentum. Shocked, Peter looks up into the brilliant midnight eyes of Sylar and feels his heart freeze in his chest. “I’m going to kill him now Peter and you get to watch.” Smokey velvet voice promising horror as Peter throws himself in front of Sylar and catches sight of…god...no...Tom’s spread eagled form telekinetically pinned to his ceiling. “You are not going to hurt him you nutcase.” Peter rages, stupidly jumping, trying to reach the poor man above him. Tom’s eyes are wide with terror and disbelief. “Let him down Sylar, he’s a fucking cop!” Sylar stands unmoving, rage filled eyes on Peter. “A cop? That just shows your appalling physiological need for an authority figure Peter. Why didn’t you fuck Parkman if you needed someone with a badge.” Scorn infuses every word, spilling into the room and staining Peter with its lash. Giving up on the jumping as useless, Peter strides directly into Sylar’s space and snarls in his face. “First, don’t even think about judging my emotional issues Mr Unbalanced Freak, second, who I fuck is so very much none of your business, third, Matt’s with Mohinder as if you didn’t know and fourth, let him the fuck down now before I…” Tom shoots Sylar in the head. Stunned and slightly deafened from the sound, Peter looks up from the killer’s body to see his almost-boyfriend come crashing to the floor, gun held in a sure grip. In a bizarre thought Peter realises that it would have to have been an awesome shot from the ceiling at that angle. Helping the policeman to stand, he hurries, “You have to leave Tom, he’s going to get up in a minute.” A warm hand cups Peter’s shoulder, “He’s dead Pete, he’s not getting up. I’ll call it in…” Concerned blue eyes, still touched by fear gaze into his, then widen comically as they look beyond him. Peter can sympathise, Claire’s gift is one hell of a showstopper. He whirls around and faces Sylar directly, keeping his body between the two men. Hopefully Tom won’t panic and shoot him in the back by accident. Gabriel spits out the bullet that had shattered his cheekbone and drops it on the floor. “Cute.” Peter acknowledges sassily. “Now get out Sylar, before a million cops come to check that gunshot.” Sylar straightens to his full height and glares at Tom. “No.” The click of a safety causes a tingle between Peter’s shoulder-blades. Crap. This will get even bloodier if he doesn’t get rid of one of them. Turning he catches Tom’s gun hand and lowers it to point the weapon at the floor. “What the fuck is he Pete…?” The tremble in the cop’s voice is very real and suddenly Peter feels like shit. “Tom, please. He’s an old…friend, and he…just…you need to leave.” What the hell can he say to get a very noble, very decent man to leave him alone with an undead felon? “I can handle it, I promise, I…” Sylar takes over Peter’s deteriorating argument. “Go home Tom the Cop. Go home feeling drunk and nauseous and call in sick tomorrow.” The deep velvet of Sylar’s voice takes on a strange resonance that makes Peter’s teeth itch. “This night never happened, you never took Peter out, you never touched him and if you even look at him again I’ll remove your balls and force them down your throat.” Peter blinks at Tom’s dreamy blue eyes and slack mouth. “What are…?” “Okay.” The blond nods helpfully before holstering his weapon and turning to the door. “Tom!” Peter calls, catching the other man by the arm and looking him in the eye. But Tom looks straight through him, eyes turning to Sylar with a slight wince. Letting go, Peter backs away and watches a good man leave his apartment without a backward glance. Turning around he glares all his anger at someone who is in no way a good man. “Who did you kill for that one?” He doesn’t own the disappointment that laces his voice. Ridiculous to have hoped that Matt was successful all those weeks ago, but still he had wanted to believe. “My father.” Peter blinks in surprise. “Right after I pulled out the arrows he shot into me, I decided that killing him was good for society as well as for me.” Appalled, Peter just stares at the other man before his anger comes rushing back like a hurricane. “Get out.” He hisses. Fury that equals his own rises into midnight eyes. “Make me.” Sylar responds, something delicious and deadly in his tone. “Fine.” Peter turns sharply on his heel and makes to follow Tom. Hand on the lock he is caught by the waist, spun and lifted, back forced hard to the door with a very tall, very angry Gabriel Grey pressed full length to his body. Fury fuelled now by instant desire, Peter draws in a sharp, painful breath and rakes his fingers through Sylar’s thick dark hair, pulling two harsh handfuls, nearly scalping the man. Sylar retaliates, a strong hand grabbing the back of Peter’s neck, tilting his head to the left as the killer leans inexorably forward. Dark strands catch under Peter’s fingernails as he squirms, the small pain unnoticed by Sylar’s relentless intent. Soft lips trace along his collarbone and throat, leaving aching heat in their wake and Peter’s fingers relax their death grip. The beginning of a moan works its way from Peter’s lungs. Then Gabriel bites down…hard. Back arching at the sudden pain, Peter’s moan turns into a grunt and he rams a thumb into Sylar’s eye socket. “That’s why I like you so much Peter,” Sylar grits out as his bruised and damaged eye quickly heals. “I want to kill you almost as much as I want to…” This time the stiff fingers hit him in the larynx and Peter suddenly feels a burst of citrus energy as telekineses takes over holding him to the door, while long fingers claw at a useless windpipe. Gabriel still has denim clad thighs pressed between Peter’s legs and one hand on his hip, but the weight of his body has shifted backwards. “I don’t care what you want.” Peter states, refusing to fight the teke, refusing to give Sylar the satisfaction of seeing him struggle. “Liar.” It’s gasped and small, but clear. Peter looks into pained midnight eyes and feels his anger boil over. Anger at this situation, anger at Tom for leaving, anger at Sylar for being a murderer and most of all anger at himself for almost not caring, for being hard as rock at the touch of Gabriel’s body on his. For the deep, entrenched passion he feels even though it shocks his soul every time. He wants, needs and lusts over the very antithesis of his being and Peter feels impossible rage at himself for being so weak. Grabbing two handfuls of heavy black woollen coat, Peter pulls Sylar forward and forces a kiss. Angry, harsh he feels soft lips tear under his teeth, taste of copper on his tongue before the small wound closes. Peter lets his rage fuel the touch, sends all that passion forwards until his mind clears and he becomes aware of what he’s doing. Sylar stands completely still, unresponsive. Then… …the smell of citrus. Telekinesis rising like a great wave, building around them until Peter can perceive it even with his eyes half-closed. Almost smothered by the weight of power, a pressing intent of such strength curling like a long sinuous ribbon around Peter’s hands and arms. Sylar strikes. Hands all over Peter, moving continuously from shoulder to flank, body crowding him further into the unrelenting wood of the door. And Sylar’s lips, not just returning the kiss but…owning Peter’s mouth, consuming him with heat and wet, tongue tracing his teeth until Peter feels the hot pulse of release begin to coarse from his chest to his toes and back up. The blood carrying fire to where his cock is trapped against an equally interested partner, denim and cloth unlovely friction as Sylar’s hips rock into his. One roaming hand catches under Peter’s knee and lifts it high over Sylar’s hip, while the other slides down the back of his pants, helpfully unbuckling themselves to allow the movement. Long fingers curve over Peter’s ass, cupping and holding him in place. Feeling the hard grind, Peter arches his back, meeting Sylar’s thrust and tightening his fingers on black lapels, holding on under the relentless adoration of Sylar’s passion. The need rises faster as Peter wrenches his head back to gasp in a vital breath and Sylar descends to his neck biting again and again. Tipping his face to allow more, Peter looks up at his ceiling, craving more contact, more pressure on his cock, more heat, more touch, more everything. Sudden blinding frisson of shock. Peter feels his body flood with power, nothing sexual in it at all. He stares numbly at his bare hand curled once again in thick dark hair. Gabriel has stopping moving; body a taut bowstring as realisation dawns. His head lifts and as midnight eyes lock onto Peter’s he knows that explanations just aren’t going to cut it. “Sorry.” Peter gasps at last. Sylar’s eyes widen from curiosity to abject disbelief as he is flung across the room and out the window. Stolen powers flare as the glass slams back into place, Peter lands on his feet and the bites on his neck begin to heal. “Sorry.” Peter repeats quietly as he watches Elle’s electricity flicker across his fingers. ***** Peter leans back against the door and lets his keys dangle from his fingers. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, driving home from work tonight. After last Friday’s encounter he felt sure that if Gabriel returned it would be as an aggressor rather than a suitor. Sylar was not the kind of man who would tolerate his powers being copied, particularly not by Peter. So, the gentle clink of metal is the only sound in his apartment as Peter looks at the intruder on his couch. Long legs crossed at the ankle, head comfortably pillowed on a cushion braced against the sofa arm, Gabriel looks as relaxed as Peter has ever seen him. It looks like he’s been there for hours. “I talked to a friend of mine about you.” The reclining man offers as if they were continuing a conversation after only a moment’s pause rather than the seven day hiatus that had actually occurred. Biting back a comment about Sylar even having a ‘friend’ as beneath him, Peter shrugs off his coat and edges slowly into the room. He knows that last week was a lone success, if it comes to a battle with Sylar’s abilities, Peter is confident in the other’s victory. “You did?” Curious and uncertain of the killer’s mood. Sylar, gaze on the ceiling, nods. Peter ignores the slight ruffle in the usually pristine hair style and his fingers itchy need to touch. “He’s just a teenager, but he has a certain way of putting things that I can relate to.” The velvet voice is low and even, like he’s discussing the whether. Peter quietly puts his satchel and keys on the counter. “His advice...and I quote “For a god-like superhero you are really fucked up. Does this dude you’re so fixated on even know you like him? I mean shit man, you have a strange idea of courting someone, you know. Try and ask him to the movies or something. Jesus.” Peter makes a strangled sound that is somewhere between horror and laughter. Not only is it an uncanny impersonation of the average teenager, the words are just…. Sylar turns his head to look Peter dead in the eye for the first time since the nurse arrived home. “Would you please come to the movies with me tonight Peter?” The words are fairly innocent, the hot, syrupy suggestion in the velvet voice is anything but. Taking a deep breath, Peter summons his courage and walks over to the couch. Seeing his approach, Sylar sits up, booted feet hit the floor; head tipping back, hands open on his knees. Peter gently trails the back of his fingers down the smooth, handsome face before him from temple to jaw. He watches in stunned comprehension as Gabriel’s breath catches, his eyes flutter shut, the long throat issues what can only be described as a moan. “This is a really, really bad idea.” Peter’s voice sounds alien to his own ears. Despite his words, his fingers continue to explore, tracing the strong brows and neat nose, long inky lashes and lovely mouth. Gabriel arches like a cat, pushing into Peter’s caress, searching for more while his own hands remain still. “I know,” Sylar agrees, eyes closed. “Why do you think I force myself to stay away? I get to day six and then I have to come back.” A long low sigh. “I should just kill you.” Peter brings his other hand up to steady himself on one broad shoulder. “Please don’t.” “Okay.” Instant agreement and suddenly Peter feels something within him shift. The battle he’s been fighting against this attraction has ended, a white flag of surrender offered. He wants this, wants this man and god help him…damn the consequences. Because boy, will there be consequences. Leaning down, Peter presses his lips to Gabriel’s in a light, chaste kiss. “Just to let you know, I don’t get naked on a first date.” He murmurs against the other’s mouth. Lids fly open and midnight orbs look up into his, shock and joy waring with hilarious disappointment. “Oh yes you do.” Strong hands catch Peter at the hips and pull him forward until the slighter man straddles Sylar’s lap. Wriggling forward until he can press his hard cock against Sylar’s, Peter let’s his knees sink deep into the couch cushions on either side of them and takes another nipping kiss. “You’re right,” Peter agrees as he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it onto the floor behind him. “I really do.” Nimble fingers undo shirt buttons with incredible skill as citrus flavoured telekinesis joyfully unzips pants and unlaces shoes. Sudden pain and Sylar’s long fingers grip Peter’s hips, nails digging in with iron control. Leaning his forehead against Peter’s collar bone, Sylar’s voice sounds like someone ground gravel into the velvet. “I don’t know if I can… I need to…” there is both threat and desperate need in the words. Holding still, Peter draws another white flag from within and offers it freely. “You can Gabriel, I want you to…” his hands tug non-too gently at the thick hair. “Anything you want, it’s fine.” With permission sought and granted, Sylar finally takes the lead. They kiss like they've been lovers for a decade or more. Straight past the fumbling of a first time and well into 'I know what you like' territory. The press of Gabriel’s lips and the hot, push of his tongue finds Peter sighing, opening his mouth and letting Gabriel in. The sudden sweetness of it makes his heart ache. Inching even impossibly closer, Peter tries to occupy the same place in time and space as Gabriel, his body reacting to the instinct of passion and politely taking his mind along for the ride. Kissing the hot, sensual mouth back with the hunger he'd so easily surrendered, their tongues fight not for domination but to determine who could explore the other's mouth more hungrily. Kisses that send shivers up Peter spine, greedy wicked hands that seem intent on touching every inch of his skin and bringing him to aching arousal. The shivers stop completely when Gabriel’s power tears their clothes into confetti and a long, nimble tongue laps at small beads of sweat collecting at the base of Peter’s throat. Surrendering control, Peter offers only a passionate ‘yessss, yesss’ as he is manhandled over onto the couch with his forearms braced on the side. Spreading his legs in blatant invitation, Peter arches his spine into the touch of Gabriel’s mouth at his tailbone, a full-body shiver giving away any pretence he might have had of self-control. Head dipping in pleasure as Gabriel reaches beneath him to encircle his cock, palming the shaft and rubbing intently at the swollen head. Peter’s brain thinks of trying to return the caress, but his flesh is another matter, it replies to Gabriel's hands and skin with a full body shudder and a needy thrust of his hips into that stroking touch. It occurs to him that this is really happening. He is actually here on his couch about to have what he is sure will be really amazing sex with Gabriel Grey. Mentally pleading that he isn't about to wake up sticky and broken-hearted, Peter’s lips curl into a lazy, sex-infused smile. Then an intimate caress of both power and fingers and Peter relaxes into the sensation as Gabriel opens his body, stretching and twisting until he is panting with need. "-Yes-" Peter's eyes almost close as Gabriel's fingers breach his body, the slippery silk of the touch sending his head forward once again to rest drunkenly on the cloth beneath him. A shift and play of long lean muscles behind him and Peter takes a long, deep breath. The touch, the sensation of hard, swollen flash against his needy opening is too much of a temptation. Hands going white knuckled on the fabric beneath them, Peter nearly begs. Oh, he wants this. Wants Gabriel inside him so badly it feels like he is going to scream if he isn't taken, and taken fast. Sylar responds to the desperation coming from Peter’s skin and with a hard, guttural sound pushes his long shaft deep into Peter in one controlled thrust. For a single teardrop moment, they hold still, both awash with the all-encompassing feeling of being possessed and possession. Then Gabriel begins to move. After that, for Peter everything begins to boil down to fleeting snatches of sensation. The pad of his Gabriel's thumb running over his left hipbone, the hot wisp of air behind the delicate shell of his ear raising goose bumps on his forearms, the hard, lean body rocking relentlessly into his. As Gabriel thrusts into him, over and over, Peter's body is pulled back and forth against his braced arms, knees bending so that he can push back and take even more, feel all of it, down to his soul. And he keeps talking. Deadly, heart-breaking words that fuck Peter’s brain as his cock owns Peter’s body. “Perfect…yes…only you…in my head all the time…beautiful…mine…Peter…only one…only you…love...” The clench of desperate hands across the top of his thighs and Peter knows he is close. Gabriel is giving him everything in him, his passion, his voice and his magnificent cock bringing Peter up a high, blissful mountain. Tearing his hand from its ferocious grip on the couch, Peter strokes himself in time with his partner's thrusts, occasionally rasping the back of his fingers on the woven cloth. The small pain only serves to contrast with the brilliance taking place behind him. The apartment is gone, the world gone; all that is left is Gabriel and the mountain disappearing out from under Peter. A warm, pleasured scream curls up through Peter's lungs and is ready to burst from his lips. He is peripherally aware of the couch pounding over and over into the floor, but is too lost in the intense wash of electricity flooding through him to try and stifle his shout of ecstasy. Strong fingers now in his hair, mirrors to the pulsing heat invading and spiraling his body, pull his face around and Peter’s lips are smothered by the hot, sweet press of his lover's mouth. Gabriel is kissing him, fucking him, loving him. All around Peter, their bodies locked intimately together while he crests the barreling waves of climax sweeping through him. Intense. Mind-blowing. For a fraction of an instant all is blinding white. ***** Saturday morning. Peter wakes with his head pillowed on a strongly muscled thigh and long fingers playing gently in his hair. Blinking sleepily he watches as Gabriel changes the station of the television using telekinesis. “Why would I want to cook something that looks like vomit? Stupid woman.” The cooking show disappears. “I don’t think he’s being faithful to you Jodie because that’s your sister backstage looking nervous” The talk show stays on for nearly thirty seconds before being axed. “Children wouldn’t understand this anymore than I do.” The commentary is witty, vicious and brutally funny. The fingers that stroke his body are loving. Smiling, Peter curls in closer and enjoys a sleep-in. -END-

The GG's Graffiti Souls clattered against his chest as Clutch ducked into an alleyway. He hadn't seen any of them, but he was certain he was being chased. All of them talked so much about teamwork and solidarity; there's no way they'd let him go after he said he knew where Yoyo— the real Yoyo— was. And if they did... well, at least he'd get a bunch of Souls out of it. "Yo," came a voice from ahead and he jerked back, screeching to a halt. One or two of the Souls dropped out of his hoodie pocket and clattered to the ground as he braked hard. There was a GG perched on the crossbar of a lamp right fuckin' in front of him, backlit by the setting sun. He was crouched down, froglike— leaning forward, his knees up almost to his ears, long arms hanging down. All he could see were his goggles, their reflective surface shining out brightly. They were crosshatched, lookin' like a spiders' eyes, completely obscuring his eyes. He looked freakish and creepy— most of the GGs did, really. Clutch's skates rolled quietly against the cracked pavement as he backed away slowly. The GG noticed, though, and leapt from his perch and landed smoothly with the slightest clatter of wheels. He used the momentum to circle around in a shallow arc, coming up behind him. "You better return those souls, boyo," he said, words pronounced with the faintest accent. "I didn't steal nothin'!" Clutch said nervously, putting his hands up. "Just took out a little loan— I know where Yoyo is, too!" "Riiight," the GG said, skating around to Clutch's front. It was... someone wearing weird goggles, but not Beat's weird goggles. Kind of short, and pretty well-muscled for a rudie; he was dark-skinned with a shaved head and had a lot of piercings in his ears. Pretty hot, and kind of terrifying. "Hand 'em over, then." Clutch pulled the jangling bunch of Souls from his pockets, slowly, and dropped them into the GG's hands, carefully. "I won't try nuthin' funny!" The GG smirked at that, lips curving up to reveal his teeth. "Right," he said, sarcastically, again. "Where's Yoyo?" he added, after tucking the Souls in his shorts pockets, never once taking an eye off Clutch's nervous face— presumably, since he couldn't actually see where he was looking under those goggles. "They got yr kid over in the Fortified Residential Zone." The GG looked skeptical and he added "I swear, man!" He paused, looked aside, and tried to say casually, like the idea had just come to him. "Hey, lemme help you out! I swear I won't try nothin' funny." The GG looked Clutch up and down, probably judging him silently. "What d'you write?" he asked, eventually, and he took that to mean he was in. "I write Clutch, man!" he said, extending a hand. The other guy took it, squeezing hard as he replied "Garam," simply. "So..." Clutch said, slowly skating backwards, away from Garam. "I'll go see y'all at the Garage, yeah?" "No way," Garam said, grabbing hold of the front of Clutch's hoodie and dragging him close. "You and your spiky head are coming with me, got it?" Garam said, his mouth curled into an angry shape even as his goggles hid his expression. "Like you said, no funny business. But you'll regret it if we get there and Yoyo's not there." Clutch swallowed nervously. Yoyo'd been there, definitely. He'd checked himself, following the Rokkaku brigades around. But who knew what they were up to, or how long they'd keep him there before moving him again. "N-no problem, man! I'll be there with you, no problem!" he babbled as Garam stared at him with those creepy spider goggles. After a tense second, apparently Garam was satisfied by whatever it was he was looking for in his expression. He grabbed Clutch's wrist and skated off, dragging him behind. It really did not take long for Garam to establish that he was, by far, the more experienced skater of the two. With Garam still dragging him by the wrist Clutch couldn't keep his fuckin' balance at all, but Garam swung him back and forth like he was a fuckin' rag doll, and used him as a gigantic counterweight. He pulled off all sorts of crazy tricks effortlessly, usually ones that left Clutch panting and nursing an aching body part after he'd landed badly. His hand around his wrist at least gave him an excuse to look at him, all punked-up and fierce lookin' all the time, and with the self confidence to back it up— if he wasn't sure he'd smack him down (probably literally, too) he'd maybe try to hit that. Garam reminded of people he used to know, cocky fuckers who knew they were hot and said it loud and clear. Garam didn't even need to say it. He didn't need to say much of anything, apparently. Garam finally let go of him halfway through the sewers, since at that point, Clutch figured, he couldn't run away if he'd tried. The sewers were a goddamn crazy-ass maze, but Garam skated through them with ease, hurtling down long tunnels and slinging around corners like he had every twist and turn mapped out in his head. He'd let go of Clutch's wrist, aching by this point, to swing himself up onto a pipe. He ground along its length, skates kicking up a shower of sparks behind him. Then, once they skated out of the low half-pipe into the Fortified Residential Zone... man, he was stuck right in the middle of the latest crazy shit going down between Rokkaku and the rudies, 'cause their fuckin' assassin branch had set up time-bombs all through the place. Clutch managed to disarm one, clomping up a stairway in his skates and spending forever messing with the wires, sweaty and terrified. Garam skated all over the place, smashing in the video plates and deftly pulling out something that made them shut off. He tagged the wreckage for good measure; a sloppy 'GGs' across every one. He'd heard the GGs were where the real talent was in the city, but... hearing about what they'd done, or even seeing their tags up in impossible places— none of that was anything compared to seeing what one of them was like in action. Garam skated effortlessly across houses, leaping back and forth between awning poles like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He followed behind, just barely managing. He scrambled over fences Garam had jumped right over; he clambered across rooftops slowly and haphazardly that Garam had soared past, his skates barely seeming to touch the ground. Then, a VTOL jet crashed straight through the skylight. And Garam took care of it. Garam did, a lone skater versus a serious war machine, tagging all across the sights, leaving long messy lines of paint over the sensors until it retreated. He'd never been so impressed in his life, watching him fearlessly take on something like that. He'd freed Yoyo from the cage almost casually, like an afterthought even in the midst of it, and then he joined in, some tiny little kid taking on a military jet. They both left, back through the sewers. Garam took a second to turn back at him, smirking again. "If you were serious about joining the GGs, come by the garage some time." He was already turning away, and Clutch caught his shrug and the start of a grin, his lips curling up to show his flashing teeth. "Show us what you're made of." He would've liked to make some snappy comeback, but all he did was nod dumbly. Yoyo started griping loudly to Garam as they skated off into the dark, and for a long time he could hear their distorted voices echoing back. The steady clack of their skates took even longer to fade away, leaving Clutch alone in the underworks. Clutch went to the garage, of course. How could he not? Admittedly, knowing what he knew now, it was such a stupid idea to try and impress them by stealing their Souls... but whatever, it all worked out in the end. They weren't very pleased with him when he showed up, but evidently Garam— or Yoyo— had talked to someone, and he was pulled aside by Gum and Tab themselves, the founders of the whole deal. So yeah, then he was an official member of the GGs. Didn't feel much different, still froze up when he ever ran into other GGs on the street. He couldn't believe that Beat— the Beat, who'd been around back in the day, the legendary king who'd tagged all across the city, the one who vanished without a trace and came back with even more skill— was just some scrawny redhead. He was short and twiggy. Like, he only recognized him because of his headphones and goggles. It was crazy. Hanging with the GGs wasn't that much different from what he'd been up to before— he still hung around with his old posse; crashed at his old pad. But he slept over at the Garage, too, sometimes, and went out in the mornings to tag, everything bright and quiet (or as quiet as it got) in the early light. It was after a week or two that Garam went aside to talk to him. "I was thinking of tagging up the sewers," he said with little introduction. He had a pair of disposable ventilation masks in his hand, dangling by their straps. He cocked his hips, locking the wheels of his skates, glaring (or maybe just looking) at Clutch like he was daring him to respond. Honestly, after the surprise of Garam actually talking to him it was all he could do not to stare, focus on the lines of his arm, the low curves of his wiry muscle and how he could see right through the edges of his shirt, backlit by the setting sun. Fuck, earlier in the summer he'd just gone around in his shorts, and Clutch felt a little angry that he'd missed it. The thick nubs of his nipple piercings just barely made peaks in the fabric of his heavy muscle shirt. "Want to come with?" Garam asked, his voice barely raising to make it a question. Clutch dragged his gaze up to Garam's face. "Yeah, man!" He said, after a pause, "'course I do!" Garam smirked again, as he always did. He started skating backwards, away from him, as he spoke. "Then c'mon, follow me," he said, already twisting his torso around to cleanly flip forward, skating off into the distance almost before Clutch could stand up. He at least knew the way to the sewers now, which was good— he barely got another glimpse of Garam until he skated around the final corner and dropped into the long winding overflow halfpipe. He found him just a little ahead, his legs pumping, his muscled calves and thighs flexing with each push. Clutch bit his lip and looked away, focusing on the ground between them as he propelled himself forward, trying to catch up before he reached the grating across the entrance. Garam waited there for him, although by that time he was only a second behind, breath already coming a little fast. He bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees, panting dramatically to hide his very real shortness of breath. If Garam noticed— which, he wasn't kidding himself, he probably did— he didn't call him on it. "You'll want this," Garam said at last, raising a hand to hold out one of the vent masks. Clutch looked up at him, then reached out to grab at it without standing up. His fingers touched Garam's, the contact so brief he only really felt it in retrospect, after the loose straps of the mask were dangling in his hand. And then they were off, Garam leading the way through the winding tunnels. They skated in silence save for the occasional loud scrape of their skates against the floor, kicking up showers of sparks from the magnetic strips. Clutch focused mostly on just not falling behind; every time they hit a branch Garam barreled down one way or another and he had to fight the urge to scratch up the walls to leave some trace of their path into the depths. He really hoped Garam wasn't taking him down here to murder him or anything. Eventually, they passed through a huge dark room with the sound of running water loud in their ears. Garam skated over to a cracked-open door, the doorway clogged with old Poison Jam tags. The tunnel he picked ran downhill, definitely, and thankfully converged with a few pipes, their cheery red and blue construction colors at least giving some detail to the otherwise brutally functional overflow tunnels. He knew that trying to follow them back would get him at most as far as the huge overflow chamber, and just end in frustration and probably dying lost in the sewers, but he still focused on them almost to the exclusion of Garam's dark body ahead of him, silhouetted against the flashlight he had hung around his neck. Still, when Garam abruptly kicked off the ground he would have jumped back in startled alarm if he wasn't so caught up trying to keep up with him. He was still full of energy, apparently— he landed from his jump with his skates angled against the wall. Sparks flew out in streams behind him as he ground the wall. He defied gravity for what felt like an impossibly long time before kicking off again in a smooth leap, pulling his legs up to do a 180 in midair, landing backwards on top of the largest pipe, skates locked against the metal guides. Garam grinned cockily at him, making a beckoning gesture to jump up on the pipe too, but before he could really even consider it he ran out of tunnel to skate on. The tunnel opened up into a dripping overflow chamber, near the top. There was a brief moment of sheer terror as he shot out of the tunnel, but there was a maintenance platform and stairway at the top. He jolted loudly and painfully across the metal grating, slamming at almost full speed into the railing. Garam soared ahead, oblivious— or at least acting that way— to his pained grunt and loud swear. His ribs ached across his chest from where he'd hit the railing. The blue pipe he'd been on swooped up, running along the top of the room with ample room for a person to skate on top of, and Clutch just watched in amazement as Garam leapt from that pipe to a smaller one, spiraling around the edges of the room and finally landing by jumping off, wallgrinding again to land on the wet floor, coasting to a slow stop near the center. And all that before Clutch could even start down the steps, clomping noisily and awkwardly. In a slight concession to his dignity he ground down the stair railing, taking what felt like an ungainly leap from the stairs to catch his skates on it, angling along the corners so fast and awkwardly he was afraid he was gonna bash his brains out on the floor. He flew off the end, feet suddenly without support, and he hurtled to the ground for an eternal second before he landed. His legs only wobbled a little as he pushed himself up. Garam, as usual for when he did something dumb or impressive, watched him but didn't really react. He was growing to hate that lack of a look, almost as much as he got a thrill in his gut from Garam watching him for a change. Clutch jerked his head aside, looking at the bare, sloping walls of the chamber, all slick and moist. There were little grated panels near the top, and water flowed out of some of them, cascading down the walls and collecting in a shallow pool on the floor. "So this is where we're gonna tag, huh?" he asked, rhetorically. "Yeah," Garam responded, gesturing to the walls. "I was thinking you could take those walls and I could take these ones— I got an idea." "Huh, whatever," he said back, dumbly. That was a hell of a thing to spring on someone, just dragging someone off to tag some, like, mural plan with no warning. A little part of him felt like he oughtta be proud, cuz he wouldn't've asked if he didn't think he could pull it off... but more likely Garam had his own reasons that he had no clue about. Like, it could be the setup to Garam schooling him, but it that didn't seem like something he'd do. He couldn't think of anything that was something he'd do. It was the same damn problem with everything about him: no matter what, Garam knew he was better than him at pretty much everything, and he didn't even tease him or gloat about it. He did shit but there never seemed to be a reason. He was just so fucking even. He had no way to tell if he was happy or pissed off or what. For a while he'd even entertained the crazy thought that maybe Garam favored different jewelry up in his ears and face depending on his mood. But eventually he figured, no, he didn't, and he was going crazy staring at his shiny dark metal lip stud. Or maybe just from staring at his lips in general. Even in retrospect, thinking back to when they'd met— that was Garam, super pissed off. Like, he'd heard he'd torn out of the Garage after him without a word back, and everyone seriously thought he was gonna come back with a dead body or something dire like that. The rest of the GGs... they'd opened up a little to him, and even the ones he didn't get along with he at least had a guess about how they'd react to shit. He was so fucking reserved. He taunted people sometimes, Beat mostly, called them lamer has-beens who'd never amount to anything and who had delusions of adequacy, but it never had the edge of a real rivalry or grudge. Who the fuck knew what he was thinking. So whatever, screw him. Or at least that's what he resolved, angrily laying down the lines for his tags. They were sloppy, messy, and he kept jerking his head over to stare at Garam's back, watching him lay down equally messy lines, only to fill them in smooth and sweet on a second pass. Yeah, sure he had an idea. Garam had pulled his mask on right before he'd started painting, and it was like he had no facial cues left at all, just the bridge of his nose and his cheeks exposed. At least he was spared staring at his lips for hours. He settled for making a big arrow diagram, drawing off some of the crazy tags he'd seen those weirdass clones of Beat throw down and then some of the even crazier variants Beat himself had done, tagging over all of them. It was definitely not his best work, but... well, wasn't much point in trying his best when no one would ever see it, not all the way down here. Still, as he got caught up working on it he couldn't help but think of what it'd look like if he tried a second time, tagged over it some other day when he had more time to prepare. There were parts that just sucked, but it had a solid design; vivid bright colours that looped back and forth, a freestyle design no one could ever untangle. What eventually drew him out of it was Garam scraping his skates against the wall, splashing through the thin sluicing of water. He looked over his shoulder, finally succumbing to the inevitable to look at Garam and his idea. His design, of course, was excellent. It was one of his pictures-- a cityscape, huge rotting geometrical towers crumbing into the river. He'd worked the water streaming down the walls into a crazy-ass riverbed, filled with the kind of shit they hauled out of the harbor after a storm. The walls were embossed a little, he only noticed as he stared at Garam's piece, and he'd turned the cut, and how it turned the flow into a perspective-twisting arc across the city, like the river had leapt out of its banks and attacked. It was completely fucking impressive and put anything he'd ever done to shame and made him want to slug the undoubtedly smug fucker, dragging him down here to be witness to his glory or whatever the fuck he did this for. Garam noticed he was staring, apparently, and looked over from where he was detailing one of the buildings, braced against the wall like a fucking spider. His mask had gone a damp grey— Clutch's probably had too, at this point— and his bare arms were covered with paint, vivid and surreal like streaky tattoos. He nodded at Clutch, then turned back to his work. He finished what was apparently the last of the work, angling his skates just so to skate down his piece, sending up waves of marshy sewer water that thankfully got nowhere close to Clutch. "Nice piece," said Garam, voice muffled. He was looking over Clutch's work, or at least pointing his head in that direction. He could still see the hard line of his jaw through the mask, the slight press of his lips against the fabric as he stood in almost-profile. He realized he was staring, brow furrowed, and looked away violently, to the dreary floor. "There're some other places down here I wanna hit," Garam said, maybe looking at him as he stared at the swirl of water across the floor, "But I'm beat— let's call it a night," he finished, and Clutch realized in a blinding flash that this was him being kind and nice— going back because Garam thought he was pissed off, even though he wanted to stay down and tag more. Now he really wanted to punch him upside his head. "Yeah," he said, dully. He sure as hell couldn't make out any of Garam's inflection, but the sound of his own bitter voice was so obvious, even distorted and muffled. As usual, Garam made nothing of it, skated— a little slower— to the stairs and started heading out, like it made no difference if he was being pissy or polite. It was maybe one of the worst sessions of Clutch's entire life, including the time he almost got crushed by a train when he rolled under it to get away from the bull. The entire way back he glared at Garam's back, so incredibly aware of how his muscles shifted under his wet-translucent shirt but equally aware of how fucking agonizing every single one of their interactions had been. So he was surprised when Garam asked him tag again, and again after that, again and again until every single one of the GGs assumed that they'd decided to be, like, tagging buddies. Garam was still as inexplicable and flat as ever, but somewhere between tagging up the inside of a Benten skyscraper and taking a whole week to work on a combined mural, deep in Shibuya's twisty backstreets... he definitely didn't like it, but maybe he'd resigned himself to lusting after the guy from afar and never having any meaningful social interaction with him that wasn't hours of tagging. Even everything with the Golden Rhinos and Rokkaku didn't get much out of him. They didn't tag together for a while, when everything was going down, but not a week after the huge, surreal tower of Rokkaku's tore up the terminal Garam showed up, calm and flat lookin' as ever, and said he was gonna tag across the 99th St. rooftops and did he want to come along? So of course he did. As always, following behind and doing a bunch of tags with crazy, ever-evolving style and never really talking. He'd gotten way, way better— he could pull off some tricks like a real GG, even. It was good news, cuz there was a whole 'nother wave of recruits, practically every rudie in the city coming together to join the biggest, baddest gang of 'em all. So he had to be properly awesome for them, at least. But Garam still beat him out at everything. Of course. This night— another night up late, out tagging until dawn, til he wondered if they would just run out of wall, cover the whole city in their signs— they were tagging the Benten railway, down below the bridges where there was nothing but flat, unmarked concrete for blocks and blocks. There were even some train cars parked there, empty and open and practically inviting them to come in and add some color to the place. So they did. He'd tagged this huge tag, ribbons streaming back and forth across three cars. It'd look ridiculous once they were all swapped around, hooked up with other cars, each one incomplete without its neighbors. But whatever, he'd learned to enjoy it all, the brief moments when he'd finished a tag and he was the only person to ever see it, this bizarre art he'd pulled out of his head and his cans. He thought maybe being around Garam all the time had made him think a lot more, 'cause he sure as hell never rambled like this to himself before. Or maybe it was the weeks of no sleep, staying up until the sky turned pink with dawn before crashing, waking up just a few hours later to play out his day like he wasn't running on empty: dazed and tired until the bright, sharp lights at night woke him up, the cold clean air rushing through his lungs as he skated across the city. Maybe it was how the best rudies lived; spending their days caught up in the flow of it all. Or maybe he was just some clueless thug who thought he had it big, whichever. But these days he could think, some long and useless monologue about his life, all the while working on another level on a piece, on balance and color and wrapping it up tight, automatic thoughts that translated instantly into action, adding another mark to his latest sprawling piece. "Yo," he called over to Garam, "I'm done over here— wanna go get some food? I'm fuckin' starving." Which was maybe one of the perks— now that Garam was around all the time, even as weird and hot and inscrutable as he was, he was a lot less worried about doing something wrong, pissing him off or whatever. If Garam wanted to be all mysterious and never show his fucking emotions, fine, whatever. Then he'd just do what he wanted and Garam would have to roll with it or else actually fuckin' show himself. He tried not to think too much about what that attitude implied he should do when he only wanted to shove Garam up against a wall and make out, biting at his lower lip until he pulled back, breath hot against his neck. Or, admittedly, when he just wanted to deck him. Garam finished up his tag with only a nod in his direction, Clutch leaning back against a rail car, elbows up on metal bumper, staring. He was doing something all realistic, maybe a futuristic rail station with trains running along jagged lines like in old fashioned printed circuits. It was hard to tell, sometimes, how far done Garam was with the cityscape stuff, 'cause he could go back and add detail after detail, weird blurry shading and everything. Sometimes it seemed a waste, considering that their stuff usually got painted over pretty quick. But whatever, at least he could stare at Garam's back under his thin jacket, staring up the sleeves to see the junction of his shoulder. Fuck, when he wore more clothes it was almost hotter, keeping the bare muscle hidden away until he twisted his torso and it went skin-tight in a line across his back. After their tagging sessions, Clutch always jerked off. It was kind of disgusting how rapidly he'd fixated on Garam. He felt like a few years ago, he'd have just idolized him for his skill, but now... well, he'd realized a long time back that he could lust after people he also idolized, and sometimes even catch 'em. Hanging around with him all the time, quiet and working— it made him want to talk, to be so fuckin' awesome that Garam would stare at him in awe. But instead... it was complicated. Everything about it was wrapped up like miles of tangled cable in his head and chest, something that hurt to think about too much. Maybe if he'd made his move before they started this... whatever it was, that they were doing, they could've fucked and he would've just walked away from it, but now it all just left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, realizing how sad and pathetic this whole thing was, hanging after Garam like a lovesick puppy, trying to win him over by just being around all the time. "Yo, I'm done," Garam announced, spraying one final line across his piece, and Clutch pushed himself up, shaking his head. "Nice," he said, still feeling too hollow and introspective for his own good. "Let's go," he said, waiting just long enough for Garam to nod before he started working his way up along the line, skating along the tops of cars until he was close enough to jump up and catch the edge of the disused pedestrian walkway over the lines. Garam followed only a few seconds behind, probably pulling off some fancy maneuver he didn't even see, scanning across the buildings on both sides of the railway. It felt so remote and quiet down there that it was kind of hard to believe that they were right next to the sprawling Benten markets, just a single row of dark buildings blocking the bright lights and continual murmur of voices. They got cheap greasy noodles from some takeout stall, Clutch's with chunks of mystery meat and Garam's so spicy he wouldn't have been surprised if it caught fire. There was a narrow, flat alleyway past the blaring Benten shops; it was cluttered with junk and at its end it opened up by the subway station, a story up over the storefronts. They sat on its edge, legs swinging down over the shops with blinking lights all dark, and moving animatronics, all still. The sky was dark purple with the very first light of dawn and Clutch was suddenly aware of just how tired he was. His arms were sore and his legs ached. He spoke between eating his noodles, making sweeping gestures with his chopsticks and not talking about anything. Garam nodded every so often, seeming content to sit there with his legs folded up, watching the sky turn pink. They could still hear the noise of Benten proper behind them, but it sounded faded and dull, distant under the low sounds of traffic from the highway. "Hey," Clutch said abruptly, dropping his chopsticks into his empty carton, the whole thing toppling over. Garam looked up as he chewed, swallowed his latest forkful of noodles. They were sitting close; Garam sprawled against one wall and Clutch sitting next to him, so it wasn't a stretch at all to raise his hand up to Garam's face. He tugged once and pulled the goggles up and over his head, then let them fall onto his lap, Garam frozen like a statue. He'd actually never realized how dark Garam tanned; his skin below the goggles was dusky yellow-brown. Combined with the dark smudges below his eyes and the reddened grooves where the goggles had been pressed against his skin, he really looked like hell. Clutch sunk forward, eyes almost sagging shut as he swayed against Garam, only snapping open when he'd almost collided with his head. Garam's eyes were broadly set in his face and shaded by dark, long eyelashes, his eyes a dull brown and currently open wide. "Hey," Clutch said, and kissed him. Garam tasted like his fucking spicy noodles, of course. The cheap savory flavoring and the burn of the peppers were on his lips, but he kept kissing through it. Garam lifted his hands up, fisting them in the folds of his hoodie and pulled closer, breaking their kiss for a moment. Their noses slid against each other and Garam murmured out something he just couldn't hear; his lips moved against his before they pressed together again. Clutch eventually pulled away when he realized he'd been holding his breath and he didn't want to gasp across his face, but he couldn't even sit back, since Garam was still holding on tight to his hoodie. "Hey," Garam responded, his smirk transformed into a sly grin as his eyes pulled up at the corners. He actually had a complete facial expression and it was incredibly hot; he was so pathetic. His eyebrows were quirked up a tiny fraction. Clutch sagged forward, practically sitting in Garam's lap. He folded his arms around him as he rested his forehead against the wall, letting his eyelids droop. "I'm really tired." "It's been a long night." Garam said. Clutch looked out of the corner of his eye at his profile as he spoke, head still pressed against the wall. Even his voice seemed richer now that he could connect it to his face, which was so sad. He pulled back just enough to slide over, kissing him again as he opened his mouth to speak. He lazily pressed his tongue against Garam's upper lip, pleasantly surprised when he opened his mouth further, his own tongue, still hot and spicy, pressed into his mouth and curled behind his teeth. He probably would have been content to make out all night— or all day, since the night was pretty much over. Except then Garam slid one of his hands up under his shirt. Clutch pulled back: Garam's fingers were cold at first, but his touch quickly warmed. Garam pushed up, feeling across his chest, baring his stomach as his layered shirts all bunched up against his elbow. "Uhhh," he spoke, slow and a little slurred, feeling tired and a little hot, arousal dim under the heavy tired weight of his body. Garam tilted his head, the stubble behind his ear scraping against his cheek as he kissed his shoulder, quick and dry. "The fuck," Clutch said, no real force behind his rambling words. "What're you getting out of this? Man," he said, and paused, slumping back as Garam shoved his shirts up more, all of them bunched up by his throat, his chest bared. "I never know what yr thinking." "You're hot," Garam said, and pushed Clutch backwards until he was practically lying on the ground, Garam kneeling between his spread legs. He knew where this was going and it felt like a knot unweaving in his guts, but it was hard to focus on him and not on the cool concrete scraping against his back, or the sky above him, grey and red with reflected light from the city. Garam's hands across his belly pulled him back, and he looked over just in time to catch him speak. "and I like your style." "My style, what, fuck," Clutch said, and groaned as Garam ground his palm against his dick through his jeans. "Oh fuck man, yeah," he blurted out, like he had no control over what he was saying. Garam just grinned down at him, splayed out on the ground like he was some kinda pin-up model making poses instead of a thuggish skater sprawled out, dazed, all rough skin and scabs. He liked the way Garam was lookin' at him; he liked it a lot. It was so obvious what he wanted, and knowing that he was going to take it made him ache all over, anticipate every little touch. "I like your dumb hair," Garam said, bending low until he was almost lying on top of him, hands deftly unbuckling his belt, the backs of his hands brushing against the trail of hair along his stomach; his jeans sagging down further as they moved against each other. "I like it when you try to impress me," he said, and unzipped Clutch's pants, the clatter of the tab clacking down knotting everything inside him back up in anticipation. "You couldn't have told me?" Clutch asked weakly, sounding like he was the one with no vocal inflection now. "I'm telling you now," Garam said, his breath against his neck, and groped him through the thin fabric of his boxers. "Is it too late?" "Fuuuuuck," Clutch said, all drawn out and slurred as Garam finally touched his dick, reaching under the waist of his ragged boxers to palm his hand against him. "No. Fuck, no, yeah," he babbled as Garam started jerking him off, moving his hand slowly up and down his dick, nowhere near enough to get him off. Each little touch felt like it was shooting sparks through his entire body. Garam skimmed a finger across the inside of his thighs and he actually whimpered, a little desperate sound he muffled by biting down on his lip. He wiggled and his legs spasmed as he tried to work his hips; he ground against Garam who just responded by sprawling back, tangling their legs together and pinning him down, unmoving; Garam's skates slid against his calves, cool against his skin. But, fuck, he could feel the bulge of Garam's dick now, hot against his thigh. He was grinding back against him a little, too, rubbing his trapped dick back and forth against his leg, a rough heat through their clothes. Garam continued jerking him off, slow, and he was completely unable to keep in the stream of whimpering little gasps, little plosive bursts of breathed-out words, tossing his head back and forth. Garam just watched him, quiet, and that was maybe hottest of all, jerking him off and staring at him as he writhed back and forth, his cool eyes taking him in, his face composed but eager. "Aaah, fuck," he finally said, gasping, and came in streamers all across his chest, shooting hard, legs kicking. Garam kept touching him, practically milking his dick as he reached up with his other hand, rubbed his calloused thumb against his right nipple, stiff from the chill. He groaned again, whimpering as Garam kept toying with him, slick hand coated in his load and still stroking him, almost painful as he slid his fingers around the flared ridge of his head, moaning and yelping as he rubbed his thumb back and forth across his frenulum. He sagged down to the ground, eventually, limp and relaxed. He looked up at Garam through tired eyes with a wide, slow grin. Garam sat up, pulling back, and he followed. It took some effort, it was hard to sit up with the rush of his orgasm still humming through his nerves, but Garam was sitting right in front of him, open and inviting. He struggled up and instantly sunk forward, collapsing against him. He considered making a face as his shirts and hoodie slid down across his body, smearing his come all across his chest and stomach. Still, it was totally his turn now, and he wasn't gonna miss it for a second, even if he only felt like he could move in slow motion. He kissed Garam's jaw, pressing his tongue flat against his skin as he reached up, grabbing at the tab of his jacket and pulling it down. The click of the tab sliding down made his breath come faster even as he could feel Garam's pulse; his rapid breath, against his lips. His chest was heaving, only a thin undershirt between him and Garam's bare chest. He pushed his hands inside, along his sides, and spread his jacket so that it gaped open. He could see the low mound of his nipples through the shirt, so he pressed his hands against them. His piercings were hard and warm to the touch, even though his undershirt, and he ground the pad of his finger against his nipples under they peaked up. He cupped one of his pecs, the toned muscle tight and hot in his hand, his stiff little nipple grinding against his palm as he gasped out breath. Garam was practically hyperventilating as he let one hand sink down, sliding across his chiseled abs until his fingers touched the slim gap between his shorts and his shirt. He pushed his rough fingers across the smooth skin below his bellybutton, shoving his undershirt up to his chest and feeling all across his smooth, hard muscles. He rubbed back and forth, tracing the shapes of them until Garam groaned, grabbing at his hand and shoving it down his shorts. Clutch huffed out a low laugh that turned into a low sigh as he rubbed a hand against the front of Garam's bulging underwear, his hand trapped at a weird angle by the tight waist of his shorts. Undoing a button and unzipping a zipper wasn't complicated, but he still fumbled at it for a second, feeling drawn out and hazy, uncoordinated. He did finally get his shorts off, Garam apparently more self-controlled after getting him to touch his dick, sprawled back against the alley wall, hands rubbing back and forth against his thighs and breathing coming in fast, rough huffs. He pulled at his shorts, managing at least to spread the fly wide, pull the waist down below his underwear. He was wearing black bikini briefs, his cock skewing to one side in a thick bulge. Clutch groaned against Garam's chest as he looked down at his hands, their huge span easily cupping around his dick and balls. Garam echoed his groan from above, a low growly sound he wouldn't have even thought he could've made. He ran his hands back and forth across his trapped dick, Garam breathing hard. He could feel the heat of it, feel the slight dampness seeping through at the tip. Now Garam was the one panting, huffing, his limbs trembling as he just ran his hands back and forth. He never really stroked or grabbed, just touched lightly, reaching up across his stomach and sliding down to feel his trembling thighs. He loved the feel of Garam under him, knowing how much he wanted it— how much they both wanted it— to come, to touch completely, but wanting to take his time, stretch it out so far until it broke. Clutch kissed his chest, head drooping down, a light little series across his pectorals. He slid a hand up across his abs, all trembling as Garam tried to stay still, hands clenching on his thighs, his dick jutting up hard, pulling the waistband of his underwear away from his body a little. He finally pulled his cock out; he pressed his knuckles against his stomach and ran them down, then hooked his fingers under his waistband and dragged it out and down. His cock jumped out and bobbed against his knuckles, the length of it thick and dark. His skin below was the same light brown, and his tired mind finally connected his dark thighs and chest to his goggles. Clutch wondered where the hell Garam was sunbathing in just underwear and goggles, and the hazy thought of him climbing up to the top of some building and stripping down, sprawling out almost naked made him moan against Garam's bellybutton. He'd slid down his body almost unconsciously, until he was facing his dick, the length of it bobbing right in front of him. Fuck, and he shaved down here too, with only a short bush of stiff hair just above his dick, his balls hanging smooth below. He groaned, low, as Garam finally moved, tangled his hands into his hair, pulled him close. The length of his dick slid across his face, the head slick with precome. His forehead pressed again his abs, hard and shifting as he breathed in rapid little breaths. Clutch took a deep breath, staring wide-eyed, probably whimpering as his exhale made Garam's balls tighten and pull up, the smooth skin constricting until his balls were tight under his cock. He turned the tiny fraction and Garam's dick finally pressed against his lips. It was the slightest bit damp from sweat, his skin supple and smooth but hard like metal beneath. Garam groaned something long and incomprehensible and tugged his head back, lips sliding down his length until he reached the end and opened up, pressing his tongue against the side of the head, tasting salt and bitter. "Wait," Garam said, and he honestly didn't hear it as language, just the layered tones of his voice making noise until he said it again, "wait," tugging lightly up and away from his dick. "Hold on." Clutch just made some inarticulate whimper as Garam pulled him up, his dick sandwiched between their bodies. "We should," Garam started breathlessly, "go somewhere, if we're gonna..." he said, and trailed off, unfocused. "If we're gonna really fuck," he finally managed to finish, and kissed him right below his ear. "Nnnngh," said Clutch, trying to think in words and working his mouth for a long moment. "Couldn't've you said it sooner," he slurred against his skin, still tasting him in his mouth. He looked over, noticing for the first time how flushed Garam had gotten. "I didn't think," Garam started and then trailed off. He rose up beneath him, humping against his limp, sticky dick and then arching his hips up higher to grind his dick against his stomach. "I didn't want to," he said again, sounding dazed and slow, but managed to close with "I didn't think we'd", stopping like that was the end of a sentence. "It was fine when you jerked me off," Clutch said lowly, practically just mouthing the words against Garam's neck. "Yeah," Garam said, and grinned against the side of his head. He was still sliding up and down, humping against him, his hips rocking back and forth, smearing the tip of his dick across his stomach until it was slick with precome. Clutch's dick was starting to respond, already stiffening again as Garam arched back and forth, thigh and hip grinding against it. Garam was hard and hot and he really wanted to reach down and just jerk him off until he begged him to stop, voice breaking, but then he said "If I'm gonna fuck you we gotta go back to my place anyway," and that pretty much made up his mind, a pathetic gasping whimper escaping from his lips. "I like it when you make noise," Garam said, low and appreciative, and Clutch whimpered, grinding his half-hard dick back against Garam, both of them bucking and moving in slow motion, the friction of each other's body alone enough to get them both off given a little time. But then Garam slid back, chill air seeping between their bodies, and Clutch groaned, frustrated with his cock hard again and throbbing just as Garam pulled away. Garam stood up on shaking, trembling legs, his cock jutting out from his body, curving to one side a little. He stared down at him for a long moment, on his knees in front of him, lips parted, but then stuffed it back into his underwear and pulled his shorts up. "C'mon," Garam said, pulling him up, groaning a little when he stood only to slump against him, his cock sliding against his abs. Garam reached down and touched him, fingers wrapping around his shaft, sticky with drying come, but pulled back after a lingering touch. He managed to skate out from under him, legs wobbling. He slid up the alleyway a little, leaving him standing under his own weight after what felt like eternity. He managed to zip up his jeans and buckle his belt without assistance, really making a face now as he felt the slimy, tacky drying come in his boxers, on his shirt. Garam crouched down where they'd been making out, Clutch clueless and just staring at his ass, at the slope of his back, until he pulled back with his carton of noodles, still warm. "Let's go," Garam said as he slid up close to him and pressed his lips against his jaw, a day or two's worth of rough stubble there. "Follow me," he said, and skated off, way slower than usual. Fuck, skating while hard was painful and distracting, but even after he'd gone mostly soft he felt like it was just barely within his ability to skate without running in to everything. His come was drying itchy all across his stomach and dick, but all he really had a mind for was Garam skating ahead of him, jacket still undone and flapping out behind him. They'd gone underground and it really took him a minute to realize they were in the subway station; Garam had apparently been unwilling to take the trick jump out of the alleyway. He would've made fun of him for that if he didn't feel the exact same way; there was no way he could pull off fancy footwork now and it would be a shame to die when he was just about to get laid in an extremely gratuitous manner. The subway was practically deserted in the earliest of morning. They got an entire carriage to themselves for most of the way and made out, slow and wet, pornographically. If there had been anyone else there they would have had the cops called on them for sure. He'd sprawled out in an aisle seat, slouched down with his ass on the edge. His long legs reached all the way across the aisle and his skates pressed against the far seats. Garam sat on his lap, kneeling on top of him, and they ground against each other, groaning and yelping. The minimal decency they maintained was by virtue of the heavy fabric of his jeans and Garam's shorts, but even then they were tented, bulging. That just made him hotter, Garam's undershirt rucked up a tiny fraction, his dick hot and hard grinding against him, his shorts only making their touches rougher. He was surprised that they made it all the way to Shibuya without either of them coming in their pants. Most of that was because halfway there— or what in retrospect he figured was halfway— someone else got on the train. He didn't even remember who they were, businessman or little old lady or schoolkids, what, all he was focused on was Garam grinding against him, so close to coming in his jeans when he looked over and slid off. He let out a whimper and clutched at Garam's hips as he settled in the seat next to him. Half of it was that yeah, fuck, he wanted to get hot and heavy with Garam no matter who saw them, but the rapidly growing second half was that without the distraction of their bodies grinding together it was harder and harder to ignore the mess in his jeans, itchy and burning as his come dried on the head of his dick. They still made out the rest of the way, kissing and sucking; his mouth unexpectedly slick and red after ten minutes of uninterruptedly making out. He gave Garam a dark bruise on his shoulders, right by his neck, and Garam gave him a massive hickey on his lower jaw, a dark reddish mark complete with teeth marks. But Garam eventually groaned out "This is the stop," into his mouth; Clutch groaned as Garam pulled him closer, hands on his back under his clothes. There was a single businessman waiting, who looked pretty scandalized when they stumbled out of the train together, Clutch behind Garam and stooping down, leaning forward, Garam's head tipped back, kissing wetly. He only noticed the man as an afterthought, groaning into Garam's mouth as he rubbed his dick against his back, hard and slick and wet practically to dripping on the inside of his boxers, and he didn't think Garam noticed at all. "How far," Clutch said against his face as they staggered to the top of the stairway, the city bright with dawn and coming alive enough for them to get stared at. "Not far," Garam said, and dragged them down a sidestreet. It was just a few blocks away— down alleys, along tight winding sidestreets. Garam probably led them to avoid people, so he could push him up against the wall of a building and make out without anyone yelling, but all Clutch could remember of it was the zig-zagging line the sky made through the buildings, orange and pink above them. Finally, finally, Garam staggered into the entranceway of a dull apartment building, something ugly. He broke their kiss, pulling away enough so that Clutch groaned and tried to pull him back. He fished out a heavy ring of keys from a pocket and opened the heavy door, then Clutch pressed him against it as it swung open. Both their skates slid slowly across the floor as they kissed. Garam eventually pulled his head back, jerked it over to the red light of the security camera watching the door, and dragged him up a few flights of crumbling steps, finally going down a long dark hallway and shoving against a door, pulling it up and towards the hinge as he unlocked it with another key, scraping it open and yanking Clutch in with him. "Finally," Garam said, somehow managing to close the door and rip off his goggles, jacket, and shirt in one movement, chest sweaty and heaving as he leaned back against the door to kick off his skates. Clutch stared at him for a long moment, dick half-hard but burning, itchy and gross with his dried come. "Yo, hold on a sec," he said, and ducked into the bathroom. The door was right next to the entrance; the whole apartment was a single room. The bathroom still had the style from when they built the place, all hard flat metal and shiny reflective surfaces; ugly and blinding. He pulled his pants open and tugged down his underwear, painfully stuck to the head of his dick. He sighed as he finally could piss, flush out the dried come burning inside his dick. "What the fuck?" he could hear from Garam, through the door. "Fuck, that's what you get for jerkin' me off and then makin' us race back here while it dries," he yelled at the door, over the sound of his piss hitting the bowl. He stopped abruptly when he left the bathroom, jeans still unzipped. Garam had stripped down to his shorts, and as he watched he dropped them down, pooling around his bare feet and revealing his tight blank underwear. His thighs were as huge as you'd expect from a rudie, and the skimpy briefs covered just half the swell of his muscled ass. Clutch pulled his hoodie and shirt over his head, and when it cleared his face Garam was totally naked, his clothes dropped in a rough pile to one side of him. Garam grabbed him and basically took two steps back, then sprawled out backwards on his bed, a low futon. He worked his sweaty feet across his skates, pulling them off almost entirely with his toes as he worked on his jeans and boxers, sliding them down his legs and kicking them off completely in a matter of seconds. Even after going kinda soft on the way there he was hard again after a second of grinding up against Garam, kissing and moaning into his mouth. His lips hurt now, rough and feeling more chapped after their extended kissing. Garam was hard again too, his dick stiff and slick against his stomach, thighs spread around Clutch's knee. Garam slid a hand down and held their cocks together. Clutch yelped and groaned as he stroked them both together, his own loud moan drowning out Garam's breathy grunts. "Wanna fuck you," Garam said, staring over at him, flushed and hard in the early morning light. "Uhhngh," Clutch responded, clenching his hands around his waist. "Gonna—" Garam started, cutting off in a gasp as Clutch pulled his hips up hard, sliding him up until Clutch was about level with his dick. "Wanna suck you off," he said, voice practically lost against his stomach, his stubble scratching across his skin. Fuck, he could still taste him on his tongue. Above him, Garam made some inarticulate noise but didn't pull back when he slid down the rest of the way, his feet tangled up in his sheets, lips pressed against the base of his cock. Again. He sure was gonna take his time, make Garam regret pulling him back before. His dick was hot and hard against his face, skewing off along Garam's stomach as he opened his mouth, kissing the heated flesh at the base, tongue pressing against his salty skin. Garam groaned above him, hands coming down on his shoulders as he tried to steer him to his cock. Instead, he pressed his lips against the bottom of his shaft, just above his balls, and lapped at it until his balls pulled up, tight against his dick. Then he pulled back, letting it slide across his lips until the slick, dark tip was pressed against his open lips. Garam actually wailed as he took it in, a long pleading gasp as he flicked his tongue across the head. He tasted like skin and sweat, salty with a metallic tang underneath, and this time he wasn't gonna let Garam interrupt him. He bobbed down, slowly taking more of his shaft into his mouth, and then pulled back, his cock coming out shining with spit. Clutch looked up with the tip of Garam's cock nestled on his tongue, and locked eyes with Garam, staring down at him with hooded eyes, his mouth slack, his lips just as bruised and flushed as his own. He blinked once and swallowed around his cock, smirking a little when he heard and felt Garam's breath hitch. He opened wide and gulped down, taking it into his throat for the brief second he could manage it, then pulled off completely and coughed, looking up at Garam who was still staring down at him. He licked across the tip of his cock, curling his tongue across the rim of his cockhead, before taking it into his mouth again. He hummed low in his throat and took him a little deeper, bobbing back and forth on the first few inches of his cock. Garam touched his hands to his shoulder and the back of his head. He laced his fingers through his messy hair and curved them around his head, just behind his ear, a pleasant pressure against the bones of his skull. Clutch smiled as much as he could with a cock in his mouth and kept sucking him off, grabbing tight on his narrow hips. He traced little arcs with his calloused thumbs across the toned, soft skin of his belly, just above his hips. Dimly, he knew he wanted to reach down and jerk himself off; his cock was hard and it slid against the sheets with each movement he made, but Garam tensed and shuddered, his muscles twitching and sliding under his skin, skin just slightly damp from sweat under his palms, and he couldn't bring himself to let go. "Hold on," Garam said, so quiet and low he hardly heard. His touch across his head became just a fraction stronger, guiding him back, off his cock, until the tip emerged from between his lips with a pop. "Wanna fuck you," he said again. It felt like his whole body shuddered at just the thought of it, of Garam pushing inside him. It'd been a while since he'd fucked, and there was no way he couldn't say it wasn't an extremely appealing image. Except... He pushed himself up until he was face-to-face with Garam, his breathing going even more ragged when his cock pressed against his hips, slowly slid into place between their stomachs, next to Garam's spit-slick shaft. "You sure?" he asked, surprised at how husky and rough his voice was. He reached down between them and encircled both their cocks, stroking them together. For the first time, he really noticed how much heavier than Garam he was; his muscles blocky where Garam's were toned, his belly almost a muscled gut compared to Garam's even, defined muscles. Garam's breath was hot against his neck as he stroked them both off, his hand a tight fit between their hips, pressed together. His eyes were hooded, almost shut completely, and he ran his hands across his back, clutching at the muscles of his shoulders as he ground his hips forward, sliding his cock back and forth through his fist as he jerked them off. Garam came with a long moan, almost reedy, and then a muffled curse against his neck as he collapsed forward, his come smearing across their stomachs. Clutch kept stroking them slowly, drawing his orgasm out as he spurted lines of come across his stomach, until Garam's breath hitched and he pulled out of his hand, his cock flared and overstimulated. "Sorry," he said, even though he wasn't, and Garam laughed against his chest. "I'll fuck you later," he said, his voice a little uneven with sublimated laughter even as his lips were curled back in an easy grin, and then he pulled Clutch's head down and kissed him, pressing his tongue into his mouth when he opened up to moan. He brought his hands up, running them through Clutch's hair, and pulled them closer together, limbs intertwined. Clutch pulled back and mumbled something incomprehensible against his lips before getting drawn back into the kiss, his cock throbbing urgently between them. He finally managed to break away, his lips feeling flushed and almost painful. "Uh, I could fuck you?" he asked, and tried not to sound too eager. Garam just laughed, again, his breath puffing out across his neck. "Later," he said, and his tone made it a promise. Garam reached down between them and grabbed Clutch's cock. He ran his fingers along it, slick now with his own load, and began stroking him slowly, twisting his fingers around near the tip and digging down against his balls on the bottom, and Clutch almost yelped as he cupped a hand around his ass and pushed his fingers, dry, against his asshole. He didn't do anything aside from yelp and moan in the short time it took before he came, humping upwards with his hips futilely until his whole body spasmed and he came, just adding to the slick mess between them, rough splatters of come shooting out against Garam's cupped hand and running down to drip across his stomach as he panted and shuddered. He went completely limp and sprawled out on the bed, Garam practically astride him as the final dregs of his orgasm oozed out. He felt worn out; all the dim tiredness that had been pushing at his eyes suddenly crashed down on him like a wave and all he wanted was to close his eyes and fall asleep. Garam shifted around on top of him, and after a second he tugged lightly on one of his arms. "Hey, get up," he said, and he sounded just about as tired. "If you get that mess all over my sheets I swear I'll make you wash them." After a long moment of contemplation, feeling the weight of his own body, Clutch groaned and sat up, then staggered to his feet. He felt dead on his feet, or more like he'd been dead on his feet for a while, and now there wasn't even any good reason to be getting up. But he washed up and pissed, again. Afterward, he sprawled out all across Garam's futon, the sheets still warm. He was dimly aware of sound, of Garam clattering around in the bathroom and of the growing rush of traffic outside, everything else waking up while he sprawled out, warm and tired. He was mostly asleep by the time Garam got out of the bathroom. He could feel the soft pad of his feet against the floorboards, and then Garam gently pushed on his shoulder with his foot. Clutch rolled over with a tired sound, and anyway curled right back around Garam once he laid down onto the bed, pressing his head against his shoulder. Garam said something he didn't make out, and after a moment he said "go to sleep," only it came out as another inarticulate sound. He smiled, idly, as his mind rolled over the idea of them both tiredly groaning at each other to go to sleep, but before it could really percolate through his head he was out, gone except for the slow rush of sensation across his body, the thin warm blanket twisted over and around them, Garam's skin against his, the slow heat building between them, and the low, distorted bass roar of the city all around them, waking up.

Grapevine, by Sue Castle It really was a lousy town. Ray Doyle glanced sideways, caught a glimpse of Bodie's swollen lip, and bit his tongue. Again. Shouldn't have been feeling guilty, he didn't suppose, but as usual, Bodie'd followed his lead, and very nearly gotten his head knocked off for it. Not to mention coming uncomfortably close to taking a header off a cliff into a rock quarry. He hated bent coppers. One of the reasons he'd left the Met. Still burned him up when he saw authority to protect being misused, twisted around to exploit instead. Bodie had his own reasons for not trusting coppers, and maybe by the time he'd grown old and grey on stake-out with him the clam might open up about them. Doyle wasn't holding his breath. Still and all, if it hadn't been for his one good copper … "Yeah, mate, you told me so." He shot another look at his partner. Bodie looked rough, but not much rougher than usual after a close call at the end of an op. "Never did." He didn't think he'd been thinking out loud. Never could tell. "Only when you breathe," Bodie shot back, and Doyle grinned, relieved to see an answering grin lighten his partner's expression. They were nearly home, bag of evidence in the boot, Jax and Anson bringing up the rear, not that Green would be giving them any trouble. The wind had gone out of the bag in a big way, with the Cow wielding the sharp stick, and Chives and his bully boys would be going away for a good long stretch. Bodie settled his head against the door and closed his eyes, as Doyle kicked it into gear and headed for home. One report coming right up. HQ was never still, and now, close on ten at night, it was still bustling. Depositing the film in one box, the phone taps in another, Doyle patted the bag until it was inside out to make sure he got it all. He didn't like being cuffed in the back of a megalomaniac's car in the middle of bloody nowhere on a ride to an execution. He liked even less being the one responsible for putting them there. Swinging around to head for the rest room, he noticed that the cut on Bodie's mouth had opened again, leaking a small trail of blood down the side of his chin. Unthinking, he reached up and dabbed at it. Bodie stopped, tilted his head obligingly, and waited for Doyle to clean him up. "Yeah, no wonder it was so easy for the locals to buy it. Poster couple for the Gay Youth, they are." "Little long in the tooth for the Youth bit, don't you think?" "Nah, chicken hawks, they are." "And just how would you know that? Been in the market for a little tender meat yourself, lately, Mac?" Anson, wasting no time telling his partner all about Bodie and Doyle's most recent undercover stint, playing it up for all it was worth. MacCabe, with the same level of sophomoric humor, running with it as far as he dared. That was further than usual tonight, as Doyle was completely knackered and Bodie wasn't far behind. Ignoring them, the pair headed the rest of the way into the room, sprawling on the couch, waiting for Cowley to get finished with the minister so they could make their report and finally go home. "No need, old son, look at the pair of 'em. All over each other, they are," Mac snorted, and Anson made an agreeing noise in his throat. Doyle roused himself enough to open one eye and glare at them, then realized for the first time just how he and Bodie had landed. Bodie was spread across a good two thirds of the couch, with Doyle draped partly on the remaining cushion and partly on top his partner. He considered moving for almost a second, then gave it up as a bad deal. He was too comfortable where he was to pay any attention to a couple prats with more hair than brains. Speaking of hair, somebody had his mitts in Doyle's. The open eye changed direction and he nearly did himself an injury looking up at his partner. Bodie was absently grooming him, smoothing out his curls. As he watched, wondering if it was worth the effort of thumping him or if he might as well just give in and enjoy it, Doyle saw Bodie's eyes open. There was an unholy gleam in the red-shot blue. "There, there, old chaps, just because you haven't got yourself a nice golly to play with, doesn't mean you're free to go taking pot shots at mine." The tone was insufferably smug, the expression superior, but there was an edge under the tone that caused both of the other men to back down immediately. Funny, how the biscuit tin should suddenly become so interesting. A snort of laughter from the doorway caught Doyle's attention, and he opened his other eye, throwing Murphy an inquiring glance. The tall Londoner draped himself in the doorway and regarded the partners camped out on the couch. "Much as I hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, since you're both in dire need of some, Himself is ready to speak with you now." He grinned at them, and tipped a wink at Doyle's shirt. Usually opened halfway down his chest, recent movement had pulled the material until he was nearly naked. "Might want to button it up, Doyle. Not sure the old man can stand the strain." "Good thing the old man didn't hear you," Doyle shot back, leaning upright and holding out an arm for Bodie to balance on as they pulled each other from the soft cushions. "He'd have your arse in a wringer and your head in a vise." Murphy nodded agreement. "No doubt. But wandering in looking like a ravished rent boy won't put you in good standing, either, mate." Before Doyle could think up a retort, Bodie was already slipping his buttons through the holes. Leaning his chin against a handy shoulder, Doyle let him. "Nursemaid one another often, do you?" Lucas cracked on his way in the door, ducking around Murphy. "All the time, aren't I the lucky one," Bodie cracked back, waving a suggestively limp wrist at the other agent. For some reason, tonight, it bothered Doyle, where he usually just shrugged it off. Grabbing hold of his partner's arm, he hauled him out the door and down the hall. "May as well get this over with," he grumbled, stalking off for Cowley's office, dragging Bodie behind him. It was rather like a terrier towing a mastiff, but Bodie was good natured about it and trailed along. "What’s wrong with you, Doyle? Just a bit of fun." The words were light, but the accompanying look was searching. Doyle found himself coloring up, not sure why, too tired to want to think about it at the moment. "Want to get home. Get a bath. Stiff drink. And the phone number of that redhead." Bodie grinned at him, and he shook his head. "You're not going to share after all, are you? Some mate you are." Bodie whistled as they stepped into Cowley's office. "The kind that keeps his own birds, thank you very much." Before Doyle could answer, Cowley demanded a report, and that was the end of that conversation. Six hours, a hot bath, two decent belts of scotch and very little sleep later, it was still on Doyle's mind. It was near five, and he had to be back on duty in less than three hours. But he couldn't get his mind shut down enough to rest. No matter how much his body wanted it. It had been close, but there had been closer. It had been tense, but he'd been in tighter situations, he and Bodie both, without this strange sort of thrumming along his nerves afterward. Odd flashes of the last few days kept painting themselves with an artist's eye for detail on the back of his eyelids. The skin on Bodie's back as the vigilante coppers ripped his shirt open, pressing him into the wall, preparing to whip him. The dark hair and vivid eyes against the cheap cover as he sniffed about having to share … with a fella. The defiance stretching his features taut as he told the worst of the lot to go to hell; the way he'd come out of the darkness, flanking the men in the car park when they'd attempted to bully him. The length of him sprawled under the thin blanket in the very early morning light coming through the window, pulling a pillow over his head as the damned train whistled through for the third time that night. The smile barely curling his lip as Doyle'd wiped away the blood. The feel of those hands in his hair. Bloody hell. He leaned back against the cushions, resting the bottom of the glass on his forehead. Why had it been so easy? The local constabulary had no difficulty whatsoever in believing that he and Bodie were a pair of homosexuals. And the way they'd moved around one another, on the stairs, in the doorway, unloading the car … of course they each knew, by instinct, where the other would be. They were partners. It was just outsiders who'd get the wrong impression, read something there that wasn't. See something between them and think it was something other than what it was. Doyle looked down at his stirring groin. Well, something other than it was admitted to being, anyway. He wasn't a complete innocent. Regardless of Bodie's contempt for his experience, he had been on the drugs squad, and it wasn't only female hookers he'd dealt with. And he'd not been the least bit shy in art school. Why should he be? He didn't paint all the time. Classes drew their models from the ranks of their students, and he knew how human physiology worked. He appreciated beauty. In all its forms. And Bodie, while he might joke about it and probably not even believe it, was beautiful. Was only natural he'd respond to that. Only natural. Downing the last of his drink, he propped his feet over the end of the couch and closed his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep. And if the last visions playing behind the darkness over his eyes began as old mates in school and mutated into Bodie, he certainly wasn't going to admit it. Even to himself. Bodie curled himself around the pillow and stared at the window, where the first light of morning was beginning to brighten the room. It had been a short, hard night. Not short enough, and too fucking hard. His hand clenched, then relaxed as tactile memory kicked in and he could feel Doyle's hair under his fingers. Felt as natural as breathing to have him there. Nothing bad about it, nothing painful. Nothing frightening. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the bush. Helpless, as he'd been helpless that afternoon. Trusting in his partner's naïve faith in one good copper, a fairy tale he'd not put any stock in since he was a kid on the docks in Liverpool. There was us, and them, and them never put a hand out to us unless it was a fist. Pain in his face, hands tied behind him, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't get out of this one. And he wasn't going alone. Made it all the worse. Made sense he'd be having nightmares when he finally got to bed. For the space of a heartbeat, he wished that there was someone beside him. No, not any someone. Doyle. Of course. He was so very good at wishing for the one thing he couldn't have. There was a reason he stopped believing in wishes a long time ago. Wasn't sure, now, if he ever had believed in them. None of which took his mind off the reason why he was staring at the sun rising too bloody early in the morning when he should have been fast asleep. That would be Krivas. And Dominic. And Jaime. And Macrone. Just names, now. Couldn't hurt him any more. Couldn't hold him down, and make him take what they wanted him to take. Until he'd gotten far enough away that they couldn't reach him any more. Or killed them. His head ached, his face tightened with phantom pain mixed with current bruises. His wrists hurt, and his shoulders, from his abortive attempt to escape when they'd been shoved in that twisted bastard's car. Nothing serious, nothing that would slow him down. Just make him remember. And want what he couldn't have. He hauled himself from bed and went to duck his face in cold water. Ignoring the aches, he refused to meet his own eyes as he concentrated on washing up and shaving. There were mornings he didn't want to know himself. Wouldn't be the first time. Undoubtedly wouldn't be the last. With a little perseverance and a lot of denial, things got back on track. They were as smooth as ever, thinking as one person, moving as two parts of one whole. Cowley took good advantage of their clockwork precision, for the most part, although there was the odd solo job. They didn't get much odder than this one. Harry Kendrick had secrets, and George Cowley wanted them. He also had an exploitable weakness, and Ray Doyle fit the description to a 'T'. So Doyle went in, and Bodie watched from a distance, and the boys in the van got a large charge out of the role, until it got quiet, and no one looked at anyone else, and they remembered, as if they had ever forgot, that there were some things they had to do for Queen and Cow that they would just as soon not have bandied about. Didn't even need Bodie's glower to remind them. So they made the tapes, and they listened for the things they needed to know, and they forgot the rest of it as soon as they could. For next time, they might fit the bill, and they would expect the same memory lapse in turn of those who watched them. Bodie tried to forget, at least. Not that it ever worked the way he planned. The op was a success, of course, because Doyle was the best at what he did, and got the job done. No one camped it up this time, and no one mentioned what they had seen, and heard. But Bodie's dreams took on another dimension, and as was usual, not a word was said between the partners. Ray hated jobs like this one. Yeah, the Cow could say all he wanted about closing his eyes and thinking of England, but it wasn't him with the bleeding prick the size of a Tomahawk missile shoved up his arse. He moaned, half in well-rehearsed enjoyment, half in true discomfort, and reminded himself just how important those plans were. Satiated men slept well, and this particular one talked in his sleep. Now, if he'd only get on with it. He was taking fucking forever. A sharp slap to his left flank reminded him that he was supposed to be a willing if not eager participant in this little charade, and he bucked back up against the man blanketing him. He'd laid birds for the job, and he'd laid fellas, and neither of them meant a damned thing more than getting the job done. But for some reason he was having a very hard time forgetting that Bodie was in the surveillance van tonight. At the thought of his partner, an atypical metamorphosis took place. The wriggling smoothed out, became a sinuous dance. Sweat broke out over his body as his skin warmed, and his eyes slid closed. His hands slipped out across the sheet, kneading the soft material. A shiver ran along his spine as unaccustomed heat pooled low in his abdomen, and he found himself writhing on the cock impaling him. The sounds were coming more naturally now, and he bit his lip before he slipped and called his partner's name. Kendrick was a little bigger than Bodie, and a blond with green eyes, nothing like his partner. But in the half dark, with his head buried in the pillow and every nerve in his body concentrating on the slow steady fucking he was getting, it suddenly didn't matter. In his head, it was Bodie draped over his body, driving into him, over and over. The man behind him caught the change and responded to it, his rhythm speeding up jerkily, hands running around Doyle's waist to pull at him. Doyle hadn't had an erection to begin with, but the fantasies weaving through his mind took care of that, and soon he was moving as urgently as Kendrick was. He came with a muffled curse, biting his tongue to keep from screaming Bodie's name, and Kendrick came in response, groaning in his ear like a steam engine. Doyle managed to twist a little as Kendrick collapsed, and got out from under the man's weight. Seeing the shock of bright hair landing on the pillow next to his head jolted him back to reality, and he breathed deeply, trying to control his heartbeat and concentrate on his job. Sure enough, a little subtle prodding got him a location, and half an hour later, Kendrick snoring away dead to the world, he cracked the safe and found the plans. Clothes on, papers in a satchel he'd ditched for just that purpose, he said a silent goodbye to his latest undercover persona and slipped out into the night. Handing the plans over to Cowley later that evening, he smiled tightly at the rare words of praise, took the proffered two days off for a 'difficult job done well' and did his best to fuck his way through as much of the female population of the city as he could manage. It didn't stop the dreams, but at least for a little while longer he could ignore them. Too fucking close. He wasn't a discus thrower, for god's sake, or a wrestler, but thank god he could run faster than Bodie, and adrenaline could do great things when a man's trying to get fifteen pounds of explosive off his best mate before it blows him to bloody bits. He should have stayed dead longer. How did he know they were going to have a witness? Bloody Germans, always with the details. Just as well they beat Bodie to a bloody pulp, it slowed him down enough for Doyle to be able to tackle and strip him. Hell of a way to finally straddle the man, in the middle of an airfield, both of 'em fully clothed, gunfire all around 'em, remote controlled bomb very nearly taking the both of them out. It had been too fucking close. Doyle's thoughts wound around themselves like agitated snakes, hissing through his brain, unsettling him. The op had been a bust practically from the beginning. A German terrorist trying to go straight, getting drawn back into the battle, a grass that had to be forcibly mowed, a fake death in a shootout that was over too soon and seen by too many eyes, an exchange that had ended in three deaths, and nearly five. Bodie, trying to be noble, running off like a fuckin' deer, strapped to a satchel of gelly that nearly blew them both to bits. Yelling at him to get away. Bloody maniac. As if he would. As if he could. Two days later, Bodie released from hospital, Doyle stuck in files as punishment for reviving too soon and blowing the op … as if seeing Bodie like that, nearly losing him like that, wasn't punishment enough. Too fucking close. The words beat over and over in his head. It had been too close; they were too close. Had to get some distance. Didn't know what would happen if this kept on, and grew any stronger. Couldn't bear that, couldn't handle losing him. Not like that. Not any way. Doyle leaned his head against the cool pane of the kitchen window, staring out at his small garden patch. Bodie was reacting to his latest near miss with his usual insouciance, wanting to go to his local, pick up a bird or three, and 'reaffirm life' in as many different positions as his bruised ribs and healing concussion would allow. Doyle just wanted to put his head through a wall. Well, his head, or Bodie's. Either way, he'd feel it. Bodie got beat, Doyle ached. If Bodie died … Too fucking close. He had to do something about that. So he did. She was a classic. Red hair, dark eyes, sparkling laugh. Funny, elegant, well-read, refined. Cool. He needed her. More than she ever would realize. She was his last chance at distance. "Will you marry me?" He'd looked at rings. In between getting suspended and punching Bodie and screaming at Cowley and fighting his conscience and ignoring his training, he'd picked out a ring. Hadn't bought it, yet, of course, had to see what she'd say. She'd looked at him with those deep, shining eyes, and smiled with her mouth, and he knew she was going to say yes. Restraining the almost irresistible impulse to put a hand over her lips before she could do it, he forced himself to sit still and smile down at her. "Yes," she breathed. It felt like a noose was tightening round his neck. He kissed her, and her mouth opened under his, and as he licked at her tongue and pressed her against him he knew he would never have to worry about getting too close again. He had a shield now. Three days later, the instincts won out, the training demanded action. A drug smuggler, his own personal pet peeve in the criminal world, was taken out of commission. Unfortunately, the guard at the hall was unforgivably lax, and the smuggler's daughter heard everything. She drew the right conclusions for all the wrong reasons. Looking after her car as it peeled away, the memory of the pain under the tears in her eyes searing him, he felt the shield crumble. Of course he would never change. Didn't want to, really. But he hadn't been using her. True, he hadn't loved her the way he should have. But he didn't ask her to marry him just so he could bring down a villain. He'd asked her to marry him so he could deny the fact that he was in love with his partner. Who was now coming up behind him. Tossing an arm around his shoulder. "Sod off, Bodie," he growled, trying to turn away. Hiding the despair he felt at the connection between them, disguising it as heartbreak for the woman currently putting as much distance between them as she possibly could. "C'mon, Ray, let me buy you a drink," Bodie coaxed. The second time he threw the arm around Doyle's shoulders, it stayed there. Goodbye, Ann. It was a damned good try. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, sighed. Blue eyes stared back at him when he finally opened his eyes again. Frustration, friendship, caring, the deep seated need to fix it glowed out at him, and he swallowed heavily. He wondered if running would be enough sublimation. Flashed on a mental image of Bodie in a sweat-drenched track suit, grinning at him. Okay, maybe not. Karate. Get a nice kick in the goolies, that might help. Or maybe a nice long torture session with Macklin. Yeah. That would do it. "I'm sorry, mate." Eh? Oh. Yeah. Ann. Ray shrugged his shoulders, careful not to dislodge the embracing arm, and turned them both toward the local pub. As long as Bodie was buying, he might as well try to drown the feeling. Nice irony to that. And if he was very, very careful and very, very lucky, Bodie would never know the difference. Two weeks of freedom to reflect on the fact that three months of work and, yes, a torture session with Macklin, not to mention one of the highest profile ops ever to blow up in their faces, hadn't lessened the want one damn bit. Doyle stared off into the murky water under the footbridge he was sitting on, soaking up early summer rays and trying to remember what it felt like to relax. Parsali was safe, the treaty was signed, everything was as it should be. He'd broken it off with Claire, taken to practicing more with a knife since he'd gotten rustier than he liked to be, and written another letter to replace the one currently on file. The will was the easy part. The letters were tough. And if he bought it before his partner did, he wanted something honest left behind. Leaning his head against the weathered wooden post beside him, turning his face up to the sunlight and shutting his eyes, he gradually let his mind empty. He'd told Bodie he needed some time on his own, and Claire had provided a good excuse, but the truth of the matter was that he needed to rebuild his defenses at least a little. A week in Macklin and Towser's far from tender care, a few too many late night conversations showing a little too much to Bodie and reminding him a little too much of what he was always trying to forget. Or at least ignore. The line was blurry again, only this time it wasn't between the villains and the good guys. It was between the friend and the other half of his soul. And wouldn't Bodie just do his nut if Doyle ever laid that one on him. Resigned to a brain that was running around in circles and a gut that was tying itself in knots, Doyle soaked up sunshine and refused to think for the next fortnight. "They're the best you've got, George." "Proved that yesterday, Brian. You and Towser did a good job, lad. They were fast, faster than I've ever seen them, and spot on. Took out both assassins and their control, with only one friendly casualty. And that wouldn't have been fatal except they used dum-dums. Damn them." "George. About 4.5 and 3.7." There was an unusual diffidence about the trainer's manner, and Cowley peered intently at him. Hesitancy sat badly on a man like Macklin. "What is it, Brian? I didn't notice any deficiencies in their performance. Quite the contrary." "Not their performance, well, not as a team, anyway." Macklin cleared his throat, then met Cowley's eyes. "They were more protective of one another than they were of themselves. If you want them to be effective as solo agents, you'll either need to separate them more often or re-pair them with other partners." Cowley glared a question at him, and he shrugged helplessly. "They think as one, move as one, feel one another's hurts before the one getting hurt does. They're not a partnership anymore, they're one person. Cut Bodie, and Doyle attacks; hurt Doyle, and Bodie snaps. Something to keep in mind, George. The way it stands right now, they're still capable of working on their own; much longer, and if you lose one you'll lose the other." Cowley nodded appreciation for Macklin's insight, and went on to other subjects. Privately, he wondered if it was not already too late. And if it wasn't better that way; as good as Bodie and Doyle were individually, as a team they were unbeatable. As long as it remained that way, CI5 needed the team. As to losing one or the other of them … they would cross that bridge if they ever came to it. Under the pressure of business as usual, Macklin's warnings faded into the background. Cowley kept close watch, and the team worked as well as ever, if not more so. Doyle stood by and watched as Jimmy Keller betrayed Bodie, and picked up the pieces afterward. Both men survived an Operation Susie that nearly killed them, and Bodie became a reason to stay on the squad when Doyle could no longer bring himself to trust Cowley. In the chaos of everyday life as members of CI5's A Squad, opportunities to talk seldom arose, and when they did, very little was said. The connection grew, as did Doyle's disenchantment, until two young radicals swerved to avoid a porter and blew themselves to kingdom come. Mayli Kuolo had an agenda. Personal vengeance, a very thin thread in a wide political tapestry, but one woven of solid steel. Her father was dead, and the monster responsible for it had to die. If others benefited from her action, then that was a bonus, but the fire fueling her mission was revenge. And if the slender young man with the charming smile and the old man's soul behind the green eyes would stop her, then she would have to stop him. First. So she watched. She followed. She took advantage of his distraction, and she lay in wait for him. The first shot was to his heart, and the second should have been to his head. That was what she had learned. Looking down at his body, the muffled sound from below the mass of curls, the one eye staring up at her, she read the pain, and recognized it, and could not pull the trigger. Her hand dipped, and her finger squeezed. More blood flowed to join the steadily gathering pool on the floor. He had been someone's son. Someone's friend, someone's lover. He would not, now, stop her. But she could not make that final step and put a bullet in his brain. He had been an obstacle, but he was not her enemy. She would save the death blow for Lin Foh. The girl was dead, and Doyle was going to live. Reason enough to rejoice, in Bodie's view. Not that he'd had anything against the girl, other than the fact that she'd shot Doyle, and for that, the bitch got what was coming to her. It had been touch and go there for awhile. Too damned close. One under the heart and one in it, died on the operating table, nearly lost him twice in recovery, before he'd gotten past whatever guilt was holding him back and decided to fight for it. Bodie could read his partner even unconscious, or near enough as to make no difference, and that had been what had cracked the riddle. If not for that gaudy junk ring … if not for that one effort, the slightest tracing of a finger in the air. Bodie'd known as clearly as if Doyle had spelled it out for him. Took weeks to get Doyle back on his feet, and months after that before he was completely up to par. Dying, not to mention open heart surgery, would do that to a fellow. But Ray was game, and he fought harder than Bodie had seen him fight in years. He'd got his second wind, and he was determined to make it back. Bodie wasn't sure why, and didn't delve too deeply -- there were times when he really didn't want to know how Doyle's mind worked. But as he pushed his partner through the exercises, ran him through the streets and the graveyard obstacle courses, nursed him through the aches and pains and bellyaching, he didn't need to know what Doyle was thinking. He was too busy dealing with what he himself was feeling. It was too damned close this time. In the car, on the way home from hospital, to a new flat, with better locks and fewer stairs, he'd let some of it out. "Bloody locks aren't a helluva lot of good if you don't set 'em, mate." Doyle's grin at escaping hospital disappeared at the pissed off growl coming at him from the driver's seat. Served him right. Fuckin' idiot, letting the bitch in like that. "Yeah. Know. Stupid." Subdued. Not like his partner at all. Bodie risked a glance sideways, caught the sallow look under the hospital-pale complexion, and changed the subject. After one final shot, of course. "Yeah. Was. Next time, do better." Nodding shortly at the muttered, "Will. Mother!" he asked cheerfully, "So, what's for dinner?" "Just got out of hospital, mate!" Doyle protested vigorously, as happy to change the subject as Bodie was. "I'm not cookin'!" "Okay. Take out it is." Doyle gave him a piteous look. He added in a superior tone, "Always complaining about the grease I eat, and I cook what I eat. Can't have you eating that-" "Swill." Sotto voce. Also ignored. "- fresh out of getting your ticker worked on. So. Curry?" He paused, suppressed a grin. "Chinese?" as innocently as possible. Doyle's helpless laugh in response was reward enough. There wasn't a lot of laughter in the next several months. Some tears, when no one was looking, a lot of sweat, quite a bit of cursing. On the day Macklin tore them both apart again, then put them back together one more time, there was very old scotch from the Cow's private store, a fist punching triumph through the air, and an embrace that Bodie didn't want to release. The dreams were back. This time Krivas was nowhere to be found. He'd laid that particular ghost when he'd tracked the son of a bitch down and beaten the shit out of him before throwing him in prison. The power was gone, and so was the pain. Now his dreams were no less wild, but much, much friendlier. Doyle, stretched out underneath him, long and slender, soft skin and hard muscles, willing mouth and wanting eyes, hands all over him, tight and hot around him. Rolling, shifting, those eyes above him now, that mouth taking his, all that lethal speed contained and slowed down to concentrate on him. Lots of concentration. Lots of time. Lots of mornings waking up covered with his own come. He'd spent a lot of time with Doyle in close to the altogether since his partner'd been shot. Lots of hands on, lots of muscle rubs, lots of pats on the back and the shoulder and the leg and the head. If, or when, his hands lingered, Doyle hadn't complained, just leaned into him like he was soaking up Bodie's strength. Many late evenings sacked out on the couch while he brought Doyle up to speed with what was going on at HQ, and plenty of time to talk. Too bad he wasn't very good at talking. Not about the stuff that mattered. Not when he could barely articulate it to himself, much less the one it was all centered around. He'd spent his whole life detaching from people and things. He could put everything in his life he valued into one duffel bag, and have room for a spare machine pistol with several boxes of extra shells. He'd learned young, people weren't to be counted on, and the only one he could believe in was himself. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost that belief. Or maybe just expanded it. Because now there were two in his universe. Ray, whose battles he couldn't fight, and himself, who needed Ray to have a reason to fight his own. The demarcation line for his own personal island had dissolved in spots, Doyle-sized spots, and faced with the real possibility of losing Doyle, he'd discovered that he didn't have the wherewithal inside him to spackle those spots closed. Hell of a realization to make, at his age. That he needed somebody. That he needed Doyle. So, being Bodie, the pragmatist despite his calling Doyle that, he did the only thing he could. He looked at the need, recognized it as chronic and unkillable, and did his very best to ensure that his partner would never find out. It had been a long haul back, one Doyle hadn't been sure he'd be able to make. Through it all, when the doubts had plagued him, Bodie had been right beside him. Yelling at him, bracing him, urging him on, challenging him, even, god forbid, cooking for him. He'd come too fucking close to giving up, and had it not been for Bodie, and to a smaller extent Cowley, he would have. Oh, he didn't trust the old man, knew that when it came down to it, Cowley'd sacrifice his mother, if he had one, for the good of CI5. But he could deal with that. Because he had Bodie. He could, and did, trust Bodie with his life. He'd done so for longer than he could actually remember. Didn't know when it had started, didn't know what had triggered it, just woke up one morning and knew that Bodie was keeping him going when he couldn't keep himself going. He'd loved the bastard forever, felt like, and needed him like he hadn't ever needed anyone else in his life. Before he got sappy enough to embarrass himself even in the privacy of his own thoughts, he turned aside from them. Better not to dwell on the could-have-beens. Better to take what he had and be thankful for it. The first week back at work was an eye-opener. Bodie hovered, or as near to it as a man his size could, and not a single other agent made a crack or even looked at them sideways. It was the norm, Bodie and Doyle back, joined at the hip as always. The thought brought a twisted little smile to his face. Joined at the hip. If wishes were horses, he'd win the Derby. Through another autumn and winter, slogging through December snow turned to soot as soon as it hit the tarmac, taking down double agents, uncovering gaslighting of pretty blondes, marching for women's rights to snag an Eastern assassin, all in an agent's day's work. January dawned cloudy and cold, and yet another foreign diplomat came under CI5 care. Hakim Ojuka was a piece of work, and his pretty wife had a hell of an agenda, but the Colonel survived even if the marriage didn't. Cowley made the mistake of splitting them, then compounded the error by ordering Bodie not to come to Doyle's rescue. He glared, and he blustered, but it did no good. The partnership was paramount by that point and there wasn't a blessed thing he could do about it. Stuck in a basement with a South African maniac with a chip on his shoulder, Doyle had plenty of time to think about what would happen to him if somebody -- like, say, Bodie, for example -- didn't take Parker out before he really started in on the fun and games. The ride over to the estate from the hotel had been an eye opener. Parker had groped him pushing him in the car, undressed him with his eyes even while slapping him across the mouth, and paid him a nice little visit while waiting for their pick-up. Watching the medic slather burn ointment over his wrists, Doyle thought back to the conversation and barely suppressed a shudder. "Hello, hard man." Not him again. Doyle glared up at him. "Come to play punchbag, have we? What's the matter, no one share their toys with you when you were a kid? Or were you too busy tormenting the cat?" And drowning the fish, he thought, but didn't share it, knowing Parker wouldn't get the joke. Only Bodie would, and Bodie wasn't there. The hand at his chest made him flinch, but this time it wasn't bunched into a fist. Fingers traced the line of his ribs, along the bruises inflicted earlier that day, then across his collarbone and down to press against a nipple. Staring up with some disbelief at his captor, he was struck by the avaricious light in those pale eyes. Rather like a snake staring at a mouse right before gulping it down. Doyle swallowed. "Not enough time for the games I like to play," Parker leaned in to whisper against his neck. Before he could react with a head butt, the other hand shot to his groin and squeezed his balls, hard. He couldn't muffle the pained gasp, and Parker reacted by rubbing almost as hard as he squeezed. Doyle wriggled as much as he could, trying to back away, but the canvas covered furniture behind him didn't move. He threw his body to the side as far as he was able and swung his head away, trying to crack the bastard across the jaw. Before he got a good go at it, the hand at his chest came up around his throat. "Fight, by all means," Parker crooned at him, then reached down and bit at his lower lip, drawing blood. Unable to move from the fingers digging into his balls and clamping down round his neck, he sat as passively as possible while Parker licked his mouth thoroughly, lapping away the blood. "Sweet taste for such a tough little man." Another long taste, and he almost bit down, almost chopped the bastard's tongue in half, except for the hold on his balls. Bite now, sing soprano later, and he wasn't quite ready for that yet. So he sat, and he growled, and he took it. Then a voice had called the fucker off, and he'd spit until his mouth went dry trying to get the taste out of his mouth. Waiting just long enough to make sure he wasn't coming back any time soon, half reassured and half spurred on by the heavy beat of helicopter rotors in the air, he'd fished his lighter from his pocket and nearly broiled himself getting the ropes off. The sheer exhilaration of beating the shit out of his tormentor had almost made up for the whole filthy experience, enough that he was even able to joke with Bodie after it was all over. But now, staring at the clean white bandages ringing his wrists, patting along the cut on the inside of his lip with the tip of his tongue, he thought about how it could have ended. Would have ended if the timing had been just a little bit off, if Bodie hadn't been quite as quick to be the cowboy. If Parker had gotten the time to play the little games he'd wanted so badly to play. Closing his eyes, he could see it clearly. Bodie, storming into the basement, too late, himself, half naked, useless and bleeding; Parker, smirking about it all until Bodie'd blow the smirk off his face. Or even worse, for Bodie to come in while it was happening. Parker'd wanted him, wanted to hurt him, got off on it. He knew how far it would have gone given half a chance. He couldn't have let it happen. Couldn't have let Bodie find him like that. There was no way of getting around it anymore. If anyone was going to touch him, it was going to be Bodie. Eight years of fighting it was all he had in him. He was going to chance his luck tonight, damn the consequences, and come morning, he'd have everything in the world. Or nothing at all. He couldn't believe it would be the latter. He'd seen too much in his partner's face, too many times. He wasn't quite optimistic enough to think he'd get the former, but he couldn't see any way around it. Too close to the surface, too many things bubbling right under his skin. He couldn't trust his tongue to stay quiet, and something inside him was screaming at him. He could feel Parker's fingers on his skin, smell his breath and taste his mouth. Needed to replace that with something good, something clean. With Bodie. "Ready to hop it, mate?" Who stood in the doorway, half in, half out, one foot pointed toward the door already. He grinned in spite of himself and nodded. "More than. 'Bout time you got here," he added. "You weren't s'posed to let the cat get him, Angelfish," Bodie reminded him, ushering him out the door and down the hall toward the car park. "Can't help it if the cat was sleeping with the barracuda, could I?" Doyle demanded, mind only half on the banter. "Wicked image, that," Bodie agreed, then opened the door for him to get into the car. Doyle stared at it, stared up at Bodie for a moment, then stared back at the car. A small prod in the shoulder brought him out of his thoughts. "Gonna stand there all day or go home? I'm knackered. Would've thought you'd be, too." Doyle nodded absently, then crawled into the car. The short ride to Doyle's flat was accomplished in silence, with many sidelong glances from Bodie that Doyle refused to acknowledge. He was too busy plotting. As soon as they pulled in and parked, he asked quietly, "Come up for a bit?" Bodie nodded silent agreement. Up the stairs and through the door, all the locks set and double checked with the thoroughness reinforced by past experience, and Bodie headed straight for the drinks cart. "Scotch?" Doyle shook his head. "Help yourself, mate." He wandered over and stood by the front window, staring out at dusk settling over the cityscape. Behind him, he heard the clink of bottle against tray, the soft tread as Bodie walked to the couch, then a pause before the settling of weight on cushions. Smiling to himself, he twitched the curtain shut and turned to face his partner. Bodie was sitting straight up, staring over at him, stuffed into one corner of the couch. Doyle made a circuitous route back to the couch, picking up a lead cast soldier, rearranging him just so, moving the terrarium a half inch, shifting a book further onto the table, flicking a finger over the chain on the door. Bodie's eyes followed him, he could feel them, and he let the sensation feed his confidence, allowing the feeling of control to wash out the acid helplessness he'd felt earlier that day when Parker was manhandling him. By the time he made it to the couch, he was calm. Determined. Settled on his course of action. Completely turned on. He wasn't the least surprised to see that Bodie was, too. Moving closer, he slid onto the cushions beside his partner, plopped his feet up on the table, and shot an inquisitive, come-hither look over his shoulder. Bodie cracked up. Doyle couldn't help but join him. By the time they finished laughing, they were shoulder to shoulder, completely relaxed, and just as aroused as they'd been when it started. But the tension was gone. All that remained was the fit, the unstated understanding they shared. Bodie reached over with one finger and traced the line of dimple curving Doyle's cheek. Doyle turned his head, nipped at the fingertip, then sucked it into his mouth. Laughter disappeared and the blue eyes darkened almost instantly to black. A very good beginning, indeed. Then Doyle let go of the finger and moved in for his mouth. Bodie froze for a moment, and Doyle slowed, responding to the lack of motion. Bodie's mouth finally softened under his, and they explored one another with leisurely swipes and nibbles. Bodie kissed almost delicately, sipping at his partner, until Doyle's hunger got the better of both of them. Doyle devoured, nothing the least delicate about it, and it sparked a similar appetite in Bodie. It wasn't until a large hand accidentally clamped around a burnt wrist that Doyle finally broke the kiss, with a pained yelp. "Sorry, mate," Bodie dropped a little kiss on the bandage, and Doyle batted him on the nose with it. "Shaddup and take off your clothes," he ordered, diving in and pulling at any loose material he could to help Bodie along. Romantic it wasn't, but it was certainly honest, and he could tell by the leap in the erection against his thigh that it was appreciated. "Spoil a fella with the sweet talk, why don't ya, Doyle," Bodie grumbled, but his hands were moving even faster than Doyle's, and much more surely. They were shaking slightly less and hadn't recently been crisped with a cigarette lighter. "Talk?" Doyle asked as if it was a foreign word, something in Swahili he'd never heard. "Later," with a lick at the side of Bodie's neck. "Much," he was answered with a bite to his shoulder, and after that, nothing comprehensible came from either man. They almost made it to the bedroom before they finally got one another stripped. Seeing the bruises along Doyle's stomach and ribs, Bodie took it gently, or as gently as Doyle would allow. Seeing further bruising along his groin and over his sac, Bodie looked a question up at his partner. Doyle shook his head -- another 'later.' Right now was for other things. Bodie covered Doyle's body like a blanket, hands moving all over him, legs twining together. Doyle responded in kind, touching and kneading every bit of skin he could reach. The first time their erections rubbed against one another, they froze, and Bodie let loose with a moan that raised every hair on Doyle's neck. Then Doyle slithered down the front of Bodie and held him like he'd been wanting to for years, warmed his hands at Bodie's heat, replaced the taste of blood and fear with salt and need. Bodie moaned again, and Doyle decided then and there that he was going to try to provoke that sound as often as humanly possible for as long as he had the chance. Then he was swallowing, rolling and rubbing at Bodie's sac, sliding his tongue along the ridged underside of the swollen cock nudging down his throat, mouthing the head, enveloping and releasing in deliberate rhythm. Before long, that moan was nearly continuous, and Doyle was near coming himself just from hearing it. It rose, then broke, and the hands twined in his hair clutched hard as the hips under his hands bucked. He swallowed as fast as he could, nearly choking, fighting not to gag, and kept licking and suckling until Bodie was soft in his mouth, clean and replete. Doyle raised himself up over his partner, meeting Bodie's dazed eyes with a bright grin. "Right, blue-eyes," he teased, "leaving your duty undone, then?" He nudged Bodie's hip meaningfully with his own leaking erection, and wriggled against the arms still looped loosely around him. Bodie slid one hand up his spine slowly, so slowly he could feel the touch on every single vertebra, then tangled his fingers in Doyle's curls and pulled his head down. As his tongue was lapping at Doyle's chin and lips, along his jaw and down the side of his neck, catching the drops Doyle had missed, the other hand forced its way between their bodies. Wrapping around the shaft trying to drill a hole in his hip, Bodie squeezed and pulled. It didn't take much, between the tight hard grip and the soft tongue bathing his throat, being so close to the edge already. With a muffled whimper and three frantic thrusts, Doyle came, burying his face in the curve of Bodie's shoulder, melting into him. Doyle protested with as much force as he could when the hand left him, which wasn't much considering his whole body was mush, then quieted when the hand was dangled in front of his mouth to lick clean. He did, tongue tangling with Bodie's, who was doing the same. That, of course, led to more kissing, and the next thing either one of them knew, it was morning. They'd fallen sound asleep wrapped around one another as tightly as they could get without sharing the same skin. The alarm startled both of them, and Bodie reached out to smack it, colliding mid-swing with Doyle who was doing the same. The odd version of early morning arm wrestling brought them both wide awake, and they blinked at one another with less surprise than might have been expected. Doyle stared at Bodie. Bodie stared back. Then Doyle nodded, and Bodie grinned, the little one that just tipped the edge of his mouth and quirked his eyebrow. Everything was right again, the way it was supposed to be. Popping the alarm on the way, Bodie peed while Doyle shaved then they traded places. Breakfast was a bun on the way to HQ, so they wouldn't be late for briefing. The morning was just like every other morning of their partnership, except for the kiss by the sink, and the other by the closet, and the last one before they went out the door. The grope as Doyle was swinging up the stairs in front of Bodie was status quo. Slumped bonelessly in the chair leaning against Bodie's shoulder, staring around at his fellow agents, Doyle wondered if anyone could tell. He felt like he was glowing inside, like there were neon letters over his head, pointing down at him, reading 'BODIE'S'. And he certainly felt like Bodie was wearing a brand of some sort, showing he was Doyle's. But no one said a word, no one treated their closeness as anything out of the ordinary. For all he could tell, the whole squad had probably thought the two of them were lovers for the last five years. All the time the lads were whispering about them, all the camping up they'd done, all the Siamese twins jokes, and here they were, finally true, and nobody even noticed. So much for the grapevine. He shared a glance with Bodie, telling him without words exactly what he was thinking, and Bodie grinned back at him. Yeah. Business as usual. About bloody time, too. With a shrug that said they'd talk about it later, if they ever needed to, they followed Cowley into his office and were handed a case about a man called Quinn. finis Overheard behind a wall of boxes in the middle of a shootout: "Remind me to cut down on the swiss rolls, mate." "More cushion for the pushin', blue-eyes." "Makes for close quarters, though, don't it?" "You hear me complainin'? Now shut up and shoot!"

It was a week before Sydona's twenty-first birthday. Some girls her age would be planning parties, going to balls... she was stuck at home with three children already. Well, that wasn't quite true. The nursery-maids kept the children occupied, so she hardly had to see them - today, they'd gone out for a walk in the Firefly Gardens, two maids pushing the prams for the little ones and another holding Jarvis by the hand. She'd watched them go from her bedroom window and felt nothing but a vaguely wistful emptiness. She made her way to the library, thinking to pass the time in reading. Sydona had read every book in the house already, some of them twice. It hadn't taken very long - her husband Darion had boxed many of them up for transport to their estate in the countryside. Most of them were boring tomes about physics and engineering anyway, apart from a few novels she had bought with her own pocket money. She chose one of those, which she remembered as having some rather exciting parts with a dashing highwayman, and, after moving the lacquered screen to block the draft from the window, settled in to read. The book wasn't as good as she remembered. It was exciting when the highwayman carried off the countess, but it didn't describe much of what happened afterwards, and she couldn't imagine why the lady would be so eager to stay with him the next morning when she'd fought him so fiercely the night before. She must have dozed for a time, because she was awakened by voices in the room. "Go on, leave me be," said a woman - one of the chambermaids, the red-haired one, Sydona thought, her mind still foggy from sleep. "No one's about," a man protested. "So why not?" "Because I'm working," the maid protested, but she didn't sound like she really meant it. Her voice was light, playful even. "Come on, a little break won't hurt," he wheedled. Sydona was torn between getting up and making her presence known and staying hidden behind the screen, where she might escape notice (and embarrassment). The maid gave a little shriek, and they both laughed. Sydona risked a peek between the panels of the screen, trying to see what was happening. The young fellow - the new coachman, she thought, catching a glimpse of his straw-coloured hair - was leaning the maid against the wall. A clatter indicated that the girl had dropped her duster. Evidently her hands were busy elsewhere, though Sydona couldn't quite see what they were doing. The couple were kissing, she could tell that much, though her view was somewhat blocked by a bookshelf. "Just let me in..." she heard the coachman say, his breathing heavy and quick. "No," the maid gasped, "It isn't safe..." The man groaned, frustrated. "Cocktease," he called her, and "slut," which seemed like the opposite to Sydona. The whole thing was very confusing to her. "Oh, don't be like that," the maid told him, cajoling him. "We can still have fun." She did something that made the young man groan in a different way. Sydona pressed her eye to the screen once more, and caught a glimpse of the girl doing something with her hands... Now the coachman was the one leaning against the wall, and his head was tipped back, mouth open and gasping for air, while the maid stroked his manhood. It seemed surprisingly large to Sydona's wide-eyed gaze, and she wondered if that was why the girl hadn't wanted him to put it inside her, if she was worried it would hurt. He had a hand under the maid's skirts as well, though she couldn't see what he was doing to her down there. She was shocked that they could be carrying on like this in broad daylight, and not even in a bedchamber but standing against a wall, where someone might see them! And they both seemed to want it so very much... and the sounds they were making, breathless and urgent... Her cheeks burned crimson as she put a hand over her mouth to stifle any sound that would interrupt them. Certain passages in her novels were beginning to seem a good deal clearer to her. The couple worked quickly, and in a few minutes' time they were straightening their clothing as if nothing had happened. "Will I see you tomorrow?" the maid asked hopefully as they left the room, but Sydona couldn't hear what, if anything, the coachman answered. Still blushing furiously, she waited another quarter hour before leaving the room herself. That night, as she tried to sleep, she kept imagining the scene over and over again, though sometimes instead of the red-haired chambermaid it was the lady of the house that the coachman was pleading with, her skirts he was fumbling under... She found little rest that night, and drifted through the next few days in a daze. One morning, a letter arrived from her husband. She read his dull accounts of financial matters and his latest inventions absently, until she reached the end. "I apologize for not including a little something for your upcoming birthday," Darion wrote, "but you ought to celebrate despite my absence. I have instructed my bank to disburse a small sum so that you might buy yourself something nice." He signed all his letters with 'sincerely yours', never 'love'. Something nice. She pondered what she might want. A new hat, perhaps, and some gloves... maybe there would be enough left over for a novel or two. She found herself entertaining idle thoughts of something racier, though she didn't know where she'd even find such a book... if it was even a book she truly wanted. That afternoon, she called for the carriage to take her out shopping. After a stop at her husband's bank - the 'small sum' he had told them to give her was actually quite ample - she made her way to the most fashionable modistes' shops on Lark Row, just at the edge of the Grand. She looked longingly at the ballgowns in the window of one shop, all with the new hooped petticoats that held their skirts out so wide, but she knew she'd have nowhere to wear such a ridiculous confection. She was about to turn and go to her usual hatmaker's, when a girl coming out of the modiste's with an armful of boxes bumped into her. "Oh, excuse me!" She was about Sydona's age, with honey-brown hair that bounced in unruly curls to her shoulders. Sydona thought she looked familiar, and tried desperately to place her. "Mlle. Trueblood, isn't it?" the young lady asked. No one had called Sydona that since she was sixteen, which meant this must be someone who had known her before she was married. Suddenly it came to her - the Chancellor's youngest daughter, Elena vak Andras. They'd last seen one another at Sydona's coming-of-age party. "Mlle. vak Andras," she greeted her, relieved to have found the correct name just in time. "Are you doing some shopping?" Elena asked, then continued before Sydona could get a word in edgewise. "I've just picked out the most delicious gown, I'm so terribly excited! I believe I shall wear it to Surryks tomorrow night." "Oh, I was just thinking about a new bonnet," Sydona said, feeling horridly envious of this carefree girl who went out to dancehalls and wore gowns that could be described as 'delicious'. "A bonnet? Oh no, you must find something more enjoyable than that!" Elena passed her parcels to the waiting footman, who began loading them atop the carriage. "You would look simply divine in the red gown they have in there, it would set off your colouring to perfection. Or at least some new gloves, or a fan - something to catch a gentleman's eye!" Sydona had caught a gentleman's eye once, and it had done her little good. But Elena was taking her by the hand and drawing her into the shop whether she willed it or not. The room would have been spacious, were it not jammed with customers and shopgirls and dressmakers' forms and great bolts of fabric. Elena was chattering about the new styles, but Sydona could barely hear her over the din. Her eye was drawn to a red satin gown on a dressmaker's form. It was cut low across the shoulders and bosom, with quite short sleeves, and a huge, full skirt, no doubt supported by hoops beneath. "You see," Elena was saying, "that's the one I was talking about. You ought to try it on, it would look absolutely splendid on you!" "Oh, I couldn't," Sydona murmured, but she couldn't stop looking at it either. She plucked hesitantly at the fabric of the skirt, and almost instantly one of the shopgirls was at her side, inviting her attention to the quality of the material, the lace, the stitching... Before she knew what she was doing, she was being helped out of her plain daydress and into the ballgown. Elena clapped her hands. "And it fits you so well already! A few teensy alterations and it will be perfect! You simply must buy it, and wear it tomorrow night to Surryks with me." The seamstress pinned the waist and bodice a little more closely, and told her that the necessary changes could certainly be made by tomorrow afternoon, milady, if she would care to have someone pick it up then? Sydona had no idea if she could afford the gown or not, but she nodded anyway, and the deal was done. As they left the shop once more, Elena clasped her hands. "It was simply wonderful to run into you again, Mlle. Trueblood. I will see you tomorrow night, won't I?" "Of course," Sydona replied, feeling more than a little dazed. "At Surryks?" She had never been to the celebrated ballroom, but she had certainly heard of it. "That's right. Do you have a young gentleman who will be escorting you?" Elena added with a giggle as her footman helped her into the carriage. Sydona thought of her husband, and shook her head. "No, no young gentleman." "Well, if you have no suitors at present, that gown will soon put an end to that, I'll wager! Shall I call for you at eight?" She suddenly dreaded the thought of telling Elena she was married, or having to give her address, which would surely reveal her state. "I'd be delighted to accompany you, Mlle. vak Andras, but may I call for you instead?" "Oh, but of course. Until tomorrow, then!" she said, waving from the carriage window as the driver flicked his reins and the horses set off. Sydona returned to her own carriage, bemused but feeling unexpectedly excited about the prospect of her new gown, and of having somewhere to wear it. The following afternoon, she sent one of her maids to pick up the altered gown, and then spent far more time than she normally did on having them do her hair and apply her lotions and perfumes before attempting to put on the thing. The gown did look impressive once it was on, she had to admit, though it took her several tries to learn how to sit down without having the skirt flip up shockingly at the front, and her shoulders felt quite exposed. She found a light wrap to cover herself with before she left, telling herself she could leave it in the cloakroom at the ball. The children were just being put to bed as she prepared to depart, and she gave them absent-minded kisses as the nurses dutifully presented them, clean and scrubbed and sleepy, for her blessings. Her thoughts were elsewhere. The clocks struck eight as she waited in the hired carriage she had engaged (not wanting her own staff to know where she was going) outside the vak Andras estate. She waited anxiously for Elena to appear. She was just beginning to think that perhaps it had all been a cruel joke of some sort when finally the girl came down the steps in a rush and clambered into the cab with a breathless excitement. Elena made no apologies for her tardiness, but did lavish effusive praise over Sydona's gown, her hair, and her complexion, which made her feel somewhat reassured. She herself was in a vibrant teal gown trimmed with gold, and to Sydona's relief she had also draped a wrap over her bare shoulders. Her hair was tied back in a chignon with a few curls left hanging loose to frame her face, which Sydona thought very elegant. Her own hair would not hold a curl, and so instead her maids had braided it and looped it the way she had worn it at her wedding five years before, which now seemed worrisomely out of fashion, despite Elena's kind words about how pretty it looked. They drew up at Surryks at half-past eight. Through the brightly-lit windows, Sydona could see into another world, one where couples danced together, laughed, enjoyed themselves. The music that reached her ears was faint but lively. The cab-driver asked if they would like him to wait, and Sydona looked to Elena, uncertain. "No, that's fine," Elena said carelessly, "we can hire another one for the trip home, there are always plenty waiting about." She grinned and took Sydona's arm as they made their way to the door. Inside it was much noisier, and the entryway was bustling with people, servants as well as guests. Elena insisted on paying both of their entry fees, despite Sydona's protests, and then whisked them off to the ladies' cloakroom to set aside their wraps and make a few last minute adjustments to their gowns and hair. Fortunately, there were mirrors on the wall for just such eventualities, and soon Elena pronounced them quite suitable to appear in public. The ballroom sparkled with bright lights and youthful energy. Elena seemed to know everyone by name, and had to greet each one in turn. Sydona hung back, overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, and only nodded politely when Elena introduced her to one friend after another. "Mlle. Trueblood has been in the countryside of late," she heard her tell several people, and made no effort to contradict the girl's assumption. Her attention wandered, taking in the glitter of the jewels (she felt self-conscious for having worn no earrings or bracelets, but only a simple necklace), the graceful sweep of the dancers' skirts (she was uncertain of the new steps) and the buzz of witty conversation (she felt as if all words had flown from her mind). "Why M. Talavera, of course I shall introduce you to my friend," she heard Elena say with a giggle, and turned her eyes back in time to see a handsome gentleman - exceedingly handsome, in truth, tall, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted, and with thick black hair and remarkable violet eyes - approaching her. He bowed, and took her hand when she offered it nervously. "Mlle. Trueblood, this is M. Alestin Talavera," Elena said. "He is the son of the Duke and Duchess of Wray, and a complete and utter scoundrel," she added with a grin. Alestin seemed unfazed by her accusation, but smiled as well. "Enchanted, mademoiselle," he said, kissing her hand. Even though she wore gloves, she could imagine the touch of his lips against her skin, and it brought a blush to her cheeks. "I find it hard to believe I've missed meeting such a beauty. Have you been here before?" "I've been in the countryside," she said, the lie coming to her lips with unexpected ease. "Ahh, then their loss is our gain," he replied, smiling in a way that made her knees feel strangely unsteady. "Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you later?" From behind him, Elena was nodding to her vigorously, so she nodded as well. "Splendid," he said, and bowed again before departing. Elena sidled up to her. "What did you think?" "He's... quite handsome," Sydona admitted. "Oh yes, insufferably so." Elena sniffed. "I wasn't fibbing when I said he was a scoundrel, though." Sydona's thoughts drifted to rakish highwaymen. "Why do you say that?" "Well, because he is! You've only to look at him to know that some girls will just fall at his feet, and he's perfectly willing to take advantage of them when they do. Trust me, I've known him forever, and he's always been like that. We're practically family." "Practically?" Elena shrugged. "Oh, if you go back a few generations, I'm sure we're related, but more than that, our parents are good friends, so we all but grew up together. He's quite incorrigible, and will make some poor girl a terrible husband one day." Elena sounded more fond than cross, though. Sydona bit her lip. "Have you... that is, are you... are you enamoured of him?" "Why, Mlle. Trueblood, how bold of you!" Elena said with a sly smile and flick of her fan. "When we were younger, perhaps we occasionally disported ourselves together. And I admit to finding him... appealing, as any woman with an ounce of feeling might. But I would be quite a fool to love him, I should think. It would only lead to heartbreak." "Oh," said Sydona, trying to puzzle out what that might mean. "But you aren't presently involved?" "Not at all! We are good friends only. By all means, you have my blessing if you wish to dance with him – or anything else," she added with a giggle. Sydona was sure her blush would be obvious. "Very well," she replied, trying to sound worldly and sophisticated and just a little bored, "I shall dance with him, and see how things go from there." Alestin proved an excellent partner, so that Sydona hardly had any trouble despite not having danced in some years, and not knowing the new forms and steps. Overcoming her shyness, she accepted invitations to dance with a handful of other gentlemen afterwards, but none she liked so well as him. She saw that Elena danced with him as well, and they glanced in her direction more than once. She wondered whether they talked of her, then chided herself for her foolishness. It would be too much to expect that he would spend his time with a childhood friend, perhaps even a former lover, talking of a woman he had only just met. She did not know how late the dancing would usually continue. It was drawing near to midnight when Elena took her arm once more. "You must be getting tired," she said. "Are you ready to go?" "I suppose so," Sydona admitted half-heartedly. The crowds were growing thinner, as people had begun to depart, though the music and dancing continued unabated. It had been an exciting evening, the kind she had so often dreamt of, and she was reluctant to let it come to an end, but she was growing weary. She let Elena lead the way to the ladies' cloakroom to collect their wraps. Outside, the night air was chill, despite the crowds of people milling about. As Elena had predicted, there were numerous cabs about, but the nearest ones were all engaged already. They were just about to walk down to the end of the row and see if any there were free when a carriage drew up and Alestin Talavera leaned out the window. "Are you in need of a ride, ladies?" Elena grinned. "Oh, that would be so much more convenient, thank you!" She turned to Sydona, under the pretence of adjusting her wrap. "If that's all right with you?" Sydona knew it was a little bit daring to accept a gentleman's offer of a ride in his carriage, especially one with such a reputation as Alestin seemed to have. But she didn't want to seem rude or worse, unsophisticated. And surely nothing untoward would happen with both her and Elena there... "It's fine," she said, trying to seem nonchalant. "We would very much appreciate it, thank you, M. Talavera." She could have him drop her off somewhere nearby and walk the rest of the way home if need be, so they wouldn't know where she truly lived. Alestin hopped down to help them, lending a hand as they clambered into the carriage, trying not to step on their skirts or tumble indecorously. Finally the three of them were settled into the comfortable leather seats, Elena and Alestin on one side, and Sydona across from them – the width of the ladies' skirts would not permit them to sit side-by-side. It was close quarters, and no matter how Sydona kept her feet modestly tucked under the seat, she felt as if she was in the way – their ankles kept touching each time any of them moved. Elena and Alestin made small talk, discussing people they had seen at Surryks that evening, who had worn what and danced with whom, names Sydona hardly recognized. She looked out the window, watching the lights of the city pass by them. They were headed toward the river, away from her home – she realized she hadn't given Alestin's driver an address. Perhaps they were taking Elena home first? She tried to think of a way to ask where they were going without seeming impolite. Alestin drew a flask from a pocket inside his jacket and offered it to Elena, who took it with a slight giggle. She swallowed some of its contents and then held it out to Sydona. She hesitated a moment, but with both of them looking at her, she felt she had little choice but to accept it. The liquor burned her throat only for a moment, then spread through her body with a delicious warmth. She took another sip and then a third, feeling delightfully naughty, and then handed it back to Alestin, who finished it off and tucked it away again in his pocket. "Shame, it's all gone." "You know," Elena said playfully, "we could stop in for a little drink at your house, if we wanted." "Of course, " Alestin replied graciously. "My parents are in the country for the week, so no one would disturb us." He knocked on the roof of the carriage and gave the order to the driver. "Oh," Elena said, almost as an afterthought, "I hope that's all right with you, Sydona. You don't mind, do you?" "No, of course not," she said as cheerfully as she was able, despite the nervous fluttering in her stomach. "I'm sure it will be delightful." The carriage turned a few moments later and began making its way up a tree-lined drive. She peered out the window uncertainly, catching her first glimpse of the Talavera estate through the trees. It was a grand manor house, much larger than Sydona's husband's family home, but then, the Talaveras were known to be exceedingly wealthy, even though it was said that Alestin's mother had been disowned by her family when she'd married his father. Sydona wasn't certain what was so very awful about the match, and thought it would be impolite to ask at this juncture. They pulled to a stop in front of the house, and Alestin got down to help the ladies out of the carriage. They walked together up the staircase to the doors, Sydona on one arm and Elena on the other. The servant who opened the door for them gave a polite curtsey but otherwise paid them little attention, as if this was not an unusual occurrence in the household . "This way," Alestin said, and led them down the corridor to what was obviously a gentleman's study. He opened the shuttered lamps part-way, casting a modest amount of light into the chamber. It was lined with old books and had a couple of chairs and a settee in front of a fireplace. The smell of cigar smoke and leather was omnipresent. Alestin strode to a glass-fronted cabinet full of bottles, and threw it open. "What can I get you?" he asked. "We have just about everything." "Guignolet," Elena said, after considering her choices. "But mix it with some water so it's not too sweet." "I could mix it with some whiskey so it's not too sweet," Alestin suggested with a smile. "But that would be a poor use of my father's good whiskey." He made her the drink as requested, then turned to Sydona. "I'll have the same," she said, uncertain what to choose. The drink he presented her with was red and heady and tasted of sweet cherries. Sydona perched on the settee alongside Elena to sip it slowly, while Alestin took a seat in one of the armchairs with his own drink. "You know, if you get tipsy I'll have to invite you to stay the night," Alestin said with a smile that made Sydona's knees tremble. "It would be irresponsible to send you home in such a condition." Elena chuckled. "I could tell Father I came home with you, Sydona, and you could tell your parents you paid me a visit after the ball. We wouldn't get into trouble that way." Sydona's parents weren't who she was worried about, but she nodded anyway. If she didn't come home, she didn't think the servants would start to worry before morning in any case, and she would surely be back in time to prevent them calling for the guards... "That would work," she agreed, trying to sound casual, as if she slept over at gentlemen's houses all the time. "I think I would like that." "Oh, I'm sure you will," Elena said with a teasing smile. "I told you Alestin was amusing, didn't I?" "Have you two been talking about me behind my back?" he asked, as if he might be affronted. "What has this little minx been telling you, Sydona? Nothing bad, I hope." "Oh, no," she said, blushing despite her efforts not to, "nothing bad! She said you were handsome and charming and that I had her blessing if I wanted to dance with you. Or...or anything else," she added, feeling very daring. Alestin laughed. "How very generous of her to offer me up!" "I'm not greedy," Elena said with a sniff. "I could hardly keep him all to myself, could I, even if I wanted to. Which I don't." "I'm surprised that you would want to be here, even so," Alestin said, setting his drink down on the side table. "You won't get jealous, will you, El?" "Have I ever?" she asked carelessly. "I'm just curious to see how you behave." "You want to watch? Or join in?" "I think I'll just watch," she said, with a haughty dignity. "Am I putting on a show for you, then, hm?" Elena made no reply to that, turning to Sydona instead. Sydona felt light-headed and a bit puzzled by their exchange, but she smiled anyway. "It's all right, I understand," she said, even though she didn't really. Had this been Elena's idea from the very beginning, or was she only going along with Alestin's veiled suggestion now in order to please him? Was she generously sharing her lover with Sydona, or presenting her to him as a token of her affection? Her head was spinning, and not just from the drinks. It didn't matter, she decided, what Elena's intentions were. She wasn't simply a token to be passed around in whatever game these two were playing. She could take the initiative for herself. Sydona stood and crossed the room to Alestin, who met her halfway, pulling her into his arms to kiss her. Although she was not short, she had to stretch her neck up to reach him, bending back and wrapping her arms about his shoulders as much to keep from falling as out of a desire to embrace. Her feeling of light-headedness increased, the blood pounding in her face, and she wondered if she was about to faint. That was often what ladies did in such situations in her books, allowing the authors to gracefully fade to black, but she would have felt most embarrassed and disappointed if she did. Fortunately, Alestin held her up, and though her legs trembled, she did not fall. He kissed with an intensity she had only imagined before, and it seemed to go on for a very long time before he finally drew back. She could feel his heart pounding, his breath quickening, and knew that it was out of desire for her - a heady feeling of power swept over her. Still, she couldn't help glancing at Elena. The brown-haired girl was watching intently, her expression puzzling to Sydona. It might have been simple curiosity, but she thought she saw hurt there as well. Surely she had imagined that, though - Elena had made her intentions perfectly clear. Sydona turned back to Alestin. "I want to go upstairs," she surprised herself by saying. "To the bedroom. Please." He laughed, and for a moment she wondered if she had said something wrong, but his eyes told her otherwise. "For such a modest young lady, you're quite forward when you know what you want," he told her, still grinning. "Very well - I'll take you up to my bedroom, but only since you said 'please.'" He offered her his arm, for all the world as if they were still at the ballroom, and escorted her to the staircase. Elena followed, as if out of lack of anything better to do. The Talavera manor was very large and, at the present hour, quiet. The walls were decorated with portraits of illustrious ancestors, historical tableaux, serene landscapes. Many of the ancestors, she couldn't help but notice, shared Alestin's thick, dark hair and stunning violet eyes. Long carpets in patterns of faded purple and grey muffled their footsteps. Her host led her perhaps halfway down the long corridor, then stopped and opened one of the doors. "As requested," he told her, "the bedroom." He permitted the ladies to enter first, holding the door open for them both. Alestin's bedroom was both more spacious and more simply decorated than Sydona had expected. The walls were panelled in dark red wood, the floor covered with somewhat threadbare antique gold carpets that matched the hangings on the bed. A marble-topped dressing-table and a sizeable armoire indicated that the owner of these quarters valued his appearance and wardrobe. There was also an armchair near the fireplace, and a writing desk, but these looked as if they were probably little-used. The windows looked out over a patio with a swimming pool, she noticed with astonishment as she moved further into the room. Alestin shut the door behind them. "Now," he said, "I trust Elena will help in getting you out of that gown." "How should I do that?" Elena said petulantly. "Mine's just as cumbersome, I won't be able to get close enough to reach." Alestin gave a slight laugh. "As lovely as you both look, this new fashion seems to have its downsides. Very well, I suppose I can assist." With guidance from both ladies, he managed to help Sydona out of her gown and the considerable supporting structure beneath it, finally leaving her in her corset and petticoat. Sydona had thought having her shoulders exposed before was quite daring, but this was even more nerve-wracking. The tops of her breasts were displayed to his gaze, rosy with her blushing. It was almost a relief when he turned his attention to Elena, disrobing her more swiftly, perhaps out of a greater familiarity, or perhaps because he was simply now more accustomed to the new style of gown. Elena stepped gracefully out of her hoops, and Sydona was more than a little shocked to see that she wore lacy pantalettes instead of underskirts, and that her corset was cut low enough across her breasts that her nipples peeked out over the edge. "Very nice," Alestin told her, running his thumbs over those exposed nipples. "Are you sure you don't want to join in?" "I already told you," she said, drawing away from his wandering hands. "I want to watch. Maybe, later, if you're very good, I'll join you. But maybe not." And with that, she flounced over to the leather armchair and, turning it so that it faced the bed, sat down, draping her long legs carelessly over one arm. Alestin shrugged, and returned his attentions to Sydona, who stood nervously by the bed, uncertain what she ought to do. Gathering her courage, she pushed her hands under his jacket, sliding it off his broad shoulders. He let it fall to the floor, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat, and then his shirt. Sydona helped where she could, but mostly was too nervous - her hands were shaking too much to manage buttons. "Is this your first time?" he asked her kindly. "N-no," she stammered, thinking fleetingly of Darion. "I've done this a few times." From her seat, Elena smirked. "I'm shocked, Mlle. Trueblood! You feign maidenly virtue very well, but it seems in truth you're quite the little slut." "I am not!" Sydona bristled. "Well, I didn't mean it like it's a bad thing," Elena said with an idle wave of her hand, in a somewhat mollifying tone. "I only meant I wouldn't have guessed, that's all." "Not a bad thing in the slightest," Alestin agreed. "I prefer a more experienced partner, actually. So much more enjoyable, don't you think?" Sydona nodded, more nervous than ever now that it seemed Alestin would expect her to know what to do. "But you must tell me what you want," she blurted, with no idea where those words had come from, except a vague notion that in most of her novels, the hero was the one giving the orders. It seemed to be an acceptable thing to say, for Alestin smiled. "Oh, is that the way you prefer it?" He took her by the shoulders and guided her firmly to sit at the edge of the bed. "Spread your legs," he told her, and Sydona immediately did as she was instructed, without thinking. He slid his hands up her thighs beneath her petticoat to pull off her stockings. "Take that off her," Elena complained. "I can't see what you're doing." "Lie back," Alestin ordered, "and lift your hips, so we can have this out of the way." Sydona did so, and a moment later her legs were exposed to the cool air. She had nothing beneath her petticoat, of course, and she could feel Alestin's gaze on her nakedness. A sudden, panicky thought crossed her mind - if he were to see her completely unclothed, he would surely be able to tell she'd borne a child. Her figure had fortunately stayed slender, but there were still marks from where her belly had stretched and swollen three times, and she dreaded what he - or Elena - might make of those. She was just deciding she would have to make sure she kept her corset on, when his mouth began moving slowly up her inner thigh, driving her worries out of her mind. She gave a little shriek and half sat up when he began to tongue her, the sensation was so sudden and unexpected. Elena's laughter made her blush more furiously and lie back down, however. Her hands clenched around fistfuls of the bed-covers, and her feet seemed to have developed a mind of their own, twitching and kicking out against her will. Alestin gripped her ankles firmly to still them, which only seemed to drive the twitching higher up her body until it reached her hips, where it settled and persisted stubbornly. She could hear unfamiliar sounds coming from her own throat, harsh, gasping cries that matched each stroke of his tongue, and she remembered how the maid had sounded as she'd sported with the coachman. This must have been what she was feeling! A strange sensation was building within her, a quivering tension she couldn't name, but that desperately needed to be released. "Please," she gasped, not knowing what she was asking for, only that he could give it to her. "Oh, she said 'please' so nicely," Elena teased. "Finish her off, Alestin." He raised his lips off Sydona long enough to retort. "She asked me to give the orders, not you." Then he resumed his efforts, this time adding his fingers to the mix, sliding one inside her. Sydona's hips jerked of their own volition and she cried out, not because it hurt but because it felt so wonderful. She hadn't known it was possible to feel this way - her books hadn't shown her, nor had her husband. A sudden spasm shook her body, and another, and the tension inside her gave way with a rush that shocked her with its intensity and left her trembling and gasping for breath. She wondered, embarrassed, if she had wet herself, the linens beneath her were so damp, but Alestin seemed unconcerned as he stood, smiling down at her. "Good girl," he told her, and began to unfasten his trousers. "Now," he said, as he drew out his manhood, which was thick enough to make her eyes widen, "turn around and bend over." Sydona wondered if she would even be able to stand, her legs were still shaking so hard. Her feet touched the carpet gingerly, and she hung onto the bedpost for support, bending over from the hips. Her corset dug into the tops of her thighs a little, but it wasn't too uncomfortable. She was just relieved he hadn't asked her to remove it yet. Uneasily aware of Elena's gaze on them, and the way the girl's thighs were parted and her hand was moving lazily between them, she found it easier to shut her own eyes and pretend they were alone. Alestin's touch on her backside startled her at first, making her give a nervous laugh, and the others joined in. He adjusted her legs, moving them slightly further apart, and then without further warning pushed into her. Sydona's eyes flew open and she gripped the bedpost more firmly, but she was surprised to discover that despite his size, it was not painful. Rather the opposite, in fact… Each slow stroke startled her anew with its bliss. Her face was flushed from bending over, and her gasps were shallow as the corset made it difficult to breathe deeply, adding to her feeling of light-headedness. It all seemed like a dream, but such a lovely one that she would have been happy to sleep forever. Her novels, with their annoying tendency to skip over these scenes, had given her no indication how long the act was likely to last when performed properly. As the next part in the books was normally the heroine awaking the following morning, she had a dim sense that 'all night' might not be out of the question, and wondered if she would be able to endure such treatment for hours at a time. Fortunately (or unfortunately, she wasn't sure) it wasn't terribly long before Alestin's pace quickened, and his breath took on a rasp, as if catching in his throat. She knew those sounds well enough to realize it couldn't endure much longer. In that respect, at least, he was not so different from her husband. She held onto the post with both hands as he drove himself into her more roughly, and gasped in time with him. It wasn't the same mysterious, throbbing tension she had felt earlier, but it was still an amazing sensation, and she was ever so slightly disappointed when he finally shuddered and clutched her hips to pull her as close to him as possible. A few final, hammering thrusts, and he groaned, coming to a standstill. A moment later he stepped back, drawing slowly out of her. She held her position, unsure what she should do, until Elena drawled languidly, "He's done, dear, you can stand up now." Wisps of her fine hair falling out of the braids her maid had plaited so carefully, Sydona straightened, red-faced and trembling. Alestin had flopped down onto the footstool at Elena's feet, looking more than a little shaky himself. "Was that what you wanted?" he asked, and Sydona was fairly sure he wasn't talking to her. "It was pleasant to watch," Elena said with a sigh, "but now you're all tired out." "Only temporarily," he said, with a brief laugh. "I'll still be able to see to you, if that's what you were worried about." "Don't trouble yourself," Elena sniffed. "I took care of myself already." Sydona brushed her stray hair out of her face, feeling awkward. "It was very nice," she said, and immediately felt silly for saying so. But Alestin smiled, at least, and that made her feel a bit less childish. "At any rate," Elena continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "we ought to be getting home, don't you think, Sydona?" "I... suppose so," she said, though in truth she had expected to stay longer - she had no parents at home to worry about, though, and perhaps Elena was more anxious about her father than she had previously let on. "If... if you're ready to leave?" "I will be," Elena said curtly, standing and straightening her pantalettes. She eyed the gowns on the floor with a moue of distaste. "Ugh, getting back into those things... I wish you could just call one of your mother's maids to help us, Alestin." "I could," he said, "but I doubt you want the gossip that would follow. You'll just have to manage for yourselves." He seemed put out, and Sydona wondered whether she had done something wrong. She didn't think so, though - she rather thought that it was Elena who was behaving inappropriately this time. Somehow the ladies reassembled their elaborate outfits, and though they might not have been presentable at Surryks any longer, they would at least pass muster on a quick inspection, or so Sydona thought. Alestin did not bother to put his clothing on again, but pulled on a velvet dressing gown instead. He sat in the chair Elena had recently vacated, looking cross and making little effort to hide it. He regained some of his manners, however, when they moved to depart. "Farewell," he told Sydona, kissing her hand graciously. "Thank you for your company this evening, Mlle. Trueblood, it was delightful." "Thank you too, M. Talavera," she replied politely, as though they were at tea together and he had just passed her the sugar. She couldn't help blushing, however, when he smiled down at her and she remembered what they'd done together only a short while before. She stored the memories away carefully, knowing that she would return to them often. Elena simply nodded a cold farewell. Alestin moved to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned away from him and flounced out the door. Sydona followed her, hoping that perhaps once they were alone Elena would explain why she was so cross. They descended the grand staircase in icy silence, and made their way to the door before Sydona realized they had no means of getting home without Alestin's carriage. Elena seemed unconcerned, however, and so Sydona continued to follow her out the doors and down the front steps into the chill night air. "Elena," she said softly as they walked down the tree-lined drive, "how are we going to..." "We'll get a hired carriage," Elena told her without looking back. "I'm not having his coach drive up to my father's house in any case, it wouldn't look proper at this hour of night." "Oh, no... of course not." It seemed Elena had thought of everything - she must be well-practiced in deceiving her parents, Sydona thought cynically. "Did you enjoy yourself this evening?" she asked, emboldened. Elena shrugged. "Well, you certainly did, at least." The words felt as though they were designed to cut, but Sydona felt no pain. "Yes," she agreed coolly, "I did. Thanks to you setting everything up." Still Elena refused to look at her. "You're more than welcome to him. He's a selfish ass anyhow." Sydona reached out to take the other girl by the shoulder. "I don't want him," she said seriously. "I can't take him away from you, Elena." "Because of your House? That hardly matters any longer..." Elena tugged her wrap more tightly around herself and turned to walk away once more. "No," Sydona said, catching her again. "I can't, because I'm... I'm already married." Even in the faint starlight, she could see Elena's eyes widen. "You are? You mean you're being... unfaithful? But you never said anything! You... you let me think you were some innocent maiden, fresh from the countryside..." "I never said that!" Sydona bristled. "You just assumed! If you had kept in touch with me, you'd know I've been married for five years! Void, you might have seen the notices in the broadsheets when any of my three children were born!" Elena looked, if possible, even more shocked. "Sydona, you're only my age! Three children?" "If you bothered to ask me anything, instead of just chattering about nonsense all the time, I'd have told you," Sydona snapped. "I thought you wanted to be friends, and I wanted you to like me... but all you really wanted was to put Alestin through some sort of test, wasn't it! And he failed, obviously. Was he supposed to refuse me and tell you how he could never lie with another woman because he loves you so much? You already knew that wasn't true, so what were you expecting, you stupid little girl?" Elena's lower lip trembled at the sudden outburst. "I thought maybe he would... he would see how well I understand him. He would realize that I'm sophisticated too, not just the little girl he used to p-practice kissing with... It wasn't a test for him, it was for me. But I couldn't do it right. I should be able to not care who he fucks, to not get jealous... but I couldn't." And to Sydona's surprise she burst into tears, standing at the foot of the Talavera's driveway. "Come on," Sydona said, feeling suddenly much, much older as she put her arm around Elena's shoulders. "Don't cry now. It's like you said earlier - he'll only bring you heartbreak. You can find someone much better, I'm sure, if that's what you want." "I only want him," Elena sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her wrap. "I've tried going with other gentlemen, but none of them make me feel the way he does. And I don't want to marry someone I don't love." "No," Sydona agreed, "you don't. But if you love him, you have to talk to him about it. And do it honestly, not pretending to be disdainful and elegant and sophisticated. It's obvious he cares about you too, but he probably thinks you're indifferent to him, especially after tonight. And maybe he'll change his ways if you settle down together..." "Maybe," Elena said, but she didn't sound convinced. "I'm such a fool," she sighed. Just then she noticed a cab drawing up at a house nearby, dropping off passengers. She waved to the driver, and he nodded, pulling up to where they stood a few moments later. "I don't think you're a fool," Sydona told her quietly once they were safely embarked on their journey home. "It's got to be better to be with someone you love, even if they aren't perfect, even if they make you angry sometimes, than to feel ... empty inside." "Is that how it is with you?" Elena asked almost shyly. "It was," Sydona told her. "But not anymore. I suppose I can thank you for that much, anyway." She risked a little smile, and Elena smiled back. Elena waved to her from the carriage window as Sydona descended at her husband's house. She walked slowly up the drive, feeling as though a hundred years had passed since she'd left earlier that evening. She knew something within her had changed, something she couldn't name, for it hadn't appeared in any of her books. It could have been power. She smiled to herself, and decided that the next evening she would gather her courage and invite that blond-haired coachman to her bedchamber.

It was nearly midnight by the time Hogwarts' new Charms professor finished with her rounds of the castle and stood, nervously poised to knock on the door of the school's other new professor. She shifted her feet uncertainly, then sighed, her fingers slackening, not even touching the ancient wood. Hermione Granger dropped her hand silently and grimaced, turning and slumping hopelessly against the stone wall of the dungeon corridor outside of "Professor" Krum's quarters. As unlikely as the title seemed, his education at Durmstrang had provided him with an invaluable background in defensive magic, as well as a rather frightening wealth of theoretical knowledge of dark magic. He'd retired from Quidditch the year prior, claiming that he'd grown weary of the fame and traveling. And, having earned several awards of honour for his part in the battle against darkness on his home soil as well as being one of only a small handful willing to even consider the position, he'd been McGonagall's top choice for the job. Hermione remembered when he'd written to her with the news of his new post as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. She couldn't help the little thrill that went through her at the time, as a tiny part of her hoped and wondered if she had anything to do with his decision. Granted, she hadn't been teaching at Hogwarts yet, and had only come on at the last moment when Professor Flitwick passed away, but Viktor's retirement from Quidditch and relocation to the British Isles also meant a closer proximity to her. It was a silly thought, and she'd been quick to quash it with a sad reminder that, although they'd become exceedingly close, they were still "just friends". She looked down at the slightly tattered piece of parchment in her hands and shook her head miserably. Idiot, she thought with a derisive snort. So what if the contents had been penned by the striking wizard on the other side of the heavy oak door? They'd been written seven years ago. And though they were obviously written about her, they very clearly had not been meant for her eyes. Not to mention had given her no reason whatsoever to believe he still held the feelings for her that had once inspired the curling letters in faded ink. Despite the owls, despite the countless sheets filled with such candid thoughts and beautiful imagery she'd received weekly over the past four years, not one of them held a note of anything more than platonic friendship. So why was she still standing there, in that cool, dimly lit hallway outside his door? Oh yes, she reminded herself bitterly, because you won't be able to face him, knowing you read something so personal of his. She knew she needed to confess to Viktor that she'd kept the bit of parchment that had gotten mixed in with her Ancient Runes homework that long-ago day in the library. She'd known even then that it was likely his, but she didn't return it, intrigued as she was by the beautiful swirling curves of script she'd never seen before. It became a pretty little puzzle, and as self-righteous as she tended to be at that age, she was also curious and could not resist trying to decipher the note. She'd justified keeping it by vowing to return it if anyone ever asked for it, which they never did. Unfortunately, she'd only ever gotten as far as figuring out that it appeared to be written in some kind of variation of Theban script, oddly enough. She'd managed to find her name in the curling lines, but anything else she'd translated from it was unreadable. And of course, over time life happened around her, and eventually the scrap of parchment got tucked away in her school notes and left behind while she, Ron, and Harry went off to hunt for Horcruxes. After the war ended, Hermione had opted to continue her education, first completing her N.E.W.T.s, then moving on to University where her focus was Muggle Anthropology, Slavic Languages, and Advanced Charms and Runes. She grew up a great deal in those years - gained a stronger sense of self, and learned that, while the friendships she shared with Harry and Ron were irreplaceable, there was a whole other world outside of that little microcosm. The trio remained close, even despite the brief and failed romance between her and Ron. Ultimately though, Hermione was grateful for the years away from them, for new friendships made and old ones rediscovered. It was during her time at University that she resumed her long-distance friendship with Viktor Krum. She tried to convince herself that her enthusiasm for the weekly exchange of letters they shared was because it simply helped with her Bulgarian studies, and later Russian. Conversely, Viktor's English improved by leaps and bounds. He always had been more eloquent with the written word than spoken, even when she was still a student at Hogwarts. Where he would struggle to express himself verbally, his letters flowed like honey and wine, beautiful and true. The handful of times she was able to visit with him in person after the war were made all the more special knowing the spirit and mind that was locked behind his quiet, brooding demeanor. It really came as no surprise when she finally did discover what that scrap of parchment said. It wasn't until that very morning, unpacking her library in her new teacher's quarters, that the slip of paper had fallen out from between the pages of a worn textbook. She remembered it immediately, but instead of tossing it away or returning it to its supposed owner, Hermione sat down with a piece of toast and a cup of tea and scribbled out the translation again. Only, this time the garbled mass of letters made sense. Cyrillic. Theban to Cyrillic, Bulgarian finally to English, and what suddenly lay before her was a poem. A love poem, to be exact, and while it wasn't Shakespeare, it was heartfelt, candid, incredibly passionate, and made Hermione's cheeks and ears flush pink, both with pleasure and shame. If only I'd known…she'd thought. But then what? Her fifteen-year-old self wouldn't have known what to do with that. She'd barely known what to do with Viktor's invitation to the Yule Ball, and as lovely as the snogging had been at the time, she still cringed now looking back on how inexperienced she had been. She had no business reading this poem, and until she told Viktor the truth, she'd continue to feel like a bad friend. Besides, this way he could laugh in her face about it and end this silly infatuation she was harbouring once and for all. Hermione stared at the heavy door and chewed her lip. Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed the midnight hour. He was probably already in bed. Finally, deciding she could put it off until the morning, she turned on her heel to go. Suddenly the door swung open. "Hermione?" Viktor's rich baritone rumbled. She could never help the little smile that tugged at her mouth whenever he said her name now – he'd practiced it so many times until he'd finally gotten it right. "Vot are you doing?" he asked with a concerned scowl. "I – I…" she stammered, feeling the warmth creeping up her neck. He was dressed only in a pair of forest green silk trousers, and his hair was still damp from a shower. She tried desperately not to stare at his muscled torso, the perfectly sparse layer of dark hair on his broad chest that thinned to bareness, and then the snail trail over his lower stomach leading down to – "Is somesing wrong?" he pressed. "You have been lingering out here for some time…" Her eyes shot up to his and she cursed inwardly, catching his amused smirk. She should have known he'd have some means of being alerted to someone outside his door. Hermione gave an impatient huff, the familiarity of their friendship causing her to relax slightly. "Nothing's wrong, Viktor, I just…" Her fingers twitched nervously around the folded piece of parchment in her hand. "Vould you like to come in?" The question was a mere courtesy, as he'd already pulled the door open further and backed into the room with a subtle gesture. She swallowed hard, watching Viktor's backside as he retreated into the warm interior of his suite. She shook her head at herself and followed. ~ Viktor took a silent but deep calming breath as he strode toward the small wetbar situated in a corner of his room. He was certain that whatever brought the lovely brunette witch to his quarters at this hour was likely something that would require alcohol, rather than the stuff of which his fantasies were made. More and more he was beginning to curse his decision to relocate. What once seemed to be a brilliant, hope-filled idea now seemed brutally naïve and foolish. While he hadn't necessarily put his life on hold for the girl who stole his heart so many years ago, a small part of him had always hung on to that little spark. A year after the Triwizard Tournament, when Hermione's letters grew fewer and fewer, he'd graciously let her go, vowing to be her friend and to always be there for her. It had cut him to the quick however, when he later saw her at Fleur Delacour's wedding, and that redheaded boy had gotten his hooks into her. Weasley wasn't good enough for her. Not even Potter was really worthy of the little genius. He'd watched how they treated Hermione in their youth. They appreciated her intelligence, but only when it benefited them, whereas Viktor could sit for hours just listening to her expound on whatever new thing she was learning at the time. Of course, it didn't hurt that he found her physically attractive too, but she truly was a fascinating individual. Those long quiet hours shared in the library, and then later in some of the more secluded spots of the castle grounds, became treasured memories to him. Despite their language barrier and his Quidditch fame, Hermione neither chased after him like the rest of the silly girls he encountered, nor did she just assume he was a blithering idiot. And he wasn't – he just was never known for anything other than being a champion Seeker. "He's not 'thick'," he'd overheard her say to one of her friends once. "The Triwizard cup wouldn't spit out his name if he wasn't a top-rate wizard…" But they were so young then, especially her. Teenage romances are usually fleeting – add to that the multiple countries between them and his team schedule, and he didn't stand a chance. He knew when her letters dropped off that she'd probably found a new boyfriend, but seeing her in another's arms… It had surprised him how much that smarted, and he'd gone out of his way after that to wipe the intelligent witch from his senses once and for all, or at least try to. At first, his efforts to exorcise his feelings took place on the battleground. During the war, which had spread far beyond Britain's borders, he'd been reckless, almost suicidal in the missions he'd taken and fights he'd won. He knew now that he'd been exceedingly lucky. There were countless fights and battles he should not have been able to walk away from, for the complete lack of regard for his own safety. After the war, having read of the Great Potter's victory and the rather public romance that had blossomed between his two best friends, Viktor sank to a new level, trying to forget the genius witch. He gained quite a reputation as a womanizer, going through witches faster than the press could even track. Much of it was for appearances, to boost his ego, or sheer boredom, he supposed, as he rarely cared enough to take any of them to bed. Once the initial maelstrom of post-war publicity and excitement had ended, she started writing to him again. Clearly as 'just friends' of course, but Viktor soon realized that the 'little spark' he knew he'd always hold for Hermione Granger was growing stronger, smoldering beneath the surface until he could hardly think straight. She learned Bulgarian, for Merlin's sake! Who does that, just on a whim? Surely it had something to do with him? They wrote back and forth weekly, for years. And she'd sounded so excited when he'd written to her about relocating – more than a casual pen pal should be. But in person, it was another story entirely. He should have known, based on the few times they'd visited each other during her stay at University. It seemed like there was something more than friendship – the prolonged looks, the smiles reserved just for him, the lingering touches – and yet she'd always pull back at some point with an offhand remark about their friendship. It was her staunch belief in their 'friendship' that held him in check, no matter how much he might have wanted more. It was his addiction to her, however, that allowed him to be strung along like some damned puppy chasing a bone on a string. He was certain it wasn't intentional, but that didn't make him feel any less a fool. Since she'd joined the staff at Hogwarts, it was more of the same. Viktor was ready to lose his mind, and after the looks she was giving him during tonight's staff meeting, he was sorely tempted to say 'fuck it' to their friendship and simply ravish that pouty little mouth of hers and more. It would certainly clear things up either way – either their friendship would end or… "Viktor?" her voice came softly from behind him. He mentally cursed. He didn't realize he'd been slamming glasses around. "Vould you like a drink?" he asked brusquely over his shoulder, ignoring the concerned look from her warm brown eyes. "Cognac," she replied shortly, surprising him. Usually she took tea. ~ Hermione flinched again at the sharp thud of the crystal tumbler being set on the small table before the amber liquid was poured into it. "Viktor, I – I know it's late and I'm terribly sorry to bother you. I'll just go," she said in a rush. He swung around at these words and closed the distance between them in three long strides, holding out the glass. "Hermione," he replied in a gentle but insistent tone, "you are not bothering. But obviously somesing has you vorried. Now drink, zen tell." His eyes crinkled around the edges warmly in that way that seemed to be reserved just for her, and she felt her stomach flutter. She downed the burning liquid in three ungraceful gulps and set the glass down on the desk at her side, her eyes watering. Viktor raised his eyebrows in amusement at her, but said nothing. "Viktor," she began, not meeting his gaze. "I… well, I have something of yours, have had it for some time - something that I've realized is quite private and was clearly not meant for my eyes. I – I should have returned it the moment I found it, but I was only fifteen…" she shook her head in embarrassment as she continued to ramble. "Not that that's an excuse, but I just wanted to figure out what it said, and - " "Hermione," he interrupted laughingly. "Vot are you talking about?" She looked up into his warm hazel eyes and felt a lurch of shame and dread. She dropped her eyes to the floor and hung her head, unable to look as she held out the seven-year-old piece of parchment. He took it from her and the room was filled with a long silence. "I see," he finally murmured. "You haff… translated?" Hermione nodded her head. "I'm sorry," she added in a whisper. "Vy?" he demanded. "I – I told you, I was only fifteen, and I was - " "Not vy did you keep," he cut her off. "Vy are you sorry?" She licked her lips nervously. Here it comes, she thought unhappily, bracing herself for humiliation and letdown. "Because it was clearly not mean for me to see," she answered steadily. "Even though we were just children, those were your private thoughts." Silence. Then, "Vot if," he said slowly, his tone cool. "I vas to say I did not write? Vos not mine - ?" Ouch. Hermione couldn't completely hide her reaction. She blinked several times and took a deep breath before looking at Viktor, who was watching her carefully. His expression was unreadable, a trait she always found infuriating in him. "Oh," she said with a forced casualness, "well I suppose I'd just chuck it, then." She gave a tight little laugh, but her mouth just would not curl up into a smile. Before she could take a single step toward the door, he moved closer, almost touching her, nearly toe to toe. "And if I say I did write - ?" he asked quietly, cautiously. She hazarded a glance at his face, not quite believing the note of hope she thought she heard in his question. His expression reminded her of the day he'd asked her to the Yule Ball. Almost indecipherable, except for his warm, dark eyes. Hermione swallowed nervously. "Well, I'd never presume… I mean, that was a long time ago," she answered carefully. His hand came up to tenderly brush a stray curl out of her face and stayed to cup her chin. He hummed in agreement. "Vos long time ago yes," he said softly, then added, "Many… revisions since then. Vould you like to hear?" There was no mistaking him now, his voice so low and warm and almost hypnotic. Her gaze was fixed on his mouth – those lips that gave her first real kiss, surprisingly full and soft from what she could remember… that mouth that so frequently quirked its special smile just for her, those lips she so often found her eyes slipping to when she was sure he wasn't looking. ~ There it was. He had seen that look many times before, but it was always so fleeting. Now, however, she stayed, transfixed. Viktor smiled inwardly at the way her lips parted and her eyelashes fluttered as he softly traced her jaw line with his thumb. Finally the gods had smiled on him and presented him with this golden chance. He had immediately recognized the slip of paper when she handed it to him. He couldn't remember the words verbatim, but he didn't need to. He'd filled half a journal that year with metaphors and scribbled verses about the young witch, his "Hermione Rose," as his grandmother had called her, teasing him affectionately when she caught wind of his infatuation. That was the inspiration for the completed poem that had made its way between her textbooks that day. She wasn't a rose to him then, not just yet – but a young, innocent flower bud, completely overlooked by all but him, lost in a forest of library books and parchment. Now, however… ~ Hermione felt a warm tingle drift down her spine as Viktor started murmuring to her in his native tongue. He had no idea the effect that always had on her – it was beautiful and rich to hear, but more importantly his whole demeanor changed when he didn't have to concentrate on proper English and being understood. She closed her eyes and tried to follow the deep cadences of Bulgarian as they whispered in a soft breath against her cheek… ~ How I have waited Patient as a glacier For your sweet tender petals to unfold Counting every spring For the unsuspecting innocent Bud to blossom fully just for me I have watched from afar While others stepped around you Blind to the treasure at their feet And now I have you here My sweet Hermione Rose Finally I may dive into you freely It was a lie, of course – he hadn't revised that little poem from so many years ago, but the intent was no less true, so the words came easily, simple little metaphors to match the ones from before. He had waited long enough. He was the one who saw her for the beauty she was, who had more admiration and appreciation for her than that silly red-haired oaf or any of the short-lived romances she'd had at University. It was his turn, now. ~ Hermione's pulse thundered in her ears as Viktor's lips ghosted over hers with his sweet words. He waited? she thought incredulously, but that thought was swept away with the slide of his fingers down and around the back of her neck, his large strong hand cradling her head as his fingers tangled themselves in her unruly hair. When his mouth finally pressed more firmly against hers, sampling first her upper lip, then her lower in soft deliberate caresses, a warm liquid pleasure flooded her, trickling down her body, pooling in her stomach. She parted her lips to his, inviting him in and oh, sweet Merlin she didn't think she'd ever been kissed so perfectly in her life as his tongue slowly slid along hers. She wasn't sure quite what to do with her hands – she wanted to touch him, to draw him closer, but he was standing there in naught but those thin silk lounging trousers, his chest completely bare… Solving that little puzzle for her, Viktor's other hand snaked around her waist and pulled her to him. She could feel his heat radiating through the plain scratchy material of her robes and she suddenly wanted desperately to be rid of them as her fingers danced experimentally up his muscled torso. A deep, low growl of pleasure emanated from his throat and he broke away from their kiss, only to cover her cheeks, eyes, and forehead with the tender caress of his lips. "Ah, mila," Viktor breathed, "haff vanted you so…" "Yes," Hermione whispered, dipping her head down to his neck to indulge in one of hundreds of fantasies she'd had about Viktor's anatomy. She smiled against the hollow beneath his jaw as a hard sigh escaped him. He smelled of spice and soap and the salt of his flesh was tangy against her lips and real – so real. Her hands slid back up his chest to encircle his neck. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach his ear, his coarse dark hair still damp and tickling her nose slightly as she ran her tongue over the edge of his lobe. She felt his fingers tighten around her waist with a squeeze before he gently pushed her away, taking a deliberate step back from her. "My tsvete," he murmured, panting slightly as his dark eyes roamed over her face, studying her intently. "I can't…" he broke off and shook his head with a frown. "I do not vant to rush you, and if you stay…" Hermione felt a sudden angry surge of impatience. "How long, then, Viktor?" she snapped. "How much longer do you intend on waiting, on making me wait?" When he merely stammered with wide eyes, she sighed and shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. "Do you have any idea how long I've stressed out over this, how long I've carried these – these feelings around?" she asked wearily before continuing to rant. "Years, Viktor. And to hear you've just been 'waiting'? What the bloody hell for? I practically threw myself at you, time and again - " "Threw yourself?!" Viktor repeated with a harsh laugh, interrupting her. "Every time I see you, vas 'our friendship' zis and 've are such good friends' zat! I move everysing here, for you, Hermione, and vot! More 'friendship', zat is vot! So yes, I vaited! Even ven those stupid men had their grips on you, I vaited like a – a sick fool of loff!" he stormed, his English steadily breaking down as his ire grew. "What else did you expect me to say, Viktor?" Hermione retorted, her voice rising in pitch. "You gave me nothing to go on, other than the fact that every press article about you featured a different witch on your arm! You say you waited, but you certainly kept yourself busy in the meantime! And now what - you want me to go away just so you can wait some more? Fine, then!" With that she straightened her robes and made her way to the door before the stinging behind her eyes could manifest into actual tears. Her fingers never reached the doorknob before a pair of strong hands swung her around with so much force, she was nearly knocked breathless as her back came in contact with the door. With a fierce growl his lips claimed hers, smothering any more words of anger either could exchange. With his knee secured between her legs, one hand on her hip and the other wrapped tightly in her hair, she was pinned against the ancient oak, unable to move or struggle even if she wanted to. Which, she didn't. Hermione was slightly lightheaded by the time Viktor released her from his forceful kiss, and all she could manage was a soft whimper as he tugged her hair, pulling her head back to bare her neck to him. While he proceeded to nuzzle and bite his way over her jaw and down her neck to the exposed patch of shoulder her mussed robes afforded, his other hand traveled from her hip up her side, the backs of his fingers lightly brushing her breast and causing her to gasp sharply. They didn't linger, however, as they were intent on a path to the prim collar covering far too much flesh for either of them. He made quick work of the fastener to her cloak, letting it fall to the floor around her. He paused however, at the topmost of a series of dainty little clasps in the center of her chest, as if it was a lock that, once sprung, would open a door they could never shut again. "Mila," Viktor whispered raggedly against her ear. "Tell me to stop and I vill…" It was clearly the last chance he would give her to turn back. With an exasperated huff, Hermione reached up and gave a yank on the tiny clasp, glaring at him pointedly. A look of sheer primal hunger flashed in his hazel eyes, and his lips curved into a sinful smile, one that sent a wave of heat all the way down to her core, causing her to blush rather ridiculously. Slowly, almost too slowly, he parted the material, his mouth following his fingers as one by one, he unhooked the old-fashioned clasps. When he reached the last one, his hands slipped easily around her waist to her back, giving the bow there a firm tug, causing the material of her dress to drape loosely and precariously over her body. He straightened and looked down at her, his eyes filled with a smoldering heat. "Now," he said softly, but his voice held a commanding tone. With a feather-light stroke of his fingers, the fabric slipped from her shoulders, over her arms, then slid down into a prim black pool at her feet. Hermione could almost feel the heat of his gaze as it raked over her nearly naked body. She felt a warm pleasure as she noticed how his breathing grew uneven, heard him swear softly under his breath in Bulgarian. She wished he would touch her… As if hearing her thoughts, his eyes darted back to hers. Faster than she could register, he was there, fingers sliding hungrily over her bare stomach, teasing over the lace of her bra only briefly until a frustrated moan escaped her. Then his thumbs, soft and experimental, grazed her nipples tenderly, scraping the lace against those sensitive peaks. Finally lips and tongue followed as his head dipped down, pulling one aching bud between his teeth, laving it wetly - first one, then the other. Hermione's head feel back against the door with a soft thud as she brought her hands up to cradle his head to her, her fingernails scratching softly against his scalp and threading through the coarse dark waves of his hair. She gave a small murmur of protest when he left those rosy buds to trail a path back up over her collar, then her neck, finally to her lips, still slightly swollen from their brutal attack just moments earlier. ~ He loved this witch – had for years. One of his favourite things about her was her unexpected temper, and seeing it blaze up before him right here in his bedroom was far too much temptation to resist. She was right, of course. There would be no more waiting. But her insistence at dominating everything – well, that would make it all the more enjoyable. Viktor bit back a groan as her soft fingers slid from the nape of his neck over his shoulders and back down his chest, this time rather intentionally grazing his nipples. No… With a soft snarl, he grabbed her wrists and brought them behind her back, holding them securely in one of his strong hands. He couldn't help but smirk at the heated gasp that came from her pretty little mouth as her eyes flew open, darker than Turkish coffee now. "Viktor - " "Shhhh…" he hushed her, pressing his finger to those moist, sweet lips. Gods, how he loved kissing her, always had, even when she was just a young little inexperienced thing and he a bumbling, hormonal teenaged boy. So much had changed in both of them since then, but she had clearly only gotten better, grown more beautiful, sexy, and utterly delicious over time. ~ Hermione shuddered, her eyes falling half-shut again as Viktor teased that one single digit down, from her lips over her neck, down the center of her chest and stomach and lower, until he reached the lacy edge of her knickers. She grimaced, her breath becoming uneven as he traced that tiny band across her pelvis, around her hip, down to where it covered her bottom just barely, until it disappeared into the juncture of her thighs. She couldn't help but struggle against him as he caressed her bare flesh ever so lightly before sweeping back around to her front. She sighed as he hooked his finger under the edge of material and followed it down, further down… "Are you damp, tsvete? Ven I touch you – vill my finger be covered in your sweetness?" he whispered hotly against her ear. When she didn't answer right away, he gave a little tug to her wrists he still held behind her back. "Tell me," he demanded, his fingers poised just a breath away from where she wanted so badly to be touched. "Yes," she breathed desperately, "Oh gods, yes…" "Good girl," he murmured smugly. Hermione's biting retort to his tone was lost in a guttural moan as Viktor's finger slipped beneath that small patch of lace and eased between her folds, immediately finding that wet tender bundle of nerves. ~ Viktor moaned himself at the feeling of her slick heat as he slid his fingers along her warmth. His quickly hardening cock jumped as he discovered how ready she was even just now, when he still had so many other things he wanted to do to his mouthy little 'friend'. The way she was moving her hips so wantonly against his hand as he worked over her sex made him want to bury his head in her shoulder and bring her off right there, just so he could hear her cry out his name. In fact, the only thing he wanted more at that moment was the one thing that slowed his movements and forced him to pull his hand away, his fingers now covered in her juices. He sucked first one, then the other between his lips, groaning at the sweet tangy taste of her. A quick glance at her flushed face and heaving chest brought a wicked grin to his lips. Still holding her wrists tightly behind her, he moved her over to the writing desk next between the door and the bookcase. With a careless sweep of the items laid out there, he cleared the surface and nudged her against the edge. "Sit," he commanded softly. This time, she complied without hesitation. Viktor squinted and looked around him briefly. With a calculating smirk, his eyes landed on the two heavy iron wall sconces anchored firmly in the thick stone, set the perfect distance apart. Looking down at his curly-haired witch, he smiled tenderly and released her wrists just long enough for her to flex her arms with a small frown. Then, a little gentler this time, he grasped them again, guiding them up to the ornate candleholders on the wall behind her and wrapping her fingers around the cool wrought iron. "You vill hold on to these," he explained quietly, "and do not let them go until I tell you. Understand?" "And if I don't?" Hermione asked in a cool tone, although her face betrayed every bit of excitement and need she felt. Viktor's eyes narrowed in consideration as his hands trailed softly down her arms, then smoothed down her bare sides to rest at her waist, his thumbs gently stroking the flesh just below her breasts. "Then I vill haff to punish you. Or," he added with a sarcastic smile, "perhaps I vill just make you vait." As if daring him, Hermione made to remove her hands from the wall sconces, only to find she couldn't. A little squeak escaped her as she looked at Viktor with wide eyes. "Did not vant to haff to make you vait," he said with a shrug and a lazy half-grin, sliding his hands down her hips, then stroking the outsides of her legs before teasing back up her thighs to the negligible scrap of lace that served as her knickers. ~ Hermione felt her whole world tilt as she found herself completely at Viktor's mercy. Her heart was racing and her breath was coming in uneven little pants as he looped his fingers into her waistband and tugged at the material. As he cupped her bottom and lifted her up slightly to ease her knickers down, she felt his erection brush against her inner thigh and gasped. When his lips followed the path made by his hands, slowly sliding the lace garment down her legs, she exhaled and let her head fall back. This was… well, far more intense than she ever imagined it would be, and she was quite certain the minute he touched her there, she would simply fall apart, shatter into a million little burning pieces... …But he didn't. Instead, Viktor straightened back up, his hands never leaving her body. "Let's take care of this too, hmm?" he murmured sexily as his fingers traced their way to the front clasp of her bra and slowly worked the little fastener. Hermione sighed as her last vestige of clothing was pushed gently away, replaced by Viktor's big strong hands. She dug her teeth into her bottom lip when his thumbs rolled softly over her exposed nipples, only to release it with a hard gasp as he slowly pinched those sensitive buds before finally dipping his head down to one, then the other. Not thinking, Hermione jerked impotently at the iron candleholders to which her hands were firmly fastened. "Viktor…" she whined softly, wrapping her legs around him to pull him closer. As soon as silk and hardness brushed against her aching sex, his movements froze for a brief moment. Then, with a soft ragged moan he pulled her even closer, sucking and biting his way back up her neck before finally claiming her mouth with a passion that bordered on violence. Hermione had never felt more consumed, more possessed by a lover in her whole life. She never realized it before now, but this was what she'd always dreamed of, what was always missing. She felt as though she could stay there indefinitely, perfectly content to hang from Viktor Krum's wall like a perverse ornament for the rest of her existence. As he massaged her breasts and devoured her mouth, she couldn't help but move in the only way she was able, grinding herself against the hardness that was pressed so intimately to her core now, that with each stroke she could feel her insides tightening in that familiar growing wave of pleasure. Viktor responded in turn, moving against her in a mimicry of what he intended on doing to her very soon. Not just yet, however… ~ The small damp patch on the thin material of his trousers was steadily growing – he could feel it, wet and warm against his hardness as he ground himself so tightly against his witch, her arousal soaking through the dark silk. It was almost a laughable thing – something they might have done when they were still teenagers, given the chance. But it was still so incredibly erotic that he could sense himself quickly losing control of the situation. Abruptly, Viktor pulled away, holding Hermione's face with both of his hands so that he could steal one hard kiss and one glimpse at the heated, feral need in her usually soft brown eyes. Then, just as quickly, he pulled her forward by the hips so she was balanced on the edge of the desk. He held her there for a moment, considering, then Accio'ed a large pillow from the bed, tucking it between her back and the wall before dropping to his knees in front of her. A cracked cry came from her lips as his tongue suddenly plundered her most intimate places, sweeping along her folds once, twice, then zeroing in on that sensitive bundle of nerves. She jerked against her magical bindings once more, squirming desperately beneath Viktor's assault until he wrapped his arms over her thighs, locking her into place. "Oh… gods… Viktor…" she whimpered and panted as she felt her senses spiral upwards to the divine pinnacle of pleasure. "I – I'm…" Viktor smiled knowingly against her wet flesh and sucked her tiny nub between his lips, holding it gently in place with his teeth while sweeping his tongue over it. Hermione was making less and less sense, obscenities and holy names alike spilling from her lips. When her thighs suddenly tightened around his head and her feet dug into his back, he reached around and pressed two fingers into her, curling them slightly and massaging her special spot until the sudden clamping of muscles around those digits coincided with a truly lovely shriek from the wild-haired witch on his writing desk. With a silent command, Hermione's hands were released from their sticking charm. "Hermione," he murmured, "let go, mila." Her arms fell limply at her sides as Viktor gently eased her onto the floor and into his lap, her legs curling on either side of his hips. He wrapped his arms around her and held her there as tremors continued to wrack her body. Finally, when her breathing slowed, she actually purred against his neck. The sound sent a shiver down his spine and made his already-hard cock tighten even more with a twitch. ~ Hermione raised her head to look at Viktor, a satisfied curve to her lips as she shifted against him. Her smile widened when she felt his hardness twitch against her again. She ran her fingers up over his bare chest, hooking them around his neck before lowering her head to kiss him. Her lips moved slowly and sensually over his, tongue teasing and tasting at the very edge of his bottom lip, then his top, then meeting his hungrily as their kiss progressed from tender and loving to hard and needy once more. She moaned as he grabbed her hips, moving them against his, causing her to rub against him as before, communicating the words of need that were currently muffled by their warring lips and sparring tongues. Hermione broke away, flushed and panting and just as aroused and worked up as if she hadn't just been brought to the most mind-blowing climax she'd ever experienced. She needed more, and as lovely as the forest green trousers looked on him, she'd had quite enough of any more barriers between them. As if reading her mind, Viktor gently shifted her body, sliding her out of his lap and pulling himself up off the floor. He held out his hand to help her up, intent on bringing her to the rather luxurious-looking king-sized bed that awaited them. Instead of taking it, however, Hermione looked up into his loving gaze and gave a wicked smirk. She took a deep breath and exhaled as she got to her knees and cocked her head, her smirk widening into a calculating grin. ~ Viktor watched, his eyelids fluttering at the feeling of her small delicate hands running up the backs of his calves, then his thighs, and higher until they reached his waistband. His pulse quickened as graceful fingers hooked into the edge of his trousers and slowly pulled down. Her heated gaze never left his, not until that briefly clumsy snag of silk against his cock, now impossibly hard and jutting out at face-level. He grit his teeth as her moist little tongue darted out to wet her lips. How many times had he fantasized about this very scenario? ~ Pleasuring someone had never been a more erotic, more arousing experience. The hiss of Viktor's sharp inhale as she swiped her tongue across the tip of his engorged cock, the groan that rumbled out of his throat as she closed her lips around his thickness, the tang of his pre-cum – all these went straight to her own sex, and she found herself moaning hungrily as she sucked and stroked along his length. When his fingers gently tangled themselves in her hair, not forcing or even moving her head, but simply touching her in adoration, she felt a sharp jolt of pleasure between her legs. With another moan, she squeezed her thighs together, her hand lightly stroking her own leg as she continued her ministrations. "Yes," Viktor murmured heatedly. "That's it - touch yourself, my sweet girl," he continued in Bulgarian. Shyness battled with need for barely a moment before she slipped her fingers between her folds, fluttering quickly over her pleasure points. Her movements on his cock sped up as she felt herself hurtling towards another orgasm while Viktor continued to whisper encouragements at her, his voice strained and ragged. She cried out her completion just as he slipped himself from between her lips, and barely noticed when he pulled her up from the floor in a fevered frenzy, his mouth on hers, attacking her greedily as he pinned her to the door where they began. She felt his large hands grip her thighs, guiding them around his hips as he grabbed her bottom, his fingers opening her to him. Then he was there – his big tip poised at her entrance for hardly a second before he thrust into her with a grunt. Hermione's sharp cry was thick with pleasure, her nails digging into the back of Viktor's neck. Viktor paused, panting, his mouth at her ear. "Hermione… mila…" he rasped, his voice tight with a last thin thread of self-restraint. "Don't stop!" Hermione gasped, tightening her legs around him. "So help me god, Viktor - " With a snarl he pounded into her, and her threats were lost in a sea of whimpers and moans. She was held helpless against the scratchy surface of the heavy old door, impaled repeatedly on Viktor's rather healthy-sized cock. Every time he drove into her, his pubic bone ground against her clit and, still not completely recovered from her last climax, Hermione quickly found herself breathless with another knot of pleasure tightening and building inside of her. ~ Viktor watched with satisfaction as Hermione's eyes fell shut, her head thumping against the door at her back, her face a mask of pleasure as her muscles began to spasm around him. Sweet Merlin, but she felt so good. And yet, despite the sweat that was now trickling down his back and the quickly growing sense of losing control, of finding his own release, he smugly held back, secretly ever so grateful for the fantasies he'd been having about this very thing while he'd pleasured himself in the shower just moments before his beloved witch had arrived. As she shuddered and cried out his name with her completion, he slowed his movements, relishing in the delicious sensation of her cunt's vise-like tightness as it squeezed around his cock. He wrapped his arms securely around her, one hand holding up her arse, the other cradling her back. "Hold on to me, my love," he whispered in his native tongue, and smiled into the unruly mane of dark curls as she buried her face in his shoulder once more, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs around his waist, hooked at the ankles. He took a deep breath and with a bit of amusement, hobbled them both to the bed finally, his cock still firmly planted inside of her as he eased them onto the mattress. Now he would take his pleasure from her… Hermione's eyes widened from their exhausted state as Viktor began moving inside of her again, this time slow and gentle. She looked up into his face and found such a tender, loving look in his eyes that she nearly cried. Balancing his weight on his elbows as he stroked along her slick, tight passage, Viktor brushed the wild curls from his flower's face and smiled at her awed expression. He bent down and kissed her – on her eyes, her cheeks, her beautiful plump lips, and felt a hungry growl unfurl in him when she began to move against him, her previously limp and exhausted legs wrapping securely around him so that he could go even deeper. When her soft, gentle fingers danced up his arms, over his shoulders, and down to his chest, scratching lightly before pinching at his nipples, he started to feel the last of his self-control slip. When she started murmuring her soft, breathy encouragements to him in Bulgarian, begging him to fill her, telling him how good it felt to be fucked hard by him, any intended tenderness was lost. Viktor's eyes flew back to her face and found a vulnerable, loving expression that belied her words and movements. Her lips were parted, cheeks flushed again, and she nodded wordlessly, squeezing around him to get her point across. "Take me," she whispered. Like a crumbling dam suffering its final failure, he broke, plunging into her almost violently, his breath coming out in broken gasps and grunts. And still he was met stroke for stroke by this incredible little witch. He could feel her tensing up, the little mewls and whimpers coming from her implying that she was on her way to yet another climax. With a breathless laugh of incredulity, Viktor slipped his hand between them, his fingers finding her swollen little button and flicking over it in rhythm with the rest of their movements. This time, when Hermione jerked beneath him, trembling and crying out his name, he was there with her, letting the contractions of her cunt milk his own completion from him. Only at the very last second did he manage to remember the contraceptive charm he'd been taught as a schoolboy. As the last band of pleasure ripped its way from his body, Viktor gently collapsed over Hermione, careful to still support himself and not crush her. Once they'd caught their breath, he rolled over and slipped messily out of her, smiling amusedly at the tiny sound of protest that came from the prim little bookworm. He reached over her head and grabbed his wand, cleaning them both up, then gathered his treasure in his arms, pulling the covers over them both. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but worried that it was too soon. He worried briefly about whether or not she was alright, but then she sighed and snuggled into him, draping a leg over him and curling her hand over his chest. After several long moments filled with naught but their steady breaths and the quiet crackling of the fireplace, Hermione raised her head slightly and planted a soft kiss on his chest. "Viktor?" she whispered, in case he'd fallen asleep. "Yes, my tsvete?" he replied immediately. She sighed. "I take it back." He looked down at her to find her lips in a wry quirk. "Take vot back?" Her mouth spread into a mischievous grin and she shook her head. "I'm not sorry I kept that poem." A chuckle rumbled through him. "Vell," he said slowly, "I haff confession." At this, she leaned up with a look of curiosity. "Oh?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Viktor took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. "I planted the poem," he said on a heavy exhale. She frowned. "What do you mean, you planted it?" He shrugged. "Vell… it vos written for you, mila. I put it between your books that day. Only – after, I… chicken-out," he said with a smirk at the slang term he'd learned from her years ago. "Vos simple spell to change letters on parchment." Hermione gave him a confused look. "So you just… charmed them to change into Cyrillic and Theban?" It wasn't the spellwork that mystified her as much as the script choice. "Sister used to write diary in Theban," he said with a sheepish grin, but then he grew serious. "Vos so cowardly, Hermione. I am sorry," he said softly. Hermione hummed. "Well, it's a good thing I'm so bloody smart, then. Otherwise, we might never have found each other." "Not true," he retorted and pulled her close, tucking the covers around them tightly. "Vos thinking of asking you to Yule Ball."

It's Not Unusual IV: The Return of the Anti-Mulder. by Ethan Nelson The puzzle spread out on Walter Skinner's desk was almost complete. He had taken great care with it, choosing each piece with a specific purpose in mind. A fat file folder sat just to his left, waiting to be hastily opened atop the puzzle in the event that anyone should happen in. God forbid he should be asked to surrender that folder. He wasn't sure what his reaction might be, but he knew it couldn't be good. The completed portion of the puzzle was yet another grainy rendering of his and Fox Mulder's frenzied coupling in the handicapped access stall of a Washington Denny's men's room. Blown up to roughly the size of the AD's desk calendar, the quality of a shot that had not been spectacular to begin with had deteriorated to the point that the incident seemed even more sleazy than it actually had been. All that remained of the puzzle now was the portion that depicted Mulder, who had assured Walter it was a "pretty good come shot" as if this was the sort of information that would make a difference to the AD. But he had saved it for last, with not insignificant anticipation. In the back of his mind was the idea of saving the piece that was Mulder's face, maybe slipping it into his wallet. All it required to squelch that notion was the threat of pickpockets. There were any number of more important things he could have been doing just then. He had calls to return, reports to read. Pencils to push. He had enough nightmarish crap stacked on his desk that he could expect to work well into the night, even if he had not been fucking the dog, which he was. Yet he continued, adding piece after piece, thoughtful and meticulous. He wished his preoccupation could be inexplicable, but it wasn't. If he allowed his mind to wander even slightly, it invariably came back to the vision that had been haunting him for days. Each time he closed his eyes, each time he had a spare moment, each time he took a breath, even, he saw Mulder and Jackson White, looking for all the world as if they were locked in a clinch. From a strictly intellectual standpoint, Walter knew that this was not the case. That the reality was that while Agent White had been looking for a quick fuck in Mulder's office, Mulder himself had been looking for something to gut him with. Walter was not a man plagued by insecurity. He knew he had his charms, and he knew Mulder would not betray him. He knew too that Mulder was not at all dissatisfied with their relationship. But the image of the two men was persistent, and each time it returned it came with the thought of just how attractive White was. How much hair he had. And that while they were as opposed as any two people could be, he and Mulder had a lot in common. Unbidden, Mulder's words echoed in his mind. "Walter, if you were any dumber, you'd be Gomer Pyle." Like a fool, he'd shipped Mulder and White off to Quantico to head up a profiler's symposium. A symposium at which Agent White would likely break out all the witty anecdotes and cheap cologne at his disposal to spirit Mulder away. He'd had to do it. To refuse to send the pair would be to invite the wrong questions. More importantly, it was sure to settle the matter once and for all. Either the two men would return (sporting blackened eyes) or Walter would receive a Dear John letter hastily scribbled on the back of a postcard purchased at Las Vegas' Chapel O' Love. It wasn't the preferred outcome, certainly, but any had to be better than none. Nobody ever throws themselves at me, he griped, in much the same tone as the famous "Jim never has a second cup of my coffee..." People flung themselves at Mulder as if they were moths and he was a giant, mobile Bug Lite, and with much the same result. He had been oblivious to them long before Walter came on the scene. He flung himself at me... He was just slipping the last piece into place when his phone rang. "Skinner." "Sir, it's Agent Scully. I need to see you as soon as possible." He frowned. "You'll have to make an appointment with Kim, Agent Scully--" "You don't understand, sir." "Enlighten me." "I need you to meet with me downstairs." "Scully, what's going on?" "Please." Walter looked down at his puzzle. As much as he hated to admit it, Mulder's theory that his gifts and those the agent received were somehow connected appeared to be a sound one. "Have you received any unusual deliveries lately?" "With all due respect, sir, I'd prefer not to discuss this over the phone." Oh, God. She had. "Will you be in the building for a while, Scully?" "Yes, sir." He flipped through his Day Timer. "I have a meeting in half an hour." She paused. "Sir, I don't think the matter will take much more than five or ten minutes of your time." And you're wasting it arguing with me, her tone implied. "I'm on my way." *** *** *** Scully's manner was all tension when Walter found her. Though she was not pacing the office, something in her suggested she would have liked to do so. Neither of them had yet recovered from her finding him in Mulder's apartment, clad in nothing but his glasses and a barely-there towel. He knew Scully wasn't casting him speculative looks when his back was turned, but it was still an awkward situation, in which only Mulder saw the humor. "Agent Scully, I'm very busy today. I hope this is--" his voice died in his throat when he saw the television and VCR set up at the far side of the office. The AD experienced a thousand kinds of hell as he imagined what Scully was about to show him. What she must have already seen, to have sounded so grim over the phone. Son of a bitch. It wasn't enough that Walter lived in terror of coming to work for fear his new desk pad would feature a full-color blow-up of the incident at Denny's. It wasn't enough that Mulder had taken his paranoia to new heights and was now placing a strip of scotch tape across his door jambs to detect a break-in. Now the sick bastard, whoever he was, was gunning for Scully. "This arrived for Mulder this morning, sir," she said. "He asked me to have a look--" "He did what?" She pressed play. Walter stared at the screen, an unwilling audience, but he couldn't look away. An FBI warning came up. He blinked. That hadn't appeared on the video. He watched. Waited. Gaped. "What the hell is that?" Scully raised a brow. "Sweatin' To The Oldies, sir." He swallowed. "Did-- uh... did you watch the whole tape?" "Unfortunately. Have a look," she said, gesturing to the box that sat on Mulder's desk. The AD lifted the flap and peered inside. Cher's Body Fitness, Abs Of Steel, Jane Fonda's Workout, and exercise videos from Cindy Crawford, Dixie Carter, Kathy Ireland, Fabio, and a host of others sat inside the box. That's a hell of a mixed message, he thought. Donuts, Elvis, and fitness videos? "We'd been operating under the assumption that this was an inside job," said Scully. "But whoever sent these must not have known Mulder would be out of town this week." "Or he wanted you to think so," Walter said, examining the Fabio tape. "Agent Scully, what's your assessment of Jackson White?" She faltered, but recovered quickly. "He's-- he's brilliant, edgy, irreverent. He isn't a team player. Not afraid to take risks." She smirked. "Actually, he's a lot like Mulder, ignoring the fact that he's as devoted to his skepticism as Mulder is to his belief." "Bizarro Mulder," he murmured. "I'm sorry?" "Forget it." "There's something else, sir." "What?" he said, all dread. Scully handed him a sheet of paper filled with addresses. "These firms all offer the kind of services that would produce the sorts of gifts you've been receiving, sir. We have no way of knowing if they were made locally, but I think it's an excellent beginning." He met her eyes. "Agent Scully--" "I'd be happy to check some of them myself, sir." "That's not necessary, really." "I'd like to help." She was accepting no arguments on the matter, clearly. Walter looked at the list. He really didn't have the time to check them all himself. To wait for Mulder's return was insanity. The two of them could be on the side of a bus by then. "Thank-you, Scully. I think I speak for Agent Mulder as well as myself when I say this is much appreciated." She smiled faintly. "I'd like to see the matter done as soon as possible," she said. "As with everything else, what affects you affects him--" "Which in turn affects you. I'm sorry." "Well, it's done now. There's no sense in regretting it. I would just--" She flushed. "Agent Scully?" "I would suggest that you and Mulder be more discreet, in future." She looked horrified that she'd said it. "I'll take it under advisement." *** *** *** One of the advantages of Walter's position at the Bureau was that he could afford an apartment that was supplied with endless hot water. Long, indulgent showers were his guilty secret. Fifteen minutes with his shower head set on stun was almost as good as having Mulder there to massage his neck and shoulders. And a good deal quieter. He stood, unmoving, as the water pummeled him, and tried to look on the bright side. It was a tactic at which he failed miserably on his best days. He would be hard pressed to imagine any activity more humiliating than driving from shop to shop, asking innocent proprietors whether they had or had not created a heat-activated mug with a picture of himself fucking his subordinate on it. Of course he never expressly stated that it was he on the mug, but then, should he be the one to hit on the right location, he doubted it would be necessary to explain that to the owner. A fine mind is a terrible thing. The longer he thought about it, the worse the situation became. It was entirely possible that his admirer was buying each item at a new store. It irked him to feel so helpless. Irked him more that the best he could manage as a man of action was to hope for the best and tell himself it was an educational experience. He kept waiting for his sensible side to sound off, for his subconscious mind to announce that he would not be in this mess if not for Mulder. He didn't believe in destiny. He didn't believe that events were preordained. But the longer he was involved with Mulder, the more he believed that things could not have unfolded any other way. There was no sense in flagellating himself for inviting that first kiss, so long ago. If it had not happened that night, it would have been another. It had been inevitable. Neither right nor wrong, it just... was. If he was honest with himself, he could even admit that he wasn't sorry he had fucked Mulder at Denny's that night. Only sorry they hadn't caught the camera man. The shower door slid open quickly, startling him. Mulder stood naked on the bath mat, wearing a sardonic smile. Walter let himself drink the agent in, heedless of the water that sprayed everywhere. What, am I checking him for bite marks? He smiled carefully. Mulder had some strange sexual aura about him. His eyes gleamed, his skin glowed. He was hard, and ready, barely leashed by his lover's restraint. Waiting. "The last time I laid eyes on you," the AD said, "You had White in your lap and his tongue down your throat." "I didn't do anything," Mulder said. "It could have been Hale-Bopp. Sometimes things like that do strange things to people." Walter looked him up and down. "What you're telling me, what you're saying, Mulder, is that he had no reason to take a shine to you other than his strange reaction to a passing comet?" "Why not?" "What's my excuse?" "Desperation. Why don't you let me in? I'm grimy, and somebody has to use your shampoo." "Fuck you, Mulder," he said, but he stood back. The agent stepped inside and carefully slid the door shut before he turned to face the AD. His hair stood up in clumps. Water sluiced off his body, that beautiful, lean body... "Mulder," he said. His lover stepped closer, and closer still, until they were a breath apart. "I'm sorry, Walter," he murmured. "You said it yourself: you didn't do anything." "You've been thinking about it, though. Stewing." "So? You're the one who's been shacked up with the man for the last week." Mulder allowed himself a smile. "He squeezes from the wrong end of the toothpaste." "Bastard." Walter slid his arms around Mulder's waist and tugged. Both men gasped when their groins collided. He tried for a kiss, but Mulder dodged him. He settled for nipping at the agent's neck. "He made another pass at me on Thursday night." Walter froze. "And?" "And you're going to burst a blood vessel when you see the hotel bill. The only other room they had was a suite." "Mulder..." "Walter..." he teased, smiling now. "Tell me you didn't think I'd run away with him." The AD was silent. "Walter?" He smirked. "And leave all this?" The agent cupped Walter's face in his hands and kissed him persuasively, licking his lips before he plunged his tongue into the AD's mouth. Walter sucked his tongue, grinding his hips against his lover's. He wasn't going to last, he knew. It disappointed him. Suddenly he felt like he and Mulder had been separated for months. He wanted that first new consummation to linger. Mulder slid a finger into Walter's ass. The AD bucked, tearing his mouth away. "Cut it out." "Ah-ah-ah," his lover warned. "You invited me in here, Walter, I get to do whatever I want." "You're some kind of sex vampire?" "Finally," he grinned. "An X-File I don't mind investigating." He raised a brow. "Why don't you try investigating the challenging world of unmolested cliches?" "I think that's an oxymoron." "So is 'I think' coming from your mouth, when you're naked." Mulder slipped a finger inside him. "Mulder," he moaned. When his head fell back, the agent licked his throat. Walter's hands clenched on his lover's ass. "Not yet," Mulder said. "Delayed gratification, remember?" He dipped his head to capture a nipple with his mouth, never breaking the rhythm of his hand against Walter's ass. The AD arched against him. Mulder turned him into a man he barely recognized as himself. One moment he was showering peacefully, thinking over a problem, and the next, he was Captain Libido, and the only problem he had was just when Mulder was going to let him come. The agent switched his attention to Walter's other nipple now, still ignoring the AD's cock but for the maddening sway of his hips. Finally, there was no way he could continue as he was. He released Walter's ass and pulled away, sinking to his knees. He stroked Walter's cock reverently. The AD looked down at him through a haze. Mulder gave his cock rapt attention. As the agent reached out to cup Walter's balls, the AD flashed on Michael Douglas in Romancing the Stone, cradling that enormous fake emerald and breathing "El Corazon..." Walter stroked his lover's hair. It was a struggle not to just grip his head and put it exactly where he wanted it, but he managed. The agent looked up at him, like an acolyte, eyes wide and mouth open just slightly. He gave Walter's balls a gentle squeeze. "Mulder..." "Walter?" He swallowed. "Did Scully show you those exercise videos?" Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Walter grinned. He'd caught his lover off guard, for the first and probably only time. The man had been too swept up playing Valentino to maintain any kind of conversation. Finally the agent tipped his head backward and met Walter's eyes. "The Fabio one is missing," he said. "Do you know anything about that?" "Try Scully. I prefer the scrawny type." "I can't believe you. We're naked together for the first time in weeks, neither of us has to be anywhere, and I'm on my knees in front of you in your shower stall." "And I had the gall to malign you." "And you had the gall to malign me." "Don't tell me you thought today was the day I'd start calling you Honeybunkle and offering to wash your feet." "I should have stayed with Jackson." He scowled. "Jackson is embarking on a one-way trip to Alaska as soon as I can manage it." "Feeling possessive, are you?" "Don't fuck with me, Mulder. Not about this." "Don't be like that." He leaned forward, his hands on Walter's hips. The AD gasped when his back hit the tile. "You know I'm not going to do that to you," Mulder breathed, trailing kisses along the inside of Walter's thigh. "Yes..." "I like the idea of you hoarding me." His tongue darted out and licked the sensitive area where Walter's leg met his torso. "I could get some kind of ID bracelet. 'Property of Walter S. Skinner.'" He paused as he was about to apply his tongue to Walter's balls. The AD moaned, protesting. "What does the S stand for?" "Stupid," he muttered. "Sexy," the agent murmured, sucking one of his lover's testicles into his mouth. Walter's head banged against the shower wall. "That's so... oh, Christ..." Mulder released him. "So..." "Corny," he gasped. "Oh, you hear that one a lot?" "Nobody says it to my face." The agent captured his neglected testicle, manipulating it with his tongue. Walter let out a keening moan. Somehow, this was exactly what he'd been needing, for days. Somehow, Mulder had known. His mouth was so hot, so wet, so... cunning... He let Walter go again. "Stunning," he said. "Simple-minded." "Sensual." "That's the same as sexy." He grinned. "Sex slave..?" He stroked Walter's cock gently, rubbing his thumb over the head. The AD buried his hands in Mulder's hair, no longer content to let him tease. The agent resisted. "Sultry." "Mulder." "You're not trying." "Neither are you. Please..." Mulder bent over him and stroked his tongue along the head of Walter's cock, probing the slit, teasing the ridge. His mouth closed over it without warning, and he began to suck rhythmically, massaging the AD's flesh with his tongue, scraping with his teeth. Walter's hips moved of their own volition. He gave himself up to Mulder totally, denying him nothing. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lover's hair as Mulder relaxed his throat and took him all the way inside. He began to swallow. Pleasure shot through Walter's body at odd intervals, warming him, maddening him, until he was shaking with it. Mulder manipulated his cock as if he'd taken extensive training in the act, drawing back just enough when Walter came close, then capturing him again and bringing him back. His hands kneaded Walter's thighs. His jaw worked to accommodate his thrusts. The AD's knees had long since lost any tension they'd had. All that supported him now were Mulder's hands and God's will. Walter had no sense of identity, no problems, no car payments. He was close now, so close, and damned grateful, like some idiot winning one of the technical awards at the Oscars who got up on stage and thanked everyone he'd ever met, one name at a time. So close, and Mulder pulled away again. "Mulder... fuck... please..." His lover's eyes burned. Mulder's mouth closed over him again. His hands massaged Walter's balls, and his sucked his cock furiously, working to finish him off now that he'd made up his mind. Walter's head fell forward to watch Mulder's own head bobbing over him. "Yes... yes." He was bucking wildly now, completely undone by the man who knelt before him. Then he was cresting, his whole being suffused with pleasure. He mumbled incoherently, in a voice he barely recognized. Collapsed against the shower wall and slid to the floor. Mulder crawled to him and wrapped himself around the AD. His lips were swollen, his eyes glazed. His cock, still hard, bumped against Walter's stomach. "I'm sorry," the AD said. "I wasn't thinking." "That was the idea." He dipped his head and kissed Walter softly. "I want to get inside you," he murmured into his lover's mouth. "I don't think I'll be able to stay upright for very long." Mulder fumbled blindly and shut off the shower. "Just try to make it to the bed," he said, rising. He extended a hand and Walter took it, standing shakily. "Don't look so smug," he said. "It would help if you didn't look so... sated." "I'll try to look more disgruntled in the future." He tried to push past Mulder to get into the bedroom, but the agent grabbed his arm and tugged. Walter's body collided with his own. His arms snaked around the AD as he plunged his tongue into his mouth. Mulder moaned. "What about the bed?" Mulder grabbed a towel from the rack and rolled it into a fat tube. This done, he handed it to Walter, turned him around, and bent him over the bathroom counter. "Mulder, for Christ's sake..." The agent pressed his body flush against Walter's. His chest hair tickled Walter's back. Mulder's cock slid against the AD's ass, hot insistent. He thrust his tongue into Walter's ear at the same moment he began to stroke Walter's erection back to life. The AD's skin still tingled, hyper-sensitive, almost to the point of discomfort, but only almost. With tremendous effort, the AD raised his head and opened his eyes. In the harsh light of the bathroom, the mirror he faced concealed nothing. This was a unique perspective for him, and far more intimate than had been watching his lover on videotape. Mulder gave himself up to the role of seducer as if he'd been born to it. He was in a strange humor tonight, content for once just to pleasure his lover, all quips set aside in favor of a greater focus. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, his mouth softened. He looked like a love slave. He looked predatory. Walter watched Mulder's hands on him and was doubly aroused by the sight. Watched his tongue, tasting as much as teasing, finding all Walter's best spots with the unerring accuracy that only a man with an eidetic memory or a gigolo could possibly have. An image of Mulder in black rubber pants and a blue sequined shirt came to mind, and he laughed, without thinking. "Ticklish?" "No. I was imagining you as Neil Diamond." "Fuck me," he said, disgusted. "You always have to say something like that, don't you? Why can't we just fuck like normal people?" Walter's eyes met his in the mirror. Both men came to the same conclusions at the same time and laughed. The moment didn't last, though. Mulder's cock rubbed against Walter's ass with each new convulsion, an act that captured the agent's attention. He collapsed on top of his lover. "Shit." He planted a kiss between Walter's shoulder blades. "I never used to be so--" "Depraved?" Mulder pinched his ass and pulled away. "Don't stand up," he said, when Walter shifted. He raised a brow. "This isn't some kind of prelude to a d/s scenario, is it?" "No, I'm just lazy," he said absently, rifling through Walter's drawers. "I don't want to have to seduce you again." "If it's that much of a trial for you--" "Where the hell is the lube?" Walter blinked. "What?" "I got toothpaste, moisturizer, shaving gel, Brylcreem-- and I don't want to know what you do with that--" He shot the AD a desperate glance. Walter cleared his throat. "Maybe I'm out." "Out?" He opened another drawer. "Saliva," he muttered. "Olive oil, sunblock, soap--" "What are you talking about?" "Haven't you ever read any gay porn, Walter?" He stood abruptly. "I'll find the lube." A thorough search of the bedroom uncovered a tube under his bed, much to his relief. The look on Mulder's face had said it all. If he'd failed, there was a bottle of Thousand Islands dressing in the refrigerator with his name on it. "Astroglide," he said. "The preferred lubricant of gay federal agents worldwide." "Official lube of the 1998 Winter Olympics." He gave Mulder the tube and resumed his place over the counter. Mulder stared at him. "Oh, Walter..." "What?" Mulder took position behind him and kneaded his shoulders. His hands were warm and firm. He began to work his way down Walter's spine. The AD arched into his touch, breathing raggedly again. His cock throbbed. Mulder stroked it gently. "I can't resist you," he said. "Then you're a hell of an actor." The agent slid a slippery finger into his ass, stretching him, testing him. Walter bucked violently when Mulder teased his prostate. "Mulder!" He withdrew his hand and placed the head of his cock at Walter's asshole. He thrust slowly, an inch at a time, until Walter was squirming beneath him. "Don't move." Mulder rasped. Walter met his eyes in the mirror and rocked his hips. With an anguished moan, Mulder sank all the way in. He quickly found a rhythm, thrusting blindly, his head thrown back. The friction was incredible, exquisite, the pleasure that coursed through Walter overwhelming. What's going on with you, Mulder? he thought. The agent's movements were almost brutal. Walter bucked in counter-rhythm, his voice hoarse as he urged his lover on. He was electric. He was ethereal. Mulder stroked his cock quickly, crushing his body into the counter. "Harder," Walter gasped. "Harder?" "Please." Mulder's hips slammed against his own. Walter froze, suspended. He came, moaning Mulder's name, and in that instant he opened his eyes and watched in stunned fascination as his lover came, too. "Oh, God, Walter, Walter..." He sucked in a breath, gripping the AD's hips and thrusting one last time. "Oh..." Walter licked his lips, savoring the feel of Mulder convulsing inside him. "That's it," Mulder gasped. "That's it..." He shuddered on top of Walter. "Mulder." "Mm?" "I need... to lie down." "I can't move." "I'm not carrying you." "With all that upper-body strength?" "Look--" He jerked. "Did you hear that?" "What?" Mulder rose laboriously and stalked out of the room. "My fucking cell," he snarled. Walter peeled himself off the counter and followed after him. "What?" Mulder barked. "Yes, I was. What do you want?" He glanced at Walter. Grimaced. "I'll be there within the hour." He folded his phone and fell back on Walter's bed. "You," he accused. "You had to farm me out to the ISU people. You had to write that inter-office memo about shooting your fellow agents." "That was White." "You think my double entendres are cheesy," he said. "If I have to listen to one more joke about stiffs, I'm going to kill myself." "Consider the irony." Mulder sat up and rubbed his face. "I've got to have another shower," he said. "You're all over me." "So?" "White spends more time in my personal space than I do," he said, stuffing himself into his clothes. "If he even imagines I have tendencies, I'm going to have a permanent handprint on my ass." "I've got a .38 and a shovel," Walter said. "If he touches you again, Alaska will be the least of his concerns." He grinned. "You're so cute when you play throwback." Walter found his glasses and shoved them on. "Get out of here and don't come back." "Hah. I won't even make it to my car before you're calling to beg for forgiveness." "Try me." Mulder gave him a quick kiss. "I wanted to stay the night." "You can always come back when you're done. If you want." He paused in the act of tying a shoe. "That's about the most grudging invitation I've ever received." "If you're going to have another man's handprint on your ass--" Mulder strode from the room, shaking his head. "Mulder!" He turned. "What?" "If he tries anything else, I want to know about it." "You think it's him, don't you?" He smirked. If he was going to make a suspect of everyone who even looked at his lover twice, he really had his work cut out for him. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe I just want to have a good enough reason to kick his ass." "'It's time you learned your proper place, boy,'" Mulder said, doing an uncanny imitation of Walter's voice. "'You keep your hands off of my man.'" "Fuck you, Mulder." The agent grinned. Walter's gut clenched in response. Shit. "Goodnight, Walter." "Goodnight." *** *** *** "Agent White, I'm glad you could make it on such short notice. Have a seat." "What did you want to speak with me about, sir?" I want you to keep your mitts off my Mulder. "This is my least favorite conversation to have with one of my agents," he said. In fact, I'd rather frame you for white-collar crimes and ship you and your pretty face off to the max. "It's come to my attention that you've continued to pursue Agent Mulder." His features tightened. "Has he filed a complaint against me, sir?" "Not formally, no. In fact, he doesn't know about this meeting, and I'd like to keep it that way." "It's a personal matter, sir." "I disagree. As long as you're conducting your activities on Bureau time, and on Bureau property--" he tossed Mulder's hotel bill on his desk "-- and with Bureau money, it's a matter of public concern, to my mind. It's only a matter of time before someone notices your behavior, Agent White, and Mulder doesn't need any more people snickering about him right now." His gaze sharpened. "Has someone been bothering him, sir?" "Not at this time." "I don't want to make trouble for him." "Then leave him be." The agent was silent. "Agent White?" His phone rang. "Skinner." "Sir, it's Agent Scully. I'm sorry to bother you--" "Let's forego the niceties for now, Scully. What's going on?" "Agent Mulder didn't show up for work this morning, sir. I stopped by his apartment to check on him, and he isn't here... do you have any idea where he might be?" Walter met White's eyes. "No." "Could you meet me here, sir?" "I'm on my way." He replaced the receiver, fighting down the panic and nausea that threatened to consume him. "Agent White," he said, calmly, "It looks as if our mutual friend has disappeared. You were the last person to speak with him, were you not?" White scowled. "I haven't seen him since we got back from Quantico." Walter stared at him. "You didn't call him last night?" "No." He stood and shrugged into his jacket. "I have to go. We'll continue this conversation another time." "Is Mulder all right?" "I don't know. I don't think so." "What--" "You're dismissed, Agent White." "Sir, I'd like to help, if I can." "That won't be necessary." His jaw tightened. "Agent Mulder is a friend--" "Look. This isn't a party, and you are not invited." "Hey, I--" "I'm your superior, Agent White, a fact that seems to slip your mind at the moments that are most convenient for you. If I say you stay here, you fucking well stay here. Nod if you understand." White stood and attempted to stare him down. His stance was eerily familiar. "If you want to play that way, fine. As long as you understand that I'm going to be on this at quitting time. You keep pushing your pencils and taking your orders--" "I feel a sanctimonious speech coming on, and I don't have the time. Come anywhere near this on Bureau time and you're going to be working evidence in the smallest jerkwater office I can find for the rest of your life. Do it on your own time and you're going to be checking your insurance papers to see if your medical covers rhinoplasty. Do you understand?" His eyes narrowed. "I think I do." Walter stormed out of the office. "I'm gone for the day," he called back to Kim on his way out. "What?" Mulder, he thought, as he drove to the man's apartment. It didn't help Walter's equilibrium at all to think of how strangely his lover had been acting the night before. He'd seduced Walter with single-minded intent, and yes, it had been fantastic, stellar, even, but it had also been damned weird. He had been so intense, almost humorless by comparison, unusually quiet. Now he'd vanished, and suddenly it seemed feasible that he'd known this would happen and had wanted to give Walter something to remember him by. He was almost grateful for the thought, and there was a fucked-up notion. It was still better than the idea that Mulder had been using him as a substitute for Jackson White. Scully was waiting for him in the hallway when he reached Mulder's building. She shoved the door open. "Forced entry," she said. "He might have lost his keys..." "Sir, his apartment has been tossed." He smirked. "How can you tell?" She glared at him. "Was I wrong to call you, sir?" "No. I'm sorry." He crossed the threshold. The apartment was a disaster, and that was no surprise. The aquarium was overturned; the shelf that held it lay on the floor. His computer lay in pieces. Coffee was spilled on the rug, and there were papers strewn everywhere. At least he put up a fight. "Scully, what's your caseload like right now?" "Negligible, sir." "I need you to step up your investigation of my gifts," he said, gazing around the apartment. "I need you to find out if anyone saw anything, and if not, why not. I need you to find out if anyone else at the Bureau did not show up this morning, and if not, I need to know where they are. I'll get you any clearance you need." He turned and headed for the door. "Sir, where are you going?" "I have meetings, Agent Scully." He looked back at her, back at the demolished apartment. The image of Mulder flashed in his mind, Mulder shaking with pleasure the night before, Mulder mocking him when others wouldn't dare even to glance his way. Mulder sitting in his office, covered in blood and grime, looking like he hadn't slept in a month, grinning and asking him if he'd ever made it with a guy in a cast. "I have a lot of fucking meetings." He slammed the door.

The cellular phone hooked to her belt vibrated against her waist, signaling an incoming call, so Jennifer East snagged it from its resting place with the quick efficiency of familiarity. She was quietly grateful that she'd just finished shopping, and now was in the midst of loading her groceries into the trunk of her 1977 black Firebird Trans Am. She'd hoped that she could get her shopping finished before something came up. As a cop, she was too well aware that she was never really off duty; an informant could call anytime or the department could have a sudden emergency that required her assistance. "East here," she answered, tucking a wayward strand of brunette hair back over her ear, and then trapping the phone against her shoulder as she set another bag of groceries into the trunk of the sportscar. "Jen, help," the voice of her partner said shakily. Groceries were instantly forgotten. Slamming the trunk shut, she quickly climbed into the driver's seat of her car and hoped she'd gotten everything she'd purchased into the trunk. "Ray, where are you?" "Near my... place. Shot," Ray told her laboriously. Then with a sudden burst of strength, he added, "Think it went through the vest." "Okay. I'll be there soon. Hang on, okay? I'm going to hang up and call an ambulance." "'S'okay... it's better this way." A raspy chuckle followed. "Hate hospitals." "Ray, I know you hate them, but damn it—" The clatter of a phone being dropped resounded in her ear, and she swore even as she slammed the sports car into gear and slapped on her police warning light and siren. She was going to be too late, and some perverse voice in her brain mockingly reminded her she'd been too late for Ray from the day she'd met him. Seven months earlier "Fraser, the storm's building. Don't you think we gotta stop?" Ray asked his partner. "We just have to make it through this pass, and there'll be a town on the other side, " Fraser assured him. "You'll get that hot shower and real bed you've been craving." "Fraser, look at me. The dogs are refusing. Dief's even looking at us like we're outta our minds. We gotta stop, build shelter. Tell me you can see anything through this shit and we'll go." Fraser looked at him, and what Ray saw there scared him. The Mountie's eyes were wild. "No," Fraser admitted. Ray breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, then. I'll start setting up stuff. You go get the dogs settled." "No," Fraser said again. "Fraser, I do not have time for this shit. You don't have time for this shit. I'm freezing my ass off here, I'm tired, we've just spent the last five days tracking some stupid hunter who forgot to tell his idiot wife he had their cellular phone and could call home, it's snowing like I've never seen snow, and if we don't build an igloo or throw up a tent or something, we are going to die. What the fuck's wrong with you? You've been acting nuts ever since we've been headed this way." "Not again." "What the fuck are you talking about, Frase?" Ray demanded impatiently as he began hurriedly pulling supplies off the sled and started setting up camp. "I am not going to stay here." "Fine, you go get your ass frozen," Ray shot back, losing his patience. "No." "Well, make up your mind, Fraser." Fraser didn't answer him. Ray sighed and proceeded to ignore him as he set up camp, the process hampered by the fact that Fraser hadn't moved to help him as Fraser normally would. Something about that stillness nagged Ray, but Ray had heard Fraser expound on the lessons of survival long enough to know that he had to set up their shelter and see to the dogs first. His work completed, Ray turned to get Fraser. Fraser wasn't there. At least, not the Fraser Ray had come to know. No, the Fraser Ray knew never screamed obscenities at the top of his lungs, never railed at God about the fairness of life, never lost his calm faith in the goodness of people. Well, you knew he had to let it go sometime, Ray reminded himself, trying to shove the fear that had crawled up his spine and settled like a lead weight in his stomach. He took a deep breath and tried to get Fraser's attention. "Hey, Fraser, life sucks, but you and I need to get into this tent like yesterday, before life really sucks and we're dead." Fraser didn't hear him, but continued to rant. "Fraser, look, man, you're scaring me here. Yeah, okay, so Vecchio shoulda told you about his undercover assignment, and maybe he shoulda tried to warn you he was going to be in town, but you can't— " Ray winced as Fraser cut him off with a particularly vivid expletive. "Okay, so maybe you can hold it against him, but now's not the time for you to be losing it, okay? I need you — I mean, I need your help now. We need to get out of this cold and batten down the hatches or whatever it is you do in a snowstorm outta hell." Fraser looked at him. "Tell me why I should care." "Fraser—" Ray fisted his hands and resisted the urge to smack his friend with the barest of control, remembering his vow never to hit Fraser again. "Don't ask me that. Don't do this to me, to us, now." "I can't do this. I've had enough—" Ray couldn't stand it anymore. There was only one other way he knew to shut someone up, and hoped it worked as well on Fraser as it had on Stella. Roughly, he grabbed Fraser and kissed him, shocking him into silence. Not giving the Mountie a chance to think about it, Ray shoved him into the tent, already half-buried by the snow, and zipped it closed. Fraser stared at him as the silence filled the tent. Several minutes ticked by, and Ray thought for sure he'd crossed the line. Kissing Fraser was something he'd dreamed about, but not under these circumstances, and Ray wasn't entirely certain of the outcome. Nervously, Ray stammered, "Look, you wouldn't shut up and get in, so—" Suddenly, Fraser grabbed him. With a grunt, Ray landed on top of the other man, and had time enough to catch his breath before it was stolen from him in a kiss. This was crazy, insane. Maybe he was dreaming, maybe this was all one wild surreal trip into the Twilight Zone, but he was going with the flow. Ray couldn't stop it now if he could, if he'd even wanted to, and God only knew how much he'd wanted Fraser. He hadn't dared hope that the desire would be returned, but Ray wasn't going to protest this turn of events. If there was one thing he'd come to know about Fraser, there was no stopping a determined Mountie. Ray knew he wasn't about to refuse this. He'd wanted it too long, dreamed about it and called himself an idiot for it far too many times. Whatever impulse had driven Fraser to this point, Ray was going to question him about it later. Much later. He wasn't entirely capable of coherent thought at this point. Clothes became hindrances to the heat that had infused them both, and were dealt with swiftly. The snowstorm raged outside the tent, but all Ray could think of was the storm of passion inside of him, thundering with every heated caress. Every fantasy he'd ever had about Fraser was coming true in this moment, and he didn't want it to stop. He moaned, helpless against the onslaught of Fraser's mouth, his tongue on his body. Ray forgot everything but the slick warmth of Fraser's mouth on his cock, the maddening flick of Fraser's tongue across the sensitive head. Fraser's fingers pressed a spot just below his balls that Ray never knew meant intense pleasure on top of already searing ecstasy, and Ray nearly screamed in pleasure. He was begging shamelessly for Fraser to take him, mindless of the way it sounded, even as Ray's hands reached for Fraser. Just when he didn't think he could stand any more, Fraser stopped and lifted his mouth from Ray's cock. "What are you doing?" The question came out breathless, needy. "Don't stop... I was so close... " Fraser smiled, then slid up Ray's body, and took him in. It should've been awkward that way, should've been a hundred other things that it wasn't, and all Ray could think of was something incoherent and breathless. There was no pain, only pleasure, as he thrust upwards into Fraser. Heat. He was burning with it, couldn't get enough of it as he was surrounded by it. God, had he ever known fire like this before? He couldn't remember, didn't want to think too deeply as he fought to maintain some control. He didn't want to let go, not yet. The warmth beckoned, inviting him to take that last stroke into the pit of the fire, to be wholly consumed. He fought to breathe as he heard Fraser's moans, more kindling on the fire. Fraser rocked against him, and Ray couldn't help but thrust upward in response. He opened his eyes and stared into his lover's face, needing suddenly to see the passion he was feeling. The fire was reflected in Fraser's eyes. He groaned, and felt his release shoot through him like a wall of flame reaching flashpoint. He wasn't cold anymore, not by a long shot, and Ray didn't think he'd ever be again. The storm buried them in the snow, but the two men didn't notice, too caught up in the raw pleasure of each other. When the storm broke, four days had passed, and an irrevocable line had been crossed. The bar looked like a hundred others Ray had ever been in, with its neon signs, scarred tables, and seen-it-all wait staff. For the moment, he didn't care. It was enough that the owner had been willing to hire him, and that the tips were good. He knew he could have easily borrowed the money to get back to Chicago, but he wasn't quite ready to leave Canada just yet. There was still a part of him that hoped Fraser would change his mind and maybe track him down. There had been no awkward good-byes. Ray had made certain of that. He told Fraser he was thinking of heading east, of checking out Toronto, and Fraser had regretfully informed him that if Ray did go in that direction, Fraser would not be able to accompany him as the extended leave he'd taken was now completely used up, and duty called. Ray had shrugged easily, aware from their numerous discussions about the subject that, as grateful as the RCMP had been for his help in several cases, they weren't going to offer him a job, and certainly not one as Fraser's partner. Ray hadn't spoken to Fraser in two months. Though the Chicago cop knew exactly where Fraser was, he tried not to think of the Mountie. The hurt ran too deep for words, and it had taken every ounce of skill Ray possessed to pick their friendship back up after a snowstorm had trapped them in Fortitude Pass. It was now going on twelve weeks since that fateful storm, and on the outside, Ray looked and acted normal. No one knew that inside, Ray's heart wasn't in what he was doing. If he stopped to think about it, which was more often than he cared to admit, he kept returning to the same conclusion: I should've never kissed him, even if it was to shut him up. No one heard the silent litany or the growing depression and increasing eradication of self-esteem that accompanied it. Nor was any of this was revealed, as he flirted with customers, coaxing them to spend just a little more money than they'd intended on drinks and snacks, or made friends with his coworkers. No one believed he was nursing a heart that had been ripped to shreds with a single sentence. He'd fooled them all, but late at night, alone in the tiny studio apartment he'd rented, he could feel the weight of his heartbreak crushing him, demanding his surrender to the pain. If Ray closed his eyes, he could see Fraser standing before him in the cabin they'd shared while Fraser had finalized the paperwork for returning to active RCMP duty. The hour had been late, and Ray had been waiting impatiently since they'd left Fortitude Pass to have the chance to love Fraser in a bed instead of in the middle of a blizzard. At first, Ray had thought that Fraser had simply been too tired since the storm to want the new intimacy initiated during that time. Then Ray began to suspect otherwise. Fraser had been going on and on about some minor incident at the station, but Ray hadn't been really interested. The question that hammered at Ray's mind sprung out, a non sequitur in the midst of Fraser's soliloquy. "How come you don't wanna do it with me anymore?" Fraser went still and silent. Very carefully, he responded, "I don't believe it's necessary, Ray. What happened at Fortitude Pass was an aberration performed in the interest of keeping warm and active so that the blood in our bodies kept flowing—" But Ray stopped listening at that point. All he really heard was "I don't believe it's necessary." In Ray's mind, that translated to: "I don't want you." In that instant, all the joy Ray had ever felt in Fraser's presence vanished, as if someone had pulled out the plug to the illumination feeding it. Ray mumbled something about Fraser's choice being okay, that he was relieved to know that they could go back to being just friends and no one would speak of what happened again, the usual garbage one says when one's heart is bleeding but isn't willing to show just how much. It didn't take long for Ray to begin planning on when to leave. He'd just about convinced himself that he was over Fraser when Gabrielle, one of the other servers, invited Ray to join her in going to another bar that stayed open later than most. Not having anything better to do, Ray agreed. It was there he met Calvin. Calvin looked like a dead ringer for Fraser. The personality was nothing like Fraser, nor was the voice, roughened by cigarette smoke and probably too much whiskey, but Ray hadn't cared. All he'd seen was the chance to exorcise some ghosts, and it hadn't taken long for them to make excuses to Gabrielle, then head over to Calvin's apartment. In the moments after they'd both climaxed, Calvin had made noises about maybe seeing Ray again, while Ray made the usual noncommittal replies. Both of them knew it was barely a one-night stand, not when Ray wasn't staying the night. Ray never saw him again. At the time, Ray hadn't cared. The wound had been ripped anew, the scars peeled back for fresh examination, and Ray had cursed himself for being fool enough to believe that a one-night stand could cure him once and for all of his love for Fraser. Instead, Ray had ended up feeling guilty and even more heartbroken than he'd been. Determined to forget, Ray made the decision to leave Canada. Within two months, Ray had enough saved up to move back to Chicago. A call to Lt. Welsh and some paperwork shuffling resulted in his reinstatement to the Chicago PD. Two weeks before he was due to move, it rained steadily, and Ray soon felt ill enough to warrant seeing a doctor. It was only at Gabrielle's insistence that he reluctantly did so. The doctor prescribed some medication, which only made him sicker than he was originally, and Ray tossed out the drugs in disgust. The doctor also ordered lab tests, since he didn't have a medical profile on Ray. Two days after Ray's visit with the doctor, he received the call that would change his life. To say that he was shocked would be an understatement, but he was outwardly calm. If Fraser had seen him, he would've known something was wrong, but he didn't, a fact for which Ray was eternally grateful. Ray was going home, and if he was going to die anywhere, it wasn't going to be Canada. He didn't want to be anywhere near the open plains, the snowcapped mountains, the National Geographic-worthy panorama of sights, smells, and sounds he'd come to associate with Canada. Canada meant Fraser. Fraser meant love. Love meant heartbreak. Heartbreak meant Canada. No, Ray was going home. And if home wasn't exactly home without his heart, Ray told himself it wouldn't be the first time he'd operated on autopilot. He'd had lots of practice with Stella, after all. Jennifer East studied her new partner from across the expanse of their combined desks and wondered why he'd even bothered to show up for work. It was clear to her that he wasn't feeling well, but he was hiding it. He was already on his fourth cup of candy-sweetened coffee, and it was barely an hour into work. There were shadows under his eyes, and the angular face she'd come to recognize appeared even paler than usual. "Late night, Ray?" she asked finally. He smiled at her, that quick grin that meant absolutely nothing. "You know how it goes with us party animals," he teased her, his voice absolutely deadpan. "Gotta get more of that nightlife." Jennifer snorted. Ever since she'd been partnered with him three weeks ago, she'd seen no evidence that Ray had any interest in partying. He was quiet, dedicated, and a good cop — the least likely person in Jennifer's mind to be having a wild night on the town. She'd heard through the grapevine that he'd been something of an unorthodox cop, that he'd been unofficially partnered with a Mountie, but in the short time she'd been partnered with Ray, she'd begun to wonder how much truth there was to what she'd been told. "You, and a party?" she retorted. "Yeah, right. Pull another one on the rookie." He smiled, but the emotion barely reached his eyes. Not for the first time, Jennifer wondered why nothing really made him smile. "It's nothing," he assured her, and quickly changed the subject. "Come on, we'd better get cracking on the Hostine case before someone starts asking questions." Jennifer accepted the change of subject, but she made a mental note to herself to keep an eye on her partner. She might be a rookie to the department, but she wasn't so green that she didn't know how important her partner's health was to her own well-being, and to the success of their partnership. Ray caught the look in Jennifer's green eyes and sighed inwardly. Better get this story over with, he thought. "Look, we gotta go confirm a couple statements on that case anyway, so why don't we drive over to this..." He glanced down at the case file and decided he was better off not trying to pronounce the witness's name. "Lady's house and get her talking, and I'll tell you what you've been dying to ask since you got partnered up with me." Jennifer agreed. Forty-five minutes later, they were seated in a sparsely filled bar some distance from the station. After ordering coffee, Jennifer prompted, "You were going to tell me something?" Ray took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah." He didn't say anything more, and Jennifer waited patiently. From the look on his face, she could tell the words weren't coming easily. She began to reconsider her decision to pry. The waitress delivered their coffee. Ray immediately dumped six packets of sugar into his cup, then stirred the coffee, but didn't drink. "Look, it's really none of my business," Jennifer began apologetically. "You don't have to—" "Yes, I do," he interrupted her, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He toyed with the spoon in his coffee a minute longer, then set the utensil aside. "I got to tell you, in case I get shot." He swallowed, then added, "I have AIDS." Jennifer's breath caught in her throat. I'm sorry didn't seem appropriate, so she took a drink of her coffee instead while she tried to figure out what to say. "How — how did it happen?" Now Ray lounged back in his chair, obviously trying for a relaxed posture and failing miserably. "I loved the wrong guy. I mean, it was the right guy, but it was the wrong guy for the — oh, hell, I'd better start at the beginning." He took a deep breath and exhaled it, then leaned forward and hunched his shoulders. "I was friends with Fraser for a long time — well, maybe a year's not a long time, but there were times I thought it was — before we went up to Canada. I'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice this guy. Short dark brown hair, gray eyes, 5'11", medium build, with one of those faces you think can't possibly be real because it's so perfect. I mean, he was just one of those guys everyone notices 'cause he's that good looking, but I kinda got used to seeing how beautiful he was. Had to, or else everyone would notice how I felt about him, and I just never thought he'd go for it. I kept on hoping, though. "He was RCMP, supposed to be the Canadian liaison to the department, but the way things were, he was the unofficial partner of the guy whose job I was covering. So it was only natural that Fraser and I solved a bunch of cases together." Ray shook his head, remembering, a half-smile on his face. "Seemed like he was always finding new and crazy ways to try and get me killed more than we were solving crimes. Fraser was one of them people who couldn't stop if someone needed help, or some wrong needed to be righted." Ray was quiet a moment before he added, "I never thought I'd meet anybody like that. I mean, I'm a cop, I'm supposed to believe in justice, but sometimes...sometimes it doesn't pay to believe, you know?" Jennifer nodded, thinking of how she'd seen enough injustice and how she'd become a cop because of it. She might be a rookie to the 27th, but she wasn't that naive. "Fraser wasn't like that. Hell, some big crook had him beat up around Christmastime, and he still believed the guy had it in him to apologize, not only for beating Fraser up, but also for mouthing off to some kid in a restaurant. Used to drive me crazy, 'cause all I wanted to do was protect him and put him somewhere where he'd never get hurt, and at the same time, I'd love him even more for not letting all the ugly stuff we see get to him." "Sounds like a really nice guy," Jennifer commented. It didn't seem likely that a guy like that existed, but she was willing to believe that Ray had known someone like that. "'Nice' doesn't cover it." Ray finally took a drink of his coffee and grimaced at the taste. He set the cup down and proceeded to drum his fingers on the table. "So what happened?" Jennifer prompted, reaching over to still Ray's hand when the noise became annoying. Ray glanced at her hand covering his, then up at her. She caught faint amusement in his eyes before he looked away and she removed her hand. "One of the cases took us up to Canada, and to make a long story short, I nearly died up there. We got rescued, and I thought we were over as partners. I mean, it made sense to me: I'd go back to Chicago; he'd stay in Canada, 'cause he was the Mountie and that's where he belonged. Then he asked me if I'd stay with him. I didn't have much left for me back in Chicago with him gone and the guy who I was covering for no longer needing me to cover for him. I said hell, yes. Didn't have to think twice about it. I would've gone anywhere for Fraser. I thought —" Ray's voice wavered "— I thought he loved me." Instinctively, Jennifer reached for her partner's hand and squeezed it tightly. "Things were goin' all right, and then we-" Ray closed his eyes as his voice hitched on a sob. "We ran into a snowstorm. I'd never seen anything like it. Fraser was angry, angry at the weather, angry with the world, I dunno what it was, but he was scaring me more than the storm. I thought we were goners then. He was supposed to be the expert, the one who knew everything, and I was — I was just this dumb Chicago cop in love." "Sounds like you ran into a hell of lot more than a snowstorm," Jennifer observed quietly. "Ray." He looked at the slender woman who sat across from him, clearly getting ready to tell her the rest. "I don't need to know the rest. It's pretty clear Fraser broke your heart, and I can guess you went and did something you regret. God knows I've done some pretty stupid stuff when I was feeling low." She watched relief spread across Ray's face and nodded, satisfied. "Does Welsh know you're sick?" Ray shook his head. "I don't want him to know. Right now, it's just being tired all the time. Nothing that'll affect me working. If it gets bad, I'll think of something." "But procedures say —" "Fuck procedures," Ray growled. "You say anything to anyone about what I just told you, and I'll deny everything." Jennifer stared at him, reluctant to bend the rules. Something told her, though, that she'd be risking a lot more than just a reprimand if she went against her partner's wishes. "I don't like it," she told Ray at last. He smiled grimly. "Welcome to my world." He paused. "Promise me you won't tell Fraser. Ever." His voice was suddenly, painfully urgent. "Why not?" "Because he'll go on the biggest Mountie guilt trip this side of the border and I can't stand just thinkin' about it. God only knows what'll happen if the whole crap about ghosts is true and I get stuck here forever because Fraser feels guilty about what happened to me. It's not his fault." Sensing Ray meant every word, Jennifer didn't see any choice but to swear. The weeks flew by quickly, so much so that Jennifer almost forgot what Ray had said. She took for granted that his energy wasn't as much as hers, and that, of the two of them, she would be the one doing the majority of the talking. It became a game of sorts between them to see if she could interest Ray in doing something with his free time, but it was soon clear that he preferred to be alone. The only other person at the station who could get past the isolationist attitude and make him smile, even briefly, was the civilian aide Francesca Vecchio, but even she wasn't always successful. In time, Jennifer, like everyone else, simply accepted that Ray Kowalski wasn't the outgoing man he'd once been, and fewer still noticed when the flu hit him harder than most. If he seemed paler and thinner when he came back to work, no one thought twice about it. Even Jennifer had been too caught up in trying to follow up on a lead on the phone to notice when Ray shuffled in, late as usual, and sank tiredly into the chair behind his desk. It wasn't until Jennifer hung up that she realized how skeletal Ray looked. "Damn, Ray, you look awful," she exclaimed. "Shouldn't you be back in bed?" He grinned at her tiredly. "Probably," he agreed. "Hate hospitals." "Hospitals?! What the hell were you doing in —" Jennifer stopped short as she remembered why something like the flu was ten times more a threat to Ray than it was to her. "Oh." He looked across the expanse of their desks and echoed, "Yeah, that 'oh.'" "Is everything okay? I mean," Jennifer floundered, "I know it's not okay, but are you okay now, oh, that still doesn't sound right —" "If I'm lucky," Ray intoned humorlessly, "I'll be here another six months." "Oh, Ray." He smiled faintly at her concern. "It's okay. You'll get a better partner when I'm gone, one who actually talks more than you do." "I don't talk a lot!" Jennifer protested. Ray's smile only broadened enigmatically, but as always, the feeling never reached his soul, never quite reached his eyes. He would always be cold, deep in the place that had once harbored his heart, as frigid as the winter that covered the Canadian landscape Fraser called home. Jennifer sensed it, and found herself wishing for the umpteenth time that somehow, she could warm up Ray. She wasn't holding her breath for that chance; he'd made it more than clear that no one could reach him. One Saturday almost three months after she'd been assigned as Ray's partner, Jennifer stayed overnight at his apartment after spending most of the evening trying to uncover clues to their latest case. She woke to find him watching her with an oddly wistful expression in his eyes. "What?" she asked as she stretched her arms towards the ceiling, half-closing her eyes at the pleasurable popping that ensued as a result. She brought her arms down and looked at her partner in time to see the unguarded masculine appreciation in his expression. She glanced down at the white T-shirt she'd worn to bed and realized how it must've looked stretched taut over her small bosom. She'd taken off her bra before going to sleep in Ray's bed at his insistence, not wanting the hooks to dig into her back as she'd slept. "Oh," she murmured, flushing slightly. Then a thought occurred to her. "I thought you didn't like women," she blurted. Ray chuckled, and for the first time Jennifer could remember, the emotion was reflected in his eyes. "Never said I didn't," he informed her, and the vibrancy in his tone and body language caught her attention. She'd known he was attractive in a brooding, James Dean-type way, but to see a smidgen of real pleasure in his nonverbal expression... that made the knowledge devastating. For a moment, she was furious that someone had sucked that happiness out of him. For a moment, she forgot she was his partner, forgot that she was his friend, and wanted nothing more than to show him how joy could be. After all, some voice inside of her gleefully reminded her, he wasn't adverse to women. Combined with that voice, the urge to comfort Ray had the jolt of caffeine to Jennifer's system, and she had to fight to stop herself from speaking her mind without thinking. "So?" she prompted carefully. "You, ah, looked like my ex-wife, stretching like that." He shrugged awkwardly as the animation in his eyes disappeared, to be replaced by the sadness Jennifer had grown accustomed to seeing. "Watching you sleep... I kinda felt like I was watching... Fras-her again." "I didn't mean to trigger bad memories," Jennifer apologized. She'd caught the slip, and understood he hadn't been thinking of his ex-wife when he'd been watching her sleep. Ray gave a small shrug. "Shouldn't have been spying on you," he excused himself. "Should've just woke you up like you'd asked me to." He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "It's nine o'clock now, so I guess I wasn't too far off." "It's okay," she assured him. "I don't really have anywhere to be today. I told you nine just in case I didn't wake myself up at eight-thirty." That said, she tucked a wayward strand of brunette hair back over her ear and studied Ray. The forlorn expression on her partner's face as he straddled a chair he must've grabbed from his kitchen table made her heart ache. She took a deep breath and spoke his name. He seemed startled, as if he'd been a million miles away. "Yeah?" "You think I'm attractive?" She didn't understand the shudder that rippled through him at her words. Softly, his voice rough with restrained emotion, he answered, "Very much so, yes. And no, I'm not just saying that to be saying that." Jennifer pushed the covers aside, suddenly vividly aware she'd fallen asleep with just her bright blue bikini underwear and the T-shirt on. She knew she was crossing a line by the invitation she was about to extend, but she couldn't stand the pain she saw. She was tired of seeing her partner die by inches, tired of watching him withdraw more into himself with every day, tired of brushing up against the cloak of melancholy he wore. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, and if, for one shining moment in time, she could bring him joy, she would do anything. Her fingers reached for the hem of her shirt and started pull upwards. Ray seemed to guess what she was about to do. "Don't," he growled fiercely. His hands snaked out and seized hers, stopping their upward movement. "Please, Jen, don't offer what I think you're about to offer. I can't take any more. Go find some other guy, someone who won't ki—" His voice broke as he roughly let her go. "Damn it, Jennifer, I'm your partner, for chrissake!" She nodded in agreement, blinked back the sudden rush of tears at the rejection, and buried the temptation she'd had in a smile as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and got to her feet. "I know, Ray. Give a girl a break, okay?" She reached for the jeans she'd tossed on the floor the night before and slipped them on. "Sheez," she teased, glad her voice was steady, "you'd think I was trying to make a pass at you or something. Like I didn't know I'd have a chance in hell." She didn't look at him as she turned slightly away to zip up her jeans and fasten the button. She didn't dare reveal that she was very afraid she'd been about ready to give her heart away, had he taken up her offer. Even without that, she could feel the new intimacy humming between them, adding a new level of understanding to their relationship. Presentable again, she turned back in time to see the last of a relieved sigh ripple through Ray. "Come on," she invited, "I'll buy breakfast." She sent him a casual, carefree smile, and breathed a quiet sigh when he went along with the pretense. Jennifer took a deep breath and rubbed her temples tiredly, knowing that it had been the snippet of conversation she'd overheard on her way to her desk that had triggered the memory. It didn't seem like Ray had been dead almost a week, but she couldn't argue with the reality. Lt. Welsh had wanted her to take more time off, especially since the will had just been read the day before, and Ray had named her as his primary beneficiary, which meant she had a lot to do before the estate would be considered closed. She'd argued that the cases they had been investigating still needed closure, and Ray would've wanted her to finish what they'd started together. Glancing at her watch, she realized she'd gotten absolutely nowhere with that goal. At least it's lunchtime now, she thought with relief. Maybe after lunch I can concentrate better. She had just grabbed her keys when a murmur started through the squad room. She paused in the midst of moving away from her desk, and searched the room for the source of the commotion. With a half-laugh, she realized she didn't have to look far. The red uniform was an unmistakable beacon headed straight for her. Then the significance of that uniform, combined with the face of the man who now stood in front of her, registered. Her nerves tensed immediately. As casually as she could manage, she inquired, "Can I help you?" "Yes, I believe you can," came the reply. "I'm Sergeant Benton Fraser. I first came to Chicago on the—" Abruptly, he stopped. "It doesn't matter now. You are the Jennifer East who was partnered with Ray Kowalski?" "Yes." Fraser's name had clicked in her brain, and protectiveness rose like a hastily drawn bridge. She watched as relief settled in Fraser's expression before adding, "But I don't have anything to say to you." "Please." He looked at her with such entreaty, she felt powerless to refuse. "Just let me ask a few questions, and I'll be on my way." She sighed, wondering if anyone had ever refused Fraser anything. "All right," she acquiesced. "I was headed for lunch. You can join me if you want." It didn't take long for them to find a nearby sandwich shop. She'd seen the double-take Fraser had made when he'd seen her black Trans Am, and surmised he must have been thinking of Ray's GTO. For a brief moment, she wondered if he knew that Ray had bequeathed the GTO to Ray Vecchio. Then she shook herself. Some part of her didn't want to know if Fraser cared about such things. It would make him too easily understandable, too human. "I was wondering," Fraser began once they were seated and Jennifer had purchased a six-inch Philly cheese steak sub and a medium Pepsi. "If you could tell me about Ray." Carefully, she unwrapped the sub from the wax paper enclosing it, then took a bite. Chewing slowly, she tried to figure out just what to tell Fraser. "What do you want to know?" she asked, swallowing. "I assume you already know how Ray died." Fraser nodded tightly. "Ray Vecchio told me. Were you with your partner at the time he was shot?" The brunette leaned back against the booth, shifting position so that she lounged more comfortably. She opened her mouth to reiterate the official position, but something in Fraser's eyes compelled her not to lie. Restlessly, she shifted position again. "No," she stated quietly, and had to take a deep breath to submerge the grief that threatened to swallow her voice. "We were off-duty, least I was. I'm still not sure if he was; he had contacts in that gang that killed him. I didn't know he'd been shot until he called me." She closed her eyes, remembering the call. "He was dead, his body stripped, by the time I got to him. Someone else found him first, and the media got wind of it. I should've been there." "I see," Fraser murmured. "Do you?" Jennifer demanded sharply, opening her eyes. "Why the hell are you here, anyway?" Fraser flinched at the ungentle reminder he was only with Jennifer at his insistence. "I received a letter for Ray a short time ago. " "So?" She was being rude, she knew, but some instinct warned her she wasn't going to like whatever Fraser had to say. "Ordinarily, I do not open other people's mail without their permission, but as I knew Ray had a tendency to ignore his mail until the last possible second and usually for quite some time afterwards, I'd gotten into the habit of opening it for him to ascertain its relevance. I was, however, alarmed to discover he'd been ill, especially when I read the report and realized what the diagnosis codes meant." Jennifer stared at Fraser disbelievingly. "You a doctor in your spare time or something?" "No. A case I was involved in led me to research common medical diagnosis codes. They're really quite self-explanatory, once you know what they signify." "I see." Suddenly, Jennifer lost her appetite. She had a feeling she was aware of where this was going, and as she forced another bite of her sub down her throat for the sake of fueling her body, Fraser removed an envelope from a pocket in his uniform and set it on the table. Jennifer didn't need to look at it to be certain it was the results of Ray's initial tests for AIDS. "Before I go on, I feel I must explain. I cared deeply about Ray. He was one of my best friends, and I feel I took advantage of that friendship, overstepped my bounds, and allowed myself to be lost in a moment of temporary insanity." "The snowstorm." Fraser blinked. "He told you about that?" Jennifer almost cheered aloud at how uncomfortable Fraser appeared. She didn't understand the almost jealous need to protect Ray from someone who couldn't hurt him anymore, but she rode the urge anyway. "He was my partner," she stated simply, and watched the light of bittersweet understanding flare in Fraser's eyes. "He loved you more than life, and you broke his heart." "I... I didn't know," Fraser admitted heavily. "He never said a word." Jennifer snorted. "I'm not surprised. He didn't talk much to anyone." Fraser looked puzzled. "That doesn't sound like Ray." Jennifer shrugged. "That's the Ray I knew. I don't know what kind of guy he used to be around you, but he didn't talk much around anybody." "Did anyone else know about his illness?" Jennifer started to reply, then caught herself, remembering her promise to Ray. "I never said Ray was ill. He took a walk in the neighborhood, and someone decided they didn't want a cop around." Her tone dared Fraser to argue with her. "But the results state Ray had—" She picked up the envelope and methodically hand-shredded it. "What results? I just see a bunch of confetti there." "Why are you protecting him still?" Fraser wondered. His eyes narrowed, and Jennifer felt the heat of that inspection. "Ray Vecchio refused to confirm my findings, and you do the same thing." He paused, as if coming to a realization. "You loved him," Fraser accused her. Jennifer shrugged, unwilling to answer the truth, and began re-wrapping her sandwich. "Maybe," she offered, "Ray Vecchio and I are just honoring a friend's wishes." More kindly, she continued, "I don't know you, and maybe I never will, but Ray thought the world of you, and whatever happened between you and him changed him. I can't say that exactly endears you to me, because I'm the one who ended up with a guy who almost never smiled, rarely spoke to anyone, and was just waiting to die. Maybe if you'd gotten here sooner, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Then again," she gestured to the pile of confetti, "maybe it wouldn't have mattered, if you believe Ray was sick with something. Either way, it's too late now." She watched her words register, and nodded in grim satisfaction. Taking a deep breath, she stood, and collected her belongings. At the last second, she remembered Fraser had ridden with her to the restaurant. "Come on, I'll take you home." "Home?" Fraser seemed caught off-guard by the suggestion. "No, that's perfectly all right. I'll — I think I'll walk." She was tempted to insist, but the look on his face clearly told her he wanted to be alone. She left him there, knowing she wouldn't be able to soon forget the image of a man who'd just realized how much he'd lost. Somewhere, deep in her heart, she felt the echo of that mental picture reverberate, and had to blink rapidly to clear her suddenly cloudy vision. where the heart goes after it falls is a nearly bottomless gorge in which i have drowned a river of tears and still my soul grieves for the things it can never have your love was the ice that froze me and kept the tears from flooding the joy and then turned the joy into darkness and i will never be the same

Ariadne kissed Eames slowly and methodically, smiling against the skin of his stomach. He had his collar and cuffs on, and Arthur's ties were used to attach his cuffs to the headboard. Arthur didn't complain, actually; he had double checked the knots to be sure that they would hold, and he happily kissed his way along the inside of Eames' thigh. The idea was that Eames couldn't come until Ariadne allowed it, and his erection couldn't flag or falter if their attention wandered elsewhere. They had been at it for more than an hour, and Arthur had at one point pushed his way into Ariadne because he couldn't take the tension anymore. Eames' eyes had tracked them hungrily, his breath coming in short pants. "Mistress," he whispered as Ariadne panted and spasmed, her breath gusting over his skin. She didn't acknowledge him until she began kissing his stomach again, a languorous smile on her face. "You're being very good, Ben," she purred. He gave her a shaky smile, and she licked the moisture beaded at the tip of his erection. He sucked in a breath, and she smiled as she looked up at him through her eyelashes. Arthur moved to cup his balls in his hand, and Ariadne blew across the moist skin. Eames shivered, begging her with his eyes to let him come. "You've definitely done everything I asked today." "I only wish to make you happy, Mistress," Eames replied, his voice not much more than a soft moan. Ariadne licked the length of his cock as if it was a lollipop. "Good answer. Excellent answer. One that deserves my full attention." She closed her mouth over him and sucked gently, making Eames gasp and arch slightly into her mouth. Arthur stroked his balls lightly, then ran a fingernail along his perineum. "Oh, God," Eames moaned. Ariadne continued to lick and suck him, and Arthur kept up his slow strokes as he watched Eames try to keep from writhing. "Mistress," he managed to gasp as his cock twitched slightly in her mouth. Pulling away to kneel on her haunches, Ariadne smiled softly. "When I start sucking on you again, I want you to come. I want to taste you." "Yes, Mistress," Eames gasped. "Thank you, Mistress." Smiling happily, Ariadne leaned down and took Eames into her mouth again. She sucked on him, long and deep, tongue sliding along the veins. Eames shuddered as Arthur bent his head to mouth his balls gently, running his tongue along the thin patch of bare skin there. Between the two of them, Eames closed his eyes, canted his hips and cried out as he came, pulling at his tied wrists. He slowly opened his eyes as they pulled back. Ariadne had that satisfied smile on her face, a slight curling of her lips that made him want to kiss her. Arthur beat him to it, visibly licking the taste of Eames out of her mouth. Arthur then leaned down, his body pressed up against Eames' bare chest. He tugged on the ties, releasing Eames' wrists, mouth hovering just over those panting lips. Arthur licked the outer edge of those lips, a smile on his face. "You so like to please Ariadne, don't you?" "Yes, I do," he answered, an answering smile on his face. Eames let out a content sigh as Arthur slid his hand behind his neck to pull him in for a lusty kiss. Ariadne undid the wrist cuffs and left the collar on for last. When the two men broke for air, Ariadne gave Arthur a playful shove on the shoulder to remove the collar. She put them all carefully down on the bedside table, and then curled up on the bed beside her lovers. "Mmm. Wonderful today, yes?" "Absolutely, love," Eames replied, kissing her temple. "We need to bring them when we go to DC," Ariadne said with a smile. "And how are we going to explain those to my mother?" Arthur asked with an arched eyebrow on the other side of Eames. "It's not as if Eames is some goth or emo kid, you know." "Hide them under his clothes, of course. Like we did with my bootlaces." Eames gave a happy little hum at the thought of that exercise. "I vote we do that again." Ariadne laughed and kissed his jaw. "You would." Arthur pressed his lips to Eames' shoulder in a possessive kiss. "Well, we'll have to pack soon. I should remind my mother about the flight." "What time is it there?" "Way too late to call, even for her," he replied, suppressing a yawn. "I'll call tomorrow. She'd be at work by then." "Sounds like a plan. Sleep now," Ariadne said, getting up just long enough to pull up the covers. "Packing and calling and whatever else in the morning." "Yes, Mistress," both men chorused, teasing her. She laughed and tickled them both, then Eames pulled her down on top of him. She giggled, then snuggled between the both of them to sleep. The following afternoon, Arthur dialed his mother's work number. It was a six hour difference in time, so she would be just getting settled into the day. Ariadne was sketching idly at the dinette table, and Eames was puttering around in the kitchen putting together a sundae that looked like it had at least a thousand calories in it. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of all the caramel syrup as the line connected. "Good morning," he said smoothly. "Can I speak with Alice Silverton, please?" He paused as the woman on the other end of the line spoke. "It's her son, Arthur." He laughed easily and sat down beside Ariadne, leaning his chin on her shoulder to look at the sketch she was doing. "Yeah, I know. I usually call her at home, but I got tied up last night." "Actually, that was me, darling," Eames said, pitching his voice louder so that it carried over to where Arthur was sitting. He grinned unrepentantly when Arthur whipped his head around to glare at him. "You do like specificity, after all." Ariadne giggled, which didn't help matters, but apparently Alice came on the line. "Hey, Mom," Arthur said, voice soft and happy. "I just wanted to remind you that we'd be arriving at Dulles on Tuesday afternoon." He grinned, looking much younger than his actual age. "I was just making sure! I didn't want the three of us to wind up having to take a taxi and find the door locked. Not that it would matter, but I don't know if you've changed the security code or not." Ariadne laughed out loud at that, head thrown back. "Yes, that's Ariadne. Want to talk to her?" She took the phone and Arthur got up. He poked Eames' stomach as he took a bite of his sundae. "We need to work that off." "That was the idea," he replied cheekily. He held out his spoon. "There's enough to share." "Of course there is," Arthur replied, taking the spoon. He took a bite and smiled at Ariadne chattering away happily with his mother. "It'll be a nice break. After we get back I can start looking into jobs." "Pietro is still missing," Eames told him. "I could probably see if Vincenzo's seen him. Or talk to Mustafa about working down there again. It'll be warm." Arthur grinned. "Winters aren't that bad here," he began. His voice trailed off when Ariadne got up from the table. "Love you, too, Mom. Here's Arthur again." He took the phone and repeated their itinerary for his mother. Ariadne snagged the spoon from him and took a scoop of the ice cream, taking care to have some of the caramel syrup and whipped cream on the spoon. "You make the most decadent desserts, Ben," she said happily. "What's the occasion?" Eames laughed and took the spoon back. "An excuse for very vigorous sex tonight?" She laughed and stood on her tip toes to kiss his jaw. "Mmm. I like how you think. Not that we really need an excuse, right?" Arthur hung up and placed his cell phone on the counter. "Mom says hi, by the way," he said, coming over to the kitchen counter beside the other two. He took the spoon from Eames again and took another bite of the sundae. "She has off Tuesday afternoon to pick us up at Dulles." "She does know we're all lovers, right?" Eames asked, eyebrow lofted. "Or is she going to be gobsmacked like poor Rebecca was?" "She knows we've all worked together. It wasn't something to explain over the phone," Arthur said, shrugging. "Arthur..." Ariadne shook her head. "It's his thing, Ben. We were together for nearly six months before I met his mother. Alice knew that he was dating someone, but no details." She poked his arm affectionately. "Someone likes secrets." "It's not that! This is serious. It's not something you talk about over the phone. You get together, have dinner, get a chance to know each other." With that explanation, Eames felt touched. He gave Arthur a soft smile and pulled him in for a kiss. "So do you need to warn me about anything before I meet your mother?" Arthur shook his head and rubbed Eames' arm gently. "She's pretty laid back. I think I can count on one hand how many times she's been truly upset." "So is being uptight something you inherited from your father?" Eames snarked. Arthur shrugged. "I wouldn't know. He was a loser that left before I was born." He took another bite of the sundae. "The data I eventually got on him didn't say." "I didn't know that. I'm sorry." Snorting, Arthur handed the spoon back. "Don't be. It's not a big deal. Mom was eighteen when she had me. Like I said, he was a loser." Eames blinked at the casual statement, but Ariadne wasn't surprised. Then again, the two of them had been together for a little over two years before he had been added to the mix. She probably knew all this already. "So was it tough to be without a father?" he asked, brows slightly knit. He tried to imagine a childlike Arthur but couldn't picture it. Somehow he kept coming up with a details-oriented man that liked to appear in control of the situation. He shrugged again. "There were my grandparents and Aunt Lori when I was little. Then Mom and I moved out to the townhouse in DC. I think you'd like it, actually. It was built in 1902 and has all these cubbies and hiding spots. It was great for hide and seek," he said with a grin. "Mom hated that, mostly because she couldn't fit into all of them." Eames and Ariadne laughed. "You know, I can't see you as a little boy," Eames admitted. "I keep seeing the suits and khakis." Laughing, Ariadne took another spoonful of the ice cream. "I have a few albums Alice gave me..." "God, no," Arthur laughed, shaking his head. "Don't you dare! It'll ruin the image he has of me..." She left the kitchen, ducking under Arthur's arms as he reached for her. He laughed as she ran into the living room, digging into one of the cabinets beneath the TV. She came back with an old photo album, the kind with sticky pages beneath a cellophane cover. She stayed on the other side of the counter, out of Arthur's playful reach, and flipped the pages for Eames to look at. There were baby photos and some when Arthur was a bit older; those pages were a different color, making Eames think that Alice put pages from different albums into this one for Ariadne to keep. It was a casually loving kind of gesture, one that made him sling his arm around Arthur's shoulders and hold him close. He didn't have any photos from when he was young, and didn't have anything other than a broken pocket watch from his father. It was a little sad, especially in comparison to the care Alice had for her son. "You were a cute kid," he said, kissing Arthur's cheek. "I should get her to tell me embarrassing childhood stories, right?" "I'm regretting this trip already," Arthur intoned. It was belied by the grin on his face, however. Eames could tell that Arthur was actually looking forward to introducing him to his mother, and from the easy tone Ariadne had with her, he could tell that Alice was a lovely woman. It would be nice to have some happy family time for a change. *** Alice Silverton was approaching fifty but didn't look her age at all. Eames would have guessed she was forty. Her hair was dark like Arthur's, with mahogany highlights. Her eyes were a bright blue, and she had some laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. She was two inches shorter than Arthur, which she made up for with heels beneath the jeans and wool coat. She swept him up in a tight bear hug and did the same with Ariadne. She even had a hug for Eames, though it wasn't nearly as effusive. "For once, the planes were on time!" she said with a grin. It looked exactly like Arthur's, complete with a dimple on the side. "This means we may actually miss rush hour traffic!" She drove a fuel efficient Toyota, which meant there wasn't nearly enough room for their luggage in the back. "Bungee cords are in the spare tire well," she told Arthur, helping Ariadne and Eames pile some of the larger pieces of luggage on the roof rack. Or rather, she and Eames did that, and Ariadne helped hand them the luggage. She pulled an elastic off of her wrist and tied up her hair in a loose ponytail, then let the two men bungee the luggage in place. "Perfect. Now, are you hungry, or should we just head to the house?" "I think we can head to the house," Arthur said, checking with Ariadne and Eames. They nodded, and he smiled at his mother. "I think we're still on Parisian time, anyway." "This is why you're supposed to sleep on planes. I have melatonin at home if you need it to avoid the jet lag," Alice said, sliding into the driver's seat. "So," she said, pulling out of the parking lot. "Tell me all about how you've been doing since last year, everyone!" Arthur was sitting in the passenger seat, with Ariadne and Eames in the back. He started launching into highly edited versions of some of the jobs he had been on; he didn't mention Eames getting hurt the prior spring or his own near brush with death in Alexandria over the summer. Ariadne jumped into the story in places, and Eames was content to let them talk. Their excited voices washed over him, and he found himself drowsing a bit during the drive. It was late in the evening in Paris, and it was comfortably warm in Alice's car. "Wake up, sleepyhead," Ariadne said after a while, shaking Eames awake when they arrived. "We're here." The townhouse was a lovely Victorian era house, complete with gingerbread trim done in white against the dark green siding. There were two large bay windows in the front of the house, as well as large hydrangea bushes that were more or less a collection of branches this late in the year. There was a single large maple tree in the front yard, which was perhaps twenty feet wide. It was only that large because the house was a corner property; it didn't look like there was much of a backyard, as most of it was the garage and a tool shed. "I have both of the bedrooms on the third floor ready," Alice was saying, helping to drag the luggage into the main foyer of the townhouse. "Actually, we'll only need the large one up there," Arthur said as Eames shut the front door behind himself. "The three of us share a bedroom." Alice blinked. She looked between the three of them, then glared at Arthur. "Arthur Stanley Silverton! Why didn't you tell me before this?!" "It's not something to tell you over the phone," he protested. "And my hallway is any better?" she cried, pulling him into the house and starting to drag him toward the kitchen. "This is like when you brought Henry home your senior year in high school!" She gave him a little shake. "Did you think I was going to say something stupid after that stunt?!" Ariadne grinned and looked at Eames' stunned expression. "You'll like Alice, I promise," she said, taking off her coat. She took his and hung them up on the coat rack near the door. "She doesn't like that he likes men?" he asked, hearing Alice's raised voice from the kitchen. "Oh, she's known for a while that he likes both. He had a girlfriend first. I forget her name, but the way Arthur describes her, she was dippy." "Dippy?" "Good body, but not much upstairs. Stereotypical cheerleader dating her science tutor. She broke things off after a few weeks to go out with one of the guys from the wrestling team." She grinned at Eames' startled expression. "I know, right? And Henry was his first boyfriend. He's the one that encouraged Arthur to join the army to get money for college." She led Eames into the living room. "Want to try to stay up? Did the nap help?" "Yeah. That helped a little," Eames said, looking around the living room. "So is she really angry?" Ariadne patted his thigh gently as she shook her head, a smile on her face. "That's what he gets for springing it on her like that." The voices in the kitchen were muffled by the doorway, but Alice didn't seem nearly as upset anymore. Ariadne pointed out a few of the pictures on the wall that she really liked, and one entire wall of the living room was nothing but built in bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Alice was an avid reader, with books shoved into every available space. Her paperbacks were even double stacked. Ariadne grinned as she followed Eames' line of sight. "Where do you think Arthur gets it from? She's a paralegal, so she does nothing but research all day, too." Eames laughed at that, and looked up when Arthur and Alice returned to the living room. He had a sheepish expression on his face, but did seem unscathed. "I see you're still in one piece, then," he snarked. Alice shook her head ruefully. "My son has some silly ideas sometimes. Anyway, did you want to go out or stay in? You look almost dead on your feet, dear," she said, reaching out pat Eames' arm gently. "Depends on what's for dinner," he replied, giving Alice a smile. "I was thinking sukiyaki?" She looked at their three faces, and grinned at the appreciative expressions. "Okay. Sukiyaki it is. I even bought some bean buns at the market, so I can start up the steamer." She turned to Arthur. "And you, no more surprises or I'm telling Lori you did this again." Arthur winced a little. "But she's with Aunt Heather's side this year..." "She'd come right back just to yell at you." Alice beamed at him and patted his arm in the same affectionate manner she had patted Eames'. "You're not too old for a scolding when you've been stupid, Arthur." Eames couldn't help it. He started sniggering, which set off Ariadne, who was trying not to giggle. Arthur glowered at them both. "Oh, darling. Your expression is priceless." Alice returned to the kitchen to start the steamer and rice cooker, and the three others helped to clear off the coffee table for the sukiyaki. The dining room table was buried under a number of file folders, law journals, bound books of case law and various magazines. There were loose pages with a loose, loopy scrawl on them as well as what looked like some groceries that should have been put in the pantry. It was an elegant table and chair set beneath a crystal chandelier, and one of the front bay windows opened into the dining area. "You have a very lovely home," Eames said politely as Alice started preparing the ingredients for the sukiyaki. "Anything I can help with?" "Thank you, but shoo," she said playfully, waving him out of the kitchen. "You're tired and a guest. Next year you'll be more like family, right? Right. Or maybe you are now, I don't know. Arthur didn't say how long you've all been together." "Since spring, actually," Eames said helpfully, leaning against the kitchen counter. Ariadne had turned on the radio in the living room, and was having a giggly shoving match with Arthur as they cleared space for dinner. He smiled fondly at the sight of them. "He has some very funny ideas about what's appropriate," she said, following his line of sight. She shook her head ruefully. "You think he'd realize by now that I don't like surprises like that. I never took all his other surprises that well." "I don't know... It seems like you're taking this rather calmly," Eames commented. "Well, I thought you were just a friend. I didn't know you were a boyfriend. That's a big difference." "Still, him liking blokes... You're taking that awfully well, overall." "Ha. After the first time he surprised me with it? That part's not a surprise at this point." She looked up in between slicing the pork very thin. "Considering Lori, it wasn't much of a shock." "He doesn't talk about family much," Eames said apologetically. "Who's Lori?" "My sister. She and her girlfriend have been together practically forever. You know how everyone says there's genetic influence for being gay? So, not a huge surprise." Eames blinked at her matter of fact manner. "So who does Arthur take after, then?" Alice laughed. "Not me, that's for sure. Well, maybe in some things. But mostly he's like Lori. She's fussy, and oh my God, if she and Heather were here this year, you probably wouldn't hear the end of it. She's such a neatnik, it drives me up the wall." She finished with the pork and started slicing the vegetables. "You know, you can help me after all," she said after a moment. She had kicked her heels off into a corner of kitchen to be comfortable. "The top cabinet over that counter," she said, nodding toward it with her head. "There's sauces and stuff in there. You're tall enough to grab them without the stepping stool." He found the sauces in question, as well as some other things she had bought from an Oriental market. "So you like Japanese food, then?" he asked. "Adore it. And Thai. Italian's good comfort food, but you can get that anywhere. Plus, I don't usually have the patience to put together a good lasagne and then eat it by myself for a week for lunch and dinner, you know? Maybe tomorrow? Then Thursday is the turkey and all the trimmings, of course. You're all staying through next week?" Eames blinked again. "Yes, I believe so." "Oh, good. Between the four of us, we can knock off a lasange, then. I can make that." "You really don't have to, Mrs. Silverton..." Alice snorted. "Please, none of that. Alice or Mom, whichever's comfy for you. It's Ms., anyway. I never did get married." "Oh, I'm sorry..." She snorted again. "Don't be. My parents were inherently thankful, since my taste in men is so atrocious." Arthur and Ariadne came into the kitchen at that point, and Arthur rummaged around in the fridge for a drink. "Speaking of which, where's Richard? I would've thought you wanted to introduce him to me." Alice turned when she was done with the vegetables. "Well, I suppose I have a surprise of my own for you, then. I wound up dumping him when his wife called me." Arthur dropped the carton of orange juice. "His what? But I did the background check! He wasn't married!" She eyed the carton on the floor and he picked it up to replace in the fridge. "Turns out I never got his real last name, the asshole. His wife Rielle was a very nice lady. We actually met up for lunch to compare notes. She decided I wasn't a house wrecking whore and I decided she wasn't a delusional bitch. And she will most likely be getting the house and kids, so I guess it all ends well." "When did this all happen?" he demanded. "Two weeks ago," Alice replied, moving to slice up some raw beef. "Didn't seem appropriate to talk about over the phone," she said, sounding almost as if she was repeating Arthur's words back to him. By his embarrassed look, Eames supposed she was. "I said I was sorry!" he said, throwing up his hands. Alice laughed and continued her preparation. "Living room's ready?" "Yes, Mom," Ariadne said with a grin, rubbing Arthur's back soothingly. "Are we going to clear out the dining room tomorrow?" "Let me do that. I have a system, and I know where everything is. I'm working on a huge case right now, and I can't lose all the tags I put in the files." "Oh, that is definitely something the two of you have in common," Eames said with a laugh, looking between the two Silvertons. Arthur gave him a mock glare and Alice just laughed again. Alice just seemed so very easy going, and Eames couldn't help but like her. Arthur had said his mother was a lovely woman, but as usual his description was understated. He probably had become as reserved as he was because of her excessive emotionality. Dinner was a laid back affair, and the four of them talked about various relatives that Arthur had. He was an only child, as Lori and her partner decided not to have children or adopt. Heather had five siblings, so all of her nieces and nephews were considered Arthur's cousins as he was growing up. They lived in Virginia, and occasionally sent cards or made phone calls to keep in touch. Alice's parents had helped to raise Arthur while she went to college, and had helped her afford the townhouse's down payment for her loan. "Better than paying for a wedding and all that," Alice declared. "Fabulous neighborhood, with a farmer's market on Sundays in the spring and summer, not far from mass transit, and there's tons of kitschy shopping just a few blocks away. And the schools were great for Arthur." She pointed at him with her chopsticks. "You used to be so shy when we first moved here! Do you remember Brandon Gallagher down the street?" she asked. She barely waited for Arthur's nod before continuing. "Well, he's a fourth grade teacher now in Maryland. I saw his mother at the store just yesterday. Married with kids and everything." "Mom..." Arthur began in an embarrassed tone. "Don't tell me you don't want kids, Arthur," Alice said, shaking her head. "Well, in our line of work..." he began. "Pft. I know you don't tell me everything, but still. Do you honestly think you're going to do dream share forever? They're tightening regulations here in the US. It's only a matter of time before the EU jumps on that bandwagon. Regulations will clamp down even tighter, even for the illegal stuff." Eames should have known better than to be surprised that Alice knew what they did for a living, but he was still surprised. Arthur gave a negligent shrug. "It's still years away from passing, Mom," Arthur declared. "Yes, okay, fine, that's true. And I'll admit, now I know what my mother was talking about. I'd like some grandkids to spoil someday! You know, show off some pictures at my desk like everyone else does. Oh, I'll need Ben's picture, too, won't I?" Eames blinked again, and was glad he wasn't drinking anything. He would have choked in his surprise. "Alice..." "What? You're important to my son, you're important to me." She frowned at his empty bowl. "Eat, Ben. No need to be so polite." She grabbed a few of the cooked slices of beef with her chopsticks and dumped them into his bowl. "God knows we don't stand on formality in this house." Ariadne giggled and elbowed Eames. "See? I told you that you didn't have to be worried." Alice's expression softened slightly as Eames ducked his head a little. "Hey, if it comes down to formality, I haven't a leg to stand on. I'm the one that got knocked up at eighteen, after all," she said in a matter of fact tone of voice. "Still graduated high school and went to prom even eight months pregnant," she added with a firm nod. "Arthur's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," she said with a fond smile, reaching across the table to pat his arm affectionately. "Who cares about a few whispers, right? Right. Fuck 'em all. I'm the one that has to live with myself." Eames couldn't help but grin at Alice. "Hear, hear," he said. He couldn't help but wish she had been his mother. "I think Arthur's one of the best things that's happened to me, too. Ariadne's the other one." She had that same fond smile on her face as she looked at Eames. "Well, now I understand why he's been hiding you. I don't like it," she added, pointing at Arthur with her chopsticks with a mock severe tone, "but I understand it. I'm sure we'll talk more tomorrow when I get back from work." "I thought you got the day off!" Ariadne protested. "I told you, I'm in the middle of a big case!" Alice cried. She had that same indignant expression that Arthur had when he was told his research wasn't good enough. Unable to stop himself, Eames laughed. "Oh my god, I just flashed to what you'll be like in another dozen years, Arthur." Ariadne began to laugh, but both Arthur and Alice shot Eames identical annoyed glances. It only made him laugh harder, and he threw an arm around Arthur's shoulders, pulling him in for a one-armed hug. "Oh, don't pull that face, darling. You know how you get on a job, too." Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Why did we think it was a good idea to start this, again?" he asked Ariadne with a rueful tone. "Because we love him," Ariadne said, grinning at both of them. She leaned over and kissed Eames' cheek. "Oh, you three are adorable," Alice declared with a happy sigh. "It's like when Lori and Heather were first going out." She ate more of the sukiyaki and looked over them with a pleased expression. Eames had an arm around each of his lovers and was smiling at Alice. It was such a perfect moment, one he knew he would always remember. *** Alice was planning to stay up late to do more research on the dining room table. She did help bring the luggage up to the third floor. There were two bedrooms, one larger than the other, as well as a bathroom under the eaves, and oddly shaped closet spaces. The stairs were steep but not terribly creaky, and there were so many charming Victorian touches along the ceilings and doorways. The three of them settled into the bedroom. It was a queen bed, with three heavy quilts over the flannel sheets. "It'll be a tight fit, loves, but I'm sure we'll make do," Eames declared, grinning at the other two. "No sprawling, though." Arthur snorted as Ariadne shut the bedroom door after turning out the hall light. It was nearly two am Paris time, and they were all exhausted. "We're going to be so dead asleep I don't think we'll care." "You know, Arthur told me that he had a fantasy of having sex with me in his old bedroom." She said, her voice dropping into a sultry tone. "That's downstairs, but I think this bedroom will still do nicely, don't you?" Eames smiled at Arthur's gobsmacked expression. "Well, you did have the pleasure of shagging her in her old room, Arthur. Not very nice to leave me out of it..." He pushed Arthur backward onto the bed and plucked his pajama top out of his hands. "Think we should punish him for that, Mistress?" "Mmmm," Ariadne purred, unbuttoning her blouse. "I like how you think, Ben." "Hey!" Arthur cried when Ariadne wriggled out of the rest of her clothes. Apparently their talk on the plane about no sex in his mother's house didn't matter. "My mother's downstairs!" "You'll just have to be quiet," Eames replied, wagging his eyebrows playfully. He pulled Arthur's pajama bottoms and underwear down at once, baring him to his gaze. "I think he looks rather tasty, Ariadne." He bent his head down and licked a stripe along Arthur's flaccid cock. "What do you think?" "So we get to share?" she asked, grinning widely. "That's the idea." "Oh, yeah. I definitely like how you think," Ariadne purred. "Do I get a vote?" Arthur piped up, breath turning shallow. "Nope," Ariadne said cheerfully. "You get to keep quiet while we take care of you." Whatever he would have said was swallowed by the gasp he made when Ariadne took him into her mouth for a few sucks. Eames leaned down to feather kisses along Arthur's stomach, then kissed Ariadne's forehead. He let his hand slide down her bare back. "Don't be greedy, love," he murmured. "Save some for me." Ariadne giggled and lifted her head. "Same time?" Eames answered her sensual grin with one of his own, and they settled comfortably next to each other so that they could both lick along Arthur's length. Ariadne stroked his balls while Eames touched the inside of Arthur's thigh. They weren't terribly coordinated, which got Ariadne laughing when their tongues touched or their foreheads bumped into each other. Eventually, they wordlessly settled into a rhythm of motion. Ariadne licked up one side while Eames licked down the other. Arthur's breath came in soft pants, and he pulled at the top blanket with his fists. Ariadne added a little swirl across the head of his cock with the tip of her tongue on an upstroke, making Arthur moan. Not to be outdone, Eames decided to wrap his lips around the head and tug gently on it. "Are we going for spit or swallow?" Ariadne asked Eames, giving the head an extra flourish with her tongue. "Neater to swallow," he replied, then took Arthur into his mouth for a hard suck. Arthur bucked his hips, letting out a strangled gasp. "Right here, guys," he panted. "I'm still here." "And still coherent," Eames replied with a grin, scratching at the inside of Arthur's thigh gently. "So we obviously aren't doing the job right." "Damn," Ariadne said, picking up on Eames' playful tone. "We'll have to work harder." They resumed their routine, this time taking more time to tease the head and shaft. Arthur's breath was fractured, and he writhed beneath their hands. He made soft guttural moans he couldn't quite muffle by biting his lip, which made them smile against his skin. Eames sucked on him a few times on his turn, and Ariadne started doing the same. Arthur was close, beyond words and unable to signal them. He made a soft choking noise a few minutes later, and came in Eames' mouth. Eames kicked off his clothes, eyes on Arthur's sprawled body. He pulled Ariadne next to him, not surprised to find her soft and wet against his erection. "We didn't bring anything, so we'll have to be careful." He slid his fingers into her, aware of Arthur's eyes on them. "Unless you have anything I don't know about?" He shook his head lazily, movements more languid and boneless than usual. "I'll return the favor, though." Better able to move, Eames shifted position so that Arthur didn't have to move as much to take him into his mouth. Eames pumped his fingers hard and fast inside of Ariadne, his thumb at her clit. She came three times before he did, and they settled into bed beside Arthur. Their limbs were all tangled together, their bodies pressed tight. There were muted good nights, and then they all fell asleep. *** Eames had never participated in an American Thanksgiving before. He'd seen it in movies heard people he'd worked with talk about it, but he'd never actually helped with one. Wednesday night Alice started baking the lasagne for that night's dinner, as well as prepping pumpkin pies and mixing things together that would eventually become the stuffing and sides. She had a battered Betty Crocker cookbook that she proudly declared had been her mother's, and cheerfully had Arthur and Ariadne help make the pie filling. "We should just buy the pies, Mom. The bakery gets a smoother consistency," Arthur protested. "So that means you should do a better job blending," she had returned, grinning at his long suffering sigh. Alice directed most of the work as she began clearing off the dining room table, humming along with the radio. Eames wound up helping her, since Arthur and Ariadne didn't need his help following the recipe book. He put the books and journals in the places she indicated, making the piles neat on the coffee table. "Now, Arthur told me yesterday that this was something that everybody talked about before it really happened," she began without preamble, reaching for some Pledge to wipe down the table once it was cleared. "He seems happy enough about it, and Ariadne's a sweetheart. How about you?" "I meant it yesterday," he said in a serious tone of voice. "They're the best things that have ever happened to me." "Well, illegal dream share isn't exactly wine and roses." "You seem to take that awfully well." Alice laughed and stood up straight. "You know some awful sticks in the mud, don't you?" she said, grinning at him. "You did say Arthur doesn't talk about family much. He's kind of close mouthed that way. So he didn't say much about me at all, did he?" "He said you were lovely," Eames told her, shrugging. "I didn't exactly press, either." "Aw," she smiled fondly toward the kitchen, where Arthur and Ariadne were consulting her cookbook. "He's a darling boy sometimes, isn't he? And other times, you just want to wring his neck," she added with a laugh. "Then again, I was just a kid when I had him. I didn't know any better, really." She shook her head, a musing smile on her face. "Anyway, I'm a paralegal. I know people on both sides of the law, okay? Mostly on the legit side, but I do have a handful of people I know that are not quite on the up and up. Some of it was Arthur's doing, but I've introduced my share of people to him, too." Eames blinked at her in surprise. "I hadn't realized..." "Yes, well, we don't want me to lose my job, right? Right. So we don't advertise. But sometimes I'm a nicely discreet avenue for Arthur to get in touch with some people. So I'm aware of what the risks are, and I'm aware of what he probably doesn't like to tell me." Scratching the back of his head, Eames tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be insulting or demeaning. "No one intends for the worst case scenario to happen, Alice. He's skilled enough to take care of himself, at least." "Oh, I know that. He'd told me that a thousand times before Ariadne came along and another thousand after. I'm sure there'll be another thousand times after this, too." She let out a breath and looked at the kitchen. "It's hard to think of him getting shot at or dealing with some of the bastards I have to deal with at work, that's all. It's one thing for me to deal with it in the office, because there's a limit to it. It's understood you don't fuck with your lawyer or their staff, since that will just mean nobody would ever defend you again. It's understood. What you're all doing is outside of even those norms, though. What's to stop someone from ignoring that boundary?" "Because other people wind up dead if they try," Eames replied honestly. "Because he has a reputation in those circles. I suppose I do, too. Ariadne's new, so her only reputation is that she's damned brilliant at what she does." Alice smiled. "Yeah, Arthur learned pretty quick that empty heads are no fun to play with." She took in Eames' bemused expression. "What?" "You're not what I expected, Alice." "I get that a lot. I don't feel forty-eight, you know. I'd say maybe twenty-five. Maybe. I could be pushing it on the maturity thing." They both laughed together at that remark. "Why? What's your mother like?" Eames' expression darkened before he could help it, and he turned away when he saw the rising alarm in Alice's eyes. "Not nearly as kind or understanding as you are." "Because of being with Arthur?" It was almost amusing to see Alice get all defensive on his behalf. Eames smiled in spite of himself. "No. The nicest way to put it, I suppose, is that she's a selfish and inconsiderate bitch that sees children as property that should be quiet in the corner if she can't trot them out to show off." "Huh. Ariadne said something similar of hers." Eames thought about that for a while. "I've had the misfortune of meeting Georgia. The execution is different, but yes, I suppose my Mum is cut from the same cloth." Alice impulsively patted Eames' arm gently. "Well, I don't pretend to think I'm a normal mother, but you're welcome here for holidays." He pulled her in for a hug, which startled them both. "Thank you, Alice. You know, you're a better Mum than mine ever was." "Yeah, I did good with Arthur, huh?" she said with a proud smile, looking back toward the kitchen. Arthur was hip checking Ariadne playfully, and she was threatening to toss pumpkin pie filling at his head. "You didn't turn out so bad yourself, Ben." Eames was stunned, and it must have shown on his face. Alice clucked her tongue. "God, your mother was a selfish cow. Can I send her some nasty e-mails on your behalf, then?" "You hardly know me." "I know Arthur and I know Ariadne," Alice said. "They couldn't love someone awful. And despite the fact that all three of you are criminals keeps me up at night sometimes, I know Arthur's grown up enough to make his own mistakes. What I do know of you tells me that you're not one of them." "Thank you." She gave him a sweet smile, one that he used to wish his mother would make at him. "Now, enough of the mushy stuff, yes? I know men hate that shit, so I think I've used up your quota for the rest of the year." Eames laughed and played along. The fine china would be rinsed off in the morning as Alice did the rest of the dinner. She was positively gleeful, glad to have guests in the house again to cook for. "This is the one Mom thing I actually do right," she explained as she dished out the lasagne for dinner. She sat at the head of the dining room table, Arthur on her left, Ariadne on her right and Eames across from her. It wasn't a very large dining room table, but anything larger would have been ridiculous for just her and Arthur. "I can't be bothered to vacuum regularly, but I'm a fabulous cook." "Don't forget baker," Arthur added helpfully. "Flattery will get you everywhere," Alice told him with a grin. She gave him a little extra lasagne, and the dinner conversation wound up being descriptions of Arthur from junior high school and high school, and how Alice had been duped into thinking her little science geek son would stay out of trouble after learning from her poor example. "And imagine that, he gives me the lessons on how to use mace properly if I get mugged on the Metro!" "I don't like knowing you're unprotected, Mom." Arthur shrugged and didn't look sorry at all. Alice brushed it off with the same careless gestures as she had brushed off everything else. She talked about some of the cases she had done research for, the notes and the contacts she had kept. One of the partners in the firm she worked in was involved in politics, so she had a few more contacts than the average paralegal. It rather explained a lot about Arthur's ability to get in and out of networks he really had no business knowing how to access. Staying up again to do more research, she let the trio climb the stairs to bed after giving them all a kiss on the cheek and the forehead. There wasn't anything more than heavy petting amongst their tangled limbs before they fell asleep. The kitchen was bustling the next morning, and Alice was clearly in her element amidst the chaos and clutter. She knew where everything was, even if it seemed initially it was an undecipherable mess. She gave orders that the other three followed, and she was practically waltzing around the room. By noon, the entire house was full of the smells of baking things, and Eames was fascinated by the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. When Alice heard he had never actually seen one before, she plopped him down in front of the TV as soon as he was done helping to put together the stuffing. Eventually, Arthur sprawled on the couch next to him, and Ariadne leaned across both of their laps with her feet on the armrest. They looked up when a flash went off, and Alice was in the corner of the room with a camera. "Wanna pose for this one?" she asked, grinning at them. They obligingly smiled for her, and she snapped a few shots. "I'll e-mail you these and send over some prints." "I have photo paper in the apartment, Mom," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "And I have a Shutterfly account," Alice countered with a grin. Dinner was at three, and they were all seated around the dining room table with the Silverton fine china spread out across the table and the sterling silverware. Alice had explained that it had been her grandmother's, and would go to Arthur eventually. "Assuming you ever settle down," she said, unable to help herself from making the dig. Eames found himself snickering and Ariadne pointedly looked elsewhere when Arthur looked to her for support. "Who wants to say grace?" "Is that a Jewish thing?" Eames asked, confused. "Hell if I know," Alice said cheerfully. "We haven't really practiced much after Arthur had his bar mitzvah, and I was always a horrible Jew before that. Can you imagine me being kosher? Oh, hell no. But it's been a tradition for us to have someone say grace before we have the big family dinners. We picked it up from somewhere." "Grandpa said it was from his sister-in-law," Arthur said helpfully. "Oh. She was Lutheran, I think. So maybe it's a Lutheran thing. Whatever." She made a hand wave gesture. "Not important. So? Who wants to say it?" "How about we take turns?" Eames offered. "Something we're each grateful for?" The others around the table nodded approvingly. "I'll go first," he offered, and no one disagreed. "I'm thankful that Arthur and Ariadne saw something worth starting. I'm thankful the past doesn't hurt as much as it used to. And I'm thankful that I'm part of this family." Ariadne blinked back tears that threatened to form. "I'm thankful for all of my friends and family, even my mother. I'm thankful for all of our good health, and that we're able to be together." Arthur nodded at her and then took a breath. "I'm thankful that I've been worthy of the trust placed in me, and that I'm still here. I'm thankful every day that I've got everything I could ever want." Alice had a loopy grin on her face that reminded Eames of Arthur's happy grin. "God, it's so great to have people in the house again. I love being busy and having everyone over. I'm so thankful you're safe, Arthur," she said, reaching out to grasp his hand. "And I'm thankful that you're happy, that you're with people you love and that you did learn from my mistakes, even if I still wish you'd get a desk job somewhere so I'd know you're not getting shot at." Everyone laughed, and Alice grinned happily everyone in the room. "Thank God we've all got each other. Let's dig in!" All in all, it was the best Thanksgiving Eames had ever had. The End

Current mood: nervous Entry tags: fandom: spn, fic: finding eurydice, genre: angst, pairing: sam/dean, rating: nc-17 Title: Finding Eurydice Author: Ras Elased Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Sam/Dean Spoilers: up to AHBL 2 Warnings: Character death, Wincest Wordcount: ~8700 Summary: "You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." Notes: Okay, so this will probably get Jossed as soon as the season 3 premier airs (and I'm just under the wire!) but this is my version of how Dean's last year will play out. I wasn't even planning on writing this, because in my head, this is a giant, 40,000 word epic (including a B-story involving my pet theory about how Sammy was actually meant to be the Antichrist but his love for Dean prevented it), but there just isn't enough time to complete a monstrosity like that before the premier. But there is something about this idea that just wouldn't leave me alone, so, this is the boiled down version, which actually is less boiled down than I intended. Also, this is only a part of the complete story that's in my head, so I ended it where I think the season 3 finale would end, which is a bit of a cliffhanger. I may write a sequel to this, maybe. Or I might not. Title and slight misquote at the end are from the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Also a huge shout out to aphelant for her speedy beta skills and for trying to tame my liberal use of commas. Thanks hon! *g* And because there's no end to the many ways I find to procrastinate, here's a simple coverart I made. (Contains spoilers for fic!) ~ "You sacrifice everything for me, don't you think I'd do the same for you? You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this." ~ Desperation makes people do crazy things. Sam's heard stories about people lifting trucks to save a trapped loved one, of single mothers becoming prostitutes just to put food on the table, of junkies who kill complete strangers to score their next hit. Hell, desperation made Dean sell his soul to a demon in exchange for Sam's life. Desperation has made Sam do some crazy things, too. He's lied. To strangers, to friends, to Dean. Everything he's done has been behind Dean's back, because Dean can't know. Any knowledge of Sam's actions on Dean's part could be twisted, could be seen by the Demon as trying to break their deal. But also because if Dean knew some of the things Sam's done, the price he's willing to pay for Dean's life, he'd say the price is too high. So Sam lies. He turns his back on his friends, on Bobby, Ellen, Jo, good people who wouldn't understand, who can't understand the lengths he's willing to go in order to keep Dean safe. Sometimes Sam finds it ironic. They've both hunted their whole lives but Sam's always considered Dean the killer. Dean's the one who will pull the trigger on another human being when he needs to, while Sam's the one trying to talk him out of it or moralize the situation. The first time Sam kills, he isn't scared, and he doesn't flinch, and that's maybe the most terrifying aspect of the whole thing. He just looks at Jake, knows, knows that Jake killed him, knows what Dean did to bring him back, and it makes Sam sick inside that he didn't kill the motherfucker when he had the chance. Something dark claws its way up from Sam's gut and this time he doesn't hesitate. It's easy. The next day, Sam figures out how to move things with his mind. Sam kills again, first in defense (a man holding up a gas station with Dean inside) and then in cold blood (he gets a vision of Gordon coming after Dean when he escapes from jail, so Sam tracks him down to a nearby motel and coolly puts three rounds in his chest before he even wakes up). Through it all, his powers grow, but so does that dark something coiled inside him, waiting to dig its talons into the back of Sam's brain. He knows what it means, remembers that he can only unlock more powers when he gives in a little bit more to the darkness, but he can't help thinking that there could be good in this, that he might be able to use his powers to save Dean, so he can't bring himself to let them go. He hides them from Dean when he can, but he knows Dean suspects. Dean's always had a blind spot as far as Sam's concerned, so Dean doesn't look at him any differently. He's still himself, after all, still Sam. He just knows what he's capable of now. At least, he knows some of what he's capable of, because as the days count down, one by one, desperation makes Sam realize just how far he's willing to go. Somewhere along the way, as they hit dead end after dead end after dead end, Sam stops noticing days of the week, then dates, and he starts thinking in terms of numbers. On Day 136, he visited the last mystic in Dad's journal, who just shook her head when he asked for help. On Day 207, Sam nearly took a bullet for Dean and got lectured for three solid hours, because 'Why did I bring you back if you're just gonna pull stupid shit like that?' On Day 312, Sam visited a Hoodoo priest and bought all the goofer dust he had... Sam still prays everyday. How can he not, with all he's seen, with all he's done? Sam survives on hope, the hope that there's more than just evil out there. Because without something bigger—without Dean—to pull his ass from the fire, he doesn't stand a chance. If it's just Sam against the darkness, the darkness wins. On Day 358, one week before Dean's bill comes due, Sam spends almost all day praying. God created the world in seven days. Surely in seven days He can keep it from ending. That night, Sam still spreads goofer dust under the door and windows, just in case. On Day 360, Sam notices Dean will sometimes pause mid-sentence before continuing on like nothing happened. He starts faltering for a half second, barely noticeable, before turning a corner. Sam's ashamed to admit that it takes him nearly two full days to figure it out. Dean won't admit it, he's still so damn worried about protecting Sam. But by Day 362 Sam's learned to recognize when Dean can hear the hellhounds. They spend most of Day 363 on the road. Sam feeds Dean directions as he navigates aimlessly on sketchy back roads and wide open asphalt. Sam doesn't have a destination in mind, aside from north, up, away. Away from the cloying heat that seems to stick to the outside of the Impala, to Sam's skin, to the inside of his lungs, making it feel like he's slowly suffocating, drowning from the inside out. He sits in the passenger seat and stays silent for the entire drive, and even though the temperature drops a few degrees with each hour they spend on the road, the cooler air doesn't ease the pressure on his lungs. Sam watches Dean all day. He watches Dean drum his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the mix tape that's been looping so many times it's become white noise. He watches the angle of light play across Dean's face as the sun moves east to west, slowly illuminating Dean's face from all directions, and Sam hates that he finds himself memorizing each one. When the sun sets he watches the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up as the chill night air fills the car. Even when they finally stop for the night Sam doesn't stop watching him. They haven't spoken to each other all day, and Sam feels the weight of unsaid words heavy on his tongue. He doesn't sleep, even after Dean finally drops off and his soft snores begin filling the room. He lies there for hours watching Dean's silhouette, body held tense even in sleep. The stillness presses in on him like a living thing, stealing his air. When he can't stand it anymore, he slips quietly from the room and heads into the night, towards the Impala, gun held loosely at his side. He sits in the passenger seat and just looks at the gun for a while, rubbing his thumb over the cool metal and slick mother-of-pearl handle. He doesn't know how long he sits there with the windows open, breath frosting in the bitter autumn air, but by the time he makes his decision his cheeks are hot under the flow of his tears and his hands are shaking. He pushes the cold muzzle of the gun past his lips. It tastes like that time in kindergarten when he swallowed the nickel he found on the playground, just because the school bully threatened to take it. Dean found out and started teaching him to fight the next day. He squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his thumb on the trigger. He has the fleeting, vaguely hysterical thought that Dean's going to kill him for making a mess in the Impala, and then— And then the gun is being pulled from his mouth, from fingers gone suddenly icy and numb. Dean nearly rips the car door off its hinges, his eyes blazing and wild and scared. Sam doesn't think he's ever seen Dean afraid before, didn't really think he ever felt fear. Then Dean's hands are on Sam's face, like steel and fire, and he says, "I swear to God, Sammy, it would take me less than two minutes to follow you just so I can kick your ass." Dean's voice catches, collides with something in Sam's chest, and just like that, Sam breaks. He fists the sleeves of Dean's t-shirt and collapses against his brother like a puppet with his strings cut. Dean holds him while he sobs and shakes, babbling wetly into Dean's neck all the words he's been holding back, about how he doesn't know what to do, how to save him, and it's not enough, never enough, and he can't do this alone, he can't. Dean half drags, half carries Sam back to the room. Sam won't let go, but Dean doesn't even try to pull out of Sam's grip, he just settles on the bed beside Sam, clinging back just as tightly. Sam never regains control of his emotions before exhaustion starts to take hold, and he's so wrung out that he accepts the false promise of peace sleep offers. As he starts to drift off, Dean mumbles thickly into Sam's hair, "Promise me you won't do anything stupid when I'm gone, Sammy." Dean's words are like cold iron in Sam's stomach. "Dean—" "Promise me." Sam swallows. "I promise," he says, though the words give him a physical ache as he forces them past his too dry throat. Before he falls asleep he wonders if they're another lie. Sam wakes Dean early on Day 364. He's jittery and anxious to get on the road, to run, and he's manhandled Dean halfway to the shower before his brother plants his feet and says, "No, Sammy." Sam rolls his eyes, but he's okay with that—no shower means they can get on the road faster. He tosses Dean a fresh shirt and tells him to hurry up. It isn't until Sam is halfway through tying his shoes that he looks up and sees an expression on his brother's face like carved granite and understanding flashes white-hot down his spine. "Dean," he says carefully, struggling past the waver in his voice, "get dressed." Dean's fists clench on the wadded up shirt. "I can't. I'm sorry." And just like that Sam feels like he's falling off a cliff, like the wind is rushing by his ears, filling his head with too much noise, and he's just waiting to get smashed to pieces on the rocks below. "So, what? You're just gonna sit here and wait for the hellhounds to come take you? That's a hell of a plan, Dean," Sam bites out, suddenly furious. "It's the only plan," Dean snaps back calmly, making it clear that the argument is over. But Sam's not finished. "No, Dean, that plan sucks!" Sam counters. "Why did I spend the last year trying to find a way to fix this if you're just gonna lay down and—" The word catches in Sam's throat, and it's a moment before he can speak again. "What does it accomplish?" Dean doesn't meet his eyes. "This puts things right. If I'd died like I was supposed to, Dad would still be here. Dad could have saved you." The quiet conviction in Dean's voice only ratchets up Sam's frustration. "God, would you stop playing the fucking martyr of this family for once in your life?" he shouts. Dean's eyes snap to his in outrage. "You think I wanted this, Sammy? You think I want to go to Hell?" Dean shouts back. Sam doesn't actually say 'yes', but the word is right there on the tip of his tongue. Dean seems to sense it, and his voice goes low and angry. "You think what you want, but I'm gonna die, Sam. That's all there is to it. Now it's best if you just accept that and move on." Sam huffs a sarcastic laugh to blot out the sudden tightness in his chest. "Yeah, like you did with me?" Dean doesn't say anything, but the look on his face is answer enough. Sam presses his lips into a thin line and barely holds back an angry snarl. After a moment, he spreads his arms wide. "Fine!" he says hotly, a challenging tilt to his head. "Fine, you want to stay here, we'll stay here. But you're not leaving this room." Dean looks like he wants to protest, but after a few tense seconds he throws himself down on the bed and says, "Fine." "I'm serious, Dean." Dean doesn't meet his eyes as he growls, "I said fine, Sam!" Sam isn't satisfied, but he knows further argument would be useless at this point. Instead, Sam digs out his salt and goofer dust and sets to work. He can feel Dean's eyes boring a hole between his shoulder blades as he pours a ring of protection around the room, lining each wall with a small mound of goofer dust first, then salt. He double checks to make sure it's a solid ring, that there are no gaps in the lines to break the ward of protection over the room. He glances over and sees Dean stubbornly pretending not to watch him, and Sam wonders briefly if it would protect or harm Dean to make him eat some of the goofer dust. Then he grabs a plywood and vinyl chair that looks like it's seen better days and drops it with an angry clatter facing the door, away from Dean. He takes out his gun, checks the clip, and settles down in the chair, prepared to stand guard over his brother, whether he likes it or not. Anything trying to get in (or out) of that door is going to have to go through him first. The day passes both too slowly and too quickly. Sitting still with the Demon coming for Dean makes Sam feel like there's an itch that he can't scratch, crawling just under his skin. Their lives have always been about this, about hunting down evil things, salting and burning them off the face of the earth. It feels wrong not to fight, not to be at Dean's side backing him up while he plugs whatever's after them full of rock salt and metal. Because he's not fighting. Dean is not fighting and Sam's world is tearing apart at the seams. He hears Dean get up and shuffle around the room periodically throughout the day, digging for snacks, messing with the tv, going to the bathroom (and Sam knows the window there is too small for Dean to crawl through, so he lets Dean close the door) and all the while Sam stubbornly keeps a wary eye on the motel door, his back to Dean. A small part of himself grudgingly acknowledges that all he really wants to do is curl up with Dean and hold him like he did last night, to reassure himself that Dean is real and solid and alive, and to cling to that until he can't anymore. But that would feel too much like admitting defeat, like there won't be other nights after tonight, and that's not a possibility Sam's willing to consider. Sam watches the sun go down, cataloguing its too-rapid descent with something like resentment. Two-thirds of the orange ball hovers above the horizon, then one-half, a quarter, a sliver. He watches until the moment it winks out behind the earth, and tries to hold back the encroaching dread. So much for Day 364. "Dude, I'm starving," Dean says, and flips past an episode of M.A.S.H. As attempts to break the tension go, it's pretty feeble, and Sam isn't in a generous mood. Sam doesn't say anything, but he glares and gets up, goes to his bag and digs out a pouch of Cheetos he bought from a vending machine two towns back. "Here," he offers, and tosses the bag at Dean's head. Dean raises his hand to deflect it moments before it would have bounced off his face. He picks it up off the mattress with a sour look and says with a half-assed attempt at surliness, "You know, even prisoners on death row get a last meal request." And just like that the floodgates open. Too many emotions suddenly surge through his veins and overwhelm him. Sam's vision goes dark and light with the head rush. "This is not your last meal!" he roars, whirling on Dean with a voice ragged around the edges. "This is not your last sunset, or your last night alive, or your last anything!" For one terrifying second, the promise feels hollow, and Sam thinks he's going to be sick. "Sam—" Dean starts, and his voice is so fucking soft and anguished that Sam wants to punch him in the mouth. "No, Dean! You're not doing this," Sam protests. "How can you just give up?" Dean swallows, stands, moves like he's going to reach for Sam, but he never does. For a long time, there is only the sound of Sam breathing hard through flared nostrils. He can feel his lips quivering. Dean breaks the silence with that damn quiet voice, the same one their dad always used that made Sam feel like he was less than two feet tall, the one Dean only uses in the really horrible arguments. "Sammy, I knew what the score was when I made the deal. I would have made the deal if she wanted my soul right that second. But instead I got to have an entire year with you. That's a year more than I could have had. Two more than I should have had. More than I deserved." Sam's hands slowly curl into fists at his sides, fingers bending one by one, pinky to thumb. He just stares at Dean for a good five seconds, and then he lands a hard right hook to Dean's jaw that sends his brother reeling backwards. "That's bullshit!" Sam yells, pointing an accusing finger and ignoring the way the blood rushes to his knuckles, making them throb. "So you get a couple extra years. Good for you!" He can't even force fake cheer into the comment. "Did you even stop to consider how many years I'll be spending without you? Without Dad? Without anyone?" Dean cradles his jaw in one hand, works his mouth open and closed a few times to test out the damage. Apparently satisfied that his jaw's not broken, Dean levels a dangerous glare at Sam and growls, "What do you want from me Sammy? Huh? I did this for you!" "No, you did this for yourself! You made your choice without even thinking about what it would do to me, you selfish son of a bitch!" The next thing Sam knows he's slammed up against the wall, air forced from his lungs in a rush and Dean's fists in his shirt. "You're calling me selfish? Can we take a step back and look at the facts for a minute? I sold my soul to a demon for you, Sam! So sue me if I think you deserve a life!" And god, Dean still doesn't get it. A fresh swell of frustration has Sam pushing back. He grabs Dean by the shoulders and there's a brief scuffle before Sam gains the upper hand, using his greater height to twist Dean's wrist behind his back and push him to the ground. Dean huffs angrily into the carpet. Sam shoves one bony knee into his brother's back, holding him down, forcing him to hear. "What did you expect me to do, Dean? Did you think I'd just give up hunting, go back to college like nothing ever happened? I can't do that! I'm not like you! I can't just give up!" Sam leans his weight into Dean, hoping he understands what Sam means. 'You're all I have in the world. There's nothing left for me if I lose you. I don't know what I'd do.' Dean squirms out of Sam's grip, uses his free hand as leverage against the floor. He manages to flip them both over, pinning Sam with his weight heavy on Sam's chest. He holds Sam's arms at his sides and breathes angrily in his face. "What do you want from me?" "I want you to fight!" Dean looks like Sam punched him in the gut, and Sam hates that he immediately feels guilty. Dean has never hesitated to give Sam whatever he could, but he won't give him this. "I can't. I can't do it, Sammy," Dean says. "You know I can't." And suddenly it's like Sam's stepped twelve years into the past. Dean is wearing the same look, the exact same look he'd given Sam when Dad had taken Dean on his first real hunt and he'd been forced to leave his kid brother at home unprotected—alone—for god only knew how long. It's the same guilt, the same fucked up sense of duty. It was the moment that an angry, scared thirteen year old boy decided to leave, to go to college, to get away from the abandonment and loneliness he'd felt as he watched Dean walk away. Now he just wants to do what he couldn't do then, to hold tight, to do anything to make Dean stay. Sam winds his fists into Dean's shirt as if he can physically hold Dean's soul in place. "Dean," he begs, voice thick with so many emotions he feels like he's choking. Above him, Dean swallows hard. There's a moment where Dean looks like he's in so much physical pain he's barely restraining the urge to scream, and then his brother's lips are on his, firm and desperate. Sam can only utter a soft exhalation of surprise before kissing his brother back tentatively and a little bewildered. It softens Dean's desperation, but it leaves Sam with a million thoughts running through his head, nearly all of them questions. The kiss is just a distant blur of sensation until Dean pulls back, and Sam finds he instantly misses it. He didn't realize how soft and warm Dean's lips were until they were gone. He didn't know how comforting it felt to share Dean's breath until he was too far away. He didn't understand how much he needed the taste of Dean on his tongue until Dean was looking down at him, shock and horror evident in his features. "Sammy, I didn't—" is as far as Dean gets before Sam wraps one hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulls him into a hungry kiss. He works to softly pry Dean's lips apart, and when he slips his tongue into Dean's mouth Sam hears him make a noise that Dean would stubbornly insist is not a whimper. Sam feels the tension melt out of his brother's body, and he arches up into the soft heat. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss and a groan lights up his chest as Dean matches the angle perfectly and pushes back with just the right amount of pressure. One of Dean's hands is cradling the back of Sam's head, fingers tangled in his hair, and the other is clutching in spasms at Sam's hip. Sam thinks he might explode, his mind and heart are so full of thoughts like safe, and home, and alive. He scratches his nails lightly over the back of Dean's neck at the same time he lets his other hand sneak up under the hem of Dean's t-shirt, fingertips grazing the inch of warm skin at the base of his brother's spine. Dean breaks the kiss and sucks in a breath like he's just been burned, but he doesn't pull away. He rests his forehead against Sam's and doesn't open his eyes, just breathes harshly from a mouth poised within easy reach. Sam knows his brother well enough to know that it's his way of saying if someone's going to stop this, it has to be Sam, and it has to be now. And god, this is wrong, it should feel wrong, but it doesn't. Neither of them seem to care. Maybe Dean doesn't care because he thinks he's leaving, already on his way to Hell, what's one more sin born of comfort? But Sam doesn't care because it means Dean's here, he's not going anywhere as long as Sam's touching him, and if this is what it takes to make Dean stay then Sam will gladly risk the fires of Hell to be with his brother. Sam splays his palm flat against the skin of Dean's back and presses his body up into Dean's, lifts his mouth to Dean's like he's intent on devouring him. Dean lets out a broken moan and kisses back just as fervently, and Sam's shattered by the knowledge of how much they both need this. Driven by impulse, Sam hooks one leg over Dean's hip and shoves, flipping Dean onto his back. He immediately descends on Dean's neck, sucking and scraping blunt teeth over the sensitive skin of his throat. Dean throws his head back with a gasp, swallows hard and Sam can feel his Adam's apple bob under his lips. Dean's hands slide down to cup Sam's ass and he pulls their hips together, erections dragging hotly through the fabric of their jeans. "Bed," Dean grounds out through clenched teeth, voice thick and husky. It takes a major force of will, but Sam levers himself up off the floor and away from Dean. He pulls Dean up before he can protest, clutches at him like he's afraid to let him go, terrified of what might happen if he stops touching Dean for too long. He shoves his hands up the back of Dean's shirt, seeking more skin. He's torn between the need to strip Dean out of his clothes and the need to not stop touching Dean, not ever. The decision is taken out of Sam's hands when Dean reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, leaving his necklace dangling against his bare chest. Then he pushes Sam's many layers up his torso and peels them all off at once. Sam's long limbs get tangled for a minute, and as he struggles with his arms above his head Dean leans in to kiss his chest. Dean's lips and hands on his naked skin elicit a breathy gasp from Sam's throat, and Dean flicks his tongue out to taste Sam's skin. Sam shakily wrestles his arms the rest of the way out of his clothes, using his newfound freedom to cup Dean's face just as Dean wraps his lips around Sam's nipple. Sam's head falls back in a sigh as Dean's hot, slick tongue circles the sensitive nub. Then Dean is making his way back up Sam's body, dragging wet kisses along his chest, his neck, and when Dean finally finds Sam's mouth again he is overwhelmed by a rush of white hot need. Sam practically lifts Dean into the air before he topples them both with a crash onto the squeaky motel mattress. Dean lets out a muffled, "Oomph," as Sam's weight lands on top of him. Sam starts fumbling and apologizing and Dean just smiles and laughs at him, honest to god laughs, and it's been months since Sam's heard that. He leans over to kiss Dean, to swallow that sound, to keep it forever and let it warm him from the inside out. Sam kisses Dean like he's trying to crawl inside him, like he's searching for something vital that can only be found in Dean's lips, his hands, his mouth. It makes Sam's bones melt and he offers no resistance when Dean rolls him onto his back and starts pulling at the button of his jeans. Sam tries to undo Dean's pants with fumbling fingers before finally growing impatient and just shoving one broad hand under the waistband of Dean's boxers. Dean gasps as Sam palms his cock inside his pants. Three or four slow strokes and Dean is hurriedly tugging off his own pants, boxers and all, revealing his flushed, hard cock. Sam runs his hand up the shaft, thumbs the wetness at the tip, and is rewarded with Dean's full-body shudder. Sam awkwardly shimmies and kicks the rest of the way out of his own pants, then grabs hold of Dean's shoulders. He flips Dean back over, lines their bodies up perfectly and grinds his hips down into Dean's and holy fuck. This is exactly what Sam needs. Dean hard and perfect beneath him, Dean's body blanketed with Sam's own, and nothing, nothing can touch Dean when Sam's covering him like a protective shield. They thrust against each other, never moving their hips apart, just sliding, not letting anything come between them but heat and friction and the fluttering electric jolt when their cocks brush together just right. Dean brings Sam's hand to his flushed lips and sucks the first two fingers into his mouth. Sam swears he can feel every single one of Dean's taste buds as his tongue traces the loops and whorls of Sam's fingerprints. When Sam's fingers are coated thick with slippery saliva, Dean plants the sole of one foot firmly on the bed and pulls Sam's fingers from his mouth. He loosely guides Sam's hand down between his parted legs, unerringly finding his own entrance and hissing in a breath when Sam hesitantly teases it. Dean is wearing an expression of such open, raw need that Sam forgets to breathe. And then Dean pushes Sam's slick fingers inside, arches his head back and moans, and Sam can't restrain the matching groan he buries in Dean's neck. Dean wraps his hands around Sam's biceps hard enough to bruise. Sam's fingers are buried knuckle-deep in the tight heat of his brother's body, and his cock is throbbing heavily in the soft groove of Dean's hip. He wants this so much, wants all of it, all of Dean, and he wants it forever. Sam knows he's close. He quickly licks his palm and sits back long enough to slick up his cock with saliva and precome, then positions himself at Dean's entrance and pushes slowly inside. The tight, soft heat of his brother's body feels like quicksilver in his veins. Dean's arms come up to wrap around Sam's ribs like a pair of iron bands and he mutters a breathless, "Fuck, oh, god," into Sam's hair. Sam presses his palms flat against the backs of Dean's shoulders where they curve up off the bed, the weight of Dean's body trapping them there. They stay like that, just holding each other, until finally Sam moves his hips in a stuttering thrust. Sam's spit is just barely enough lubrication and the rough slide makes Dean throw his head back against the pillow and suck in a shuddering breath. Sam leans over to kiss Dean's panting mouth, and Dean's legs hitch up to wrap around his waist. Dean pulls him impossibly closer, like he can't hold Sam tightly enough, and Sam tightens his grip in return. Dean's necklace is trapped between their chests, digging into Sam's skin. His thrusts become frantic, desperate with need, and Dean arches into every one like it's the last thing he'll ever feel. And suddenly it's like Sam's chest is split open and bleeding. He's pouring everything into Dean, not holding anything back, and Dean gives him everything in return, always has and always will, even when he has nothing left to give. Their limbs are wrapped around each other, and Sam thinks that maybe if they're too tangled together, if it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins, the hellhounds won't be able to drag Dean away. Sam is making small, pained noises in the back of his throat, and Dean's fingernails dig sharp crescents into the skin of Sam's back. Finally, too soon, Dean curls his body around Sam's and comes, uttering Sam's name like a broken, ragged sob into the cradle of Sam's shoulder. Sam comes a moment later and it feels like his heart is breaking. Sam doesn't pull out right away, and neither of them loosen their grip on the other. Sam's terrified of losing Dean, and with the way Dean is clinging desperately to Sam, his entire body trembling, Sam knows Dean doesn't want to give this up. It gives him hope. Dean abruptly shoves Sam off and turns away, curling up like a child on the other side of the bed with his back to Sam, muscles suddenly tense. There's a second where Sam reels from the sudden loss of contact, and then he shifts determinedly towards Dean's closed-off frame. Sam wraps himself around Dean's back, matches all the curves and angles where they fit. He kisses Dean's shoulder, the nape of his neck, then whispers stubbornly, "I'm not letting you go." Dean doesn't say anything. He just interlocks his fingers with Sam's hand on his stomach, presses back a little against Sam's chest, and lets himself be held. Afterwards, they don't sleep. They just lie there together, wide awake, waiting. There is a moment where Dean tenses, and Sam wonders if it means the hellhounds have arrived, scratching at the door. Sam closes his eyes and prays that his wards hold up. He realizes it's the first time he's prayed today. Sam doesn't want to break the silence. There's something comforting about the stillness of it, like if they don't move, if they barely even breathe, time will just recede into the background. They can stay like this, frozen, static, and morning will never come. The curtains over the motel window are drawn against what lies outside these four walls, like they can shut out the passage of time, but they still let in cracks of light. Sam watches the dim glow go from streetlight yellow to hazy, predawn grey to the rosy lilac of sunrise, and each changing shade tightens the coil in Sam's belly. Each ticking second is stolen by some unseen force, cold bony fingers pulling on time like an unraveling thread, making it harder and harder for Sam to sit still. Eventually Sam's need to do something outweighs his need to hold on to the fantasy of this moment. "Dean," he says, and his voice seems loud in the wake of the long silence. There's no rumbling grunt in answer, and Sam wonders if Dean's just being stubborn or if he's too distracted by the sound of the hellhounds to hear Sam's voice. "Dean," he says again, this time mumbling his words into the back of Dean's neck. "I know you don't want to leave, but we have to go. I can't just stay here and wait for - …I can't." Dean still doesn't respond, and now he's starting to piss Sam off. "Dean," Sam says, this time letting a little of his frustration bleed through, and he sits up on one elbow to aim a glare at Dean's face. His features are pale and slack in a way Sam's never seen before, even in sleep. Something ugly nudges at the back of Sam's mind. "Dean?" he asks in a voice too small and terrified to possibly be his own. He realizes that while the skin where their bodies have been touching is warm, everywhere else is cold. His hand slides from Dean's stomach to his chest—and while some part of Sam knows he won't find anything he still keeps his hand there for what seems like an eternity, waiting to feel Dean's heart beating beneath his palm. "No." Sam sits up, takes Dean by the shoulders and shakes him, hard. "Dean, wake up. Wake up, you son of a bitch!" Dean's head rolls limply on the pillow. Sam takes it in his hands, holds it still. "Please wake up, Dean. God, please. I can't—Dean, please." Sam's voice breaks into choking sobs, and he buries his face in Dean's neck—no pulse, so cold, gone—and holds his brother's body tight—gone, alone, no, please, no, damn it, come back, what have you done? Sam doesn't know how long he lies there, holding Dean, rocking back and forth in a slightly manic motion while he mutters nonsense pleas into cold, grey skin. He feels everything slipping away, everything that doesn't matter. Time, reality, perception, even bits of his sanity, each one bleeds away, leaving a yawning chasm in his chest. Distantly, as if from somewhere unconnected to himself, he feels the mattress dip behind him under someone's weight, feels fingers in his hair, long nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a soothing gesture that makes his skin crawl. He doesn't twitch away. He's lost too much of himself to muster the energy. "Shh, sweetheart. There, there." Sam won't release his hold on Dean to turn and see her face, but he doesn't need to. He can feel the Demon's presence like cold rippling energy in the air. "Give him back," he says, voice foreign to his own ears. She makes a clicking noise of disapproval with her tongue. "You Winchesters, always so demanding. Didn't your father ever teach you boys any manners?" Sam's throat is tight. "You took him. You didn't even give him the full day." She sighs and strokes the back of his neck. "It wouldn't have made it any easier, sugar." Her voice is a cold mockery of sympathy. "Besides, it wasn't my idea to do it this way." She leans close to whisper in his ear. "You really should have checked those dust lines before crawling into bed with your brother." The last word comes out like a gleeful sneer. Somewhere very far away there is a sluggish realization in Sam's mind, and he freezes. She notices, laughs lightly in the back of her throat. "What did you think Dean was doing all that time while your back was turned? He knew we had a deal. If he let you keep me away, I'd have no choice but to see it as trying to break our deal. He couldn't forfeit your life, and he knew you wouldn't ever voluntarily let him hold up his end of the bargain. One boot toe in the corner was all it took." She runs one darkly painted nail up the outside of Sam's arm, and he instinctively tightens his hold on Dean's lifeless body. "I'm surprised you didn't see this coming. Or maybe you were just too busy fucking your brother to notice," she purrs, and something sick twists in Sam's gut. "Well, twenty-twenty hindsight, I suppose." She runs one hand down Sam's exposed side but stops before she reaches the sheet at his waist. Her touch is scalding and proprietary, as if she's examining the merchandise before making an offer. It makes Sam shudder, but he doesn't pull away. He keeps his body wrapped around Dean's protectively, shielding him from her presence, as if the damage hasn't already been done. Her lips press against the shell of his ear, burning the skin like a hot brand. Her voice is a low, seductive hiss as she says, "He cried when I took him. I snatched his soul out right from under your nose, and you never even noticed. He never stopped thinking of you, the entire time I dragged him down to Hell." Sam moves before the thought can even form in his head. His hands are around her throat, rage feeding his strength, fingers gripping tight enough to snap her neck with just a flick of his wrist. He can feel his face twist, his features mangled in fury and desperation. "Bring him back." Her smug expression doesn't waver, and she speaks clearly despite the fact that Sam's thumbs are crushing her windpipe. "Well, since you asked so nicely." She lifts one eyebrow and gives him an appraising look. "I'd much rather have your soul than his, anyway." He wants so badly just to squeeze and twist, to hear the satisfying crack of bone, to feel the flesh warp under his fingers, even if he suspects it won't do him any good. The darkness inside his chest is goading him, stirred to life at his rage. It's scratching at the insides of his ribs, trying to claw its way to the surface, but he can still feel Dean's cold weight pressing against his side and it grounds him. Sam releases his grip. She smiles, wide and pleased. "I always knew you were the smart one." She runs the pad of her thumb just under Sam's bottom lip. "Mmm. Since I like you…how does another ten years sound? I might even be tempted to make it twenty if you ask real nice. I can be patient, when I need to be. And I have a feeling your soul will just ripen with age, like a fine wine." The corner of her mouth twitches upwards. "And your brother would be all yours. In every. Possible. Way." The words sound dirty and vile in her mouth, but Sam swallows hard and meets her gaze steadily. His raw, aching need wars with the knowledge that Dean would never forgive him, that this is exactly the reason Dean wanted Sam to make that promise in the first place. Ten years—even twenty years—isn't nearly enough time, but it's more than what Sam has now. All Sam has now is a gaping black void where his brother used to be. He feels hollow. She seems to sense his struggle and tries to nudge him towards the edge. "This is a limited time offer, honey. Your brother won't last forever down there, not with what they're doing to him." Sam clenches his jaw at the thought, feels his control slipping at the knowledge that Dean willingly walked into horrors neither of them could possibly imagine, even with all they've seen. Dean let this bitch take him, and he did it for Sam. The darkness scrapes its spidery talons insistently along Sam's spine, reminding Sam what he's capable of when it comes to Dean, when it's Dean's soul hanging in the balance. If Dean's willing to walk into Hell for Sam, then maybe Sam is willing to do the same for him. He feels the darkness inside him roar in triumph, like it knows something Sam doesn't. She cocks her head at him, mildly curious, maybe sensing his weakness. "How many times do you think they'll have to rip him apart down there before he forgets you? Or better yet, starts to hate you, blame you for what they're doing to him. If only he'd left you for dead, like he should have…" The darkness inside howls and writhes. It grows until it presses against the inside of Sam's skin, trying to split him open. "How long do you think it'll be before there's nothing left of your brother to bring back?" She shrugs then, and says blandly, "But I suppose if you want to leave him like that, it's your choice." Something inside Sam snaps. Rage and desperation give way to clarity. He can't leave Dean down there, could never just abandon his brother to Hell and walk away. Sam knows what he has to do, but it's not the decision he expected to make. He heaves a breath, exhales, and lets the darkness take him. It feels like spikes digging into his brain, tearing it apart. A surge of power unlike anything on earth shoots down his spine like lightning, a white hot, euphoric rush of pain that rockets out to every nerve ending in his body. As fast as it ripped through him it's gone, leaving his body singing with dark pleasure, the power crackling along his skin. Heedless of his nudity he stands, and she rises with him. They look at each other, and while before he had been angry, desperate and helpless in her presence, he now sees her for what she is: pathetic and weak. She doesn't even recognize the change, still thinks she's a cat with a mouse between her paws. "I'm not leaving him there," Sam says. "I want him back." She smiles and steps towards him, lips hovering inches away from his, as if what she's offering is even the least bit enticing. "So we have a deal?" Sam's lips twitch in amusement. He leans close enough for her to feel his breath when he whispers, "Not a chance in Hell." Her smile falters, goes brittle, and Sam can see the hint of fear in her eyes. Then Sam takes a step back and opens his mind. The pulse of energy explodes outward like the shock wave of an atom bomb, crashing into her, ripping into her flesh like a violent wind. She holds her hands up against the onslaught and screams, an unholy shriek that Sam hopes they can hear all the way down in Hell. He tears her apart slowly, shredding her flesh to reveal nothing but oily blackness inside, bits of her evaporating in puffs of black smoke as they're ripped away. Sam doesn't just exorcise her, he annihilates her, and he doesn't just enjoy it, he revels in it, in the intoxicatingly sweet power coursing through his veins. When he's done there's nothing left but a black crater in the carpet. Sam examines it with a kind of pleased, clinical detachment, then catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair is wild, his face flushed and panting, his chest rising and falling with each quick breath. His skin is practically glowing, and his expression is blissed out, satiated, but hungry. Sam wonders if this is what he looks like after really good sex. His eyes, once a deep forest green, are now a hazy yellow. Sam doesn't care, though. He's drunk on power, dizzy with it. He feels like he can do anything. He has the power to control, create, and destroy as he sees fit. He can rule and command the things he once hunted, once feared. This is what the Demon always meant him to be. He turns, catches sight of Dean on the bed, pale and grey, and suddenly it's like he's looking up from the bottom of a lake. He sees himself standing at the surface, looking down with yellow eyes, the vision rippling with the waves. The dark water surrounds him, fills his lungs, pulls him under. The light from the surface fades, and he knows he's sinking deeper. It's like his body is filled with lead. It's so tempting to give in, to let the darkness drag him so deep he can never find the surface, but Sam thinks no, Dean wouldn't want this. He struggles against the weight of the water, the weight of his own body, and pushes his way towards the surface. His muscles strain and groan and his lungs are on fire, but he still fights his way upward. It feels like forever before he breaks the surface and takes a breath. Sam comes back to reality to find himself huddled on all fours sucking down deep lungfuls of air. He feels weak and his entire body is shaking, but he can still feel the buzz of barely restrained power just under the surface. He stands on wobbly legs and looks in the mirror again. His eyes are green. Sam knows what happened, knows what the darkness is. The Yellow-Eyed Demon put something in him. Not a full demon, exactly, but maybe a part of himself or his power. Whatever it is, it was buried inside him for most of his life. After he came back from the dead it was so much stronger, pushing and prodding at his unconscious mind. Maybe it was when the Demon touched his soul to resurrect him that she triggered it, empowered it, fused it to him somehow, and now it's become a part of him, intrinsically linked to his soul, something that can't be cut out without taking most of Sam with it. It's the place inside that he draws his powers from, and when Sam let it take over he tapped into all that power and darkness. But it didn't take him completely, even though Sam knows it should have consumed him. Sam held on too tightly to lose himself and he doesn't hold any illusions about what kept him fighting so hard. He half walks, half crawls to Dean's body. He props himself shakily on the edge of the bed, then reaches out to slowly close his fingers around the charm on Dean's necklace to grip it with white knuckles. He leans over and places a soft, lingering kiss against Dean's icy lips. "Hold on, Dean. I'm on my way," he grits out and gives the charm a sharp tug to break the chain. Ten minutes later, he's dressed and in the Impala. He doesn't have far to go. Some part of him must have known where he needed to be, or maybe someone up there had offered a little divine guidance, because it turns out the directions he gave Dean weren't as aimless as he thought. Wyoming is less than an hour away, and the Colt sits heavy and empty in his lap. When Sam reaches the cemetery his feet guide him without thought towards the crypt. He doesn't hesitate, just shoves the gun into the lock. The ancient gears work with an ominous grinding of metal. Sam grasps tightly at Dean's charm around his neck, uses it as a touchstone to maintain control as he opens his mind to the darkness. The electric jolt of power courses through him and he prepares for the gates to open. So, yeah, desperation has made Sam do some crazy things—like lie, and kill, and follow his brother down into the depths of Hell. The gates burst open with an explosion of heat, but Sam's ready. He holds the demonic onslaught back with the force of his mind and even though they growl and struggle and slash at his control with their rage, Sam's focus is single-minded. As the hot rush of air blasts at his face he steps over the threshold. Sam can feel the spirits and demons clawing at him, gouging at his flesh and his mind. His wounds knit back together immediately only to be opened again and again. He bares his teeth, stumbles forward through the writhing mob, and descends down through the maddening heat and the pain ripping at his soul. The gates clang closed behind him but Sam can barely hear it over the howls and piercing screams. He needs to find Dean. Sam may not have been able to stop the Demon from taking his brother, but he'll be damned if he'll let them keep him. Now it's Sam's turn to pull Dean's ass from the fire, because either he's coming back with his brother or he's not coming back at all. ~ He drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, and made Hell grant what Love did seek. The Myth of Orpheus and Eurydice ~ Finding Eurydice

"Sssh!" Hermione hit Ron softly with her wand. "This is not the time to be eating sweets!" Harshly, she grabbed the wrappers from him and stuffed them in her pocket. She felt a little guilty, as she knew Ron did this when he was nervous, but they could not afford to be caught. They were hid in the bushes under the lounge bay window at Malfoy Manor and silence was key. They were planning a raid, believing one of Voldemort's horcruxes to be there. Ideally, they'd sneak in, unseen, and look around without being caught, but as much as they were hopeful, they were realistic too. Chances of that happening were small. "Time to go in yet?" Harry turned to Hermione and saw her peering through the window. "No," she said, looking around the living room. "Malfoy's still in there - reading a book." "Which Malfoy?" Harry asked, steadying himself on a rock in the flowerbed. Hermione squinted and peered closer. "Draco." "He can read?" Ron almost choked on his sweets. Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course he can read, Ron." Another look through the window told her the situation had changed. "Wait, he's leaving..." Her eyes followed his footsteps out of the room, and just as luck would have it, he wasn't going into the hallway. "Right. I think it's time...Harry, put your cloak on!" Hermione cast a Disillusionment charm on both her and Ron; the days when they could all fit under the cloak were long gone. The trio braced themselves, wands at the ready as they crept out of the bushes towards the front door. A quick spell from Hermione and the front door opened. On tiptoes, they snuck through the hallway and went along their planned routes - Ron to the lounge, Harry to the kitchens and Hermione to the bedrooms. "Outside in fifteen minutes, remember." Hermione whispered as she climbed the large, grand staircase. If nothing else, the Malfoy's were full of class and elegance. There were paintings of witches and wizards all along the walls leading upstairs, and they all shot her shameful looks. To her relief, none of them spoke as she made her way to the tall grandfather clock at the top. There was no sign of anyone around, so Hermione had the choice of which direction to go in. Going with instinct, she chose the right and quickly glanced through the first door. It was empty. Quietly, she crept in to find a study and the first thing she did was run to the desk to shuffle through the drawers. Papers flew everywhere as she frantically searched. For what, she did not know, but she had to try. Hermione checked under the books and letters on top of the desk, alas, nothing. A quick glance at the bookcase told her it was nothing out of the ordinary and she bent down to look under the desk in case anything was hidden there. She lifted up the rug but found nothing. Hermione made her way to the door and pressed her ear up against it to see if she heard anyone outside. When the coast was clear, she opened the door as little as possible and tiptoed down the corridor. There were large double doors at the end of the hallway, and it looked so grand she went straight for it. As she couldn't glance in, she did a simple spell which told her the room was empty. Upon entering, Hermione was struck by the sheer beauty of the room, though it didn't take her long to figure out whose it was. It was Slytherin green, and by the Hogwarts uniform hanging loosely off the chair by the desk, it was clearly Draco's. Explains the mess on the floor, Hermione thought as she stepped around dirty clothes and broken bottles. It looked as though he'd had a party in here recently or something. As she bent over to look under the desk, she heard someone clear their throat behind her, and shot up quickly, fear in her eyes. "Nice arse, Granger." Draco Malfoy was propped up by the door, his head cocked to the side where he was previously admiring her. "Now, why are you in my bedroom?" Hermione was speechless, he could see her? But the charm... "Hermione Granger, speechless? Must be a first." Malfoy put his hands in his pockets and lifted his head to face her. "Shove off, Malfoy," she said, as though they were back at school again. Draco let out a little laugh. "I don't think you're in any position to make demands now, do you?" He moved steadily towards her and she backed against the wall. "One word from you and I'll have my father here in seconds." "How can you see me, anyway?" She said as he reached her. There was nothing but confusion upon Malfoy's face. "With my eyes, Mudblood." "The spell...it musn't of worked..." she murmered, racking her brain for reasons why. She had no idea what to do as his hands started to trace her neck. She felt her fingers tighten, clutching at the wall. She couldn't risk Harry and Ron being exposed, but she wasn't just going to stand here and let Malfoy do whatever he wanted to her. "You wouldn't," she spat at him, and saw his eyes narrow at her. Before he had a chance to speak, Hermione made used all her force and pushed Malfoy backwards, making a run for it. She headed straight into the hallway, Malfoy right behind her. "FATHER!" He shouted, making Hermione's ears hurt from the volume. "You evil, little -" Hermione started to speak before she ran straight into Narcissa Malfoy, who had her hands on her hips. "HARRY! RON!" She yelled loudly, moving backwards away from Narcissa but right into Draco. "What are you going to do now, eh, Granger?" His smirk was very apparent; he looked like Christmas had come early for him. Before she could make a decision, Harry and Ron came bursting out of opposite doors on the floor below, and Hermione, Narcissa and Draco looked over the banister to see where the commotion was coming from. "HERMIONE!" Ron cried out, a troubled look on his face as he saw her practically sandwiched between Narcissa and Draco. Hermione had her wand out in front of her, and Harry and Ron's pointed up towards the Malfoys. As of yet, still no sign of Lucius. It was as though nobody knew what to do, as they all stood there with their wands out. Narcissa's was on the two downstairs and Draco's was pressed firmly into Hermione's back. "What on earth is going on here?" If the scene wasn't tense enough, it just got worse as Lucius Malfoy strode in through the front door to the scene in front of him. "Potter!" Quickly, he got out his wand and shot it straight at Ron. "Stupefy!" "No!" Hermione called, and reacted quickly as she saw Narcissa go straight for her. "Expelliarmus!" She screamed, sending Narcissa's wand flying. "You'll pay for that, Mudblood," spat Draco, digging his wand into the back. She spun around, her wand pointed straight at his chest but seconds later she had been flown straight across the corridor, banging her head on the door. With her wand still in her hand, she raised it up and cast a shielding spell on herself as she saw Malfoy running straight towards her. Pulling herself up and looking over the banister, she saw Harry and Lucius duelling, with Ron huddled in the corner, stunned. She tried to confund Lucius, but missed by a large stretch, and noticing she was attacking him, he sent Potter flying and aimed his wand towards her. "I can't kill Potter, but I can certainly kill you, Mudblood," Lucius spat and sent the killing curse straight towards her. It was only as she and Draco jumped out of the way that it narrowly missed the both of them. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" Harry roared upstairs, aiming it at Lucius who was now running up them, but he jumped and it missed him, hitting his wife, Narcissa instead. She gave a little yelp before falling to the floor with a hard thud. "NO!" Draco screamed, turning straight for Harry as Lucius made his way towards Hermione. Killing spells were flying everywhere and Hermione knew she had no choice to shoot one towards Lucius, otherwise the chance of her making it out alive were grim. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" She yelled at the older Malfoy, but he dodged perfectly and the spell went straight for his son, who was just at the top of the stairs. He fell forward and down the stairs, his limp body landing at the end near Harry's feet. Lucius stood still, his eyes wide in shock at the dead bodies of both his wife and son and looked murderous as he went straight for Hermione, but she was too quick for him and sent his wand flying. Using his own brute forced, he grabbed her neck as she attempted to make a run for it. "HERMIONE!" Harry called, running up the stairs to save her. He stunned Lucius so hard the man passed out and Harry grabbed Hermione in his arms, taking her carefully down the stairs. At the bottom he put her down and went to fetch Ron, who was still out cold. "Come on," Hermione said as she opened the door, Harry going through first with Ron in his arms. "Hand!" She grabbed hold of Harry's and they Apparated to The Burrow, where they went straight inside and Harry put Ron on the sofa. Mrs. Weasley came running out of the kitchen. "What happened?!" She said in a worried voice. "Is he all right?" Harry nodded. "He's just been stunned that's all." Hermione and Harry exchanged panicked looks - they had just killed two of the Malfoys and they had no idea how to handle what had happened. Slipping out of the scene, they made their way upstairs. They soon found themself in Hermione's room, sitting down and staring blankly at the walls. "I can't believe I just..." Hermione stopped, she wasn't sure if she could say it. "Me neither." Hermione noted that Harry's voice was as hollow as she felt, and her stomach churned. Hermione willed herself not to be sick, but she had just committed the worst crime possible, and she knew she could never forget it. Her hands shook as she realised she would forever be a murderer. OOO "I want to marry you, Hermione," Ron said as soon as he'd woken up and found his way to her bedroom. Hermione smiled weakly. "I know, Ron. I want to marry you too -" "Now," he said fiercly. "I mean I want to marry you now." She gasped and looked him dead in the eyes. "Are you serious?" "Why not? People are dying left, right and center - it makes sense, it could be us next. Please, Hermione, will you marry me?" "I don't know, Ron..." Hermione's mind was still on what happened at Malfoy Manor. The deaths haunted her via nightmares, they just wouldn't go away. "After what I just did, I'm not sure I deserve to be happy..." Hermione knew Ron didn't know how to comfort her, and she understood why. She didn't want him to tell her everything would be all right, because it wouldn't. Malfoy's death would be forever her fault, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. "Please?" Hermione did want to marry Ron, she knew that, but the timing wasn't exactly great. He had a point though, it could be them tomorrow. "All right then," she forced out a weak smile. "I accept." Ron nodded and raised his eyebrows, letting his hand travel up Hermione's thigh. "Want to...?" "No!" She said, disgusted, batting Ron's hand away. "Not until we're married, okay?" "Fine. Now, do you want to tell everyone or should I?" He kissed her passionately on the lips and they made their way downstairs to let everyone know the good news. OOO One week later and Hermione found herself at The Burrow, being fussed over by Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Fleur, who were playing with her hair, sorting out her make up and checking her wedding dress was on right. "You look beautiful," Mrs. Weasley said, smiling brightly at her, tears in her eyes. "Eet iz time," Fleur said, checking the clock on the kitchen and ushering Hermione to the door. "'Ere," she passed Hermione her bouquet as Mrs. Weasley slipped out the back door to take her seat. Ginny and Fleur took their places behind Hermione on either side of her, and all three of them left the house and made their way towards the wedding area, where they stopped just at the bottom of the aisle. As the band started to play, Hermione walked down the aisle with Ginny and Fleur behind her, and she couldn't help but grin at the few people that were there. She would've loved to have had her parents present, but they had to have a small, secret ceremony, so it just wasn't possible. "You look amazing," Ron said as she stood next to him at the top of the aisle. "Thank you." She smiled at him, blushing slightly. "Ladies and gentlemen," said the vicar, addressing the few attendants. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of Ronald Bilius Weasley and Hermione Jane Granger..." Hermione stopped and looked towards the vicar, who was staring at the sky. Overhead were three Death Eaters; Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback, but they were circling around as they couldn't seem to get through the Weasley's defences. Bellatrix was throwing spell after spell at the invisible shield, and Hermione could tell she was getting more and more frustrated. Everyone in the wedding party grabbed their wands and aimed them upwards - it would only be a matter of time before they found the right spell to break through the defences, Hermione thought, and wished she hadn't as it was that precise moment Lucius cast the correct spell. Hermione cast the first spell she could think of, stupefy, but Malfoy shielded himself, as Fenrir and Bellatrix did the same. They landed smoothly at the top of the aisle, just in front of Ron and Hermione, and despite the Weasley family's best efforts to curse them, their shields were far too strong. "Mudblood." Lucius Malfoy did not attack Hermione, as she had expected him to; he simply spoke calmly to her. "I'm enacting an old law - you are under arrest for murder and as you killed my son, you are going to marry me until you give me another son, to replace the one I lost." "What?" Ron gasped, and Hermione looked at Lucius like he was insane. "You've got to be kidding!" She laughed, in the vain hope he was, but a shake of his head and a piece of paper pulled from his pocket proved otherwise. "And what happens if I don't?" She skimmed the words on the piece of paper, but reached her answer before Lucius could tell her. "No! No!" She protested, tears welling up in her eyes and her heart aching. Ron snatched it from Hermione. "NO!" He yelled and threw himself upon Malfoy, using his fists to beat into him. "You can't do this!" Angrily, Lucius cast a spell, sending Ron flying backwards. "Now," he put his wand back in his cane. "Shall we proceed?" Hermione gulped, and Harry stepped up. "What happens if she doesn't do it?" Nobody spoke. Lucius just looked at Hermione, waiting for her to tell everyone. "I die," she whispered. "That's ridiculous!" Harry shouted and leapt towards Malfoy, but was pulled back by Arthur. "It's ancient magic of the highest power. You can't mess with it, Harry. Unfortunately, since she was the one to kill Draco, she has to give Malfoy another son, as compensation for what he lost." Harry screamed in frustration, kicking the chairs around him. "Harry, please..." Hermione called. The whole scene was heartbreaking enough, and to see Harry in so much distress made her feel even worse. Hermione knew those murders would come back to haunt them all, but she had no idea it would be this sickening. "Ickle baby Potter, can't control his temper!" Bellatrix spoke up now, licking her lips at Harry and smirking at him. "Bella," Lucius warned. "Behave. We're only here for one thing." He turned to the vicar, his wand pointed straight at the old man's chest. "Marry us. Now. And skip the uncessary formalities." Too scared to hesitate, he started the ceremony once again. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jane Granger. Miss Granger, you are bound to be Mr. Malfoy's wife until you give him an heir for the son he lost due to you. When that is complete, the marriage will be void. Lucius Malfoy, do you take thee Hermione Jane Granger to be your lawful wedded wife?" Lucius waved his hand. "Yes, yes." "And Hermione Jean Granger, do you take Lucius Malfoy to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Hermione sighed and looked around at her friends, who were all looking solemnly at her. After several seconds, she reluctantly replied. "Yes." The vicar looked from Lucius to Hermione, but he wasn't smiling like he usually did when he married couples. "I now pronounce you husband and wife." One look from Lucius told him he wasn't quite finished. "You may now kiss the bride." "No!" Hermione protested, but too late as Lucius grabbed the back of her head and forced his lips onto hers. When he pulled away, she spat on the floor. "You're disgusting!" Lucius' breath was horrible, and he was such an aggressive kisser she felt sick to her stomach. All that was going through her mind was what Lucius was going to put her through for the next, at least, nine months, and it wasn't pretty. Lucius winked at her. "You haven't seen the half of it yet." Roughly, he grabbed Hermione's arm and forced her back down the aisle. "You're coming with me." "All right, all right, just get off me!" Hermione struggled and wriggled in his grasp but it was no use; not only was he stronger than her, but he had his wand at the ready too. "Get off!" Lucius ignored Hermione's outburst, nodding to Bellatrix and Fenrir that he was ready to leave. Before Hermione could make one last attempt at getting free, they were apparating, and next thing she knew, she was on the cold, marble floor of Malfoy Manor's hallway. OOO Hermione had been in the Manor two days now, and so far, Lucius hadn't come anywhere near her. She had been keeping out of his way; whenever she heard movement, she ran in the other direction. She knew she couldn't keep it up forever, but it was worth it while she could. Laughing echoing off the walls told Hermione that Bellatrix came over often, and she really didn't like the idea of bumping into her. Whilst Lucius was cruel and sadistic, he wasn't insane like his dead wife's sister. It was when she was sleeping - using an empty bedroom she'd come across on the second floor - that Lucius finally got to her. He must've checked several before hers as it was quite late, and Hermione had been asleep for quite sometime when she was awoken roughly. "What?" She blinked heavily, trying to get her eyes into focus. "What's going on? Is there a fire or something?" "No." Lucius said dragging her out of bed and through the corridors. Hermione felt chills run all over her as she was led down the staircase to the hallway and then down another one to the right, which she hadn't seen before. The steps and walls were stone, and it was colder in here than the rest of the Manor. She dreaded getting to the bottom, she didn't want to think about what could be down there. At the bottom of the staircase was a wooden door, which opened out into a large, dark room. A flick of Malfoy's wand and the room was illuminated, and the contents made Hermione so shocked she stepped backwards. "No, no..." she murmered. The whole place was BDSM dungeon - chains hanging off walls, A-frames and headlocks, cages, a whole shelf of punishment implements from paddles to whips and a sex swing in the corner. "Oh yes, my love," Lucius said in a twisted, sadistic voice. "We're going to have a lot of fun down here." Hermione struggled and kicked about, her left foot hitting him right in the shin, though she suspected it hurt her a lot more than it hurt him. The first item he lead her over to was a whipping post, where he bound her hands to the top and her legs spread around the tall post in between them. It left her back terribly exposed and she gulped as she saw him collect a whip out of the corner of her eye. She could have sworn she saw him collect a cat o' nine tails, but how much did she really know about whips? That was one famous simply because it was unique. It was then that Hermione started delving her brain for all the knowledge on anything BDSM that she had, zoning out of whatever Lucius was banging on about. It wasn't long before she was brought back to life though; Lucius had brought the whip harshly down on Hermione's back, showing no mercy as she let out an ear piercing screech. Hermione did everything she could to detach herself from the situation, but the pain kept coming, fast and furious - he didn't relent, didn't even give her time to collect her thoughts. Tears streamed down her face and she was biting her tongue so hard - so he didn't have the satisfaction of hearing her scream - that blood was almost gushing from it. Her back was worse though, it was almost in shreds and she could feel blood running down her back. Her nightgown was torn and ruined, but she didn't care anymore. It seemed like forever, but at last, Lucius stopped. Hermione heard the whip drop to the floor right before he spoke. "Was that fun for you too, dear?" His voice was cold, callous. Hermione didn't speak - from all the blood loss, she was feeling faint and dizzy. "Ahh," Lucius said. He'd whipped enough people in his time to know that the bloodloss afterwards just ruined the experience for him. Carefully, he cleared up all the blood and stitched up the wounds, but left the pain there. That was the beauty of magic - you could have the pain without the dire consequences. "Better now?" Hermione had to admit she didn't feel as bad, but it was still taking time for her to come back round. Her low energy meant she didn't try to fight him when he untied her from the whipping post and brought her over to a small wooden table in the corner. On it was a headstock, which he shoved her head through and then her hands through the little holes at the sides. Once again, she was at his mercy, bending over the table. "What a...dirty sight." Lucius said, ripping what was left of her nightgown off of her body. All that was left on her now was a large pair of white knickers, which he couldn't help but laugh at. "How conservative, Mudblood." He joked as he slipped his fingers through the waistband and ripped them down her legs. With his hands he spread her cheeks apart, exposing her arse and genitalia to him. She wiggled, trying to get free, but this seemed to just excite Lucius even more. "You fucking evil..." Hermione's voice wasn't quite up to talking yet and she felt herself struggle for oxygen. "What?" He smirked at her, gently slapping her bum. "Bastard," she said in a whisper, barely audible. Hermione looked up when she saw movement near her, and was surprised to find Malfoy stood in front of her just in his boxers. The bulge in his trousers worried her, and she didn't much fancy being exposed to such a thing. He pulled his boxers down to reveal a very, very well hung penis. By Hermione's calculations, it had to be at the very least nine inches, and the fear throughout her whole body was very apparent. "No..." "Oh yes." He grabbed her hair and shoved his cock towards her mouth, but she wasn't having any of it. "Do I have to force your mouth open, Mudblood? Because I assure you, that will hurt a lot more." Hermione opened her mouth and let Lucius put his cock in, but no sooner had she entered was she biting down heavily on it. As much as she could, she swung her mouth from side to side, digging in hard. Lucius screamed and grabbed his wand, forcing Hermione's mouth open. He slapped her brutally hard around the face and turned around to tend to his cock. This was another situation where magic came in handy, though it would be sore for a while. "You fucking bitch." He said nastily as he turned around, having fixed his dick as best he could. "You're going to pay for that." Hermione felt herself being undone from the stocks and tried to fight back with his fists, but he roughly had hold of her hair and didn't mess about as he threw her down next to the smallest cage in the room. Before she had chance to try and make a run for it, he had opened the door and was forcing her inside, which was a difficult feat due to the extremely tiny size of it. Once in, Lucius slammed the little door shut and locked it, and Hermione felt very trapped as she held onto the bars, shaking them. She felt anger as she watched him walk away and leave her in this state; she was on all fours, her whole body cramped up and her neck bent over. It was hurting a little now, and she hated to think what it would be like after a few hours. As time wore on, Hermione felt different parts of her body going numb. The crick in her neck was really taking it's toll and her knees on the cage bars were almost numb from the pain. She had no idea how long it had been, all she wanted was for him to release her from this cage. She didn't dare look around the room, it frightened her. All the instruments here were available for him to use on her for his own 'pleasure', and that was a sickening thought. It wasn't long after that that she heard footsteps on the stone steps down to the dungeon, and felt relief at - hopefully - finally being allowed out of her little prison. She noticed he looked furious, absolutely steaming with anger, but she was pleased at what she had done. She didn't regret it. He deserved it. "Mudblood." He spat at her, literally, with it landing in her hair. Lazily, he flicked his wand and opened the cage door, motioning for her to climb out. If it didn't hurt so damn much, she wouldn't have done what she was told. She hated succumbing to his wishes. Roughly, he seized her hair and ripped her out of the cage, banging her limbs on the side and dragging her knees across the stone floor. Blood seeped out of the little cuts that were being made and she let out an involuntary yelp as her shin went across a nail in the floor. Reluctantly, she stole a look up to see what he was doing to her, but as soon as she had, she really wished she hadn't. "I love that look of horror across your face, Mudblood." Lucius said harshly as he grabbed her body and hauled it up onto a large, metal table. Hermione gasped as her flesh made contact with the cold steel, and she gulped as she noticed two rings by the side of her arm. She made to grab for them, but Lucius was ready for her and bound her spread eagled to the table. "Let me out!" She yelled, hopelessly. "No!" He banged his fist on the table. "You will pay for being an insolent little shit." He turned to the face the door. "You can come in now." Hermione lifted her head up as far as it would go. A man wearing a black mask walked in carrying a see-through bag, the contents of which could only be used for one thing: piercing. Coming to this horrific realisation, Hermione screamed and struggled against her bonds. She even tried pleading with the man, but he just smirked, and as he took off his mask, Hermione went silent. This man she was not expecting. OOO Hermione awoke, her head resting on the cold stone floor. She was freezing cold and shivering; her hairs were standing on end all over her body. As her eyes gained focus, she looked down at her body to see why she was aching so and screamed: her nipples were pierced. Gold, hoop rings were in place of where her perfect nipples used to be, and now? Now they were nothing but a cruel punishment for her. "Oh, you're awake," Severus Snape said. "You fucking evil bastard, Snape!" She yelled at him, gaining fight inside of her and standing up. Wobbling a little on her unstable feet, she made her way towards him and punched him repeatedly in his chest until he caught her arms and held them still. "I hate you!" "Good, good." Snape said, treating her like a rag doll and pulling her over to the table where she had been pierced. Her dried blood was left on there, but she didn't wait around to see how much as she kicked Snape in the shin to try and get away. "No, no," he said, twisting her hands to occupy her. There was a banging in the corner of the room and they both turned around; it was Lucius coming in and locking the door behind him. "Glad to see you're finally awake, Mudblood." Hermione gathered all the spit she could muster and hurled it in Snape's face, but he simply held both of her hands in one of his and calmly wiped it off. Next thing she knew, she was being thrown towards Lucius who threw something around her neck before she could pull away. "What are you doing?" She cried as it tightened around her vulnerable neck. "It's a collar, my dear wife." Lucius raised his eyebrows at her. "Since you can't behave yourself, it would appear you need this to help you fulfill my wishes." "No!" She struggled against Snape, but found the collar reduced her strength significantly, to the point where it just didn't feel worth it. "As time wears on, you will become more submissive. Give it a day or so and you'll be voluntarily calling us Master." Lucius said with a snide tone of voice. "Those nipples look passable, now." Hermione did nothing but scowl at him. The words she wanted to use wouldn't come out of her mouth. Snape released her hands and she rubbed where he had held roughly onto them. Her beady eyes turned to Lucius carefully as he made his way over to the table she had been pierced on. When he got there, he took off all his clothes and lay flat on his back, his large, erect cock standing to attention. "Here, Mudblood." He said, wiggling his finger. Snape pushed Hermione forward with his arm, but he really didn't need to as she found herself willingly, though mentally reluctantly, going towards him. "On top of me," Lucius said, guiding his cock to her pussy. Hermione started to panic; she was as dry as anything and she was a virgin - saving herself for Ron. "Right," Lucius murmered as he felt the tip of his cock touching her cunt. "Impale yourself." He instructed. Hermione's mind screamed and screamed, she fought with herself mentally as the collar forced her to do as he asked. Involuntarily, she let out a yelp at the pain as it hit her entrance, but as much as she pushed and screamed, nothing happened. "Merlin's sake," Lucius sighed and fetched his wand from the side of him. A quick flick and Hermione was as wet as October, and while his cock slid easily into her entrance, he still had trouble forcing it past her hymen. "Keep impaling," he said to her as he felt the struggle and just as Hermione thought she was going to be torn apart, his cock finally went in. There was no pleasure from this point on, though. It hurt a great deal still and she could see specks of blood accumulating on Lucius' thighs. "My turn?" Snape appeared behind them, causing Hermione to turn swiftly around. Lucius nodded to his friend. "Of course." Hermione made to get off of Lucius, but his hands grabbed her firmly and pulled her down so her head was resting on his chest. "Not a chance." Snape undressed quickly and jumped onto the table behind Hermione. "We're definitely going to need lube for this one," he commented as he fingers traced her now stuck out and pronounced arsehole. Frantically Hermione shook her head from side to side, but verbally she could not object. Worry filled her eyes and tears fell down her face as she contemplated what was about to happen. It was bad enough that she had lost her virginity to a man she hated, but now she was going to lose her anal virginity too? "That's right," Lucius said as he saw her look of panic. "You should be worried." In no time at all, Hermione's arsehole was slick with lube and Snape took this opportunity to force his cock in. Whilst it did go in, it took a while for her ass to stop rejecting him but when he was finally buried in there, he never wanted to leave. Hermione yelled as her arse was being torn apart by Snape's penis, which from what she could tell, was very large. Being sandwiched between two men was a horrible feeling for her and she couldn't wait till it was over, nearly passing out due to the pain. They fucked her roughly and deeply, with no mercy for how she was feeling or whether it was hurting her. Obscenities were on the tip of her tongue and with no way to get rid of them, she just felt frustrated. She tensed up as she felt Lucius reach up and grab her breast, toying with her new nipple ring and giving her pain she never knew she could feel. As Lucius touched up her breasts, the feeling of her tight cunt was sending him over the edge and he finally orgasmed in her, knowing full well that this sperm could be the one that got him an heir. Snape grabbed Hermione's hips and hurled her backwards onto his cock as he too orgasmed, filling her newly ruined arse with his semen. "Good girl," he said in a patronising voice as he tugged on her hair whilst pulling his cock out of her. "Get up." Lucius snarled at Hermione once Snape had gotten down, and she obeyed quickly, backing away from the two men as they pulled their clothes on. Once dressed, Lucius turned to Hermione with an evil glint in his eye. "We're going to be fucking every single day until I find out you're pregnant, and even then you'll be lucky if I stop completely." Hermione felt sick at the prospect of not only carrying his baby, but having to continue to service him as she did so. She only hoped that it really was this time that had got her pregnant, because she didn't want to stay here any longer than she had to. Law stated she could leave him as soon as she bore him an heir, for the one she caused him to lose, and she couldn't wait for that to happen. Lucius and Snape left the dungeon rapidly, banging the door shut and locking it behind them. Hermione shivered and felt something running down her leg. A quick look told her it was Lucius' semen and she felt sick to her stomach as the sticky liquid continued to make its way down her leg. OOO It had been a month since that fateful night with Malfoy and Snape, and unfortunately for her, that hadn't been a one off occurance. Every night Lucius fucked her, whilst Snape joined them every week. Of course, he was entitled to his fun time...or at least that's how Lucius saw it. Recently she had started being sick quite often and her breasts felt sore. She knew what that meant, but she hadn't told Malfoy yet. As much as she wanted this to happen, just so she could get out of this whole damn situation, she was dreading it too. Not only would her body change dramatically, but her mind would change too. Thanks to them, she would never be the same again. "Ugh," Lucius had just walked into the dungeon, his nose turning in disgust at the smell. "What have you done in here, girl?" He looked around, in the corner there was a pile of sick that he hadn't noticed before. He was about to call her names, shout at her, before a realisation popped into his head. "Are you...?" Slowly, Hermione met his eyes, gulped, and nodded. OOO Hermione was nine months into her pregnancy. She was irritated, uncomfortable and generally angry all the time. When Malfoy had discovered she was pregnant, he had moved her up into one of the guest bedrooms immediately, but had house elves and servants keep an eye on her. Many times she had tried to escape, but failed every time; there were spells and enchantmants all around Malfoy Manor. When this didn't work, she tried giving notes for Harry and Ron to the house elves, but they strictly obeyed Malfoy and refused. When the gender spell could be done on her, to find about the sex of her baby, Hermione was nervous as sin. She knew perfectly well that if the baby was a girl, Malfoy would have it aborted right there and then and she'd be down in the dungeons again. As luck with have it, she was carrying the next Malfoy heir, and boy was she grateful. Anymore of that dungeon treatment and she thought she'd have gone insane. The last few months had been relatively easy for her; she didn't see Malfoy much - she saw more of Snape than him - and she had her own servants to succumb to every wish and crazy craving she had. It still didn't stop her from wanting to desperately leave, though. Access to the library was granted to her as soon as Malfoy had been informed she hadn't tried to escape for a matter of weeks. This she was grateful for, though she'd never let him know it. Hours she spent there, as she did back in Hogwarts, and she was even pleased to find a copy of Hogwarts: A History, which she didn't take long to wear out. The nurse who gave her regular check ups had told her she was due any day now; it would soon be over. But this was the worst part - her hormones were all over the place, her cravings were driving her insane and the baby always kicked at the most inappropriate of times. She was barely even able to get to sleep she was so frustrated. Therefore, she felt nothing but relief when she was gardening and her waters broke. Slowly but surely she made her way back into the Manor, screaming Malfoy's name at the top of her lungs. "What the hell are you screaming for you insolent Mudblood?" Lucius roared back at her as he came across her in the kitchens. Looking down, he saw her dress was wet and her face was a mixture of anger and relief. "It's time, isn't it?" "Yes it's fucking time." She bellowed at him, gritting her teeth and holding onto the kitchen counter. "Well you know where your birthing room is." He said simply, turning on his heel to leave her alone. "You're not...?" Hermione certainly didn't want Malfoy there, but she had always believed a father should see the birth of their child. Lucius didn't turn around, but he did shake his head. Hermione didn't have time to evaluate Malfoy's behaviour and made her way towards the birthing room the nurse had set up. Luckily it wasn't too far, just off from the kitchens and as she made her way in, she lay down on the bed and pulled the cord to alert the nurse. "Oh, Miss Hermione!" The nurse said, running in with a wet flannel that she put on Hermione's head. "It will be all over soon, Miss Hermione!" Hermione smiled weakly. "Please don't call me that, Maria. Hermione will do just fine." "I hope that's the last time I hear that from you...Hermione." OOO Hermione found herself stood in the cold, chilly grounds of Malfoy Manor. There was frost on the flowers and bushes and she found herself shivering. The day she had finally come. She was being allowed out. As the gates swung open for her, with that dreaded bracelet off of her wrist, she couldn't help but take one look back at the place she had spent the last ten months or so. It had been hell, and she would never be able to forget what had happened there. Lucius did see the birth of his son; he came in right at the end as the head was just being delivered, but disappeared soon after. Hermione didn't even get to hold him; Maria had been under strict instructions on this one. Lucius hadn't wanted her to form a bond with the baby, and truth be told, she could see why. It had been two days since she had given birth. She would have left straight after if Maria had let her, but she needed her rest. She needed to recover. Mentally and physically she had been through so much that she needed a little time for herself before she went back home. Emotional goodbyes were in order for Maria, but only a curt nod from Lucius before he signaled the house elves to start opening the gates for her. Finally out of the gates, she wrapped her coat tightly around herself and apparated straight to where she hoped Ron would be: The Burrow. Upon arrival, there was no one to be seen or heard, which was quite unusual. Hermione knew she had arrived early, but they couldn't all still be in bed, she thought. "Hello?" She called through the door, opening it and stepping inside. "It's me. Hermione." The upstairs floor shook as though there was in an elephant in the house, and before Hermione knew it, she was showered with so much love it bowled her over. Red hair was hugging her all over the place, tightly hanging on and kissing her. Still, she couldn't see Ron. "Where's...?" Hermione asked Mrs. Weasley quietly and the older woman backed off to allow Ron to make his way through. "Hi," she smiled at him. It was awkward, so awkward. She only hoped they would be able to get over everything that had happened. "Hi." Ron replied back, lifting his hand out of his pocket for a little wave. "Give her a hug, then," Ginny prompted, pushing him forwards. Hermione felt Ron's arms open wide, but he soon snapped them shut and held on tightly once she was close enough. It felt good. She had missed Ron's hugs so much. "And Harry?" She asked when their embrace was over. "He's good, don't worry about him," Mrs. Weasley assured Hermione. "You must be starving!" "A little," Hermione smiled and took Ron's hand, where he led her over to the dining table. "Fancy that wedding sometime soon?" "You're not married to him anymore?" Ron said, his mouth gaping wide open in happiness and shock. Hermione shook her head, a grin plastered across her face. "Nope. As soon as the boy was born, the spell was lifted." "Next Saturday it is, then!" Ron said cheerfully, jumping up and down with excitement. Lowering his voice so nobody but Hermione could hear, he spoke softly. "I want to have a family with you, you know." "Early days, isn't it?" She asked, not sure if she could cope with being pregnant again so soon. "Oh no," Ron patted her on the back. "Not yet. But one day." Hermione stroked Ron's hair softly, beaming at him. "We have all the time in the world."

Entry tags: charmed, spike/giles Charmed (1/1) Title: Charmed (1/1) Pairing: Spike/Giles Rating: NC17 Summary: For the Fic/Art Exchange on nekid_spike - caelieth wanted "a fic where Giles gets kidnapped by a evil git type monster and the boys rescue him. No BDSM, no het, no Mary-Sues. I’m perfectly okay with non con, violence, action/adventure. No death-fics please. I can write ‘em but I can’t read ‘em :P" She asked for some combo of Spike/Giles/Angel, "preferably with Giles in the role of nervous seducee." This fic takes place mid-season 4, some time shortly after A New Man. And this is about as fluffy as I've written thus far. Charmed He wasn’t anywhere near as good at this as Angelus. Not that it would be wise to tell him so. Not that Giles could tell him so, with a filthy rag stuffed in his mouth and another tied around his head to keep the gag in. But Giles could still think it, and know that he’d survived worse, and it gave him strength as he wiggled against the ropes that held him to the chair. Unfortunately, not enough strength to actually free himself. The demon glared at him from his own chair. He was large and wrinkly, with skin like an elephant’s hide. He was bald, too, and his eyes were large and oddly flat, like a fish’s. He was wearing a badly cut brown suit and his breath smelled horrifying. “I ask you last time, human. Where is Slayer?” The demon was, apparently, incredibly stupid. Giles hadn’t told him Buffy’s whereabouts when the demon had showed up at his flat and demanded to know where she was. He hadn’t told him when the demon had grabbed him and dragged him out his front door and shook him like a ragdoll. He hadn’t told him when the demon had batted him about the head until he lost consciousness. He hadn’t told him when he’d regained consciousness in this abandoned house and found himself tied to a chair. So he sure as bloody hell wasn’t about to tell him with his mouth sodding gagged. The demon had tried torture, actually. It wasn’t his strong suit. He’d broken a couple of fingers, which was a good start, but then he seemed to have run out of steam and simply yelled instead. His breath was horrid, but not enough to make Giles talk. He threatened to kill Giles, but then Giles pointed out that then he’d never be able to tell the demon where Buffy was—not that he would in any case—and the demon became angry and jammed the cloth between his jaws. In truth, Giles didn’t even know where Buffy was. He seldom did, these days. Somewhere with that boyfriend of hers, no doubt. Perhaps at her dorm room or his, or at the Bronze, or perhaps even out patrolling. But if the demon was too dim-witted to find her himself, Giles certainly wasn’t going to give him any assistance. Now they were at an impasse of sorts. Giles expected that soon enough the creature would give up and simply kill him. But not quite yet, it seemed. Suddenly, the demon stood and stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You no gonna tell me where is Slayer?” Giles gave him the look he had always reserved for the very thickest of students, such as the ones who hadn’t sussed out the Dewey Decimal system by their final year of high school. “I maybe can make you tell me with these—“ the demon waved a pair of ham-sized fists in his face “—but this take more time. I think this work more better.” He walked to the side of the room and rummaged around in a large cloth sack. After a moment, he made a small sound of triumph and returned to Giles’s side, clutching an object in his hand. “I trade, you see? You tell me where is Slayer, I give you this.” He held the object practically under Giles’s nose. This was probably just as well, as Giles’s glasses had been lost at some point in the abduction process, and his vision without them was poor. It was a talisman, a thing made of metal and shaped like—well, like a phallus. It was a very tiny phallus, though, smaller than the first joint of his little finger. “You know what is this?” Giles shook his head. “Is love charm. Very strong. You wear, and girls want you very much.” He looked Giles up and down. “I think you need this for the girls, yes?” Somehow, the implication that Giles was incapable of attracting others on his own offended him more than the kidnapping and beating. He frowned as threateningly as a bound and gagged man could. The demon laughed. “Yes. You tell me where is Slayer, I give you charm.” Giles had an idea. He yelled into the gag until the demon removed the cloth around his face. Giles spat the rag out. “How do I know the charm works?” The demon smiled, displaying a double row of crooked, yellow teeth. “Oh, you smart human! You need demonstration?” “Yes. That’s exactly what I need.” Perhaps this would buy him more time, and allow him to find a means of escape. “All right. Here.” The demon shoved the charm into the breast pocket of Giles’s shirt. “You stay here. I come back quick.” And he replaced the gag tightly before he left. As soon as he was gone, Giles renewed his attempts to loosen his bonds. The demon might not be very smart, but he was certainly quite talented at tying knots. So he tried to move the chair around, hoping he could break it against a wall, but he only succeeded in tipping himself over. He lay helplessly on his side, cursing silently, and then he realized that his bladder was quite urgently full, and unless he was released soon he was going to disgrace himself. Lovely. Perhaps someone would realize he was missing and come rescue him. Not likely. Buffy was occupied with Riley, Xander with Anya and whatever job he’d taken this week, and Willow with school and her witchcraft. Nobody else was likely to check on him anytime soon, which might have depressed him if he hadn’t been trapped in a demon’s clutches and needing badly to urinate. Well, if he survived he could always fret over it later. He tried to think dry thoughts. He wished he hadn’t drunk quite so much tea that afternoon. A door slammed. There were loud footsteps and a scraping noise, and a moment later the door to the room flew open. From his sideways position, Giles saw the demon dragging a girl. She was young—most likely around Buffy’s age—and pretty and terrified. Her hands were tied behind her and she was gagged quite like Giles himself. The demon saw Giles’s position and growled. “I tell you stay here!” He shoved the girl hard, causing her to land in a heap in the center of the room. Then, with seemingly little effort, he righted Giles’s chair. He stomped a few steps to the girl. “You scream, I kill you, understand?” She nodded tearfully. He roughly yanked the cloth out of her mouth and she began to sob. She didn’t yell, though. The demon pointed at Giles. “You see this man?” She sniffed and nodded. “You want this man? You want have sex with this man?” Her eyes flew wide open and she scrambled to her feet. She tried to run for the door, but the demon easily caught her. “I asked, you want have sex with this man?” “N-n-no! Please!” she cried. The demon frowned. “Maybe she need be more close.” He dragged the unwilling girl until she was next to Giles in his chair. She had a red, tear-stained face. Her hair was brown and curly, and she was wearing a short skirt and low-cut blouse. She only had one shoe. She looked dressed to go out, and Giles wondered if the demon had caught her near The Bronze. The demon maneuvered her until she was facing Giles and only inches away. Giles could smell her floral perfume quite clearly. “You like this man? You think he handsome? You want have sex?” “N-n-no!” she snuffled. Giles rolled his eyes. Not only was the talisman clearly worthless, but this was quite humiliating as well. The demon scowled. “Why this not work? Magic guy told me it work.” He pointed at Giles with his free hand. “This you fault!” Giles shrugged and raised his eyebrows. He just hoped the creature didn’t decide to kill the girl. The demon was thinking, and Giles could just about see the rusty gears creaking in his head. But he’d never know what solution the demon would have come up with, because suddenly a new voice said, “Well, this is a pretty picture!” Three sets of eyes turned at once to the door. “Rupert. Seems you have some kinks you haven’t shared with us. Do the kiddies know about this?” The vampire was slouched carelessly against the doorframe, a smirk on his lips and a cigarette between his fingers. As usual, he was dressed all in black, with his duster draped around him. “Who are you? What you want?” bellowed the demon. “Just an innocent bystander, mate. Go on. I’ll just enjoy the show.” The demon growled and let go of the girl, then ran at Spike. Spike laughed delightedly, flicked away the cigarette, and changed to his demon face. The girl shrieked and ran to the far corner, where she hunched, cowering. Giles yelled into the gag, hoping she’d take the hint and untie him while the monsters were distracted, but she was too busy having hysterics. Honestly, these children really ought to know better. The fight was loud and bloody. The demon was stronger, but Spike was faster. And smarter, too, because he was easily able to dodge most of the creature’s clumsy lunges. It was clear that he was dragging things out, and Giles wished he’d hurry up before Giles wet himself. At last, the demon got in a lucky blow and a loud cracking sound came from the vampire’s chest. Spike howled and sprang for his throat. He tore away a great, bloody chunk of flesh, which he spat onto the floor. The demon roared, and then Spike seized his opponent’s head in his hands and wrenched. There was a sickening snapping noise and a moment later the demon fell from Spike’s hands, dead. Spike grinned through a mouthful of sharp, red teeth and sauntered over. “Looks like rescuing you is becoming a regular habit of mine, Watcher. What do you have to offer this time?” Giles grunted. “Oh. Right. Demon got your tongue.” Spike reached over and untied the gag with hands sticky from gore. “Untie me at once!” “Doesn’t really seem to me you’re in any position to be giving orders, are you?” Spike lifted one eyebrow. “All right, all right. I promise I’ll pay you two hundred dollars, just like last time.” Spike shook his head. “No, mate. That was just an introductory rate, like. Fee’s gone up. Five hundred.” Oh, for Christ’s sake. “Fine. Five hundred.” “You have the dosh now?” “Back at my flat. Let me go and I’ll get it.” Spike gazed at him for a long minute. Giles was about to resort to begging when the vampire nodded. “All right. I expect you’re good for it.” Spike tugged and worked at the ropes for a bit, and then Giles was free. Without stopping to say anything, he lurched out of the chair, stumbled past the demon’s corpse and out the door, and then fumbled open his flies. With a hiss of relief, he voided into the corner of the empty hallway. He tucked himself back in, buttoned up and turned in time to see Spike leering at him. “Marking your territory, Watcher?” He sighed. “Let me just see to the girl and then I’ll get you your money.” “Oh, the bird’s gone. Took a runner soon as you were out of the room.” Giles expected that she’d be all right. It didn’t appear that the demon had actually hurt her. Spike followed him down the hall and out of the house. They were on a quiet street, deserted under the night sky. Giles looked about and tried to get his bearings. “Your flat’s about a half mile that way,” Spike pointed. So Giles set off in that direction, the vampire tagging behind him. “You do get yourself in some scrapes, don’t you? Ought to be more careful who you hang out with.” Giles said nothing. “You’re awfully lucky I came around when I did, aren’t you?” “Yes, well, how did you find me?” That question hadn’t really occurred to Giles until now. “Went around your place to see if you had any blood left.” Giles shot him a look. “’M running a mite short now, is all. Thought you might have a pint to spare, yeah? But when I got there, your door was wide open—any thief could have come along and nicked everything, if you had anything worth nicking—and the only blood I found was yours, splattered on the floor.” Giles put a hand gingerly to the back of scalp. Ah. There was some amount of matted blood there, and now of course it began to ache. “Didn’t see any Scoobies handy to ride to your rescue, so I thought I might find a way to earn myself enough for some blood and fags.” He shrugged. “It was a simple thing to follow your scent and that demon’s. What did he want with you anyhow?” “He wanted to know where Buffy is,” he replied shortly. “I’ll wager she’s with that soldier wanker somewhere, yeah?” “I don’t know, Spike. I don’t have to watch over her every minute.” “That so? I thought you might, you being her Watcher and all.” Giles didn’t reply, and they walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached Giles’s building, he saw with mild surprise that his door was shut. He hadn’t expected Spike to bother. They went inside. The small table just near the door had been upset in his struggle with the demon, sending papers flying all over the floor. Giles righted it and scooped up the bills and other assorted things that always seemed to accumulate there. When he was finished, he saw that Spike had settled himself on the sofa, sprawled there as if he owned the place and tenderly feeling at his ribcage. “You can tidy later, Rupert. I don’t fancy spending all night here. I’m getting peckish.” “There’s a bag or two in the freezer,” Giles snapped impatiently. He was tired. “You can get it while I fetch your money.” “Ta,” said Spike and rose and ambled into the kitchen. Giles went upstairs to his room. He shrugged off his blazer and tossed it onto the chair by the bed. It was dirty and bloodstained and he hoped he’d be able to get it cleaned properly. Then he rummaged in his closet until he found his safe. He unlocked it and pulled out the cash inside. He counted it and sighed. This was going to take half of his reserves. He was going to need to withdraw more from his accounts soon. Or find another position, because surely there were scores of open positions for middle-aged high school librarians with demon-fighting aspirations. Back downstairs, Spike was slouching on the sofa again, a mug in his hand, and a tumbler of amber liquid at his side. He’d found the Scotch. Brilliant. Giles set the small wad of bills on the couch next to him. “Cheers,” Spike said, and shoved them in his trouser pocket. How he managed to get anything in those pockets was rather a mystery, as tight as they were. Not that Giles would notice such a thing. “You have your money, you have your blood. You can go now,” Giles said. “Anxious to get rid of me, are you? Not so nice, after I saved your life again.” “Spike, it’s late. I’m tired. I’ve spent half the day with that demon—“ “The demon I killed for you.” “Yes. And I’m rather banged up and I’d just like to get some sleep.” Spike put the mug down and Giles winced as a bit of blood slopped out and onto his end table. Instead of heading for the door, though, the vampire walked up behind him. “Let me have a look, then,” he said, reaching for Giles’s head. Giles hopped away. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Just having a look. I’ve seen a bashed head or two in my time, you know. And you can’t very well see it yourself.” Giles had to admit he had a point, although he couldn’t imagine why Spike was bothering. But he stood still as Spike came close again, and he felt the presence of that small, muscular body just behind him, and then fingers brushing surprisingly gingerly at the back of his head. “It’s not too bad,” Spike announced, and Giles had to suppress a shiver when that deep voice sounded so close to his ear. He could even feel the puff of Spike’s cool breath against his skin. “Got a bit of a bump. I expect you knocked into something a bit sharp.” Like the edge of that table, perhaps. “Fine. Thank you.” But Spike didn’t move. Then he did, but only to place a hand on Giles’s shoulder. “I expect you must be lonely,” he purred. “All the kiddies all grown up, off doing their own things, you without even a library to look after.” For just a moment, Giles was nearly tempted to lean back, to enfold himself in what he was suddenly certain would be a welcoming embrace. But only for a moment. Instead, he skipped away like a skittish pony. “I appreciate your concern, Spike, but I’m fine,” he said as sternly as he could manage. Spike wasn’t fooled. He grinned and ambled back to the sofa, onto which he collapsed with very little elegance. He drained the mug all at once, and Giles found himself mesmerized by the working of that long, pale throat. Then Spike put down the cup and reached for the glass. Dear Lord, Giles thought, he needed a drink, too. Quickly. He went into the kitchen and took down a tumbler and the bottle of Scotch. He plunked a couple of ice cubes into the glass, then filled it nearly to the brim. He started to put the bottle away, and then thought better of it. With a sigh, he carried his things into the living room. He set the bottle on the other end table and then sank gratefully onto the opposite end of the sofa from Spike. “You should get that head seen to,” Spike said. “I’ll just numb the pain a bit with this, thanks,” he replied, waving his glass slightly. He took a large gulp, and he imagined he felt the burning liquid soothing him even as it passed his tongue and slipped down his throat. For a long time, the only sound in the room was their breathing—and why did the vampire even bother, anyway?—and swallowing, and the clink of glass against glass when they poured refills. Spike drank more, of course, vampire constitution and all, but Giles had enough that the thud in his head receded to a dull throb, and the emptiness in his heart faded a bit. Just a bit. It was Spike who finally broke the silence. “You going to stay here, Watcher? Or perhaps you’ll toddle on back to Old Blighty now.” “I don’t know,” he replied, and that was honest. “You have family there?” “No.” He didn’t. He was an only child, his parents had died years ago, his sole aunt had recently passed away. There was only him. “What about that bird, what’s-her-face….?” “Olivia,” he nearly whispered. “She’s…moved on.” “Know how that feels,” said Spike quietly, and Giles felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the vampire. He tried to imagine what it would be like to lose a love after a hundred years. For it had been clear, despite being a soulless demon, Spike truly did love Drusilla. He passed the nearly empty bottle to Spike, who dispensed the last of it into his glass. Spike swirled the liquid, staring at it thoughtfully, and then tossed it back. Giles expected him to leave. Why shouldn’t he? He had Giles’s money, he’d polished off the blood and Scotch. No reason to stay. He rose slightly, but instead of departing, he merely scooted down the seat until he was thigh-to-thigh with Giles. Giles tried to shift away, but he was trapped against the sofa’s arm. He could feel Spike’s hard muscles, even through the fabric of their trousers and of Spike’s coat. This close, the smell of him was nearly overwhelming—leather and alcohol and cigarettes and hair gel and the coppery saltiness of blood. “Been a bit lonely myself,” Spike said in his rumbling voice, and he placed a hand on Giles’s knee. The sane part of Giles’s brain screamed at him to get up, to expel Spike from the flat and disinvite him for good, to gather his things and head for LAX and get on the next plane to England. He was a Watcher, for Christ’s sake, and this was a bloody vampire! In fact, it was the bloody vampire, William the Bloody, about whom he’d been hearing horror stories nearly since he could walk. Unfortunately, the rest of Giles’s brain wasn’t listening. He hadn’t always been a middle-aged, unemployed librarian, swathed in tweeds and scorned by teenagers. He’d been Ripper. A rebel. With plenty of girls and, on occasion, boys happy to climb into bed with him, thrilled to help keep a bit of the loneliness at bay for just a while. Nobody knew or remembered that anymore except for that bastard Ethan Rayne. Hell, sometimes he nearly forgot it himself. So when Spike moved infinitesimally closer so that they were pressed together from shoulder to ankles, Giles didn’t budge. His breathing caught and his heart felt like it might hammer out of his chest, but the rest of his body was still. Spike bent his head and purred throatily into Giles’s ear: “We could give each other a bit of company, Rupert. When is the last time you got your end away, huh?” Giles swallowed thickly, but his voice was steady when he asked, “Why are you doing this, Spike? Some new game of yours?” “Told you. Lonely.” “Yes, but why me?” Spike shrugged. “You’re here, I’m here.” “I wasn’t aware that you…fancied men.” “Then you haven’t been reading your journals very carefully, Watcher. True, I generally prefer birds, but I’ve had a leg over with a bloke now and then. You live long enough, you tend to expand your horizons.” Giles thought about that for a moment. “All right, yes,” he said. “But still, why me? Surely you can find someone younger, and—“ Spike laughed. “Younger? Are you forgetting that I’m 90 years your elder? I’m practically robbing the cradle, I am. Besides, there’s something especially delicious about you tonight.” And he put his soft, full lips against Giles’s ear and sucked lightly on the lobe. And just then, when Giles’s cock twitched in his lap and began to awaken, he realized what was going on. The bloody talisman. It might not have worked on the girl, but it was certainly working on the vampire. These things generally had to be worn close to the body to have their intended effects. If he removed it from his pocket now, Spike would come to his senses and go away. He didn’t remove it from his pocket. Instead, he turned his head slightly and then his lips were meeting Spike’s, and Spike tasted of blood and his good Scotch. Spike reached up and ran his long fingers through Giles’s hair, and Giles hissed when he brushed against his wound. Spike hissed, too, as the chip punished him for accidentally causing pain. “Right. Sorry,” the vampire panted. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.” “No. I expect you didn’t.” “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll help clean you up, get your head sorted out.” Giles had to laugh. “I doubt very much that you can do anything to sort out my head, Spike. But you can come help tend to my scalp.” They walked up the stairs side by side. Giles noticed that Spike was wincing with every step, and remembered that he’d most likely broken a rib or two in the fight. He could help with that; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d taped someone’s chest. They went straight for the loo. Spike glanced angrily at the bath, and Giles was surprised to feel a pang of guilt. He probably hadn’t really had to chain the vampire there. He’d already been neutered at that point, after all. It had been bloody inconvenient too, especially when Spike had leered and made filthy comments every time Giles had had to use the toilet. Neither of them mentioned it now, though. Instead, Spike said, “Get your kit off and I’ll draw you a bath.” Honestly, a bath sounded quite nice. But then he’d have to take his shirt off, and, well, he didn’t want to, just yet. So he simply sat wearily on the closed toilet. “No bath tonight. Can you just clean it with a towel?” “Suit yourself.” Spike grabbed a towel and ran some water in the sink. Once again he stood very close as he dabbed at the back of Giles’s head. Giles winced a bit, but actually Spike was quite gentle. He wondered where a vampire had learned to be so tender in his ministrations. All those years with Drusilla, perhaps. The warm water against his skin was actually quite soothing, and he soon found himself closing his eyes and leaning back a bit into those strong hands. Spike was humming something under his breath as he worked—ah, The Clash. Spanish Bombs.—and Giles started humming along with him. Spike paused for a moment as if he were surprised, then laughed, and they sang quietly together. Soon enough, Spike was finished. He threw the towel on the floor and Giles didn’t complain. Giles stood and turned to face Spike, who was grinning at him. Not sneering or leering, just a warm smile. Giles couldn’t help but smile back. “Hand,” Spike said, and it took Giles a moment to remember what he was talking about. Then he held his left hand up, and Spike examined the three broken fingers. “You’ll need to get these splinted,” he concluded. “Fine. Tomorrow. Now take your shirt off,” he said. “You want to shag in here? Kinky bugger.” “No, I want to see to your ribs in here.” Spike looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Giles to notice or care about his injury. That was a reasonable assumption; on any other night, it would have been true. Spike shrugged out of his duster and peeled off his t-shirt, grimacing a bit as he moved. Giles gasped. “Yeah, that’s a nasty bruise,” Spike said, looking down at himself. “It’ll be gone in a day, though.” Giles nodded and reached for the first aid kit, but although the wound was huge and a purple so dark as to be nearly black, that’s not what caught his breath. No, it was the pale, sculpted perfection of the undamaged portions of the vampire’s torso. The hairless, alabaster skin stretched over lean muscles; the hardened pink rosebuds of his nipples; the slight concavity of his belly between the hipbones that jutted from his low-slung jeans. Giles blinked himself back to rational thought and removed a large, rolled bandage from the plastic bin that served as his repository for the things that treated the gashes and sprains and contusions his charge and her friends frequently sported. Spike lifted his arms obligingly and Giles wrapped the bandage tightly around him, choking back a hiss whenever his fingers brushed against that cold flesh. Just as he finished, Spike lowered his arms and captured Giles’s face in his palms, then leaned in for another long, soft kiss. Then he pulled slightly away and tilted his head, and he pressed his lips against the vulnerable skin of Giles’s neck. He sucked lightly. Giles should have been afraid, chip or not. If he wanted to, Spike could probably get in a nasty bite before his electronic leash disabled him. But Giles wasn’t afraid. Instead, his knees went weak and his cock sprang to attention and he moaned. “I’ll make it nice for you, Watcher,” Spike murmured in his ear. “I’ve had over a century of experience.” And Giles didn’t protest as Spike guided him out of the loo and into his bedroom, and sat him on the bed. Still, that sane bit of his brain was trying to rally enough power to put a stop to this nonsense. But then Spike knelt in front of him and started to pull off Giles’s shoes, and all rationality was quickly and efficiently silenced. Spike removed Giles’s socks and then reached up to unfasten Giles’s belt and trousers, and Giles simply sat there, his hands at his sides, drinking in the beauty of the figure before him. Thinking, for just a moment, how easy it would be to capture this creature, who was, after all, helpless before humans. There was, Giles knew, an odd vulnerability to this vampire, a fragility hidden beneath cockiness and bluster. It would be a simple matter to put a collar around that white neck, to place his mark upon that body, to bend and break him. To make him his, forever. Giles shivered. Spike reached for his shirt button and Giles caught his wrists. “No. My shirt stays on.” Spike frowned at him in puzzlement, his head slightly tilted, and then smiled. “You afraid I’ll see that you’re no longer twenty, Rupert?” He laid his palm flat on Giles’s chest. “A bit of wear and tear doesn’t bother me.” Giles smiled wryly. “Yes, well, it does bother me.” Spike shrugged. He stood and toed off his boots. Then, in one smooth motion, he unfastened his trousers and let them slide down his hips. With a vampire’s grace he stepped out of the jeans, then stood before Giles, naked save for the bandage. His cock was long and pink and fully erect, the foreskin retracted and the tip shining slightly. It was nestled in a base of golden curls and his bollocks hung beneath like ripe fruit. “You like what you see?” Spike purred. Giles blushed, which was ridiculous for a man of his age. Then Spike slowly turned and he stood with his back to the bed, his hips slightly canted, the pale globes of his perfect arse parted just the tiniest bit. He looked back over his shoulder at Giles, and his pupils were widely dilated, the blue of his irises smoldering with cold fire. Then he turned back, and took a step closer, and once again sank to his knees beside the bed. Giles groaned. Gently, Spike pushed back against Giles’s belly until he was flat on his back, and then Spike drew his opened trousers down over his thighs and knees and finally off altogether. He repeated his actions with Giles’s boxers, stopping only to smile broadly at what he uncovered. Giles couldn’t suppress a smug little grin of his own. He had nothing to be ashamed of in the tackle department. Spike set his palms on Giles’s thighs and the coolness of them felt good, like a cold cloth on a fevered brow. He spread Giles’s legs apart and then scooted himself between them, still on his knees, and blew softly onto Giles’s groin. Giles hauled himself upright because he desired very much to watch this, wanted to see the blond hair and the pale, bare shoulders and the knife-sharp cheekbones. Spike rolled his eyes up at Giles and blinked, then shifted his hands to the topmost, inner portion of Gile’s legs. And then he parted his full lips and stuck out a tongue that was almost shockingly pink, and licked carefully along the tip of Giles’s cock. Sanity made a final stand. What the bloody hell was he doing, sitting here half-naked with one of his favorite—if lately neglected--body parts in a vampire’s mouth? And what was he doing to Spike, who might be a soulless demon but was still a feeling, sentient being, and who was now controlled by that bit of metal in Giles’s breast pocket? He had to put a stop to this. This was wrong on so many levels. Yes, he was definitely going— Oh, dear Lord. Spike had opened his mouth wide and engulfed Giles, swallowing him to the root. His lashes fluttered, Giles wasn’t sure with discomfort or pleasure, and his throat vibrated with what might have been another Clash song. Giles’s hands clutched spastically at that crinkly hair, and he wondered what it would feel like ungelled, perhaps just out of the shower, with sparkling drops of water still caught in it like precious jewels. Then, with a loud slurp, Spike pulled his head away. He leaned back a bit and Giles saw that the vampire’s cock had been trapped between the bed and his abdomen, and now the skin beneath his navel was painted with glistening fluid. “Slick?” he asked, and his voice was as rough as sandpaper, deep and resonant enough to send a thrill through Giles’s marrow. “Bedside table,” he said, pointing. It had been some time since he used it. He wondered if it had an expiration date. Spike uncapped the little bottle and poured a bit on his fingers. And then, to Giles’s utter astonishment, he inserted two of those fingers in his own opening and began to thrust them in and out. “Not enjoying?” Spike asked, his voice slightly mocking. “Yes, of course, I mean—“ Giles sputtered hopelessly and then took a deep breath. “I’d rather expected that you’d—“ “Yeah, well, that would be brilliant, but I might hurt you a bit. Not too keen on getting zapped while in flagrante, you know?” “Oh. Of course.” “You’ll enjoy topping, though, won’t you?” “Yes,” Giles said. “Quite.” Spike smirked a bit and moved his fingers faster. He was panting now, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and rocking his hips slightly in rhythm with his fingers. Giles thought that his white face looked a trifle flushed. After a few more minutes, Spike withdrew his hand and picked up the bottle of lubricant from where he’d discarded it on the floor. “Scoot,” he said, pushing lightly at Giles’s legs. Obediently, feeling as if he were in a very strange dream, Giles swung his legs onto the bed so that his head was on the pillow and his legs were pointing toward the foot of his bed. Spike stood and poured more slick on his hand, and then used that hand to caress and stroke Giles’s rigid organ. Spike climbed on the bed and straddled Giles’s hips. He grasped Giles in one hand, positioned himself so that the head of Giles’s cock pressed at the cleft of his arse, and then, with a look of intense concentration on his face, sank slowly down. The two of them moaned in unison. Spike’s tight, cold channel gripped Giles in a delightful way, like a soft glove made of silk. Spike stilled, and they looked at one another, and it seemed to Giles that the vampire was truly seeing him, in a way that few others ever had. “’t’s nice,” Spike whispered. “Been a long time. Never had a Watcher before.” “I never had a vampire,” he countered. “And it is nice.” Spike beamed happily at him, like a small child who’d been given praise, and leisurely flexed his thighs, moving himself up and down. Giles gave in to the temptation before him and wrapped a hand around that stiff cock, earning himself a grateful hiss from Spike. They writhed like this for a time, Giles arching his hips upward to meet Spike’s downward plunges, Spike with his head thrown back slightly and his eyes half-closed. They spoke only in a chorus of grunts and groans and sighs. And then, as Giles felt himself nearing the blissful precipice, Spike bent forward. Giles withdrew his hand and Spike’s cock jabbed urgently between their bodies, rubbing against Giles’s shirt as the vampire captured Giles’s mouth in a hard and demanding kiss. Giles grabbed Spike’s arse with both hands, forgetting about the mangled fingers, and the feeling of those muscles bunching and tightening under his palms was nearly as pleasurable as the friction that surrounded him. Spike howled into his mouth and Giles’s chest was bathed in gushes of cold fluid that soaked through the cotton of his shirt. Spike’s passage clenched tightly around him and Giles came, too, spasming sharply against and into the beautiful demon. Their movements slowed and stopped, and after a time their breaths evened out, and Giles’s heart stopped racing fitfully. But Spike stayed where he was, and Giles had the sudden impression that Spike enjoyed the closeness, the warm embrace, as much as the actual sex. He could have fallen asleep like that. But at last, Spike stirred, and he cautiously peeled himself away, then stood beside the bed. He looked down at Giles and his face was…at peace, Giles thought. “It’s getting close to sunrise. Time for all good little vamps to toddle off to bed.” “You…you can stay, if you wish.” For a split second, an expression of mixed gratitude and sorrow flitted across Spike’s face. “Nah. Gonna get back to my own crypt. Wouldn’t do for the Slayer or one of her lot to find us like this, would it? She’d stake us both.” Giles nodded. Spike gathered his clothes and pulled them on. Giles remained where he was, just watching. As Watchers often did. Spike paused at the doorway and looked back at him. The exaggerated swagger, the mask of brashness had faded with the night. “Ta, Rupert,” he said softly. “And thank you for the rescue.” Spike smiled again, that genuine warm one, and then was gone. Moments later, Giles heard the front door click shut. Almost immediately, he fell asleep. When Giles awoke, the alarm clock informed him it was nearly noon. He was surprised to find his head barely painful. Perhaps the mild concussion and the hangover cancelled each other out. His shirt was still on. He reached into the pocket for the talisman and found…nothing. He looked around in the bed, but there was no sign of it. It must be caught up in the bedding somewhere. He’d search later. He got up and stretched and stripped off his remaining clothes. He wandered into the loo, grimaced at the bloody towel in the corner and the open first aid kit on the counter. He had a long, hot shower and then got dressed. When he got downstairs, he headed for the kitchen and made some tea and toast, which he consumed leaning against the cupboard. He washed up and headed for the door. Sitting on the little table, the one that had been upset the day before, was a pile of green bills. Five hundred dollars’ worth, if he wasn’t mistaken. He went outside. Alongside some bushes a short way from his flat he found his glasses. Fortunately, they hadn’t been damaged, and he polished them clean and slipped them on his face. It was a warm day. Typical southern California. He passed a few neighbors as he walked, and they nodded politely. Soon he came to the rather decrepit house where he’d been held. The front door was unlocked. The hall smelled strongly of urine and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Inside the room, the demon’s corpse still lay, brown suit jacket bunched under its armpits, too-large mouth gaping open and flat eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. There was no further sign of the girl, so Giles hoped she truly had made it home safely. He walked around the nearly empty room, wondering what the demon had wanted with Buffy in any case. But he found no clues. Just the demon’s cloth sack, which turned out to hold only a few changes of clothing and a pair of huge shoes, and the chair and the torn ropes that had bound him. And, just there, right where he’d fallen when the chair tipped over, there was something else. Something small, nearly buried in the carpet but glinting dully in the light that shone through the bare window. He bent and picked it up, held it between his thumb and forefinger. It was a tiny talisman, shaped like a phallus. ---fin---

The sun was beating down upon the Singer Salvage Yard as Dean sloshed water over the Impala, soap suds skittering over the black bodywork in dancing lines. The hunter sighed happily, body relaxed as he concentrated on cleaning his prized car, idly thinking about Castiel and their baby. Dean allowed himself a proud grin when he thought of Kimber, the little life they'd brought into the world together, merely six months ago. The hunter could barely believe it was possible, even when he saw the evidence in Kimber herself every day. She was a happy baby, always giggling whenever Dean came near and reaching for both Dean and Castiel when they tended to her. Dean smiled again when he thought of how Sam had helped out on the odd occasion when Dean would let him, nursing his niece when Dean and Castiel were resting, wrapped in each other's arms in their bedroom together. They'd taken to staying at Bobby's more often of late, since staring a family of their own, much to the older hunter's gruff pleasure. Dean sighed and applied more soapy water to the car, humming a nursery rhyme to himself merrily. He looked over his shoulder at the sounds of footsteps nearing and he nodded agreeably at Sam's approach. The younger man had his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans and he looked thoughtful, remaining silent even as he leant on a clean, almost dry patch of the Impala's bodywork. When Sam's silence became too much for Dean after a few minutes, he finally said - "Well? You gonna stay there polishing my car with your ass, or are you gonna spit out what you're thinking?" Sam looked at him in surprise before he replied. "I dunno, Dean," he said. "Just thinking about you and Cas. You're really serious, aren't you?" "Dude, we have a baby; of course we're serious," Dean told him sharply, with a puzzled frown at his brother. "I just never thought you'd be the one to actually do it," Sam admitted. "You know, settle down and start a family." He looked to his brother and saw a happy smile pass over Dean's face, green eyes distant and unfocussed as he thought of Castiel and Kimber. Sam smiled awkwardly at that and turned away. "I'm happy for you, Dean," he offered when the silence stretched out for too long. "You ever think about having more?" "Kids?" Dean questioned, his eyebrows lifting with surprise. Sam nodded, a little impatiently as though he thought his brother was being particularly dense. Dean silently splashed more water upon the hood of the Impala, almost splashing some onto his brother while he was at it. Sam complained and moved, but Dean was too caught up in his thoughts to take any notice of him. Finally he looked up and said - "I'd like more kids, Sam. I always imagined I'd have a big family if I ever settled down." Sam watched him for a while and saw the seriousness behind his brother's gaze, a seriousness he rarely ever got to see. Dean usually kept his guard up around his emotions, hiding them well behind jokes and a constant stream of snarky comments, without ever letting anyone get close enough to find the real Dean. Things had changed, Dean had changed, ever since the hunter had met Castiel and settled down with him. Sam was grateful for that, grateful to Castiel for bringing his brother out of himself and giving him the potential to be the man Dean had always wanted to be. "That's good, Dean, that's nice. Have you talked to Castiel about it?" Sam asked, gently, watching as Dean continued to wash his car with renewed vigor. "No, not yet," Dean replied, shortly, concentrating on the task at hand. At Sam's silence, he looked up and smiled slightly at his brother to take the sting out of his words, before continuing to talk. "I will, Sammy. I'm just so frightened - " and Dean broke off his own sentence to turn away awkwardly. "What? That Cas would say no? I don't think he would, Dean. Just try it, okay? Speak to him, see what he says," Sam advised, before turning away to look towards the house. Dean glanced up at him and saw his brother's broad grin, before he left his washing of the car and turned to see what his brother was looking at. Castiel was coming towards them, Kimber held in his arms and a pleased glow flushing his cheeks. Dean watched him come closer and felt a pleased warmth settle through him at the sight his partner made. He looked so happy, so loving towards his daughter that Dean's heart ached to see it. In that one instant, he knew that Castiel would have a hard time turning down the chance of having more children, judging by the look on the angel's face. Dean wiped his hands on the back of his jeans before abandoning his chore, closing the distance between them and pressing a kiss to first Kimber's forehead, then Castiel's mouth, cradling them both in gentle arms. Kimber giggled and waved chubby arms and legs in Castiel's arms, and giggled more when Dean chucked her under the chin. "She's beautiful, isn't she? She's got your eyes," Dean told Castiel, staring down into the little girl's wide blue eyes, dark lashes framing them like lace. "All babies have blue eyes, Dean," Sam said as he peered over Dean's shoulder at the baby girl. "I know, but I still think she's got Cas' eyes. Look at her," Dean said, unable to look away from his baby's eyes. Sam had to agree and he cast a smile up at Castiel, who was staring down happily at his baby. "He's right; she's got your eyes," the younger Winchester said, musingly. Castiel nodded but remained silent, until Dean told him that she should be fed. Sam watched them trailing into the house, Dean's arm nestled around his partner's waist and Sam smiled at the happy scene. He hoped that Dean would make good on his word and speak to Castiel about having more children. He thought that they'd cope well with having a big family, like Dean was hoping for. He sighed and turned away to finish the job of cleaning the Impala for Dean. ******************** Dean didn't ask Castiel about the possibility of children until almost a week later, too frightened of being turned down to say anything sooner, even though he knew he was being ridiculous. The question would only have one out of two possible outcomes after all. He finally plucked up the courage to ask Castiel one night when they were alone, nestled cosily in their bedroom that Bobby had provided for them, Kimber happily asleep in her cot by the wall. Castiel and Dean were still awake, cuddled together in the main bed, Castiel cradled in Dean's arms, happily purring in contentment. Dean leant in and pressed a kiss to his partner's mouth , one hand resting gently on Castiel's back. Castiel blinked at him when Dean leant away to stare at him hopefully, a question on his lips and in his eyes. "Yes, Dean?" Castiel asked, wondering what Dean wanted to ask him. "Cas, I've got something to ask you," Dean started, before his words faltered in his throat and he fell silent. "Yes, go ahead," Castiel prompted, gently, as he settled further into Dean's body, curling one leg around him and settling down cosily. Dean leant in and pressed a kiss to the still purring angel's cheek before he said - "How do you feel about having more kids, Cas?" "Do you want more?" Castiel asked, voice languid and lazy as he got more comfortable in Dean's arms. "Dude, that's not answering my question," Dean said, with a little frustration evident in his voice. "I am not against having more children, Dean, if that's what you want," Castiel replied, with a smile at Dean and meeting the hunter's gaze intently. "Yeah? Seriously?" Dean asked, with obvious surprise at Castiel's answer, expecting him to have said no rather than yes. "I do, Dean. Why were you so convinced that I would say no?" Castiel asked, guessing what had been on the hunter's mind. "I don't know - I guess ... I don't know, Cas. I don't have an answer for that," Dean admitted, with a sheepish expression at his lover. Castiel smiled at that, ripe lips curving gently into a smile as stretched slightly, exposing the long line of his neck to Dean. The hunter cradled Castiel closer and nibbled gently at the exposed skin, making Castiel purr loudly at the contact. Dean continued nibbling at the skin before he spoke against Castiel's neck. "Do you want to start now?" he asked, words vibrating against the angel's throat. Castiel moaned raggedly, one hand travelling up Dean's back and cupping the hunters head gently. Dean felt Castiel's answering erection before the angel even answered verbally. "Yes, Dean, please," Castiel murmured, going lax and responsive in Dean's arms. Dean grumbled out his pleasure before he rolled Castiel onto his back, trapping his partner beneath him with the weight of his body. Castiel spread his legs willingly around Dean's body, exposing the hardness of his erection rubbing alongside Dean's hard member, and they both moaned in approval at the contact. Dean reached down between them and pawed at Castiel's boxers and tried to get them from around Castiel's hips without success, as Castiel was trapped beneath him. He grumbled and rolled away, hands still grappling with the angel's underwear. Castiel helped him peel them loose and away from slender hips before watching as Dean undressed beside him. The hunter rolled on top of Castiel again, bare flesh rubbing on bare flesh as their mouths met and locked in a heated kiss. Dean licked his way inside his partner's mouth , moaned when Castiel sucked greedily on his tongue. He felt Castiel's hands caressing his naked body, turning him on by touching him in all the right places, knowing well where to press to turn Dean on. Dean's hips bucked against Castiel's, almost penetrating him without preparation yet unable to stop rutting against him now he'd started. Castiel held him and didn't protest; instead he waited until the warm trickle of Dean's cum splattered against his leg and Dean cursed loudly. Castiel shushed him and snuggled into him patiently. "We have all night," he murmured into Dean's ear, patiently. Dean grumbled back a noncommittal response and rolled away. The hunter stared up at the ceiling, with a moody expression upon his face and he looked up sharply when Castiel straddled him, knees nestling beneath the hunter's armpits. Dean lifted his arms so that Castiel could scoot closer, before the angel manoeuvred his body so that his dick nudged at Dean's mouth teasingly. Dean grinned suddenly, and lifted his head slightly, neck crooking at an odd angle as his lips started easing around Castiel's cock. Inch by hard inch he took into his mouth, eyes drifting closed in pleasure at the feel of Castiel's thick weight pressing at his tongue and he moaned loudly. Castiel snuffled out a note of arousal at the vibrations coursing through his dick, hands flexing and contracting on the pillow as Dean started bobbing his head rhythmically between his partner's legs. Dean felt pleasure coursing through him at the sounds Castiel was making, rough hoarse moans pulled from his throat as Dean sucked his cock. The hunter slowly forgot about his early ejaculation, instead concentrating on pleasuring his lover. Castiel moaned, fingers digging harshly into the soft wad of the pillow beneath Dean's head, threatening to rip it open as he moved closer to his climax. Dean dipped his tongue into the slit, swirled every last bead of pre-cum from the end of Castiel's cock, before his mouth was flooded with a salty wash of Castiel's cum, Dean's name a strangled cry above him in the semi-darkness. Dean swallowed what he could before Castiel pulled away, soft member pulling from Dean's mouth with a soft pop. Dean laid back and tried to hold onto Castiel when the angel moved away from his chest, but his lover was too strong. Dean was left on his back, a raging hard on curling towards his abdomen as he wondered aloud where Castiel had disappeared to. His answer came when Castiel returned with a bottle of lube he'd retrieved from the bathroom cabinet, flipping open the cap as he came. Dean watched with growing arousal as Castiel prepared himself in the gloom of a darkened bedroom, hips rising and falling as he fingered himself, soft moans falling from between equally soft lips. Dean reached out and caressed one hand over Castiel's hip, still slightly pudgy from childbirth, a surge of interest at the thought of Castiel being heavy with child again. Dean loved the way that Castiel looked while pregnant, and remembered how sexy he'd been while gravid with Kimber, so pliable and soft, pregnant bump a constant turn on for the hunter. Castiel's breath was harsh and rasping in his throat as his gaze rested heavily upon Dean's face, hips rising and falling as he continued preparing himself for his lover. Finally his hand fell away and he laid back upon the bed, legs spread wide, cock swaying up to his abdomen in arousal. Dean took the lube from Castiel, and slicked wet strands of it over taut erect flesh before covering his lover's body with his own. The angel moaned loudly at the first feel of Dean's erection slick against his hole, before his back arched upwards, skin sliding effortlessly over skin as the hunter slowly penetrated Castiel, pushing in inch by slow inch into his lover's body. Dean was gasping harshly by the time that he was fully sheathed inside Castiel, rough breathing blasting into Castiel's face as he rolled his hips experimentally against his lover's. Castiel's hands grappled with Dean's back and ass, pushing and pawing at him endlessly as Dean thrust into him harshly, groans punctuating the night air in staccato rhythms of need as the headboard of the bed thumped rhythmically against the wall. Castiel's body jerked with the force of Dean's thrusts, hands fluttering against the hunter's ass as Dean thrust harder still, harsh groans escaping from his lips as he imagined a heavily pregnant Castiel. Castiel wrapped fingers around his thick shaft eagerly before stroking himself further and further into completion, breath heavy and harsh as he stared up into Dean's flushed, aroused face. He felt Dean shudder and the wet rush of Dean's cum spurting inside him, before the hunter collapsed to rest upon the angel's shoulder. Castiel's hand rubbed harder still at his own erection before he climaxed, covering their sweating skin with thick ropes of his seed. They lay like that for a while, silent but for their harsh breathing, occasionally glancing over to Kimber to make sure she was still sleeping and not disturbed by their frantic rutting across the room. The baby slept on, as deep a sleeper as Dean usually was. Dean smiled proudly at her, before rolling away from Castiel, soft member sliding easily from Castiel's ass. They waited in silence, until Dean had rested, before the hunter climbed on top of Castiel again, dick pushing into Castiel's still loose hole and rutting harshly against him again. Their bodies were well fitted together, complimenting each other as their hips rolled and thrust against each other, before they climaxed again, again, again, losing count of how many times they made love that night. Finally Castiel cradled Dean in his arms while the hunter slept, eyes closed as he meditated, wondering hopefully if he would fall pregnant again. He was looking forward to the prospect of carrying another child to term, as a little brother or sister to Kimber and to provide another addition to the bigger family that they both wanted .... ************************** Five weeks later and there were no signs of pregnancy in Castiel. Dean rubbed one hand over Castiel's abdomen, feeling nothing there but the remnants of baby pudge left over from the last pregnancy. Castiel stared at him, eyes forlorn and large in his too worried face and Dean wrapped his arms around him tenderly. "We'll get pregnant, sweetheart, I promise. We'll keep trying," Dean assured him, rubbing his partner's back as Castiel rested his head upon his shoulder, breath snuffling against Dean's skin. The angel remained silent, tension in his body holding him rigid in Dean's arms and the hunter's heart ached. He wanted another child so much, yet he couldn't help but think it was worse for Castiel who would have to carry the baby to term, not him. He could only imagine the feeling of having a baby growing inside him and to be without that when it was so desperately wanted .... Dean leant in and pressed a kiss to Castiel's cheek and mouth, before repeating more forcefully - "You're getting pregnant, okay? We have to keep trying." "Yes, Dean. I just don't understand why it's not happening," Castiel finally said, voice as forlorn as his eyes. "I don't know sweetheart, but we'll work it out. We have to," Dean said. Castiel cast a soulful gaze onto Dean and saw the hunter's own pain at remaining childfree and cuddled into his partner tenderly. He sighed before speaking again. "I guess we have to have faith we'll be with child before long, Dean," Castiel murmured into his partner's ear softly, wondering if his words really would come to pass. Dean didn't answer, but Castiel felt his slow nod against his bare neck anyway. He could feel the hopelessness in Dean's body and tried to soothe happiness back into his partner, even though he felt the irony of his own words resounding in him ... ************************************************ Two months later and the partners still weren't pregnant. They carried on with their daily lives, hunting and looking after Kimber, all but giving up hope of having at least one other child. Sam could see the pain they covered up, knowing the extent of how much they wanted another child, more if Castiel's ethereal body could take it and provide and he sympathized for the pair. He'd heard of many a partnership breaking up because of one being unable to conceive but not so the case with Dean and Castiel. The prolonged dry spell without conceiving brought the partners closer together, evident in the more tender way they held each other and the way they seemed to reach for one another more often as though the thoughts of babies were never really far from their minds. Dean was trying to cover up his frustration and sadness through being his usual joking self, but Sam could see through it all just as he always did. Castiel, however, became withdrawn, more taciturn and likely to draw off into prolonged silences, eyes misty and looking inside himself as though searching for whatever was going wrong inside his own body and the outward shell of his vessel. Sam drew Dean off to one side one day when things were getting particularly tense around the house, before saying - "I think you need someone to talk to." "About what? There's nothing to talk bout," Dean said, typically drawing his guard up as he purposefully took a long pull at the neck of his beer bottle. "You know what I mean," Sam said, mouth thinning down into a dissatisfied line as he glared at his brother. Dean stared back at him, before sagging against the work-surface behind him, a weary sigh heavy upon his lips. "Okay, Sammy, you win, okay? You win," he said, before falling silent again. Sam waited, contenting himself with taking a swig of beer for himself before Dean started to talk. "I'm just so scared, Sammy. Cas isn't getting pregnant like we'd planned and I don't know why. What if he leaves me and goes somewhere else? I couldn't take that," Dean said, voice cracking on the last few words. "He won't leave you, Dean," Sam assured him, immediately. "Anyone within a half mile radius of the pair of you can see how much that guy loves you. I've never seen anyone so devoted to another as - well, both of you are to each other. He won't leave you." Dean remained silent at that, just remained silently staring at the floor, toe kicking idly at a chair leg. "I don't know what to do," Dean said, pain filling his voice as he continued to refuse to meet Sam's gaze. He hated the idea of going to another in a matter such as this, something that he should be able to work out with his lover, not his brother. To Dean, it seemed as though he was all out admitting he was no good in the sack, couldn't perform in the proper way to even impregnate his partner. "What did you do last time, when Cas got pregnant with Kimber?" Sam asked, when the silence dragged out for too long. "That's a bit personal, dude," Dean immediately said, scowling at his brother immediately. "I can't help you if I don't know at least vague details," Sam reminded him, gently. Dean's scowl didn't lift, but at least Sam was grateful it didn't grow any bigger. Finally his brother sighed, nodded and started talking again. "Cas drew some kind of design on his stomach with his knife," Dean started to explain. "I don't know what it was, some kind of angelic sigil that was something like a condom." "Really?" Sam asked, with interest. "Yeah, really. One night, I distracted him and so he didn't finish drawing it on himself and then - well, he got pregnant," and Dean was finally able to meet Sam's gaze again without scowling. "Kinda like the pinprick in the condom then," Sam said, with a wry smile. Dean snorted, then said - "Crude way of putting it but yeah." "Well, do it again, then. Get him to carve part of the sigil into himself again, distract him in the same way and see what happens," Sam said, gently. When it looked as though Dean was about to argue, Sam raised one large hand wearily. "At least try it, Dean. It can't hurt to try something else. I mean, it worked before didn't it?" he pointed out gently. Dean sighed through his nose, air blasting out in a short sharp burst of frustration. "Okay, Sammy, I'll suggest it to Cas. We've tried everything else. I don't see as to how it will work, but we'll try," he said, trying for a smile which came out weary. "Thanks, Sammy." Sam nodded and didn't stop Dean when he turned to leave, footsteps heavy and scraping against the floor as he walked away. ***************************** Dean watched as Castiel nursed Kimber, cradling her in his lap as he fed her milk from a bottle. The hunter smiled at the tender scene and the way Kimber reached up with chubby hands to grasp the bottle, fingers tiny against Castiel's longer, slender ones. Castiel looked up when he felt Dean standing there watching them and directed his partner his usual barely there smile. "Hey, sweetheart," Dean said, gently, leaning one shoulder against the door frame as he continued to watch. "She's feeding well." "She can't get enough of this milk," Castiel agreed, with a tender smile down at his daughter. "She'll be going on solid foods soon, won't she?" Dean asked, finally walking into the room and settling beside his partner, one arm stretched out across the back of the couch in a partial cuddle. "Yes. I've got some apple sauce already, if you want to feed her some?" Castiel asked, glancing up at Dean hopefully. Dean passed one hand over their daughter's head fondly, before nodding out his consent at Castiel's words. "It's in the kitchen," Castiel prompted. "Right," Dean said, getting up and groaning as his joints creaked. When he came back with the small jar of apple sauce and a small spoon, Kimber had already finished her milk and Castiel was waiting patiently. Dean settled beside them, before taking his daughter from Castiel's arms and waiting until she settled in the crook formed between his elbow and his abdomen. She gurgled happily at him, making Dean smile proudly. Castiel smiled at the sight Dean made with his daughter, pride shining on the hunter's face as he fussed over his daughter. The angel popped the cap on the apple sauce, before ladling out a spoonful and handing it to Dean. "Just the one, Dean; don't want to give her too much yet," Castiel advised. Dean took the spoon without question, merely thanked Castiel, before angling the spoon close to Kimber's mouth. She watched with interest, taking the sauce eagerly with a slight squeal, swallowing and gurgling when Dean scraped the excess from her chin and back into her mouth again. He shook his head over her tiny body, wondering what she would look like when she was older. "Hey, Cas, I hope you don't mind but Sam made a suggestion," Dean said, hesitantly, as he fussed over the child in his arms, settling her more comfortably against his body as he talked. "About Kimber?" Castiel asked. "I think it's nice he's taking an interest in his niece." "No, not about Kimber, not this time," Dean said, gently, as he rocked Kimber in his arms. "About the baby we're trying for." The hunter glanced up at Castiel, expecting to see anger there that Dean had spoken to his brother about their struggle to conceive, but Castiel looked mildly curious instead. "Yes, and?" Castiel prompted, when Dean didn't immediately say anything. "He suggested we try what we did before, with the sigil," Dean said, slowly. "About breaking it, or rather not finishing it in the first place. It worked before and nothing else seems to be working now. It's hardly a solution but we gotta at least try, Cas. He's trying to help." "I know he is, Dean. I'm not angry. I've seen how he watches us as though he wants us to have another baby. I'm sure it's his way of trying to help," Castiel said, carefully. Dean looked at him in surprise, before startling the angel by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Castiel rumbled out a chuckle before staring askance at his partner. "Thank you for understanding," Dean said gently. "I want a baby too, Dean. Assuming this sigil idea will work, we will have a lot to thank Sam for. Like you said, we've tried everything else, and it seemed to work before ... well, I think we need all the help we can get," he said, as he stroked Kimber on one chubby cheek. " She gurgled in happiness and kicked her little legs, smiling chubbily up at her fathers, little fingers clasping at them both. "Look at her, she's so gorgeous," Dean said. "We sure got lucky with her, didn't we?" "We did," Castiel agreed. "Even if we don't get another baby, at least we have her," Dean told him. "No pressure or anything." "I know, Dean and I thank you for that," Castiel said, with a slow nod. "We'll just see what happens. If we still can't conceive soon ... " His words trailed off and Dean knew what he meant. If they still didn't conceive, soon, then they'd have no choice but to give up. Much as it pained Dean to give up when he knew they both desperately wanted a child, his earlier words of having Kimber still rung true. The hunter knew that despite their desire to have a bigger family, they had their happiness already in each other and their daughter. *********************** Castiel sat primly on the edge of the bed as he watched Dean stroll leisurely around the room, lighting candle after vanilla scented candle with a silver lighter. Despite the hunter's outwardly leisurely appearance and stroll, still Castiel could see the tension that bunched in his shoulders, imperceptible to anyone who didn't know Dean well. The angel remained silent and didn't call Dean out on his tension, as he knew the reason behind it and understood it. He could feel his own tension tightening his body and making him sit straighter than usual, hands clenched tight around his knees. Dean turned and saw Castiel's obvious tension and closed the distance between them, fanning the flames of the candles as he passed. "Hey, relax, sweetheart, it's gonna be fine, I promise," Dean murmured as he drew his partner into a gentle hug, rocking Castiel against his body until the angel relaxed a little more against him. Dean wasn't sure if his earlier assurances of things being alright were more for Castiel's benefit or his own. Either way, it didn't matter as to whose benefit it was for, as long as they both were calm. He felt Castiel nod against his shoulder, soft hair tickling against the bare skin of his neck as the angel moved and Dean turned his head slightly to kiss the angel's forehead tenderly. "I'm gonna get undressed, okay? If you wanna do the same," the hunter said, wondering why he was even suggesting what should have been obvious. Castiel didn't seem to mind; instead he nodded agreeably and leant back when Dean pulled away, fingers reaching to take a hold of his t shirt and yanking it easily over his forehead. He watched as Dean slowly pushed his jeans away from sturdy hips, dick a tempting bulge against the fabric of his boxers despite his apprehension. Dean pushed his boxers down and away, allowing his erection to bob and sway and curl up towards his abdomen gently. Castiel swallowed hugely, eyes large as he stared at Dean's dick hungrily. The hunter had to smirk at that but didn't draw any closer. Instead he waited and watched as Castiel stood and slowly removed every last layer of his clothing. The hunter smiled and stared at his partner's lithe body, loving the slenderness of it despite the soft pudge around the middle. Dean loved that pudge, and finally crossed the room to cuddle into his lover, one hand resting upon the soft, slightly thicker abdomen of his angel, which was all that was left over from Kimber's pregnancy. Castiel sighed, eyes closing as he enjoyed being held by Dean' arms circling his waist after Dean had finished fondling his baby pudge tenderly. Dean's fixation on that pudge always amused Castiel and he'd once protested that he felt fat and ugly through not being as slender as he once was. The look of immediate mortification on Dean's face told Castiel that his partner disagreed even before Dean even said anything. Castiel had smiled and kissed his lover gently, before thanking him for loving him no matter what. Dean had been embarrassed at that but hadn't denied his love for Castiel and had reinforced Castiel's own words by saying - "Of course I love you." Castiel had responded in kind, with a gentle smile gently curving his lips and crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes. Dean wrapped his arms around his lover again, before settling his chin against the angel's shoulder and stroking his naked back with tickling fingers. Castiel shuddered beneath him and settled further into his body. Neither of them spoke and finally Castiel drew away, and crossed the room to pull his knife from the bedside cabinet where he always kept it while at Bobby's. He settled down upon their shared bed, eyes darting up to meet Dean's before he concentrated on his own body again. Dean watched as Castiel carved the sigil into his abdomen, fingers curving and curling into familiar shapes as his brow furrowed over stormy blue eyes. His lips were pushed out into a soft little pout, and Dean longed to lean in and kiss his lover. Castiel's eyes flickered up when he felt Dean shift uncomfortably on the bed beside him, adjusting his body to accommodate his stiffening member. There was a hint of worry in Castiel's eyes, Dean noticed, but the hunter wasn't sure whether it was over his movements or the situation at large. His questions were answered by Castiel speaking before Dean even said a thing. "Are you sure this is going to work, Dean?" the angel asked, deep voice hoarse with longing and dubiousness. "I don't know, but we have to try, sweetheart," Dean replied, gently, resting one hand against Castiel's cheek and rubbing one thumb over surprisingly soft skin. "We've tried everything else." Castiel remained silent as he nodded, large blue eyes soulful as his gaze never left Dean's face. The hunter leant in and claimed the earlier kiss he'd wanted from Castiel, mouths lingering together as Dean gently pushed against Castiel's shoulders. He settled on top of Castiel and eased the knife from between the angel's fingers, setting it aside as they continued to kiss noisily. Dean finally broke away to draw in breath, chest rising and falling as he stared tenderly down at his partner. He laid a kiss upon the angel's neck, before he worked his way down his lover's body, lips pressing against the skin of Castiel's chest, paying particular attention to the angel's nipples. His mouth latched onto one of the raised nubs, one hand pawing blindly at the angel's body as he suckled and laved at Castiel's nipple eagerly. Castiel sighed and cradled Dean in his arms, crooning to Dean in much the same way as he crooned to Kimber while nursing her. Dean felt safe in the angel's arms, loved and he sighed in pleasure against wet skin in pleasure. He moved down before he started licking at the wounds opened wide in Castiel's abdomen, still unfinished yet trickling blood down too pale skin. Castiel moaned at the feel of Dean licking at his flesh, cleaning the blood from his sigil, hand still pawing at the angel's side. His back arched from the mattress as Dean's mouth latched onto bloodied skin, tongue lapping at red droplets and sucking from the angel's body with eager murmurs. The hunter loved the way Castiel's blood fizzed and crackled on his tongue with the pure essence of the angel riding inside the vessel, flooding his mouth with the tastes of purity and fresh air, clean linen and the faint musky scents of chocolate. Dean always associated those scents with Castiel whenever he smelt them elsewhere, reminding him of his partner wherever he went. Castiel was purring loudly by the time that his skin was clean of blood, half carved sigil still raw in the flesh of his slightly distended abdomen and the angel watched as Dean bent to snag the lube from the bedside cabinet. Castiel watched the long line of Dean's body stretch and curve gracefully with every movement the hunter made, with muscles working luxuriously beneath the hunter's skin. Dean caught Castiel staring and gave his lover a crooked smile, yet didn't speak. Instead he smoothed lube over his fingers and reached down to press his fingers against Castiel's tight little hole, nudging at the angel's legs in a wordless attempt to get him to angle them wider for him. Castiel did so and hissed when he felt the first press and burn of Dean's finger stretching the tight ring of muscles loose, before his hips arched up when Dean continued to press into him. Dean watched as Castiel's eyes drifted closed, lips parted into plush pout as the angel whined deep in his throat when the hunter brushed against his prostate. Dean swallowed harshly past a dry throat, before adding a second finger, stretching his lover wider still. When he was finally satisfied that Castiel was loose enough, he eased his hand away, smiling at the harsh protest from Castiel. The angel frowned at Dean, lips pushed further out into a lush pout, scowl slightly disappearing as he watched the hunter smooth glistening strands of lube over his flushed erection. The hunter's skin flushed a dark pink echoing his arousal as he jerked his hips into the circle of his fingers, groans falling raggedly from between firm lips. Castiel waited a little impatiently, reaching over to tug at Dean's elbow when the hunter took too long. Dean huffed out an aroused laugh at that, before his hand finally dropped away and he covered Castiel's body with his own. Castiel moaned in loud arousal when he felt Dean penetrate him, pushing inside him slowly, as the hunter's hands gripped Castiel's hips to steady him. Finally the hunter was fully sheathed inside his partner and his hips started to roll and grind against Castiel's. Dean panted as he heard the delicious sounds of Castiel coming undone beneath him, whines and strangled wails of arousal as Dean rocked and rutted into him. Finally Dean came, spurting deep inside his lover before Castiel came beneath him, covering them both with the thick spurts of his seed. Dean lost count of how many times they fucked that night, sweaty bodies rutting heavily against one another, lost in the sensations of pleasing each other and being pleased. Finally, they lay back against the sweaty, stained sheets fully sated and weary, cuddling into each other's arms in sated entanglement. Dean ran his hand over the rapidly healing carved sigil in Castiel's abdomen, but remained silent. Castiel didn't say anything either; instead he eased Dean's hand away and held him until the hunter had fallen into sated sleep. ************************************ A few weeks later and it was obvious to them both that Castiel had finally fallen pregnant. Despite not knowing why half finishing the sigil had worked when all else had failed, the relief was palpable between the couple, despite Castiel still disliking the morning sickness. Dean remained with him every time, soothing him and helping him to clean up afterwards, caring for his lover patiently, with a sense of relief and excitement settling through him at the thought that finally there would be another baby on its way. Dean pulled his brother aside when they were definitely certain that Castiel was well on his way to having another child to tell him the good news. "I just wanted to say thanks, Sammy," Dean said, by way of broaching the subject to his brother. Sam gave him a quizzical look before he asked - "What for?" "The advice you gave me about Castiel and him not getting pregnant - well, it kind of worked," Dean said, unable to hide the proud grin that stretched his mouth wide. "Cas is gonna have another baby." Sam felt the grin pull at his own mouth and he clapped his brother on the shoulder happily. "Hey, congrats, dude; that's great news," he said, meaningfully. "I told you it'd all work out in the end didn't I?" "Yeah, you did. Thanks, Sam," Dean repeated. "I wish I knew why it worked. Why does Cas need to conceive that way and not by the usual means?" Sam shrugged expansively at that, large hands rising from his sides as his mouth quirked in confusion. "I dunno, Dean. He's an angel, perhaps they conceive differently to humans. Perhaps they need the rituals to prepare themselves for pregnancy," he said, with another expansive shrug. "Maybe so, but the sigil was like a condom, dude. It was supposed to protect Cas from pregnancy, not encourage it," Dean pointed out. "Well, yeah, there is that, but don't forget, angels have no free will, dude. Perhaps by breaking the sigil or distracting him from completing it, you were bypassing the reason why it's in place, therefore taking his free will away," Sam suggested. "It's a theory, at least." Dean nodded at that, hand scrubbing at the back of his neck before turning slightly as Castiel walked into the room, one hand plastered over his stomach protectively. "Hey, baby, you alright?" Sam smiled as Dean crossed the room to plant a kiss on Castiel's cheek and watched as Castiel flushed slightly and slid one arm around Dean's waist. The hunter kissed his cheek again before laying one hand on Castiel's stomach gently, rubbing at the slight bulge forming there. "Yes, Dean, I am fine," Castiel assured his partner, deep voice slightly amused over Dean's fastidiousness and constant attention. "I am just hungry." Dean bustled about the kitchen, gathering up some food for his partner and humming merrily to himself as he did so. Sam smiled affectionately at the pair, before announcing he was going out. "Where are you going?" Dean asked, in surprise. "Bobby wants me to go into town, get some more groceries," Sam said, with a shrug. "He's busy with his hunt." Dean grunted before turning back to preparing Castiel's food as Sam walked from the kitchen, smiling as Castiel never took his contented gaze from his partner. ****************************************** Over the coming months, Castiel started gaining weight, stomach expanding with the growth of the baby inside him. He looked contented, more radiant to Dean and the hunter loved the feel of Castiel's thickening stomach beneath his hand, the soft feel of his abdomen responding to his fingers every time he caressed his partner. The angel purred at the contact, eyes closing as he felt Dean press a loving kiss to his growing bump, lips lingering against the skin gently. Dean still went on hunting trips with Bobby and Sam occasionally, but these grew more rare the closer Castiel came to giving birth. Dean hated leaving his pregnant partner behind, and it started to show when the hunter started performing poorly while out. Neither Bobby nor Sam held it against him, knowing that Dean was too distracted by his growing daughter and his pregnant partner to fully function, even though Dean himself cursed himself for being so unobservant. One night, Bobby told him to stay at home, rather than hunt the current demon they were tracking through a town in North Dakota and he was surprised when Dean took the offer at face value without complaint. In fact, the older hunter could tell that Dean was actually relieved, as though he'd rather spend time looking after Castiel, than chasing a demon. "You look after Cas, boy," Bobby said, by way of salutation. "As if I wouldn't," Dean snorted. Bobby grinned proudly at Dean, before he clapped him on his shoulder and said - "He's good for you, Dean. I'm glad you've settled down with someone. I'm glad it's Cas too. He dotes on you, anyone can see that. It's good to have new life around too." Bobby had developed a soft spot for baby Kimber, often cradling her and feeding her when the two fathers were too tired to do so, or when Dean was looking after the ever more gravid Castiel. Both Dean and Castiel were grateful for the extra help that both Bobby and Sam afforded with the bringing up of Kimber, uncertain as to whether they'd be able to do it alone. Dean thanked Bobby and watched from the door as both Sam and the older hunter drove away, faces taut with their anxiety over their night's hunt. Dean wished them luck silently, before turning to walk back into the house, closing the door firmly behind him and shutting the December chill out. ************************************ When Dean and Castiel were finally alone, they settled in front of the fire, satisfied that Kimber was settled for the night in her cot. Dean draped his arm around Castiel's shoulders and sighed when the angel rested his head against his shoulder. The hunter caressed Castiel's pregnant stomach tenderly, fingers rubbing in circles against taut skin and making Castiel purr loudly into the otherwise silent room. Castiel took Dean's hand and slid it between his legs, and the hunter felt the distinct bulge of Castiel's erection pressing against his pants. Castiel stared at him, liquid blue eyes depthless and mysterious as his lips pursed into a perfect, small pout. Dean grinned before kissing him on the silken surfaces of his lips, fingers massaging against Castiel's erection gently. He eased down Castiel's zipper swiftly easing Castiel's erect dick from his boxers in one, well practiced move, before he dipped his head down between Castiel's legs and mouthing at his partner's cock gently. Castiel groaned loudly, mouth agape as Dean sucked him back gently, head bobbing between the angel's legs swiftly. Dean was surprised when Castiel pushed him away, startled sound turning into a groan of approval when Castiel freed the hunter's own erection from his jeans with equally deft fingers. Dean waited while Castiel positioned himself along Dean's body, head between the hunter's legs and pregnant body angled in an awkward way so that Dean could still reach his partner's dick. Dean moaned softly at the feel of Castiel sucking his cock eagerly, wet warm mouth licking and laving against taut skin, before he returned the favor, sucking on Castiel's cock pleasurably. Dean moaned against the thick weight of his lover inside his mouth and the way that Castiel's mouth fit so snug and warm around his own cock coupled with the comforting weight of Castiel's pregnant bump against his chest. Dean caressed Castiel's pregnancy tenderly, making his partner moan as he flooded Dean's mouth with thick spurts of his release sliding easily down the hunter's throat. Dean swallowed as much as he could, before pulling away and wiping the remnants away from his lips with the back of his hand. Castiel was still sucking his cock languidly, breath blasting against wet, taut skin and Dean felt Castiel's fingers caress his balls gently, fingertips tickling and massaging his climax from him skilfully. Dean moaned loudly at the feel of Castiel easing away from his softening member, pregnant stomach easing its pressure on Dean's chest. The hunter slumped back, contentedly and waited for Castiel's face to slide into view, large blue eyes lazy and tender as Castiel cuddled into him. Dean kissed him, mouths open and sloppy against each other and he could taste himself on Castiel's tongue when he sucked on it. Castiel moaned loudly into Dean's mouth, tasting himself on Dean's tongue in turn as their hands entwined over Castiel's plumped out middle. They remained that way for a long time, until they heard the sounds of Sam and Bobby returning. ********************** They were alone again, relaxing in front of the fire and talking about Christmas, when Castiel went into labor, contractions doubling him over on the couch with a cry of pain. Dean held him tight against his body, and told him it was going to be alright, rocking him and soothing him with shushing sounds. He carefully eased his partner to the ground, before stripping him of most of his clothing, spreading his legs and kneeling beside his lover. "I'm not going anywhere, baby, I'm right here," Dean assured him, when Castiel reached for him blindly, eyes wide as he stared painfully up at the ceiling. "Remember what you did last time? I'm gonna need you to do that again, okay?" Castiel whined as the pain ripped through his body and Dean soothed him, peppering kisses against his partner's forehead as he coaxed Castiel through every stage of the birth. His body was tense, as he massaged his lover's abdomen, encouraging him to greater efforts every time that Castiel flagged, soothing him when the pain became too much for him and cradled him in his arms when Castiel reached for him blindly. He helped Castiel as much as he could, even though for the most part he could do little for him, yet Castiel told him with every look that just through being there, Dean was helping him. Dean felt his heart swell with such love for his partner and he re-doubled his efforts in soothing him, trying to keep him calm as Castiel's contractions came closer together. Dean felt Castiel's hands clenching in his shirt, as his partner wailed loudly and Dean tried to calm him, while wishing he had some help. Still, he felt pleased that he was there alone to witness the birth of their second child, marking this as a more special occasion, a small family bonding alone. He could finally relax when Castiel finally gave birth, slumping against Dean's body in a sweating, trembling mass, still clinging to him as though Dean were his last lifeline. Dean held him for a few minutes, before he encouraged Castiel to let go. "I'm gonna have to look after the baby, sweetheart," Dean said, as Castiel tried to hang onto him. "Don't worry, I'm only here." He crawled a few feet making sure that Castiel could still see him, before taking his first look at their newborn. Not wanting to leave Castiel to get a towel, he removed his shirt, suddenly glad for the fire warming his body nearby, before he cut the cord and wiped the baby clean tenderly. He wrapped the newborn in his hastily removed t shirt, before handing the baby to Castiel proudly. "You did it, sweetheart. We've got a boy," he said, propping Castiel's weary body against his knees as Castiel stared down into their son's face. The angel soothed the baby when he started to cry, wails soon dissipating when the baby fell into weary sleep. Castiel stared adoringly up at Dean, blue eyes wet with sudden tears, and Dean pressed a happy kiss against Castiel's lips. "I was hoping we'd have a son," Dean said, gently. Castiel nodded, before he said - "Me, too." "I'm gonna teach him everything I know about cars and decent music when he gets old enough," Dean said, face splitting into a grin at that. Castiel huffed out a laugh at that, but didn't protest. He knew how much it meant to Dean, as much as it meant to him, for them to have a large family, and it was nice to him to have two babies now when it seemed as though they would remain with one. "He's a little miracle, isn't he? A Christmas baby," Dean murmured, as he gently stroked his son's cheek with one outstretched finger. Castiel nodded, before he said - "You still wanna call him Bobby? You said when Kimber was born, if we had a boy we'd call him Bobby." "Yeah, Bobby is a good name," Dean agreed, with a smile. They fell silent, watching the sleeping Bobby Jr nestled in Castiel's arms, before Dean moved stiffly to feed Kimber. When he returned, Castiel had dropped off into sleep, something Dean had never seen him do before. He smiled softly and went up to their bedroom, removing the quilt from their bed and carrying it down to cover Castiel and the baby with it's warm confines. He pulled on a fresh t shirt and shirt, before throwing the soiled shirt into the garbage can outside. Castiel was still dozing when he returned and the hunter eased himself under the quilt, smiling when Castiel instinctively snuggled against him while continuing to doze. He wrapped one arm around his partner's shoulders before settling back himself to sleep. They still were there when Bobby and Sam returned, who both were delighted to see the new baby held in Castiel's arms. The two fathers woke at their entrance, jerked awake into life and waking Bobby Jr up. Bobby choked up a little when he heard the baby's name and insisted on holding him, chucking him under the chin until Dean told him Bobby r needed to be fed,, gently. The small baby was handed back to Castiel, who attached the baby to one nipple, a contented sigh escaping ripe lips as he watched his baby contentedly. "We're gonna be just fine, aren't we?" Dean asked to the room at large, not expecting an answer and receiving none. He knew that they were going to be fine after all, with their Christmas miracle baby ... ~fini~

Teal'c had an odd habit of showering in the small hours of the morning. Sometimes it was after he had woken sweaty and shaking from a disturbing dream, but not always. He had picked up the habit early in his residence at the SGC, when he still had a larval symbiote and never slept or dreamed at all. Robert Rothman had once told him of a relative who had survived profound deprivation and abuse during one of the Tau'ri's many attempts at genocide among their own people; this elder Rothman would frequently rise in the middle of the night, go down to the kitchen, and stand at the open refrigerator eating a morsel of cheese or bread to calm his deep-seated terror of starvation -- to reassure himself that there was food, and he was permitted to eat it. After O'Neill and Captain Carter were rescued from Antarctica, Teal'c had noted the addition of a small space heater to O'Neill's office, symmetrically positioned in the opposite corner from the water cooler he'd requisitioned early on; after O'Neill's experience on the glacier, he needed the subliminal reminder that there would always be warmth if he required it, just as he had needed the soothing presence of available water ever since his experience lying broken in the desert many years before. Teal'c had never been so dirty that it threatened his life. After the deprivation and near-death he had suffered, it was amusing to contemplate a situation in which his worst fear was being unable to bathe. He had also seen the effects of unsanitary conditions on captive groups, and he knew that they were no joking matter; but he had no memory of ever suffering those effects himself. He was unable to divine the source of what he believed was a form of compulsive behavior. Moreover, he was unable to determine why it should occur to him to wonder about it only now that the System Lords' hold over the galaxy had been broken. Perhaps it was that only now did he feel free to finally spend time thinking about things that could not affect the fate of the Jaffa. He had learned much from the Tau'ri regarding relaxation and 'having fun'. O'Neill had told him, "Sometimes you just gotta turn your brain off. Hey, you'll live longer!" So Teal'c had watched the Star Wars movies until he knew the dialogue by rote, and watched Jerry Springer and Judge Judy and marvelled at the diversity of bad taste and Tau'ri stupidity available on the American television networks. He read the tabloid newspapers and the celebrity gossip columns. But when he thought, he thought always of serious, weighty matters. Strange showering habits were not a thing to be dwelled upon while his people were enslaved, while there was a rebellion to be planned and organized. When he took time for himself, he had gladly followed O'Neill's advice, and returned to his obligations refreshed in mind and body. Now, as he stood under the flow of cool water, he found himself contemplating his own future instead of the Jaffa's -- or, for perhaps the first time, separately from the Jaffa's. Both of his goals had been achieved: his people were free from their Goa'uld masters, and the Tau'ri were no longer at risk of enslavement or annihilation by the System Lords. That should leave him free, as well, he thought. But it did not. The shower was failing to invigorate him. Rather than clearing and focusing his thoughts, it was fragmenting them. What ordinarily felt like a single flow of water was peppering his flesh like a spray of shrapnel. The plumbing and fixtures were the same; it was his perception that had changed. Water flowing in a strong, unified current through the pipe came out spread, separated, diffused. Droplets deflected by his body clung to the tile. Pearls of water slid down his thighs and flanks, discrete, ephemeral. He did not want to leave his team. He did not want to dedicate the remainder of his life to politics. But soon his team would no longer exist -- Samantha Carter gone to the Groom Lake Facility, Daniel Jackson gone to Atlantis -- and he no longer had a purpose here. His place was with the Jaffa, no matter where his heart might lie. He did not turn at the audible tread of bare soles on tile flooring. The sound surprised him, but he recognized that ambling gait, the familiar footsteps of a man fully capable of moving silently who was choosing to make his presence known. "Gonna turn into a prune, you stay in there much longer, T." Teal'c did not reply. He noticed the soap scum left in an arc over the top of the showerhead where a cursory cleaner had failed to complete his mission. He noticed lines of dark matter in the grout between tiles. He noticed that O'Neill had appeared to his left, barefoot, in civilian clothes, out of range of the spray. "Daniel's determined to finish a translation, Carter is hip deep in used car parts for some doohickey or another -- Did my former team eat some insomnia-inducing plant on that last mission or something?" Teal'c turned his head at the mention of his teammates, but could not think of an appropriate response. O'Neill folded his arms in the silence and leaned one shoulder against dry tile. Teal'c turned back to the tiles. "I ingested no unfamiliar plant life, O'Neill," he said, a strange gravel in his voice. "Maybe prunes would be a good idea then," O'Neill said cryptically, glancing out towards the changing room. "You are also maintaining a non-traditional working schedule," Teal'c said, when it became clear that O'Neill was unlikely to leave the shower room. "Yes, well, let's not dwell." O'Neill tilted his head, though he did not require the change in angle to see around the next showerhead. "Seriously, T, not that cold showers aren't one of the luxuries of life ... " Teal'c turned to look at him, the change in body angle ricocheting water droplets dangerously close to O'Neill's toes and dry pantlegs. O'Neill did not step back. "The pleasure lies in the method by which one warms oneself afterwards," Teal'c said, meeting O'Neill's eyes -- stilling that shifting, scanning gaze. "I got your method right here," O'Neill said in a lower voice than Teal'c had heard from him in some time, both husky and resonant. His expression was inscrutable, but his eyes were hot and dark as his gaze dipped down Teal'c's dripping, droplet-clung body and slid back up. Teal'c left the shower running and stepped out from under the cascade to stand directly in front of O'Neill. "You are aware that this setting has figured prominently in my private fantasies," he said. "It's figured in everybody's fantasies," O'Neill replied, remembering as clearly as Teal'c did that night at his cabin when they had revised the I Never drinking game to a pie-eating version dubbed I Have, and Daniel Jackson had opened with 'daydreamed about team sex in the base shower.' "That's half the fun." "In reality, however, it is a less than ideal location." Finally O'Neill produced a faint, dark smile. "That's the other half." Teal'c reached slowly for the front of O'Neill's khakis, leaving ample time for O'Neill to stop him. "I surmise that the third half," he said when O'Neill did not stop him, and slipped the button, "is the challenge of keeping you dry while you remain clothed." He pulled the zipper down more slowly still, tooth by tooth, watching O'Neill's eyes. "For as long as that water's running cold," O'Neill said, and at last uncrossed his arms, dropping his hands to hold his pants in place as the fly spread wide. Teal'c did not comment on the fact that his wet fingers had already dampened the pants' fabric, or that this hands were wiping themselves dry on O'Neill's boxers as one slipped in to grasp his shaft and the other slipped under to cup his testicles through the flimsy cotton. Droplets of water were sliding down his own body, minute caresses over his prickling flesh, down his hardening length; as it rose, untouched, into the humid air, he felt a droplet tremble at the very tip, a liquid kiss, then fall away. Nudity was not taboo in his culture and therefore did not stimulate him the way it did the Tau'ri, but he enjoyed the effect his bare body had on them, and he found it profoundly arousing to touch without being touched. He also lacked the control that O'Neill had, and knew that the lightest brush of fingertips would cause him to orgasm far too early. He worked O'Neill slowly but with a firm grip, twisting on every third or fourth upstroke, punctuating with slow, rolling squeezes down below. He enjoyed watching O'Neill's slitted eyes, knowing that his keen senses would miss nothing no matter how intense his arousal became; he enjoyed the twitches and tightenings in the muscles of O'Neill's jaw and mouth, the ripple down the front of his throat when he swallowed, the infinitesimal lifting of his chin that in the subtle language of warriors indicated submission, however slight. He enjoyed holding this powerful man in his hands, controlling him with pleasure. He enjoyed his own skill, perhaps more than he should given that he developed it in order to compensate for his tendency to climax too quickly. He knew how to hold another man on the brink until it became unbearable. He knew how to work another man into arousal so thick and hot and desperate that a feathery brush of lips would send him over the edge. "Gettin' kinda close here, big guy," O'Neill said in a voice tightened down to almost nothing. Teal'c just smiled, and worked him slower, and harder. By the time they heard the steps they were waiting for, booted feet on locker-room concrete and shower-room tile, he had gotten O'Neill to start exhaling in short gusts, as close to panting as the general, notoriously silent during sexual encounters, ever came. Teal'c maintained his rhythm as the steps came to an abrupt halt, his left fingernails scratching the hard scrotum in slow strokes from back to front, his right thumb rubbing circles over the weeping head as his right hand squeezed and twisted. "Well, don't just stand there, Carter," O'Neill said, with no change in his expression and the barest glinting flicker of dark eyes between slitted lids. "Call Daniel." > > > > > > > > "Knowing. Always known?" Daniel scanned the paragraph again. "No, something like 'intuitively known'." Yes, that fit better with the context as he understood it, and he was almost to the end of the document he was studying so he was pretty certain that he was on the right track. In fact ... this probably made the word two paragraphs up that hadn't quite made sense ... yes, yes, almost there ... As the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place, Daniel felt the usual excitement and pleasure. He laid down his pencil and straightened his back, feeling his vertebrae re-aligning into proper position. He'd get it all into the computer in the morning; he'd just wanted to be able to sleep tonight without his mind worrying away at it. He was too keyed up to sleep right now, of course, but the drive home would relax him. Or maybe a hot shower would be better, and he could bunk down in his base quarters afterward. Daniel was just about to get up from his desk when the phone rang. He picked it up. "Jackson." "Daniel, I'm glad I caught you." "Sam, yeah, I was just about to call it a night. What's up?" "Team meeting. Locker room." Daniel squinted at his watch. "At this hour?" "Daniel." "What?" "I think you'll want to get your ass down here." "My ... ? Oh!" "Yes. Oh. Hurry." "I'm ... I'm ... I'm ... " "I'll tell the general you're on your way." Sam was laughing as she hung up. That throaty, breathy laugh that Daniel loved to hear; the one that said Sam was aroused and ready to play. Daniel dropped the receiver into the cradle and pushed back his chair. The buzz of excitement from finishing the translation was still with him, enhanced now with the prospect of a long-held fantasy being fulfilled, and he felt full of energy as he left his office and headed for the elevators at a trot. > > > > > > > > The door to the showers opened to his touch. He was alarmed and relieved and aroused in equal parts. The risk they were all running -- Jesus. He knew Jack had a taste for risky sex, but this pretty much took the cake. No wonder they'd never done this before, though all of them had talked about it. He turned the deadbolt and hastily wedged one of the flimsy plastic chairs under the door handle. It wouldn't stop a determined assault for long, but if it were turned over by the opening door it would alert them. But they'd probably be done by them. His skin tingled and he was more aware than ever of the erection that was insistently pushing its way through the slit of his boxers to nudge at his BDU fly. As he walked toward the sound of running water, he shed his jacket and stripped out of his T-shirt, noticing with a smile that there was already a similar, smaller, jacket and shirt on the concrete, and when he saw the sports bra he broke into a chuckle. He rounded the last corner, and the tableau that met his eyes made him catch his breath. As gorgeously and artfully composed as any sculpture in marble that he'd seen in Italy, his three teammates (and so he thought of them, and so they would always be) were poised -- waiting for him, he knew, but fully engaged, enrapt, in each other. Teal'c was in the middle, fully nude, tensed like a weightlifter in competition, his gaze locked on Jack's face, his fist moving carefully and tenderly as he held Jack on the point of orgasm. Jack, however, braced against Teal'c's strokes as he was, had his eyes closed, because he was bracing against Sam's shoulders as he kissed her. He, strange and arousing contrast with Teal'c, was fully clothed, just his pants open, barely sagging around his thighs, and was somehow remaining still even in the middle of what was obviously a very deep and very thorough exploration of the terrain of Sam's mouth. And Sam, naked, was caressing Teal'c's erection while she divided her attention between what her hands were touching and what her lips were doing. Daniel kicked out of his pants and spared a momentary brain cell for planning. Hmm. Where could he best fit in? He was touched and delighted that they'd waited for him. He went to his knees in front of Sam, nuzzling at the triangle of hair, knowing they'd have heard his steps, knowing she was ready for this. Nuzzling, and rubbing with the edge of his jaw, soon shifted to easing in, parting her folds with his tongue, to find the hard nub of her clit. She was already so close. Daniel closed his eyes and rested his palms on his thighs, listening, as first Jack and then Sam gasped their climaxes, and he could feel that they were leaning more solidly against each other. He gentled her through it, using only his mouth, until her hand on his shoulder signaled him to stop. A new tingle of arousal poured through him. Would he have to wait? Would the risk they were all running mean that time had run out on their crazy dangerous liaision? Or would he and Teal'c come, too, now. How would it be? Would Sam suck him off while Teal'c finished Jack? Would Teal'c fuck him, under the watchful eyes of the other two? Or would he and Teal'c dress again, and move this surprising but always welcome rendezvous somewhere private? Because after all -- it was Jack who relished the quick and dirty aspects of this, the risk of exposure, the knife edge of danger. They indulged him, but the other three -- especially Daniel -- preferred long and slow and safe to sharp and hot and intense. But he'd provided the finale to this -- the last one to join, Daniel would wait for guidance now. It wasn't his show. It was, he suspected, Jack's, and Jack would be the one to call what happened next. "Late again, Daniel," Jack said, in a normal voice, and Jack's familiar hand ruffled his hair. Daniel smiled and covered Sam's hand on his shoulder with his own. She was leaning, and Daniel glanced up to see her kissing Teal'c, both of them smiling. Well, Sam was smiling. Teal'c face was utterly calm and relaxed, and his eyes were closed, which was, for him, almost a smile. Then Teal'c stepped toward her, easing between the other two, and Daniel on his knees and Jack standing. Jack gave back, and as smoothly as if choreographed, Sam slid her arms over Teal'c's shoulders as he slid his hands under her thighs, lifting her with no sign of strain in his face. Only the bunching of his biceps showed the effort expended. He kept walking, holding Sam against him, and she leaned her head against his, curling around him, eyes closed. Straight back he walked, until he had her leaned against the tiles. Her ankles locked around his lower back, and Daniel heard her moan. His hand went to his own dick, gave it a stroke, as if promising and reassuring future satisfaction. He looked up at Jack. "You and me, kid," Jack said, curling his lip a la Bogart, and he held his hand out to Daniel and boosted him to his feet. Dark gaze locked to Daniel's, he backed up, pulling him along. Beside Sam and Teal'c were two shower heads, one running and one dry, and then the tiled corner of the shower, where a bench ran along the wall. Daniel couldn't seem to pull his gaze away from Jack's as they sat, facing each other, on that bench. Jack, still wearing his pants, didn't flinch, but the cold metal against Daniel's ass made him hiss a little. Jack put a hand to his nape and the other hand on his dick, and pulled him to kiss him. > > > > > > > > It would have to be as quick for Daniel as Teal'c had made it as long and slow for him, unfortunately. They were pushing their luck as it was. But they were SG-1. Luck was what they had. Always. Jack held Daniel's nape hard, the way Daniel didn't always admit he liked, taking control of him, pushing into his mouth, stripping his hard dick in long loose strokes. Daniel liked the friction more than the squeezing on his dick, and as aroused as he was, he'd go hypersensitive and then desensitize quickly without careful handling. Daniel moaned, echoing in a lower key some very similar, very overwhelmed noises from Carter, and leaned his face harder against Jack's. Oh, yeah. Daniel didn't always like this or want it -- to be controlled, taken over like this. And Jack had never seen him let the other two do it to him. But every now and then, and only from Jack ... when he was in the mood, nothing made him hotter. Apparently he was in the mood now. Facing away from the door, the unconscious assumption that Jack or Sam was in a position to watch it would help him let go, Jack knew. And the firm hand on his neck should do the rest. Daniel's mouth was soft, and he was kissing Jack back eagerly. His cock was so hard and so wet in Jack's hand. Time to change it up. Jack shifted to a gently twisting friction, just on the head, and Daniel clutched at his arm and leaned forward, gasping and coming. He finished with his forehead on Jack's shoulder. Jack smiled, warm and content now. He looked over. Teal'c and Sam were wrapped tight, Sam's feet back on the floor now, kissing. Good idea. Jack nudged Daniel's head, and lifted his chin, and Daniel, dreamy faced now, delighted and relaxed, kissed him back. He could take a shower now, and ditch these messy pants, covered with come and handprints. A hot shower. Not like that crazy alien. Jack smiled into Daniel's kiss, squeezed his shoulder, and leaned back. "So I hear that some people actually use these showers to get clean," Jack said. "There's a novel idea," Daniel answered with a smile. "Would that require soap?" "We've got T's shower gel." It was unfortunately sitting on the ledge underneath the still-running cold shower. "T! Scrub down time. Grab the gel, would ya?" Teal'c lifted his lips from Sam's. "I have only just warmed myself, O'Neill." "Yeah, well, likewise! Carter? You wanna grab it?" "General, I would gladly walk through fire for you. A cold shower is another story." One look at Daniel's smirk and Jack knew he didn't need to even bother asking. "I hate you all," he announced as he rose from the bench and eyed the shower, gooseflesh already rising in anticipation. > > > > > > > > Teal'c permitted himself a small smile as he watched O'Neill divest himself of his clothing at last, fold and pile it on the bench, and move under the cold spray without a flinch. As if in no hurry, he turned the tap toward hot, and reached for the bathing gel. They were all watching him, and Teal'c knew that they were all three of the same mind. He thought back over what he had just experienced and witnessed. Daniel Jackson kneeling, hands stowed on thighs, in a position that he well knew read to Teal'c as obeisance to Samantha Carter. O'Neill's head tilting lazily down to watch. Daniel Jackson's nose and mouth parting Samantha Carter's labia, his facile tongue stroking upwards, circling, teasing, flirting. O'Neill's dark gaze going hard and hot and intent as Daniel Jackson pressed his lips between her lips in the most intimate of kisses, and applied tender suction to her clitoris. O'Neill's hard member kicking like a pulse weapon in Teal'c's grip, striping his groin and thighs with semen, leaving his own member dripping, coated and marked. Samantha Carter's hand on him throughout, the most exquisitely perfect touch, gentle and controlled even as orgasm rippled through her lithe frame, cognizant that the slightest extra pressure would trigger his release before he wished it. O'Neill's ejaculate coating her hand as well; his gaze and O'Neill's colliding as they watched her lift the hand, and lick it clean. As O'Neill murmured some low, endearing chastisement to Daniel Jackson, Samantha Carter had leaned towards him, and he had met her proffered mouth in an open, delving kiss, sharing the taste of O'Neill between their tongues. When he lifted her, pressed her with care against the wall, she said, low and husky and smiling into his ear, "I saved you for me." Indeed she had: his penis, still fully erect, had slid along the slick channel between her thighs. With the hands that supported her he had spread her cheeks so that his glans came to rest against her smaller entrance. The hole was hot, comparatively dry, puckered; it twitched as his flesh touched it, and both of them moaned. He was full to bursting, blood and arousal pooling, expanding, pushing forward. He clenched his teeth as he dipped his pelvis to allow his erection to come up straight, and slid into the slick heat of her body with her lips exploring the bunched muscle in his jaw. His cock was wet and sticky with O'Neill's semen, and her hot breath caressed his cheek as she gasped with the pleasure of taking both of them into her. He had filled her and stayed there, unmoving, staving off orgasm while reveling in the subtle contractions and dilations within her. He knew that she savored the sensation of fullness, that the stimulation of rubbing thrusts would not be welcome until she'd gorged herself on being deeply filled. He knew that she was watching O'Neill masturbate Daniel Jackson on the bench, and he savored the involuntary shifting of wet muscle in the depths of her, responses to the powerful sight of O'Neill claiming and handling Daniel Jackson, Daniel Jackson's utter submission to ecstasy and to O'Neill. He would have liked to watch it with her; he had in the past been as deep in Daniel Jackson as he was Samantha Carter during such times, his penis in one and his fingers in the other, seeing and feeling the helpless surrender of Daniel Jackson to O'Neill's touch, directly sharing her enjoyment of it. But he felt it all mirrored through her eyes, her body, and he would trade this view of her -- cheeks flushed, eyes hot and shining with love and lust -- for nothing in any universe. As profoundly as O'Neill's control and attention affected Daniel Jackson, Samantha Carter's entire being affected him. He did not need to ejaculate, though the urge remained strong. He would orgasm vicariously with her and through her, an experience more intense for him than physical release. As the sounds of slick flesh on flesh had grown louder behind him, her flesh had thickened and moistened around the rigid length of him inside her. The hard bone of his pubis had massaged her swollen clitoris, the trebled stimulation bringing her to the precipice. Voice low and shaking, she had murmured, "Should we save you for him too? Can you hold on if I come on you?" He had nodded, stroking her face with his mouth and nose: he would endeavor to try. He had never found words to tell her how much more pleasure her climax would give him if he was not in the throes of his own. In his supporting embrace, she had tightened her legs on his flanks and flexed her hips, grinding herself on him deep and slow, and he had drawn his head back to savor every nuance of expression as her drenched, powerful interior spasmed around him: the hot burn in her cheeks, the misty ecstasy in her eyes, the sweet tremulous curve of her lips, the hard white glint of teeth. For him, and only for him, she always smiled at the moment of peak intensity: a bright, savage joy she revealed to no one else. Behind him, he heard the hoarse gasp of Daniel Jackson's release and O'Neill's low answering grunt of satisfaction, but she was no longer watching them. She had eyes only for him. The smile had softened and relaxed as her body did. "You held on," she said, and contracted on him, a last gentle squeeze of admiration and teasing. With the hands cupping her buttocks, he had squeezed in return, and then helped her slide her feet down to the floor, shift her weight onto her legs. They had kissed, long and lingering, bodies melded into the warmth of each other against the comparative chill of the damp, tiled space. They had parted only reluctantly at the sound of O'Neill's voice, but the mischievous gleam in Samantha Carter's eyes had ignited a hot flare in Teal'c's loins, and he had seen an answering flare of surprised interest in Daniel Jackson's as he turned, displaying his undaunted erection. O'Neill had already passed him on the way to the patiently flowing cascade of water, and did not see it. Daniel Jackson looked inquiry at Samantha Carter, who flicked her gaze to O'Neill and grinned; Daniel Jackson looked to Teal'c for confirmation, and Teal'c nodded, his small smile widening. In the time their exchange of glances had taken, O'Neill, with military efficiency, had already soaped himself. As he rinsed, Daniel Jackson fetched a bottle of moisturizer from Samantha Carter's cubby and two towels from the corner pile, and as O'Neill turned the water off, they surrounded him and dried him, all fully naked now. "Yeeeeeah, about this," O'Neill began. "Problem, sir?" Samantha Carter said with a beaming smile, squeezing his groin gently through the towel. O'Neill groaned, stilled by the pleasure of her capable, intimate touch, the press of the towel's pile on tender, sensitized flesh, then said, "Appreciate the thought, kids, but I don't recharge as fast as you two and we're pushing it on time here." "We'll take care of the refractory period, sir," Samantha Carter said, with a significant look at Teal'c, who was pouring a generous serving of moisturizer into his cupped fingers and distributing it with his thumb. Daniel Jackson said, "But you're right. First shift's due in half an hour. Earlybird could walk in any second now." O'Neill's flaccid member twitched and became noticeably less flaccid. He said "Aw, jeeze, Daniel" as Daniel Jackson said "See? Already taking care of it." The two younger humans turned O'Neill to face the door, leaving ample room for Teal'c to move between him and the tiled wall, and pressed against O'Neill from either side, trapping him between them, rubbing full breasts against his chest, soft heavy genitals against his thigh. The towels dropped away, and any hope of last-second concealment with them. Teal'c slid his big hand smoothly into the cleft of O'Neill's buttocks and gently fingered his anus, savoring the involuntary responses in the vulnerable flesh, stroking and probing into the shy flutters of contraction and expansion. "Aaaaaany second now," Daniel Jackson crooned into O'Neill's ear, and O'Neill emitted a sharp, helpless sound very close to a whine, and his anus opened hungrily for Teal'c's fingers. Samantha Carter pushed the heel of her hand across O'Neill's chest, a sticky drag over his nipples, merciless as much in its brevity as in its roughness, delivered as casual collateral of reaching across for Daniel Jackson. She played light fingertips over his nipple, bringing it sharply erect, then tugged off it and took his hand to lift it to her breast. As he cupped and squeezed, moving closer to her around the front of O'Neill's body, she moved closer in turn and reached between his legs to cup his testicles. Their mouths flirted, touched, withdrew, feinting with smiles and sipping breaths, until their lips at last pressed. Directly in front of O'Neill's face, they opened to each other, shared tongues -- still rubbing their bodies against O'Neill's, still stroking and caressing each other rather than O'Neill. They were all aware of how intensely arousing O'Neill found Samantha Carter's breasts, Daniel Jackson's genitals; how doubly aroused he was by watching them, feeling them touch each other there. More than once he and Teal'c had sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, pleasuring themselves together while watching Samantha Carter and Daniel Jackson make love. They knew how beautiful they were. They knew how fiercely O'Neill loved them and how insatiably he lusted for them. They capitalized on it ruthlessly. "Touch them, O'Neill," Teal'c said, a suggestion just short of a command, delivered into the same ear Daniel Jackson's lips had brushed as he crooned his taunting reminder of the risk. "They are yours." O'Neill's arms were behind them now, hanging loose. All he could reach were heads and backs and buttocks. "You have frequently commented on the beauty of their asses," Teal'c said, to be more specific in his urging, and to arouse O'Neill further with unaccustomed use of their own terminology. "Caress them," he said. "Claim them. They belong to you." O'Neill obeyed, stroking at first, then cupping and kneading, then running fingertips down into the clefts, instinctively probing for openings he couldn't reach. They let his movements push them closer, more deeply into their kiss, and Teal'c knew from their simultaneous moans that the angle had come right and O'Neill's fingers had found what they sought, and pressed. Teal'c echoed the movement and pushed beyond it, penetrating the yielding heat of O'Neill's body with two fingers, feeling the deep vibration of O'Neill's low, overwhelmed growl resonate into his bones. Samantha Carter and Daniel Jackson were rubbing against each other full-body now, front to front, in the frame of O'Neill's arms, pushed together by the press of O'Neill's fingers between their legs from behind. Soft mouths tenderly probing, then parting that their tongues might visibly slide around and over each other, they slid slowly, in unison, down O'Neill's torso and to their knees. O'Neill's hands, loath to lose contact, trailed along their bodies and settled on their heads. O'Neill's heartbeat pounded through his back into Teal'c's chest. With his right fingers inside O'Neill, not yet positioned directly behind him, Teal'c was angled so that, tallest of them all as he was, he could see past O'Neill's shoulder and arm to where their mouths were separating and turning as if to apply their soft licks and kisses to O'Neill's nascent erection. But they only teased, breathing, looking -- so close and so frankly assessing that Teal'c's aching member twitched against O'Neill's buttock in vicarious response. "I think he's almost up to the task now, don't you?" Samantha Carter said, turning her face away to nuzzle Daniel Jackson's. "How's it goin' back there, Teal'c?" Daniel Jackson asked, nuzzling into the renewed kisses. O'Neill's pulse was throbbing around Teal'c's fingers, his anus contracting in small spasms of ecstasy, then relaxing, soft and pliable and more than ready to admit him. "All is prepared," he said. Daniel Jackson and Samantha Carter drew back, smiled at each other, and turned to run their tongues, in unison, up the sides of O'Neill's shaft. Teal'c withdrew his fingers simultaneously, turning them as he did so, dragging against the opening's reflexive, clenching attempt to keep them in, doubling the stimulation. In a tight whisper, looking down at the pair of tongues lapping his penis, O'Neill said, "Oh, god," and shuddered all over. His hands had dropped away from their heads. His anus, under Teal'c's continued rubbing, stayed relaxed, open, yielding. He was entirely given over to pleasure's mercy, and to theirs, and to Teal'c's. Teal'c could have him now. There was no need to request permission. Still Teal'c said, in his lowest timbre, lips brushing the shell of O'Neill's ear, "May I enter you, O'Neill?" This exchange was for no one but the two of them to hear. A heat-shiver went through O'Neill's flesh where it pressed his. "Please," he said, almost voicelessly, and as Teal'c shifted behind him, sliding a firm arm around his chest to take some of his weight, he spread his legs. A soft "Mmmm" came from below. Teal'c could not tell from whom. A response to O'Neill's verbalization, perhaps, which they might both well have thought was encouragement to continue tonguing and licking him as they were doing, or merely a stray sound of pleasure. They both loved doing this, though neither of them thrilled as he did to subordination, and he believed that both were oblivious of the complex psychology the act of penetration bore for O'Neill and himself. The enjoyment they took in fellating O'Neill was tactile, oral, pure intimacy and sensory pleasure. Teal'c relished kneeling to his leader for the sake of kneeling, servicing his leader for the sake of service. He enjoyed knowing that O'Neill knew it, and was grateful that O'Neill instinctively understood how deep the pleasure was, and put aside his own discomfort with being knelt to, being serviced. And as well as being pledged to O'Neill body and soul, Teal'c was older than O'Neill, and stronger than O'Neill, and had been a warrior of far higher rank than O'Neill for longer than O'Neill had been alive -- and so, though it happened rarely, Teal'c relished this too: taking O'Neill, and reveling in the pleasure it gave O'Neill to be taken. He aimed himself, and pushed. Joining his body with his friend's, flexing his knees to directly target the gland that would give the lie to O'Neill's protestations of inadequate plumbing. O'Neill groaned deeply, and his head lolled back. With O'Neill pulled tight against him, Teal'c had a clear view down to O'Neill's groin. He rolled his lower back, once, and then again, slow and deep, and saw O'Neill come to full hardness on the second thrust. Samantha Carter's mouth engulfed him, sliding down and back once below softly closed eyes, and then released him to Daniel Jackson's mouth, which sheathed him to the root on the lubrication of her saliva. Teal'c had to close his own eyes and focus on deep, even inhalations and exhalations to balance himself on this side of orgasm. The hot, slick interior of O'Neill's body engulfing his aching member pushed the limits of his fragile control; the sight of them stimulating O'Neill and themselves this way was more than he could watch without letting go. Down below and between, he felt slim fingers exploring the join of their bodies. Gentle fingers, exquisitely careful not to trigger him with touch. Wondering fingers, stroking with tender awe along the slick stretch of anus around Teal'c's sliding member. "Oh god," Samantha Carter said softly. "Daniel. He's ... oh." A warm, appreciative mmmm from Daniel Jackson said, I know. O'Neill let out a higher sound, breathy and overwhelmed. Teal'c moved slowly and steadily within him. He'd regained enough control to risk a brief downward glance, which showed Daniel Jackson applying gentle, relentless suction to O'Neill's glans while Samantha Carter licked and caressed the shaft (and, now and then, Daniel Jackson's lips as well, which brought a smile to Daniel Jackson's eyes that Teal'c did not think he was intended to see, a private smile he reserved only for her). Teal'c looked away when her fingers ringed the shaft and took up a rhythmic, slippery back-and-forth. He could feel her other hand cupping O'Neill's scrotum, squeezing and stroking. He focused on the doorway to the locker room. Empty now, but at risk of filling at any moment with personnel fresh from a dawn workout or sleepy and rumpled from home, preferring to shower on base before changing into fatigues. They had the general positioned to face that doorway, on open view. Naked, held from behind by his Jaffa's strong, dark arms, hips undulating with the deep strokes of clear and obvious penetration. His foremost military scientist naked on her knees before him, her lips and tongue on his erect penis. The head of his erection held in the gently sucking mouth of his premier civilian advisor and cultural authority, naked on his knees beside the lieutenant colonel. It was a stunning picture of transgression, two males and a female subordinate, servicing him. It was a stunningly vulnerable pose. Teal'c knew that Daniel Jackson believed that what aroused O'Neill was the risk, and although Teal'c knew that O'Neill was far from reckless and ordinarily took no pleasure in putting himself in jeopardy, he knew that dangerous sexual encounters did make O'Neill's blood sing. But Teal'c believed that the true source of the heat coursing through O'Neill was the rush of being open and helpless in his team's control -- putting himself in his teammates' hands. Teal'c put his hands on O'Neill, stroking him inside and out, handling him. Soothing and tormenting, stimulating and supporting, pressing his psychosexual pressure points as deliberately and relentlessly as his prostate. With quiet affection and no urgency, Daniel Jackson's voice said, "He's gonna come." "Not if you ... stop sucking his dick ... to announce ... it," O'Neill grated out between gasps. "Dibs on his balls," Samantha Carter said. "I'm more limber than you." She was limber enough that when she scrunched between O'Neill's legs to turn her mouth up and suck his testicles, she had the reach to swipe a lick over Teal'c as well, one wet caress over the place her fingers had explored, and Teal'c let out the first and only sound he would make during this encounter, a growled gasp at the exquisite touch of her tongue where the lips of O'Neill's anus mouthed his shaft. O'Neill cried out as well, not loud but broken-voiced -- once at the slide of tongue, then again as simultaneous suction was applied to glans and scrotum. "Now," he whispered, "can't, please, now, now, please," and Teal'c took bruising hold of his hips and thrust hard, and deep, and fast. O'Neill's orgasm was an implosion, silent and quaking. His control during climax was breathtaking. Teal'c's grip on his hips was needed only to balance the force of his own thrusts; O'Neill's pelvis didn't buck, O'Neill's head didn't thrash, O'Neill's hands didn't grope or clench. All the power released in his climax redirected inward. Teal'c felt it in the sucking contractions inside him; Daniel Jackson no doubt felt it in the pulsing spasms along his shaft; Samantha Carter, he knew, would be feeling it on her tongue, in the subtle, minute, fascinating ripples and twitches through his testicles. O'Neill breathed through it, head back, eyes closed, mouth open, releasing a series of short, sharp exhalations. Teal'c watched, and waited, and when he saw O'Neill's lips draw back in the fierce, tooth-baring rictus that signaled the peak, he thrust deep, and released -- a week of pent seed, an hour of pent arousal, the explosive and copious result of dancing on the brink past all ability to endure. The orgasm wrenched through every muscle, racking his body on ecstasy. At its peak he felt it echo through O'Neill in jerking afterspasms, and in its wake he felt O'Neill go weak, sagging. "Wow," said Daniel Jackson, thick-voiced and a little choked, as he came quickly to his feet to help support O'Neill while Samantha Carter uncurled herself from between his legs to join them. "That knocked him clear off his knees. I've never seen him like this." "Right here," O'Neill said weakly, not bothering to lift his head from the cushion of Teal'c's neck. "Standing. Right here." "Not so much with the standing, there, sir," Samantha Carter said, getting her shoulder under his right armpit, working with Daniel Jackson to bring him fully upright. "More like dangling right here." "I may need reconstructive throat surgery," Daniel Jackson said, warming his free hand over O'Neill's chest and belly, comforting and calming. "You OK, Teal'c?" "I too was ... knocked off my knees," Teal'c said, attempting to help hold O'Neill up, finding insufficient strength in the muscles of his arms. Samantha Carter's free hand reached up and over to caress his face with gentle knuckles, then briefly touch O'Neill's jaw. "Can Teal'c pull out, sir?" "Yeah," O'Neill said, still with more breath than voice, and closed his arms around the two sets of strong shoulders, took some of his weight back onto his own legs. Teal'c drew his hips down and back with painstaking care, and slid out to dangle wet and limp, tingling, deliciously spent. He felt no flinch in O'Neill's body, but he did not expect to feel any. Still he kept hands on him, as the others did, for reassurance, connection, soothing. "I am not takin' another shower," O'Neill warned, and Daniel Jackson laughed and said "Oh yes you are." The four of them moved under the shower head, and Teal'c turned the faucet on to its warmest setting. Together they sluiced each other clean. Samantha Carter fetched dry towels while Daniel Jackson bundled the wet ones up to deposit in the laundry bin, and they dried each other as they'd rinsed clean, one toweling the next. When they left the showers and moved back into the locker area, it was with their arms flung around each other, no longer for support but in camaraderie. When the first arrivals of the day began to trickle into the locker room and make for the showers, Daniel Jackson was in his bathrobe, Samantha Carter was in dungarees and boots and tank top, Jack O'Neill was once again fully dressed, and Teal'c was comfortably wrapped in a waist-cinched towel and seeking in his locker for a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. "So what were you working on so late?" Samantha Carter asked Daniel Jackson as she pulled a soft cashmere cardigan over the tank top. "Translation, of course," he said, as they both nodded to an incoming airman. "I had most of it when I called it quits for the night, but the rest, ah, came to me in the shower. A word that means 'the heart-knowing' or 'the heart-known.' It seemed to be expressing a particular quality of intuitive comprehension, but it actually references a tetradic group bond that's fundamental to the culture." "Not unlike a gate team?" Samantha Carter said, smiling. Daniel Jackson smiled back. "Some gate teams, yeah." "How 'bout you, Carter?" O'Neill said, sitting on the bench -- with no visible discomfort, Teal'c was glad to note, although not visible rarely meant nonexistent with O'Neill -- and tying off the laces of a hiking boot. "A modular device from the same planet," she said, and grinned. "I figured it out in the shower too. Why the modules weren't achieving their rated capacity. They're not designed for optimum energy conversion when they're used separately. They work well singly and in various groupings, but they work best together. They come in fours." "And you, O'Neill?" Teal'c asked, finished dressing now, locker closed. "Hey, I was here because you guys were here. Just didn't feel like goin' home." As Teal'c surveyed the other three and the admissions passing among them in wry shrugs and shared glances, he understood that that was the truth of his own lingering, waking presence as well. All too soon they would be embarking down separate paths. In these last weeks of attachment to this facility, none of them wanted to leave it while the others remained, even for a night's sleep at home, even for a few hours. And so each of them had found an excuse for waking, and watching, and waiting -- and, ultimately, gathering again. As they would always gather, Teal'c knew now, no matter how far their divergent paths might take them, or for how long.

"Why are we going to a store called Drums & Stuff to pick up guitar strings?" Spencer asked, quite reasonably he thought. "Because they have more than just drums," Brendon replied absently as he looked for a place to park. "That's the "and Stuff" part of the name." "Yeah, but Guitar Center is, like, five blocks from your apartment." Spencer pointed out a spot just down the street from their destination. He waited until Brendon had successfully parallel parked before adding, "What's the real reason we drove all the way over here for strings that I'm not even sure you really need?" Brendon grinned brightly and shrugged. "Okay, you caught me. I'm totally stalking one of the owners." "For fuck's sake, Bren." Spencer rolled his eyes. "Didn't we already discuss this after the 'William Beckett Incident'?" He made the air quotes and then sort of hated himself for it. "No, no, this is different. I don't care if Patrick has a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever. I don't want to fuck him, just get him to be my mentor." Brendon had gone completely starry-eyed and Spencer couldn't help but laugh at him as they climbed out of the car. "Oh, this is even better." Spencer opened his phone to fire off a text to Ryan because he could not keep this shit to himself. "Don't bother telling Ryan," Brendon said, and Spencer decided that Brendon might know him a little too well. "He's the one who told me about the genius of Patrick in the first place." Spencer frowned and put away his phone. He hated it when Ryan knew stuff before he did. Ryan was always so smug about it. "And for your information, I do need new strings." Brendon took off down the sidewalk and Spencer hurried to catch up. When they walked in the door, the first thing Spencer heard was someone saying, "Don't be a fucking moron. If you keep doing that, you'll fuck up your wrist and then what'll you do?" Spencer looked around to find the speaker and saw a blond guy in a black hoodie standing over a twelve year old boy, who was sitting behind a drum kit looking terrified. The kid said, "Sorry." "Don't be sorry, just try it again and do it right this time." The guy in the hoodie waved a hand at the kit, and then he looked up and saw Spencer staring. "Did you need something?" Spencer shook his head and turned away, but he glanced back over his shoulder because there was something about the guy. Something kind of interesting. He kept an eye on the drum lesson as he pretended to browse the drumsticks, and was surprised when the guy in the hoodie told the kid he'd done a good job and the kid beamed like he'd just won a Grammy. The kid left and the guy in the hoodie went behind the counter and started doing something on a laptop, so Spencer dropped his pretense of shopping and wandered over to where Brendon was looking at a shiny red Fender in a display on the wall. "Did you get your strings?" Spencer asked, and Brendon waved a couple packages at him in answer. "Did you see your stalking victim yet?" "No," Brendon said, finally dragging his gaze away from the Fender. He looked over at the counter at where the guy in the hoodie was now ringing up someone's purchase. "Maybe that's him. But he doesn't really look like a Patrick." Spencer squinted at the guy. "I don't know. He could be a Patrick. I mean, what does a Patrick look like?" "He should be wearing a hat," Brendon said decisively. "Seriously? What? Only dudes named Patrick wear hats or is it that if a dude is named Patrick he must be wearing a hat?" "No. I mean, neither. Ryan said that Patrick the Musical Genius always wears a hat." Spencer sighed deeply. "Okay, whatever. Are you gonna go talk to the guy or are you going to just skulk around like a creeper until he throws you out of his store?" "I think I'll just come back some other time." Brendon glanced at the guy behind the counter again. "He doesn't pass the hat test." "I need new friends," Spencer said under his breath. "Ones that aren't insane." "What? I'm still buying the strings," Brendon said as if this was a defense against his possible insanity. "Yeah, okay, let's get it over with." When they got to the counter and Brendon put down his strings, Spencer looked at the guy in the hoodie and said, "So, I don't suppose your name is Patrick is it?" "Oh my God," groaned Brendon very quietly as he handed over the money for the strings. "No, it's Bob," said the guy in the hoodie, who had very blue eyes and a lip ring. "Patrick's not here right now." "But he does work here, right?" "Spencer," Brendon hissed, but Spencer just waved him off. "Yeah." Bob was looking at them both like they were crazy now, and that bothered Spencer more than he ever would have expected. He thought he'd gotten used to getting that look when he was with Brendon. Bob handed over the receipt and Spencer grabbed it and shoved it into Brendon's hand and dragged him out of the shop. "What the fuck?" Brendon said, pulling away from Spencer's hold on his arm. "And you call me crazy?" Spencer shrugged and didn't explain as they walked back to the car. He couldn't even explain it to himself. *** A week later, Spencer finally admitted that his snare had to be replaced. He'd repaired it the best he could, but it just didn't sound right. Instead of going to his usual place, he found himself driving across town to Drums & Stuff. He didn't take Brendon with him. The shop was pretty empty except for a guy in a fedora noodling around on an acoustic guitar in the back corner and Bob sitting at the counter, tossing a drumstick in the air and then catching it. Spencer stood by the door and watched for a moment, as the stick spun in the air and Bob's pale hand shot out to snatch it back. The concentration on Bob's face was kind of hot, but then he looked up and all that focus was on Spencer. Spencer fought back a shiver and smiled. "Um. I, uh, I need a new snare." "You've come to the right place," Bob said with just a hint of a smirk. "We just happen to sell snares." "Yeah, I need one." Spencer looked away before he said something even stupider, and wandered over to where the drums were set up on display. Bob came out from behind the counter and stood next to Spencer. "Tell me about your set up." Spencer told him and Bob got a thoughtful look on his face. "Okay, here's what we carry..." Fifteen minutes later, Spencer knew everything there was to know about the various snares and Bob's opinions on most of them. He had no reason not to buy a snare right this minute--he knew which one he wanted and knew that Bob would agree--and yet he hesitated to seal the deal because then he'd have no reason to talk to Bob any more. "So what do you think about the Gretsch?" Spencer stroked his fingers around the rim, and felt a kind of longing that he'd never felt for a single piece of equipment before. "It's a good choice for you," Bob said, looking at Spencer appraisingly. "It'll be very durable and it's got a unique sound. Want to try it out?" "Yeah, of course, yeah," Spencer said and snapped his mouth shut before he embarrassed himself with even more babbling. Bob didn't seem to notice, just pulled a stool over to the snare and said, "Go for it, Spencer." "How'd you know my name?" Spencer asked, sitting down and taking the sticks that Bob held out to him. "Your friend said it last time you were here." Spencer smiled and tilted his head, looking up at Bob from behind where his bangs had slipped over one eye. "You remember the names of all your customers?" "Not all of them," Bob said with a tiny smile. Spencer played a rudiment, listening carefully to the sound, then played a couple longer ones. After he finished he looked up at Bob and very seriously announced, "I'm a little in love with this snare." "I thought you would be," Bob said and ran his fingers around the rim where Spencer had stroked it before. Spencer's mouth went dry and he had to clear his throat before he could speak again. "How much is it?" he asked and felt his heart nearly break when Bob told him the price. "That's a little out of my price range at the moment. I'll have to come back." "Sure," said Bob, looking not too disappointed by the lack of a sale. "Why don't I hold it for you? Just so you know it's here. Waiting for you." Spencer blinked and nodded. "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks." When Spencer walked out of the store, he heard the guy in the fedora walk up to Bob and say, "Since when do we hold stuff for people we don't know?" The door swung shut before Spencer could hear Bob's answer. *** It took Spencer a couple days to rearrange his finances--and call his parents and ask for a small loan--before he could go back to Drums & Stuff. He knew his snare would still be there waiting for him, but he felt nervous anyway. He figured out why when he stepped inside the shop just as Bob said to the trucker hat-wearing guy that Spencer had been assuming was Patrick, "No--just--fuck, let me show you." Then Bob sat down behind a kit and started playing, and he looked so...hot. His playing was strong and fast and intense and Spencer felt his whole body flush and his cock twitch and he nearly groaned as every beat of Bob's sticks echoed through his body. Spencer had been playing drums for almost ten years and had watched countless other drummers in other bands, and he'd never been so turned on so instantly before. He shuddered and started to back out of the store, but before he got two steps, Bob and Patrick both looked up and saw him. Bob stopped playing, and Patrick muttered something about getting something from the back. Once he was gone, Spencer cleared his throat and said, "I, um, I came for my snare." Bob smiled and went around behind the counter where the snare was all boxed up and ready to go. After he took Spencer's money and handed his receipt over, Bob said, "I'm afraid I need one more thing." "What? I paid for it, it's mine." "I need to see you playing it for real sometime." Bob sounded serious but there was a twinkle in his eye that suggested that inside he was laughing. Whether that was at Spencer or himself, Spencer couldn't tell. "Just to make sure it went to a good home, you understand." "I understand," Spencer said with equal gravity. When he'd folded up a flyer and stuck it in his back pocket before leaving home, he'd kind of planned to invite Bob to come to the show his band was playing on Friday, but on the way over he'd talked himself out of it. Bob probably got invited to see a fuckload of crappy bands just starting out and why would he want to come see some unknown guys from Vegas who were just starting to break into the Chicago scene? But he'd asked, so Spencer pulled the flyer out of his pocket and unfolded it before handing it over. "We're playing Friday night." Spencer handed over the flyer and pointed at the very bottom. "That's us. So uh, you'll want to get there pretty early." "Panic! at the Disco, huh?" Bob flattened the flyer out on the counter, smoothing his hand over it in a mesmerizing motion. "I'll be there." "If you wanted to bring Patrick, you'd get to see our lead singer's head explode." "Patrick's probably busy that night," Bob said quickly. "Oh, well, that's okay. Brendon probably needs his head anyway. You know. To sing." Spencer couldn't stop babbling. "Yeah, a head would probably be kind of important for a lead singer to have," Bob agreed with a solemn nod and this time Spencer knew Bob was laughing at him, but he didn't care. *** The day before the show, Spencer stopped by Drums & Stuff to pick up some new sticks, but Bob wasn't there so he left empty handed. Patrick just raised an eyebrow at him and Spencer felt like a worse stalker than Brendon. When he explained all this to Ryan later, Ryan laughed and said, "Do you know where Bob lives and which train he takes to get to work?" "What? No." Spencer was confused as to what that had to do with anything and it would have been creepy if he'd known. "Then Brendon is still one up on you." "Did you tell him?" "Maybe," Ryan said, but he looked distinctly shifty. "You shouldn't encourage him," Spencer said sternly, knowing it would probably have little effect. "Jon told him about the train," Ryan said, like that was some kind of defense. "How do you two even know Patrick-- you know what?" Spencer threw his hands up and shook his head. "I don't even want to know." *** "There's like twenty people out there," Ryan reported gloomily as he returned from looking out from the side of the stage. "And we will blow their faces off," said Brendon with an attempt at bravado, but Spencer could hear the tremor in his voice and see the way he kept rubbing his palms down the sides of his jeans as he paced around the backstage area. "There's still some time before we go on," Jon said, tuning his bass and tapping his toes to the song playing on the PA. "More people will show up. I invited at least thirty myself." "See there, Ry, Jon knows people. It'll be all right." Spencer clapped Ryan on the back and smiled but he wasn't sure how much he believed it himself. "I saw Patrick," Ryan said and Brendon came to a stuttering halt in front of Ryan. Before he could say anything, Ryan continued, "And he had a couple guys with him." Brendon shot a look at Spencer and said, "Was one of them kind of big with blond hair and a beard and a lip ring?" "Yeah, and the other one was short with dark hair and a bunch of tattoos on his arms. He looked real cozy with Patrick." "That'll be Pete," Jon said, looking mysteriously satisfied, but before Spencer could ask, Jon pointed at Brendon with a pick gripped between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't try to get between those two." "I told you I don't want to fuck him, okay?" Brendon nearly shouted and then blushed when one of the other bands on the bill busted out laughing at him. Brendon crossed his arms and said in a calmer voice, "It's not like that." Spencer put an arm around Brendon and gave him a companionable hug. "I know it's not." Brendon tilted his head onto Spencer's shoulder and murmured too low for Ryan and Jon to overhear, "But you totally want to fuck Bob, right?" Spencer petted Brendon's hair for a minute and then nodded. "Oh hell yeah." "Sweet," Brendon said and smacked a kiss onto Spencer's cheek. "Yeah," Spencer said as it really hit him that he had to play in front of Bob, who was not only hot but a really awesome drummer in his own right. Nerves twisted his gut into knots and Spencer worried that he was going to throw up for the first time since they left Vegas. "Sweet." The stage manager came back and said "Okay, boys, you're on," and Spencer forced himself to push the nerves down and just go out and play his best. *** After they got settled on stage and Spencer was ticking off a light beat before bursting into the first song, Brendon yelled, "Hello, Chicago, we're Panic! at the Disco!" as if they were playing for 23,000 people at the United Center instead of on stage at a dumpy club that held at best a few hundred people and was maybe half full. When a cheer went up that was bigger than the last time they played, Spencer thought maybe they'd make it someday. *** When their set was over and their equipment was packed away, Spencer went to the bar and the first person he saw was Bob, who handed him a beer and yelled "Good show" over the sound of the next band starting their set. "Thanks!" Spencer yelled back and took a long swig of beer to calm his nerves. It almost worked. They drank in companionable silence and watched the band on stage for a while. They were not very good, and Spencer thought Panic was better. He wanted to know what Bob thought but was almost afraid to ask. When the third song started, Bob leaned in close to Spencer and said, "These guys blow. Wanna go outside for a smoke?" Spencer nodded emphatically and followed him outside into the alley that ran along the side of the venue. Bob pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Spencer. "Oh, no thanks. I don't actually smoke," Spencer said, with a wry little smile. "I just wanted to get away from that crappy band." "The drummer was pushing the beat," Bob said, lighting a cigarette and blowing out a long stream of smoke. "And I don't know what the hell their guitarist was doing." "A shitload of drugs, I suspect," Spencer said, leaning against the wall at Bob's side. He shoved his apprehension down and decided to man up and just ask, "What did you think about us? I mean, professionally speaking. One musician to another." "Are you fishing for compliments already?" Bob took a drag and let the smoke out the corner of his mouth as he grinned at Spencer, and Spencer was suddenly glad there was a nice solid wall at his back because his knees were feeling a little weak, especially when Bob added, "Mostly that comes after I've slept with someone." "Well," Spencer said and had no idea how to continue without sounding desperate and pathetic. He wanted to say 'yes, please, anytime, anywhere' but what if Bob wasn't even trying to come on to him? Spencer would sound like an idiot. Bob saved him from embarrassing himself by saying, "You were good--certainly better that the crapfest we walked out on. With some more practice playing together and better gigs, I think you guys could be really fucking good." "We've only had our bass player for a few weeks--our old one didn't like it here so he moved back home--so we're still kind of getting it together." Spencer nudged Bob's foot with the side of his own. "What about you? Do you play in a band?" "Nothing regular. I'll sit in with some friends' bands every so often, but the store and the lessons keep me too busy to commit to anything full time." "That's a shame because you're really good," Spencer said, trying to sound all cool and knowledgeable and not like a groupie or whatever. "I could probably learn a lot from your technique." Bob laughed, and it made Spencer go warm all over. He could feel a blush rising in his cheeks as Bob tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and shifted closer. Bob gave him a look that had Spencer getting a little lost in Bob's eyes and said, "So, you wanna--" But before Bob could finish, a guy with dark hair and tattoos down his arms stuck the upper half of his body out the door and said, "Bob--you gotta come see this. Pattycake has a baby stalker and they're geeking out over music and it's fucking adorable." Spencer mentally cursed out the guy (he thought he might be the Pete that Jon mentioned). He wanted to grab Bob and demand to know what he was going to say, but instead he smiled weakly when Bob laughed and said, "That would be your Brendon, I guess." "He's not my Brendon," Spencer protested, but Bob was already following Pete back into the club. Spencer sighed and trailed along behind them. *** When Spencer joined the group clustered around the far end of the bar where the music wasn't quite as loud, he couldn't help but smile at the sheer enthusiasm bursting from Brendon as he talked about music. Patrick was nodding along earnestly and occasionally adding his own comments whenever Brendon took a breath. Jon, Pete, and Bob were all watching with varying degrees of amusement, and Spencer could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes and the way his lips were tucked between his teeth that Ryan was totally making mental notes. As Patrick went off on a tangent about Buddy Guy and some guitar stuff that went over Spencer's head, Spencer glanced over to find Bob watching him with a little smile. Spencer smiled back and quickly shifted his eyes away, hoping the light was too dim for his blush to be noticeable. After the headliner's set had been finished for a while, the bartender started giving them all pointed looks, so Spencer and Jon each took one of Brendon's arms and started easing him away from Patrick. "We really have to get going before we're thrown out," Jon told Brendon soothingly. "You can talk to Patrick again some other time." Brendon actually made grabby hands in Patrick's direction as they moved toward the door, and Spencer could hear Pete and Bob cracking up. He told himself not to look back, but he did anyway. Bob was kind of unbearably cute when he laughed--his eyes went all squinchy and he got these little grooves in his cheeks that were sort of like dimples, but not, and Spencer wanted to trace them with his tongue. Spencer hoped he got to see Bob laugh again sometime soon. *** On Saturday, Spencer had a shift at the bookstore day job that actually paid his half of the rent and then had band practice well into the evening, so by the time he was free to go by Drums & Stuff to buy sticks, it was almost closing time. He rushed in still glancing at his watch, and then came to a halt when some unfamiliar guy behind the counter greeted him. When Spencer just looked at him, the guy said, "Hey. Is there anything I can help you find?" "Bob? I mean, um, Bob's not working today?" Spencer wanted to cover his face and maybe hide in his apartment for the rest of his life. "Not officially, but he's in the office doing some paperwork. I can go get him, if you want?" "No! That's okay, I just needed some sticks," Spencer said quickly and motioned over to where the sticks were. Spencer grabbed some of his usual sticks and took them to the counter, and as the guy rung them up, Bob came out of the back and said, "Butcher, did you get those... Spencer. Hey." "Hey," Spencer said with a little wave. He dropped his hand as he realized how dorky he probably looked, but Bob just smiled and came closer, leaning against the counter next to Spencer. "Picking up new sticks," Bob said, after glancing at Spencer's purchase. It wasn't a question but Spencer nodded and said, "I broke my last pair at band practice today." "Yeah, I noticed that you're a hard hitter." The smirk playing over Bob's lips made Spencer's stomach go all swoopy and his mouth a little dry. Neither of them looked at Butcher when he shoved the receipt across the counter at Spencer and said, "Yeah. I'm going to the back for...whatever. All this sexual tension is making my head hurt." Bob snickered. "You feeling tense?" Spencer swallowed hard and decided to go with honesty and hoped it wasn't too embarrassing. "Yeah, maybe a little. You?" "Sure." Bob flicked his tongue over his lip ring and pressed his lips together briefly. "I know some relaxation techniques." "Oh, really? Are they anywhere as good as your drum techniques?" Spencer arched an eyebrow and cocked one hip against the counter, a little shiver going down his spine when Bob's gaze swept down and then back up. Spencer was probably imagining that Bob's eyes were a little darker and there was a light flush creeping across his cheekbones. "Maybe you should judge for yourself." Bob's eyebrows went up and then back down really quickly, and one corner of his mouth twitched. "If you're not busy tonight." Spencer couldn't think of a single thing he had planned. Hanging out with Brendon? Going to a show with Ryan? He couldn't remember because his brain was filled with Holy shit, Bob is asking me out! Bob! a date with Bob! He cleared his throat and said, "No, I'm free." "If you'll give me a minute or two to help Butcher close up the shop, we could go for a drink or some dinner or something." "Yeah, that'd be great," Spencer said, and picked up his drum sticks. "I'll go put these in my car and meet you outside in a few minutes." Bob smiled and turned to go back to the office. As soon as Spencer got outside, he pulled out his phone and called Brendon. "What were we doing tonight?" Spencer asked as soon as Brendon said hello. "How could you forget the Terminator marathon? Jon's bringing pizza and Ryan's bringing weed. I already picked up the DVDs and you're supposed to get beer." "Right. Right. Well, one of you guys will have to get the beer, because I can't make it." "What do you mean you can't make it? What else have you got to do?" Brendon sounded so surprised that Spencer wondered if it had really been that long since he'd done something not involving one or more of his band. "I have a date." Spencer ignored Brendon's weird little gaspy laugh and added casually, "With Bob Bryar." "Patrick's partner, the drum god?" Brendon said, all laughter gone from his voice. He sounded impressed, which he should have been because Bob was kind of really, really awesome. "I don't think--" "No, it's okay, I know you totally lust after his mad teaching skills and drummer arms. You can't fool me, Spencer Smith, I know your weaknesses. You meet a hot guy and you might like him or not. But you meet a hot guy who can drum and you turn to mush." "I'm not mush." Spencer looked around to make sure Bob hadn't magically appeared behind him before adding, "He does have nice arms, doesn't he? And thighs. He offered to show me his relaxation techniques." He made the word sound as dirty as he hoped it was going to be. Brendon made a turned on little sound that could only be described as "nrrrrgh"--which Spencer didn't really need to hear-- then said, "Gah. You...well, you have fun, Spence. Play safe." Spencer laughed and said goodbye as he unlocked his car and put the drum sticks in the back seat. Then he walked back to the store to meet Bob, trying to look less nervous than he actually was. *** Bob took Spencer to a little Chinese restaurant right down the street from the store. As they walked, Bob told Spencer little bits about the various businesses--how the manager of that bank once got locked in his own vault and the woman who owned the clothing store just broke up rather spectacularly in the middle of the street with the counterman at the sandwich shop. When they passed a coffee house, Bob said, "Patrick's playing a set there on Monday night. You should come by." "I'll try to make it," Spencer said, already figuring out who he could probably switch shifts with so he could get off work early. "You gonna be there?" "Yep, I'm doing sound for it," Bob said and then he held the door to the restaurant open for Spencer. "Hi, Bob," said the middle-aged Chinese lady behind the counter. "Table for two?" She gave Spencer an appraising look and added, "I'll put you in the romantic corner." Completely ignoring the stack of menus at the end of the counter, she motioned for them to follow her to a candlelit table in a corner far away from both the restrooms and the kitchen. Bob's ears were pink as he said, "Thanks, Mrs. P." As soon as they were seated, she took their drink orders then pinned Spencer with an intense look. "Do you have any food allergies?" "Uh...no," he said, glancing at Bob. When he turned back, Mrs. P. was gone. "What was that about?" "She's going to bring us tonight's special. Trust me, whatever it is will be good," Bob assured him. "If you don't like it, I know a really good pizza place on the next block." "I'll put myself in your hands." Bob grinned and didn't say anything as Spencer realized what he'd said. "Oh, man," he groaned, covering his face with one hand. "I'm going to take pity on you and not say one of the half-dozen things that just went through my head. You can thank me later." Bob reached over and pulled Spencer's hand away from his face, then didn't let go. He just held Spencer's hand while he changed the subject. "When are you guys playing again?" "Next Saturday. There's a local band showcase. Ryan talked them into letting us into it because we live here now." "That's local enough for me," Bob said with a nod, and then the conversation drifted to other topics--still mostly music related--and then Mrs. P. came back with a much younger woman who set down huge plates in front of them. Mrs. P. told them what the dish was called, but Spencer had never heard of it and couldn't have pronounced it correctly if he'd tried, but it smelled and looked amazing. Bob and Spencer both thanked the ladies, who waited and watched while the men took their first bites. Spencer smiled around a mouthful of rice and vegetables and nodded, and hoped that conveyed his pleasure. Bob swallowed and said, "Delicious as always, Mrs. P." Once they were alone again, neither Bob nor Spencer said much for a few minutes. The food was too good to be distracted, and when Spencer's phone rang, he hit 'ignore' and said, "Sorry." A minute later, his phone pinged with a text message, and he glanced down to see that it was from Ryan: CALL ME BACK!!! IMPORTANT!!! Spencer held his phone up so that Bob could see the screen. "He's broken out the all caps and exclamation points." "Sounds serious," Bob agreed. "You wouldn't mind too much if I called him back, would you? I'd ignore him, but...all caps. Generally Ryan feels the shift key is for other people." Spencer let out a relieved breath when Bob smiled and waved him off. "No, go ahead." With another quick "sorry", Spencer got up and headed for the restroom to call Ryan back, but his phone rang again before he got two feet from the table. He rolled his eyes at Bob and clicked it on, saying, "This better be really fucking important." "Pete Wentz works for Decaydance and wants to see us play again. He's interested in signing us. Is that important enough for you?" "Wait, what?" Spence didn't realize how high his voice had gone until Bob got up and came over with a concerned look on his face. Bob said "Is everything okay?" just as Ryan repeated what he'd said before, his voice rising almost to a shout by the end. "Yes," Spencer said to both Bob and Ryan at the same time. "He's got us a gig at a club on Tuesday. He wants to see us again before he decides if we're ready or not." Ryan's voice went muffled as he most likely moved the phone away from his face and said, "Yes, Brendon, I'll tell him that part too." Then to Spencer, "Brendon wants me to tell you that Jon is a sneaky motherfucker and totally knew all about Pete but wouldn't tell the rest of us because he didn't want us to be nervous." Spencer glanced at Bob who was still hovering nearby. "Didn't work. I was anyway." "Oh, shit, right, you're on a date. Call me later or come by Brendon's instead of going home. I mean," Ryan added archly, "assuming you were planning on going home tonight." Spencer carefully didn't look at Bob when he said, "Yeah, I'll let you know. Goodbye." Spencer turned and sat back down at the table and waited for Bob to settle before saying, "So, your friend Pete. Decaydance Records, huh?" "Yeah, he just signed Patrick." "And you never thought to mention this?" "Spencer. Do you know how many musicians I talk to on any given day? If they all thought I could get them attention from a label, I'd never have a moment's peace." "Okay, I see your point." "Also," Bob continued with a nod to show he'd heard Spencer but was on a roll, "I don't have any influence with Pete. I didn't even invite him and Patrick to your show last night. Jon did." "Jon is in for such an ass-kicking." "Fair enough, but maybe he didn't want to get your hopes up. Pete doesn't go around talking about signing every band he sees and he sure as hell doesn't sign all his friends. The guy seems to know half the population of northern Illinois and a good chunk of Milwaukee. Him knowing Jon is no guarantee of anything." Spencer gave this some thought and said, "Jon Walker has no idea how lucky he is that you and I met." "I'd like to think he's not the only one," Bob said and then looked down at his plate. He picked at a piece of broccoli like it was the most fascinating thing on Earth. "No," Spencer said, smiling when Bob looked at him again. "He's not the only one." *** Bob walked Spencer back to his car and they stood there awkwardly for a moment before Spencer moved in close and Bob leaned forward at the same time. Spencer stepped on Bob's foot and Bob's nose banged into Spencer's as their mouths nearly crashed together. They both pulled back a bit sheepishly and then tried it again. They were both laughing when they finally kissed. Bob tasted like ginger and smoke and his beard tickled Spencer's chin, making Spencer imagine what it would feel like brushing against other parts of his body. He shivered as Bob's hands settled on his hips, big and warm and surprisingly gentle. Spencer leaned into the touch and slid his hands up Bob's arms, the feel of firm muscle under smooth skin making him half-hard. A wolf whistle from across the street made them break apart. Bob looked over to see where it came from and then flipped off some kid with curly hair, who laughed and gave him a thumbs up before continuing on his way. "Friend of Butcher's," Bob explained. "You want to take this some place more private?" He motioned down the street and added, "I live above the store." Spencer licked his lips and nodded, projecting calm even though in the back of his mind a little voice was freaking out. He'd wanted Bob since he'd first laid eyes on him, but he'd never imagined it could be this easy. Another little voice in the back of his head told him that maybe he should get to know Bob better first, make sure he wasn't a freaky perv or a serial killer or something. He told both little voices to shut the hell up and followed Bob around to the back of the building where Bob unlocked the back door and went up a dimly lit staircase to unlock yet another door. Bob's apartment was a loft that took up the entire top floor of the building, with high wood-beamed ceilings and matching wood floors. The door opened into a kitchen area and off to one side Spencer could see an open door that appeared to lead to a bathroom. A sitting area took up the middle of the room with a large overstuffed couch, a couple chairs, and a scuffed coffee table that was littered with remotes and game controllers. The TV had cables and wires coming out in all directions, connections to a pretty pricey-looking stereo and at least three game systems. The far end of the room was the sleeping area--a king sized bed dominated the space and made everything else fade from Spencer's consciousness. Bob motioned to the couch and said, "Have a seat. You want something to drink? I've got Red Bull, beer, and..." He opened the refrigerator and looked inside. "Oh. Just Red Bull and beer, then. And water." "Beer's fine," Spencer said, but he didn't sit down right away. He wandered over to look at the drum kit set up in the corner--continually glancing at the bed in his peripheral vision--and was immediately entranced by the antique mahogany snare on a stand set slightly apart from the rest. His fingers hovered over it without touching. "Bob, this is awesome." "What?" Bob straightened up and closed the refrigerator door. He brought two bottles of beer over to where Spencer was trying not to drool over the drums. "Oh yeah, it's a Ludwig parade drum from the '20s. I got it for practically nothing at an estate sale a few years ago. It was in pretty bad shape so the restoration cost more than the drum, but it was worth it." Shoving the beer into Spencer's hands, Bob got a couple sticks from a bag on the wall shelf crammed with tools and hardware and tapped out an almost-familiar rhythm. "Wow," Spencer breathed, even more turned on than when Bob was kissing him. He realized that was fucked up but couldn't bring himself to care much. "That sounds amazing." Bob didn't smile exactly but looked kind of proud anyway and played a little more. Spencer closed his eyes and listened, trying not to get hard but it was a lost cause. Even without seeing him, Bob was still hot when he played and it boggled Spencer that Bob didn't have a regular band. The drumming stopped so Spencer opened his eyes to see Bob rubbing his right wrist, but as soon as Bob noticed him watching, he stopped and held out a hand for the beer Spencer still had clutched to his chest. He handed one to Bob and twisted the top off the other, taking a long drink. "That was good. You're really good." "Thanks." Bob quirked an eyebrow and stood up, moving to stand just outside Spencer's personal space. He sipped at his beer and just watched Spencer over the bottle. After a moment, he glanced down Spencer's body and smirked. "I never turned someone on by drumming before." "I find that very hard to believe," Spencer said, his face going warm at the word 'hard'. "um. I mean. You probably just didn't know it." "Shame." Bob set his beer down, took Spencer's out of his hand, and put it on the shelf behind him. He put his hands on Spencer's hips and leaned in, just barely brushing his lips against Spencer's. Spencer pressed back, opened his mouth a little and Bob took the hint, deepening the kiss and pulling Spencer close until their hips were nestled together and Spencer could feel that Bob was getting turned on too. He pushed closer and whoa, Bob was definitely getting turned on. Spencer could feel Bob's erection pressing into his and it felt...substantial. Spencer had never particularly been a size queen, but he wanted to get his hands and mouth on Bob's cock as soon as possible. He pulled back and look down, his mouth watering at the thought, and he swallowed hard. Bob slid his hands under the edge of Spencer's shirt, sending shivers down Spencer's spine. Spencer hooked the fingers of one hand in the waist of Bob's pants and pulled at Bob's belt buckle with the other, raising his face for another kiss. Bob smiled against his mouth and started moving them toward the bed. "Yeah," Spencer gasped and shoved Bob over onto the mattress. Bob made an amused sound and spread his arms out, looking up at Spencer expectantly. Spencer ignored the smirk playing at the corner of Bob's mouth and went straight for his pants, getting them open in record time. He worked his hand inside and wrapped it around Bob's cock, surging up to catch Bob's mouth in a messy off-center kiss as Bob's arms wrapped around him. Spencer squeezed Bob's cock and ground his own erection against Bob's hip, while Bob seemed content to let him do whatever he wanted. Spencer slid his hand down and then back up, rubbing his thumb across the head, and Bob made a little noise in the back of his throat and thrust his tongue into Spencer's mouth, fast and dirty before pulling back and saying, "Hold on." Then he flipped them over so that Spencer was on his back and tugged at his legs until they were both fully on the bed. Spencer slid his hand over Bob's hip while he kicked his shoes off and shoved at Bob's pants. Bob kissed Spencer's throat as he worked Spencer's jeans and underwear off, and Spencer tilted his head back and gasped at the sensation of Bob's open mouth sliding up his neck, all hot and wet, and then Spencer was naked below the waist and Bob was pushing at his shirt and sitting up to get his own shoes and socks off. Spencer got his shirt half unbuttoned and then just skinned it off over his head. He grabbed Bob's hoodie and tried to jerk it off but Bob said, "Ow, fuck," as it got stuck on his face or something. "Shit. Sorry. You do it," Spencer said, apology turning to bossiness. He couldn't help it, though. He was going to die of frustration if they didn't get back to the good stuff soon. He tugged at the waistband of Bob's pants. "Come on." Bob's voice was muffled by his hoodie, but it sounded like he was laughing when he said, "Not in a hurry are you?" That didn't deserve an answer, so Spencer just pushed Bob onto his back and worked harder at getting Bob's pants and underwear off, stripping them down until he got distracted by Bob's thighs and oh, hi, Bob's dick. Spencer ducked down and mouthed at the head of Bob's cock and didn't protest when Bob tangled his fingers in Spencer's hair. Bob tugged on Spencer's hair and Spencer opened his mouth wide and swallowed as much of Bob's cock as he could, squeezing and stroking the rest with his hand. Bob made an incoherent sound and Spencer glanced up to see Bob watching him, his eyes hot and dark. Spencer pulled off and smiled up at Bob as he stroked him quickly for a minute before licking the head and rubbing it over his lips. Then he lowered his mouth and sucked for all he was worth. He was rewarded with a loud groan and Bob whimpering his name while he pulled Spencer's hair--not hard, just enough to get his attention. Spencer released Bob's cock with an obscene pop and let Bob pull him up for a devouring kiss as Bob reached down and grabbed both their cocks and jerked them desperately. The dual sensations of Bob's callused hand and smooth wet cock rubbing against his tipped Spencer over the edge ridiculously fast and he was coming before he even realized he was going to. Bob followed a few seconds later, grunting into Spencer's mouth and biting at his lower lip. While he caught his breath, Spencer flopped over onto his back and settled his head on the pillow next to Bob, who had his eyes closed and said, "Gimme a minute," sounding so relaxed he was already half-asleep. Spencer grunted in response and closed his eyes. When he opened then again, nearly an hour had passed and the stickiness on his belly was drying and itchy. He was alone in the bed, but Bob came out of the bathroom before Spencer could do more than sit up. Bob had put on a pair of boxers and nothing else. He tossed a damp washcloth to Spencer and then grabbed the beers they'd abandoned earlier. Spencer cleaned himself off and reached for his clothes on the floor beside the bed, but Bob put a bottle in his hand and then climbed back into the bed. Taking a drink, Spencer couldn't keep himself from grimacing. "Sorry, it's kinda warm." "Yeah, but I didn't want it to go to waste," Bob said with a shrug. He took a drink of his and reached for Spencer's. "Hey, now, I didn't say I wouldn't drink it." Spencer grinned and took another, longer sip. It wasn't really that bad once he got used to it. Bob gave him a satisfied quirk of the lips that on anyone else would barely be noticeable, but Spencer was coming to realize was practically a grin coming from Bob. They drank in companionable silence propped against the pillows and when his beer was gone, Spencer said, "I guess I should..." and reached for his clothes again. "If you want to," Bob said, setting his bottle aside and pulling Spencer back down to the bed and kissing him until he was flushed and panting. "Or," Bob said, dropping a kiss to Spencer's jaw and nibbling down the length of his neck, "or, you could stay a while." "Okay. Yeah." Spencer's voice caught as Bob sucked on a particularly sensitive spot at the edge of his collar bone. *** When Spencer finally left Bob's, he went straight over to Brendon's instead of going home. He wanted to stay but he knew the guys would be losing their minds over Pete being interested in the band. He'd barely knocked on the door when it was flung open and Brendon was throwing himself into Spencer's arms. "We're gonna be signed!" Spencer looked over Brendon's shoulder to see Jon watching with wide eyes and Ryan chewing on his thumbnail, which he took away from his mouth just long enough to say, "We don't know that yet." "He already said we had potential. I think that means we're in," Brendon said with irrepressible optimism as he finally let Spencer go. "Well--" Spencer started, but Ryan jumped to his feet and started pacing around the tiny living room. "We'll have to practice more, every spare minute, until Tuesday." "Patrick's playing a set at a coffeehouse down the street from Bob's store on Monday night. I kind of promised I'd go. I mean, you should all come. Pete'll probably be there." Ryan thought about it for a while, and finally said, "Well, okay, but we practice all day tomorrow. Anyone scheduled to work better call in sick because this is more important. This is everything, guys." *** Since he came straight from work, Spencer got to the coffeehouse a little early. He realized he was still wearing his nametag when he got out of his car, and had to stop and take it off before walking across the parking lot to the front of the building. Bob was standing outside smoking a cigarette when Spencer walked up and he smiled around the filter, not taking it out of his mouth as he said, "Spence. Wasn't sure you'd show up." "Why? I said I would." Bob hitched his shoulders and squinted up at a street light. "You seemed in a hurry to leave Saturday." "Oh. Well, you know, the news about Pete being interested in signing our band, and then there was...I didn't want you to think..." Spencer trailed off because what came to mind next sounded a little lame and pathetic. Bob raised his eyebrows and took another drag. "My band needed me, and I didn't want to overstay my welcome?" Spencer hated that it sounded like a question, but there was nothing he could do about it now. "Hmm." Bob shrugged and looked away. After crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray on top of the trashcan next to him, he shoved his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie and said, "Look, I don't play games and I don't have any time for drama, so let me just go ahead and explain something. I'll tell you when you've overstayed your welcome. And I'm really glad you came tonight because I wanted to see you again." "Yeah, me too," Spencer said, flapping a hand at the coffeehouse. "Obviously." Bob smiled and took his hands out of his pocket. "Okay, well. Okay." "I think this is the part where it stops being awkward," Spencer said with a wry grin that was more than a little self-deprecating. "Yeah," Bob agreed and then they both laughed a little and that dispelled some of the tension--the normal social tension, anyway. The sexual tension remained as Spencer watched Bob push open the door to the coffeehouse and couldn't help remembering what he looked like naked. He felt his face flush when Bob said, "Did you want to go in or what?" Spencer followed him inside and said, "If you wanna grab a table, I'll get us some drinks." "Yeah, okay, just black coffee for me," Bob said and he looked a little surprised that Spencer had offered which Spencer almost felt offended by. But then Bob flicked his tongue over his lip ring in an oddly uncertain gesture and Spencer instantly forgave him. A few minutes later, Spencer found Bob sitting at a table near the small area of the floor where a stool and microphone had been set up. As stages went, it wasn't much, but fit with the overall size and feel of the place. Spencer set Bob's coffee in front of him and sat down next to him. He took a sip of his cappuccino and smiled. "This is really good. Better than Starbucks--don't tell Jon I said that." Bob sipped at his coffee and nudged his knee against Spencer's under the table as he laughed and said, "I'm sure Jon will agree anyway." With Bob touching him, Spencer couldn't give a shit about coffee or Jon or anything else except having Bob touch him some more. He pressed his knee back against Bob's and grinned like an idiot when Bob smiled kind of sweetly and said, "You want to go back to my place when this is over?" "Yes." Spencer didn't even have to think about it, but he was going to have to distract himself if he wanted to focus on Patrick's performance and not of ripping Bob's clothes off and having his way with him right here on the coffeehouse floor. He cleared his throat and sipped his drink, watching Bob over the rim of the cup. "So...what kind of music does Patrick play?" "Kind of bluesy, jazzy, R&B...uh, pop/rock, I guess. His influences are kind of all over the place." Bob nodded at the look on Spencer's face. "I know. But he's really good. And to think, he'd still just be giving guitar lessons if Pete hadn't heard him singing in the shop one day." "Oh, man, tell me this is one of those Hollywood-style fairy tales where Pete randomly just happened to come to your store and overheard Patrick singing and decided to make him a star," Spencer said with a laugh. He was actually starting to believe his own band had a chance of getting signed now, if this was how Pete worked. "Well, not really...but kind of," Bob said, with a wobbly hand gesture. "He'd heard about Patrick through one of my drum students who had heard Patrick sing, so he came to see for himself. He basically walked in one day, said 'are you Patrick? Sing something for me.' To which Patrick replied that Pete could go and fuck himself." Spencer leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his hand and said, "Keep going. What happened next?" "Well, it's Pete so he didn't give up. Just kept coming around and Patrick kept ignoring him because he thought Pete was just trying to get in his pants--which, heh, yeah." Bob paused and rolled his eyes and took a long drink of his coffee, before continuing, "But anyway, after a couple weeks, Pete finally heard him sing and instantly fell in lust with Patrick's voice. Then he had to spend a few months convincing Patrick that he really did work for a label and Patrick really could make a record--and getting in Patrick's pants." "And now here we are?" When Bob nodded, Spencer looked around. "Where is Patrick anyway?" "Last time I saw him he was having a small panic attack in the bathroom and Pete was talking him down." "Panic attack, huh?" "Just a small one." Bob held his fingers up less than a quarter-inch apart. "Tiny. He'll be fine." Spencer settled back in his chair and waved when he saw Brendon and Ryan come in. He looked at Bob and said, "I told the guys about this. I hope that's okay?" "It's okay with me. Just as long as they don't expect to come along for the rest of our date." Bob touched Spencer's thigh with just the tips of his fingers and then put both hands on the table and straightened up so that his knee was no longer pressing against Spencer's. Spencer ignored the distance Bob put between them and just hooked his foot around Bob's ankle as Ryan and Brendon came over and sat down. Ryan gave first Spencer and then Bob a long searching look and then nodded slightly, giving his tacit approval. "Jon's going to be a little late. He couldn't get out of work early." Brendon barely let him finish before saying, "Where's Patrick? Is Pete here?" "They're both here," Bob said calmly. He looked at the cup clutched in Brendon's hand and tilted his head toward Spencer and muttered, "I hope that's decaf." Brendon stopped bouncing in his seat. "I heard that." "Don't care." Bob shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, but Spencer caught the quick little smile Bob sent in his direction. He started to say something, but just then Jon came rushing in, saying, "Sorry I'm late." He threw himself in the chair next to Ryan, as Pete came out of the restroom and grinned when he saw them all waiting. "My favorite baby band!" he exclaimed with an expansive gesture. Spencer stiffened until Bob leaned in and breathed against his ear, "Just let it go." And Spencer felt himself start to relax almost immediately. "Are you ready for your show tomorrow?" Pete asked, patting Jon on the shoulder and giving the rest of them a beaming smile. Spencer and the rest of his band made various positive responses, and Bob said, "You know, Pete, you've already heard them play a typical show. You ought to already know if you want to sign them or not. Stringing them along is not cool." "Bob," Pete said repressively and frowned. "You know how these things go. It's not just me. I have to let my A&R guy hear them too." "He never had to hear Patrick." Bob raised an eyebrow in challenge, and Spencer wanted to kiss him. He was kind of hot confronting Pete on Panic's--on Spencer's--behalf. "Patrick is special," Pete said insistently, but the look on his face was soft and dreamy. After a few seconds of mooning, he shook his head and looked down at Ryan. "Don't worry, kids, you'll be fine. It's really just a formality." Ryan's eyes got huge and his mouth fell open like he was afraid to believe it. Brendon threw himself out of his chair and into Pete's arms for a bone-cracking bear hug. Jon grinned like he'd never expected anything else, but Spencer detected the relief in his eyes. It was only when Bob slid an arm around his shoulders and squeezed that Spencer realized he was so busy watching everyone else's reaction that he'd managed to not freak out himself. He turned to grin at Bob just as Bob leaned closer, and then they were kissing. It started out soft and chaste, but quickly went deeper and more involved. The entire world just fell away as Spencer tangled one hand in Bob's hair and gripped his hoodie with the other, holding on tight as if he thought someone was going to rip Bob away from him. "What the hell, Bob?" Patrick's voice cut into the lust-addled haze that had enveloped Spencer's brain just as Bob pulled away and smiled sheepishly at Spencer. "Um, celebrating?" Bob said, as Pete laughed so hard he doubled over trying to catch his breath. Spencer felt his face go hot and knew he was blushing but he couldn't stop smiling either. Patrick stood there for a moment, clutching his guitar to his chest, and finally said, "So you think you could finish that up later? Because I have to go play now and I don't need another floorshow competing for people's attention." "Sure thing, Patrick. Break a leg," Bob said with badly concealed laughter hiding behind every word. As Patrick turned away to take his place in the spotlight, Bob turned to Spencer and whispered in his ear, "We'll definitely finish that later." "Yes, we will," Spencer agreed, curling his hand around Bob's under the table. The end.

George pulled on a clean t-shirt and stepped out of the bedroom. Lee glanced up at him briefly and then went right back to his novel. "I'm going," said George. Lee turned a page. "Mm-hm." George approached and dropped himself down on the couch next to Lee. Lee didn't look up. "Hey," said George. He poked Lee's arm. "Hey, you." He tugged on one of Lee's dreads. Lee frowned and pulled away. "Stop it, George." "Are you upset?" "Nope." George sighed. "You knew about this before we got together." "Yep." "And it's been going on ever since we got together." "Yep." "You sound upset." "I'm not." "So, why won't you look at me?" "Because my book is down here on my lap, isn't it?" George looked from Lee's face to the novel he was reading and back up again. He reached over and slapped a hand down on top of the pages. Lee looked up, irritated, and fixed him with a stony, blank expression. "I thought you had to go." "I do, but I can't leave knowing you're upset with me." "I'm not upset." "Then why does your face look like that?" Lee sighed heavily and yanked his book away from George's hand. He turned down a corner of the page he was on and then shut the book. "I know I agreed to this, but you can't expect me to be jumping for joy every time you head out to... to..." "Shag my brother." Lee scrunched up his nose. "Yes, that." "You said you understood." "I do. I know I can't ask you to stop." "Would you if you could?" "Of course." George lowered his gaze and was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry." "No need to apologise." Lee opened up his book and went back to reading. George looked at him again. "I love you, you know," said George. "I know. I love you too." "You know I'm not asking you to put up with this." Lee didn't answer right away. His chest slowly rose and fell as he took a deep breath and exhaled. Finally he said, "I know. I'm here because I want to be." George didn't know what else to say. "I hate leaving things like this." "George," Lee sighed and looked at George again. "Don't worry about it. I know you love me. I know that what you have with Fred is something I can't compete with and that it doesn't threaten what we have." "Well, if you know that, why are you so upset?" "I'm not upset." "You know what I mean." Lee shook his head. "It's just something I have to feel. There's nothing else for it." "Can you name it? What you feel, I mean." "Name it?" Lee thought for a moment. "Resignation, I suppose." George glanced down again. "George just go. It's fine. I'll see you when you get back." "You know, if you wanted, you could be with someone else," George mumbled. He immediately knew that had been the wrong thing to say when Lee didn't immediately respond. "You want me to be with someone else?" Lee asked flatly. "No, not especially. But, I mean, it's only fair right?" Lee shut his book again. "Let me get this straight: you think me going out and shagging some random stranger is the same as you and Fred?" George flopped back against the backrest. "Here we go." "No, don't you 'here we go' me. You started this conversation." "I'm not saying it's the same thing. I just don't see how I can ask for monogamy when I'm incapable of giving it. I don't expect you to just run out and shag the first person who turns up, I know you better than that. I just think you should have the option if you happen to meet someone." Lee turned his body more towards George. "I don't want to have sex with anyone else. I'm with you for a reason. I put up with... certain things for a reason, George." George looked at him sadly. "It isn't fair, though. It's not fair to you." Lee shrugged. "We make sacrifices for love. That's the way it is. I can't have other lovers just to ease your conscience. That's ridiculous. Not on, mate, not on." With a frown and a final shake of his head at George, Lee settled back, crossed his legs and went back to his book. George watched him quietly. He shimmied closer and snuggled up against him. He kissed Lee's shoulder and laid a hand on his thigh. "I love you," he whispered, moving his kisses up to Lee's neck. "George, what are you doing?" George didn't answer. He kept on kissing Lee's neck and slid his hand up Lee's thigh, over his groin, and then slipped his arm around Lee's middle to pull him closer. "George, what are you doing?" Lee repeated, nudging him away. George finally stopped kissing him and looked at him sadly. "You know the rules," said Lee. "I just don't want to leave feeling so disconnected from you." "We can connect when you get back. Stop worrying. It's not like you're walking out on an argument. There's nothing you can do to fix this." George hung his head. "Fine." He slowly disengaged from Lee and stood. "I'll see you tomorrow." He went to the front door, where he got his shoes on. He glanced back at Lee once more and thought he saw Lee lower his face just at the last second before George laid eyes on him. But Lee didn't look back up. He just kept on reading. George Disapparated. * * * Angelina stepped into the bathroom doorway, leaned against the door jam. Fred, who was hunched over the sink, shut off the water and reached blindly for the face towel on the counter to dry his face. "What are you going to do to him?" asked Angelina. Fred grinned. "You already know. Same as last time, and the time before that, I expect." "I want to hear it again." Fred finally opened his eyes and looked at her with a smile. He straightened up, hung up his towel and stepped up to her. "I've already told you." He kissed her forehead and slipped past her, into the bedroom. She followed. "Please tell me?" she purred, following him to the closet. "I promise I'll be good." "Nooo," said Fred with a chuckle. He pulled off his shirt, tossed it onto the floor behind him, and chose another one from inside the closet. "You always say that. You're never good." "I mean it this time." "You always say that too." She put a hand on her hip. "You should be happy that I like it so much. I could be really upset about it, you know." Fred pulled on his clean shirt and looked at her. "You're right. I am lucky that you're so understanding." "Mm-hm." She stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist. She looked up into his eyes and whispered, "Tell me." Fred grinned and put his arms around her. Staring down into those big, brown, almond-shaped eyes and that pretty face, he couldn't say no. "Well, I'm probably going to kiss him." "Yeah?" "We'll kiss really deeply, lots of tongue, you know." "Mm-hm," she hummed, nuzzling his neck. "And I'll lay him down and touch him all over." "Where? Where will you touch him?" "Well," Fred said matter-of-factly as Angelina's hands wandered down to massage his arse, "I'll probably slowly move my hand down his body and feel him over his jeans to see if he's hard." "Do you think he'll be hard?" "Oh, I think we'll both be hard by that point. I'll rub him a bit and then I'll undo his jeans and stick my hand inside." "Does he feel like you?" she whispered. Fred smiled again; she always asked these kinds of questions. "Yeah. He feels exactly like me." Angelina moaned and began sucking his neck. Fred closed his eyes. "You're making me hard, you know." He felt her smile against his neck. "I know." "Well, you can't have it. It's for George tonight." "Just giving you a little something to remember me by," she purred, moving her hand around to Fred's front, heading straight for his groin. "Whoa, whoa there, woman!" he laughed, pulling away from her. "Nice try." She pouted at him. "Oh, fine. But..." she stepped closer. "Tell me more about how alike you are." "You know how alike we are." She shook her head. "I've never seen it for myself. I've never seen George naked." "We're identical," said Fred indulgently. "Down to the last freckle. Exactly alike." She touched his chest and ran her hands up to grip his shoulders. "It must've been fascinating, growing up together, always having someone to... play with." "It was nice," Fred admitted. She leaned in and gently kissed him. He put his hands on her waist and did his best to keep his crotch from pressing against her. "Who's going to fuck who tonight?" she whispered. "Probably switch. I'll do him, then he'll do me." She hugged him tight for a moment and then pulled back to look at him. "What do you love most about being with him?" This question surprised Fred. "You mean about the sex?" "Not necessarily. Just about being with him in general." "Erm... well, I guess... I just love making him feel good." He shrugged. "Sorry I don't have a sexier answer than that." She shook her head and smiled at him. "No, that was perfect." She kissed him again, harder this time. Her passion was evident and he couldn't resist. He sucked her fat lips and licked inside her mouth, and this time when her hand slipped down to his groin, he didn't stop her. "Tell me," she whispered against his mouth as she gripped his erection. He opened his eyes and found her staring up at him. "What?" he asked. "Is he eager?" she asked as she massaged his cock over his jeans. "Is he eager to be with his twin?" Ah. She was talking about his dick now. "He" meant his dick and "his twin" meant George's. "He" twitched against Angelina's hand. Fred nodded. "Yes." "Are they going to cuddle and rub against each other? Are they going to kiss?" Fred closed his eyes for a moment as she rubbed a bit harder. He swallowed hard. "Yes." She smiled coyly. "Good." She then pulled away from him and went into the bathroom, leaving Fred standing there, rock-hard in his jeans, heart pounding in his ears. "That's it?" he called. "You just walk away and leave me like this?" He pointed to his crotch. She poked her head out. "Sorry, love. You know the rules. George gets you tonight. I'll see you when you get back." She glanced down at his crotch and stifled a giggle. "You might want to cover that up before you leave the house." She pulled her head back inside the bathroom and shut the door. Fred could hear her giggling inside. He shook his head. "Evil woman," he muttered. He grabbed his wand and a set of robes to cover himself with and left the flat. * * * When Fred Apparated into his old flat above the shop, it was dark inside. He lit a few torches and stepped into the empty kitchen where he set the grocery bags down on the counter. He was unloading the things he'd brought for dinner when he froze. Something wasn't right. The flat wasn't empty, even though it seemed to be so. "George?" he called as he stepped toward what would have been the living room area if anyone had still lived there. It was now home to an old pull-out bed and nothing else. It was still unmade from the last time he and George had used it. "Georgie? I know you're here. I can feel you." There was movement inside the dark bathroom; the shadow of a man standing and walking forward. The figure stepped out through the door, into the light. "Knew you were here," said Fred with a smile, approaching George, who stood at the bathroom door looking sullen. Fred embraced him. "What's the matter with you?" George hugged him back. "Nothing." "Well, that's bullshit," Fred said bluntly, pulling back to look at him. "Lee again?" George looked away. Fred sighed. "You know, I don't want to tell you what to do here, but... maybe you two are fighting a losing battle, you know?" George shook his head. "He's chosen to stay with me. He wants to be with me." "Then it's completely unfair of him to keep making you feel like shit, isn't it?" Fred said a bit fiercely. George just shook his head again and pulled away. He headed for the kitchen. "Hey, don't get me wrong, I love the guy," said Fred, following him. "But he's being a bit of a dick." "It's not as simple as all that," said George as he went rooting through Fred's grocery bags. "What'd you buy? Ooh, beer." "I beg to differ," said Fred. "It is that simple. He knew the deal before you got together." "Well, maybe he didn't realise he'd have a problem with it." George opened a couple of beer bottles and handed one to Fred. "Maybe. But now it's bothering him, so he has to decide what to do. He can't keep doing this to you." "He isn't doing anything to me. What's he supposed to do, not tell me how he feels?" "No, but he could tell you from a separate flat where he lives by himself, on his own, without you, couldn't he?" "Oh, Fred, we're not going to break up," George sighed, and then took a long drink. "I hate seeing you like this. I hate coming here every week and finding you all upset." "I'm not upset every week." "You're not? Well, fuck, who've I been sleeping with, then? Because the bloke I've been shagging looks just like me and is a miserable fucking mess every time I see him." George finally managed a smile. "You're an arse, you know that?" "Do you want me to talk to him?" George looked alarmed. "What? No." "What, don't trust me?" "You?" George shook his head. "Not in the slightest, no." "Well, maybe Ange should talk to him, then. She's dealing with the same thing, and amazingly well might I add. Maybe she can talk some sense into him." "That's a terrible idea." Fred frowned. "Why?" "Because, as persuasive as Angelina can be, I can't imagine she'll be able to help. It isn't Lee's mind we're talking about here, it's his heart. And he might feel like we're ganging up on him. And what if it backfires? What if he ends up convincing Ange what an unfair situation this really is for both of them?" Fred cocked his head. "Do you think it's unfair to them?" George sighed. "I don't know. I know Angelina's happy, but... well, she can't ever really have all of you. And Lee can't ever have all of me." Fred considered. "Nobody can ever really have all of another person. There are always parts that are kept hidden, or kept for someone else." "We have all of each other, don't we? We don't hide any 'parts' from each other." "That's different. Besides, at least they know who our parts are with when we leave the house." George snorted. "That's a lovely way to put that." "Thought it was rather clever myself." George put his beer down and leaned back against the counter top. "Maybe they should talk to each other. Lee's got no one to talk to about this except me, and I'm completely useless." "He can talk to me." George smiled warmly at him. He reached out and stroked Fred's cheek. "You're useless too." "Oh, I see." Fred stepped closer, pressed right up against George and held him by his waist. "Well, I'll talk to her tomorrow when I get home, see what she thinks about it." George nodded. "Know what she said to me before I left?" He slid a hand down to cup George's crotch and he whispered, "She asked me if he was eager to come be with his twin." "He?" Fred gently squeezed George's bulge. George smiled. "Oh. Him. And... was he?" Fred let go of George's groin and pressed his own hardening crotch against him. "You tell me." George pressed back and started gently swaying his hips from side to side, rubbing their bodies together. "I think it's safe to say Little Georgie missed Little Freddie too," he whispered, draping his arms around Fred's neck. "Well, then," said Fred, reaching down between them again and tugging at the button of George's jeans, "let's let them be together." George smiled softly at him and reached for Fred's jeans too. They tilted their heads and brought their lips together as they pulled each other's buttons and flies open. Fred heard George moan as he slipped his hand inside George's pants and wrapped his fingers around his warm, familiar length. He felt the shiver of pleasure that ran through George's body as he rubbed up and down from head to base. He could feel the intensity building in his twin and himself, felt it like it was a living thing, and wondered how much of it was George and how much was himself. He couldn't tell where he ended and where George began. George pushed the front of Fred's underwear down a bit, releasing his cock so he could play with it more freely. Fred did the same and felt both their dicks twitch as they gently bumped against each other. "I think they recognise each other," George whispered with a grin. "I'm sure Ange will be happy to hear that." Fred emitted a low chuckle. "I'm sure she will." George's smile diminished quickly. "Wish I could say the same for Lee." "Shh," Fred hushed him, nuzzling his face and taking hold of both their dicks to hold them together. He kissed and cuddled George and gently rubbed their erections together and murmured things that were barely words, things that George understood. George held onto him and murmured back. * * * Angelina opened the door just a crack and peeked out. "Lee?" Lee looked at her sheepishly. "Sorry to bother you so late." "No, it's all right." She opened the door all the way. "You're not here to ravish me while Fred's gone, are you?" Lee smiled and shook his head. "Nah." She stepped aside to let him in. "Definitely gay, then, eh?" He stepped inside. "Yeah. Though if I wasn't, I might be seriously considering that whole ravishing thing you mentioned." Angelina closed the door. "Can I safely assume you're not here for my scintillating conversation?" Lee tapped his nose and winked at her to indicate she was right. "Not that you're not scintillating, of course." She nodded sagely. "Come in, then. Can I get you something? I was just having some wine." "Nah, I'm okay." Angelina led him into the dim flat, into the small, lamp-lit living room, where she curled up in the armchair she'd been sitting in and retrieved her glass of red wine from the floor next to it. Lee sat across from her, on the opposite side of the coffee table, and looked at her quizzically. "How do you do it?" he asked. "Do what?" "Sit here sipping wine while your man is off fucking someone else." Angelina nodded. "Ah. I thought that might be why you turned up." "I suppose Fred's told you everything, then," Lee said bitterly. "He tells me some things. Not everything. It's none of my business, really." "So, I guess I don't have to tell you that I hate this with every fibre of my being." "No, that won't be necessary. And to answer your question... I dunno, it just doesn't bother me." "How can that be? You love him, don't you?" "Yeah, 'course. He's the love of my life. Don't tell him that, though. His head's big enough as it is." "But if that's true then this should be eating away at you." "Not necessarily. It's all about acceptance. There are certain things that can't be changed." "You don't think they could stop seeing each other if they really wanted to?" She raised her eyebrows at him. "Do you really want that?" "I don't mean stop seeing each other completely. I mean stop sleeping together." Angelina thought for a moment. She finally replied, "No, I don't think they could." "Well, that's rubbish!" Lee snapped. "They're not animals, of course they can stop." "Well, perhaps. But that's not what I meant. When I said there are things that can't be changed, I didn't mean the actual physical shagging." "What'd you mean, then?" "I meant simply that Fred might be the love of my life, but I'll never be the love of his." She shrugged nonchalantly. "Simple as that." * * * George put Fred's legs on his shoulders and continued thrusting, faster, harder. George leaned down over, forcing Fred to spread open even more, making him moan plaintively. "Fuck, Georgie," Fred whispered. He looked like he was in pain; his pale eyebrows knit together more and more the harder George fucked him and his moans became more urgent. George understood Fred's noises. They didn't even have to speak when they did this together. They grunted and moaned and sighed and even yelped, and were understood even more accurately than if they spoke actual words. "Ugh, ugh-uhg-huh-huh-huh..." is what came out of Fred's mouth next. That coupled with the way he was angling his hips told George that Fred wanted more pressure on his prostate. George angled himself accordingly and was rewarded by a long sigh/moan that slowly escaped Fred's throat like air from a balloon. Fred pushed his head back into the mattress, arching his neck. George couldn't resist this and had to take a moment to take Fred's legs off his shoulders so he could lie on top of Fred, pressing their sweaty chests together, and bury his face in Fred's inviting neck. "Ohhh," Fred moaned as George sucked his neck. Their bodies were moving in unison now, Fred pushing up to meet George's thrusts. George couldn't stop himself from quivering just a bit; he was on the verge of climax and he knew Fred could tell. Fred always matched George's rhythm when George was about to come. George couldn't keep quiet now. His voice rose in wordless ecstasy with his twin's. "Georgie... ugh!" George knew what that meant. He could feel Fred "trying" even harder, could feel him start to quiver; he was going to come as well. George took his lips off Fred's neck and looked down at him. Fred's eyes were closed and even the cessation of the sucking at his neck didn't make him open them. He was concentrating, because coming without friction on his dick was a delicate, tricky affair. But George knew how to help him along; George fucked him faster, making sure he was rubbing right up against Fred's prostate. He fucked his own orgasm right out of himself, finally erupting inside Fred's body, shuddering and losing control. And he knew Fred could feel it. He could see it on Fred's face, the way his eyelids fluttered, the way he breathed harder, more erratically, and he could feel Fred's nails digging into his back. All of this happened as George's orgasm built and then finally exploded. George could feel Fred's climax too. George's pleasure was increased tenfold as his twin began to come. George thought he might've cried out actual words at some point, but he couldn't remember, his brain was all foggy, he couldn't think straight. He could hear his twin's incoherent yells of pleasure mixing with his own. He felt the ripple of his own orgasm juxtaposed with Fred's, each wave moving in time and yet alternating, two separate but combined arcs of pure pleasure, so sharp, so hard that George felt he might break apart. It was always like this; the intensity, the almost blinding, stinging, almost painful pleasure, it was always like this with Fred. When it reached its peak, George wondered how their bodies could possibly contain it all. They came down in unison and George went limp on top of Fred. * * * "Lee, you've been staring this in the face for half your life," said Angelina sensibly. "You ought to be used to it by now." "He's my boyfriend now. It's different now." She shook her head at him and sighed with envy. "The things you must've seen." He smirked. "What, you think they used to let me watch or something?" She laughed. "Have they never let you join them?" Lee snorted. He knew she was joking. "Oh, yeah. Every week. Hot threesome action. You shoulda snapped me up while I was still sexually confused; I've gotten tons of experience thanks to them." She snorted and laughed harder, almost slopping wine over the side of her glass. "Well, I think them sleeping together means that we've probably fucked by proxy or something." Lee smiled at that, but then lowered his gaze and went quiet. Angelina watched him with concern. "What are you going to do, Lee?" she finally asked. "You can't keep this up. It isn't fair to you. Or him." Lee considered for a moment, then looked up at her and asked, "Just tell me one thing: how can you possibly be okay with not being the love of his life? How can you be with him when he comes home after being with George? How can you act naturally? How can you just continue your life like normal?" Angelina exhaled heavily. "Well, for starters, that's at least three things, not one." Lee smiled. "Sorry." "It's okay. It's like I've said, it just doesn't bother me. I know Fred loves me." "But it doesn't make any sense! If they want to be together, why are they even bothering with us at all?" "Because, it's not like a normal relationship with them. They're... well, they're brothers. They've always had sex, but it's not like they're dating or something." "That's what we're for." Angelina nodded. "And that doesn't bother you?" "Accept what you can't change," she said simply. "Oh, fuck that!" Lee snapped. He crossed his arms and stared off at nothing. "It would be unfair of us to ask them to stop doing something they've always done." "I refuse to feel guilty about the way I feel. In a relationship, you make sacrifices, and from what I can see, it's you and me making all the sacrifices while they have their cake and eat it too." "Perhaps. But I can't ask Fred to give up what he has with his twin. His twin. And besides... don't you think it's a little bit... sexy?" He slowly looked around at her. "Sexy?" "Yeah," she said sheepishly, unable to keep the little grin off her face. "The two of them together, I mean." Lee hesitated. "Well..." "Oh, come on! You can't tell me you hadn't thought about it." "Thought about what exactly?" "Watching them." Lee rolled his eyes. "Well, I guess I had, yeah, but that was before I started dating George." "Not now, then?" "No." "Not at all? Not even a tiny bit?" "Nope." Angelina watched him sceptically. "You don't think it would be hot to watch the two of them – brothers, twins, mirror images – touch each other and kiss and –" Lee shook his head and interrupted her. "It's not that I don't understand why it's hot. Of course I get it. But it's George. He's supposed to be mine. I can't think of him any other way now." "Lee. He loves you. And Fred loves me. He and I have a great life together, and I know you and George do." "Yeah," Lee admitted quietly. "Could be better, though. Don't you think?" Angelina sighed as she considered. "I think it could be… different. Not necessarily better. We aren't meant to get everything we need from one person. Human beings don't work like that, though for some reason we think we're supposed to." "I'm not looking for everything. Just... just..." "The fairytale?" Angelina suggested. "No," Lee said immediately. "No, that's not what I'm after. It's perfectly reasonable to expect your significant other to not sleep with other people. That's not a fairytale, that's just common sense. You just don't think you deserve it, Ange. That's what your problem is." Angelina's eyebrows went up and she laughed. "Oh, so now we're telling each other what each other's problems are?" "You've been doing it since I walked in the door," Lee said calmly. Angelina shook her head. "Well... I've no idea what to say to that." "You think I'm weak because I can't handle this." "No, I don't." "Yeah, you do." Lee stood and muttered, "I should go." "Oh, come on now." She stood as well and followed him to the door. "Don't be like that. I thought you wanted my opinion." Lee stopped at the door, hand on the doorknob, and turned back to her. After a moment's thought, he said, "I wanted you to say something to make me feel better. I think. I wanted you to either agree with me or say something that might convince me I was crazy." "And I didn't do either?" "I'm sure you tried, but no. You showed me what you really think. You think that I'm not as strong as you are." "Lee, please –" "You think that about everyone, you always have. Tough-as-nails Angie, nothing ever gets to her, never lets emotions get in her way. Well, call me crazy, but I think you can feel this. What's happening here, I think you feel it. Every time he leaves to go and be with George, whenever they're together in that little bubble that we can never get inside, I think you feel it. The loss. That little piece of him that you can never really touch. It's like a pea under your mattress, innit?" Angelina frowned. "What?" Lee frowned and shook his head. "Never mind. Muggle reference." "Lee, I think you're overreacting." "And I think you're underreacting! What is wrong with you? Your man is fucking someone else! Wake up, Ange! You don't think they're eventually going to realise that they can just be with each other?" Angelina stubbornly shook her head. "Their relationship isn't like that –" "No, it isn't like that. It's closer. It's more intense. And nothing you and I can ever do for them will ever come anywhere close to what they do for each other." Lee shook his head at her sadly and softly said, "It doesn't make you weak to admit when something hurts you. What makes you weak is being too afraid to admit it." At that, Lee turned, opened the door and left. Angelina stood there blinking at the door as it slowly swung shut. * * * When Fred Apparated into his flat the following morning, all was quiet. The sun was just rising and starting to fill the flat with soft light. He was about to tip-toe into the bedroom when he saw something in the living room that didn't belong there at this early hour. The top of Angelina's head was just visible over the back of the armchair. As he approached, more of her came into view and he saw that she was slumped down in the chair, apparently asleep, with her feet up on the coffee table, a blanket laid over her legs. Fred smirked. "And you bite my head off every time I do that," he muttered, looking at her feet. "Because every time you do it, you're normally wearing socks that could rest on the coffee table all on their own," she said, making Fred jump. She slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Good morning." "Morning." He perched on the armrest of the chair and stroked her hair. "Did you sleep out here?" "Yes," she said with a groan as she sat up a bit. "And I'm paying for it now." She grimaced, rubbed at the back of her neck and rolled her shoulders. "Aw, I can take care of that for you. Come on in to bed and I'll rub your back." "No, I'm fine. Listen, Fred, we need to talk." "Uh-oh. Those words never precede anything good. Well, just let me change and get some food in me and then we can talk about whatever horrible thing I've done now, okay, love?" He hunched over and kissed her head. He then stood and headed for the bedroom. "No, I think we need to talk right now." Fred stopped and turned back. Angelina had stood and was watching him with a serious look on her face that made his stomach drop. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly. She sighed and looked down for a moment. "Fred... sit down." He frowned. "No, I'm fine standing, thanks." Angelina nodded. "Very well. Fred, I need to ask you something and you need to answer me honestly." "Okay." She searched his eyes for a moment and then finally asked, "Are you in love with George?" He blinked at her, confused. "What? No, it's... it's not like that." "But you need to have sex with him." Fred crossed his arms, turned partially away from her and nodded. She cocked her head. "Why?" "Where's all this coming from? You were fine last night." "I've been thinking." She stepped toward him, went and stood before him. "I need to understand why." "You've never asked before. I thought you did understand." "Yeah, so did I. I was wrong." "So it's begun bothering you in the last twelve hours?" She nodded. "Explain it to me, Fred." She reached out with both hands, gently unfolded his arms and took both his hands in hers. "I need to know why." * * * George found Lee curled up and sleeping in their bed. He quietly disrobed and crawled in behind him. He cuddled up to him, sighing with pleasure as his naked body came into contact with Lee's warm and also naked form. Lee stirred and grumbled. "George?" "Yeah, it's me," George whispered. "Go back to sleep." Lee turned over in George's arms to face him. He looked at George sleepily. "Just get in?" "Yeah. I didn't mean to wake you. I just needed to feel you." George cuddled him more, burying his face in Lee's neck and nuzzling. Lee smiled and extended his neck for George. "You did?" "Mm-hm. Dear Merlin, you smell good." Lee smiled even more and embraced George. "Well, I missed you too. Been thinking a lot since yesterday." George tensed up a bit. "Oh?" "Yeah. George? I want you to tell me... about you and Fred." George pulled back to look at him. "What do you mean?" "I want you to explain to me what it's like. I mean, it can't just be sex, can it?" "Well... no, it isn't just sex." George frowned. "I thought you didn't want to hear about it." "Had a change of heart. I want to understand." George stared at him warily. "But it bothers you." "A little, yeah." "A little?" Lee couldn't help but smile. "Well... perhaps I've been overreacting." "No, Lee, don't say that. It's perfectly reasonable that you'd be uneasy about it." Lee shook his head. "He's your twin. There's a part of you that's just for him. There's nothing I can do about that, and it's unfair of me to want to, so..." He took a deep breath. "I know you love me. I know it. I feel it. And I don't want you to have to hide anything from me, especially not something as beautiful as your relationship with Fred, so I'm just curious... what's it like for you and Fred when you're together? Help me understand." George hesitated. He swallowed hard and wondered what to say next. Was Lee really looking for the truth here? George was doubtful, but he decided to trust Lee. He licked his lips, took a breath and replied, "It's incredible." Lee nodded and looked down for a moment. George's stomach filled with nerves and he waited for the hurt to become evident on Lee's face, but it never did. Lee met his eyes again and he looked neither hurt, nor like he was trying to hide that he was hurt. "Tell me," Lee said softly. "How is it incredible?" George hesitated again. "It's like... coming home. In a different way than with you." Lee blinked at him in surprise. "Being with me is like coming home to you?" "Well, yeah, of course. You've been my best mate forever and being your... boyfriend, partner, significant other, whatever-you-wanna-call-it is... well, it's just icing on the cake, innit?" Lee stared at him for a moment in silence. George wondered what he was thinking; he couldn't tell from Lee's face. But then Lee moved in and kissed him, cupped his face and nestled his bottom lip between both of George's. George held onto him tighter, his cock waking up and stiffening as the kiss grew deeper. Lee finally released George's mouth and looked at him with a sleepy, loving gaze as he stroked George's face. He then shifted, nudging George onto his back and then settling against him, his head on his chest. "Tell me," whispered Lee. "Tell me what it's like with Fred." Lee wasn't angry and he wasn't hurt. He was... okay. George could hardly believe it. "Did something happen last night?" asked George. "You're different." Lee sighed. "I had a chat with Angelina." George's eyebrows went up. "Oh?" "Yeah. I guess I just needed to vent. I took some time and I thought about her words. She has a point; it's different for you and Fred. And I want to know how." George wanted to ask what exactly was said, but figured he could do that later. "Well... do you have specific questions?" "Yes. Are you the top or the bottom?" George had to laugh. "We switch, actually." "Which do you prefer?" "Um, the top, I guess." Now it was Lee's turn to chuckle. "Yeah, that sounds like you." George laughed again and kissed Lee's forehead. "Okay. So, what else would you like to know?" END

1966 - Paris "Hurry up, Maddy! They'll be here in a minute!" The door handle was scraping her thigh and she just had to reach a little further . . . Fortunately, she had practiced and could match the wires in the dark. In thirty seconds, she had it and the car roared to life. She folded her legs inside when Geoff let her ankles go. In a few years, she'd be too big to fit through the half-opened window they'd seen as they were heading home just before dark. In a few years, she thought. She opened the passenger door so the older sixteen-year-old Geoff could get in. She was balanced on the edge of the seat so she could reach the pedals. No way was she letting him drive when she'd done the hard part. She laughed as she pushed the gas pedal. In a few years she'd need more of a challenge. 2001 – A private island in the South Pacific "Don't move." She was glad to see he still listened to her without question. The three surgeries made her cautious and she certainly didn't want him to undo the fine work of those doctors now. It had been difficult to obtain and conceal their work. Though with enough money anyone could be bought. She saw Paul struggle for a moment for control of the situation before he relaxed, smiling. "You're a dream," he said. "It's still good to see you anyway. I'd forgotten how beautiful you were." She smiled back and took his hand. "It's not a dream." A look of slight confusion crossed his face and he tried to sit up, grimacing. She pushed his shoulders back down on the bed. "They . . . shot me . . . took the boy." "They did," she said in a quiet voice. "But I had been following them. I hadn't expected you to go yourself." "Why can't I sit up?" He sounded irritated which only made her smile more. She had missed him. "Because you took two gunshot wounds to the chest. It was nearly fatal." "Nearly?" She could see Paul's determined personality shoot through the morphine. "So you saved my life," he continued. "Again." "Yes." "But you committed suicide. Didn't you? And you wonder why I went myself. You left me. I was becoming Jones and Nikita's errand boy. What was left?" He snatched his hand from hers and was starting to speak as if she wasn't a dream and he wasn't happy about it. He even managed to pull away and she watched all the tubes to make sure they didn't get pulled out. She was glad he was angry. His will to live had always been strong. Anger would help. "Things change. We can wait." "Wait? For what?" "For you to recover. You were in a coma for a long time following heart surgery. But in time you'll be as strong as ever." "You must really be Madeline. No one else would be this certain. Strong? For what?" he snapped. "To take back all of the Sections." Paul tried to ask more questions but she could see his fatigue and adjusted his medications so that he could rest. Sixteen months in a coma should be rest enough but she trusted the doctors enough to follow their advice. Patience. It had gotten her this far. She had to let it take her the rest of the way. Madeline drew the curtains and went to her office. The wind blew ferociously outside but with the soundproof walls and bullet-proof windows one couldn't hear it. It was the rainy season in the South Pacific. Even on a private island, one couldn't escape weather patterns. She and Paul were still several years away from their goals. The doctors had said it would be at least two years of intense physical therapy before Paul would be able return to anything resembling his former strength. And it would be years yet before the Section was ready for them. 1977 – Section One Madeline was glad she'd started shoplifting in high heels at the age of twelve. It had been a challenge for her in a way that the hotwiring cars with her older friends the year before hadn't been. There were two keys to shoplifting. One was that you had to wear the right heels. Ones that could draw the shopkeepers' eyes to your legs—hers were far too long and shapely now to shimmy through car windows—in fishnet stockings and not to what your hands were doing. The second key? To wear heels that you could run easily in should the distraction fail which it rarely did. Still, it was prudent to always have a Plan B. As she walked into Section now, she could see that distraction still worked even ten years later. And she wasn't that tired with her feet ensconced in fine Italian leather, even though this mission had taken thirty-six hours and she had only sat down once. Madeline had always had the ability to divorce herself from physical discomfort but it was nice not to have to for a change. Today she wanted her entrance to attract the attention of only two people. Not Walter, fresh from a long-term Valentine op himself, yet still able to appraise her appearance from across the room. No. First Paul. She could already feel his eyes on her. He was in his office. She could even feel his recruit's rapt attention on Paul, but yes, he was watching her. Looking at her with relief, just a moment of it, before he turned back to the young man he was working with. He had known she would succeed but there was always that relief anyway. Madeline hid a smile. Good. She ignored the answering feeling her own body gave in response to him. This was not the time. She felt the eyes of the other person from high in the glass-enclosed structure overlooking the entire building called the Perch. Adrian. George was there too and she could feel his cool eyes too. No matter how high Madeline's success rate was she knew George had wished her dead on more than one occasion. Adrian and George. Adrian didn't want her dead, Madeline suspected. Adrian simply didn't care. She cared about the organization that she had created far more than she cared about the fate of any single operative. So far Madeline's successes had been the Section's successes. And as long as Madeline performed well she would stay in Adrian's good graces. She approached the outside of the Perch and waited. The office had no door but they always knew when she was there. Sure enough, Adrian soon approached her with not a hair out of place. Her smile looked genuine but Madeline knew better than to trust it. George looked petulant. Madeline considered Adrian's shoes, automatically calculating their cost and manufacturing location while she waited. "You've brought him in," Adrian was saying. "Think he'll break?" Madeline paused. They knew what she thought or she wouldn't have brought him in. The silence stretched out. "Every lock can be opened," Madeline finally replied. "It's just a matter of finding the right key." George and Adrian exchanged a glance. "We've decided that you should be the one to question him. Alone," Adrian added. Madeline remained perfectly still. It would be her first interrogation unsupervised, having only recently moved into that department. Whatever physical exhaustion she had even slightly felt was replaced by excitement. She had trained six years for this. She nodded. "He's in the white room." 1982 – Section One "You could have jeopardized the entire mission." Madeline waited before responding to Adrian. It wouldn't do to show how bored she had become with these recent discussions of her performance after missions. Their increased frequency combined with her duties in the white room was designed to wear her out, her continued proficiency now a threat to them. It wouldn't work. "Everything went perfectly," she said in a careful, soft voice. She refused to be even remotely apologetic. "We secured the target." "Fifty-eight people are dead. Mission parameters were twenty-six," Adrian replied as if that constituted failure. Madeline was silent. She and Adrian stared at one another until Paul interrupted. "Decision on site fell to me as mission leader. I gave the order." Madeline's eyes flashed to his and she bristled. "This was an important target," George interceded. "Certain decisions had to be . . . made. Paul, next time try to minimize the collateral damage. If we draw too much attention to ourselves . . ." His voice trailed off in warning. Paul bowed his head slightly but kept the sardonic grin on his face. He and Madeline walked across the conference area where another mission was briefing. Madeline went straight to munitions. "It couldn't be helped," Paul said. She kept walking and he followed. "They know you didn't . . ." Madeline just stared at him. She didn't know what he wanted her to say. She had been right. She knew it. And Adrian and George knew it. In time . . . She sighed and turned her weapons into Walter without a word. She paused as she heard Paul sigh behind her. "See ya round," he said as if they wouldn't be called into a mission probably the very next day. It was Adrian's plan to exhaust Madeline by increasing her mission frequency and debriefing her personally for several hours afterward. It wouldn't work. She had worked hard all her life, often juggling several tasks just to keep her mind occupied. This mission had actually been easy once the decision had been made to shoot. Forty-five minutes later she pushed the button that put the surveillance camera in her car on a delayed loop. The camera had no sound so it was safe to speak. "See me around indeed," she said next as Paul became visible in her rearview mirror. They were parked in her driveway but she had known he had been back there since she had gotten in, his presence unmistakable. She had been trying to ignore her body humming with triumph from the mission, veins still flowing with adrenaline, despite earlier criticisms. And she was still angry at Paul. Or more at Adrian and that added to the adrenaline too. She could go inside like this but she had known that phrase he'd parted with. It usually meant he'd find her somewhere. "We have twelve minutes." He was on her before the words left her mouth, pulling her toward him on the back seat, and she straddled him between her, her knees sinking into the soft leather seats. He eased her skirt up and her pantyhose down. She could felt her own heat and his desire for her coming off him in waves. It was interesting how the body needed to do this. She knew when she was older she wouldn't have to. All right . . . wouldn't need to. Her body would adjust and she wouldn't always be so attuned to him. Even now he barely reached her. Oh yes, his mouth and hands were in the right places, stroking . . . but she felt so far away from it. She was thinking about Kragujevac. Section should put another deep cover operative there. In a few years . . . He was inside her now. Paul wasn't one to waste time and it had been four minutes. Six now. She felt her body's delayed response at his stroking and willed herself to let go. One needed to let go sometimes. It was good for the body and for the brain. Her breath caught. Yes. Yes, Paul knew the right spot and she sighed as he twisted within her, meeting her eyes. His were crystal blue even in the darkness. Almost lost now, almost lost in her. She closed hers. She needed to concentrate. He was different than other men, almost there, almost with her and then she was ahead of him, mentally if not physically. He liked that. That she was always two steps ahead, thinking in ways he that didn't. It kept him excited and was part of the chase, she supposed. Not for her. Paul was ruthless and had eager ambition that matched hers. She'd kept her intentions hidden but they both knew he would be her partner en route to the Perch, leaving the field, and heading the Section one day. Or co-heading, rather. These encounters only reinforced that partnership, she told herself. He seemed more desperate now and thrust up deep as she sank lower. He was good at this and knew her well. Soon she'd be there and this wouldn't be a waste of time. Soon, she thought as she dug her nails into his back, feeling the fabric of his shirt rip and hearing his growl of pleasure. It surprised her how fast climax was approaching, inevitable now. Her brain left Kragujevac and thought about Adrian and their plans. It wouldn't always be like this, she thought. Orgasm crept ever nearer, her breath coming faster now. She felt almost outside of it, cataloguing it all. The sweat under her breasts, his teeth on her nipple just so through her blouse, and how she brought herself down almost angrily upon him despite the cramp in her leg, despite his sudden groan and spasm. She was there moments later. Ten seconds. Ten seconds of whitehot burn, it held long, maybe twenty seconds. It was still going and she let herself go into the pleasure, let herself have the luxury of one long drawn-out sigh. Twenty seconds of not thinking, not hearing, just pure feeling, until she came down heavily and leaned back, neck arched, breath stolen, and her mind abruptly hers again. So brief but so . . . efficient. Yes, those twenty seconds meant more to her than they should. Meant more than he did to her actually. The relief of not thinking. Gone now, she thought as she climbed off, tore the remnants of her hose off and stuffed it in her purse. Then she slipped her bare feet into her shoes. The camera would be back up in two minutes. Paul leaned up and kissed her cheek almost chastely. She smiled again. Irony was good on him. "Sleep well," he whispered as she climbed back to the front seat. She almost laughed. She was half-asleep already and thought that would make a good ruse. She would look sleepy and they would think that she'd taken a catnap in her car, too tired to even go into the house. It wasn't even entirely untrue. "I will," she said back. She thought about cautioning him not to get caught but he was out the door and well out of sight before the clock marked the twelfth minute. Then she lifted her head from the steering wheel and noted that she looked properly foggy and tired in the rearview window. She opened the car door and locked it before walking to her doorstep. She slept for a straight eighteen hours before the phone rang and she automatically picked it up, knowing that she'd hear her codename calling her in. "Anaïs." 1985 – Section One She nodded and watched Jorka as Brooks turned up the dial. The woman stared straight ahead as the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Madeline nodded again. Jorka was leaned over. She focused straight ahead at the sound of Madeline's voice. "The location of the base." There was silence. Madeline nodded calmly as Green turned her dial. Jorka jerked in her seat, her body like a rag doll. By the time Madeline nodded again Jorka was shivering. "Your body won't last with this all day." Madeline watched her. Sometimes this was tedious because the outcome was usually the same. But something about the girl rang a faint memory. And she wasn't screaming yet. That was something. Because they all did scream in the end whether they gave up information or not. The girl looked up at Madeline from where she was secured in the metal chair. Bright hatred shown in her brown eyes. But something else. A distance. Interesting. "Perhaps we should try a different tack." Madeline knew that look. She had seen it in her own eyes often enough. This girl wasn't going to break. At least not with torture. Or at least not with own. 1982 – Singapore Madeline woke up. She didn't move a muscle. She slowly took a deep breath. In and out. That rib was still healing. The others were only bruised. Probably some costal cartilage. She thought of her plants in her office. The bonsai could go three more days without water. The orchids could go longer . . . she breathed. The pain was moderate. That was better. Yesterday it had been more acute. She took her time getting herself to a seated position. She had on a clean nightgown this time. Must be morning. He always changed her clothes in the morning. It was hard to tell in this room, with just the bed, bureau, and no windows. But her older injuries ached less. She tried to stand and the pain in her ankle brought her up short, forcing her to sit back on the bed. The ankle fracture should take six weeks to heal. But this felt like it wasn't mending properly from the outset. They would have to break it and reset it later. At least her wrist was just a sprain. The cut on her lip was fresh but had stopped bleeding. Today must be Thursday. One week. She forced herself to stand and hobble to the bathroom. She thought of the day's schedule on the way there. A tray with food had already been laid out but she ignored it for now. Just using the toilet was enough to use the little energy at her disposal. Besides he'd be in for her soon. It was best to be ready. Sure enough minutes later—Madeline calculated exactly sixteen minutes by counting off sixty-second intervals in her head—he arrived. "Hello, my darling." He was dressed in an expensive suit. Armani. If one didn't know what he was he might be almost attractive. Until you looked into his eyes. "Hello," she said back. He leaned over to kiss her in the bed and she sat still. Any flinching or unexpected moves could set him off. And her injuries were improving. There were two missions due out in the next two weeks and she fully expected to be back at Section—albeit on crutches—to see them through. "Ah, cherie," he touched her eye with experienced fingers. "You're healing." She stared back at him. "You are a most exquisite find. Not many have such a capacity for pain as you do. It is your most special gift." She just looked at him. Then slowly she smiled. It wasn't her only gift but he didn't have to know that. He reached for her throat then, lightning quick. "I paid you a compliment. Say thank you." "Thank you," she said immediately. Her tone wasn't docile but it was civil. He looked at her for a long moment before releasing his fingers. She decided to count the small tiles on the floor again while she waited. "Section One was very unwise to give you up." Again Madeline didn't say anything. It didn't matter. He didn't want information from her. That much had been clear. He left the room briefly and she waited again. He was quite unpredictable at times. She slowly half-hopped to the mirror. Her face was indeed a variety of colors and bruises. No permanent damage, however. When the door opened again he seemed pleased to see her standing. "I want you to wear this tonight," he said tossing her a black sheath dress. She looked at it and glanced up with a puzzled look on her face. "There are a few friends I'd like you to meet." And with that he left the room again. Day seven, she thought while examining the dress. It was well-cut and well-made. There wasn't a bra or any undergarments. And what for? She would have little need for them. It would be awkward with the ankle but she'd manage it. His friends. It was about time. Later, much later, Madeline was left alone again in the dark room. The tracer had been placed and the message sent. Three more days. No more bones had been broken and her body would repair itself in time. The broken rib would take a good two months to heal if she was careful. She would have to be careful. Section had little use for Level 5 operatives with permanent disabilities. At least not in the field. The bruises on her face and throat would fade in a couple of weeks as well. She slowly got herself out of the dress and pulled a clean gown over her head. Then she lay back. She was sore but that was to be expected. Everything had gone according to plan. The subject trusted her. Now she just had to make sure he didn't damage her further before Paul arrived. She was growing impatient, having figured out his tactics well before she had ever met him. He did have that slight unpredictability. A four percent chance for error. But so far everything had gone according to plan. They had been planning this operation for months. Day 10. That last session with the wires had been unfortunate. She had let down her guard. Her spine still buzzed but it didn't hurt. Not anymore. Not when you had already profiled four future missions in your head and were working on a fifth. That vertebra would take a long time to heal. She didn't feel it now but she would certainly feel it later. She would have to feel it in order to not re-injure it. Pain was a message but it was not one she needed now. Three hours and the team would be here. The subject had flown into a rage when she simply hadn't spoken back to him fast enough. It had been a miscalculation on her part. Sore inside and out, Madeline reviewed the lesson. Never underestimate the will of a subject. 1985 – Section One Tears ran down Jorka's face. Madeline was impassive. And a bit disappointed. The girl had seemed so strong. She had reminded Madeline of herself. And that only happened .08% of the time. But when the burning flesh was not hers, when her companion had started shrieking, begging, the game had been won. "So the location." Madeline could afford to be patient now. The girl had the nerve to smile. "It's been 48 hours. They'll have moved it." Madeline stared her down. Less patient. "I'm not asking." Jorka bowed her head and begun to speak. So much had changed in twenty years. One of the old Red Cell operatives in Jorka's place? Would have choked on her own tongue as her companion sizzled. Every year the percentages lowered. She would have to continue to factor that into her most recent profiles. She also had to update the training procedures for this new device she'd created based on the cruder one that had been used on her years before. Even though she and the Section had created it, it was best to prepare the operatives to have it used against them. She wondered idly which of their current operatives could last ten days as Jorka began to shriek at last. They had destroyed the base hours ago. But the device had worked on its test subject well. 1982 – Madeline's office, five weeks later "You can talk about it, you know. With me." Madeline looked up from her desk in surprise. There was still so much to do. They were still going ahead with their plans and there was much to plan. Santino mission for example. There was a 98% chance of success. She had to find a way to make it 99%. There was no room for error. Not now when they were so close. She realized Paul was waiting. "I was debriefed weeks ago," she began. "There's nothing more to say." "Madeline—" "Paul." Her tone was cool. "You have a mission in ninety minutes. I need to get these specs up." The last sentence was said gently but with purpose. This was not a time for him to get sentimental. "It's okay to rest. To let your body heal." She smiled at him mostly because he needed to see that she wasn't really angry with him. And he was trying to be kind. "I will," she conceded. "After Santino." Paul smiled back and walked to the conference table. She didn't know why he worried. Her ankle was healing well after being reset and she was sure she could improve this mission's chances. It was just a question of how. She thought on it a bit more. Paul's feelings for her had always been an asset. They were a good team. But maybe those feelings were becoming a liability. She would have to think more on that. But after this mission. 1982 – London, Paul's apartment "Don't you want me anymore?" "Playing the coquette doesn't become you, Madeline." He was sardonic so she dropped the act. Apparently a needy damsel wasn't what he wanted in his bed. "You had no problem with it an hour ago," she threw back, getting up and putting on a robe. "Or it was better when you thought you were my white knight?" She paused. "I had a job, Paul. I did it." They both dressed in silence. Nothing has really changed. The sex was still good. This didn't surprise her but it had obviously surprised him. She could tell he had expected to find her broken. She stood up and went to straighten his tie. These days the talks after sex seemed to bond them together more than the sex itself. It made her reconsider why they were sleeping together at all, beyond their immediate needs. "You're colder," he said looking down at her. It was an honest comment, not a judgment she could tell. "No. Just more myself. We are so close, Paul." "I'm not backing out. I was just concerned about you." "Well, don't be." 1995 – Section One Madeline watched the unconscious girl behind the two-way glass. "She'll never make it," Paul said. Madeline looked closely at the girl's face. Her beauty was striking. "She has been on the streets too long," he added. He meant the young woman's manners and her behaviors. That could be changed. Madeline knew that herself. She smiled a little remembering the feel of Geoff's hands around her ankles as a little girl. She had grown up with every advantage money could provide but she had still been wild once. The Section had a way of taking the wildness out of one. Channeling it into focus. This girl had promise if they handled her the right way. Madeline considered the young woman again. She was young, restless. Wounded too. She'd want a mother. Yes, that was it. She wasn't young so much in age but in mind. "She has potential," Madeline said. Paul looked at her and smiled. He trusted her because she was nearly always right. "Who?" He asked. "Michael. He has a way with the vulnerable ones." Paul shrugged in response. "I say she doesn't make it through her first mission. She's weak." Madeline smiled back. "We'll see." 2010 – A private island in the South Pacific Madeline poured theme both glasses of pink grapefruit juice and she glanced at her laptop for the morning reports. Paul was looking out on the ocean high where their mansion was located. It was like their own private Perch and the sea was their temporary Section One. She had built it that way. The landscape beneath them was wet from the season and everything was lush and green. "Nikita runs Oversight and Section One is one her special projects. She'll never let us back in." "Nikita never wanted us dead." Madeline replied before taking a sip of her coffee. She had always known the woman better than Paul. Paul just didn't like her. "I'm sure she hasn't grieved us much either." Madeline smiled. Same Paul. She could never do this without him. "Why did you do it?" He asked in a different tone. Inquisitive. Cautious. She waited. "The capsule." Ah, yes. All these years and he never asked before now. "I wanted out on my terms." "Even by nearly dying?" "The drug did its job." "You didn't want to work under her or anyone. Just like Adrian." "We were good at what we did." "It's been nine years, Madeline. Even we, at our best, would never allow this. Never allow anyone to return." "I've contacted the heads of Sections Two, Five, and Seven. Section One has only weakened in our absence. Now everything is in place should she fight it. I suppose the only question is—do you want it?" Her words were quiet but she made sure he heard the steel in them. She really did not want to do this without him. "With you?" He asked, turning to look at her from the railing. She instinctively knew what he meant. He meant at his side, not in his bed. Their partnership had always been more important that romance. Madeline smiled more genuinely. They had always been on the same page from the start. "Of course," she replied. "It would be my greatest pleasure." He grinned and leaned with easy grace back over the railing. Madeline so enjoyed his presence and renewed vitality. Patience had brought him back to her. It would bring the Section back to her as well. 2010 – Nikita's apartment Madeline was sipping tea again. She marveled at Nikita's cool at finding Madeline in her apartment. She had just sat down to drink tea too. The once wild girl had been replaced with a woman of implacable calm. "You never wanted this," Madeline continued. "You've only stayed because there was no one else. Because you wanted change and out of some misguided sense of loyalty to your father." Nikita set down her cup, poised as ever. She crossed her legs and waited a few beats. Then she smiled slightly. She said nothing. Seemingly she had all the cards and Madeline admired the woman's confidence in her position. "You would have kept me alive." Madeline recalled their last conversation with the fraudulent Mr. Jones. How belittling it had been to watch them argue her fate in front of her. But Nikita had wanted her alive. She now had her wish. "So I'm willing to compromise as well. You could go free, Nikita. We won't look for you." Nikita rolled her eyes in disbelief before she could control herself. "Why?" "If I have the Sections I'll have what I want." Near truth usually worked in these situations and Madeline wasn't above using every ounce of persuasion she possessed. "Why risk that I'd come back someday?" "Because I know you don't want to. Your plan has failed. Section's strength is half of what it was when you first were recruited. Terrorism worldwide has only gotten worse. Section is more humane to its operatives, yes. But it's lost its teeth to do the things that only it could do." More truth. Nikita didn't deny anything. "You've done an admirable job but . . . You were never cut out for this." Nikita looked up with a sharp glance. She was angry. But there was some pride in her. And satisfaction. For years she had tried to tell them this. Madeline wasn't surprised that it still meant something to her. "And if I say no?" Madeline could tell Nikita wasn't convinced at all. She was probably rallying support for an intersection war in her mind. It was what Madeline herself would be thinking in Nikita's place. "It will be a battle. Our supporters are numerous." "So are mine." Madeline didn't bother to repress a smile. Yes. The woman had grit. Always had. She allowed herself a moment of pride herself for having seen it all those years ago in a skinny beggar girl. "Many will die. Section's strength will be reduced again." Madeline stared straight into Nikita's older but not quite wiser blue eyes. She watched the woman swallow and then sip her tea. The Section's failures were all on Nikita's head and unlike Madeline Nikita still seemed to feel each loss keenly. "Besides," Madeline continued, moving in for the coup de grace. "Adam Samuelle turns eighteen years old next week. He's starting university in Ecuador. You know Michael won't be far away from his son. Michael is long out of Section and his responsibility to Adam nearly complete. You two could just . . . disappear." Nikita wasn't looking at her now. She was staring into her teacup as if the future was written in its murky depths. She was thinking. Freedom. It has always been a talisman for the younger woman. Silence stretched out while Madeline calculated what the weather would be when she landed home based on projections from previous years. No typhoons this year but they should think about heading upground. Her contact in La Havre was ready to move if Nikita refused outright. Madeline just had to press a single button on her cell phone and war would begin. "You've had years to analyze me. And you think you know me," Nikita said. She was staring at Madeline now. Her eyes were wide and tense. "But you don't. Not anymore. This will only end one way. With one of us dead." "All right." Madeline pulled a gun from her jacket. Nikita didn't even look surprised. Madeline's esteem of the younger woman rose higher. She had apparently learned more than they'd taught her in the last years. Madeline pointed the gun at Nikita. It was Nikita's turn to smile tightly. Then Madeline flipped the gun and handed it handle-first to the other woman. "Then shoot me. Show me you've changed in sixteen years. Shoot me." Madeline wanted to know. The call would still be made especially if her plane didn't touch down by 10am the next day. She knew Nikita knew that. Part of her was curious anyway. Nikita took the gun in a smooth motion and snapped the safety off. She pointed it at Madeline's head. Madeline looked at her straight on. It wasn't the first gun ever pointed at her head. "Bye Madeline." Madeline smiled. She waited and even stared past Nikita. That should make it easier for her, she thought to herself. The she heard Nikita put the gun on the table. Madeline glanced back to Nikita's face. She looked conflicted now. Paul had always thought the woman had never had what it took to remain an operative. But which was harder? Living on the outside or staying in Section? The answer differed for each of them. "Nine years ago you could have had me killed. But you didn't. I looked at the records. Your recommendations. You wanted me alive while Paul wanted me dead. Why? Because you think I'm weak? That you can control me?" "No," Madeline replied. "I knew you were resilient. And I was right. You would have survived Michael's death. You've done as well as you could with the Section. Bounced back without him. Alone. Now, for the first time, you have a choice. A real choice. I'm offering you a life, Nikita. It's too late for me and Paul but it doesn't have to be too late for you." "Why don't you just shoot me now? You'll probably shoot me dead someday anyway." The blond woman sounded weary as if part of her wanted Madeline to shoot. To take the responsibility of this decision from her. "Perhaps. But if you never approach the Section again why would I want to?" There was a long, long silence. Nikita broke it first. "It will never work. Center will want a body. DNA evidence." "Well, a lot has changed with DNA evidence in nine years. And . . . Center has been misled before." Madeline continued to sip her tea. She sensed victory but it would not do to underestimate this woman. Not again. There was another long silence as both women finished their tea. Madeline felt she'd won but it wasn't a certainty. Nikita had double-crossed them before and there was a chance she would do it again. But Madeline sensed a deep fatigue in the woman beyond the stress of running the Sections. And a loneliness. But even Madeline couldn't be sure. 2010 – A private island in the South Pacific Her plane touched own on the private runway at exactly 10:04am, several hours ahead of a tropical storm. Paul was there to greet her. He'd gained some weight in the past years but still looked every inch the man he had been nine years before. Power still radiated from the man like the hum from a sports car. He walked with her to the house before the rain started to fall. He was eager she knew and asked as soon as the housekeeper took their coats. "Did she go for it?" "She will." "How do you know?" Madeline held up her PDA and gave him a smile of triumph. "Our sources and taps on her private line reported a deep channel communiqué. To Ecuador." Paul's eyes lit up and if they were younger she knew he would twirl her around like the day they had had Adrian escorted from the Section. "You're as brilliant as ever, my dear. A plan ten years in the making." He took her hand and kissed it. Longer than that, she thought smiling. Longer than that. 1977 – St. Petersburg "Run. Now!" He was shouting at her but she ignored him. "It's not finished sequencing," she muttered. He watched her pull out a small screwdriver and pry the cover off the charge. She was tapping numbers into it in a coordinated fashion. "You should run." She threw the words over her shoulder. "So they don't lose both of us." "Someone has to watch your back." She smiled despite her irritation. It was Section. No one ever watched your back. Except for yourself. "You have thirty seconds," she told him as she worked. He held his gun at the ready should anyone pop out of nowhere. The charge finally glowed green and with fifteen seconds to spare they simply dove over the roof into the icy waters. Madeline broke the surface first, glad for her wet suit against chill. She had soon swum to the rough beach with her cohort only a few steps behind her. She threw back her curly wet hair, spraying him with droplets. He stopped and just watched her face. She was used to men looking at her that way but at the moment she didn't care. They had hit the target and were alive! It never failed to thrill her. In a few minutes a boat would arrive and they'd taken be back at Section to do it all over again. She sat down on a rock and looked at him. She knew who he was even though she hadn't really interacted with him until he had thrown that first grenade on this mission. "You should have jumped first," she opened. "You're the mission leader." It was one of the first things any raw recruit was taught. "Leader, huh?" He flashed a smile. He was handsome, she realized again. "You're the only one of my team to survive. Who am I leading?" She let herself laugh. Handsome, but not smug. Interesting. One might actually call that charming and if their escape had been a little less close she would be suspicious right now. Instead she allowed herself to rest a bit, the adrenaline coursing through her body at a low but steady ebb. "Still," she said in a more serious tone. "Mission . . ." "Protocols," they finished together, sharing a smile. She forgot her earlier annoyance with him which she realized had mostly been worry that they'd lose the whole mission. This one was different, she could feel it. It piqued her curiosity. How different he was remained to be seen. He stuck out his hand as if she knew she had been analyzing him like a subject. Though she knew his name and she was sure he knew hers that had been on paper. This was real. "I'm Paul," he said. She took his hand. It was cold from their swim but firm. "Madeline." "Nice to meet you, Madeline." He kissed her hand and she snatched it away, rolling her eyes. "Sorry that you didn't see much of Leningrad." Madeline leaned back against the cold rocks and closed her eyes, her ears straining to hear the sound of the motorboat. "It'll always be St. Petersburg to me," she murmured. A mission done well. And maybe a new friend. It was a good day. "Me too." She heard him say and could tell he was looking at her with undisguised interest as he spoke. A friend. She smiled. Maybe more. 1969 - Paris She was taller now. All of her slacks had become high on her ankles in only weeks. And she was thinner. Her father worried about her. He even let her use the family's line of credit now to buy new clothes but it was more fun stealing them than buying them. Breaking into places was a challenge and she hadn't gotten caught yet. The smile that had stopped working on her mother at age nine was still disarming to everyone else and Madeline made the most of it. Madeline liked the clothes. Liked her changing body and the new entre it gave her. She was also surprised that her looks and charm worked as easily on women as it did men. Wearing the same uniform that she wore to school, she had duped the female department store manager into giving her a new jacket for free a week ago. She had also looked earnest and had been smart enough to convince the security guard at Le Petit Chateau that she was visiting Madame Chouette today. Madeline remembered the older lady from her brief stay at the mental hospital five years ago. It was private and had been designed as a comfortable chateau, but still was a hospital. The woman had been a permanent fixture then and hadn't spoken a word in twenty years. Madeline now casually walked into the visiting area which looked like anyone's living room with plush couches and fine wood bookcases. Madeline even sat down next to the elderly woman who was by the window as usual. Fortunately, Madeline's looks had changed dramatically and no one recognized her as the little girl with curly braids as she walked past. She simply waited even though anticipation beat within her like a drum. This place had taught her patience and she sat near the lady murmuring children's rhymes in a low voice to her until visiting hours were nearly over. Then she left the visiting room and headed in the direction of the restroom. She quickly turned off to another room just before, using the thin rods Pierre had lent her to pick the lock. She wasn't noticed as there were more strangers in the halls during transitions when some families visited patients in their rooms. And Madeline had a deft touch with the rods. This was her third 'visit' back to the Chateau and it would be her last. A few minutes later Madeline sat in at Dr. James' chair examining her file. Not much had changed in his office except her feet reached the floor now. And it was different sneaking into his office between shifts than at night after stealing the spare key from one of the nurses. No one ever suspected a little girl, she remembered, flipping through the thick folder. Here was where she had first read the words, "sociopath" and here in the American doctor's own personal library was where she had learned what that word had meant. Her insatiable curiosity had taught her the rest. Apparently her lack of remorse over Sarah's death had caused them to think she was incapable of feeling. And perhaps she was. Or perhaps she just knew the proper time and place to show feelings, Madeline reasoned, as a photo of Sarah fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, staring at the beautiful child smiling at the camera. Same curly hair and brown eyes as her own. She recalled the final thump of her sister's body hitting the landing. Her mother's shriek when she found Madeline by the body, the slap her mother had given her before bursting into tears. Her mother had been afraid, Madeline remembered. Afraid of her. Madeline swallowed and flipped to the notes on pink carbons at the end of her file. There was a proper time and a place. Which was not now. Her mother had never learned to restrain her emotions. But Madeline could. She glanced at her watch. Eight minutes. She recognized the now-familiar notations on her file. "Continued surveillance by S1." In her first visit she had found dozens of files of other patients observed by S1. It had only been last year, in a locked box hidden behind the shelves, that had she found the printouts and information on what the organization was. They had been watching her for a long time and they were thorough she saw, finding both her recent school picture and a current copy of her transcript documenting her as valedictorian of her collège, which the doctor had translated as middle school. There was even a clipping from her gang's attack on the University's administration building. Though no one had been hurt that little bomb had gotten attention. Good, she exhaled. Nothing had changed. She didn't have time to check but in her previous searches through the noted files she remembered; she had been the only child. But she was a child no longer. She closed the folder and replaced her file in the drawer. Visiting hours were over. The plan would be executed tomorrow and it would be their biggest job yet. The weapon was already waiting in a safety deposit box, she thought, as she walked out past security, smiling at the guard whose eyes, true to form, never left her legs in her short school skirt. High heels, a neat suit and make up on a different day last week had made her look eighteen so that she could open her own account. A clean gun with its serial numbers filed off so it couldn't be traced. That wouldn't matter later. Something would go wrong. She would make sure it would. She had to be careful too. She had to seem to be of average intelligence at first and her actions just those of an impetuous teenager. Briefly, she considered where the man should be shot. Carotid artery was certain death. As was a point-blank shot to the heart. No, she sighed, walking to the bus stop. That would look too calculating for a scared kid. The face. Perfect. It would drive the small bones of his face into his skull and blow out his brain even with a little .22. Pierre had said she could take the lead this time. It would mean she would do the talking and the directing. It would mean she would hold the gun. Twenty-four hours later, Madeline was shrieking in a jail cell, tears streaming down her face. "It was a mistake! I'm sorry!" The officers all looked at her with pity. But all the evidence led straight to her. They'll believe I killed myself, she thought. Pretty little girl mixed up with the wrong crowd. Such a shame. There was no way they wouldn't try her as an adult. Her role in her sister's death would seal her fate. Or so it would seem. Madeline was not surprised to wake up a few days later, drowsy but in a white room with a single door. She was not scared. She listened to a man named Kurt's words. He was trying to frighten her but underneath she could tell he was kind. He liked her. She cried on cue and gave them the scene they expected, crying for her parents. Kurt seemed nice but she'd been reading information for over a year. He'd kill her himself in two years if she didn't perform. It would be like snuffing out a cat to them. But she had claws. They would find out. She would train. She would learn. She could do anything if she put her mind to it. Kurt left her alone and she allowed herself a small smile. Section One. Finally.

When Lex and Clark emerged from the ruined bus into the echoing space that passed for the "garage" in Wayne Manor (at least the public garage), Clark was relieved to see no one, especially Bruce, lingering to greet them. Checking the time via his com, he realized that it was nearly 4 a.m. Entering into a dimly lit service corridor, Lex tugged him past the kitchen, toward some stairs at the back. "Where are we going, Lex?" "To bed, of course." Lex glanced back at him, amused. "I feel like I've been fucked through the side of a bus, and would like to recuperate a bit." Oh. Clark hung his head, ashamed. "I'm sorry I ruined your bus. It was a really nice bus. Just like a rock star's." Lex snorted and remarked, "While it lasted." Suddenly, he turned around and pushed Clark against the wall next to the stairs. "Trust me, Clark, that memory is worth far more to me than any bus. As are you." Pausing only momentarily to kiss his lover soundly, Lex continued up the stairs, confidently leading Clark by the hand. "Do you know where you're going? It's a big house." "Of course I know where I'm going. I have a regular room here." Clark stopped unexpectedly, tugging on Lex's hand. "What do you mean? I didn't know you were that buddy buddy with Bruce," Clark said suspiciously. "Don't worry, love. Bruce and I have known each other since school, but you're my always and forever, believe that." Pushing Clark in front of him, they reached a room on the second floor and Lex ushered Clark in. "I'm sorry, Clark, I promise I'll tell you all about it, but do you mind if we get some sleep now? I'm beat." Clark allowed himself to be guided through the sitting room and toward the giant four-poster in the center of the bedroom. Pushed by Lex onto the bed, he bounced on the lofty mattress, eyeing himself in the large mirror hung strategically at the end of the bed. Lex went into the bathroom adjoining the room and made splashy noises. Clark eased back contentedly, willing to let the subject go. For now. Later, in the dim morning, he held his precious boyfriend close to him, watching him sleep. Not being especially sleepy himself, Clark nevertheless knew the value of a wakeup ritual starting the day, so he let himself fall into dreams, breathing Lex's air as he snuggled in to him. He decided to let tomorrow take care of itself. *** Morning found them sipping Alfred's excellent coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice in a sunny breakfast alcove off the main kitchen. Clark had greeted Alfred with embarrassment, trying not to picture the scene he and Lex had made only a few hours before, hovering in the air of the dim garage with Clark still buried balls deep in his lover. Alfred, however, merely welcomed Clark warmly and inquired as to his breakfast preferences. Clark watched as Lex he calmly buttered a scone in the morning light. "Okay, bub, time to spill. What's going on? Why are we in Gotham, and who were all those people on the bus? And what's the deal with you and Bruce?" Lex merely raised his eyes mildly to Clark and bit into his scone. Clark wasn't fooled. He knew that look. Lex was Up to Something. Clark leaned back in the dainty little garden chair that went with the breakfast set, setting it to creaking alarmingly, and crossed his arms across his chest. It was the pose he used to intimidate people and encourage them to loosen their tongues, and it usually worked like a charm. "Relax, caro. I'm in Gotham to attend the Fashion Week opening gala and the launch of the lines of shoes I'm sponsoring, "Fetishe." Clark grimaced, and the muscles in his arms bulged alarmingly as he tightened his arms. "Lex, not another fashion thing," he complained half-heartedly. "Are you planning to dress me up and parade me the whole week?" While completely willing to indulge Lex in his interests, dressing up and mingling with a bunch of weird fashion people was not high on Clark's list of good times. "The whole week, no. Just tonight, at the launch party, and tomorrow night at the opening gala. As a matter of fact, Arturo should be here pretty soon with some clothes for you." Now Clark more than grimaced; he groaned. "Arturo?" "My stylist," Lex replied calmly. "Stylist." Clark uncrossed his arms and sighed. "You have a stylist. Okay, so this was your big secret project? The shoe line? Are you putting your name on pornographic shoes, Lex?" Lex laughed. "No, no, not my name, just my money, and they're not pornographic. Well, not precisely. But we've been working with this fantastic designer from Italy, and I do have some creative control. You'll like them. See, there's only a women's line now, but . . ." Clark held up his hand to cut off the outpouring before Lex could really get started. Lex in shoe mode could go on for hours. "Okay, yeah, I'm sure, and you can tell me all about it later, but what about those people on the bus? Who are where, by the way? They weren't there last night when we--stopped. Thank god." He added the last under his breath. "They're all connected with the shoe production, and are all in downtown Gotham at the hotel where the gala will be. Trust me, Clark, this will be fun, and I'll get to show off my gorgeous, stunning, boyfriend. You like being shown off, don't you, Clark?" Lex asked slyly. He did indeed like being shown off by Lex. A lot of people stared at him, but Lex owned him, and the thought of being claimed in public, however subtly, as Lex's property made him squirm with desire. He subsided into his eggs and bacon momentarily, but started up again after a few bites. "Well, what about Bruce's involvement in this? And that doesn't explain why you seem to know his house like the back of your hand." Just then, Lex's cell phone rang, and he answered it, rather rudely in Clark's view, since they were having a conversation. "Luthor. Yes, we'll be right up." Standing up and wiping his lips on a snowy linen napkin, Lex said, "Come on, Clark, back to the bedroom. I'll explain." Winding their way back through the halls of stately Wayne Manor, Lex crowded up against Clark's back and began to whisper. "I've known Bruce a long time, Clark. Since we were at school. He was a couple of years older than me, but he was considered a "proper" associate by my father, so we were thrown together. He had a reputation as a sullen loner, rather like myself." Suddenly stopping in a corner of the second floor before their room, Lex continued, in a very low voice, pressing his body against Clark's. "You have to understand about Bruce, Clark. He was a very lonely boy who had undergone a severe trauma. By nature, or by circumstance, he was very different from most people. Unlike you, his real self is truly expressed through his alternate persona, and you know how dark that is. He was, from the beginning, really very twisted." But before Clark could ask what exactly Lex meant by that, he was pulled into the sitting room adjoining their bedroom to encounter racks of clothing and a well dressed man (though not, of course, as well dressed as Lex) -- Arturo, he supposed, waiting for them. Clark directed a heated, frustrated glance at Lex before turning to be introduced to the stylist. "Arturo, this is Clark Kent. Will you show me the things you have picked for him, please? "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kent. Of course, Mr. Luthor, I have several items for him to choose from, and I have your clothing, ready, too of course." Eyeing Clark as if he were a mountain to scale, Arturo came closer. Clark held out his hand, stopping Arturo's advance. "Just a minute. You brought clothes for me?" "Yes, of course sir. Just let me show you . . ." Ignoring the man, Clark turned to Lex and said, "Just what do I need?" "You need an outfit for tonight's party, and a more formal one for the gala tomorrow." "Okay, but I can choose, right?" "Well, within reason. Arturo knows what I'm wearing, of course." "Okay. Come on, Arturo, let's get this over with. Why don't you lay out the first outfit for me to try on, and I'll be right there." As Arturo turned to his rack of clothes, Clark turned to his boyfriend and whispered fiercely, "Are you and Bruce lovers, Lex? 'Cause I don't care how twisted he is, you belong to me." "Only to you, of course my love. It's just that Bruce and I have a certain--history." Beginning to growl, Clark leaned in closely to Lex, only to jerk away at Arturo's inquiry, "Ready, Mr. Kent?" Giving Lex a smoldering look, he went into to the other room to inspect the first offering. Quickly sorting through the garments, he argued distractedly with the stylist, his mind on Lex and Bruce and their "history," finally choosing a semi-formal outfit and a tuxedo which seemed tolerable to him and acceptable to Arturo. He was getting better at this stuff. Clark emerged from the bedroom only to find Lex ensconced in the sitting room in front of his computer talking on the phone, apparently to a LexCorp employee. Lex looked up and mouthed, "Sorry," before returning to his phone call. Frustrated, Clark left the suite and started looking for a certain bat boy. He had something which needed to be said to the other man. He heard voices and clattering and headed for the main part of the house. There he found Alfred supervising the catering personnel as they set up for the party to be held that night at the mansion for Lex's shoes. "Alfred, have you seen Bruce?" Alfred said, "I'm sorry, Master Clark, but I'm afraid he's left the property. Something about the arrangements for tonight. Is there something I can do for you?" Unfortunately for Alfred, despite the cool aplomb he exhibited Clark could tell from his bodily responses that the older man was lying. "Thanks, Alfred, I'll talk to him later." Clark walked away and began searching the manor house with his x-ray vision, concentrating on the levels beneath the house proper. As he suspected, he found Bruce's skeleton deep beneath the house, working on something or other which Clark couldn't make out. Surveying the house's structure, he noted a few entrances into the caves below, but opted to fly in to the cave exit below on the cliff. Clark touched down in the interior of the Bat Cave and looked around curiously. He had never been here before. Clark noted without surprise that after only a few seconds, Bruce, who was wearing civvies, stiffened over the console he was looking at, and said, "Clark. So good of you to drop in." Bruce's diction and attitude retained the stamp of prep school, just as Lex's did, and Clark was reminded uncomfortably of their shared "history." He took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Bruce forestalled him, lifting a hand. "I know, Clark. You don't have to say anything. Be assured that Lex is a friend of mine, as are you, if I may be so forward, and I only wish you both the best. You are both unique men and I'm pleased you have found each other. And if you ask me, it's about damn time." Clark closed his mouth with a snap. "You knew?" "Of course. I've made it a point to learn all I can about my allies, of which you are one, and I've known Lex for a very long time. I am, after all, trained in observation." Uh huh. Clark knew that about the man; always sneaking about in dark corners "observing" people. A bit nonplussed at having his entire righteous speech preempted, Clark merely stated, "Right. So long as you understand. It's just that I never knew you and Lex were so close, but Lex told me you were at school together." Clark paused and then said, challengingly. "He also told me you were a twisty bastard." "Oh really?" Bruce replied coolly. "And did he mention how much he enjoyed it?" Clark gritted his teeth and stepped back. He liked Bruce, in both his incarnations, he really did, even if they sometimes didn't see eye to eye. Judging that further words would be counterproductive, he turned to leave with nothing more than a pointed look of warning. Back in the suite, Lex was still on the phone, this time calling up spreadsheets and email accounts in multiple windows on his computer. "Screw it. I'm going to take a nap," he announced, not even staying to see if Lex was paying attention. Minutes later he was in his favorite napping spot on the beach in Mexico, soaking up the sun which gave him so much power. Digging into the hot sand with his toes, he tried hard not to imagine any part of the upcoming fashion party fiasco, or allow thoughts of Bruce and Lex together to intrude upon his siesta. *** Later, standing in Wayne Manor's ornate library after dinner trying to be polite to Lex's shoe designer (an Italian gentleman who Clark thought his parents would charitably label a "character"), Clark acknowledged that he had only been partly successful in keeping stray thoughts of his host and his lover out of his head. It had been late in the afternoon when Clark returned to Gotham. He had been frustrated and half-hard when he entered the suite, but glad to locate Lex in the shower. Grinning to himself now as he accepted another glass of champagne from the liveried waiter, he remembered the sweet, slick interlude of soapy wet fun they had shared, followed by Clark tenderly blow drying them both with his warm superbreath. Lost in his reverie, he nevertheless noticed Lex as he glided up to press himself against his side. "Whatever Mr. Balduco is saying to you must be awfully interesting, Clark, judging by the expression on your face." Coloring faintly, Clark recovered. "Oh, right, he was just explaining how challenging making the lasts for this line is." Clark blessed the alien ability to track separate trains of thought as much as he ever had in school. "But I think you and I still have some things to discuss, Lex. Excuse me, Mr. Balduco, good luck with your endeavor." The impeccably dressed man beamed, not immune to Clark's good looks and charms, even as Clark moved his boyfriend away into the great room, where several people were dancing to the sounds of Bruce's well equipped stereo. Clark glanced at the colorful crowd in their wild clothes then down at his own simple, but expensive ensemble. "Jesus, Lex. Where did you get these people? It looks as if they were all dressed by color-blind mongeese." "Mongeese, Clark?" Lex's eyes were laughing. "I assure you, as People's Best Dressed Man for the past five years, all these people reflect the height of fashion." Clark only grunted, gripping Lex tightly and beginning to sway to the music. The champagne flowed freely after the elaborate unveiling of the shoes themselves, and the partygoers were beginning to get very loud and animated. Clark noted Bruce, in his guise of playboy bon vivant, in the center of a group of young men and women hanging on his every word. Sugar and Spice were among them, dressed in elaborate matching rubber outfits and heavy makeup. The outfits were designed to complement some of the more fanciful footwear creations in the "Fetishe" line, and Lex had been keeping a horny eye on them all night. As if he sensed Clark's eyes upon him, Bruce suddenly looked up at Clark, brown eyes glinting. Clark hissed, and pulled Lex even closer, grinding his hips against his lover. Pretending to dance, Clark moved Lex into a darker corner and leaned into his ear. "So, you never got finished telling me about that history of yours," he said, not bothering to clarify which history. Lex knew. He could feel Lex's mouth move into a smirk as he answered, speaking in a low, heated tone. "You seem pretty interested in what was between Bruce and me, Clark. Can't stop thinking about it, hmm?" Clark growled and shook him a little. "Quit stalling and spill!" "All right." Lex swayed with the music, turning Clark's imitation of dance into something a bit more socially acceptable. "I met Bruce at school when I was 11 and Bruce was 13. There was little privacy at school, and I became aware that Bruce would watch me. That was the first clue, really. Bruce had a habit of . . . " Lex trailed off. "Yes?" Clark demanded. "Well, he was a dirty Peeping Tom if you must know. Still is, really. He used to skulk around in that way of his, and ogle the boys in the showers and in the bathrooms, especially liking to catch them jacking off. And he was the king of the circle jerk, always goading boys to masturbate in front of each other." Clutching his lover hard, Clark gasped. "You, too?" "Oh, he went far beyond that with me." Clark shivered at the lasciviousness in Lex's voice. Lex put his mouth up against Clark's ear and said, "His room was next to mine, and we would hang out sometimes. He would come over after lights out and wrestle and rough house with me, in our underwear, both of us getting aroused. We would parade around partially dressed or nude, jacking off together if we dared. He had a long leather coat which he had dug up somewhere, and he would wear it, and nothing else, or make me wear it while we wrestled around. It was all very adolescent. We were only boys, you understand, but I did have a huge crush on him. He was older, handsome, and was very commanding. He also had very nicely cared for, very big feet." Rolling his eyes where Lex couldn't see them, Clark asked, curious, "Yeah? And what did he command you to do?" Lex continued to dance against him for a moment, then said softly, "I let him tie me up and fuck me when I was twelve. He was my first." "Oh, Jesus," Clark moaned, throbbingly excited at the thought. He started to sweat. Clark rubbed his cock in its elegant cage of cloth against Lex's lower body, torturing himself. "Lex, I never realized you shared that much history." "Well anyone besides you is ancient history indeed, my love. But he's been a friend when I had very few. Although we haven't done much in recent years, I know he still likes to watch and he still likes to play those nasty games with leather." As one, they turned their heads to look at Bruce, who was still watching them steadily. Clark shuddered with desire, and said, urgently, "Let's get out of here." Pulling Lex out of the room where the bulk of the party lingered, Clark started searching for an out-of-the-way place where he could indulge himself with his boyfriend. He began to take a shortcut through the side parlors to the stairs, but stopped short outside a row of closet doors in the corridor. Staring intently for a moment, he glanced at Lex in surprise, then pulled open one of the closet doors. There, amidst brooms and spare coats, were Sugar and Spice, extremely engaged with one another, their mouths smeared together and their hands busy underneath the elaborate outfits. Their rubber dresses squeaked rhythmically as they moved against each other, and tinkling, musical sounds emanated from between their legs in counterpoint to their breathy moans. Showing the cool unflappability and decisiveness he was famous for, Lex smoothly pulled Clark into the closet next to the writhing women and pushed himself against Clark, kissing him roughly. Between kisses he panted, "Ladies, I'm so glad you're enjoying the party. I've been hoping to run into you. You know my boyfriend, Clark?" he inquired rhetorically, as he slid down to his knees, pulling Clark's zipper down with him. Clark looked down at Lex, crouching next to the girls' feet as they finger fucked each other, their soft cries getting steadily louder. Lex dove down on Clark's cock and reached into his own pants to pull out and jack his cock slowly. Unbearably aroused by the tale of Bruce and Lex in school and the smell, sound, and sight of all the luscious activity around him, Clark felt his balls begin to draw up already in approaching orgasm. Just then, the two heavily tattooed women reached their peak together, moaning loudly as their movements slowed. Lex squeezed Clark's cock hard at the base, preventing his orgasm. Clark wrenched his eyes away from the spectacle next to him, shocked and about to protest as Lex put him away and turned toward the women. "Ladies, that was beautiful. I would like to invite you to join us in say, ten minutes, in our room upstairs? I have something which I'd like to share with you." Giggling and panting, the girls gazed at Clark, obviously thinking Lex was referring to him. They agreed to meet upstairs in their room. Racing up to their room, the two men were breathless and in a hurry, tumbling against each unsubtly. Once in their room, they started to kiss and sway against each other, tearing off their clothes carelessly. Clark thumbed Lex's nipples and nipped at his throat, while saying, "Lex, what are we going to do with those girls? Are we really going to fuck them?" he asked, excited by the thought. As much as he did love Lex and was turned on by him, absolutely and completely, Clark still liked girls. "You'll see," replied Lex, as he sat down on the couch in the sitting room to remove his shoes. "I have a little surprise for them." "You and your surprises," grumbled Clark as he imitated his lover, removing his belt and shoes. Lex got up and busied himself at the sitting room's small wet bar, pulling out several bottles of water. A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. "Here we go," said Lex, grinning, and sauntered over to open the door for the ladies. Sugar and Spice stood there, giggling and looking over their shoulders, and Lex pulled them in, kissing first one, and then the other. Clark reached for them and took his turn kissing. Handing them the water, Lex said, "Excuse me a moment," leaving Clark to become better acquainted with them both on the settee. "Hmm," Clark murmured as he played with the girls. "You are very pretty. Is this okay? Oh, what a great ass you have," he softly said as he passed his hands over the posterior of one of them. "Where is that noise coming from? I bet I know," Clark continued, as was his wont, speaking softly and sexily, while he waited for Lex. After long, sloppy moments kissing on the couch, Clark heard Lex's voice. "Come in here, all of you, please. I think I have something you'll be interested in." Clark was sure of it. When they were all in the bedroom, grouped around the four-poster, Lex silkily suggested, "Why don't you take your clothes off and make yourselves comfortable," and began divesting himself of his own clothes. "But leave the shoes and stockings on if you can, please, ladies." Everyone hastily complied, giving each other heated strokes and kisses all the while. The two girls were even more striking, if possible, almost naked and showing off the shoes that Lex loved, with fantastic tattoos decorating much of their bodies. Clark noticed that each girl's labia and clit hoods were heavily pierced, confirming the source of the tinkling sounds. Clark enjoyed watching them, especially now that they lavished attention on each other's naked breasts, every nipple pierced with either a barbell or a ring. Clark always had liked boobs. Lex, as always at his ease naked, even with his cock filled out and bobbing in front of him, pulled out a towel-wrapped object and carefully lifted the towel to show them what he had. At first, Clark didn't understand what he was looking at, but it was obvious the women did. Squealing, one of them (was it Sugar or Spice? Clark realized he didn't know which was which, and didn't care) lifted the object off the towel and began caressing her partner with it. Clark finally saw that it appeared to be a double-headed dildo made of glass. Clark reached over to touch it in wonder. "You can make dildoes out of glass?" he blurted, surprised. "Oh yes, tempered glass is a wonderful material for sex toys," said one of the women. "Yeah, you can sterilize them and ice them or warm them for different sensations," said the other. Clark looked at the smug face of his boyfriend, and resolved to get the action moving. He really didn't want them to talk. Other noises were preferable. Lex took the clue, and directed the women into the position that he wanted. Lex carefully pulled out condoms for him and Clark and put them on, lubing them and the dildo "Not much lube is needed, because the glass isn't porous." Clark groaned, bouncing a little on the bed. More action! Less talk! Inserting one end of the dildo into the pussy of the first woman (Sugar?); then having her lay on her side facing the other as she, too guided the toy into her body, Lex soon had them all on the bed arranged in a sexy sandwich, with Lex and Clark spooned behind the women as they fucked each other with the dildo. The men gazed into each others' eyes from their positions behind the women; even as their hands were busy fondling girly curves, breasts, and clits. Clark began to pant. And talk. "Oh, Lex, this is so wild. Hey, girls, are you okay, is this hot?" The women merely nodded their heads vigorously, getting into each other, and squirmed their bare bottoms against the erections rubbing up against them. "Ooh, yeah, that's it, come on, look Lex, they're fucking each other, yeah," Clark panted. "That's so hot. Look, you can see us in the mirror," and he studied the reflection of the writhing, panting bodies in the mirror at the foot of the bed. Pretty soon the girls' gasps came louder and louder, and first one, then the other came in rapid succession. Lex reached down and carefully removed the dildo, soothing them, "There now, that's my good girls, now it's our turn," and looking straight at Clark, ordered him harshly, "Fuck her. Fuck her now. Put your cock in her pussy and fuck her." And with a practiced move, he inserted his cock into the body in front of him, and started to fuck the women in long smooth strokes, all the while looking straight into Clark's eyes. Clark rolled his head and his eyes like a maddened bull, and began to fuck his girl's very wet pussy strongly. "Oh, oh, yeah, fucking her, but I'm fucking you, my love, oh god, fucking hot," he babbled. The girls were banged against each other with their strokes, but they didn't appear to mind. They were kissing passionately and moaning into each others' mouths. Clark reached for and grabbed Lex's hands, needing the connection with his beloved. Just as the noise level and activity reached a crescendo, Clark looked over at the mirror again, to get a glimpse of themselves fucking. What he saw there shocked him into orgasm suddenly, and he came, shuddering and shrieking, "Lex!" For reflected in the mirror, standing in the dark open door on the other side of their suite, watching them intently, was Bruce. *** "I'm telling you, Lex, he's getting on my nerves." The following night, Clark was grumpy and jumpy and horny. He had endured another interminable fancy dinner with Lex, this time poured into a tuxedo and seated with a group of people he didn't know at the gala. All that day, everywhere he turned, it seemed like Bruce was watching them, and it was driving him crazy. He couldn't seem to get Lex's whispered tales of boarding school lewdness out of his head, and the lingering sensuality of the mnage a quatre of the previous night kept him on edge. "What's the matter, Clark? I thought you said you wanted to play with him." Clark looked sharply at Lex, who wore that cat-got-the cream look. Still. Lex was having way too much fun showing him off tonight. He had been plastered to Clark's side all night, patently possessive, and blatantly touching him. Clark sighed. "Can we go back to the manor? We've done our duty here, haven't we? We've mingled, made our point, well, your point, whatever it is, about the shoes, and we can go back, can't we baby?" Clark heard himself whining, but he didn't care. He wanted Lex again, preferably deep in his ass, and was tired of waiting; tired of playing games. "Of course, Clark. Just let me tell Bruce we're leaving." "No, wait -" but Lex wasn't listening, moving off in the crowd toward where Bruce had been silently watching them. Coming back a moment later, Lex said, "Come on, let's go get the car." Unfortunately, when the car pulled up to the portico in front of the hotel, it turned out to be already occupied. By Bruce. He and Lex settled in the seat across from Bruce, and Lex immediately engaged the older millionaire in conversation about the people and events at the gala. Bored and frustrated, Clark looked out the window, trying not to watch Bruce watching them, even as the chit chat became more banal. All of a sudden, in the middle of a sentence, Lex turned and straddled Clark, lowering his head to nuzzle his neck, and undulating his ass against Clark's crotch. Acting like nothing was happening, he continued to chat with Bruce about nothing at all. Clark gasped, and involuntarily rocked his hips, watching Bruce's eyes as he surveyed them with open lust. At this rate, he wasn't going to make it to the manor. But he did, as eventually the car turned into the gates surrounding Wayne Manor. Lex nonchalantly climbed off Clark's lap and called out to Bruce, "Thanks Bruce. Great party, good night." This time, it was Clark who was leading Lex through the darkened hallways and corridors of the great house. He wanted Lex naked, horizontal, and on a bed! He began to pull off his bowtie and undo the complicated studs of his tuxedo. When they reached "their" rooms, however, and Clark pulled Lex into the bedroom, he stumbled to a stop. There seemed to be an awful lot of - something - spread out on their bed. "Lex, what's all this?" said Clark nervously, eyeing the assortment of chains and straps on the bed. Lex sidled up to him, reaching for his hand, and bringing them up to his mouth to kiss them, eyes catching the dim light. "Just a little game, my love. Please?" He dropped Clark's hands and began to undress. "You look so hot tonight, and I'm so hot for you. Won't you indulge me a little?" Lex was a master at saying one thing and meaning another, and although his tone was pleading, his body language was demanding. Panting and flushed now, as he stepped out of his trousers, Lex rubbed his chest against Clark. "I'm only going to tie your hands. I know you could get out of them if you want, but it's symbolic, okay?" Clark looked at the bed again, and felt sweat pop out on his forehead. Lex could do anything to him, but probably wouldn't. He started to take off his own clothes. "Do you have a safe word?" Clark numbly shook his head. "It's not as if I could play these types of games with anyone else, Lex. There's no one else I would feel safe around, and you can't hurt me anyway." "Color code then," Lex asserted. "I could hurt you in other ways, and I want you to have the code. Green means go, Red means stop, all right? I'm not going to gag you, because I want to hear you." "All right. What do you want me to do?" Lex directed Clark to lay down on the bed, on his back with his hands above his head. Lex fastened leather cuffs around Clark's wrists and linked the cuffs together. Even though they both knew exactly how useless the contraption was, given Clark's strength, still both men were turned on by the idea it represented. Lex paused a moment at the foot of the bed, staring at Clark in appreciation. For his part, Clark was becoming unbearably aroused, feeling his lover's eyes upon him like a brand. Clark stuck out his tongue, tasting the lust on the air. Was Lex going to beat him? Fuck him? Oh, he hoped Lex would fuck him. Soon, please, please, he thought, unaware that he had begun to babble as he slowly arched himself against the sheets, displaying his body and his cock as it bobbed, leaking, in the air. "Turn over," Lex ordered, and Clark eagerly complied, trying to hump his engorged cock against the bed. "Stop that." The command was followed by a sharp swat to his backside. Clark jerked at the unexpected sensation of it. Even though it didn't hurt, exactly, he still felt it. He craned his neck behind him and glimpsed a wicked looking studded leather paddle before it came down on his bottom once again. And again. In his heightened state of arousal and sensitivity, he was definitely feeling the paddle. Lex began to speak in a low, impassioned undertone. "You've been a bad boy, my love. You've been thinking about Bruce, showing off your body to him, enjoying the way he watches you." "No! No, Lex, it's not him, it's only you, please, Lex." "Please, what? Please let Bruce watch us? I know you like to be watched, baby, don't lie to me. And he is a good looking man, after all. I should know. You love to be watched. It turns you on, doesn't it? Doesn't it?" Clark didn't know what to say, what to do. He was so far beyond coherence, only feeling the sting of the paddle, the sting of Lex's words, and the sting of his own frustration. And it was all true, anyway. Abruptly, the paddling ceased. Clark lay there, panting, twisting slightly. "Turn back over, love, and see what you desire." As Clark turned over on his back again, awkwardly, with his hands still tied over his head, he saw Lex standing at the foot of the bed, chest heaving. And behind him, in the darkness, Clark could clearly see Bruce, sitting in a chair. He was wearing a dark robe, which was open to show his muscled and very aroused body. He held a thick strap of leather in his hand, and was using it to caress his own body, brushing it back and forth across his nipples, swirling it around his large, purple, erect cock standing straight away from his groin. "I invited him to watch. It's his home, after all, and he does so like to watch. Just like you like to be watched, isn't that so, my sweet caro?" Lex continued to speak as he reached over and brought out the lube, flipping it open one handed. "Isn't my Clark magnificent, Bruce? Every muscle large and defined, yet so exquisitely responsive. From his shoulders to his toes. Bruce appreciates the male form, don't you, Bruce?" Lex tossed out over his shoulder as he encouraged Clark to scoot down a bit farther on the bed. He began to lovingly caress Clark's feet as he continued. He leaned down, as if imparting a secret, and said, "He used to hide in the closets at school and watch the boys jack off. He appreciates the girls, too. Bruce used to snoop around in the bushes at the school dances, hoping to catch couples making out. He'd hide in the closet and watch me fuck a girl, then come out when she'd gone and fuck me himself." Clark moaned at this, never taking his eyes off Bruce who was just sitting there in the dark corner. "Lex, what are you doing to me, oh god, oh god, Bruce, what are you going to do?" He tossed his head wildly back and forth as he felt Lex push his feet together and begin to slide his hot dick between them. Feeling helpless and excited with his hands still bound above his head, he continued babbling, " Ah, ah, please, Lex, please fuck me, won't you fuck me? Are you going to - are you going to fuck me, too, Bruce? Are you going to take that strap and hit me with it?" He broke off as Lex's thrusts against his feet became harder and Bruce suddenly clenched the leather strap hard against the base of his cock. Bruce spoke for the first time. "You could gag him," he suggested. "No, no," Lex laughed, slowing down a bit. "He always does that. I like it. I like him." "So I gathered." Spoken dryly. Then, gratingly, "I want to see you fuck him." Lex gasped at this, and pulled at Clark's hands until they were in front of him, still bound, and Clark's bottom was even with the foot of the bed. Scrabbling wildly for the lube, Lex squirted some haphazardly on his cock and pushed Clark's legs open, exposing his hole. Clark began a litany, "Fuck me, please, fuck me, Lex, come on, fuck me good, ram your meat in there, fuck me for Bruce, fuck me in front of him." Impatiently, he began to bounce a little on the bed, as Lex stepped in between his legs, stopping only when he felt Lex's cock breach him. "Oooh," Clark exhaled, in ecstasy. "I love you, Lex, oh god, you have the finest cock on this planet. I love it when you fuck me, come on, do it, do it. Jack me, please, please," Clark wailed, helpless with his hands tied. And Lex did, pushing him down on the bed and fiercely kissing him, shoving his dick rapidly in and out, in and out, and grabbing Clark's leaking, needy cock. Clark had forgotten about Bruce for a moment, until he felt the bed dip behind him. Snapping his eyes open, he looked into the mirror and saw Lex's back and ass as he pounded into him. Above them, completely naked, was Bruce, mouth open and panting harshly with lust. One hand was braced against the bed, and the other gripped his cock cruelly, frantically stroking it with the strip of leather held tightly in his fist. His eyes were fixed on the place where Lex and Clark were joined. Bruce's face was flushed, his eyes glittered and he was grunting softly, ecstatically, in time with his strokes. For an endless moment, Clark and Bruce locked eyes in the mirror, and then Clark tilted his head back. "Yeah, that's it, fuck your fist, Bruce, that's so hot, come on, come on me, come on my face!" With a loud grunt, Bruce did exactly that, aiming the shiny head of his cock at Clark's face and unloading spurt after spurt of come all over him. Clark opened his mouth to try to catch some of that bounty as he felt his balls draw up and his own cock cover Lex's hand with cream. Faced with the cum shots of the two beautiful men in front of him, Lex could hold out no longer, and begin to thrust his hips fast and hard into Clark's ass, coming and coming until he collapsed over his lover. For long moments, there was only the sound of three men panting. Then Bruce shifted, climbing off the bed and heading toward his robe. Shrugging into it, he approached the bed again. Lex came to his senses and, still joined to Clark, unsnapped the restraints on Clark's hands. Bruce stepped up quietly behind them, and gazed at Clark's face. Smiling a little smile, he carefully leaned over and began to lick his come off. When it was all gone, he pressed a soft kiss against Clark's lips, and slid his arm around his shoulders. Clark had never seen that particular peaceful expression on Bruce's face before. Bruce murmured, "You're always welcome in my house, my brother." Giving Lex a quick hug and a kiss, he said to him, "Thank you, Lex. He is magnificent and you are amazing together. Be happy." Bruce turned and silently slipped out of the bedroom with a swirl of dark robe, echoing another, darker garment. For the rest of the night, the mirror reflected only the sight of two men in love. If there had been anyone to see.

"Are you sure?" Rodney asked. "It's the last time we'll have a chance," Carson said. "We've no idea if we'll ever be coming home again." Rodney nodded. He looked Carson in the eyes. "Let's make it a good one, then, shall we?" He grinned. Carson smiled. "Oh, definitely. You know what I'll be wanting." He gestured and Rodney dug in one of the trunks Carson had packed, waiting to be shipped to storage later in the week. A few moments later, Rodney came up with a bag, triumphant. "Found it!" He held it up, grinning. "That's a good lad." He held out one hand and Rodney brought it over, looking at him expectantly. Carson took the bag from him and slipped his other hand behind Rodney's neck, pulling him in for a kiss. "Off with your kit now." He set the bag on his bed. He watched as Rodney stripped, slow with just a bit of teasing. Carson sat as Rodney set his clothes on the bed. Reaching out, he caressed one hip as Rodney pulled his trousers off. "Tonight?" Rodney asked expectantly. Carson shook his head, his fingers tracing Rodney's thigh. He let them slip between Rodney's legs, playing with his lover's balls. "I haven't decided yet. Perhaps I'll make you wait until morning." "You always want to make me wait," Rodney grumbled. "You always come so much harder when I make you wait," Carson said with a snort. "Don't you be tryin' to tell me you don't like it." Rodney paused in his tease for a moment. "There is that," he admitted. His trousers and shorts joined his shirt and jumper on the bed. Carson stroked Rodney's half-hard cock, tugging gently. It felt good in his hand. Rodney made a soft, pleased sound as he stood before Carson, naked. "You always look so good to me," Carson told him, leaning in to kiss the soft rise of Rodney's belly. His skin was warm and soft and Rodney shivered slightly as Carson touched him. "Kneel for me," Carson whispered, and Rodney did, bringing them face to face. Rodney's eyes were half-closed, an expression of pleasure lighting his face. Carson knew he was the only one who ever saw this side of Rodney. Opening the bag Rodney had fetched for him, Carson pulled out several items. He arranged them on the bed, looking at them. Rodney's mouth twitched in a small, crooked smile as he watched. Carson picked up the leather collar, fondling it gently, and set it down. If they were going out tonight, he'd save this for later. Rodney's eyes followed his hands closely. There was a hint of regret in them, and Carson knew he wanted to wear it. There would be time enough when they got back from their evening out. "Carson," Rodney said, "please?" He shook his head. "Not just yet. Patience." Rodney muttered something under his breath. Carson cocked an eyebrow at him. "What was that? I don't believe I heard you." Rodney narrowed his eyes. "You know patience isn't my strong suit." "Oh, aye, but that's part of what we've been working on. Waiting makes it better. You know that." Rodney gave him a sour look but nodded. "Instant gratification's more fun." "No, love, it's not. It's just more now." "We're stepping through a wormhole to another galaxy in three days. 'Now' sounds about right." Carson made up his mind and reached for the right object. Cold metal rings on a leather strap, and Rodney would have patience enforced upon him. He'd complain, but Carson knew he enjoyed it anyway. Grinning, he held the contraption up. "Oh, my," Rodney said. His eyes dilated slightly, darkening. "This'll teach you patience if nothing else will," Carson told him. He gestured and Rodney stood, his cock already getting harder. "Now, now, wait until I get it on you!" He carefully slipped Rodney's cock and balls through the largest ring in the 'gates of hell' then drew Rodney's cock up through the other rings until the head of it came out the far end of the device. The last ring rested under his head and Rodney took a deep, shuddering breath as he grew harder, his shaft filling and making the rings tight around him. Carson slipped a thin leather strap about Rodney's waist, fastening it, and clipped the end of the device to the strap, pulling Rodney's cock tight against his body. "Oh. That... that feels good," Rodney said, his voice soft. The metal rings were joined along the top of Rodney's cock by a slim, black leather strap. Carson knew it was stimulating, and as long as Rodney was hard, the device would hold him tightly. He wouldn't come until Carson let him. "Now get dressed again. We'll be out for supper tonight." Carson thought for a few minutes about where he wanted to go as he watched Rodney put on his clothing. Though Rodney's cock was tightly cinched to his body, Carson could still see the subtle line of it, hard inside his trousers. It was a good feeling, seeing Rodney like this. "Where are we going?" Rodney asked. "Please, nothing Asian. There's always citrus in it." "I was thinking Italian, mo leannan," Carson told him. "No danger there." He smiled as Rodney did and went over to hold his lover, kissing him softly. Rodney kissed back, trying to deepen their kiss, but Carson refused to allow it. "Sounds good," Rodney finally said. "That place over on North Nevada?" Carson nodded. "Aye, if you like." "They make great manicotti." "Right enough, then. Get your coat." Carson gestured toward the door, both of them grabbing jackets. They'd be out until late. Supper was only the beginning of what Carson had in mind for the evening. It was always best to feed Rodney before anything interesting happened, to stave off complaints later. Rodney drove. He'd never got over that one time Carson had been on the 'wrong' side of the road and nearly given them both heart attacks. Supper was quiet and uncomplicated, aside from the usual overly aggressive instructions to the waiter about no lemon in the water or anywhere near the water -- or anything else for that matter. The cappuccino after supper, though, was superb. The next item on the agenda was a low-key gay bar. They'd both been there more than once, usually together, and the crowd was friendly. It would be a good place to look for someone to join in the fun. Keeping Rodney in the restraint was ever so much more fun if Carson got to play while making him watch. It made his protests more interesting, his patience more rewarding, and his eventual orgasm that much more intense. Carson particularly enjoyed that latter aspect of it. Watching Rodney come after he'd been denied was one of the joys in his life. A chance like this wasn't like to happen again anytime in the foreseeable future. The place was a bit smoky, but that was only to be expected. There was a good size crowd, and they took a table near the dance floor, where they could watch the men around them. Rodney turned his head this way and that, already anticipating company for the evening. There were a lot of handsome lads about, and Carson smiled. "That one's hot," Rodney said, gesturing at a blonde boy, probably no more than twenty-three. Carson snorted. "Oh, and he'd give the likes of us the time of day. You know that sort think we're too old and fat." Rodney looked about more, and so did Carson, his eyes fixing on a disturbingly familiar shock of wild, dark hair. "Is that?" "What?" Carson pointed. "Over there. That can't be." "What are you -- oh my god. You're right. We're hallucinating. Somebody must have spiked our drinks." "Are you hallucinating what I'm hallucinating?" Carson asked. Rodney looked at him and stood, trying to get a better identification. "If you're hallucinating a certain feral-haired Major, then yes." "Oh, god." Carson tugged Rodney back down into his seat. "Sit down! What if he sees us?" Rodney glared at him and stood back up. "It's not like we're the ones whose careers are at risk here, Carson." Carson blinked. "Oh. Right." He'd forgotten about that in his shock. The tentative outlines of a plan began forming in his head. "You know, this could be our good luck." "What are you -- oh, you have a plan, don't you?" Carson grinned and nodded. "Oh, I love it when you have a plan." Carson rose and stood next to Rodney. "Stay here and hold the table. I'll be right back." "What, you're just gonna go over there and proposition him?" Rodney's eyes widened. Carson gave him a tilted eyebrow. "Why else do you think the lad's here? It's certainly not for the cultural exchange." "Maybe he doesn't know it's a gay bar?" Carson snorted. "Oh, with the way he's eyeing that lovely ginger-haired lad? I doubt that very much." "Okay, okay, you have a point." Rodney sat heavily. "Don't blame me if you need to be picked up off the floor and hauled to the ER." Carson turned to approach the Major. "And really, what makes you think either of us would be his type?" Carson grinned. "I think he's in the same boat we are, Rodney, looking for one last hurrah before god knows what happens." Rodney grumbled, inaudible under the pulse of the music. Carson wove his way through the crowd, following the tall Major's spiky hair like a dark beacon under the flashing lights. Finally reaching his prey, Carson reached out and tapped his shoulder gently. "Fancy a shag?" Major Sheppard turned, a look of blank surprise on his face. "What?" Carson smiled at him. "Well," he said, "I figure you're here for the same reasons we are." He gestured over at Rodney. "Wait a minute -- you're -- Beckett? You and McKay?" Sheppard blinked. Carson shrugged. "Aye. We saw you over here and though perhaps you'd like to join us. Who knows when the next time an opportunity might arise, eh?" Sheppard stared at him for a long moment, eyes moving back and forth between Carson and Rodney, and then his face opened into a smile. "Well yeah, I suppose there's that." He followed Carson back to the table, drink in hand. "What did you guys have in mind?" "Well," Carson said as they joined Rodney, "we were looking for some company tonight." They sat, and Rodney stared at them both, eyes like saucers. "You're serious?" Rodney asked. "What did you tell him?" "I asked if he fancied a shag, Rodney. Mind your chin. It's about to hit the table. God knows what's been there." "But... but... he's hot." Rodney's face was open disbelief. Sheppard grinned. "Glad you noticed." He preened, running his fingers through his uncontrollable hair. "Has he agreed to this?" Rodney asked. "Well, I've not had a chance to tell him what we're about yet, so if you'd shut your hole, love, I could get to that part." Carson swatted Rodney's shoulder and Rodney glared. "Hey, you can get him to shut up? Wow. I didn't think anyone could do that." "I'm right here!" Rodney snapped. "Some days are easier than others," Carson admitted. "I've found that occupying his mouth in other ways generally works." Sheppard eyed Rodney thoughtfully. "Yeah, that seems like a plan." "Hey!" "Rodney. Mind yourself, or you don't get to come later." Carson gave him a look and Rodney stilled, obviously chafing at the idea. "Oh, kinky," Sheppard said, grinning. "That's the general idea," Carson said. "Are you interested?" Sheppard shrugged. Rodney stewed, twiddling his thumbs as he held his glass. "Depends on the kinks, I suppose." Carson smiled. "Rodney has a bit of a problem with patience, as you may have noticed," he said. He took a sip from his drink. "I've been working on that with him a bit. I rather enjoy teasing him and making him wait. We'd get to fuck, you and I, but I should tell you that I top. And I'm sure you'll like what Rodney can do with his mouth." Rodney squirmed and Carson shot him a look. Sheppard gazed at them both, assessing the situation. "Yeah, I'm okay with that. As long as I get to get off, and you don't want to tie me up or leave marks, I'm pretty much okay." "No, no need to tie you up, lad. It's Rodney that requires a bit of reinforcement for his patience." Carson grinned. "But if you're agreeable, we can go to Rodney's place. Did you drive over or take a cab?" "Cab," Sheppard said. "You guys got a car?" Carson nodded. "Rodney insists on driving. Poor daft bugger doesn't trust me to stay on the proper side of the road." "That's because--" Carson glared and Rodney fell silent. "Damn, you're good at that," Sheppard said, a tone of astonishment in his voice. "This is the only time I get to do it," Carson admitted. "When we're not in a scene, he's utterly hopeless. Nobody can shut him." Rodney glowered. Carson sometimes wondered if the entire city might become a smoking radioactive slag heap if Rodney ever managed to harness that energy. Sheppard nodded. "Sounds good to me. How about we finish these drinks and get out of here?" Carson caught Rodney's wrist as his hand started toward his lap. "Oh no you don't. Hands where I can see them." Sheppard grinned. "This is going to be fun." "Still here," Rodney said. Carson petted Rodney's arm. "I know. And you'll have your fun later, trust me." "I think I'm having my fun now," Sheppard snickered. "You don't know the half of it," Carson told him. *** Rodney's driving hadn't been improved by having Major Sheppard in the back seat. Carson had to keep reminding him to keep his eyes on the road. The trip back to the flat was, needless to say, slightly more exciting than Carson had anticipated. "And he had a problem with you driving on the wrong side of the road?" Sheppard asked as they all got out of the car. Rodney opened his mouth, but Carson held up a hand and stopped the tirade before it began. Silently, Rodney unlocked the door and let them in. The place was near empty, with boxes here and there, packed and waiting for storage. Who knew when they'd be back? The bedroom, at least, still had enough in it to be comfortable and familiar. Carson led the way, with Sheppard looking around curiously. "Not quite what I'd have expected of you, McKay," he said after a moment. "Not nearly enough Star Trek memorabilia." "I pack- Major!" Sheppard snickered. Carson couldn't help a quiet chuckle himself. Rodney did in fact have a few things he'd put away that would fit that description. Rodney hiked his chin up a few degrees and glowered, stomping into the bedroom between Carson and Sheppard. "It's all right, Rodney," Carson told him. "Just take off your kit and we can do things that don't require any talking." "About time," Rodney grumbled, starting to strip. "Is he always like this?" Sheppard asked. Rodney glared. "Oh, most of the time," Carson said. "He'll grow on you, never fear." He smiled softly as he watched Rodney undress. The man really did have a lovely arse. "Carson," Rodney protested. He'd finished taking his clothes off and stood with his hands on his hips looking vaguely put upon. Sheppard's eyes flowed over Rodney, halting at the sight of his trapped cock. "Oh yeah," he breathed. Rodney's frown vanished, transforming to a crooked grin. "I told you I'm hot," Rodney said. "I never said you weren't, love." Carson waved a hand. "Kneel for us now." Rodney knelt, still looking like the cat that got the cream. Carson went over to the bed where he'd left the other items from the bag. He sat and picked up the collar. He held it out to Rodney, who kissed it before Carson fastened it about his neck. Sheppard just kept staring. "That's... umm... that's hot," Sheppard murmured. "Like really, unexpectedly hot." Rodney looked up at the Major with pure triumph on his face. "Hah." "Rodney," Carson cautioned. "Behave or I'll gag you, and then you can't suck the Major's cock. I'll bet he's got a lovely one." The sudden look of contrition in Rodney's eyes was really quite pleasant. It was rare outside the bedroom. Carson picked up a pair of soft leather wrist restraints and Rodney held his hands out while Carson buckled them on. He reached around Rodney, nibbling his neck as he linked the restraints behind his back. It just wouldn't do to have Rodney touching himself while Carson was distracted with Sheppard, and Carson knew he'd try it otherwise. "Feels good," Rodney whispered against Carson's cheek. Carson smiled. Carson traced one hand over Rodney's chest, teasing at his nipples. They tightened and Rodney hissed, his back arching slightly. Across the room, Sheppard made a soft sound. When Carson looked up, he'd already got his cock out and was stroking himself as he watched them. "There's a good lad," Carson said. "Since we're goin' to be doing this, do you mind if I call you John?" Sheppard shrugged, grinning. "Well, I suppose you can call me just about anything you like, if you fuck me hard enough." The idea sent a shiver down Carson's spine that ended in his balls. "Oh, I like the sound of that," Rodney said into Carson's ear. "You, hush now." Carson nipped his neck. The fact that he liked the sound of it too wasn't going to stop him from teasing Rodney. A shiver ran through Rodney's body and he gave a quiet whimper. John grinned ferally. "Oh, yeah. I think I'm gonna like this a lot." "I'm sure you will," Carson said. He gestured John over. "I think you might want to be keeping Rodney quiet with that." He stroked Rodney's cheek. "Then again, I might consider a vow of silence myself, if I had that to keep me occupied." John gave him a smoldering look that had Carson's cock at attention. "Oh no," Rodney said. "I get to suck him. Seriously." "You get to do what I let you do," Carson said. He tilted Rodney's chin up so their eyes met. "Remember who's in charge here." Rodney nodded vigorously. "Right. In charge. Definitely." "And what does that mean, Rodney?" Carson locked eyes with his lover. "I'm yours," he whispered. Carson nodded. "Yes. You are." John took a sharp breath as the tips of Carson's fingers traced the slick, wet head of Rodney's cock. It was hot under Carson's fingers and he looked down. He appreciated the sight of Rodney's thick length leaking clear fluid over skin and bright metal rings. Rodney gasped at the touch, his eyes closing. "Please," he hissed. "John," Carson said, waving a hand at him. John stepped over to them, still stroking himself. Carson slipped one hand around his still-clothed hip and pulled him close, kissing the head of his cock. Rodney gave it a hungry look. John's fingers tangled in Rodney's hair, his other hand pulling Carson's head closer. His hips shifted and Carson took him in, sucking him, twirling his tongue around the shaft. John gasped and hissed. Rodney just whimpered. Carson held Rodney away from John's cock, wanting him to wait a bit before he got a chance to participate, but the sounds Rodney made told Carson all he needed to know. He looked over at his lover while still sucking John, and saw how dilated Rodney's eyes had got. He was panting just a wee bit, looking like he wanted to dive in himself. John chuckled, but gasped again when Carson sucked harder, bringing his attention back to the matters at hand. "Oh, yeah," John said. "Damn, that's good." Carson pulled back, letting go of John's warm length with one last, satisfied lick from root to tip. "Let's get rid of the excess clothing," he suggested. John smiled. "Sounds like a plan." Carson reached up and helped pull John's clothing off, and they both went at Carson's as well. John's hands on his body were firm and strong and Carson shivered at the touch. He could hear Rodney's ragged breath as his lover watched them touching, exploring one another's skin. Dark, rough hair covered John's chest, and he was lean and beautifully built. Carson had done his physical when he'd been accepted into the Atlantis expedition, but this was always so different than clinical touch. He tried not to let himself appreciate the people he examined. It didn't mean he never thought about it, but the people he treated were largely forbidden to him. This, though -- they were going God alone knew where, and they might never return, and there were only about two hundred of them. The rules were a little different, and after all, he and Rodney had run into John in a bar. It wasn't like Carson had made a pass at him in the exam room. He let himself taste John's skin, licking his way up that long, pale flank. John shuddered under his tongue, eyes narrowing, and he gasped. "Oh, that's nice," John whispered, "really nice." "Just wait," Carson promised, nipping at the rise of John's hipbone. Rodney moaned beside them. John's hand was still in Carson's hair, and his fingers tightened. "What is it with you and the whole waiting thing?" Carson grinned. "It's so much sweeter when you're patient." "So you wanna play Doctor?" John's eyes were alight. Carson let his hands stray, palms tracing the hard curves of John's arse. "I think you need a thorough exam," he agreed. "Carson, get on with it," Rodney snapped. Carson gave him a long look then stood and pulled Rodney close, slipping his cock in his lover's mouth. "Shut it, Rodney. I'm a bit busy right now." Rodney's mouth was hot, and he tried to say something but gave up quickly and fell to a slow, teasing treatment of Carson's already hard shaft. John made a quiet noise. "Oh, man. Oh, that's just... oh yeah." He arched against Carson's body and Carson pulled him close, exploring with hands and mouth as Rodney sucked. There weren't many things in life that Carson thought better than having two lovers to play with. Rodney was a constant in his life, certainly, but John was a far more handsome man than they usually ended up with at the end of a night. The whole thing was really quite exciting. "I'm goin' to fuck you, hard as you like," Carson said, licking at John's ear. "I'll give it to you, hard and fast and so deep you can taste it." John shuddered and his arms tightened around Carson's body. "Oh, god yeah." He was staring at Rodney, who was sucking Carson's cock, and Carson's hips moving slowly, thrusting into his mouth. "God, I want that in me," he growled. The words sent a shower of sparks through Carson's body and he shivered. "Oh, you'll have it, lad." His voice was rough with his arousal and he thrust harder into Rodney's mouth. Rodney braced himself and swallowed Carson down. Carson gasped, holding onto his control, and took Rodney's hair in his hand, pulling him gently back a bit. "Not yet, love." It wouldn't do to take anything too fast. He wanted them all to enjoy this. John was sucking at Carson's neck, his fingers playing with Carson's nipples. Carson made a soft, aroused sound and slipped his cock out of Rodney's mouth. "Stay there," he told Rodney, keeping him kneeling next to the bed. Releasing Rodney's hair, he took John in his arms. Head tilted back, he let John lick and nip at his throat. The man's mouth was hard and hot and Carson groaned from deep in his chest. He wrapped one hand in John's hair for a moment, the other on the man's waist, shifting his weight and bearing them both down to the bed. Rodney gave a quiet whimper but said nothing. John hit the bed with a muffled 'oof' and grinned up at Carson. "Oh yeah." He ground his cock against Carson's body. "I want me some of that." Carson's breath was ragged, heat rising in him as he thrust against John's slowly moving body. He bit, mouth full of skin and muscle. John gasped, shivering beneath him. He slid one hand under John's thigh, tugging his leg up and slipping his hips between them. "I'm goin' to fuck you," he growled. "Goin' to give it to you so deep." John writhed under him, gasping. "Now, yeah. Fuck me now." Carson could see Rodney from the corner of his eye. His lover was leaning forward, eyes wide, holding his lower lip between his teeth. Rodney rocked slightly, back and forth, but avoided leaning into the mattress. He knew he wasn't allowed the stimulus. Carson reached for the bedside table, pulling condoms and a tube of lube from the drawer. "I know how much you want it," Carson said, his voice low and harsh. "You'll love it when I fill you up, John. I bet you're tight, aren't you?" John nodded, desire in his eyes. "Please, Carson. Don't make me wait. I want this." Carson raised himself up a bit, ripping the condom packet open with his teeth and tossing it aside. He smoothed the tight latex over his shaft, trying not to make himself come with the stimulation. Dropping the lube on the bed, he reached blindly into the bag he'd left on the bed. A moment later, his fingers found what he sought. Pulling a small purple cockring from the bag, he stretched it and rolled it over himself, tucking his balls through. It would help him maintain control until he was ready to come. John watched, panting quietly, his hands moving on Carson's sides. "That is so hot," Rodney whispered. "Fuck him. I want to watch you fuck him." "Hush," Carson said, "or I'll make you wait until tomorrow morning to come." Rodney's mouth snapped shut, an expression of absolute agony on his face. Carson knew it was an effort for him not to speak, but the control was good for him. He picked up the lube and slicked himself, then smoothed some between John's cheeks, letting his finger circle the opening there. John moaned and his hips bucked. He'd asked for a hard fuck, and Carson was going to give him one. John was muttering, "Yesyesyes," as Carson shifted his weight again. He pressed himself against John and John gasped. "Oh, yeah." With a long, slow thrust, Carson drove into him, not bothering to stretch him. If it was a hard fuck he wanted, a hard fuck he'd get. John groaned, loud and long. "Oh, god, Carson!" "You like it, lad?" Carson growled. "I'm goin' to take you hard. Hold on to me." John clung to Carson's shoulders, wrapping his arms under Carson's and gritting his teeth as Carson started thrusting, slow but deep. John was tight, moaning, his chest heaving under Carson's. "Harder," John begged. "Please, god, that's good. That's so fucking good." Carson held John tight and moved faster, thrusting harder. Rodney looked about to burst, color high on his cheeks and chest. Carson could see his nipples standing tight and hard on his broad chest. He loved that about Rodney, seeing his responses, watching him falling into his role as voyeur. Every emotion, every desire sped across Rodney's face and Carson knew he was deeply aroused. John was moaning, bucking under Carson and meeting every thrust. "Oh yeah, please, god, you're big. So hard." His voice wavered, shaking like his body did. "Fuck me deeper. Need this." Carson was panting now, pumping into John. "Rodney," he gasped. "Come up here." He raised himself, his thrusts slowing. "No," John protested. "More. Want more." Rodney nodded at Carson, knowing what was coming next. "Up here," he said, nodding at John. He took another slick condom and opened the packet, rolling it down over John's long, hard shaft. "Ride him, Rodney. Fuck yourself on him, but don't come. I'll tell you when you can come." "Oh yeah," Rodney moaned. He eased himself over John's body facing away from Carson, hands still bound behind his back. Carson held John's cock steady and John wailed as Rodney sank down on him, impaling himself on John's length. Carson slipped his arms around his lover, biting and sucking at Rodney's shoulder as he started thrusting again, harder and faster. John was gasping and shouting incoherently, tears in his eyes. Rodney's hips rolled and bucked, trying not to cry out as Carson teased and pinched his nipples. Carson could hear him choke and whimper. "That's right, love, let me hear you," Carson gasped. "Carson," Rodney shouted. "Oh, god. That's -- that's, oh, fuck. Oh, yeah." He knew Rodney hadn't been stretched or lubed either, though there was enough lube on the condom to keep things safe. Rodney liked it that way, needing the way it felt inside him, and Carson loved to give him what he needed. He peeked over Rodney's shoulder, looking down at John's sweating face and chest and Rodney's bound, weeping cock. It had to be one of the most beautiful sights Carson knew. "Tell me what you feel," Carson demanded, hips moving as he pounded into John's body. "Tell me what it's like to have him fucking you." "So hard," Rodney gasped. "God, he's in me so deep. It's amazing." Rodney's head fell back onto Carson's shoulders and Carson twisted Rodney's nipples hard. Rodney yelped, his cock jerking inside the metal rings. "Oh shit, Carson. God, I need to come." "No," Carson said. "Not until I tell you. Just feel it, love. Feel him fuck you." John shuddered under them, trying hard to thrust, pinned by Carson's cock buried deep inside him. "So good," he moaned. "Oh, yeah. God, harder. There's... oh, yeah. More, please." John reached up, his hands moving along Rodney's shoulders and arms, caressing restlessly, his fingers tightening, leaving red marks behind. Carson was lost in sensation, barely hanging on to his control. He loved this; loved pushing a man to the edge of his endurance as he dangled at the edge of his own orgasm. He loved watching how they hung on desperately when he fucked them, and how Rodney held back as hard as he could. It made his heart thunder, the way they moaned and moved under him, the way the salt came up on their skin as they sweated. John was slick with it now, his thighs slippery around Carson's hips. The heat of John around him and Rodney in his arms was intoxicating, and the scent of their arousal was thick and unmistakable. It slipped between his ribs, tightening Carson's chest and he closed his eyes, head falling back. Rodney's gasped breath was harsh in his ear. It rarely mattered to Carson who the third man was, so long as it was Rodney in his arms, in his bed, when all was said and done. This, though -- John was extraordinary. The man was beautiful, all lean lines and muscle and wild, sweat-damp hair. His hazel eyes were narrowed, dark and wild with heat and desire. "More," John begged, and Carson pounded into him even harder, holding Rodney to his chest like a lifeline. "Come, John," Carson growled, and John shuddered under him, howling and bucking into Rodney. Carson could feel the tight heat around his cock as John spasmed around him, blessing the cockring he'd put on. Without it, he'd be coming now himself, and he wasn't ready. Rodney was gasping -- high, harsh whimpers through gritted teeth. Carson could tell he was holding on with all his might, resisting orgasm as Carson demanded. "Off him, Rodney," Carson panted. "But--" "Off him, now!" Gasping, Rodney nodded then pulled off John's still jerking cock. Carson watched as Rodney leaned forward, his hole still open from John's penetration, the gleam of the metal ring under his balls. He shut his eyes hard for a moment, the image seared in his mind, hot enough to burn. He felt Rodney roll to one side and Carson leaned forward, wrapping himself around John as he fucked him harder, drawing out the last of John's shuddering orgasm. He could smell the semen, sharp and masculine, and the salt tang of John's sweat. He was buried balls deep in John as the man beneath him stilled. Looking over at Rodney, Carson said, "Kneel for me." Rodney nodded, kneeling next to them, facing Carson. Keeping up a slow, steady rhythm between John's legs, he leaned close to Rodney, licking the head of his cock. Rodney shuddered, gooseflesh rising on his skin. "Carson," he gasped. "Oh god." "Oh, damn," John panted. "Fuckdamn." His arms fell to his sides, limp. His eyes slipped shut. "Wow." Moving slowly, Carson leaned up from Rodney, kissing him with passionate intensity as he gently withdrew from John's body. Rodney moaned into his mouth. Gasping to catch his breath, Carson looked Rodney in the eye. "I'm goin' to fuck you now, love. Come up beside me and bend over for me." Rodney nodded, the desire in his eyes consuming both of them. "Please," Rodney whispered, his breath harsh and ragged. He shuffled further down the bed until he was next to Carson and leaned one shoulder on the mattress, nuzzling at John's side. Waiting a moment to get control of his need to come, Carson peeled the condom off, pulling it from under the cockring. He tossed it on the floor. "John?" he asked. John nodded, eyes bright and shuttered. "Wanna watch you do him," he said, his breath still uneven, chest heaving. Carson shifted John's leg and moved behind Rodney, caressing him softly with his hands and mouth. Rodney's moans were muffled against John's skin, and John reached up and cuddled Rodney's head against him under one arm. "Open up for me, love," Carson said softly. "I want you so much." "Please, Carson." Rodney opened his knees wider, shifting his weight to move his legs. He was so beautiful to Carson; demanding and fickle in some ways, but so submissive when they played like this. They found so much pleasure together. Carson could never quite get enough of him like this. He slipped inside carefully, loving this. Rodney's body was so familiar, so comforting amid all the changes of Carson's life, and when they joined like this there was an incredible tenderness between them. Rodney groaned softly, sucking at John's skin. John just watched them, something close to wonder in his eyes as Carson sank into Rodney all the way. He moved, thrusting slow and deep into his lover's body, hands caressing the skin of Rodney's hips. Rodney pushed back against Carson, leaning his weight into him, keeping Carson deep inside him. Carson's slow movement stoked the fire in his belly, need rising in him. He could feel Rodney trembling under him, knowing the slow strokes were brushing the sweet spot inside. "Need you, Carson," Rodney whispered, his voice shaking. "Need to come, please. Let me come." "Not yet, love." Carson kept up the steady rhythm, teasing them both to the edge. He needed it just as much as Rodney did, wanted it just as much. He leaned down over Rodney's body, bound hands under his belly. John stroked Carson's face with one still-trembling hand and Carson closed his eyes against the sensation, biting his lip in an effort to keep from coming. "Please," Rodney begged, voice shuddering like his body. "Please." Carson covered Rodney's shoulder with kisses, thrusting deeper until he could stand it no longer. His balls tightened against his body, the cockring finally not enough to keep orgasm at bay. With a shout, eyes squeezed shut, Carson let go, coming hard. "Now, Rodney," he gasped. Rodney shouted, loud against John's body. "Oh, god," John whispered. "God, that's so hot." Carson shook, his cock jerking inside his lover. "Oh, oh fuck." With a groan, he tightened his arms around Rodney, pulling them both up onto their knees and letting Rodney's weight deepen his penetration, riding the wave of sensation. He gasped, watching Rodney's bound cock spurting, thick white come fountaining up his belly. Rodney jerked in his arms, shuddering as he gasped for breath. Carson held him with all his strength, still coming inside him, intense and burning. "Carson..." Rodney's voice shook and he slumped against Carson, exhausted, his body slicked with sweat. Finally, drained, Carson's grip loosened. "Oh, god, love." "That was amazing," John said softly, watching as Carson and Rodney slumped next to him. Carson carefully pulled the cockring off, dropping it onto the bedside table. With shaking hands, Carson unclipped Rodney's wrist restraints. Rodney sighed and smiled, unbuckling them and tossing them on the floor. Carson unclipped the cock restraint from the strap around Rodney's waist then gently removed the metal and leather restraint from Rodney's flaccid cock, tossing the strap and restraint to the floor with the wrist restraints. He took Rodney's cheek in one hand and kissed him, soft and deep. Their mouths were dry from panting, but it was warm and comfortable; familiar and so needed. Carson moaned softly into Rodney's mouth and Rodney wrapped his arms around Carson, rolling atop him as John moved out of the way. Carson could feel John's hand on his side as Rodney held him, taking now as he'd given before. Carson felt the love in the kiss, passion suffusing their embrace. Carson pulled back, his lips tracing Rodney's chin, trailing down his throat until he found the collar there. His tongue drew a damp line along the buckle and they rolled, Carson atop Rodney now. John's hand moved along Carson's waist to the small of his back, then slid gently up his spine until it rested between his shoulder blades. Rodney's chin lifted, and Carson unbuckled the collar with his teeth. A moment later, Rodney reached up and tugged it from around his neck. It followed the other toys to the floor. "God, I love you," Rodney whispered. They shifted again, Carson rolling against Rodney until his back rested against Rodney's chest. John watched, silent. Rodney's arms closed around Carson, holding him tight, warmth seeping into his body. Carson's eyes slipped half closed. "Guess I should call a cab," John said softly. Carson shook his head, the motion echoed by Rodney behind him. "No," he said. "Usually we don't... we do this in a hotel room, and we leave afterwards, but --" He took a breath. "John, you're no stranger. We'd like you to stay with us tonight." "Yeah," Rodney said, nodding, his chin bumping against Carson's shoulder. He reached out to John. John hesitated for a moment then slid closer to them. Carson opened his arms as well. John tucked himself under Carson's arm and Rodney enveloped both of them. Carson sighed, blissful. The lights were still on. They weren't under the covers. He didn't care. There would be time later. For now, he was warm and content in his lover's arms, snug between Rodney and John. ~~pau~~

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse. . . ~ Truth: humanity is contemptibly indecisive, hovering on the border between animal and god. Pathetic. Still, it has managed to produce a few things worth while. Things like capitalism, psychology, and the clean elegance of science. Wesker's made considerable use of all three on his long, twisting road toward his goals, using them to pick bits of gold out of the dross around him. Here a bit of blackmail, there a drug of just the right sort, an occasional bribe to leverage someone's greed. . . He smiles at that particular thought, settling deeper into his high backed executive's chair. Bribery is a large part of what has brought him today's particular little triumph. Who'd have thought his long ago investment in one soldier would have turned out so well? When he's first payed to have Krauser's helicopter brought down and the man stranded, he'd had only thoughts of acquiring an inside agent, a disposable turncoat he could re-mould to fit his needs. And when he'd pulled the man out of the twisted wreckage, bloodied and half-crippled, he'd thought his prey nothing more then a back ally tomcat, hissing and spitting against being tamed for the first time. But that scruffy alley cat has become quite a tiger. Loyal and savage and hungry, always hungry for fresh prey. He keeps the vermin out of Umbrella with ruthless efficiency. A favoured pet. So when he asked for a toy, well. Who was Wesker to deny him? One has to reward good behaviour. And again an unexpected payout. Kennedy had been quite the thorn what with his networking in the government, poking his nose into situations and sending in his own agents to topple Wesker's little projects. But now he is nothing but prey, well and truly caught. An offering for Krauser to lay at Wesker's feet. Wesker glances at his watch. Not long now till he sees his newest acquisition. ~ Signing on with Umbrella is easier then it should be, but then, so is pretty much everything that's horribly bad for you. Maybe it would be harder if it weren't all so aching familiar. This isn't the first time Leon's been manipulated into working for people he hates, and as he stands naked and cold in the Umbrella examination room he lets his thoughts drift back to Sherry. His old ball and chain. Has the government looked after her all these years? They promised to but that means pretty much shit, and he's never been able to check in to his satisfaction, never been allowed to see her after that last goodbye. She'd be . . . God, she'd be close to twenty by now. She'll need a college fund. In his will he'd left her all his money, all his things. It had seemed only right - she's his last tie, the closest thing he's got to family. He wonders if she'll get it. He likes to think that Hunnigan will make sure she does. He likes to think, in some broken part of him still remaining, that Hunnigan cares. Certainly she'd been the only bright bit of warmth in his time with the government, and that's something that's mirrored back at him here, too. Everyone at Umbrella has cold, dead eyes. Empty. With just one spot of warmth: Jack. He's watching Leon with a faint smile hitching his scarred lips. Patronizing-proud as Umbrella's scientists give Leon his physical. It makes the touch of strangers almost bearable. The lead scientist makes soft, pleased sounds as she runs her hand down Leon's spine a final time. There's nothing sensual about it, just the impersonal touch of an inspector appreciating meat of a quality cut, fit for the king's own table. And he'll be served up nice and fresh - Jack is taking him to see Wesker as soon as the docs are done. Visiting my new boss, the murderer of Raccoon City and Tsar of bio-Terrorists. That'll be a barrel of laughs. I wonder if I can get away with just a casual 'Your Evilness,' or if I should use something more formal. Tch. Either way, something tells me I probably shouldn't give him any one-fingered salutes. No matter how tempting he might find it. Never mind what Wesker'll do, it'll piss of Jack, and Leon won't do that. Can't do that. Not anymore. "Get dressed, Woman. We don't want to keep the boss waiting." Jack pushes clothing into Leon's hands. Jack's castoffs. They hang in loose folds over Leon's smaller frame. The tanktop's a billowy tunic on him, slipping off a shoulder and making him feel rumpled and half dressed; the cammo pants are so large he's got the pull the drawstrings to the limit to keep them from falling straight off his hips. At least his boots are his own, and he tucks the pant legs into them to keep the fabric from puddling on the floor. He straightens up. Pauses to let Jack inspect him. Big hand on Leon's jaw, tilting his face to the light. Jack brushes Leon's hair from his face, lingers on Leon's cheekbone, fingers the curve of his ear and then toys with the drop earring that hangs there in a long line of silver. "Pretty," says Jack, and Leon feels his skin heat as a rush of feelings makes blush smoulder on his cheeks and ears, the back of his neck. God, he just wants to preen, lean into Jack's touch and put himself on display. His lips part. He wets them with his tongue because he wants to kiss Jack, wants to be kissed, his mouth opened up and used. Dressed in Jack's clothing and wrapped in Jack's scent, branded by those earrings as Jack's woman and it's still not enough. He still wants, more then anything, for Jack to prove how much he wants Leon. Remembering the months he'd been kept in the cell helps, the effort that went into it, the merciless patience in Krauser's advances. The people Jack killed for him. The weeks kept in Jack's rooms are good memories, too. Jack fucking him as he pleased, hands all over Leon's skin and in his hair, his come in Leon's mouth and ass. The way he'd made Leon say it, over and over between kisses: "I'm your woman, Jack. Just yours. All yours." But the fear still lingers like a shadow at the back of Leon's soul, unfading despite the memories, the reassurances, the brands. Am I always gonna be like this?, he wonders as Jack rewards him with a single lazy swipe of his tongue across Leon's lips, then turns and leads him out of the lab. Is this what happens when you let yourself become dependant? Whatever illusions he'd had about this being temporary are long since gone, burned away in a bloodied jail cell, Jack's hand on his dick. Jack shattered him in those months of captivity, and the mosaic he's built with the pieces of Leon's soul is the picture of a cripple. No matter what happens now, Leon is tied firmly -no. No, he's chained- to Jack. What song was it that said 'I will go down with this ship'? He smiles wistfully. His future is a seemingly endless white hallway, with Jack's broad back before him, leading the way into hell. And yet . . . . . . and yet, there's something still there inside him. A vision of his former self settling into the shadows. Waiting. Patient. He'd been a sniper once, and Jack had been his spotter. In time, Wesker will learn what that really means. ~ Wesker's office is the luxury version of an examination room. White walls and white floor and white ceiling. The cold, unforgiving lines of a stainless steel desk, the blue flicker of computer terminals, the ugly white light of fluorescents above. The windows behind show nothing but the expanse of Umbrella's compound, a tangle of cement rectangles with mirrored windows that look more like fortresses then the buildings of a modern workplace. The man sitting in the executive chair behind the desk is looks just about as warm and inviting. It's Leon's first meeting with Wesker, and he's struck by the power of his simple presence. The man's handsome face is expressionless, his eyes invisible behind mirrored shades as he steeples his fingers and leans his elbows on the desk. Black leather head to toe, and hands covered in gloves of it besides, Leon notes. Odd detail. And the overall effect is of something predaceous and removed. Cold and hard. Chris Redfield had called Wesker a snake in his reports. First impression makes it seem like a pretty accurate description. Jack braces to attention a few feet from the desk. "Reporting as ordered, Sir." He reaches, and Leon's body is moving before his brain even registers what Jack wants. He comes to stand by Jack's side, straight and proud and leaning into Jack's touch on the nape of his neck as he's presented: "My woman, Leon." Wesker's non-expression doesn't so much as flicker, but Leon's skin is suddenly pebbled with goosebumps as he feels the burning laser of Wesker's mirrored gaze focus on him. "Ah, yes. And so we meet at last, Leon Scott Kennedy." He tilts his head and his lips twitch into something pretending to be a smile. "You were supposed to be my subordinate in the RPD, you know, though that fell through rather abruptly. But despite it all it seems you truly were destined to work for me in the end." The single best thing about having worked for the government is that it taught Leon how to respond to self-congratulatory hot air: you stare just slightly to the left and above of your superior's right ear and you say, "Sir. Yes, Sir." Wesker chuckles darkly, the soft rattle of a viper's tail, and stands. The movement is off because he just unfolds his legs and straightens easily, doesn't bother to brace himself on the desk as he rises despite having been off-balance leaned over like that. Humans don't move that way. Jack, despite what he's infected himself with, doesn't move that way. What the hell is this guy? Whatever Wesker is exactly is unimportant; Leon's instincts have risen up within him and clamped down tight because Wesker is dangerous and vicious and looking for an excuse, any excuse, to lash out and make Leon bleed. He stands before Leon and his touch, when it comes, is feather-light; the glove leather is so soft and fine it might as well be Wesker's own skin. The heat of his body soaks through easily and leaves smouldering trails on Leon's shoulder, on the trailing line of Leon's collarbone, on Leon's throat. He's watching Leon's face the whole time, and Leon feels like Wesker can see all the broken bits of his soul, feels like Wesker can see him naked. He feels sick at the thought, and fights not to show it. Because Wesker is hungry. Hungry and waiting for a mistake. Leon avoids the trap of watching himself in Wesker's mirrored shades and instead stares resolutely at the ceiling as he slowly, deliberately tips his head back just the inch needed to bare his throat to this man. To this thing. Wesker hums low. Presses fingers to Leon's pulse point and lingers there one long, silent moment. Then he tugs teasingly at one of Leon's earrings. Releases him. "My compliments, Krauser. She's a lovely woman." First test passed. Yeah, and a lifetime more to go, he bitches to himself. Why don't I ever get recruited by people who throw parties for new- The sudden, jabbing memory almost breaks him out of his disciplined stance: a folding table loaded with party hats and paper plates, cups and soda and a card. 'Congratulations on your assignment to the Raccoon City Police department. . .' And blood. Blood everywhere, and the smell of death because everyone who'd been supposed to welcome him had been killed, defiled, and then had to be killed again. Because of Wesker. They promised to take good care of me, he remembers. What a joke. His gaze flickers to Jack, and the broken pieces of Leon's mind grate against one another. Thank god that neither of them is watching him in that moment, Jack staring fixedly ahead and Wesker busy settling back into his chair and tapping at his computer console, because hate and despair make Leon's face twist into something ugly. "Her preliminary examinations are quite promising," says Wesker, and Leon's expression is instantly back under control, his gaze back on this thing he'll have to call boss. Blue light flickers on Wesker's face, backwards phrases scrolling upwards on his mirrored shades as he continues, "Certainly outstanding for an un-augmented specimen. And looking back over the surveillance reports it seems she's come quite nicely to heel. How pleasant to find obedience without having to resort to more. . . forceful methods, since P30 simply isn't practical for long term use yet." Wesker's head cocks and Leon can feel that mirrored gaze on him again, calculating and alien. "Though I will confess, I would have been happy to have a second test subject for the project. And perhaps . . . well. No need to get ahead of ourselves. She won't be going anywhere, after all." Jack smiles at that, but Leon knows Jack, knows him the way Wesker can't possibly, and he knows that smile is off. Just the fraction of a fraction of an inch but - it's not wide enough. It's not smug enough. Interesting. Wesker is still talking. Grandstanding, arrogant son of a bitch Redfield's report had said. Still accurate. "In any event, we must welcome her properly into the fold. There will be a corporate gala this Saturday. Bring your woman, Krauser. She can be our debutante. I'll have appropriate clothing sent to your apartment. "Now. Leave." "Sir," says Jack, and he leads Leon back out of the office. Leon follows blindly, mind busy picking apart what he's seen and what he's learned. Looks like I'm gonna get a welcome party after all. An Umbrella welcome party. Well, there's only one thing he can say about that: Shit. ~ Jack's quarters are an executive suite. Three spacious rooms that include a small private gym, a sitting room with a fat couch and a flat television, and bedroom who's bed blows right past king-sized to 'driveway'. There's carpet on the floor and a balcony overlooking the park area of one of the compounds, books to read and DVDs to watch, but there's only one thing Leon really cares about: the bathroom. Specifically, the tub. After months in a goddamn cell with only a sink and some hand soap or prison showers to get clean, the bathtub is a magical oasis of pristine white plastic sunk deep into the floor. It can fit three football players. It has jets. It is fucking heated. And there's all the soap and shampoo he could ever ask for. He's been sunk up to his nose in hot water for almost an hour now, easing sore muscles from his morning workout. Punching bag and weights, sure, but he's been putting in the most time on the treadmill, relishing the feel of stretching his legs into a jog, a run, a sprint. In a little while he'll haul himself out of the tub and do his duties cleaning the apartment for his man, but for now. . . . . . the door chime rings. What? He freezes, unsure what he should do. Jack's never forbidden him from answering the door, but then again, he's never said Leon was allowed to, either. The chime rings again. Leon bites his lower lip and weighs his options. Finally calls out, "Hang on! I'll be there in a minute." He hauls himself out of the tub and gives himself a cursory towelling before yanking on clean clothing. He's not answering the door in nothing but a towel - Jack wouldn't like him giving someone else a show, and Leon himself feels sick at the thought of being so vulnerable without Jack nearby. He shoves his feet into his boots and grabs one last thing - the knife. Jack's knife, Leon's knife, as much as anything is really Leon's, left in the apartment for Leon to use in emergencies. Armed and armoured, he presses himself to the door frame. "What is it?" He doesn't open the door. "I have some packages for you from Chairman Wesker, Miss." Miss. His first reaction is irritation that he doesn't even rate a "Ma'am", his second is unease about the female tags. His third is certainty that it isn't Jack's doing. Leon is Jack's woman, but it's a title, a place in the man's life and his bed. It's not . . . whatever this is. 'My compliments, Krauser. She's a lovely woman,' says the memory of Wesker. Leon's stomach feels hollow, his eyes feel hot. Yeah, he knows who's started this new trend, and his thoughts roil and clash and finally fade away to white noise. Blank. Ready for whatever disaster it is he's sensing. "Drop them in front of the door and go." "Yes, miss." He doesn't hear the packages drop, nor the man leave. Wishes there was a peephole. Settles for waiting. Ten, fifteen minutes? He doesn't know. Long enough to feel confident about easing open the door, knife at the ready and muscles tense. The coast is clear, and so Leon turns his attention to the packages. There are two of them: a shoebox, and one of the long, flat boxes used for dress shirts. His mouth is dry. He picks them up and brings them inside, wanders into the bedroom and sets them on the bedcovers. And, with numb fingers, he opens the flat box. He pushes though thin grey paper and it's like clearing away storm clouds - the pale blue of winter sky is revealed. Silk of fine quality, embroidered with white peonies. His mind is still filled with the blank hiss of static as he pulls it out to see the full shape of this fresh . . . . Insult? Compliment? His head pounds and he has to clench his teeth, squeeze his eyes shut, and he tosses the dress onto the bed before he can ruin it as he fights himself. I'm Jack's woman. His woman, he tells himself, fingers tangling in his wet hair. And women wear dresses all the time. It's okay. It's goddamn fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Fine . . . He opens his eyes and he's looking into the room's floor length mirror. He can see himself, still damp from the bath, hair messed and muscles knotted into wire from the strain pulling at his mind. His earrings flash and sparkle because he's trembling, shaking, head going side to side in silent "no, no, no". He can see the boxes behind him on the bed. Shoebox. Unopened. He turns. Reaches out. And, as if diffusing a bomb, slips the cover off the shoebox with aching slowness. Inside there's a pair of high heels. ~ It's a damn good thing Krauser has a private gym because if Leon had had to use a public one, if Leon had even crossed paths with someone on the way there, he'd have killed them. Painted the fucking walls with their blood and gone looking for more because the rage inside him has erupted in a volcanic orgy of destruction. The world around him is fogged over with the red of animal anger. Unthinking. Unrelenting. Uncontrolled. He can't stop himself as he goes at the punching bag in Krauser's gym, battering the sack until the material is spotted darker with his own blood, then streaked, then sticky-rust as his knuckles split and bleed, as the skin is scrapped off his fingers, as he pulps his hands in an effort to vomit out this horrific feeling inside himself. bastard bastard BASTARD BASTARD. The word is a tornado inside his mind, spinning around the image of Wesker and growing in seething power. He hasn't pushed himself this far since the day he'd gone stir crazy, hasn't been this mad since he finally broke. Sweating and bleeding, and fists aren't doing it, it's not enough. His foot lashes out in a vicious, heavy kick and sends the bag rocketing away from him. That's better. That's good. Roundhouses and snapping side kicks, moves that force him to twist his body and whip himself around in vicious knots that uncoil faster than thought. The bag jerks and dances before him and the air burns through his lungs. He shoves the the wet hair from his face and with a final, animal snarl, kicks that fucking bag so hard it rips and bleeds it's sandy guts out onto the gym floor. He falls to his knees and buries his fingers in the mess, clawing it, using it to draw the knotted scribbles of his anger. He pants. Slowly, the rage inside him sputters down and down, until it is embers in his brain. His strength goes out and he collapses onto the floor, barely manages to heave himself onto his back and lie there, sweating and bleeding and filthy with sand. He can't think yet. He can't even really feel anymore, too exhausted and burnt out to manage any kind of connection with himself. He lies there for god knows how long, getting chilled and stiff, gaze fixed on the ceiling, frozen in that moment. Eventually he hears the door open. "Leon?" Krauser. He doesn't answer. Can't. Just lies there on the floor. "Leon? Where are you, Woman?" His head lolls to the side as he chokes back a sudden surge of bile. Sick, sick, this is so fucking sick. He can hear soft swearing as Krauser moves through the apartment. It stops when he reaches the bedroom. Silence. Krauser's seen the dress. Does he like it? Is he smiling? Does he like the heels, strappy little silver things that'll hike Leon up four extra inches? He closes his eyes and breaths, and when he opens them again Krauser is in the door way staring down at him. Anger stirs, the first, bright sparks of it fireflying though Leon's heart at the sight of the man because it's his fault, it's all Krauser's fault. Every last sick, ugly bit of this, and Leon wants to rip the man's face from his skull and make him scream. But. But if he did that- If he- Hands holding him down as he chokes on cock, as he's fucked, as he's raped. He can't forget, not that moment, not the fear that came with it, not the safety Krauser brought with him and because of that, he hesitates. Lost. Unsure. Krauser is sure enough for both of them. He swaggers into the gym, unsmiling and utterly silent. He takes in the scene with a glance, focusing his gaze on Leon and pinning him down with it. He's got the high ground here as he towers above Leon's prone form, and he ruthlessly exploits it - Leon finds he can't speak under that gaze, his mouth working but nothing coming out. Not curses, not excuses, not begging. Krauser kneels beside him and picks up the wreckage of one of Leon's hands, works the fingers and strokes bloodied skin, and frowns as Leon winces. He grabs Leon by the front of his tanktop, hauls him up and backhands him so hard Leon's head snaps back, tastes blood in his mouth as his lip splits. Punishment for having damaged Jack's property. Then Krauser drops him. Leon's head bounces painfully on the floor. He grunts, twitches, then stirs weakly as he realizes Jack is yanking at Leon's boots. It seems like only moments until Krauser's got him stripped, but Krauser himself stays fully dressed in sharp contrast to Leon. Leon shuts his eyes. He knows where this is going. His legs are hoisted up, over Krauser's shoulders. It puts his ass on display, and he feels his face heat as his butt is cupped and given an appreciative squeeze. He bites his lip when a thumb traces the crack of his ass with slow deliberation, bites harder when his cheeks are spread. Finally, two of Jack's fingers push inside. And it feels good. Angry as he is, damaged as he is, lost and sick and bleeding, and still a shiver of pleasure skates down Leon's spine as Jack works in deeper. Three fingers now, spreading as wide as they possibly can. It's obscene to be open and empty and waiting to be filled as Jack sees fit, too close to the truth that Leon just wants to ignore, just wants to forget forever and ever. But there's nothing to be done. He can't fight it, not with his legs over his head and stripped naked like this, Jack's fingers deep in his ass and his body wrecked from his earlier frenzy. Not when this, at least, he understands. How could he not? It's just such a graphic show of dominance, Krauser only unzipping his pants enough to pull out his dick, otherwise clothed and in control. Jack pinning him down. Jack holding him open. Jack pushing into him, the blunt head of his dick pushing past that first loosened ring of muscle and forging a path in, and in, and in. Deeper than his fingers reached by far, and Leon's back arches and the delightful feel of being hollowed out and burrowed into. Despite himself his legs tense, abused muscles burning as his ankle hook together behind Jack's head to pull him closer. And when Jack buries his free hand in Leon's sodden, sweaty hair Leon can't help but sigh with appreciation. "I'll take good care of you." Jack fucks him with the ease of long practice, gathering him up and holding him close so Leon is as good as folded in half, Jack's powerful arms locking around his body to keep him captive. Trapped as he is, abused body aching and useless, he's as good as a toy for Jack to use as he sees fit. But it's worse than that. Because his battered body might refuse to answer to Leon's call but it sure hears Jack's, limbs curling up and around to clutch and pet, to stroke in long, slow passes over the broad expanse of Jack's shoulders as thrust after thrust rock's Leon's frame, toes curling in delight at the bright, ticklish shocks of pleasure, dick hardening into an eager line point up toward Leon's face. "I'll take good care of you." It feels good. It feels good and Leon likes it and likes that Jack's the one who does it to him. What should have been a brutal fucking is instead a slow seduction, as those powerful, rocking thrusts batter down the armour of his hate. Thrust, and Leon shudders. Thrust, and he's drowning in Jack's scent, heavy with sweat and musk. Thrust, and he's trying to match their breathing, straining to synch them up to make this better, to find the rhythm. Thrust, and he falls into place, Jack's echo, Jack's shadow . . . Jack's woman. Sex from there is a familiar duet as Leon's body clenches around Jack, as his ass tightens and grips and it's obscene to think this way but it honest to god feels like it's sucking Jack's cock as deep as it can, drawing him in further. "Jack." Not a name, but a sound. A low groan of pleasure. "Jack." And when orgasm comes it's like a revelation. Slow sparking warmth and delight that bursts into a brilliant sunrise, Jack pouring hot come into his body and filling him with peace. He barely even notices when he hits his own shuddering peak and plummet, too busy kissing Jack, rubbing against him, nuzzling the line of his jaw. They're tangled up in each other, a knot of limbs that slumps to the ground and wallows in sweat and spilled sand. To Leon it seems like a piece of forever. Safe. Happy. But he's so tired. So tired. Can't keep his eyes open, worn out from his fight and his surrender. There's one thing left, though. "Jack," he mumbles. "The shoes. I'll break an ankle if I try to fight in 'em. Please." "I'll take care of it," Jack says. "I'll take good care of you." ~ Two days later Jack comes home with a pair of combat boots. They reek to high heaven with a chemical twang that digs into the sinuses, but when Leon sees them he drops to his knees, rips open Jack's pants and sucks down his cock like he's goddamn starving for it because he is. Because the boots stink from the spray paint Jack used to gild them silver. Glitter-pretty like the high heels to match the dress except they're something Leon can fight in. It's a compromise Leon hadn't dared to imagine, and he's completely blown away that Jack would risk Wesker's anger by messing with the man's explicit choice of wardrobe for Leon. He sucks Jack off fast and hard right there in the entrance way, gulping down his jizz, coughing a little because he's swallowed too fast, then shuffling them both over to the couch in the sitting room were he gets Jack off again, but slow this time. Little suckling kisses up and down the length of Jack's dick, lapping at the head of it before nuzzling into the curling nest of Jack's pubes to breath in his musk. Jack's fingers tangling in Leon's hair. No pulling, no attempt to control, just a gently possessive touch as Leon strokes his thumb over the velveteen softness of Jack's balls. He gets Jack off with his hands as much as his mouth, and this time when Jack comes Leon draws back and lets it spatter across his face: the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his lashes as his eyes flutter shut. Jack rumbles a deep, pleased purr, and draws Leon up to sit in his lap. He rubs the tented front of Leon's pants. Gropes under Leon's tank top to pluck at a nipple. It's just idle touch, though. Already Jack's eyes are narrowing to slits, a feline expression of contentment. In a few moments he'll be asleep. But just before he drifts off, he mumbles something. Leon leans in closer. "What?" "Knew you'd like them." One of his hand spreads itself across Leon's belly, the other cupping the nape of Leon's neck. "Y'er my woman. I always know what's best f'r you." Then he falls asleep, breath and heartbeat slowing to the deep rhythm of tides. Leon stays in Jack's lap. He wipes at the semen still spattered across his face, but it's halfhearted, his mind too caught up in what Jack's just said. Something about those words make the shadow in his mind stir, but he can't quite . . . ~ The dress fits better then Leon imagined it would. He's surprised until he remembers his medical, all the notes and the measurements and the photos. Chest, shoulders, waist, hip, leg . . . They know his sizes. Hell, they know my dick length. Of course, considering it's Umbrella they could have just made a clone of me to use for tailoring this thing. But despite the perfect fit it still feels weird to wear it. Silk isn't something he's ever indulged in, and the designer tag at the neck proudly proclaimed this to be 100%. It feels strangely smooth and cool against his chest, his belly. His dick, since Jack wont let him wear underwear even now. It's easier to ignore when he's in pants, but in this outfit he's painfully aware of the lack. God help him keep from embarrassing himself with a stiffy from the teasing feel of it. At least the colour looks nice on me, right? He snorts in bitter humour. Gotta look for that silver lining. "Dammit. Who the fuck am I kidding?" he mutters, and glares at himself in the bedroom mirror. The dress Wesker sent is a sleeveless Chinese cut in pale blue silk and embroidered white peonies, with a high mandarin collar that buttons up on the left, a low hemline that swirls around Leon's calves, and slits up the sides that go far enough to prove he's not wearing anything underneath. It's undeniably feminine, but Leon takes grim pleasure in the fact that even with his earrings he still looks nothing like a woman. Not with the sleeveless cut showing off the broadness of his shoulders and chest, the wiry muscles of his arms, and the tailoring emphasizing how narrow his hips are. He's blond, so he doesn't have the satisfaction of flashing blatantly hairy shanks through those slits up the side, but he still takes quiet victory in refusing to shave himself woman-smooth. And then Jack comes up behind him, and the contrast throws into sharp relief how petty Leon's victories really are. A handspan taller and barrel-chested, his shoulders and arms bulked with a swell of muscles that would make a Tyrant proud, Jack seems almost a caricature of masculinity in that moment. His white T-shit strains across his chiselled pecs, the loose black jacket of his dress uniform only makes his shoulders seem more square, and the black pants and polished black boots could serve as well in a street fight as in a ballroom. Standing next to Jack like this, Leon makes a lovely woman. "Your glass slippers," Jack says, pushing the silvered combat boots into Leon's hands. They've lost the immediate tang of spray paint, but the leather is stiff with the stuff and they're a bit awkward to put on, especially since they had to replace the black laces with white ones from someone's sneakers so they wouldn't clash. He winds up tying them only halfway, then stands. A last glance in the mirror shows that the final effect is a bit odd, but Leon likes it. So does Jack. He slips a hand through the slits in Leon's dress to pat his ass, leans in and licks the curve of Leon's ear. "Love a woman in army boots." Leon grins. "Only 'cuz your mom wore 'em." He gets his ass slapped good and hard for that, but Jack is chuckling, rich and deep, as he leads the way out of the apartment. ~ It's gotten less strange to wander the halls of Umbrella. Leon's become use to their cold white sterility, the glare of their fluorescents, the potted plants at mathematically precise intervals. He's starting to appreciate the art they have hanging as well - prints of plant cells and bacteria up close, austere abstracts in grey and scarlet, framed motivational posters with the employee pledge. 'Obedience Breeds Discipline, Discipline Breeds Unity . . .' Jack makes him recite it every night as a bedtime prayer. The ritual is comfortable, even if the words aren't yet. They make their way though the Red Umbrella wing that hold the barracks and Jack's quarter's to the manicured grounds outside. The gala is taking place in the southern end of the compound with its fountains and park, and the handful of on-site restaurants. The best of these has been commandeered for the evening, and Leon can see the windows glowing with chill blue light as he and Jack jog across the lawn. They should have invested in golf carts or something. We're gonna be late at this rate. He entertains himself with visions of just what an Umbrella golf cart would look like. Mounted gun on the front, complimentary gas mask in the glove compartment, and fuelled by the blood of unborn children. Oh. And the logo. Gotta have the logo painted on it. He's still mildly disappointed that Jack doesn't have it tattooed on his butt. The weather is warm for late October, the grass yellowed despite the care lavished on it, and grasses and cactus populate the decorative gardens. Leon wonders again just where this enormous compound is located - the land he's seen from the rooftops spreading out around the compound is achingly flat and empty. Texas? New Mexico? He know they're still in the States since he recognizes the stars spread out overhead, but that's about it. The restaurant is named Crisantemo Blanco - it could be either Italian or Spanish since both languages like tacking on extraneous Os, but Leon's willing to side with the latter considering his guestimated location - and it's a smallish building of white stucco and great, silvered windows, with flowers and artful swirls carved into the facing. They're met by a doorman in a white suit with a white chrysanthemum in his buttonhole. Jack has to flashes his ID card to be let by, but for Leon all that's needed is a simple, "My woman, Leon." Side by side, they stalk into the restaurant. Like so much else in Umbrella, white is the theme for this place. White tile flooring and white walls and white chrysanthemums in pots and elegant floral displays. The small indoor fishpond that dominates the lobby is even stocked with white koi. The effect is glacial in the way that Umbrella seems to love so much. Purity so harsh it's sterile. Dead. And the people here aren't any more alive, despite the fact they their hearts are pumping blood and their lungs still work. Leon stands in the doorway of the banquet hall and all he sees are walking corpses. Men and women with blank faces and blank eyes dressed in their funeral best, lorded over by an inhuman monster at their centre . . . with a single scarlet rose at his side. Ada. Ada. A hollow ringing in Leon's ears, icy chill in the pit of his gut. This place is suddenly a battlefield, hostile territory filed with pit traps and landmines and enemies under every bush. Wesker is the same sleek viper from their interview, though this time he's upgraded his outfit with a sweeping black coat and white chrysanthemum boutonniere. He extends a hand toward them in welcome, and Jack is quick to hurry through the crowd to his side. Leon trails in his wake, easy enough as people part before them both and it's a good thing they do because Leon is walking on autopilot, mind blank, movements nothing but reflex. His mind is filled with Ada, with the sight of her, with what her presence here means. She's still working for Umbrella. She's still working for Wesker. She- Wesker favours them with what you could call a smile if you squinted and tilted your head and Wesker wasn't a psychopath. Takes Ada's hand and draws her close. "Ada. You know Krauser, of course. And I believe you know his woman, Leon?" "Yes," she says. "We met in Raccoon City." The corners of her mouth twitch upwards, but it's no more a smile then what's on Wesker's face, though hers is sad and crippled. She isn't any less beautiful for it. Dark haired and dark eyed, delicate face. Her Chinese dress is brilliant, bloody crimson. She's a flower of womanhood, and it's obvious now that Leon's dress was chosen just for this, to make him her twisted mirror. More of Wesker's games. She can't meet Leon's eyes. Can't even look him in the face. And Leon . . . Unease is in the set of Ada's shoulders, the twitch of her fingers, and he knows why. Brilliant and cunning and twice as sly as any fox, Ada has to have found out he was being held in that prison. She has to known what was done to him, what he went through, how broken he is now. Knows, and can't stand the sight of him because of it, and what he's become. Not like he can blame her. Failed policeman-slash-government agent turned tranny and cocksucking jail bitch for his enemies. Not something he ever wanted on his resume, and the shame he'd thought he'd defeated returns with such sudden viciousness that he tastes bile in the back of his throat, sick at himself. His world gets a little smaller in that moment. The rape might have crippled him, Jack might have chained him, but it's Ada's reaction that burns his bridges. Whatever Leon might salvage from his situation, now and forever he's cut off from the allies he had before. "Nice to see you again," he lies, already building up walls of denial in his soul. Then Wesker leads him around, introducing him to doctors and scientists and security staff. Leon pays close attention. This twisted, fucked up wreck is his world now, and he's got to learn fast if he wants to survive. ~ The meeting between the two women had been all Wesker had hoped. Wong has a distressing tendency to slip her leash where Kennedy is concerned, and Wesker wanted to make it clear that such nonsense will no longer be tolerated - had gone out of his way to demonstrate how totally Kennedy had been remade into Umbrella's creature. Her stricken look, the tremble in her limbs, the sound of her heart speeding . . . how sweet the rewards of a lesson successfully taught. As for Kennedy, it seems Krauser has her well in hand if she'll submit to Wesker's dress code without more then token protest about the shoes. A few more months to polish out the nicks and she'll be a fine weapon in his arsenal. An excellent acquisition for Umbrella. ~ . . . And they all lived together in a little crooked house. - TBC

The man is a plague. She was working alone while a DRD chittered around her feet. Not much to do, really, but let Talyn heal. But she could find chores, things to check. There was usually something to fill up the days. Later, off duty – those times were easy. Get alone with Crichton, they never ran out of things to do, there was always more. Whole crew has to know what's going on, then. Crichton couldn't keep anything quiet. He'd wake everyone in his barracks. That had been a surprise. The man had control. He could hide what he had to. But alone with her, he abandoned it all. Nothing held back. At first that had startled, alarmed her. Now it gave her a guilty thrill. Every one of them knows. Crais still ignored them, stiff and correct, never a word. At least he knew how to behave. Rygel muttering, sniffing – Stark beaming, wet-eyed – which one was worse? Oh, frell them all blind. What did it harm? She caught a trace of John's scent on her skin, and it made her smile. He made her smile. Made her forget what she meant to do, made her feel reckless. Frell, made her jumpy, like she was counting down to a sortie – she could feel that edge, that tension – wanting to be there already, wanting to let it cut loose – and it mixed with this... safety. She had something, here. Had him. She had an interest in what he did, what bed he slept in. He put it all out there, just held it out, offered it to her – so naked, so eager. Tears with an orgasm, laughter with sex. Words with everything. He watched her so closely – his eyes might bleed from looking so hard, his heart might stop, he might forget how to breathe.. This man who could blow up a gammak base, burn up a moon, die to the world in her arms – "Hey, you," he said. She jumped, then collected herself. "Hey." He was right there by her, looking at her – that long, appraising, satisfied look, taking her in, like coming across her was wonderful news, like he hadn't seen her for arns. "You okay?" he asked. "Fine," she said, casting a look at the DRD – but, no, it kept working, not stopping to watch. "Getting much done?" She pointed at the conduits. "Just checking these." "Ah," he said. "Don't need me, then?" Not for this. "No, I'm all right." He ran his fingers around the back of her neck, under her braid, as he leaned to kiss her. Just the touch of his hand, his mouth, a brush of his face over hers. "Then I guess I'll check back later." "Mmmm," she agreed. She busied herself as he walked away. Right out here, on duty. Like that was his right. It would be all over the viewers, all over the tapes. If there still were tapes. If Talyn was watching. She felt his breath on her neck and whirled around, a flush of warmth in her cheeks. "Hey!" "Frell it," he said, reaching for her. "I'm worthless today."; "What are you doing?" she said. He found her mouth and kissed her again. "I'm cruising you, babe. I'm looking for trouble." He was speaking in bursts between kisses, plaintive: "I really want you. Here. Now." She had met his kiss fiercely, grabbing the back of his head, her tongue in his mouth. A moment later she shoved him back. "John ? Not now ?" "That? It can wait." He kept himself between her and the archway, easing her toward the wall. "Crichton, you –" "Why not?" he asked softly. "Tell me why not." He touched his brow to hers. "I'm sure not getting a damn thing done. How about you?" He bent to nuzzle her shoulder, her neck, taking his time, murmuring into her ear. "C'mon, baby. Play hooky with me." She stifled a laugh at his tone, and that hint of a laugh was enough. Before she could speak, his hands were slipping down her body, caressing, stroking. She shivered and thought, Tell the truth. You've been thinking of this all day. "All right, then," she said, and grabbed his hand as she moved toward the passage. The transport ought to be empty now, this wouldn't take long – "Not so fast." He dropped to the ledge and flung out his arms, holding tight to her hand. "This is good, right here." She looked around. It was only an alcove, no hatch to close. Anyone could walk by. His eyes followed hers. "We can keep it under their radar," he said. "You and me – We're trained professionals, babe. We can be quiet. Stealthy, even." He kissed her again. She had to laugh. "WE? Can be quiet?" She was shaking her head. "I could be quiet, Crichton. But YOU?" He was pulling her down to join him. "Try kissing me harder – I might not make as much noise. Like this." His mouth covered hers. "Take a lot more than that to keep you quiet," she muttered, but she was still laughing. "Why don't you take off those boots?" he said. Such a reasonable voice. He was blocking her way, posturing at her, ready to dive if she made a break. She leaned back, casually judging the angle. "Don't be silly," she said, lifting an eyebrow. One good jab, and he'd be unconscious. Could be a valuable lesson in that. "Do you actually think you could make me?" "Not a chance in hell," he said with a grin. "But I'll bet I can make you like it." Well, that's probably true. Deliberately, slowly, she lifted each foot to remove her boots. "Good girl," he breathed. His hand ran up her back, and he drew her close. It was a reflex to grab him, his leathers so smooth on her fingers, a second skin, cooler than his. Their breathing was suddenly loud in her ears. He opened her pants and his fingers slipped under her waistband. Then he dropped to his knees on the floor. He edged her pants a little way down, just below her hips. He opened his mouth, his lips to the cloth of her calvins, and exhaled heavily. Hot, moist breath – it made her squirm. He worked his face down between her legs, the beginnings of stubble just barely scratching her thighs. He held her firmly and breathed again, heating her more. She reached to shove him away, but her hand went instead to his face, running around to the back of his skull. He rolled his head back and forth as he breathed. She felt his soft hair on her palm. His mouth through the cloth felt warmer, more wet – "What are you doing?" she gasped. "Nothing bad, I promise." She shook her head, but he wasn't watching. She tried to move, but he held her firmly, moving his lips, working his tongue against the thin fabric, rubbing it, making her shiver. His voice came softly, daring her. "Just tell me it doesn't feel good, and I'll stop." No wager there. He knew the answer already. "Someone will hear us," she managed, gasping. "They'll miss us. They'll know." "Like they don't already?" He laughed again. "That train left the station a long time ago. I believe they've all got it figured by now." She tugged at his hair. "Are you making fun of me, Crichton?" He looked up, and reached to stroke her jaw. "No, baby, I'm not." His voice had gone tender. "I'm playing with you. You make me happy. You get that?" He was searching her face, as if he could see all her thoughts. She opened her mouth to speak, and he brushed his fingertips over her lips. "Aeryn. God. How often does anything feel this good?" She loosened her grip. "Then let's do it right. There are places –" "But this is more fun." He waited, locked on her eyes. Moving slowly, she unsnapped her vest and shrugged it off. He smiled as he lowered his head again, mouthing her clit. Heat and that touch of wetness. The cloth on her skin, soft and rough. He reached to slip her pants down her legs, and she lifted her feet to help free them. Slowly, smoothly, he ran his palms down her thighs and then spread his hands, pulling her open, settling his body between her legs. She pushed inward, against him, feeling his shirt on her knees, her legs, feeling the solid mass of his body. She sat upright, braced, willing herself to silence and stealth. He bent his head down and ran his teeth lightly over her edges and bumps. A different feeling – indirect, muffled, tempting. Such strange things he thought of, such things he wanted to make her feel. She was squirming again, but squirming against him, not moving away, just a fractional motion, wanting more. His hand was slipping up under her shirt, finding the curves of her back, her breast – her nipple so hard, his thumb brushing over it made her shiver. His hand swept back down the curve of her waist, concave, convex, came to rest on her hip. Then it edged under the band of her shorts, and she lifted her hips as he stripped those off, finally freeing her body. Cool air. He looked up, smiling, hands homing back to her thighs, and skimmed his hair down her chest as his mouth headed back to its target. She sighed and leaned back, her weight on her hipbones, the floor hard against the balls of her feet, against her heels. She felt that solidity, planting herself. His palms on her thighs, squeezing those muscles, and then a hand was flickering over her lips. Things went in different directions, he tugged and pressed and swirled and opened. That wet pressure, that sweep, that heated caress. So much. She let it happen, she let it go on, she yielded to it. She touched his forehead, his hair, his ears, the dip of bone at the edge of his eyes. Her thumbs rested there, her fingers tracing his hairline, the bones of his face. She could barely touch him, barely reach – they were doing nothing for him, they were just – he was so intent. He closed his eyes and then opened them, scanning her, blue, so blue. She buried her hand in his hair while he licked her, mouthed her, tugged at her deftly. Things were building, insistent. She wanted to rise up against him, she wanted to do things – wanted to frell him, wanted something she knew. Oh. His fingers were in her, his strong warm fingers, stroking inward, pressing under that tension, setting off echoes, finding the spots that took her further. Heat, more heat. Her feet strained at the floor. He was leaning into her body, his weight bearing down on her thighs. Her back to the bulkhead, nowhere to shift, no momentum, no motion except her hands skimming over his hair, the sweat moving down her face, her neck. But inside, moving, vibrating, jumping. Waves and beats and a long. Shuddering. Deep. Breath. Wet on her neck, her legs, she licked the sweat from her lips, tasting the tang of salt. His fingers, inside her. Deep inside. Grasp him, grab, oh to come against, around. Her eyes stretched open, and then shut tight. Purple. Indigo. Deep blue-black. She was pulled off center, her legs boosted up as his shoulders lifted and spread her thighs, his shoulders so good to weigh against, his mouth everywhere. "I FEEL that," she said, sharply, urgently. Head thrown back, open-mouthed, staring over his shoulders, up at the curves of the wall as she felt herself jerking – Frell, are there viewers back here? She couldn't remember. She couldn't – It doesn't matter, she thought, and the thought was so clear, so calm, so shocking. I NEED him, Talyn. I showed you THAT. She closed her eyes and her hands came to rest on his shoulders, brushing the pulse in his neck. Her breathing steadied. He hadn't moved. His tongue just lay on her, warm and soothing. The walls seemed to vibrate, just out of her hearing, a resonance chamber, repeater, their energy bouncing back and forth, from one wall to another. Here in the light. In the open. She could feel his delight, another vibration, his pleasure in her. "You bastard. Get up here." He paused for one more contrary kiss, his tongue sweeping over, around, that wet warmth. Then he gripped her knees, pushing up to his feet. She leaned forward to meet him, just wanting to grab something more than his face – wrapped her arms around him, her cheek on his belly, her arms pressed tight on his waist, his back. He bent down, reaching around her, raising her up to her feet. She swayed, off balance. He caught her, held her. He could handle her weight. She just let him hold her in place, let him kiss her eyelids, her cheeks, ah, her mouth. She pulled his shirt out of his pants, reached up under it, finding the planes of his back. Haven't touched him there for arns. He lowered her gently back to the bench. She sat, a bit dazed, reaching up, seeking. "You want something, baby?" His voice came through to her, tender, still teasing. "I can't reach you," she said. Her voice was unsteady. He stepped in closer and stroked her hair. She breathed, "I want more." His hand kept stroking, steadily, softly. "Whatever you want." She unfastened his pants and fumbled them down, just freeing his cock. She kept her face on his skin, eyes shut, breathing deeply. I want. She was seeking him blindly, rooting along his skin, through his curling hair. Want you. She found his cock, mouthed it, greedy, relieved, the shock of that warmth, his salty taste. Wanted so much, needed to have him, to take him, to take him in – "That's right," he whispered. His fingertips found her shoulders. He shifted his weight, swaying slightly, bracing himself. Now she had him, securely, deep in her throat. She wrapped her arms around his body, grabbed him roughly, urgently, hands made clumsy by her desire, harder than she had meant. It all fell into place – how his butt curved into her palms, how her palms fit the leather, her throat so loose, while her fingers were driven to clutch him tight. His legs were tense, those big muscles straining to hold him still. His arms hung loosely, hands barely grazing her, lifting her hair, just keeping himself right there, just letting her take what she wanted. Let him try keeping still. He shivered and rocked on his heels. "Goddammit to hell!" he said sharply, under his breath. She was startled. She pulled her head back, brought her hand to his cock. "What?" "Oh, crap." He wobbled, and tightened his hand on her arm. "Give me a minute, okay?" "John, what?" She was still breathing hard, but her head had cleared fast. She knew an alarm when she heard one. He tucked himself back into his pants and grabbed for her hand. "Don't –" he said urgently. "Just – I just need a minute." He dropped to the bench beside her, pressing the back of his head to the wall, kissing her hand as he held it. He nodded at her, with a look that did not reassure, and he let his eyes close. Then he was grinding the heels of his hands across his temple, his head. Oh, frell, she thought. His head. In his head. She moved just out of his reach, alert, coiled tight, ready to grab him, ready to take him down. Not again, she thought. Not now. Harvey, you shit! The clone leaned in close, squatting in front of him. God, but that pissed him off. Harvey made a production of sniffing John's face, his nose just a micron away from his skin. 'Why, John,' he purred. 'What have you been up to?" His tongue snaked out to slurp a line up John's mouth and nose. John recoiled. Backhand. Reflex. Harvey was slammed to the floor. He picked himself up with a venomous look, a trickle of blood on his face. 'You know better than that,' he snarled. 'Our Officer Sun has warped –' You leather-faced fuck! John clawed for his arm, caught the clone's elbow and yanked it hard. They were jogging, running, hell-bent, feet pounding. Somewhere on pavement. Somewhere very bright. Sunlight glaring. John kept his hand clamped, dragging the clone as they ran down a sidewalk. HOT. Really hot. A line of bushes grew over their heads, heavy with flowers. Branches dripped over wrought iron fencing, a riot of vines creeping out to the street. Harvey stumbled but John wouldn't pause. The air itself was wet and heavy, crowded with smells, tropical, swampy, rotting wood, whiffs of something mildewed and spicy. Mosquitoes whining, gnats in their panting mouths. 'What is this, John?' the clone demanded. N'Orleans, Harvey. He forced the words out between gulps of air. High Noon – on the Fourth – of July. Only a fool – comes here – in the summer. He gave his arm a vicious jolt. And us – out here – with no hats. How do you – like it – buddy? ' 'I don't. Let me go.' He had found a good pace. Feel how that air kind of – sticks in your lungs? That good old sweat – running right down – your skin?' They were cutting across a parking lot, no trees above them, no shade. The heat shimmered off the expanse of asphalt, distorting the air. The black surface sucked at the soles of their boots. They were running, running. Back on the sidewalk, under more trees, a bit of shielding, no breeze, not a whisper, no thin spots in that terrible air. The clone broke in: 'John, you can't –' Can't keep up, ass-wipe? He'd been a kid when they made that trip. Showing off, running when Coach said to pace, daring the others to catch him. Give a grownup a fucking heart attack, to run like that. He paid for it, sure, but he made his point. And here it was, coming in handy again. Precious memories, how they linger, how they warm my weary soul... He smiled as the tune ran through his head. Fuck you with those old gospel songs, fuck you with anything I've got. The clone was choking, retching, struggling for breath. 'Do you have a point?' John whirled around, tackling him suddenly, slamming him onto the black iron fence. It was hot to the touch. Here's the point. Here's the goddamn point. Here's where we're coming – straight here – next time I'm with Aeryn – and hear one fucking peep out of you. Harvey snorted. John slammed him again. You sorry sonofabitch, he hissed, I know how this works. I know I can't kill you. But I'll hurt you as much as I can. I WILL. Every way I can think of. I'll parboil your ass. I'll remember this day just as sharp as I can, and I'll drag you through it. Comprende?' The clone waved his hand, but John had him pinned. You ever, EVER, touch Aeryn again – His throat closed up. He hacked and spatt on the ground. Naked with Aeryn –that's holy ground. You keep your filth the fuck out of that. You go play on the freeway, you go to hell. Don't give a good goddamn what you do. But you NEVER – He looked at his hands, and paused, surprised how far his thumbs dug into Harvey's neck – Never again – His voice dropped, barely audible now. He loosened his thumbs but held them in place. I'm a reasonable guy. I don't ask for much. He felt his own pulse in his thumbs, his throat, his ears. His pounding heart, his sucking breaths, the gasps of the clone. Hell of a back-beat. We need to talk about privacy, boy, I'll find us a place. I'll do it right. We can run harder, I'll strap on some weights and baste you with hot-sauce. I'll think of something. We clear on this? The clone's lip curled. You sicken me, Crichton. Enjoy your day off.' He vaporized out of his hands. John doubled over, clutching a tree trunk, struggling to catch his breath. Cool hand on his arm. He jumped. "John." Aeryn. Alarm in her voice, held deliberately flat. "What is it?" "I'm good. I'm good," he gasped. "You don't LOOK good. Is the clone – ?" "No. Not anymore." Get it under control. He stripped off his shirt and mopped his face, his neck, his clammy hands. He felt queasy, lightheaded. Still panting, he held the shirt to his eyes. They were burning, dry. Finally he made himself look at her. "Thanks – thanks for sticking around." "I wouldn't leave you with... that," she said. She was watching him closely, not moving yet. "I?m okay," he lied. He reached for her hand and kissed it. Have to do better than this, he thought. She's not buying it yet. His head was throbbing. Had to squint to see her, strain to keep her in focus. He'd forgotten she had nothing on but her shirt. There she sat, half naked, ready to tackle his ass if he got into trouble. Good friend to have. He dropped his head to her shoulder, turned to bury his face. He kept breathing, smelling her, centering everything on her. She pressed her face to his hair, stroked the back of his head, his shoulder. He sighed. Then he moved to kiss her, still feeling shaky. She met him, held him tightly. Safe. Finally he pulled himself away and leaned his head back to the wall. "Oh hell, where were we?" he asked. She sat quietly, while he clasped her hand in both of his own. "Baby, I'm sorry,' he managed. "You didn't plan on a mental case. Got a boyfriend who's full-bore bat-shit crazy. Gotta save some room in bed for the voices." He shook his head sharply. Don't cry, don't cry. She searched for words. "John, it's not – It's only the clone. It doesn't scare me." "You should be afraid." His voice was bitter. His face was haggard, ashamed. He sat there, eyes closed, shaking his head. At last he looked up, and he put a hand on her head. He ran his fingers down from her part. "Here. Feel this." He guided her hand to a spot in her hair. "You've noticed this, how it's shorter, here?" She nodded, perplexed. "Do you know why that is?" She had thought it was strange, but what...? She shook her head. He absently fingered her hand, the hair, looking away. "I cut some off. When you were in your coffin." "Why?" "It's a thing – My people do it. I needed... something of yours." His voice trailed off. "It burned my hand, your skin was so cold." She felt the strand. "It hasn't grown out." "Hasn't been that long. God, it was yesterday." Very soft voice. She strained to hear him. "Bending down over you – Everything got very clear. So clear. Too late." A pause. He let go of her hand. "I'd rather go back in the Chair than stand there again." No drama. Plain facts. "I did that to you." She shook her head, but he wouldn't look. "I couldn't stop him from doing that. As much as you meant to me." It took her a moment to speak. "John, that was the chip. You're stronger, now." "How do you know? How do you know we can trust that?" His voice was so weary. They sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder. She settled her hand on his thigh. He slid down to lie on the bench and collapsed with his head in her lap. He rolled so he could nuzzle her stomach, brushing his nose up under her shirt, letting it fall in his eyes. She stroked his hair, her other hand on his side, his waist. He pressed his lips to her skin, just breathing, warming her skin with his breath. Her hand cupped his skull, and the other rested over his shoulder. "John, that time – When I blew your brain." "What about it?" "You said it scared you." He shifted, embarrassed. "Sort of. At first." He kept his face where it was, not looking at her. Her hands held still. "It wasn't something you wanted to do." "Didn't know if I could handle it." He was mumbling, his brow on her skin. A pause, a small laugh. "Didn't know I would like it so much." "But you let me." She was stroking his hair. "You... wanted to," he said helplessly. She sat in silence, waiting for more. "Aeryn, baby –" He took a deep breath. "Nothing I've got is off limits to you." She nodded, satisfied, looking down at his head in her lap. "Right. I suppose that's how." He looked at her blankly. "How we know we trust it," she explained. He shook his head, and then he relaxed. We're in this too deep to make sense. She nodded again, and he pushed himself up, kissing her. He wrapped around her, body to body, pulling her into his skin. His exhaustion moved her. She wanted him back. She missed his teasing. Couldn't you please annoy me some more? "Hey," she said, leaning over him. "Hey, what?" he said, rousing. "About that hooky?" She hit the "h" firmly. "What about it?" "We could go to my quarters. Engage the privacy mode." "You'd do that?" he asked. "Why not?" That got a smile. "Makes perfect sense. No problem at all." He swung around, setting his feet on the floor, watching her dress. She scooped up his shirt and tossed it to him. He caught it, startled. "Come on, Crichton. Let's get some clothes on you. Or off you." He heaved himself to his feet, the shirt wadded up in his hands. "You bet," he said, heading out. She still felt worried, watching his movements. He was running on fumes now – dragging along with his worries, his guilt. Needs a jolt, needs a boost. And his waist did look good, where his shirtless back met his leather pants. The curve of his butt was inviting her hand. The sharp CRACK of her palm on leather bounced off the walls as she took off running, echoing down the passage. She didn't look back, but she could picture the shock on his face, picture him shaking it off. Her laughter rang down the passage. She got a good lead before his boots started pounding the floor. Gave it all that she had, and got to her quarters before he grabbed her. He caught her shoulder and spun her around, wild-eyed. "You are BAD," he gasped, and fastened his mouth on hers, stifling her laughter, laughing with her, breathing hard. He was sweaty again, but not confused. His light was back. He was there. He lay on their bed, wrung out by Harvey, caressing the hairs at the nape of her neck, those thin little wisps that always escaped her braid. Made him think of that fierce little girl in the creche. Felt so good to lie flat. She pulled him over. He lay on his side, against her, half on her. Her arm curled under him, hand kneading steadily, finding his tension. Another hand on his eyebrows, his temple, stroking his face. Somehow his pants had come off. They were necking softly, moments stretching around them. Kiss in slow motion, lips drifting over her face, their bodies weaving together, her skin on his skin. No focus, no goal, just a happy blur.He'd been quiet since they had gotten to bed. "John?" she said. "Mmmmmmm," was the only sound she heard. It dawned on her that he was dozing, napping, drifting to sleep between kisses. Strange that she felt so relieved by that – just to know where he was, to know he was resting. She brushed her face on his shoulder, enjoying the contact. Her hand crept to his abdomen, palm fitting to that slight, solid curve, and she bumped his cock. It lay sleeping, too. Compact and curled beside the boys, together making a little oval. She slipped her fingers around it, wrapping it loosely. Even more warm that the rest of his skin. Such an inviting texture, when it was dry, like very soft suede. Her fingers were drawn to skim across it, but then she had to squeeze it, lifting its curve. Seemed so strange the first time she got a good look. Shocking, all wrong – too wide, too exposed, not at all discreet. Now it seemed like a perfect shape, every line just right. She felt it jump when she squeezed again. His body responding, following her, his energy building outside his awareness. Unless he was dreaming. Would this go into his dream? She thought, I should stop. But his voice came to her: 'Nothing I've got is off limits to you,' and she moved closer, smiling. His cock brushed her fingers, and she brushed back. It knew her hand, it pushed against her. Just her and his body. Now he slept heavily, flickers under his eyelids. A happy dream, if her hand were in it, wouldn?t it have to be? She was breathing slowly, all her attention on how this touch felt, how he looked, how his skin touched hers, how it was to have him here in her bed, here for whatever she wanted. He'd outgrown her hand. Slickness leaked, one drop at a time. I know how that tastes. She bent her knee, ran her leg up and down his body. The hair on his legs brushed her skin, her senses so open. She was craving more. She slipped her arm from under his neck, and shifted, and stretched. Her tension was rising, stirred by the pure response of his body. She felt edgy, alert. She let her hand drift to her cunt, just checking conditions. Ah, she was swollen – from this? From all his games on the ledge? She ran her fingertips lightly and slowly, the way he would do it at first. Not her old efficient finishing move, but testing, exploring. Her fingers eased inward. Her lips and her cunt were primed, alert, her nerves were ramped up. There was so much beyond that first release, there were things that went right off the map. When she got like this, just a flick of his tongue could set her off, just his heavy breath, any one of those silly Crichton maneuvers could send her over the edge. If this were his hand, she'd be writhing, gone. Seemed odd, how different this felt. It should be the same. Still fingers and flesh, but no surprises, no wondering what would be next. Not the touch of that other person, that person you want. He'd said that, hadn't he? First time she'd done him: 'So much more fun, when your hand does it.' Fun, he said. Like doing her on the ledge had been fun. She felt her flesh around her fingers, they plunged through softness to reach inside. All these textures, so different from skin. Something like reaching inside his body, but more resilient, more robust. What did feel the same was how slickness cushioned the pads of your fingers, letting you feel every micron. The warmth inside, touching the places you couldn't see, the places the world never saw, the privacy of it. Just between us. She felt his cock twitch, in her other hand. She'd been holding it loosely, hardly paying attention. Now she squeezed his shaft and felt its girth. Its weight in her hand made her cunt squeeze back at her fingers. What surrounded her hand was active, demanding, stronger than she had noticed before. He groaned in his sleep and his body shifted, his cock flexed again. She lay there, feeling them both, so much overlapping – curve and curve, wanting and wanting. It would feel so good. His cock, so much more than her fingers, or his. Everything wants you. I want you, inside. Just swing up over him, drop right down –she could have him this microt. Both their bodies, straining to go. No agonizing, no arguments, no talking on about babies and risk. He'd wake up already thrusting in her – She thought of his face, blissed for a moment, pure delight – but then his shock – Frell. It wouldn't be right. This rule he'd made that he wouldn't break – to take that away – Too much had been done, too many things he didn't want. Have to find some way that satisfied him. She let his cock slip out of her hand, reached across his waist to pull him closer, shaking her head, resting her forehead against his chest. He lay naked, unconscious, without defense, available for any desire. And what she wanted, more than release, was to see him happy and safe. A plague. She sighed in frustration. You win, Crichton. You win again. Here they were in privacy mode. That word seemed right. Everyone knew that they were together, they slept together, they had a bond. Nothing to hide. What they did was between them, for them. Not for the others. Ours. Before, in barracks, the regular way – it was feelings, then, that had to be secret . You tried not to have them, you acted like nothing had happened. Sex wasn't a thing that could change you. If it made you change, you were doing it wrong. They watched how you managed. They'd watched her whole life. My whole Peacekeeper life – and it hit her. Of course. Crais had said it. He got my file. It all had to be in her file, somewhere. What the med-techs did. The protection, the details he needed to hear. Of course it was. It would clear the way to do what they wanted. How John would look, when she told him that – now, THAT would be fun. She propped herself up to look at his face. Had an arn gone by since he'd done her? Must be doing it wrong, indeed, to want him so much, so soon. Never satisfied, now. Always wanting more. Frelled. I'm frelled. Made her laugh at herself. Well, no. That's the problem. If they did it properly, maybe she'd find it easier to rest. It won't be long now. She kissed him, easing against his mouth, letting it deepen slowly. Did she taste herself there? Hard to say. Everything was so mixed, with this. Her hand ran back down his chest to his cock, catching his slickness, spreading it over his crown. Her other hand reached to her breast, cupping it, wandering across her body. Her hips were moving lazily, slowly. She slid her fingers around her cunt and stroked its folds, its lips, finding its centerline, feeling her fingers drawn in again. Made her lose track of the edge of her fingers, her skin – inside, everything mingled and merged. This was what he felt when he touched her body. She imagined his cock, imagined it in this welcoming place. Did a cock feel, like fingers? What she touched with her hand was slick, strong, pliable, soft. Strange to imagine – what was it like, for a male? Pulled in, surrounded, caught – to plunge into this and be absorbed – to be held all around by something so warm, so wanting? She pumped her hand on his cock and his hips twisted toward her, seeking more. His lips were parted, his sleeping face was unlined, relaxed. She must have been there, in his sleep, before. Before he ever came to her bed. And he must have lain in the dark, alone, touching himself and imagining her. Sensations ran through her, memories, wishes, all blending together. Made her feel a little bit drunk. One hand in herself, still imagining him – the other provoking his dream. The bed so full of all their smells. She kissed him again, rubbing her skin against him. Her fingers went deeper, imagining how she could pull him in. How his hands would clutch helplessly, desperately, over her back, his will blown away. She smiled as her hips rocked softly again, and she made her movements deliberately lighter, more lingering, more like his touch, the touch of this sleeping man. Right, then. Come back. Come see what we're doing. She grasped his cock insistently, roughly. He twitched sharply and moaned. She willed him to feel her, to join her again. "John," she murmured, deep in her throat, "John." He swam up to consciousness, fuzzed and confused. Cock slick and enormous, brain buzzing with feedback. Helmsman, give me some bearings. Where the hell are we? Um, in bed, with her. Being groped with intent. Damn. What a day. Her lips on his mouth. He closed his eyes and burrowed closer, letting a moan escape. "Baby – What – What're you doing?" He heard her low chuckle. "Playing with you, I suppose." Getting some of her own back, here. He felt like a kid, in that fresh grip of awe, back at that pole-axed astonished moment, She's TOUCHING me! This amazing girl. This. Other. Person – without him asking, her own free will, she had her hand on his naked self, and was working him, wanting to, all on her own – God, mark me, tattoo me, buy me a ring. This Man Belongs to Aeryn Sun. Passed out, came to, and here she is, this rambunctious woman, this righteous babe – Before he could speak he was jerking, shouting. Her mouth locked on his, she was muffling his noises, her tongue in his throat. He wrenched his face to the side and gasped for breath. Her eyes glittered, triumphant, as she tracked his motion, threatening to kiss him again. He was laughing, coughing, his eyes were wet. He grabbed for her face and held it back, defending himself. "All right, you win, you win." "That didn't help? You'd rather make noise?" She was deadpan, innocent, pulling his leg. "I'd rather breathe," he gasped. She still had his cock, gripped his thigh between hers. Smelling of sex. Pussy wet where she rubbed up against him. What had she been doing, while he slept off Harvey? Bad things, for sure. Things an officer wouldn?t waste time on. He felt a rush of delight, a funny pride, and he kissed her again. "Am I really that loud?" "Not that time, not so much. Really much quieter, when you're sleeping. Might help a lot, if we did it like that." "You're bad," he groaned. Her smile broke through. "You said that already." He fell back on the pillow, happy to let her have that last word. Just keep smiling, baby. Just let me soak up those rays. She didn't seem to be checking the clock, wasn't grabbing her clothes. Looks like the day isn't over yet. Too good to be true. Officer Sun, Icarian Company, Pleisar Regiment. Special commando, exemplary pilot. Playing with me.

Slipping And many would say they were slipping - no, reeling from this comfortable I know that you know that I love you into Maybe I know, but I don't know if I'll be alive later to tell you. They weren't slipping, but sometimes Kagome felt like Inuyasha was breaking away - and although she didn't want it to slip, the focus for her wasn't always there. She hated the thoughts in her head sometimes. I wish Kikyou would go away. But at least she didn't wish she would just stay dead anymore. Kikyou was the shining beacon of ancient salvation - the one who would probably save them all - was always here - around him. I'm supposed to be the heroine. Though she didn't act like a heroine, she'd rather traded her schoolgirl outfit for a similar one complete with pompoms and high leg kicks. And her voice grew hoarse sometimes from shouting so much. Inuyasha! She could shout his name in her sleep. She knew there was probably nothing anymore between Inuyasha and Kikyou, but still, what if something could grow? Kikyou had a way of attracting everyone, proven as even Sango's brother stood by her side, dutiful and enamored. “Kikyou-sama makes me feel …” And Kagome could see it when Sango tried to shake the jealous feelings from her head. Even Sango couldn't save Kohaku the way Kikyou could. And she made so many promises too. Kagome felt Kikyou's presence was a small problem beneath the task at hand. I shouldn't even be thinking of such things. I shouldn't even have the time. Naraku was still alive, and she wondered if he'd ever be dead. He was that same wedge that had come between Kikyou and Inuyasha, and now Naraku was working his way between them too, only this time playing a different and endless part. She stared at the campfire and let the thoughts whisk around in her brain. Her muscles felt like rice pudding, and her voice was very near at being lost. And yet, she felt she would readily scream and stomp if she could. But what was the point? Kikyou and Kohaku had gone ahead, and Inuyasha was on edge with their new companion. “Why is Kouga here anyway?” Inuyasha whispered to her as she stared at the fire. “It's not like he's going to be useful. We can't depend on his shards if Midoriko's controlling them, and the Gorashi was used up already.” Kagome's face was pensive. Kouga would be more useful than me. Instead she only reassured him, and felt like that's all she could do. “We need all the help we can get.” And after saying so, she felt that phrase to have a double meaning. She liked to view Kouga being here to prove something - to prove they weren't slipping. “Maybe he thinks we're slipping,” Kagome added when Inuyasha fell silent and disgruntled to her first response. He looked at her quizzically at first and then furrowed his brow. “What do you mean slipping? We're fine, and Miroku's injuries are only a minor setback.” He clutched Tessaiga proudly at his hip. “If he thinks we're weak, than he is more of an idiot than I thought he was.” Kagome frowned, and Inuyasha awaited a string of rosary commands. “It's not that,” she blurted with her face twisting sourly. “I mean that maybe he thinks we're slipping … you and me.” Inuyasha's jaw dropped, but before he could respond, Kagome had stood up and walked away to check on Miroku's injuries. Inuyasha stared at her, slightly flushed and pondering. He shot an angry glare at Kouga and retreated into a high branch of a nearby tree. And then he stewed over it, feeling the weight of Kagome's words and what they meant. Soon after, the rest of his traveling companions were sleeping peacefully, and he had even made damn sure Kouga stayed far away from Kagome. Instead, the wolf prince was as awake as he was, and he came over to the tree where Inuyasha was sitting. “Oi, I know you're awake, dog-breath,” Kouga whispered in the night, trying to be quiet as the others slept. “So? I'm keeping watch,” Inuyasha retorted, hoping Kouga would hear the animosity in his tone and go away. “You know, I thought you might have grown up after this long of time, but you're still a silly, pathetic puppy,” Kouga taunted. Inuyasha could feel the blood rushing in his ears. “Like I care what you think,” he snorted. Kouga made a noise of exasperation low in his throat. “Right, then I suppose you don't care what Kagome thinks.” Suddenly, Inuyasha was down from the tree, peering at Kouga with a dangerous glint in his eye. “What are you getting at?” Inuyasha's fist was very close to meeting Kouga's face. “What I mean is you're still hanging around that Kikyou woman. Don't you know how Kagome feels?” Kouga glared at him, and Inuyasha hated when the wolf said things that made him appear more chivalrous than he. “It can't be helped; Kagome knows that we have to deal with Kikyou,” Inuyasha paused, and then he grabbed Kouga and shoved him behind the tree. He looked around and sniffed, and hoped that no one in camp was listening, most of all Kagome. Then he added, “Kagome knows Kikyou and I are over, so don't go butting your nose in. You have nothing to say to it!” Kouga stuck his nose I the air and leveled his look with Inuyasha. “Ahh…so if there's nothing to worry about, then why did I have to butt in between you and Kikyou the other day before she left? And did you even know why I did? You should have seen the look on Kagome's face when you two were together.” Inuyasha gritted his teeth and felt very much on trial to Kouga's words. “Kagome's always going to feel like that about Kikyou no matter what. There's nothing I can do.” Kouga snorted. “Nothing you can do?” His lips curled and he was biting his tongue to keep from saying something that would probably get him pummeled. He just sighed, and then looked away angrily. Kouga was exasperated with both Inuyasha and Kagome on the subject, and even though he should be concentrating on Naraku instead, he was fed up with the dull atmosphere between Inu-kuro and the woman that he wanted to claim. “Whatever.” He started to walk away. “You do what you want, but maybe Kagome is right. Maybe you are slipping. I shouldn't butt in considering that's exactly what I want.” And then Kouga walked over to a far off group of rocks, sat down and leaned against them, as he waited for slumber. Inuyasha watched him go and he couldn't get his words out his head. “Maybe you are slipping.” Kouga's words mixed with Kagome's and Inuyasha felt even angrier than before. What the hell was going on here? They didn't have time to be thinking about this, they had work to do! They had to take care of Miroku! They had to avenge so many people and concentrate on defeating a rising menace. They couldn't think about these things so late in the game. There was no point, no merit - Then Inuyasha took a heavy breath. It dawned on him that maybe Kagome was feeling just as frustrated as he was. They both had so much on their minds - maybe the same things and maybe some different - but nonetheless it was taxing their energy and sucking away their happiness. Everyday they fought more demons and witnessed more bloodshed. Their world - his and hers together - was filled with so much anguish, so much chance of life or death. And deep inside all of this there had to be something to hold onto. There had to be something that kept them going. Kagome… She was what kept him going. She was his light and sometimes he had forgotten that. He had been so busy, so preoccupied with his sword and each monster thrown at him, he had little time to worry. He had little time to smile when there was a second to breathe a good breath. And Kagome probably felt the same way too, but she couldn't bring herself to show it. She stood back and cheered him on, she watched him with hopeful eyes, and she waited everyday for things to be over - for that happy ending that stood out so far into the horizon. It all seemed hopeless but she hoped when no one else would or could - when she could do nothing beyond her powers but believe and have faith. He knew that with those who carried the weight of faith, it was just as much a burden to those who carried heavy swords in battle. Before he knew it, his thoughts had moved his feet to Kagome's side. He looked down at her peaceful face as she slept and watched as her lips recited strange equations from her school in her sleep. He saw her shiver and then he knelt down and put a hand on her shoulder. “Kagome,” he whispered, slightly jostling her awake. She mumbled something and then her eyes opened drowsily. “Wha - Inuyasha?” “Shhh…” he hushed her and looked around the camp and saw that everyone was still sleeping. “What is it?” she whispered. She got up slowly and flushed from the look on his face. “Come with me, I need to talk to you,” he said quietly, and took her hand brusquely instead of politely offering it. --- Inuyasha dragged Kagome hurriedly along through the forest. The cool breeze nipped at her skin, and she stared at Inuyasha's back with tired, dazed eyes. “Wait…where are we going?” “Just wait,” he replied, a lot terser than he had intended. Kagome winced from the sharpness of his tone. He turned around to give her a quick apologetic look but kept walking forward, deeper into the forest. As they walked farther from camp, Kagome felt the dampness from the ground seep into her slippers. She really wished she would have worn a decent pair of shoes, but she didn't now Inuyasha was going to spring this midnight walk on her. “Almost there,” he assured her and Kagome began to look around the frightening darkness from the shadows inside the forest. “I hope so.” She looked up and saw yellow eyes watching her from a high tree branch. She shivered, and then the eyes moved and she realized that an owl had flown out, moving deep within the forest for his rodent prey. And when she turned around, she smacked right into Inuyasha's back and realized he had stopped. “Ow,” she cried, rubbing her sore nose and Inuyasha gave her a soft look - almost playful. “Clumsy,” he said in an almost-whisper. And he led her to the edge of an open area next to a stream in the forest. He picked up a branch idly as Kagome looked around the woodland splendor, and then he chucked the stick into the river. Kagome turned to him and tried to read his emotions. `What are we doing here?' “I found this place yesterday as we were walking by. I wanted to show you,” he paused, and Kagome saw him swallow uncomfortably. “I thought since you like taking so many baths you could come here tomorrow.” “Oh,” was all Kagome could say. She looked downward to at the ground and felt as if a huge heavy weight was propped up on her shoulders. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her pajama bottoms. Silence became a hot, thick invisible haze between them. Kagome's attention darted around to the sounds of the forest as Inuyasha stood silent. Then she sighed. “So what's the real reason you brought me here?” She yawned and covered her mouth. When she dropped her hand from her face, Inuyasha came over and quickly caught it. He gave her a serious look. “I - I'm sorry,” he said. Hell, he didn't know why he was apologizing, and he didn't even like apologizing, but it was all he could come up with. “About what? About Kikyou?” Kagome asked. She only hoped she knew what he was talking about. “Well, no - yes and no - I mean about the slipping thing. Us.” He looked away and scratched nervously at the back of his head. “I don't know what I should be doing, especially now when things are so chaotic.” “Shhh…” Kagome lifted her finger and pressed it over his lips. He closed his eyes in thrill to the gesture. He opened them again and she was looking at him - her brown eyes delving past his golden defenses. “Inuyasha, it's okay.” Things really weren't okay per se, but this gesture of his in bringing her here, alone, was good enough for her. It promised hope for both of them, and whatever inadequacies she had felt over the last month or so were slowly washing away. “We'll figure something out when this is all over.” He reached over and clutched the hand that had broken away from his lips. He closed his eyes and dipped his forehead against hers. “I'm sorry,” he murmured again. Kagome's breath hitched as his warm breath blanketed over her, she felt her throat tensing up and her knees wobbled to keep her afoot. “Inuyasha …” she whispered, and the vibration in her voice sent chills to the shell of his ear and then down below. His mind felt hazy, as if he had been sitting in a pool of lukewarm water and then suddenly been doused with a scalding burst. With his hand in hers, they both felt themselves shaking, not so much in each other's grasp, but from the vibrations within. Kagome slowly lifted up her head, her lips very close to his cheek and her breath tickling the fuzz on his face. “We should get back.” And in that whisper, he could barely hear a voice in there. He thought of it as a sweet chant - a small beckoning from a comfortable summer wind. “I'm not ready …” he gulped. Kagome's expression fell slightly and then he continued, “to go back just yet.” As soon as he blinked, he was staring into her eyes, frightened, yet mixed with a growing sense of longing. “Okay, we can stay…just like this,” she sighed, and felt the strands of his hair tickle her face as he moved his head from her side and then nuzzled his nose against hers. She swallowed and gasped as he closed his eyes and followed through hot instinct, and sent his lips crashing onto hers. She gurgled as his sloppy strokes invaded her mouth and sucked away as much taste as she could offer. With an awkward exhale, he pressed his nose against hers, and Kagome had felt that neither one of them had much experience kissing before - at least not kissing like this. No, it wasn't about mechanics at all. She was stunned more than anything, and meekly responded as she started to feel more assurance - more desire to have his mouth the same way that he had hers. Kagome suckled on his bottom lip and Inuyasha made a muffled moan in her mouth. Soon, his hands resting on her shoulders released her lightly and began snaking around her body, and pulling at the hem of her pajama shirt. Cautiously, he slipped his fingers under the shirt and brushed them against her skin, his cold fingers grazing at her heat. Clumsily, Kagome felt her knees buckle and he caught her before she could fall. He lost his balance, grabbed her and pulled her onto him as they tumbled down. Their lips broke apart immediately from the tumble and with Kagome's body suddenly over his - they both paused. They had been in this position before. Kagome had fallen on him a long time ago when he had been injured before feelings were even felt. She had hugged him when he was human that night and battered from battling the Peach Man. He had rested his head in her lap, and she had clutched him from behind so many times before. Their bodies had already molded into a fitted shape - and now all they had to do was come together closer - become the two that became the one. Instead of moving, she straddled him shifting her legs so she was sitting on top and looking down at him. Inuyasha stared at her with dazed eyes and a stunned look on his face. He knew his body wanted something - he knew he wanted her, but he wondered if he could. He wondered if they should go further at a time like this. Their mission buzzed soundlessly in his brain, and soon with Kagome sitting on top of him, all random thoughts of his conscience were silenced. Now all he could hear was the blood throbbing in his veins. “I didn't mean to fall - on you. I - I will get off,” Kagome said, worried by the strange look in his eyes. She shifted her thighs, and she saw Inuyasha wince as she dug her pelvis unintentionally into his own. “I'm sorry!” Kagome said, panicking, and she was about to get up when he pulled her back down and draped her over his chest. He rested his chin on her head and sucked in a breath of air that she felt rise up over her face. “Stop, I'm still not ready to go yet,” he said simply and she froze as his soft, yet commanding voice reverberated in her ears. Licking her lips, she moved her head slowly and raised her chest from his, looking down at him. Her hair was mussed, and it fell over his face. She was glad his vision was blurred by her hair because she didn't want him to see that her elbows were shaking. She didn't know what was going to happen. She was half scared, half mystified to the whole experience. “Should we be doing this - out here?” Kagome whispered, and the question seemed to drain some of the life from Inuyasha's vigor. Whatever he had been feeling before, he didn't want a million questions to taint it. He rose up, and he stared at her hungrily. She could see his lips quivering ever so slightly as they came closer to her face. “I don't know.” He planted a light kiss on her cheek. “I don't know,” he repeated, and then turned his lips to her other cheek, chanting `I-don't-knows' as he continued to cover sporadic places on her face with his kisses. Her eyes fluttered closed and he wrapped his arms around her. His lean body was hot and hard against hers and she felt like she was spiraling as he suckled at her mouth and teased her with his tongue. Was this the same Inuyasha? “Why haven't we done this before?” she moaned idly. He stopped and gave her an angry look. “Woman, you need to stop talking. You'll ruin it,” he grumped. Kagome bit her lip and returned his grumpy look. “And what exactly am I ruining?” She reached up and twiddled her fingers over his rosary. He exhaled - frightened slightly that he'd be sat face first in the dirt and was exhilarated when her voice rang with such playful antagonism. He bucked his pelvis into hers suddenly. Kagome's eyes widened as she felt something hard press against her - and she knew exactly what it was and she had seen it accidentally a couple times before. She swallowed. She wasn't stupid, and she knew what it was for. “Inuyasha,” she let out a breathy sigh. “Do you think this is far enough for us - I mean, do you think we're ready?” He groaned underneath her and seemed to stop nibbling on her collarbone which had become his focus during her cautious introspection. “You don't sound like you're ready,” he replied, lying back down and resting his hands under his head. His lustful eyes had glazed over and he stared at her pensively. Disappointment rang in his voice when he said, “It's okay if you're not.” Then, his disappointment transformed into a reassuring smile. Kagome seemed moved by his response. “It's okay,” he whispered finally. “It's just that - I want to - but I'm certainly not prepared for it…um,” she paused and bit her lip. “Have you ever thought -“ “Yes -“ She cocked an eyebrow at him and then playfully punched his stomach. “Silly, you don't even know what I was going to ask.” “Feh,” he grunted. “Like hell I didn't. You were going to ask me if I'd thought about doing this with you, isn't that right?” Kagome felt her face warm with a flush. She nodded once and then playfully appeared mad. “How did you know?” He cocked his head at her and twisted his lip in an exasperated curl. “C'mon, how long have we been together? I know you, Kagome.” Kagome bent her head down and broke her gaze from his. He looked at her curiously to see her reaction, but she was just feeling overwhelmed. Inuyasha became relieved when a small nervous smile broke out into her face. “I guess you know me more than I know you.” Shifting their bodies, Inuyasha sat up and grabbed her shoulders trying to look at her sincerely. “How can you say that?” Kagome snorted. “How can't I? I feel so stupid about how I behave around you and Kikyou.” His grip relaxed as she mentioned the other woman's name. “Even after all this time I still act like an idiot when she's around. I feel so…” She gritted her teeth. “Never mind, it's not important.” “No, what is it? You need to tell me or we'll always be running around in circles like this. We'll always be slipping!” He shook her slightly, and he could feel by the wetness in her eyes that her emotions were going to spill out. “Be strong, Kagome. I know you are.” That's right, Kagome. You can't cry. You can't cry when Inuyasha and you just almost… She felt a sheepish grin on her face and then shrugged. Inuyasha was amazed at how fast her emotions turned around. “I always feel so inferior to her.” Inuyasha was silent, and Kagome heard her owl friend hoot in the distance. “Well, you are…at some things,” Inuyasha blurted, and Kagome gave him an offended look. He put up a surrendering hand. “But…there are things that make Kikyou inferior to you.” “Like what?” Kagome was touched, even if his words were a little too blunt. “Like…” he leaned into her and nibbled on her lip. He sighed in exasperation. “Do I really have to say it?” The moment was too sugary sweet as it was. He moved in and began nibbling at the nape of her neck, and he felt delight as he started tracing his tongue over her goose pimples. Kagome's back was tensed rigidly to his touch, and she had to remind herself to breathe. “So, I'm looking for more of a physical answer here?” Kagome cracked a joke, and then suddenly she whined as he pushed her to the ground and hovered over her. She saw him panting, his chest heaving in his rising excitement. He rocked into her, and she felt heat pool in between her legs and expel all the ice she felt in her thighs. She moaned, and Inuyasha took advantage of her open mouth and delved past to play with her tongue. She could feel the wet mesh of their saliva as he slapped and lapped against the walls of her cheek and top of her tongue. “I'm …” she broke in but he wouldn't let her stay away and silenced her again. More physical… But she had a hundred and two things to tell him. Inuyasha, I'm ready. Inuyasha, please touch me. Touch me there, Inuyasha. I'll touch you too. But his mouth was demanding and wouldn't let go. She felt his cool hands rustle underneath her shirt and whimpered. She in turn kept her own hands busy and began rubbing them up and down the sides of his chest and thighs - feeling those angles and grooves on his perfect body. She excited herself even more when she wondered how much better he could be without those clothes. She knew what he looked like - she had seen him several times before - but she was never allowed to touch. Kagome figured she could definitely feel him now. She tugged at his hakama, and then slipped her fingers through the openings to the material in between. Slinking her fingers in as much as she could, she ran her fingers over the thin material, teasing him and trying to gravitate closer to the middle. “Un…” he sighed in her mouth, and then gurgled as he pulled from her. Stunned, she pulled her hands from under his clothes and watched his reaction. “Did I --?” He groaned again and began fumbling at his own sashes. She sat back immobilized as he continued to undress. She watched him with pique interest, soaking in his tan angles that were blue-bronzed in the sparse moonlight. He stopped when he finally shirtless and became intimidated by her silent watching. “Kagome, are you …?” Slightly overwhelmed by the scene before her, she nodded dumbly but kept her eyes focused on his body, unable to break her gaze away from the tan-muscled seduction that knelt before her. Then, he scooted closer to her, and she felt his warm hands on her shirt and pants. His clawed fingers moved cautiously over the material of her clothes as he watched her, staring and reading her movements as he caressed her body through her clothes. With a tug at her shirt, he awkwardly pulled it over her hair. The motion left her looking wild, with her raven hair mussed around her flushed face. She hugged her naked torso self-consciously and shivered in the cool breeze. Coming closer, slowly he pushed her arms away from obstructing his vision and touch. She gasped and gave him a look of pure anxiety. He pulled back his hand, wondering if she was really sure about this. “Kagome … if you …” She pursed her lips together and sighed. “No, we've gotten this far.” She looked him in the eyes, serious, and said earnestly, “I don't think I can go back now. I'm just sorta scared.” He nodded, swallowing an anxious lump in his throat. He shrugged his shoulders and scratched the back of his head again. “If it makes you feel any better, I'm not sure what I'm doing either.” He paused and looked away nervously, and she caught a strained curve of his lip. “Damn it, I don't want to sound like a pussy, but I'm working on pure emotion here. I'm not experienced like Miroku or confident like Kouga. I probably really suck at this.” He looked at her and she gave him a reassuring smile. He snorted. “It's not like swinging a big sword, you know.” Her face suddenly broke out in a grin and she arched one eyebrow. “Oh, it isn't?” And within the silence, she laughed at her own joke while Inuyasha nervously chuckled. “Well, alright then,” his voice rang with a bit of fire. “I guess I do have some experience then.” Kagome scooted up to him and placed her finger on his lips again. “Less talk, remember?” His eyes widened momentarily and the he nodded his head in affirmation. In a daring move, he pulled her down on the ground and hovered over her. He gave her catlike grin. “Yes, less talk and more action.” And he dipped his head down, and started licking at the swell of her breast. Kagome gasped in surprise and arched her back upward to get closer to his mouth. “Oh!” And then his tongue was swirling around her nipples, sucking and nipping as he played to get them pert - and then enjoying their readiness. He brought his hands up and squeezed her breasts, and he felt himself harden at the mere motion of it. Kagome bucked anxiously underneath him. Her breasts properly wet, he bent downward and rustled her pajama bottoms off and left them hanging on her ankles. He stopped, and he stared at the small curly area just above her thighs. He had never seen hers so up close, not to mention he hadn't realized that there was a natural cut of hair there, but it seemed most likely sculpted perfectly to a triangular form. Tracing his finger over the top of the curls, he watched her body spasm to his unpredictable touch. The hair was coarse against his touch and he delighted in shaping the hair in a smoothed grain directing his fingers to the further below. “Oh! Tickles…” she giggled lightly but her legs were shivering from his touch. His exploration continued as he moved his fingers past her curls and over her lips, hiding Kagome's glisten beneath their folds. She was sensitive, and he felt her breathing increase much faster as he stroked endless trails over her flesh. She started to buck her body, making heavy noises of desire and impatience. “Please…” and as her wanton words filtered in his ears, her scent accosted him as well, and he wondered if she had smelled that good, she must taste that good. And he was not a stranger to tales of men going below and tasting their women. Even then he had craved such things, but never spoke of it. Who would want a hanyou to do such things to them? He stopped, and suddenly the air was sliced through with a cold halt. “What is it?” Kagome asked, her chest heaving. She was ready and if he didn't touch her soon, she was sure she'd break. She bent upward and reached her hand to cup his face. She smiled at him and nodded again. Any doubts he had were washed away with just that smile - her smile, which could heal anything that ailed him. Excitedly, he got back on track and moved in between her legs and pulled her thighs apart. She watched him, nervous and expectant, as his silver head of hair rested between her thighs. Kagome soon felt his lips, swirling and suckling her heated parts below. “OH!” she howled, and she started to feel her barriers break away. With each lick, each lap, she felt her defenses breaking and soon all she wanted to do was give her whole self to Inuyasha. She felt she'd split apart the moment his tongue swirled around her inner walls and began to lick her clean of her flowing scent. His tongue seemed to delve into her endlessly, never losing the speed, interest, or energy - yet only driving on faster, hungrier than ever before. He felt good - damn good and she never wanted the feeling to stop. Explosions occurred in a domino affect throughout her core and to her knees and toes. She knew there was something, and that she'd have to reach higher; she knew that she could get there - with each lick she could soar and reach what instinct was craving - a white fire inside that yearned to ignite. And when she felt her insides reach an invisible top, she screamed with sweat dripping from her forehead and her tongue smacking restless to settle her exhausted thirst. After the last lick, Kagome felt she was falling from a tall building and then secured in a soft cushion of grass. She sighed audibly and Inuyasha stopped when he realized she had suddenly become very relaxed. “Good?” he asked, awaiting her approval. Her eyes danced to the sight of him smacking his lips and licking her wetness from his lips. She nodded wearily and wore a permanent, content grin on her face. “You need to do that for me the day before I have an exam. I feel I can conquer even Naraku now … after a bit of rest of course.” He grinned at her, and moved to her side. He began nibbling on her ear. “We're not done yet.” “Oh no,” she agreed, and she felt his hand brush lightly over her wet thighs. He moved above her and tugged his pants loose. Nervously, he fumbled with the sash and tried to appear more confident than he was. Although the previous performance had seemed to boost his ego pretty well for the next stage. Watching him, Kagome's eyes widened again when he revealed himself to her. Hardened and pointing skyward, her eyes traced over the delicate veined flesh that erected before her. She felt it was both the scariest thing she'd ever seen and the most enticing, and she longed to grip her fingers over it. Even his tense thigh muscles looked beautiful to her, and she reached out her hand to touch him. Seeing her want, Inuyasha was more than pleased that she wanted to explore. After all, he had done that to her. Though, having Kagome's hands around him was much more attractive rather than exciting himself with his own. And as her small hands wrapped cautiously around him, stroking up and down and tracing over his veins, he knew that his many days of doing this alone were likely over. He closed his eyes in contentment as she rubbed her fingertips over the sensitive flesh under his head. His body bucked into her hand and she stopped, frightened that she'd done something wrong. “No, just … Do what you're doing …” he breathed with a heavy voice. “But go faster, touch more…” Nodding, she did as she was told, and he fell over her shoulder and moaned in her hair as she continued to rub her hands quickly over his arousal. She trailed her grip up and down, pulling and squeezing lightly the skin around his penis. He whined, and she wondered if it was too hard. “Oh…Gods…” He threw his head back, and an idle hand gripped her breast and played with her nipple. She exhaled heavily, and she suddenly felt herself becoming aroused again by the look on Inuyasha's entranced face. Suddenly, he jerked forward, and she felt her hand gloss with something warm and sticky. She let go of him as he slumped over her shoulder again for support. Curious, she brought up her hand to inspect the liquid that was covering her fingers. She brought it closer to her face to study it, sniffing lightly when she smelled a strong aroma. And going from what he had done to her earlier, she wondered if she should taste it. She's heard the stories, but never had really given a lot of thought about it. Inuyasha watched her intently and caught his breath. He seemed enamored by the way she regarded his cum on her fingers. She closed her eyes and gave her fingers a trial lick. Inuyasha let out a small groan, and she continued to lick her fingers clean of him. He didn't know why, but watching her do something like that, tasting something of his, really felt meaningful. They were certainly sharing a bond and as Kagome finished licking her fingers, he felt excited again. He grabbed her and she squealed as he settled her into his lap, his half-arousal rubbing against her curls. “Inuyasha …” was all she could say, and she wondered if such moments were better left unspoken. Inuyasha proved her right and he kissed her again, snaking his hands around her and bringing her as close as he could. And she felt a cool sting in between her legs, and suddenly she felt the pull to be satisfied again - to try and explore everything that was Inuyasha. But she didn't know if she was really prepared. Inuyasha bucked into her, and his penis grazed against her sensitive lips. “Wait …” she broke away from his kiss. “Should we be going this far…I mean…we still have fight Naraku, and I'm pretty sure I'm not protected from getting …” “It's fine,” Inuyasha interrupted. He looked at her squarely and reassured, “If you don't want to, I'll stop. But I can try … I can try to be careful.” She dropped her head and looked at their laps. She flushed, and responded rather meekly, “Oh.” The tone of her voice seemed unconvinced. I really want to but… He was about to gently push her off when she resisted him. “I trust you.” She lifted her head up and stared him in the eyes. “I trust you, Inuyasha. But we better be careful.” He nodded. “Are you sure?” He felt it necessary at this point to double check. This was a big line they were crossing, and he didn't want it to be the wrong time. “Yes, I …” She smoothed her hands over his heaving chest. “I really want this. I don't know if it's wrong, but I really feel that I want this. I feel that this is right…” “Yeah…” he replied, reveling in her idle caresses over his body. His arousal jerked against her and she moved her hand there to explore. Then he reclined back and pulled her to rest on top of him. She moved her knees and she looked at him and then to the obstacle. She closed her eyes in preparation for pain. She's heard the stories before - that was supposed to hurt the first time and even bleed. To have Inuyasha inside her was a wonderful concept, almost unreal. Though she reminded herself that what she did know of it, it got better and more pleasurable. She hoped that was true. “Kagome, what's wrong?” Inuyasha asked, sensing her distress. She knelt over him and just stared with emotions flickering on her face. “I'm just wondering - well, I know, that it's going to hurt at first. I'm just a bit nervous - that's all.” “I don't want to hurt you,” Inuyasha said right away. He settled back down, and said. “Make sure you're ready, Kagome. I'm not going to force you.” “I know; it's just that it won't hurt for you. It'll be good for me, but not right away. I just…” She bit her lip and then she scowled. She didn't know why, but she got a flash in her head of Kikyou laughing at her - taunting her that she wasn't even brave enough to do such a simple, natural thing. “Grrr…” And the growl almost made Inuyasha jump. He looked at her determined face as she pushed herself quickly over him. He groaned, and opened his eyes to see Kagome's face contorting in slight pain. “Kagome?” She rocked slowly onto him, moving her hips and plunging him deeper in her. “You're bleeding,” Inuyasha murmured, for he smelled it right away. “It's okay,” she gritted through her teeth. She rocked a little faster and Inuyasha was starting to lose concentration on aiding her. Soon, his body ran on instinct and wanted to rock with her, moan with her, and feel every burst. It pinched and it was hot, and she felt him stab through her and then rock against the wounded flesh. Soon, pain was dulled and she only caught slight aftershocks to the pain as he moved faster with her. Her pleasure suddenly outweighed the blunted pinch and heated to the rising friction, causing her to reel. “Oh,” she called out, her face contorting still, yet pain was far gone and pleasure and wonder replaced her expression. Moving his thighs, Kagome's moans began to heighten his senses, becoming a catalyst for his abounding need. Skin on skin, wet on wet, they stuck together, and became a motion of abandonment- a definition of youthful splendor and need. She bounced on top him, crying, reeling, wailing and begging for him to pinch her more, drive her further…and take her much higher than he had ever done while flying with her on his back. She peaked and Inuyasha deafened her joyous scream with his kiss. He shivered and felt himself coming too - coming to that point of release. But he promised her - he promised they'd be careful. “Kagome, I'm sorry.” She whined when he began to let go. “I need to…” And as he detached from her, he got to his knees and his body began to spasm. His hot, white sex spilled before him and dripped onto her chest and parts of her face. She murmured a light shock and then he fell to his knees as she caught him. His essence was coated between them, and their slick skin slid together in their exhausted embrace. Running her fingers through his silver hair, she tenderly pushed him off her and looked into his face. Her hands cupped his cheeks again and she gave him a lazy smile. He uttered right away, “That was …” “…a little painful…” Kagome joked, and Inuyasha seemed somewhat concerned. She shook her head. “It's okay. It'll get better in time.” Reassured, he chuckled and pulled her into his arms. They fell to the ground holding onto each other and settling in their scattered clothes. “That means we're going to have to do this again,” he murmured against her hair. “Yep.” There was another pause, and the cool night air began to dry their drowsy bodies. Kagome sighed in contentment, and Inuyasha looked to the stars rather pensively. “Do you think we are really slipping?” His voice was serious and borderline grim. “Well, I do worry. Actually, lately I've been worrying a lot,” Kagome confessed. She began to play with a tress of his hair. She stared at it intently. “Still…after tonight I think I'm a lot less worried.” “Feh, you think?” His tone was mocking. He seemed almost offended. “I didn't do this because I was worried.” “Ha.” She didn't believe him and chuckled. “Don't be silly. You know we both did.” “Does it mean that it was wrong then? I mean, for that reason?” Inuyasha was somewhat bothered by the notion that tonight could be a big mistake tomorrow. “It doesn't feel wrong…” Kagome sighed, tracing back to her recent memories. She sighed and draped her arm around his chest, squeezing him a bit tighter. Inuyasha matched her pensive sigh. “No, it doesn't.” The quiet of the early morning began to fall between them again. Kagome felt her eyes begin to close, and she let out a yawn. “I think it's time to get back,” Inuyasha suggested, and he felt her nod against him. “Get dressed and I'll carry you.” Kagome made a noise of agreement and slowly got to her feet. As she was putting on her shirt, she paused and turned to him. She noticed that he had pretty much all his underclothes on already. “Hey, what do you think will happen tomorrow?” she asked curiously. Inuyasha turned his head as he heard an owl hoot in the distance. “What do you mean?” he returned, bringing his attention back to her. “What I mean is … aren't you going to feel awkward after we did this? What will Miroku and Sango say? Or Kouga?” Kagome shivered at the possibilities. She certainly didn't want her and Inuyasha's close relationship to affect the morale or trust of the group. “Why would I feel awkward?” Kagome's fears seemed foreign to him. “If they know, they know. If not, who cares? And I certainly don't care about the opinion of that damn wolf.” He gave her a grumpy glare. “If anything, he'll stop touching you after this.” He shook the dirt from his robe and his face lit up with a dangerous expression. “I'll kill him if he lays a finger on you after this.” Then he began muttering. “Stupid wolf, no more `my woman' this or `my woman' that. If anything this makes you my woman…stupid punk.” Kagome watched him with wide eyes as he got dressed and ranted. Truthfully, she watched with interest and seemed to find his increased possessive behavior quite amusing. “Your woman? Heh,” Kagome said, walking over and nudging him in the ribs. He gave her a haughty look and nodded. “Feh.” And his quip made her bust out laughing. “What? It's not like after this you're going to go romp with him,” he paused and seemed worried and perplexed. “Right?” She punched him in the shoulder, and if he was human, it might have slightly bruised. She gave him a menacing glare - a look he was all too familiar with and usually ended up with him eating dirt. “Do we need to go over this again? I don't like Kouga. I love you!” And before she could catch what she said, her blunt confession had stunned him. He froze in his spot, and then turned to her with a soft look. “You … you love me?” He couldn't believe she had told him - admitted to him her feelings. He'd always wanted to hear it - so desperately - but there were always doubts. Kagome sighed and faced the fact that he knew how she felt now. She only wished she could get the same thing in return from him. “Yes, I thought that was obvious. But to tell you the truth, it feels better telling you.” She gave him a withered look. “Even if - you know - you love someone else and can't say that to me.” For a moment he stared at her, bewildered and almost cold at what she could possibly mean. “What are you saying, Kagome?” She pouted and gave him a direct look. “You know exactly what I mean.” She kicked the dirt angrily and stared at the ground. “Let's just go.” She probably thought it was wiser at this point to drop the subject. Inuyasha looked uncomfortable at the very idea of love, let alone sticking him in a place where he'd have to indirectly choose. It was obvious by the way she read his face that Inuyasha was not ready to choose yet. The observation stung a lot, and after the recent events, she wondered how worthwhile this night had really been on a grand scale. She walked quickly ahead toward camp leaving him stupefied in his tracks. “Kagome, wait.” She stopped, but she didn't turn around. He watched the back of her head. “I don't know what's going on in your head, but you've always known that things have been complicated between us from day one.” She made no motion to speak so he continued. “Yes, I did love Kikyou, but …” He closed his eyes and clenched his fist. “I know now, that we can never be like that again. Yes, she helps us even now, but our relationship isn't like that. Now it's about revenge and duty and compassion. It's about helping her find rest. You know these are the reasons why we've never done anything like tonight before.” Kagome swallowed, and she feared the direction his conversation was going. “But tonight, you were right. I don't know what happened to us, but we were slipping apart.” Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, and she was extremely glad he could not see them. “I didn't do this tonight to save us from slipping. I brought you here and spent tonight with you because I wanted to tell you something that's hard for me to say in words.” He stared at the ground and felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “I only hoped that through tonight, you could see that. You could see how I feel.” She sniffled and her tears of anxiety mixed with ones of happiness. She spun around and smiled at him, elated and relieved. He looked at her and relaxed, smiling as she rushed toward him, letting him take her into his protective arms. He kissed the top of her head and whispered. “Come on, it's time to go back.” She nodded dutifully, and by the tone of his voice and the memory of his touch, Kagome felt that wherever Inuyasha chose to go, she'd willfully and always stay by his side. The End

Boom. Crash. Clatter. The sounds of destruction were banal. It made up for it with sparkle. Silver shards, burning with the reflection of spellfire, rained to the floor and died. The Mirror was no more. It should have been the end. Part I It began with a bedtime story his godfather told him, a short yet endless story, a story that accompanied him through the years of his childhood and never left him alone until he saw it with his own eyes. It. The Mirror. At Hogwarts, finally, he wasted no time. He began his quest on the night that followed the Sorting. A proud Gryffindor like his father and godfather, he continued the tradition of boldly breaking the rules, chatting with portraits and ghosts on his midnight stroll through the castle. Painted arms opened wide, and foggy lips curled into smiles. He was welcome. It didn't take long. A whisper from an obscure canvas, the unsuspected swing of a staircase, a translucent finger pointed, and one fine night, two weeks into his first term, Teddy Lupin stood in front of a door he'd never seen before. His heart was pounding in his ears. It appeared to be an ordinary classroom door, left slightly ajar, but when Teddy placed a sweaty palm on the wood, he could feel the difference. The wood was warm to the touch, tingling with the promise of adventure. The door opened without a sound, and Teddy tiptoed inside. If the layers of dust and cobwebs were anything to go by, the room hadn't seen any students for at least a century. The desks and chairs were even older fashioned than those in Binns's classroom. Instead of a teacher's desk, the small dais in front held something that most definitely didn't belong. Two golden claws, untouched by dirt and grime, carried a magnificent frame that reached as high as the ceiling. From the back row, Teddy could see the reflection of the moon swimming inside, its silver shimmer illuminating the ornaments of its gilded confines. Too excited even to whoop, he fought his way through a jungle of furniture and cobwebs, scaring swarms of creepy-crawly denizens and leaving a broad trail in his wake. He hardly noticed a chair crashing down; his eyes were fixed on the splendid object before him, his childhood holy grail. "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi." Whispering the words he already knew by heart, he raised a hand and traced the ornament of a flower that merged into an animal merged into a mask. Before he slipped past the frame to stand right in front of the Mirror, he closed his eyes. Balling his hands into fists, he counted to ten, then to twenty. At twenty-five he opened his eyes, blinked twice and smiled. The Mirror had kept its promise. "Hi, Dad!" he greeted the image. Teddy wasn't disappointed when he opened his eyes and only found his dad in the Mirror. He knew his mum from the stories of his grandmother, from the family photo albums and from his own face. She was there with him every time he changed the colour of his hair or the form of his nose. He did it now, let his hair flash up in bright orange and his nose grow to meet his forehead. His dad beamed and applauded, and Teddy turned purple proud. The few photographs of Remus Lupin he'd seen showed his father as a grown man. He'd looked so old, much older than a dad should look, and as washed out as his cardigan. The pictures barely moved. Whatever funny grimaces he'd tried on them, the smiles he coaxed were always sad, and reserved for special occasions like Christmas or his birthday. Most of the time, his father had been absent or asleep. The dad in the Mirror was nothing like that. His warm eyes and the mischievous grin on his lips radiated happiness, understanding. He pointed his wand at a wardrobe in the background of the Mirror. Out sprang a skeleton. Wearing nothing but a threadbare cardigan, it was a grotesque sight. Yet it had an odd effect on Teddy. His teeth began to chatter, and he rubbed his arms to protect himself against the sudden cold. Giving him an encouraging smile, his dad pointed his wand again. The skeleton turned into a white rabbit with a pink floral waistcoat and hopped away. At six or seven, his grandmother had caught Teddy crying over the photographs. He hadn't been unhappy or upset, he'd just wanted to experience the sadness that was showing on his father's face. His grandmother had taken the photos away from him, promising to return them, "as soon as you're able to understand, my darling." Teddy had understood for a long time now. He'd sneaked out of bed to listen to the shouting matches between his grandmother and Uncle Harry. He'd heard their anxious whispers when they thought he was asleep at St. Mungo's and he'd seen the relief on their faces at the verdict of the healer. His father had been a werewolf, and Teddy was not. "I hate it that I'm not like you," he confessed to the Mirror. "I wanted it so much. To ... to know." He hung his head, and his hair grew into his face. "I hate it." His dad put a finger to his lips and shook his head. As Teddy's hair slowly withdrew, changing from mud to green, his dad pointed to the sky. An enormous moon floated low, bathing everything in silver. Raising both arms as if to greet it, his dad began to move backwards and forwards in an awkward dance. Confused and a little bit embarrassed, Teddy turned away and noticed the real moon outside the window. Its glow was magic, transforming cobwebs into wondrous landscapes and spiders into fairies. Then he realised. The moon was full, and his dad was unchanged. "You're free here," he whispered. "Free!" he whooped, laughing out loud at the reflection of his hair, blue and silver like the moonlight. Every good story had a villain, and Uncle Harry's Mirror story had the Headmaster. Teddy was aware of the danger of the Headmaster's interference every night, and he never entered the Mirror room without being prepared to fight with everything he had for the right to see his dad. He doubted that the Headmaster could be defeated by a Leg-Locker Curse or a Tickling Charm, though. Teddy pointed his wand at the Viktor Krum action figure on its miniature broom. "Petrificus Totalis." Nothing happened. Krum, his trademark scowl unchanged, continued to spin in endless circles. Inside the Mirror, Teddy's dad smiled. He raised his wand and pointed it at the white rabbit that was busy hopping across a background meadow carrying a cup of tea. Teddy's dad demonstrated the exact wand movements of the Body-Bind Curse while his mouth silently formed the incantation. The rabbit stiffened mid-hop and fell like a stone. Describing an arch in the air, the teacup landed in the outstretched hand of Teddy's dad. He took a sip, pinkie properly extended. Teddy clapped and cheered, then pointed his wand at Krum again. "Petrificus Totalis." This time, the broomstick wobbled. Krum shot backwards against the wall. Giggling with pride, Teddy crept across the dais to retrieve the toy. About to turn back he froze in fear, as if hit by a Body-Bind himself. There among the shadows stood a man, staring at him with burning eyes. "Blimey!" Teddy swore under his breath. "The Headmaster!" As soon as he could move again, he scrambled backwards and hid behind the Mirror. Headmaster Snape couldn't be more different from the twinkling Headmaster of Uncle Harry's tale. Teddy could hardly imagine Snape talking about dreams or woollen socks. He was a hero, Teddy had been told, a great man, but that didn't make him appear one iota less dangerous or mean. Rumour had it that a snake bite had turned him into a horrific creature, a monster that had the power to kill with a single glance, cursed to prowl the castle at night and never to see daylight again. Teddy had only ever met him at the Welcome Feast, but Snape's transfixed glare had nearly convinced him of the story. Nonsense! Teddy tried to reassure himself. Snape couldn't be a monster; Uncle Harry had named his son after him. Teddy wasn't afraid. He wondered what Snape was doing. Why hadn't he come for him by now? Maybe there was hope. Maybe Snape was willing to negotiate. Maybe he could be convinced ... Teddy crawled to the edge of the Mirror and peered into the room. The shadows in the back looked as they always did. There was no one there. Breathing a sigh of relief, Teddy returned to his usual spot in front of the Mirror. His dad had conjured a chessboard and already moved a knight. Teddy took his own chessboard from his robes and matched the move. All thoughts of meddling headmasters were forgotten. "Where are we going?" Victoire paused in the middle of the hallway. "The Astronomy Tower's that way." Caught in a moonbeam she was beautiful, as beautiful as Queen Titania herself, but as conspicuous as a man wearing the head of an ass on his shoulders. Teddy tugged her sleeve, trying to draw her back into the shadows. "I'll show you a secret tonight," he whispered. "I want you to meet my dad." Victoire's eyes widened. Whether it was with surprise or fear, Teddy couldn't have said. He regretted his plan. He should have told her about the Mirror before taking her to see it. It would devastate him if she thought of him as a freak. Her eyes widened even more. She swayed as if about to faint, and her lips formed a silent, "O." Teddy turned his head to see what frightened her. Two burning eyes stared at him from the shadows. "Hea... Headmaster," Victoire said with trembling lips. Snape glided into the hallway and positioned himself between Teddy and Victoire. "What do you think you're doing here, in the middle of the night?" His voice was a mere rasp, and he pressed the tip of his wand to his throat. "She didn't want to come. I persuaded her. I wanted to show her the ... the Orion constellation." "Young Mr Lupin. Always the gentleman, I see." Snape's voice was louder now, but still hoarse. "I wonder where you acquired your sense of entitlement?" Lowering his wand, he closed in on Teddy and hissed into his ear, "That your father's a dead hero doesn't give you the right to break the rules, do you understand me, boy?" "We're very sorry," Victoire said, her hand fluttering to her heart. "As you should be." Snape raised his wand to his throat again. "One hundred points from Gryffindor." "But sir..." Huge tears were running down Victoire's face. Despite the circumstances, Teddy had to concentrate hard to suppress a grin. Victoire's tears never failed to impress her dad or Uncle Ron, but did she really think they would work with Snape? Snape completely ignored her, his eyes never leaving Teddy. "What's so funny?" His hand shot forward and white fingers clasped the Prefect's badge on Teddy's robes. "I warned Professor McGonagall about the recklessness prevalent in your family. Now let me warn you." Snape's breath was hot on Teddy's neck. "If I ever catch you out of bounds again, I'll personally see to it that you lose more than house points." He let go of the Prefect's badge so abruptly it snapped. "Go now. Run before I change my mind and give you detention for the rest of term." Teddy didn't need to be told twice. He gripped his badge and Victoire's hand and sped off to Gryffindor Tower, dragging her along with him. Long after having passed the Fat Lady, he could still feel Snape's eyes burning into his back. "It's your last night, our last night at school together." Victoire pouted beautifully. "Do you really have to go?" Teddy took her hand in his and smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow, and the day after, and every day of the holidays." When she didn't answer his smile, he pressed her hand. "I'll never see him again. You must understand that I have to say goodbye." "Must I?" Blue eyes challenged him. "You know perfectly well it's not a him. It's not your father. Just a stupid old mirror." "I know. Trust me, I know." As always when he reassured her, Teddy wondered if it was the truth. It had to be. And anyway, it was the last time. "But Dad in the Mirror was always there for me when I needed him. I don't know what I'd have done without him." "You have real friends now." She laced her fingers with his and this time, she smiled. "Never forget that." "I won't." The sight of their entwined hands made his nose grow skyward with pride. They fit together so well, and yet, wasn't it a miracle? She was the most beautiful girl in the school, and she cared for him. "You could come with me," he offered. She frowned. "Snape'll only catch us again. I wonder how he does it. He's thwarted us every time we've tried. Every single time." He wanted to assure her that he'd find a way to avoid Snape, but she shook her head. "It's fine as it is. I don't know if I could bear it, to be confronted with my deepest desire." Her laughter sounded insecure, and they fell silent. When Teddy finally left, midnight had long passed. The embers in the fireplace had died, and the cold of the early morning hours had crept into the Common Room. Victoire had fallen asleep in his arms. Teddy conjured a blanket for her before he silently slipped away. Portraits waved at him, staircases swung his way, and ghosts bowed their heads in passing. The castle bade him farewell. The door to the Mirror room stood slightly ajar, just as it had done the first time, more than six years ago. When Teddy placed his palm on the wood, he found it much warmer than usual. It filled him with a sense of imminent danger. He shrugged the unpleasant feeling off. Pushing the door open with his knee, he went inside. At first glance, everything seemed unchanged. The Mirror cast a wan glow, flooding the room with shadows. Looking closer, Teddy noticed a subtle deviation from the familiar scene. A new shadow had joined the crowd. Darker and more substantial than its mates, it crouched in front of the Mirror at the exact same spot where Teddy used to sit. Teddy stood undecided for a moment, unwilling to leave and forfeit his last chance to see his dad in the Mirror, but not wanting to risk discovery either. Whoever the shadow was, he doubted it would appreciate being disturbed. While Teddy still pondered his next move, the shadow shifted. A white hand gripped the frame of the Mirror, the hand of a skeleton, clutching a golden flower like a lifeline. Without a thought, Teddy dived behind the next desk. When, after endless seconds, Teddy risked another glance, the shadow hadn't moved. It still clung to the frame like a drowning man. Curious, Teddy inched deeper into the room, intending to look into the Mirror from afar. If only the magic wouldn't become aware of him, he might get a glimpse of what the shadow saw. From the middle of the back row, Teddy noticed a change of light. The Mirror had glowed pale before, but now it was aglitter with green and golden specks. Within, sunlight was shining through a canopy of leaves, setting the ripples of a small pond on fire. A man was sitting on a fallen trunk, his head burrowed in his hands. When he looked up, Teddy recognised his dad. Teddy rubbed his eyes. How could it be? What was his dad to the shadow? Was it possible that the shadow wasn't real after all, and that Teddy's own desire had created the image? A second glance confused him even more. The man wasn't the dad in the Mirror he knew. He was the sad father from the photographs, careworn and grey. Remus stood up and skipped a stone across the water, then followed it with his eyes until it disappeared. He plucked a blade of grass. Chewing on it, he paced up and down the lakeshore. He spat it out, sat down on a boulder and hid his face behind his hands again. After sitting motionless for a while, he picked a new blade of grass. What weird kind of dream is this? Teddy thought. Another stone had just vanished among wavelets when Remus glanced up. Like a sunbeam breaking through the leaves, a smile spread across his face. The caged animal from seconds ago had transformed into a man aglow with happiness. Wondering about the sudden change in his father's demeanour, Teddy startled as someone else appeared in the Mirror. Snape strode through the forest as if patrolling the halls of Hogwarts, robes billowing behind him. He came to a halt in front of Remus, and the two men scrutinised each other from head to toe. For long moments, nothing happened at all. Then, Remus slowly raised a hand to Snape's collar and opened the two topmost buttons of Snape's robes. Spinning on his heels, Snape escaped Remus's grasp. He drew his wand and Banished Remus's cardigan to a branch high above their heads. Grinning, Remus removed his shirt and tossed it across a lower branch. Corduroys and pants followed. Kicking off his shoes, he waded into the pond. Snape watched him with an unreadable expression before he, too, undressed. Teddy observed, open-mouthed, his father and Snape fooling around in the water, behaving as wild and carefree as boys. I didn't know you were friends. After a long swim, Remus left the pond, his body bathed in sunlight. Naked, with closed eyes, he sat next to the water's edge, leaning his back against the boulder. It wasn't long before Snape also emerged from the water, limbs and hair dripping. He shook himself like a wet dog, a strange lopsided grin on his face. When Remus opened one lazy eye and smiled, Snape knelt down between his legs. Resting his hands on Remus's thighs, Snape dropped his head. He pressed a kiss to Remus's chest and licked a trail to his bellybutton. There he lingered, stabbing it with his tongue. Remus threaded his fingers through Snape's hair. Snape moved his head lower, and lower still. He sucked Remus's balls into his mouth, one after the other. He followed the thick vein on the underside of Remus's cock with the tip of his tongue, then circled the head and swallowed it. Eyes half-open, Remus smiled, caressing Snape's head as it moved up and down over his groin. Teddy was paralysed, his eyes fixed on the Mirror. He wanted to flee, wanted to tear the shadow away from the Mirror, wanted to tear him apart. He wanted to Apparate to the other side of the world, wanted the ground to swallow him up. In the Mirror, Snape let Remus's cock slip out of his mouth until only a thread of saliva connected them. Teddy's hair started to grow, followed by his fingernails and his nose. They grew so fast it hurt. His face was soon covered with hair. It wound around his neck and choked him. Teddy could barely breathe, but he could still see his father's cock, huge and red and glistening with spittle. Snape was bending over the boulder now, arse high in the air. Remus stroked his back, his sides, the cheeks of his arse. He circled Snape's pucker with a finger and pushed it inside. A second finger followed, but then Remus withdrew. He kissed Snape's shoulder and, taking his hand, led him to a patch of grass. There he motioned him to lie on his back. Snape obeyed and pulled his knees to his chest. Remus lowered himself on top of him. Slowly, he thrust his cock inside Snape. When he was in balls-deep, he leaned forward and captured Snape's mouth in a kiss. Teddy retched. It wasn't real, he told himself. He coughed and spat. This wasn't his father. It was just a dream, the fantasy of a filthy pervert. With all his might, Teddy fought against the restraints his own body had put him in. "No!" he screamed. "No! NOOO!" The images in the Mirror blurred and faded away. The shadow rose. Fingernails as long as Aunt Hermione's knitting needles prevented Teddy from drawing his wand. Shaking with fury, he plunged forward and crashed into a desk. Terrible pain shot through his leg. For a second, he was disoriented, and he squeezed his eyes shut in a futile attempt to will the pain away. When he opened them again, he saw the Headmaster in front of the Mirror. In his white and emaciated face, his eyes burned like coals. The Headmaster raised his arm, and red fire shot from his hand. The world turned black. Sunlight was streaming though the windows when Teddy woke up. Headmaster and Mirror were gone. Through the wide open door he could hear students laughing their way into the holidays. Part II Severus, What can I say? What is there still to say? Allow me to dig into the past, as it's not prophecies or omens, but always the past that foreshadows the future. To put it more accurately, we're creatures of our past, and we carry it with us wherever we turn. I wasn't much more than a boy when, to all appearances, my best friend betrayed my best friend. I lived in the shadow of deceit and murder for most of my adult life, and the awareness of evil has shaped what I am today. Not much has changed since I learned the truth. The feeling of betrayal has given way to an overwhelming regret. If I had believed in our friendship, would it have made a difference? Could my trust have made an impact? It's impossible to say, but one thing I know for sure: Had I trusted, I would've been a happier man. Now I can't help but feel like a traitor myself. I will not repeat my mistake. I trust you, Severus. I firmly believe that there's more to your actions than meets the eye. I know both you and Albus Dumbledore, may he rest in peace, and it's unthinkable that you murdered him in cold blood. I can't even imagine the pain you must feel, and my heart aches in sympathy for you. I have faith in you, faith that you'll accomplish what needs to be accomplished, and that you'll stand with the light in the end, victorious. If only I could see you and tell you all this in person. As it is, I don't even dare to send this letter. In the wrong hands, it might do great harm. Yet the idea of writing this for a later time or even for my own eyes alone has its merits. It allows me to put down my thoughts, to say what I never had the opportunity to say before. We merely had fleeting hours, moments stolen from disparate lives. Added up, the intimate time we spent together may not even amount to a single day. Less than twenty-four hours over the course of three years! They weren't moments of unmitigated happiness, either. We came together in anger and parted in despair. Every time you set out on a dangerous task it was as if a part of my soul went along with you. I could only breathe again when I learned you were back in safety. I could only smile again when I had you back in my arms. They weren't moments of utter happiness, but it was the best time of my life. You once accused me of resenting what you called the 'darkness' in you. I haven't resented you, any part of you, for a very long time. I believe it's this part of your personality, your 'dark' or Slytherin side, that lets you survive even the deadliest perils. We were such idiots as children! Stubborn and prejudiced, and rooted deeper in the past than any child should be. Was it fate? Were we doomed to repeat the sins of generations before us? I'm deeply sorry for the harm I caused you as a child. For the small things, the daily insults and mockery, and for the main issue that's been standing between us all this time, the fact that I didn't stand up against my friends when they went too far. I'm not a hero, Severus. I'm merely a follower, a hanger-on who, when left alone, is lost. Once again, I'm left alone. I see the world break apart around me and can't summon up the grain of hope necessary to believe in a future. Part of me is angry, terribly angry. Couldn't you have told me? Couldn't you have trusted me? Couldn't you, at the very least, have left me something of yours? I can't afford a Pensieve, and I don't even have a picture of you. There's one thing left for me to do. I'll fight this war. I may not believe in a future of my own, but the least I can do is help to make this world a place where future generations can live in happiness. I'm a broken man and convinced I'm going to die. Don't misunderstand me, I won't seek out Death deliberately; these words are nothing but the product of a mind without hope. Should my apprehension come true, though, promise not to mourn me. I have to thank you for the best time of my life, and I wish you happiness. Don't live in the past, Severus! I have a confession to make. In a moment of exasperation, I asked Tonks - Dora - to marry me. She says she loves me. She needs me. Please understand, Severus. I've led a miserable life, an 'if-only' existence, a nightmare of 'what-ifs'. What will remain of me once I'm gone? If I can make one person happy, at least my life hasn't been a complete failure. I should have told you this a long time ago, and not held my tongue for fear of ridicule or the silence of your raised eyebrow: I love you, Severus Snape. I love you with all I have. Always, Remus Pushing the letter away, Teddy jumped to his feet. The walls of his flat closed in on him like the spiked interiors of a medieval instrument of torture. He needed fresh air. An open window wasn't enough. He climbed through the small opening and onto the roof. It was an appropriately unpleasant night. Gusts of wind took his breath away, and the steep tiles were still wet from yesterday's rain. Teddy grew talons so as not to slip down. Usually, the roof was his favourite place. He came here in summer to escape the heat of his dingy flat, and, with the help of strong warming charms, enjoyed the first snow in winter. Tonight, he hated the view. Diagon Alley lay in complete darkness. Only Knockturn's lowest dives were still lit, luring late travellers with red demon eyes. Starless and purple, the sky spoke of the bright lights of Muggle London, of a strange new world that was only a stone's throw away. More than an hour had passed before Teddy climbed back inside. With fingers stiff and red from the cold he picked up the letter from the floor. He clumsily folded it and stuffed it back into the envelope addressed, To Severus Snape - in case of our victory and my death, please Owl. There were more surprises in store for him; the cardboard box he'd discovered among the possessions of his late grandmother wasn't empty yet. Teddy found several slips of parchment, some of them balled up and singed as if they'd been thrown through a Floo. Hesitantly, he flattened them and placed them side-by-side on the table. Married? What new idiocy is this? We have to talk! Meet me tomorrow. Usual time, usual place. S. You owe me an explanation! Don't stand me up again, or you'll regret it! Tonight. S. R, Your repeated absence forces me to take unusual measures. If, with my last note, I gave the impression that I was threatening you, I apologise. It is, however, true that I believe you owe me an explanation. It's also true that it may seem as if I owe you an explanation as well. In the light of recent events it was foolish of me to assume that you would still trust me. I'm willing to explain my actions to you, as long as you're willing to do the same. Meet me at our usual place. Tonight. Any night. I'll be waiting. S. We mustn't go on like this! D is going to have a baby. I made up my mind and decided that, in order to protect her and the child, it'll be best to leave. I have a plan. I hope you'll understand that I can't see you again. Not even I could be so wretched as to seek my own private happiness in a situation like this. R. The edges of the letter were burned. Several water stains had left a sepia pattern; some of the ink blurred. It looked as if someone had first incinerated the parchment and then used Aguamenti on it. An answering note was scrawled to the back. Don't do anything rash! At least do me the courtesy to say good-bye in person! My new position comes with the privilege of a private Floo connection. I've given you access. Just say my name. Consisting of one or two word messages like Saturday or Not tonight!, the rest of the notes didn't contain any new information. Teddy wondered why his father had kept them at all. At the bottom of the box he found the photographs his grandmother had taken away from him as a child. Most of them were abandoned; the few remaining showed Remus hiding his face behind his hands. Teddy turned away. "You were right to keep them from me, grandmother," he said. "I'll never be old enough to understand." Part III Witch Charms Millions of Muggles Wizarding actress Victoire Lupin has taken the Muggle world by storm. Her latest "movie" (Muggle moving picture play), Bell Book and Candle, is reported to be a huge success across the pond, and rumour has it that an Oswald (Muggle equivalent for Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award) nomination is in store for the daughter of war hero Bill Weasley and his wife, part-Veela Fleur. (For more about Victoire's Veela origins go to p. 31.) While our dazzling Victoire is on a four month tour through the United States of America, her husband Teddy, children's book author of moderate success (Looking Glass Lad, Master of the Mirror), is staying behind at their lovely home in Kent. Official sources claim he's working on a new novel, but one can't help wondering if it isn't too dangerous to unleash a Metamorphmagus and son of a werewolf on unsuspecting Muggles. How easily could our world be exposed by the growth of a trunk or a sudden change in hair colour? One of the pictures showed Teddy amidst a crowd of wildly applauding children at a book-signing at Flourish and Blotts. He was sporting an elephant's trunk, and approximately every ten seconds his hair changed its colour. Teddy sighed. Think pink! he reminded himself: the catch phrase of his Muggle psychologist. This drivel should at least help to improve his sales figures. With a resigned smile at Victoire, who was blowing kisses in front of a Los Angeles theatre, he closed Witch Weekly and applied himself to his breakfast. A commotion in the garden interrupted his second cup of tea. In a wild chaos of shrieks and flapping wings, the pheasants on the lawn scattered in all directions as a pair of ravens approached. Gliding through the sky in precise, synchronised movements, they were a majestic sight. Teddy walked down the terrace steps to see what they wanted. The ravens circled high above his head before perching themselves on one of the sturdy branches of an old apple tree. Only after they had folded their enormous wings and bowed their heads in greeting, did Teddy notice the parcel they'd been carrying between them. Fastened to their feet with the help of long leather straps, it hung low enough for Teddy to reach. Wondering why two birds were needed to carry a parcel the size of a Chocolate Frog card, he untied the straps and gave an astonished whistle; the tiny package easily outweighed several bricks. Before Teddy could Summon ham and cheese from the breakfast table to thank the birds, they'd already spread their wings and taken off again, cawing cacophonous good-byes. Teddy was no fool. He cast all variations of Revelio Horribilis he knew and only levitated the parcel inside after having ascertained that the content was harmless. Slashing his wand through the air, he cleared a broad space on his cluttered desk, then placed the package on it to take a closer look. The wrapping was completely blank, and Teddy could find no hint of the sender's identity. Being used to the weird gifts her admirers lavished on Victoire, he was prepared for a surprise. He wasn't prepared for the strange and yet familiar sensation he experienced as he fingered the underside of the package. Where three drops of wax sealed the wrapping paper, it was warm to the touch, tingling with the promise of adventure. Teddy didn't wait another second. He ripped off the paper like an impetuous child at Christmas, unable to contain his curiosity. When he saw what the package held, he was so startled that he almost dropped the Mirror. Without a shadow of doubt, he knew that this was the real thing. The ornaments on the frame were old friends; the minuscule flowers, mythical creatures and masks spoke to him of his childhood fears and dreams. Teddy put the shrunken Mirror carefully back on the desk and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Fuck," he said. "Fuck." He took in a deep breath, then another. When the clock on the wall didn't stop ticking and a trapped bee continued buzzing against the windowpane, he finally leaned forward in his chair. He saw an eye in the Mirror. It wasn't his own. It took Teddy three days to get up the nerve to Unshrink the Mirror. Even then, he couldn't do it for another night, buoyed by a number of Firewhiskys. He carried the dwarf Mirror with him as he roamed the house, muttering to himself. The Mirror was getting heavier with each step. Finally, sweating under the weight, Teddy stopped before the empty picture of his father on the mantel. "I don't want to see you again. Never." If his father was somewhere in the picture, he ignored Teddy, but the eye in the Mirror glared disapproval. "All right, all right," Teddy said. "I'm going to fix you now." Stumbling down the basement stairs, he wondered if his inebriety would have an effect on the Mirror magic. What would he see tonight? The thought of a chorus of scantily clad Veelas on broomsticks made him snicker, and he had to grip the banister to stop himself from falling. The Mirror slipped out of his hand impatiently. Clattering down the rest of the stairs, it landed in front of a wooden door. "The wine cellar's empty," Teddy said, his voice brimming with regret. He picked up the Mirror and examined glass and frame for damage, sighing with relief when he detected none. "Stupid thing," he reprimanded it, braving the fierce glare. To win a staring match with a magic Mirror was impossible. Teddy finally gave in and opened the door. "You were right," he was forced to admit, taking in the large room with its dusty racks and the vaulted stone ceiling. "This is just the place for you." He placed the Mirror on the opposite side of the room and, retreating to the door, drew his wand. "Engorgio." A ripple went through the Mirror. The tiny golden claws dug into the earth of the floor, growing bigger and bigger until they had reached the size of dragon feet. Squirming and writhing, the ornaments came alive. Shrieks filled the air. The animals and masks and even the flowers screamed in high-pitched horror as the frame shot up to the ceiling. Covering his ears with his hands, Teddy watched a silver wave whoosh upwards and fill the frame. With a last ripple, the Mirror became still once more. Towering in silence, it cast the same wan and mysterious glow that it had cast all those years ago at Hogwarts. The dramatic rise of the Mirror had sobered Teddy. Drawing patterns in the dust with his bare toes, he wondered if he even wanted to risk a look. He remembered how eager he'd been to see his father when he'd first heard of the Mirror. Now, after everything he'd learned about Remus, he was certain he wouldn't see him again. But what would he see? Himself as an accomplished writer, as famous as Victoire and heaped with awards? Or Victoire herself? The family he never had? A son of his own? He remembered the eye. Did it belong to his unborn, unconceived child? Was it his own eye after all? The eye of a future Teddy, a Teddy so wise and advanced that he was a complete stranger to himself? An ice-cold shiver ran down his spine. He didn't know if it was fear or greed that made him tremble. He couldn't wait another second to find out what the Mirror held in store for him. Determined steps led him deeper into the room. He balled his hands into fists and bit the insides of his cheeks, but he forced his eyes to stay open. He couldn't believe what he saw. A naked Snape sprawled inside the Mirror, his legs spread wide. His enormous cock loomed right in the centre, stiff and red and glistening with pre-come. A hand was jerking him off with precise strokes. It was the hand of a man, and he was wearing a gold ring on his wedding finger. Turning away in disgust, Teddy walked out of the room. This wasn't the Mirror of his childhood. It couldn't be. Severus Snape barely resembled the image in the Mirror, and he didn't look like the demonic Headmaster either. His hair wasn't black like the dead of night or the wings of a raven. It reminded Teddy of the ashes in the fireplace. Grey and lifeless, it still hung in Snape's face in greasy strands. Far from being ghost white and ethereal, Snape's skin was sallow, criss-crossed with lines and wrinkles and loose around his cheeks. His hands weren't those of a skeleton, and his eyes didn't burn. Teddy was almost disappointed to see the bogy of his childhood reduced to a tired old man. If it hadn't been for the nose and the rigid posture of his back, he wouldn't have recognised Snape at all. Amidst Victoire's modern Muggle furniture, Snape in his austere wizarding robes seemed anachronistic, a traveller from the middle ages or another universe entirely. Sunlight flooded through the open windows and drove the last shadows of the past away. Teddy felt like an idiot. "Tea?" he offered. Snape accepted his tea with a nod and cast Sonorus on himself. "You didn't invite me for tea," he said in his hoarse voice. "You mentioned a letter that might be of interest to me." Some battles were unavoidable. Teddy took a deep breath. "My father wrote to you during the war, in case of his death." Silence. Snape didn't move. When he finally spoke, Teddy had to strain his ears to hear him. "I didn't receive anything." "My grandmother kept the letter. I found it among her possessions after her death." "Andromeda Black died six years ago. Why didn't you forward it to me then?" While Teddy still pondered a polite answer, Snape spoke again. "Why now? What has changed?" Fingering the ribs of his corduroys, Teddy launched his attack. "The Mirror. You sent it, didn't you?" "What makes you think so?" "Ha!" Teddy jumped to his feet. "You don't even ask what I'm talking about? It was you! I found you out." "There's no need to get overly excited." Snape finished his tea and put the empty cup on the table. "I indeed sent it. I thought you'd appreciate it as a childhood souvenir. I'm not in the mood for games; if you have questions, ask them." "You knew about my visits to the Mirror at Hogwarts?" Snape nodded. "Did you put it there for me to find?" Another nod. "Why?" "The ghosts and portraits told me you were looking for it." "So you decided to make a lonely child happy?" Snape quirked an eyebrow. "I assume you're privy to Remus's letter?" Something in his face twitched as Teddy gave an affirmative nod. "Then you must know about my relationship with your father." "Do you mean to indicate that you acted out of -" Teddy hesitated. "- friendship for my father?" "What we had was nothing like friendship." Snape spat the last word as if it were an insult, and for a split second Teddy recognised his childhood fiend. Raising his hand, Snape stalled any reply. "I'm willing to answer your questions as far as the Mirror's concerned. I won't discuss personal matters." A coughing fit interrupted him and he reached for his empty cup. Pouring tea, Teddy thought about his next move. When Snape had recovered, he was ready. "You watched me with the Mirror. Every night, wasn't it so?" Snape nodded once more. Inserting two fingers into his collar, he massaged his throat, then renewed his Sonorus. "I merely endeavoured to ascertain that the interaction with the Mirror didn't cause you any harm." "I don't believe you." Having the upper hand was exhilarating. As he dealt his blow, Teddy had to concentrate hard to prevent his hair from turning orange. "You wanted to meet my dad. Over all these years, I provided you with the opportunity to see him." Snape shook his head. "Night after night I played the intermediary for you." "Ridiculous." For the first time during their conversation, Snape glared at Teddy. His eyes didn't burn, but they still reminded Teddy of coals. "Play by the rules. Nothing personal." "Your rules, Snape. You broke them yourself, all those years ago. That last night, what was it about?" "A regrettable accident." It was Teddy's turn to shake his head. Leaning against the mantelpiece, he was very aware of the family pictures in his back. He wondered if Remus had crept back into his photograph to get a glimpse at his lover, but he didn't dare look. "I certainly didn't plan for you to see me." "And yet I did. I saw a lot more than I bargained for." As Teddy stepped away from the fireplace, an almost imperceptible shiver ran through Snape. He gazed at the mantel, a strange expression in his eyes. Teddy needn't look anymore; he knew that his father had entered his photo. "It was his last night at school." Snape's voice was strangled. "My last opportunity to meet you. After that night, I'd never see you again. I waited for hours on end, but the boy didn't come. He didn't even try to bring his annoying girlfriend. He simply failed to appear." Snape under the spell of the picture was a creepy sight. Hunched over, his eyes fixed on the mantel, he seemed to have lost all sense of himself and his surroundings. He spoke as if in a trance. Holding his breath, Teddy shivered despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. "I'd lost all hope. The boy wouldn't come to see you anymore. It was over. "I was surrounded by shadows, and the Mirror called to me. I'd promised myself never to succumb to its temptation again. It's madness to live in dreams and forget what was. We never made love outside in the grass, Remus. We never kissed in the sunlight. I mustn't look into the Mirror and lose our past. Only with the boy's help could I see you and keep my memories intact. "The Mirror whispered your name. I knew I could never see you again. I knew it had to be over. Yet, one last dream to say good-bye, what did it matter? One last illusion, what harm could it do? "It's madness to burn with insatiable desire. Madness!" "Is this the reason why you sent me the Mirror?" Teddy blurted out. "To get rid of it?" Snape's head snapped up and his body straightened. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "I'm tired of this. Be so good as to give me my letter and let me take my leave." Wand at the ready, Teddy shook his head. "You owe me, Snape," he said. "You owe me big. I'll offer you a deal. I'll give you the letter, but you have to do me a favour first." "What foul desire do you harbour? What's so shameful that you can't acknowledge it, not even to yourself?" Teddy's wand hand itched. Right now, he desired nothing more than to hex the sneer off Snape's face. "Rubbish," he said. "I told you, the Shrinking must've ruined the magic. The Mirror's flawed." Snape shrugged. He seemed perfectly calm. Merely a twitch below his left eye betrayed him. "You'll find out soon enough." Opening the door to the wine cellar, Teddy ushered Snape inside. "Of course I will - with your help." Teddy watched from the doorway as Snape approached the Mirror. Halfway there, Snape turned his head. "Once you've made sure the Mirror's in perfect working order, you'll immediately interrupt me, is that understood? You will not watch me. You will not leave me here one moment longer than necessary." Biting the insides of his cheeks, Teddy nodded. "Don't worry," he said, "it's kaput," but Snape had already turned to face the Mirror. He'd been wrong. Terribly wrong. The Mirror showed Remus, aglow with happiness. Clinging to the frame, Snape sunk to his knees. Teddy advanced with hesitating steps. When he was about an arm's length away, the image abruptly changed. Inside the Mirror, Snape sprawled in obscene nakedness. Teddy stepped quickly back until he could see his father again, beaming at a Snape in billowing robes. One step forward and his father was gone. Snape was naked once more. "What the fuck!" Hot anger shot through Teddy. Why was that blasted Mirror taking the piss out of him while at the same time catering to that bastard Snape's perverse desires? What the fuck was wrong with it? What the fuck was wrong with Teddy? Snape in the Mirror spread his legs. "Stop it!" Teddy gripped Snape's shoulder and shook him. Snape's head banged against the Mirror. The Snape inside blurred, but immediately came back into focus, needle-sharp and shameless. Snape swivelled around. His eyes were glittering with madness. He clutched Teddy's hand and rose to his feet, never averting his gaze. With a jerk, he lunged at Teddy. Snape was a furnace, and he encompassed Teddy in his blaze. Unable to resist, Teddy opened himself to the heat, opened his arms and mouth to the onslaught of desire. Teddy's brain slowed down, and details registered in his mind. Snape's tongue sticking in his throat. Snape's cock rubbing against his belly. His own hard-on grinding against Snape's leg. Teddy froze. Turning his head in disgust, he pushed Snape away. Inside the Mirror, Snape wasn't alone anymore. A man had joined him. Teddy could only see his back and the hand with the gold ring that was caressing Snape's skin. The real Snape stood with hanging arms, motionless, his eyes fixed on the Mirror. "You aren't attractive," Teddy said. "Your skin isn't white. You're old and wrinkled." He grabbed Snape at the collar and ripped open his robes. "Show me your ugly flesh." Spinning on his heels, Snape pointed his wand. Teddy was rooted to the spot as his own wand clattered to the floor. He only realised that he was naked when Snape had already dropped to his knees and swallowed his cock. Threading his fingers through Snape's grey hair, Teddy thrust into the heat of Snape's mouth. His eye fell on the Mirror, where a gold ring shone between raven strands. "No!" Snape released Teddy's cock and looked up at him with glittering eyes. He grasped Teddy's hand in an effort to get to his feet. Teddy staggered. His legs gave way under him and he fell onto his knees. Snape pulled him forward; Teddy landed on top of him. In a tangle of legs and arms, of mouths and hands and cocks, he forgot everything else. The man who buggered Snape in the Mirror was unrecognisable as always, his face hidden behind Snape's back. Teddy lowered his head and kissed Snape on the neck. He was fascinated with his scar. The raised skin was smooth under his lips, like an inscription in Braille, labelling the man in his arms, 'the real Snape'. Swivelling his tongue around each vertebra, Teddy mapped Snape's body from bony shoulder blades to razor-sharp hips. His arse was probably Snape's best feature. Despite his age, it was still taut. Teddy squeezed Snape's cheeks and pulled them apart to continue his journey. Burying his face in the crack, he flicked his tongue across the pucker. He circled the opening and, pressing his tongue inside, started to hum. Snape writhed on the floor, pushing his bum backwards against Teddy's face. He let out a string of moans, followed by a rasped, "Fuck me already." The lube was nearly empty. Fumbling, Teddy prepared himself. The rest of the lube he applied to Snape's pucker, wriggling a probing finger. "Get inside me," Snape ordered. "Now!" Teddy spread Snape's legs further apart, gripped his hips and slid all the way in. Inside the Mirror, Snape's lover bent his head to kiss Snape. Teddy could neither distinguish his face nor define the colour of his hair. "Who are you?" Gritting his teeth, Teddy pounded into Snape. The answer must lie in him. With his face turned towards the Mirror, Snape had started to jerk off. Seizing his hand, Teddy interlaced their fingers. "Look at me." When Snape didn't react, Teddy yanked his hair. "The prick up your arse is mine." He completely withdrew and slammed back in. "Mine, do you understand? Not my father's." Glittering eyes turned to Teddy. "Tell me, what do you see? What insane desire makes you want to fuck me?" "I don't know." Teddy thrust harder and faster. "I see a man buggering you, but I don't know who he is. It drives me crazy." "Idiot." Snape burst into a hoarse laugh. The man in the Mirror raised his head. For the fraction of a second, Teddy knew him. Then a load of Snape's spunk hit the Mirror glass, and Teddy's orgasm ripped through him, sending him into a vortex of oblivion. "It has to end." Snape paused on his way to the Mirror. "Why?" "Victoire will be back from the States next week." "I see." Teddy waited for Snape to do something, but he stood motionless in the middle of the room, a pillar of disapproval. Teddy's eye fell on their makeshift bed in front of the Mirror. The heap of blankets and cushions told of their debauchery in unambiguous words. Teddy Vanished the whole mess with a flick of his wand. "It isn't quite as simple as that." "It's a start." "We'll catch a cold. It'll be a pain in the back." Snape shrugged. "I won't be deterred by a lack of comfort. I'll get what I want." "You want Remus, not me." Teddy gripped Snape's shoulders. "Don't you see this is madness?" Snape turned around, and they stood embraced, a parody of lovers. Snape's breath was hot in Teddy's ear. "I want a prick up my arse and strong arms that hold me. Is this so wrong?" "In that case you don't need the Mirror." "As a matter of fact that's true. I don't need it anymore. What about you? What is it you want?" "Me?" An ice-cold shiver ran down Teddy's spine as he realised he didn't know the answer to Snape's question. "To win recognition for my work. To make Victoire happy. A family of my own. A son," he said, but Snape wasn't fooled. "What does the Mirror show you?" "You. Together with another man. You already know that," Teddy said defiantly. "Has it never crossed your mind that you could be this man?" "Ridiculous." "Oh really?" Snape stroked Teddy's hard-on through his corduroys. "Buggering you is kind of nice, I admit to that," Teddy forced through clenched teeth. "It certainly isn't my deepest, most desperate desire." "You have a point here." Snape lowered his head. When he raised it again, his eyes were endless tunnels. Images from the past flashed through Teddy's mind. He saw his seven-year-old self, crying over the photographs of his dad, desperate to experience his sadness. He saw the horror on his grandmother's face when, at the age of ten, he'd sported a tail and a snout, having failed to turn himself into a wolf. He saw his hand map Snape's skin as he'd been trying to understand the nature of love. The grip of Snape's hand jolted Teddy back into the present. Before Teddy could collect himself, Snape had shoved him in front of the Mirror. "Look closely. Who is it you see?" His hands balled into fists, Teddy bit the insides of his cheeks. He blinked and saw Snape in the Mirror. He and his lover stood embraced, Snape's head resting against the other's cheek. The man looked straight ahead, and Teddy knew who he was. Teddy recognised his own face. He blinked, and the face in the Mirror turned into that of his father. He blinked again and once more saw himself. With each blink, the man in the Mirror changed. Teddy faded to Remus faded to Teddy faded to Remus. They morphed into each other and after a while, Teddy couldn't distinguish them anymore. "Who am I?" Teddy turned away in horror. He saw the smirk on Snape's face, and rage and fear exploded in Teddy. "I'm not my father, do you hear me? I am not my father." His wand slipped into his hand. "I'm not weak," he shouted. "I'm not a coward, and I won't be an adulterer any longer." He pointed his wand at the Mirror. "It has to end." Rage and fear accumulated in the tip of his wand and shot out as red-hot fire. The Mirror burst into glittering shards. Transfixed by the beauty of the Mirror's destruction, Teddy stood motionless. Snape lunged at him and buried him under the weight of his body. The long silence that followed the explosion was disrupted by the clatter of glass as Snape finally moved. "Lumos." Teddy blinked in the weak light of Snape's wand. Where the Mirror had stood was a hole in the floor, surrounded by a circle of shards. Teddy sighed with relief. "It's over." "It isn't quite as simple as that." Snape handed Teddy a small shard. It was cold and lifeless. All magic was gone. As Teddy held it up to his face, it reflected the eye of his father. The fire in the fireplace flared up green. A ball of parchment shot out of the Floo and landed at Teddy's feet. Teddy picked it up. He put it on the desk in front of him and flattened it with his hands. Tonight! Don't be late! Pushing the note aside, Teddy returned to his work. He filled his notebook with his terse scrawl, going back and forth between the pages, crossing out whole passages and adding sentences to the margins. It was already dark outside when a knock at the door interrupted him. His head shot up, and he grabbed for the note. Balling it up again, he shoved it into the pocket of his cardigan. "Come in." A beam of light fell through the doorway as Victoire poked her head inside the study. "Romulus asks for his dad. He wants to hear a story." Teddy nodded and stood. His eye fell on the Muggle clock on the wall. "I completely forgot," he said. "I'm going for a beer with my publisher tonight. I'm late already." "Don't look so sad. He'll make you an excellent offer, you'll see." Victoire smiled beautifully. "I better go now and tell your son all about his dad's success. We're so proud of you." She blew him a kiss and closed the door behind her. Teddy went to the fireplace. Taking a handful of Floo-powder from the container on the mantel, he threw it into the flames. "Headmaster Snape," he said and stepped into the fire.

Main Fanfic Site Inseparable by astolat Dad made them stop sharing when Sammy was ten. "It's okay, Dad, I don't mind," Dean tried to explain. He didn't. Sammy was a pain a lot of the time, but not at night; even if he'd been whining all day, soon as they got into bed he went warm and snuggly and settled right down, and he didn't flail or kick or snore. And money was tight a lot of the time; a place with three beds cost more than a place with two. It was just plain sense, so Dean didn't understand why something about the way Dad said quietly, "It's time you had your own bed," made him feel guilty and confused. Like he should have wanted one, and he was weird for not making a fuss. Sammy just stood at the foot of the two narrow beds in his t-shirt and shorts, looking wide-eyed and uncertain. Dean said, "Yes sir," and added, "Thanks," trying to make up for whatever he'd done wrong, and climbed into the bed closer to the door without being told. Now that Sammy was old enough to be left alone for a little while, Dad started to let Dean come along on the hunts, whenever he had a break from school. Over the Columbus Day long weekend, they went hunting a vengeful spirit a few towns over and didn't get back until after midnight. The lights were out, or Dad would have had some words to say, but when Dean stumbled into the bedroom, Sammy's eyes were wide open, liquid, reflecting the kitchen light Dad had turned on. "Go to sleep," Dean said, softly so Sammy wouldn't get busted. Sammy's eyes closed, but about fifteen minutes after Dean had gotten into his own bed, and the lights were all out again, Sammy was standing at the side of his bed whispering, "Dean, Dean." Dean slid over a little, and Sam climbed in with him. In the morning, even though there wasn't any school, they both bolted straight up in the bed and froze, listening. Dad was still asleep; they could hear him snoring on the other side of the paper-thin wall, and they both relaxed. Sam tipped his soft cheek against Dean's shoulder and yawned. "D'you get it?" he mumbled. "Yeah, salted and burned it all the way," Dean said, stroking Sam's shaggy head. "C'mon, I'll make you eggs." They didn't do it all that often. If Dad and Dean got back early enough, while Sam was still up, he didn't seem to need cuddling. Dean was kind of sorry, the times it had been a little rough out there. But vaguely he felt that there was something different about him asking, like maybe it was sort of babyish, so he never did. Dad always slept late after a hunt, so he didn't know about it, but it wasn't a secret; they weren't lying to Dad or anything. It was just, Dean didn't see why it was anybody else's business but theirs, as long as they got enough sleep and weren't going to mess up out there. Once he'd got that worked out in his head, anyway, he put it aside and didn't think about it too much. It was just something that they did, once in a while. The summer after Sam turned thirteen, they couldn't at all: Dad took them to Pastor Jim's, where they slept in a big attic dorm-style room, three beds all in a row. With Sammy in a safehouse with another hunter, Dad felt safe taking Dean on a few longer trips, and they came back after two weeks in New Mexico to discover that Sam had decided to start growing. And growing. And growing. Dad had been getting a little stern about the puppy fat and making Sam run extra laps; now he scratched his head and said, "Sorry, kiddo, I guess you were saving it for a rainy day." Sam miserably said, "Bnzugnh," and shoved his head back into the pillows. Aside from the training Dad made him do, he mostly didn't emerge from the attic except to eat. Dean and Dad and Pastor Jim all finished eating before he was half done, but it was okay, they all just sat around and watched him keep going. It was amazing, like a slow-motion train wreck or something. "Man, you're like narcoleptic or something," Dean said, sitting on the edge of the bed to poke Sam. It was the middle of the day; Dad had gone ammo shopping and Pastor Jim was meeting with some of his parishoners, and he was bored. "Maybe dad should take you to a doctor or something." "I'm not tired, it hurts," Sam said, and rolled over until he was sort of curled around Dean on the bed, and shoved his forehead up against Dean's thigh. "Like the flu." Dean rubbed Sam's neck and shoulders, and then his back after Sam stretched out for it. When he tried to stop, Sam made a small whining noise, so Dean sighed and heeled off his boots and sat cross-legged on the bed just kneading Sam up and down with first one hand and then the other. That was what he remembered from that summer, afterwards; the week-long hunts, and the long lazy hot afternoons, helping Sam grow up. At Christmas break, Dad brought Sam hunting with them. Sam had been on day-trip hunts before, but never front and center; he'd been the backup in the car, with the English and Latin books opened to critical pages; with the holy water vials and rock salt shells in neat rows, like he could keep them safe with organization. But since the summer, he was almost as tall as Dean and he could handle the recoil from a shotgun; so Dad took him into the woods with them, one unnecessary word to Dean on the quiet to watch out for him. He crawled into bed with Dean that night without even asking, or tried to. A twin-size was pretty small for Dean these days to begin with, and now Sam was all long poky legs and elbows instead of small and rounded. Once he was in, there was a lot of wrestling and squirming and lurching on the edges where they nearly fell off, both of them desperately trying to be quiet, freezing in place every time the bed squeaked angrily. But finally they ended up curled together on their sides, Sam protected in the curve of Dean's body, Dean's ass jutting out over one side of the bed, Sam's knees on the other, and they both went out like a light. Sam got his first girlfriend the next year, a little late but better than never, Dean thought at first. Then Sam confused the hell out of him by turning prissy, refusing to discuss how far along he was towards home base, and yelling when Dean couldn't remember her name. Dean had a new name for her in a couple of weeks: Bad Influence. Sam started bringing home report cards that were nothing but straight A-pluses, all down the line, and throwing fits when Dad wanted him training instead of wasting his time on something stupid like soccer or basketball, all because Bad Influence wanted a boyfriend with a varsity letter, like they were even going to be sticking around that long. Then it got really bad: they moved, none too soon far as Dean was concerned, and Sam kept calling her. They were two states away and Dad hadn't paid for long-distance service from the house, so Sam got a part-time job after school at the library and turned all his money into phone cards that he spent there, squashing himself into the cramped pay phone booth. Sometimes he was there until late, after the library had closed up and everyone had gone home and the parking lot had emptied out. He wouldn't let Dean get him hooked up with another girl, even though Dean tried and found three in Sam's dating zone, all of them hotter than Bad Influence, at least in Dean's expert opinion. Dean was getting seriously worried and thinking about talking to Dad about it, even though that was kind of breaking the brother code. Then one night he twitched and pushed himself up in bed: Sam was standing silhouetted in the doorway, and for a second Dean thought—something's happened to Dad—and then Sam came in and shut the door and sat down on Dean's bed and whispered, "Mina broke up with me." "She what?" Dean said, indignantly. "Man, I knew that chick was bad news." "Don't," Sam said, rubbing his hand across his eyes. "It's not her, it's us, it's Dad, it's this—nobody lives this way, I'm so fucking tired of it—" and he was crying, quiet but for real. Dean pulled him down and wrapped up around him as best he could, because that was all he knew how to do. Sam didn't really stop that night, just sort of cried himself out into exhausted panting, and went limp finally in Dean's arms. Dad caught them that way in the morning. They'd both overslept. "What is this?" he said, standing over them, frowning, and Dean felt something shocked and ashamed jump in his belly, like he wanted to pull the blankets over them and hide, even though—they hadn't done anything. He knew by now what Dad was frowning about, but Jesus, it wasn't anything like that, he was in his shorts and his t-shirt and Sam was still in his jeans, for Christ's sake, and he opened his mouth to tell Dad so, and Sam said, "Fuck you." Dean double-taked over at him, and Dad looked startled too. Sam rolled up off the bed and stood all the way up in front of him, and for the first time Dean realized Sam had gotten taller than Dad, with broader shoulders even if he was still skinny, and Sam had his fists clenched and his face was flushed red and printed with the pillow-seams and angry. "Fuck you," he repeated. "You don't even care. You want us to be useful and do what we're told, and long as we do that, you don't care if we're happy, you don't care if you ruin our fucking lives, long as it doesn't get in the way of your goddamn fucking stupid crusade—" Dad slapped him once, hard, across the mouth. Dean was sitting up, shocked, and he flinched at the crack. Dad had smacked their asses for them if they got too out of line, as kids, but that hadn't happened in a long time, and for a second Dean thought Sam was going to take a swing back. Dad looked like he thought it too, and his hands were tightening up—Dean got ready to jump out and get between them. But Sam just stood there a second with his hand pressed to his face, shoulders heaving, and then he straightened with his lip already puffing up and looked Dad in the face and said, low and terrible, "You can hit me all you want, doesn't make it not true," and Dean had no clue what to do with that, and he saw from Dad's face that he didn't, either. Sam spent the next two years being a pain in the ass. "Come on, we've got cable for once," Dean said, shoving his shoulder as he dropped down onto the couch. "South Park's on, man, this stuff's awesome." "We've got cable because you're stealing it from the upstairs neighbor's wire," Sam said flatly, and scraped his pile of books into his arms and got up. The apartment they were staying in only had two small bedrooms off the living room, with one low-watt lamp in each one, so he didn't have anywhere to go, but he took himself over to the table and hunched over the books with his fist up against his ear. Dean rolled his eyes and popped open his bag of Cheetos and turned up the volume, figuring Sam would get lured over after a while. He didn't. He was still at the kitchen table when Dad came in a few hours later, with a couple bags of groceries. Dean looked up. "New card come in?" "Yep," Dad said. "Two of 'em." He tossed one across the room to Dean: Jacob N. Hyde. Dean grinned and pulled out his wallet to slide it in. "You boys feel like helping me work up some pancakes and bacon?" Dad took out a half-gallon of orange juice and put it down on the table in front of Sam: Tropicana, the good stuff he liked. Sam grabbed his books up again and stood. "I'm not hungry," he said. "I'm going to the coffeeshop." "Sit down," Dad said. "You're going to eat, and then you're going to get an early night. We've got a job tomorrow, and I need you boys sharp." "I'm not going," Sam said. "I've got studying to do." Dad's jaw tightened. "What's the job?" Dean said, jumping in. They'd come mostly because people kept disappearing from the rest stops in a neat twenty-mile radius around the place. "It's a nest of arachnas," Dad said. "They're set up in an abandoned factory twenty miles outside of town. They take people back there to feed. This is more important than a school assignment, Sam," which made Dean wince. "Whatever you want to do is always more important," Sam said. "I already made plans to meet people at the library for study group." "Any hot chicks?" Dean said. Sam rolled his eyes at him. "To actually study, Dean!" "Man, you're a disgrace," Dean said. "Yeah, I got that," Sam said, bitterly, and shoved past Dad and out the door. Dad's hand twitched almost like he wanted to grab Sam by the arm, but he didn't. The next day, Dean went out to the factory with Dad and spent seven hours hunting down and killing the arachnas and squashing their eggs. "Okay, that's gross," Dean said, when they finally got into the back of the nest and found the half-digested corpse of the last victim along with another twelve fresh and pulsating egg canisters. He squeezed out accelerant onto the whole mess of it and tossed in a match. While it burned, he and Dad stayed outside, splashing water on their faces and hands from the dirty but still trickling faucet in the wall. It didn't really get the spider-silk crap off, that was going to take vaseline and a lot of scrubbing. Dad sucked down a few gulps from his canteen and held it out. Dean grabbed it gratefully. His mouth tasted of smoke and the sour birdshit smell of the nest. He rinsed and spit a couple of times before he took a swallow. "Tell me again why Sam got out of this?" Dad sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. "He's too old to drag." "He'd have caved if you made it an order," Dean said. Dad didn't say anything a while. The fire inside the room kept crackling, with loud microwave-popcorn bangs as the eggs burst. Finally he said, "Son, you can't order a man if he's not willing. Short term, you can punish him, but that doesn't work forever, and the more you use it, the sooner it stops working. The two of us could handle this job, and Sam knew it. If I tried to make him on this, next time it's something we really do need him for, something maybe he doesn't know about, he wouldn't trust me that he really had to come, and maybe he'd make that the time he bucks a direct order. Because he sure as hell is building up to it." He held out his hand for the canteen again. "Whatever," Dean muttered. He was hot and sticky and pissed-off, and more so when he got back to the house and Sam was back too, sitting at the table, clean and dry, with a big mug of coffee. There wasn't any left in the pot, and the can was down to scrapings. "You should've come, it was awesome," Dean said, rubbing his websilk-tangled sleeve off on Sam's floppy hair as he went by. "Goddammit, Dean!" Sam yelled, batting at him, and Dean cheerfully wiped his other arm off too. Sam shoved him back. "Quit being a jerk." "Better than being a little stay-at-home bitch," Dean said, a pretty reliable insult for getting Sam up and into a scrap. He was tired, but he was still on the adrenaline buzz, and he kind of wanted to get Sam out back and rub his face in the dirt a while. But Sam just pressed his mouth tight and turned away, hunched angrily over his books. His hair was jutting up into three sticky clumps. Dean tried to enjoy that, but he mostly felt tight and frustrated, irritation churning in his stomach. He showered and lay down, and woke up around three in the morning vaguely aware something was wrong. Sam's bed was empty and the sliver of light under the door was still gleaming. If he listened hard he could still hear Sam's pen scratching away. "What the hell're you doing still up?" Dean demanded, squinting his way to the fridge for the orange juice. He noticed Sam had gotten over himself enough to drink half the carton. "Working," Sam said, shortly. There was a neat stack of handwritten pages next to him, and now he was doing math equations. "Whatever," Dean said. "Waste of time, dude." Sam paused and then he said, "Don't you want something better than this?" Dean put down the carton. The juice was sweet and tangy in his mouth, stinging on the bruise he'd picked up earlier. He swallowed. "What the hell's wrong with this?" Sam didn't say anything. He bent his head back down over his textbook. It was a warm night, but Dean grabbed the blanket off Sam's bed as he went by and threw it on top of his own. He felt kind of cold. Sam kept right on being a bitch to him and Dad both. Dean started getting pissed off back, and the two of them sniped over meals, sparred with a little extra edge that meant they walked away with black eyes and bloody noses more often than not. Dad yelled at them a couple of times, and then finally he hauled Dean off and said, "What the hell are you doing?" "He's goddamn asking for it and you know it!" Dean said, kind of desperate, willing Dad to do something, fix this. Dad said, "Goddammit, Dean, he's sixteen years old. He's mixed up and spun around, and he doesn't know which way he's going. He'll get over it and settle down, just give him time." Dean stared at him. It was the first time he'd ever heard Dad say something straight-up stupid, and he wondered for a while if Dad was just saying it to make him feel better, if maybe Dad thought Dean was too stupid to get it was a lie, and then he had the sinking realization that Dad really thought that it was true. Sam was the furthest thing from spun around. Sam had a roadmap and a destination and a full tank of gas, and he was just waiting for the key to the ignition. It was autumn of Sam's senior year, and they were living in a cabin way out on the edge of town, in the woods, with mosquito netting in the windows instead of glass, so the nutty crisp smell of dead leaves came in all night with the cold air. Sam came home quiet and not a little bitch for once, and when they'd called it a night, out of nowhere he crawled into Dean's bed. But he didn't stop there. He slipped his hand under Dean's shirt, onto his belly, tentative. Dean shoved him out of the bed with a heave. Sam yelped and thudded down. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Dean said, his heart pounding, and Sam said, from the floor, "I got my SATs back." Dean didn't need to ask how Sam had done. There was something in his voice, begging and triumphant all at once, as much as saying, it was on the table, everything was on the table, if only Dean would—like he thought Dean wanted that, like it was a bargaining chip that could make Dean come on the road trip with him. Dean shut his eyes and rolled onto his side, and Sam crept back into the bed and snuggled up behind him. Dean lay there with Sam's breath on the back of his neck and Sam's arm over his waist and Sam's knees tucked into the backs of his own, cold air biting outside and warm warm warm everywhere around him, and it occurred to him that Dad wasn't being stupid at all. There were just some things it hurt less not to know. It was a relief when Sam finally left. It happened two weeks to Labor Day: Dad had just announced they were going to Baton Rouge. Sam announced he was going to California. Dean sat on the front porch and winced his way through the fight inside, and when it was over he took Sam to the depot and smacked him upside the head one last time before Sam got on the bus. And then he went back to the motel, and the room was quiet, and Dad rubbed a hand over his face before he looked up and said, "Well, son, we'd better get going." Dean said, "Yes, sir," and it was easy, the whole hunt. It was easy all day long, and at the end of the night they had themselves a quiet companionable beer-and-burgers dinner at the local joint. Dean didn't miss Sam. He didn't miss Sam at all. Sam hadn't been that missable for a long while, and he'd topped off being a twerp with being an idiot. Dean just didn't get how anybody could walk away from this, from the truth. It was like standing in the middle of the interstate and shutting your eyes, and pretending that because you couldn't see the eighteen-wheeler coming, it wasn't going to flatten you to the ground. Somebody that stupid, he didn't want to know. All he missed was the idea of Sam, the kid he remembered, who used to look at him wide-eyed and treat him like a hero. The sooner he got that fantasy pried out of his head, the better. Then he came in late one night in November, wet and cold and stumbling-asleep, two banshees down and a twisted ankle to show for it. He was shacked up in an empty unheated ski lodge that week; Dad was down in Arkansas. Dean managed to get his boots and his mud-soaked clothes off, and then he crawled into the bed and said muffled, "Sam, get in here, will you?" He heard himself say it and shocked wide awake, his throat squeezing tight. He took two fistfuls of the blanket and held on. The Sam he got back four years later, like a stretched rubber band snapping back into shape, wasn't the same one who'd gone away. He was still uptight and prissy and bitchy, especially if Dean made a little effort and provoked him for the amusement value. But he slotted into the empty place at Dean's back like he'd been made for it, and all the high of hunting, of putting in a good day's work and taking the bad guys down hard, it was ten times better all of a sudden, a kind of teamwork Dean hadn't ever had even with Dad. Afterwards, after Jess, Dean almost wished he hadn't had that one hunt with Sam—that one chance to see who Sam was when he was happy, when he had the life he wanted out in front of him, his straight shining road. It was a stupid life and the road was a mirage, but it still sucked like a Hoover to have the point of comparison, so Dean could know in painful detail just how fucked up Sam was now, and know that the anger and rage that kept lashing out at him weren't about him half as much as they were about the girl who'd burned up on the ceiling. It was a long while before Sam pulled it together again, and typical that what actually got him over the worst of it was Dean nearly getting toasted. The night Dean checked himself out of the hospital, he lay in the motel bed taking careful shallow breaths, wondering how long it was going to be before his body just up and quit on him. "Dean?" Sam whispered. Dean didn't answer him; he was too tired to make his mouth move. The bed sagged after a minute and Sam was in with him, moving as cautiously as if he was still a ninety-pound twelve year old and there was any way in hell he could get in without Dean noticing. Dean still didn't say anything, and Sam curled close and then he put his hand on Dean's chest, spread out wide over Dean's heart. Dean couldn't get enough breath to speak, didn't even really want to, not when Sam was saying things there weren't words for, just by lying there quiet next to him. Dean was scared a little to die, scared a lot to leave Sam on his own without Dad or anybody to look out for him, but inside he was still full of something stupid, happy at least for a moment. That feeling came back choking him, twisted around inside, while he looked down at Sam lying on the mattress in front of him, limp and empty, gone. Dean just sat by it watching, like maybe if he stuck around long enough Sam would draw the rest of that last breath and open his eyes. Once in a while he crept over and almost got on the mattress with him, almost touched Sam's face or his hand. But as soon as he got close it was too easy to tell Sam wasn't there anymore. Sam was cold. And Dean was scared when he got in the car, scared so fucking bad, Hell in the back of his mind like every nightmare he'd ever had of fire and pain and losing everything, but Sam was gone, not just across the country doing something stupid, so everything was gone anyway. There wasn't much left to lose. The year after that went so fast it seemed like Dean was holding Sam's body in the rain on Monday and hearing the first howls on Friday. He was cleaning a gun, and the low wild hungry sound of it leaked in through the door and the windows like a police-car siren, long and knife-edged and whistling. He couldn't move while he was hearing it. He just held still and hard with his hands clenched tight on the parts, staring down into the guts of the pistol, and tried not to let anything show. When it died out, he looked up and found Sam staring at him. "Hey, hand me that box of tissues," Dean said, and made his mouth smile, even though it felt like a sticker someone had taped on his face. Sam went out a little later and got them dinner, beer and fries and burgers, rare all the way through, juicy and dripping. Dean ate every bite, humming with pleasure, licked his fingers after and took the second beer Sam handed him. "Man, that was good," he said, and belched. "Listen, I'm going to go out, hit that bar we saw down the road—" "Dean," Sam said, and oh hell no, Dean didn't want to have this conversation. He said as much, and Sam said, "No, no conversation, I just—look, I've let you have your way pretty much this whole last year, haven't I?" "Yeah, I guess you have," Dean said. Sam had been a pretty good sport once he'd quit fighting the inevitable, six months in, when he'd finally wised up and shot that Ruby chick and given up trying to find him a way out of the deal. "Man, those twins in Duluth—" "Yeah, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling a little too. "So listen, I'd kind of like to have my way tonight, okay?" "Yeah, all right," Dean said. "So what are we doing, we gonna watch Masterpiece Theater and braid each other's hair?" "No," Sam said. "Let's just—lie down early, okay?" "Well, you're a boring date," Dean said, but he wasn't slow about heeling off his boots and shucking his jacket, because he knew what Sam meant. Sam crawled in with him and curled close, next to him and around him, head pillowed on Dean's shoulder and his nose pressed up against Dean's neck. Dean petted Sam's head, feeling drowsy and heavy already, warm all the way through, and it was worth it. It was worth it to be feeling like this again, everything in place. "Dean," Sam said softly, "I love you." "Dude," Dean said, and shoved at Sam's shoulder. It was kind of weak though, he didn't have the energy to really put anything behind it. "No, you're gonna listen to me for once," Sam said. "I love you, and I want you to know that. I want—I want you to remember, after—" and Dean tried to sit up and look him in the face, but he couldn't make it up off the bed. "What the hell did you do," he said, and tried to shove at Sam again, but his arms wouldn't fucking work, he couldn't— Sam pushed himself up, over him, and looked down. He seemed weirdly far away, a fuzzy glow around him. Dean tried to grab for him and missed, his hand flopping against Sam's arm like it was made of rubber. "I'm sorry," Sam said. "Dean, listen to me. I've seen the way you look at me, I know you've been worried—" "No," Dean said, "no, no, Sammy, no," and tried again. "Shh," Sam said, catching his wrist and pressing it gently down to the covers. "Bobby'll be here when you wake up, I'm gonna call him first—" "Sam," Dean said, thickly. "She couldn't bring me back all the way, Dean," Sam said. "Part of me didn't, the part she couldn't get at, the best part. It's—it's been hard, Dean. I didn't notice at first, but it—no, don't—Dean," and Sam pushed him back into the pillows. Everything was darkening around the edges, Dean's eyes wouldn't stay open. "I love you," Sam whispered, soft, against his cheek, and brushed a kiss over Dean's gasping mouth. "I love you," and then he was gone. It was the howling that woke him, brought him clawing up and out of sleep, desperately. Dean hadn't ever thought he'd be grateful to hear a hellhound. He was still sick and groggy, and he couldn't make his hands work. He managed to call Bobby on the fourth try, and then couldn't talk, just made choked incoherent noises, said "Sam!" "Dean," Bobby said, "Dean, I'm on my way, don't do anything stupid—I don't know what he's done, he didn't tell me anything—just wait there and—" Dean dropped the phone and staggered out of the door, in sock feet and t-shirt and jeans, stumbling and flailing. He shoved a couple fingers down his throat and bent over and made himself throw up as best he could, bringing up a mess of half-digested burger that stank, and then he fell against the car and pressed his cheek to the cold metal of the hood. The car was here, so Sam had to be close. It took him a while to get that worked out in his confused head, and longer to struggle across the parking lot, stumbling down to skinned palms and knees over and over, until he was on the street to look around. There wasn't anything around except other motels and the roar of the highway, nothing except a low concrete slab of a chapel, with the windows still lit up, halfway down the strip. Dean broke into a shambling run, trying to let his muscles remember how to do it without his brain. The hellhounds were out, following after him, low hot panting breath. They were keeping back just a little—he wasn't fair game yet, but they were waiting, following, with their long red tongues lolling out of their red mouths, so pitch black they were part of the night, red eyes the only thing glowing. One of them yelped loud and jumped at his heels, snapping; Dean jerked forward involuntarily and fell onto his hands and knees again, half-crawled the rest of the way through the doors. Sam was up at the front with a minister or something, a tall blond-haired woman, both of them standing before the altar with its candles lit. It didn't look like a spell or a ritual or anything special, he was just talking to her, arguing, "It's not right. It's not—Dean never—he's saved how many people's lives? Me and Dad, we wanted revenge. He's never wanted anything except to stop these things, take care of the people he loves. He was never out for himself, he never asked for anything for himself— It's not fair. He can't go to Hell because he loves me. That can't be right. That can't—he never asked for anything—" And the woman said gently, "Sam," in a familiar voice, and Dean started trying to blink his eyes clear, to rub them, hauling himself along by the pews— "Please," Sam said. "She didn't even keep her end of the deal—she didn't bring back all of me, she didn't bring me back right. It can be broken—" "You know what it means if it's broken," she said. "You can be made whole, Sammy, but you know—" "Yeah," Sam said softly. "I know. Please." "No," Dean said, staggering forward. "No, please—Mom, please don't—" and she turned and smiled at him, with eyes shining and wet, and she said softly, "You could have asked," and then she turned back and reached out and touched Sam's face. For a moment both of them were there, blazing up to incandescent white, and then she was gone, and Sam was standing there wavering like a tree in the wind, ready to fall. "No," Dean said, and was over by him, catching him. "No, no—" and he was in a dark wet field again, covered with Sam's blood; he was on a dirty linoleum floor, smell of smoke from the candles that had gone out, trying to keep Sam's warmth in under his hands, and the hellhounds weren't at the door anymore, but he was in Hell anyway. "Dean?" Sam said, and Dean said, "Sam, you goddamn asshole, I'm not going to let you, I'm not," and Sam said, "Dean, Dean," and wrapped his arms around Dean, and Dean clung to him and sobbed into Sam's shoulder, just flat-out cried, and Sam stroked his head over and over, and after a while Dean just fell asleep in his arms right there. He woke up in the motel room, band-aids on his knees and hands, Bobby and Sam Sam Sam sitting at the window talking in low voices, and when Dean made a noise and struggled up, Sam looked over at him, with eyes clear as sunrise, and came over and said softly, "I'm here, Dean," and Dean said, "Yeah," and punched him flat. "Uff," Sam said. Bobby got up and picked up his jacket and said, "Guess my work here's done," dryly, and came over to clap a hand on Dean's shoulder. "See if you two can manage not to make any more deals with demons for a year maybe, how about that." "Yeah," Dean said, and Sam pulled himself up from the floor and gave Bobby a hug that made him cough and look embarrassed before he left. Sam turned back after the door had closed, and Dean said, "Don't even think about it, bitch, I'm still pissed at you." "Dean," Sam said, "Dean, I had to. There wasn't anything I wouldn't have done to save you." "And that's what you picked?" Dean said. "Dying?" Sam was quiet, and then he said softly, "I'd have done worse, Dean. A lot worse. Ruby wanted me to. You wanted to see me leading an army of demons? That the kind of life you wanted to buy for me? Either way, Dean, I was going to be with you in the end. One place or another." Dean looked away. Sam sat down on the bed next to him and put his hand on Dean's knee, over the sheets. "We're alive, and neither of us is going to Hell. How much more do you want, Dean? You that scared to keep living?" "I don't goddamn want to die, quit putting words in my mouth," Dean muttered, and rested his forehead against the heel of his hand. He had a fucking headache from whatever Sam had doped him with, and they were okay for now, but everything was going to start again, and one of these days Sam was going to get himself killed again, and then— "Hey—hey," Sam said, cupping his face. "It's not going to happen like that, Dean." "How the hell do you know?" Dean said. "Maybe if we just shack up somewhere, a cabin or—" "No," Sam said gently. "We've got a job to do, we're going to keep doing it. You wouldn't be able to hide from it, Dean, not forever." "Great," Dean said, "so then it's just—" He shut his mouth and shut his eyes, because goddammit, he knew he ought to be happy, he was happy, but it was all still there, everything that had sent him to that crossroads the first time around, it was all going to happen again— "If I died," Sam said, "you'd go right back to the crossroads, you'd make the same deal with anyone who'd take it—" "Yeah, I goddamn would," Dean said. "You think the guys upstairs would let it slide twice?" Sam said. "Guys upstairs," Dean said, and huffed, feeling a little twisted up and uncomfortable inside. "I don't even know what freaky spell you used, what that was." Sam smiled a little, kind of sadly, and he said, "It's not an option anymore, Dean." "That's supposed to make me feel better?" Dean said. "Sammy, I can't, I don't want to do this alone—" "You won't have to," Sam said. "We're going together when we go." Dean paused, breath still coming fast in his throat. "How do you know?" he said, when he could say anything. It took him a while, and it sounded kind of stupid and watery when it came out. "I just know." Sam shrugged. "So do you." Dean realized he did know, if he just quit panicking for thirty seconds. "That's fucking annoying," he said, clearing his throat. "Whatever," Sam said. "Can we go back to sleep now?" "No," Dean said, "I'm hungry." Sam brought him a sandwich from the table. Dean ate his sandwich while Sam puttered around the room, closing the blinds, locking up, putting away some of their scattered gear. Finally Sam came over and pushed the covers out of the way and got in. He put his hand onto Dean's waist and eased his fingertips under the elastic of his boxers. Something in Dean's belly jumped and quivered. He licked the crumbs and the bit of mustard off his fingers. "So what are the guys upstairs supposed to think about this?" "Shut up, seriously," Sam mumbled, and rubbed his thumb over Dean's hip. "Yeah, okay," Dean said, and turned off the light. = End = All feedback much appreciated! Read Comments - Post Comment

*** 1 "Ensign Mayweather," Jonathan Archer greeted his helmsman as Archer entered the lift. "Captain." Travis Mayweather stepped politely to the side and watched as Archer set his destination. "I'm on my way to greet our guest," Archer said. He tugged at his collar with a finger, loosening it. He looked buttoned down and captainly. "Doctor Phlox's wife, sir?" "Well, one of them. This one is also a Doctor Phlox. She's supervising the installation of a new kind of microscope in Sickbay—a neutron microscope." Archer shifted position, closer to Mayweather. "Commander Tucker will be working with her. I'm on the welcoming committee, along with Trip and the doctor." Archer's fingers, as if by chance, brushed Mayweather's. Mayweather lifted his hand, and Archer's hand was somehow in his. Mayweather interlaced his fingers with Archer's, a deliberate allusion to the first time they'd touched like this. There was a pause. "I'm really looking forward to meeting her," Archer said, his eyes meeting Mayweather's. "I'm sure she's something, sir," Mayweather said. "The doctor seems to think so." Archer squeezed his fingers. It was only a matter of time. Mayweather knew it. He and Archer were dancing slowly around each other, testing, teasing, making sure there was interest. When he'd made his move, the last day in the catwalk, he'd felt such joy inside that he couldn't stop grinning. The feeling hadn't gone away. He'd had a thing for Jonathan Archer for a while. And to his delight, it looked like Archer reciprocated. Now, Archer, hand still in Mayweather's, stepped closer. "Ensign," he whispered. "Captain," Mayweather managed, dropping all pretense of holding an innocent conversation during the short lift ride. His heart accelerated. Archer's free hand touched his waist. He felt the touch like a shock through his stomach. "Travis," Archer whispered, breath warm against Mayweather's ear. "Tell me what you want, Travis." "You, Captain," Mayweather said. Archer pulled back slightly, and Mayweather gazed into those impossibly green eyes. "You, sir. Please." He was growing hard. All it took was a look, a touch. "Sir?" Archer whispered, his lips brushing Mayweather's cheek as he said the word. Mayweather shut his eyes briefly as he fought for control. "Yes, sir." The lift stopped moving, and in the instant before the doors slid open, Archer and Mayweather stepped apart. Mayweather clasped his hands in front of him. It was his floor. "Ensign," Archer said politely as Mayweather exited. "Captain," Mayweather responded. He turned and watched the doors slide shut, cutting off his view of a cool, professional, untouchable Archer. Mayweather smiled as he turned and headed down the corridor. It looked like all his hard work was paying off. During their stay on the catwalk, he had been incredibly obvious. He was sure Malcolm Reed had noticed. He'd made comments about Archer's green eyes and about his own availability. He'd managed to be underfoot. Through a stroke of incredible luck, he'd even gotten to sleep in the captain's bed for a few hours, although the captain hadn't been in it. The pillow and blankets had been permeated with Archer's scent, but he'd been too tired to enjoy it properly. But during their time sealed in the catwalk, something had happened to Archer—Mayweather didn't know what. He'd seen Archer, obviously in some kind of emotional pain, heading for his quarters. Mayweather had helped him to bed, even undone his shoes and tucked him in. During that little domestic incident, he'd been very aware of the presence of Subcommander T'Pol on the pallet next to Archer. Archer didn't known that each move was a disguised caress, that the care Mayweather took in helping Archer into bed was care for the man himself. He'd longed to stroke back Archer's hair, take one of Archer's hands, lean over and kiss him. Instead, he'd been dry efficiency, and it wasn't only T'Pol's presence. He didn't have any right to help Archer to bed, or kiss him good night, or ask him what was wrong. It bothered him that he didn't have that right. So when Archer had touched him—casually, the way he often touched Mayweather, the way he touched other crew members—Mayweather had touched him back. When Archer didn't pull away, Mayweather had taken the next step and kissed him. He'd actually made the first move. He still couldn't believe he'd had the guts to do it. Archer was his commanding officer, after all. Now, striding down a corridor, thinking about Archer, Mayweather wondered: if a simple touch of hands, a brush of lips against cheek, could affect him like this, what would it be like when they actually made love? He couldn't wait to find out. *** 2 "What did you say it was called again?" Hoshi Sato asked, voice disbelieving. The mess was nearly empty; most of the off-duty crew had headed down to the surface of Dekendi Three for some R&R. Enterprise planned to be in orbit during the duration of the medical conference being held on the surface. Doctor Phlox was attending the conference, and everyone else was treating it like shore leave. Mayweather had already been down twice, and he'd made friends. "I'm not so clear on that," Mayweather confessed. "Is it safe?" Reed asked. He was trying not to laugh. "These fargans—how big are they?" "Pretty big," Mayweather said. "As big as cows. But they don't have, you know, teeth or anything like that. I don't think they do, anyway." Sato shook her head. "You've got to do more research. Your new friend could be sending you on a snipe hunt. Are you sure this is a real sport? Four men getting into a pit and tossing melons around?" Reed leaned forward as he lost control and laughed helplessly into his tea. "Stop," he begged, raising a hand. "Please. Stop." Mayweather patted Reed on the shoulder. "I figure it's just like monkey in the middle," he said. Reed, who had just started to recover, went into gales of laughter. "Monkey in the middle? That is not a game," he gasped. "You're pulling my leg." "I am not. Hoshi? Tell him." Sato spread her hands. "Don't ask me. I think monkey in the middle is a guy thing." "Apparently, so is tossing melons around to keep them from fargans," Reed said. "Why can't they have the melons? What kind of cruel joke is it to withhold the melons?" "It's not a cruel joke, it's a sport," Mayweather said, but he had to laugh. It did sound stupid. "The guy I met on the surface said it was really challenging." He tapped the table in front of him for emphasis. "New worlds. New cultures. New games." Reed tapped back. "Melons, Travis. Melons. Cows." "Fargans." "Whatever." "What about you, Hoshi?" Mayweather said. "I'm not tossing any melons, Travis." "No, are you going down to the surface?" Sato shrugged but looked uneasy. "I think so. When I get off duty. But I was wondering—" "What?" "Who was that guy who called you earlier today?" "This would be the fargan guy, no doubt," Reed whispered loudly to Mayweather, as if Sato couldn't hear a word they said. "Do you mean the fargan guy?" Mayweather asked. "Yes, I mean the fargan guy." "His name is Randall." "I was wondering if you could…if you could introduce me to Randall. Randall the fargan guy." "Sure," Mayweather said, surprised. Randall was young and good-looking, but he was rough-edged. He hadn't thought him to be Sato's type. "Unless he's not single." "I don't know if he's single or not. You can ask him. A shuttle is doing the run every four hours, so just tell me when you're going and I'll join you." Mayweather prudently failed to invite Sato to the fargan-melon game. Sato looked relieved. "Okay, thanks." She intercepted a look from Reed. "What?" she said, defensive. "Nothing," Reed said. "I didn't say a word." "You didn't need to," Sato said. "It's like seeing a train wreck in slow motion," Mayweather said. "Hoshi Sato and Randall the fargan guy. True love? Good times? Or…a quick drink before Hoshi realizes her mistake and throws him over for the bartender?" "You have to put yourself out there to get results," Sato said. "I can take care of myself. What, you never dated anyone inappropriate?" "Sure I did," Mayweather said promptly. "I dated somebody for an entire year just for the sex." "Sounds awful," Sato said dryly. "Oh, it was," Mayweather said. He stared at the bottom of his glass of iced tea. "Actually, it was," he said, smile gone. "I kept hoping—I don't know what I thought. I knew it wasn't right and I didn't let it go. I always swore I'd never do that to myself again." His voice sounded bleak. There was an awkward pause. "I'm sorry, Travis," Reed said. Mayweather took a sip of tea. "It's not your fault, Malcolm." He wouldn't meet Reed's eyes. Sato stood up. "Well, I'm sure I won't get into a similar situation with Randall the fargan guy, because we're only here for a few short days. Gentlemen." She picked up her tray and strode off. "Look, I'm sorry," Reed said again after a long silence. Mayweather hadn't realized he was still upset about it all. He had thought he was over it—over the pain of waiting for someone to love him back, then the hideous realization that it wasn't going to work, that he couldn't make someone love him through sheer force of will. He couldn't make it so just because he wanted it. He'd stayed in the relationship for the sex long after he'd realized. The sex had been great. He'd finally broken it off, much to the relief of both of them, and he'd sworn never to remain in an inequitable relationship again. He was thinking about it because of Archer, he realized. He really, really liked Archer, but a possibility for disparity existed. He'd been longing for Archer for a year, but they were only just now beginning to explore each other. Archer hadn't had time to really consider a relationship with Mayweather the way Mayweather had thought over everything having to do with Archer. If Archer didn't like him back, or if Archer strung him along, Mayweather would have to go through it all again. Mayweather looked at Reed, who was staring into his mug as he turned it around and around. Mayweather felt much older and wiser now. He just wanted. He wanted Archer. He wanted everything to go well. He wanted friendship. He wanted sex. That wasn't wrong. It was too early to worry. "It was a long time ago, Malcolm," Mayweather said gently. "I've got to be on the bridge. See you later." *** 3 Mayweather tossed a few components into a small box, whistling. He and Michael Rostov were preparing to replace some components for routine maintenance on Shuttlepod One, and Mayweather was pulling what he needed out of store in one of the cargo bays. Mayweather had been in a ridiculously good mood ever since they'd cleared the wave front that had forced the crew into the catwalk. Now, he saw Archer every day, but in a totally new light. He relived that kiss about a hundred times an hour. Of course, he reminded himself, if it didn't work out, he'd be forced to see the captain every day anyway, with much different connotations. But he'd gotten through that before, whenever he'd broken up with someone he'd dated on the Horizon, his family's cargo ship. Mayweather turned when he heard the cargo bay doors open and close, and he grinned widely. "Captain," he said as the object of his thoughts strode in. The single word completely failed to adequately indicate how happy he was to see him—alone, in an empty cargo bay. "Travis!" Archer said, sounding pleased. He smiled at Mayweather, and Mayweather smiled back. Archer looked professional: crisp uniform, neat hair. He had that freshly scrubbed Starfleet look. "I'm looking for a crate of those circuit things that go in padds. Trip and Doctor Phlox need a bunch to interface Sickbay's equipment with the new microscope, and I said I'd get them. I wanted to stretch my legs. Do you know where they are?" "Do you have a crate designation?" "Um, no. I think Trip said green lid, right-hand side, near the wall." "Well, let's go look, sir." "I don't want to take you away from whatever you're doing." Mayweather pointed to the box full of equipment. "I'm just about done," he said. They found the crate easily, but Mayweather was far more aware of the man next to him. He'd made the first move. He thought he should let Archer make the next one, but Archer was taking his own sweet time. He'd never been so aware of how often Captain Archer stood just behind him while they were on duty on the bridge—or of how often Archer touched him. The brief encounter in the lift had just been one of many, but unusual in that they had been alone. For the last few days, Archer would stroke, touch, and pat. Mayweather was actually a little surprised about how bold Archer was about it, but then he realized that Archer touched almost everybody. With Mayweather, though, the touch lingered. Archer would brush the skin at the nape of Mayweather's neck when removing his hand, or his thumb would make little circles as his hand rested on Mayweather's shoulder. It wasn't comradely. It was a definite caress. But to an observer, it wouldn't look different. The hard part for Mayweather was that he couldn't touch back. It was driving him crazy. Now, he admired Archer's ass as Archer opened the lid and leaned in, then blinked as Archer's upper body practically disappeared into the cargo container. Archer's butt twisted as he rummaged. He swore Archer was doing it on purpose. He wanted to run his hand along the curve and trail his hand down. He wanted to press himself against Archer, his chest against Archer's back, his groin against Archer's ass. "How's the installation going?" he asked, crossing his hands in front of his crotch to conceal his growing erection. His cock twitched as Archer's ass wiggled when Archer looked over his shoulder. "Very well," Archer said. "Phlox's wife is delightful." His eyes looked particularly green. He shifted his weight, and his ass rotated. Mayweather felt hot. "I'm sure—" Mayweather had to stop and clear his throat. "I'm sure Doctor Phlox is happy to see her, sir." Archer turned back to the cargo container and rummaged some more. "You'd think so," he said. "There was that sweet introductory sniff thing they did when they first saw each other after four years apart. I mean, four years! You'd never know it. They seem very—restrained." "Restrained, sir?" Mayweather said. Was that his voice? Forget pressing against Archer. Maybe he could give Archer a blow job instead. Archer could lean up against the cargo container, uniform around his ankles. He imagined taking Archer's cock in his mouth, sucking it, feeling the ridged flesh against his tongue. He imagined the sensation as Archer came in his mouth, the texture and taste of Archer's seed. Mayweather swallowed. Archer made a sound of triumph and grabbed a few plastic-wrapped blocks of chips out of the cargo container. He closed it, set the blocks on top of the lid, and leaned his butt on it, an unknowing mirror of Mayweather's fantasy. "I don't know about you, but if I hadn't seen my wife in four years, I might be inclined to spend a little quality time with her." "No quality time?" Mayweather asked. "Sir," he added belatedly. "Nope." "Wow." "I know. That's what I said." Archer gestured to the chips. "Can you help me with these, Travis?" "Of course," Mayweather said, stepping forward. Suddenly, they were face to face. He couldn't breathe. Faced with Archer wonderfully near, all the scenarios he'd been running suddenly seemed crude. "Sir," he whispered. "Ensign," Archer said, moving closer. "Travis." The puff of air brushed his cheek. Mayweather closed his eyes as Archer kissed him on the lips. His hands went out, and he touched Archer's waist lightly. Archer tasted just like Mayweather remembered. It took all his self-control to stand quietly while Archer kissed him. Archer held Mayweather's head tenderly in his hands, his body brushing against Mayweather's, close enough for Mayweather to feel Archer's body heat. Archer would kiss, pull back and survey Mayweather, and lean in again. It ignited a slow burn in Mayweather's stomach that spread out to the rest of his body. He was floating in a haze of scent and touch. He'd never been so aware of a man's scent. Archer was deliberately keeping it slow and sensual, but Mayweather could tell that just underneath was fire. Archer was keeping it damped for now. If he'd had any doubt, any doubt at all, that something would ignite between them, that doubt was put to rest. Archer broke a particularly lingering kiss. "I kissed you," he said hoarsely. "You can say my name now. Please, Travis. Please say my name." Mayweather said, "Jon," and it was a plea for Archer to never, ever stop. "Oh, god," Archer said, as if Mayweather, by saying his name, could make him come. His hands pressed against Mayweather's face, and his mouth descended again. Mayweather tasted desperation as Archer's control slipped. The banked fire flared. Mayweather's hands, still on Archer's waist, grabbed at the fabric of Archer's uniform, and he pulled Archer close. He could feel a heart thudding, but he couldn't tell if it was his or Archer's. "Jon, please," he said, voice hoarse, and Archer's arms went around him. Archer took a step closer, and they both ignited. "You can't stop," he said when Archer released his mouth again. He could feel Archer's heart thudding. Their mouths devoured. "Jon," Mayweather said every time Archer came up for air, because Archer responded to his name and because he was Jon right now, and he was so damn hot that Mayweather wanted him, right then and there, in the cargo bay, behind a stack of crates. He wanted him any way he could get him. He wanted him now. "Jesus," Archer gasped. "This is the part where somebody comes in." Mayweather groaned. He managed, "How about—this is the part where we throw caution to the wind?" Archer stepped away, and Mayweather quivered. "Well, this is actually the part where I talk about dignity as captain and setting a good example. And the part where I admit that I don't really want to—to do—well, to do what we want to do in a place where somebody could come in at any time." "I'm voting for caution and wind." Archer laughed. "I think—I think I'd better get back to Sickbay with these chips before the Doctors Phlox send out a search party." He brushed the side of Mayweather's face with the backs of his fingers. He pulled back, and suddenly he was Starfleet again, all cool professionalism, except his eyes were hot. "I'll see you on the bridge, Ensign." "Aye, sir." Mayweather watched Archer gather up the blocks of chips and leave. The contrast between the captain and Jon Archer was astounding. Mayweather knew he was going to enjoy this—watching his captain turn into Jon, suddenly touchable and available. He was going to enjoy this a lot. The dull, professional Starfleet uniform was, after all, designed to be removed and put back on. Mayweather had wondered how they were going to handle the rank thing, and now he knew. "I kissed you. You can say my name now," Archer had said. Well, it was as good a rule as any. Kisses had transformed people before—frogs into men, sleeping beauties into princesses. "God, I love a man in uniform," Mayweather said to the empty cargo bay. He was smiling. *** 4 "I think I'll call it a night, gentlemen," Reed said, stacking up his poker chips. The mess was full of chattering people playing games and gossiping. "Oh, not you too," Tucker sighed. Cutler and Hess had left the game about a half hour before. Sato had begged off—she had hit it off with Randall the fargan guy's best friend and was on the surface. Hess had taken most of Tucker's chips. She said she liked to quit while she was ahead. "We won't have enough people to keep playing." "It's getting late," Reed pointed out. "Travis, may I have the box?" Mayweather handed over the box for the chips, and Reed carefully recorded all their totals before they began sorting the chips and putting them away. "Commander, isn't that the padd with the engine specs?" Reed indicated the device sitting next to the cards. Tucker swore. "Yes," he said. "I'll run it up to the captain on my way to my quarters. Dang it. I was supposed to bring it by his ready room hours ago. I can't believe I forgot." Mayweather blinked when Reed kicked him in the shin. He opened his mouth to say, "Ow," but Reed's gray-blue eyes were on his, bland. Reed had done it on purpose. He turned his "ow" into, "I can run it by for you, Commander." He was about to add some spurious reason that would make him the logical choice to deliver the padd, but he couldn't think of one, so he shut up. Tucker looked relieved. "That's real nice of you, Travis. I'd appreciate that." Mayweather nudged Reed's leg with his, and Reed nudged back an acknowledgment. During the stay on the catwalk, Mayweather had shared a little area with other crew members, including Tucker and Reed. More than once, he'd woken up in the middle of the night, only to see them lying spooned together, Tucker's arm around the smaller Reed, each decorously in his own sleeping bag. He wasn't sure how far things had progressed. Mayweather set the box of chips in the middle of the table, next to the empty bowls that had been full of munchy snacks a few hours before. "Commander, can you get the dishes?" he asked as he gathered the cards. "Sure," Tucker said agreeably. He gathered everything up, put the items on a stack of two or three trays, and headed off. "You owe me," Mayweather said to Reed. "Yes, of course." "How far have you gotten?" Reed cocked his head. "I assure you, when that in any way becomes your business, you'll be the first to know." Mayweather grinned, unrepressed. He turned as the door slid open behind him, and Doctor Phlox entered, along with a Denobulan woman Mayweather assumed was his wife. "Let's go," Tucker said briskly, rushing back. He handed Mayweather the padd. "Thanks again for taking this to the captain." He headed for the door. "Any time, sir," Mayweather said, trailing behind Tucker and Reed. Tucker certainly seemed to be in a hurry all of a sudden. There was a brief pause as Tucker, just at the door, waved at the two Denobulans; Phlox's wife had caught Tucker's eye. She had a very sweet smile, he thought. She clearly wanted to talk to Tucker, but Tucker hustled out. Reed seemed amused about something. Mayweather wasn't in on the joke. In the hallway, Mayweather waved goodbye, and as he headed down the corridor in the opposite direction from Tucker and Reed, he heard Reed say, "I'll walk you to your quarters." He suppressed a smile. He approved of Tucker for his friend. Certainly Reed had been in a much better mood lately. He whistled to himself through his teeth as he got in the lift and set it to the deck with Archer's quarters. He'd try Archer's quarters first, then his ready room, and if he couldn't find him, he'd leave a note and bring it to him when he went on duty. He fully expected Archer to be busy—working out, maybe, or just working. He rang the chime to Archer's quarters and waited. Nothing. He'd been right. He was probably in his ready room. He was about to leave when, to his horror, he heard Archer's sleepy voice say, "Yes?" It had not occurred to him that Archer had gone to bed. It was too late to just leave a message. "Um, Captain, it's Travis Mayweather," he said. "Sorry to disturb you. I have your engine specs here. Commander Tucker told me to run it by." "Oh," Archer's voice said. "Thanks. Hold on." There was a brief pause, and the door slid open. Mayweather took in the sight of a sleep-rumpled, bare-chested Archer. Archer ran a hand through his hair, messing it up instead of smoothing it, and Mayweather watched the play of muscles in Archer's arm and chest, the biceps flexing. Hair furred his chest, and under his belly button, Mayweather could see the hair shadowing down, darker, leading toward his pubic hair. Archer wore gray drawstring pajama bottoms that set low on his body. His feet were bare. He was the most beautiful thing Mayweather had ever seen. There was a pause while Mayweather gathered himself. He extended the padd and said, "Here you go, sir." Archer took the padd automatically. "Thanks, Travis. I forgot all about this." He leaned against the doorjamb. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Ensign, now that I'm awake?" "Sorry about that, Captain," Mayweather said. His eyes met Archer's, and he smiled at his captain. "It's really too early for me to be in bed," Archer mused. "It's not even 10 o'clock." "I didn't think I'd find you here," Mayweather confessed. "I thought you'd be working out, or in your ready room, or something." "Oh, really?" Archer said. "No, I was sleepy, so I thought I'd go to bed." His eyes looked dark. Mayweather couldn't look away. Archer's voice was low and incredibly sexy. "So—there's nothing else I can do for you? While I'm awake." Mayweather said, "I hate to bug you. It can wait." "No, no, I insist." "Well, if you insist—" "I do." "There might be—just one or two things that you could do for me. While you're awake. If you have time. Sir." Archer stood up straight. "You'd better come in, then, Ensign," he said, stepping back, and Mayweather entered the room. He barely heard the door as it slid shut behind him. Archer tossed the padd onto his desk. "Trip wanted me to look over some engine modifications he wants to do," he told Mayweather. "We have a meeting about it tomorrow, but I'm afraid I won't have time to go over the specs in any detail. I should probably just cancel the meeting." "Busy schedule, sir?" Mayweather suggested. "Very." Archer stepped close. "Well, I got the specs too late and didn't have time to review them, because I had a long, long meeting with the helmsman." "There's a lot to talk about," Mayweather agreed. "You know. Course vectors." "Speed." Archer's face almost, but not quite, brushed his. "Attitude control." "Thrust." "Yeah. Thrust." Mayweather's breath ruffled Archer's hair. He was already hard. His heart was pounding. Archer was teasing him. It was working. "It could take hours, getting through all that technical stuff." "Hours?" Archer asked. He was incredibly near. "I think it might take all night." "You may be right, sir," Mayweather said, and he touched Archer's face, and then Archer kissed him. Deep, hot, and sweet. Mayweather brushed Archer's chest, that magnificent chest hair, a little nub of nipple. Archer pulled Mayweather close, and Mayweather's arms went around Archer. He could feel the play of muscles under his hands as Archer's back moved, and the sheer beauty of it, the sheer physicality of the sensation, made Mayweather gasp. He leaned into the sensation of kissing Archer. He knew that this time, they wouldn't stop. Neither would draw back. Instead, they'd explore each other. The anticipation, the knowledge of what they were going to do, fluttered in the pit of his stomach. He had wanted Archer so badly, for so long. He knew that it would be worth the wait. He felt bereft when Archer pushed him away. "No, Jon," he whispered. "Don't stop." He remembered his trembling need in the cargo bay. It had just been an appetizer. "I don't think I can," Archer said hoarsely, and he unzipped Mayweather's uniform. Archer's hard-on tented out the front of his pajama bottoms. A little spot, moisture from his precome, darkened the thin fabric by the tip of his cock. Mayweather stripped off his T-shirt and undershirt as Archer pulled the coverall down. A second or two later, a nude Mayweather was underneath Archer on Archer's big bed. He spread his legs and pulled Archer between them. Archer settled on top of him, and as their mouths caressed, Mayweather ran his hands up and down Archer's back, then inched lower. He slid a hand under the waistband of Archer's pajama bottoms and kneaded Archer's tight ass. His other hand wound in Archer's hair. Its texture was faintly coarse. He ground his erection into Archer's. The bed smelled like Archer. He was surrounded by Archer's scent, by Archer's touch. The kisses had become frantic. Mayweather ran a hand from Archer's head to his ass and tugged Archer's pajama bottoms down, pulling at the waistband so he could get the bottoms around Archer's straining erection. Archer pulled back and gasped when his bare cock stroked Mayweather's stomach, pajamas puddling at his knees. The sight of an incredibly aroused Archer, panting with desire, virtually ready to come on the spot—he couldn't bear not touching him. Mayweather knocked Archer to the bed and pressed down on him, reversing their positions. He grabbed one of Archer's hands and pulled it up over Archer's head, throwing Archer's musculature into relief. He leaned on Archer's hand, holding him down, and bent his mouth to Archer's body, licking and gently biting. Devouring—that was what he was doing, he realized. Archer moaned and arched his back when Mayweather swirled a tongue over his nipple. Mayweather's teeth sank a little too hard into the soft flesh of Archer's arm, and Archer made a little noise. As his mouth explored, Mayweather's free hand roamed up and down Archer's lean body, learning the curve of his ribs, the jut of his hipbone. Archer had kicked the pajama bottoms off. He was breathing harshly. When Mayweather released his pinning hold on Archer and began licking downward, Archer shuddered. "No, stop," he said before Mayweather could take Archer's straining length into his mouth. "I'm too close." Mayweather pushed himself over to one side of Archer and pulled open the nightstand drawer. He rummaged through it recklessly, jumbling Archer's things together, until he found lube. He squirted a generous amount into his hands and tossed the container onto the floor. He put his hands on Archer's, spreading slickness, while he kissed Archer. Then he put his hands on Archer's cock, greasing it. Archer was large and literally hot to the touch, his penis twitching a little as Mayweather stroked. Archer, lying on his back, gasped as his own hands found Mayweather's cock. "I've wanted you so long, Jon," Mayweather panted, staring into Archer's green eyes. When Archer's thumb caressed the slit at the tip of his cock, his breath caught as a bolt of sensation shot through his groin. "There. Oh, Jon. There." Archer's thumb stroked there a few more times, then circled around the cap as Mayweather panted. Mayweather leaned against Archer again and urged Archer's hip up. Archer half-rolled toward him, bending his top knee. Mayweather's penis rubbed against Archer's, and Archer's hand curled around both hot cocks, pressing them together, as Mayweather squeezed Archer's ass, then slid his fingers up and down the crack. "Ah," Archer said, and he brought his leg up more, opening himself, granting Mayweather access. Mayweather's fingers found Archer's asshole, and he gently circled it with his fingertips, then deliberately pressed his middle finger part way in. Archer gasped, and his hand squeezed their cocks. Mayweather's eyes met Archer's, and he saw how close Archer was. He slid his finger in all the way and pulled Archer's ass toward him. Archer began thrusting in earnest, and Mayweather matched him, working his finger in and out in time to the thrusts. He added a second finger. Archer pushed hard against his body, his lubed hands pulling at their throbbing dicks. Archer was close, incredibly hot and excited, nearly out of control. Archer's breath quickened and his thrusts grew harder. He moaned his pleasure as he worked their cocks together, and Mayweather gasped at the sensation of Archer's dick against his. Archer's asshole was ridged and hard against Mayweather's fingers as he stroked, and Archer encouraged him with incoherent words. Then Archer said, "Fuck. I'm coming," threw his head back, and stiffened. Mayweather felt hot splashes against his stomach as Archer climaxed. The sight of Archer coming drove him over the edge. He rode Archer's sweaty body, Archer's hand stroking his cock, his hand pushing deep into the slick warmth of Archer's ass. His body trembled. He bit Archer's shoulder, the warm skin filling his mouth, and he came, surrounded by Archer. He dissolved into Archer's body. His orgasm opened him and turned him inside out as it joined him to Archer. They were one being, linked by throbbing ecstasy. When he opened his eyes, gasping, he was still pulsing. He felt the hot seed on his chest and stomach. His mouth was still on Archer's shoulder. He licked the reddened flesh and relaxed, pulling back. His eyes met Archer's, and Archer kissed him, open-mouthed, his tongue demanding. Mayweather's body felt heavy, and his cock was twitchy and tender. He leaned into the kiss, overwhelmed by the force of his orgasm, his connection to Archer, and the depth of his response. "Jesus, Travis," Archer said, pulling Mayweather close. He buried his face in the crook of Mayweather's neck, and his arms tightened around Mayweather. "Jesus," Mayweather agreed, heart constricting: Archer was as overwhelmed as he was. Mayweather was having trouble catching his breath. His orgasm had been hard and strong; he needed time to recover. He withdrew his fingers and stroked up and down Archer's crack. When he stopped panting, he disengaged himself, leaned down, and grabbed his undershirt off the floor. He used it to clean off his fingers, cock, and stomach. After a moment, he wiped off Archer, who had rolled onto his back and was watching him. "Are you cold?" he asked, settling in beside Archer. "No," Archer whispered. He brushed Mayweather's face with the backs of his fingers. "I'm not cold." Mayweather propped himself on one arm. He clasped Archer's hand in his. He smiled down at Archer, then touched Archer's lips with his. The edge of desperation was gone. Now the kisses were sweet, infinitely tender. They kissed for a long time, until Mayweather felt the cold and pulled up the red sheet. He noticed stains of white come drying on the sheets. He guessed Archer would have to change the linen now. Too bad. It smelled like Archer. He liked that smell. Archer enfolded him in his arms, and he put his head on Archer's shoulder and sighed in contentment. His hand stroked Archer's broad chest. He admired the way Archer's body tapered to his waist. His thumb found Archer's collarbone and traced it. Archer was warm, alive, interesting. He couldn't stop stroking. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said after a while, touching a red mark on Archer's neck, then another on Archer's upper arm. The spot he'd bitten when he came was turning into a bruise. Archer looked down, surprised. "I didn't notice. They don't hurt," he said. "I couldn't help it," Mayweather said. He remembered putting his mouth on Archer's body and being unable to stop: he had to bite, to feel the flesh on his tongue, filling his mouth. "I wanted you inside me, outside me. I wanted you everywhere." "Are you always so…aggressive?" Archer asked, eyes glinting. Mayweather considered. "No," he said. "Sometimes I like to be tied up." "Really." Archer sounded speculative. "I like to experiment. Try new things." "Sounds fun." "It is." "Am I—am I a new thing?" Mayweather stroked Archer's lower lip with his thumb, then leaned down and took it into his mouth, sucking and tonguing it gently. He released it, then kissed Archer. "You're the only thing," he responded. "Jon, you have no idea. I've wanted you for a long time. I've dreamed about you. It just took you a while to notice me back." He kissed Archer again. "Just when I thought I'd convinced myself that it was a lost cause, that you'd never even consider me, that I should move on, something would happen. Like, the Kreetasans made you wear that little outfit and do that performance-art bit." Archer sounded amazed. "You liked that outfit?" "Oh, yes," Mayweather said fervently. It had displayed Archer's chest to advantage. And his legs. And his ass. "When I saw you wearing that, I knew there was a god. I'd had my doubts before." Archer chuckled, and Mayweather smiled at him. "I wasn't sure you liked men," he said. Archer pulled him closer. "I like men very much." "I got that now. I'm relieved. And I wasn't sure you liked younger men. Or ensigns." "It's hard to keep up with younger men, and ensigns are always pushing to get promoted." "You keep up fine. And I'm not worried about promotions. I'll get promoted someday." His hand stroked, and his mouth followed his hand, kissing Archer's chest and side to punctuate his words. "And not because I'm fucking the captain." He straddled Archer. "It's not just sex. You know that it's not just sex." "So tell me what it is." Mayweather twined his fingers with Archer's and leaned his down, pinning Archer to the mattress. "It's respect." His eyes held Archer's. "It's having stuff in common. It's liking you, as a person. It's just—it's just you. And if you're just fucking me because you want to get laid, if this is just a one-time thing, you'd better tell me right now." Archer's eyes were steady. "It's not like that," he said at last. "Jon, I dated somebody for a year and it wasn't right," Mayweather said. "It was just sex. I won't do that again—waiting and hoping for it to get better, or for him to love me back. I won't do it. Not even for you. And I really like you." Archer looked at him, intent, and nodded slowly. "I'm not interested in a one-night stand. I have to work it through, though." "That's okay." "How long can you stay?" Mayweather put his hands on Archer's cock. Archer was at half-mast but rising fast. "As long as you want," he said. "You tell me." "Stay the night," Archer whispered. "Stay the night and make love with me." Mayweather leaned down and stroked Archer's cock with his cheek. "I thought you'd never ask, Jon," he said, and he took Archer into his mouth. *** 5 Mayweather woke up slowly. As always, he had to drag himself up through unconsciousness. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to the faint hum of Enterprise as it moved through space. His body felt heavy and sated, and his lips curved into a smile as he remembered why. Jonathan Archer. He and Jonathan Archer were now lovers. He inhaled deeply, in case it was a dream, but he smelled Archer, along with the scent of sex and come. Eyes still closed, he shifted his attention to the bed itself. He couldn't sense Archer next to him. He was alone in the bed. He opened his eyes immediately, and the first thing he saw was Archer, wearing only a short belted robe, sitting on a chair, feet up on the bed, watching him. "Good morning. What time is it?" Mayweather asked automatically, rolling onto his side to face Archer. "Six. So don't worry. You're not late." "Oh, good." Mayweather rubbed his face. "And oh, good—it wasn't a dream." Archer laughed. "No," he said. "It wasn't a dream." "How long have you been awake?" "A while." Archer smiled. "When we were on the catwalk, I watched you sleep. When you were in my bed." Mayweather stretched, displacing the sheet. He watched Archer watch him. "Did you watch T'Pol sleep too?" he teased. "As a matter of fact, I did." Archer slid in beside Mayweather when Mayweather patted the bed, inviting him in. A bit to Mayweather's surprise, Archer was a cuddler. He liked to touch and stroke, and he liked to be touched and stroked. He liked to kiss after coming, sealing the connection. Mayweather was more than happy to oblige. "You sleep very soundly," Archer said, settling in. "I've been told that," Mayweather said. His mother had often commented on this tendency—vocally and unfavorably. "Do I snore?" "Sometimes." Archer practically purred as Mayweather slid his hands under the robe. "You definitely talk." "I talk?" Mayweather hitched down and kissed Archer's chest. "What do I say?" "Well, in the catwalk, when you were sleeping in my bed, you told me I smelled good." Mayweather, horrified, lifted his mouth from Archer's body and looked up into Archer's face. Archer was serious. Mayweather remembered thinking that the pillow smelled like Archer, but he couldn't remember actually saying anything like that out loud. Archer continued. "You reached up and touched my face—" He demonstrated, cupping Mayweather's neck. He stroked Mayweather's jaw with his thumb. "You called me Jon. And you said I smelled good." "Oh, god," Mayweather said. "I thought I was being so discreet." "Discreet?" "You know. Worshipping from afar." "Well, I'm glad you said something. Because I was able to prepare myself for when you kissed me." "So it wasn't a shock after all?" Mayweather's voice was rueful. "Maybe less of one." Archer stroked Mayweather's hairless chest. "But when you said my name—" He stopped and shook his head. "I've been the captain for a long time," he said. "Sometimes I miss being Jon." "We have to work together," Mayweather said. He untied the soft belt of Archer's robe and slid a hand around to cup Archer's buttock. "You're the captain until we kiss. Then you're Jon. Right?" "Right." "Well, I don't want to know stuff," Mayweather said. "When we're Travis and Jon, I don't want to hear about ship's business. I know there's stuff you can't tell me, or that you want to tell me but you shouldn't. It's okay. I don't want to know." "I have a great story about how I hired my helmsman," Archer teased. "Don't want to hear it," Mayweather said firmly. "When you're the captain, you can tell me, captain to ensign. Rank has its privileges, right?" He tugged at Archer's robe. "One of my privileges is not having to hear about that stuff." "You got it," Archer said. "Of course, speaking of rank—I'm having a lot of power fantasies right now." "Oh?" Mayweather stared dreamily into the distance. "The captain wants me to come to his ready room. And yeah, he's ready. He's really ready. If you know what I mean. Sir." "What an imagination you have, Ensign." "That's nothing, sir." Mayweather smoothed his palm over Archer's skin, enjoying the faint prickle of hair. "Want to hear the one about the blow job in the captain's chair?" "Ensign, I've always wanted someone to go down on me while I was in that chair. It's too damned uncomfortable to just sit in." "No, you've got it wrong, sir. I'm the one in the chair. The captain's on his knees, blowing me." He touched Archer's chest. "You're in your uniform. I'm nude." "Ensign Mayweather," Archer chided, but his eyes were dancing. "Captain Archer." "Well, I am the captain, it's true," Archer said thoughtfully. "And ensigns do have to obey orders. Am I right?" "Yes, sir." Mayweather smiled. "To the letter." "Oh, the possibilities," Archer breathed. "Rank does indeed have its privileges. The ready room is just the beginning, Ensign." He leaned over and kissed Mayweather deliberately on the lips. "I think rank in the bedroom is going to be really interesting with you, Jon," Mayweather said. He couldn't wait. *** 6 "How did it go, sir?" Mayweather asked as Archer closed the shuttlepod door behind him. They were on the surface of Dekendi Three; Archer had asked to be run down so he could have a quick meeting with the Vulcan medical delegation. All Mayweather knew was that it had to do with T'Pol. "Pretty well," Archer said. He looked pleased. "They agreed to a hearing. Thank god for Hoshi's research in the Vulcan database. She found the regulation that forced them into it." Mayweather wondered what the hearing was about. Was T'Pol in trouble? "And that's good?" "Yes, that's good. That's very good." Archer sat down next to Mayweather. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more about it, Travis." "That's okay, sir," Mayweather said. He was curious—in addition to T'Pol, Doctor Phlox was involved. Mayweather had deduced this because the Vulcans had banned Phlox from the medical conference. Whatever was going on, Archer was deeply worried, and that worried Mayweather. Archer was in a much better mood now. "You ready to go?" "Yes," Archer said, distracted. Mayweather busied himself with the routine of taking off. The trip to Enterprise would only take about a half hour—if he took it as slow as he could without arousing suspicion. He had a certain fantasy about this shuttlepod, Archer, and the pilot's chair. It was time, he thought, to make it a reality—if he could convince Archer, that is. He had programmed the autopilot while waiting for Archer to return. Now he activated it and turned his seat to face Archer's. "We've got about twenty, twenty-five minutes," he announced. He was leaving a scant five minutes for cuddling and clean-up. "Okay," Archer said, not getting it. Mayweather sighed. He would have to take the direct approach. He stood up, kicked off his boots, and unzipped his uniform. Archer looked up at the sound. His eyes widened as Mayweather shrugged out of his coverall, then began removing his T-shirt and underwear. "Um, Travis, what are you doing?" Archer said. "What does it look like, sir?" "It looks like you're going to get cold, Ensign." "Nope." Mayweather stroked his penis. It began swelling in his hand. "You're going to keep me warm, Captain." "Travis." "We're not in a public place, sir," Mayweather pointed out. "And I forgot to turn on the internal sensors." "That's against regulations." "So's this." Mayweather reached down, grabbed the front of Archer's uniform, and hauled Archer up out of his chair. "Sir." He pushed Archer against the control panel. Archer opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Mayweather kissed him. Archer made a "mmmf" sound of protest. "Shut up, Jon," Mayweather said. "Shut up and fuck me." He gave Archer another burning kiss, then fully unzipped Archer's uniform in one movement. He cupped his hand over Archer's soft cock and balls. Archer's penis stirred and began to lengthen. "You're going to fuck me in that chair." He inclined his head to indicate the pilot's seat. "And you're going to do it in twenty minutes or less." This time, Archer kissed him. Mayweather tugged Archer's uniform off his shoulders. Their tongues fought as they stripped Archer to the waist. Mayweather was fully hard and throbbing now. He rubbed his cock against Archer's stomach as he slid Archer's uniform and briefs down. He had to grab Archer's penis to untangle it, and Archer moaned. He gave the heavy rod a few strokes, then gathered Archer's balls in his hands. He sucked on Archer's tongue as he played with them. They were large too, just like Archer's cock, and faintly furred. Archer's body hair made him hot—his chest, his arms and legs, his pubic hair. "Now, Jon," he growled. He shoved Archer into the pilot's chair. Archer still had his shoes and socks on, and his uniform was around his ankles. "Shit, Travis," Archer said, not taking his eyes from him. "Here." Mayweather knelt by the chair and handed up the lube he'd placed there earlier. "You'll need this. Judging by the size of this—" He took Archer in his mouth and sucked him for a long few seconds. "You'll need a lot." He could smell the sharp, acrid scent of Archer's genitals. He inhaled deeply and ran his mouth along Archer's length again. Archer made a small noise and put his hand on the back of Mayweather's neck. "Travis, I wanted to take my time when I fucked you for the first time," Archer said, voice a little labored. The pressure on the back of Mayweather's neck lifted, and he heard Archer squeeze lube into his hand. "I wanted to make it last all night. I wanted to be inside you for hours." When Mayweather brought his head up, swirling his tongue around the cap of Archer's cock, Archer's hand followed Mayweather's mouth up, slicking on the lube. Archer's voice grew ragged. "I wanted—I wanted to do it right." Mayweather clambered up, hands on Archer's shoulders. Archer moaned as Mayweather grabbed Archer's cock and slid it up and down his crack. He put his hands on Mayweather's hips and steadied him. Mayweather said, "Save sweet and slow, Jon. You have fifteen minutes to make me come." The position was awkward, with him straddling Archer in the small chair. He pressed a slick finger inside himself. It went in smoothly. He spread lube around, grabbed Archer's cock again, and centered it. He settled his body weight down. "Oh, fuck, yes," he said as he sank onto Archer's penis until he was fully embedded. He was sitting on Archer's lap. He paused for a second, feeling Archer's length inside him as rigid pressure. The girth of Archer's cock pulled his sphincter wide, and there was an edge of pain to accompany the pleasurable feeling of stretching and filling. The chair tipped back a little from the combined weight of their bodies, which made things easier. He arranged his legs so they draped over the chair's armrests. He discovered that if he put his hands on the armrests, he could raise and lower himself. "Hard and fast, Jon," he said. He deliberately relaxed his asshole. When he got really excited, he clenched up inside, but if he didn't relax, Archer would hurt him as he thrust. His arm muscles bunched as he raised himself up until only the tip of Archer's cock was inside him. Then he lowered himself, exquisitely slowly, feeling every centimeter of Archer's rod as it sank inside him. He kept himself relaxed and loose, but he could feel his sphincter tug against Archer's cock. He continued his movements, keeping the pace slow. He wanted Archer to snap. "Oh, god, that feels good," Archer said, voice breathless. "You're so tight." Mayweather sat on Archer's lap again and leaned forward, hands clasping the handles set on either side of the head of the chair. Their weight shifted, and the chair tilted back abruptly. There was a moment of panic before it locked into position, and they both laughed. Once the chair was stable, Mayweather put a hand on his own cock and worked it while Archer squeezed Mayweather's ass cheeks. Mayweather felt stretched. He leaned forward and kissed Archer, and Archer kissed him back desperately. Archer made small circles with his hips, pushing up hard inside Mayweather, and Mayweather's masturbating hand matched the pace Archer set. "Come on, lover," Mayweather whispered. His cock was huge and straining. He massaged it until he was right on the edge. His balls felt tight. "I'm ready. I'm ready for you to fuck me." He pulled back a little and balanced himself on the armrests again. Mayweather resumed sliding, caressing Archer's cock with his asshole. Archer really gave him something to work against. He was solid and unyielding. He felt a jolt of unadulterated pleasure deep inside whenever Archer's cock stroked his prostate. Mayweather's ass twitched, and he moaned at the sensation. "It's okay, Jon," he told Archer. "I want you to lose it." Archer was panting, his magnificent body sheened with sweat as he fought for control. "I want you to come hard inside me. Come on, lover." He liked seeing Jonathan Archer out of control. "God, you feel good," Archer said. "I can't believe how good you feel. Tight. Hot." He thrust harder. "Shit. You're all around me." "Now, Jon," Mayweather said. He panted as he lowered himself, his cock huge between their bodies. "Come inside me now." Archer clenched Mayweather's ass and thrust up desperately, meeting Mayweather's downward movements. Mayweather watched as Archer's eyes unfocused. "Shit. Yes. Yes." Archer's face grimaced, a rictus of pleasure, and Mayweather felt him stabbing deep inside with short, hard jerks as he peaked. Then Mayweather's climax hit him. He grabbed his cock, and his voice joined Archer's. His orgasm started with his prostate, moved to his stretched asshole, arrowed through his balls, and shot out his dick with each load of come. One-armed, he awkwardly raised and lowered himself on Archer, other hand frantically working his cock, slamming into Archer hard, both of them out of control. Archer was just starting to soften when Mayweather finished coming. He realized he'd been saying, "Fuck, Jon," over and over. Archer swore when he came too. "Come here," Archer said breathlessly. He touched Mayweather's face. "You're incredible," he said. "Oh, god." The edge in his voice was intensely erotic. "Kiss me." Mayweather obliged. Archer's mouth was hungry and desperate. Mayweather tangled a hand in Archer's hair and tugged as he kissed. Archer's hand stroked up and down Mayweather's back. The intensity of the kisses didn't come down. "We need more time, Jon," he whispered. "I want to see you come again." He pushed his ass against Archer's lap. "I want to feel you get hard inside of me." "Oh, Jesus," Archer moaned. "I want to see you lose control again, riding my dick like that." Mayweather shifted his weight, and Archer made a noise that sounded like pain to Mayweather. He lifted himself up and freed Archer's cock. He felt a warm trickle of Archer's seed seep out of his asshole. He sat back down. The chair trembled but held. His arms were sore from holding up his body weight on the armrests. Mayweather's cock felt tender. He clasped it gently, and a bolt of sensation hit him, almost as if he were coming again. "God damn it," Mayweather moaned, closing his eyes. He couldn't tell if he felt agony or ecstasy. "Shit. Fuck. Christ. Hell." He squeezed himself hard, and the moment passed. He could feel his asshole burning. "Did I forget any?" "Oh, Jesus." "Yeah, I forgot that one." Mayweather felt Archer's chest move as he laughed breathlessly. "Jon. I forgot that one too." "'Jon' isn't a swear word." "They're not swear words. They're what I say when I come." Mayweather nibbled at Archer's lower lip. He didn't feel sated. He felt like spending the next few hours in Archer's arms. The man was incredible. Mayweather had been attracted to Archer's body and personality, but he had never suspected what he'd find once he breached the professional exterior. Archer was hot, exciting, and playful. "Can you come over tonight?" he invited. "Spend the night with me?" "I can't tonight," Archer said regretfully. "I have to talk to T'Pol and arrange the hearing. I'll be up late." "Late is okay," Mayweather said. "Are you sure?" "You can wake me up. I don't mind. Stay a few hours—as long as you can." "I'll be there." Mayweather smiled down at Archer. Archer may be the captain, but he needed to learn immediately, if not sooner, that Mayweather was not afraid of captains. After all, his father was one. If they were going to bring rank into the bedroom—and Mayweather had every intention of doing so—Archer needed to know that he wouldn't automatically get the upper hand. Sometimes, taking the captain down a peg was what was needed. And making sure Archer came to him, instead of just him going to Archer, was a good way to start things off on the right foot. The com chose that moment to beep. Sato's voice said, "Shuttlepod One, this is Enterprise. Prepare to dock." Archer and Mayweather froze. After a long second, Mayweather reached over and nudged the control—audio only. "This is Shuttlepod One," he said in his smoothest pilot voice. "Acknowledged. Mayweather out." He disengaged the autopilot, then cut speed to buy them some time. He slid off Archer and steadied himself on the console. "Damn, I needed that," he said. He leaned down and picked up his briefs. "Let me get something to clean us up," Archer offered. Mayweather watched, mesmerized, as Archer stroked his semierect penis and touched the tip. A string of stickiness followed his finger when he removed it. "God, I can't believe how good that felt," he said. He rubbed Mayweather's come into the hair on his stomach before standing up. Archer pulled the lower half of his uniform up so he could walk and headed for the lavatory. He returned with wet toweling, and they cleaned up hastily. Archer, still stripped to the waist, piloted the shuttle as Mayweather disposed of the towels and struggled into the rest of his clothes. "I'm never going to be able to take a shuttle ride without thinking of this," Archer said, bringing the shuttle about as the launch bay doors opened automatically. "You ready to go back to being the captain, Jon?" Mayweather asked, pulling his uniform up over his shoulders. "Oh, yes," Archer said. "I have good news for T'Pol." Mayweather watched as Archer docked and activated the launch bay doors. As the shuttle bay repressurized, both men stood up. Archer pulled on his undershirt and tugged his uniform up. Mayweather, hand on his zipper pull, leaned over and kissed his lover. "Thanks, Jon," he said. "I've always wanted to do that." He zipped up ostentatiously. Archer followed suit. Suddenly, the captain was in the shuttle with him, neat and aloof. Mayweather loved the contrast. The best thing about a man in uniform was getting him out of it. "After you, Ensign," Archer said, gesturing to the door. "Yes, sir," Mayweather said.

Kurt almost, almost falls asleep, despite the noise and splashing around him and the music coming through a rock speaker somewhere right behind him, and the sun in his face that is almost too bright behind his sunglasses. He very nearly falls all the way asleep, except the light changes just as he’s settling back into the plastic chaise on the deck and about to drop off, and something -- someone -- is blocking his light. When Kurt blinks open his eyes, Blaine is standing above him, hair dripping down his forehead and water dripping down his chest, grinning wide. “You’re not laying there all afternoon,” he says, bending down closer, dripping onto Kurt’s thin t-shirt. Kurt makes a noise, mostly sun-tired, and completely unwilling to get up and join the gigantic, splashing group of Dalton boys in the pool. “I didn’t invite you just to get a tan and admire the view,” Blaine says. He turns back towards the pool for a second, though, looking out at everyone -- currently racing from one end to the next, splashing water over the tiles around the pool, and then back to Kurt with an even wider grin. “Not that I blame you.” Kurt raises an arm languidly to swat at Blaine, and his hand comes back just a little bit damp from Blaine’s forearm. “Come on,” Blaine encourages, “I want to see what you look like with your hair all wet and messed up.” Kurt rolls his eyes, “Nowhere near as good as you,” he says, and almost blanches the second after -- he didn’t mean to be so honest, despite how ridiculously good Blaine looks all wet and with his hair sort of sloppily falling against his face instead of styled up and back. Blaine’s nose scrunches up for a second and then he laughs, extending a hand for Kurt to grab and pull himself up to stand. “Whatever you say,” Blaine says, keeping his grip on Kurt’s hand even after Kurt has -- reluctantly -- stood up all the way. Someone calls out Blaine’s name from the pool, followed by a splash of water over all the way to the deck where he’s standing with Kurt that barely manages to spray them both. “If you’re not in the water in a minute,” Blaine says, “I’m taking you in, shirt and shoes and all.” He lets go of Kurt’s hand after a light squeeze, and Kurt curls his fingers together reflexively, missing the weight while he watches Blaine half-run across the deck to jump in the deep end of the pool near the basketball hoop most the guys are hanging around. Kurt takes a deep breath -- he can totally go in the water and not mind if his hair gets wet and everyone splashes, because no one is going to say anything stupid or make fun of him, and he’ll probably have a good time. It’s different, here. He slides his shirt, damp, off his shoulders and turns to find somewhere to put it, spotting a chair at the very far end of the deck next to a potted plant -- some sort of climbing roses, a brilliant yellow color with tiny, spiky leaves curled around a few inches of lattice. He ducks into smell them after he sets his towel and shirt on the chair. They smell sweet and heavy, somewhat like how Blaine smells, whatever cologne he wears and the fresh shower smell that seems to be embedded in his skin, the cotton and bleach laundry smell in his uniform every day. “Fifteen seconds,” Blaine calls, the end getting cut off abruptly, like someone probably ducked Blaine’s head under the water, and a second later Kurt can hear the sound of a bout of gurgling laughter. Kurt turns away from the roses after another inhale; he’ll have to ask the name of them later, get some for the garden he and Carole have been planning for the new backyard. “Coming,” he calls back, and a few people laugh, and someone calls out, “Married!” but not in a way that hurts, just makes Kurt laugh back, because he and Blaine -- they aren’t even anything, really, they just do a lot together and sometimes watch movies together in the dark in Blaine’s room, Kurt tucked into his side under the blankets because Blaine keeps his room cold and -- god, Kurt would love if it included making-out and unbuttoning all of the buttons on Blaine’s uniform shirt that just happens to look better on him than anyone else. Except they don’t do that, and Kurt is fine with that, because he likes what they have and -- “I’m seriously getting out and dragging you in by your cherub cheeks,” Blaine calls from the pool, and Kurt rolls his eyes and starts the walk across the deck, out to the pool where everyone is gathered. “Which pair of cheeks?” someone asks, and everyone laughs for long enough that Kurt slips in the side of the pool without incident, the water cooler than he expects on his skin, hot -- almost too hot -- probably from the sun. -- It only takes about five minutes in the water for Kurt to start to feel -- wrong. His skin feels tight, the water that laps up against the back of his neck prickles and whenever someone in the pool brushes up against him he jumps back, almost like he’s been burned. His head starts to hurt as he blinks around, unfocused, freezing up when someone throws the basketball they’d all been tossing around toward him. Blaine comes up behind him after that, setting a hand along his waist from behind, and Kurt lurches away. “Don’t,” he says, almost frantically. “Hey, hey,” Blaine says, swimming closer but not reaching out, “you okay?” It takes Kurt a second to answer; his skin is warming rapidly in the water, heat spreading out from where Blaine’s hand had been curled seconds before. “No,” he says, “no I’m --” Blaine grabs him around the waist again, but this time Kurt doesn’t feel the need to jump away. Instead, his body warms even further, little bursts of heat under Blaine’s fingertips, almost too much as Blaine drags him towards the stairs and out of the pool, calling out something before they step through sliding glass doors into the cool interior of the house. Kurt is vaguely aware of Blaine saying his name, after a few seconds of standing in his arms, and he turns in Blaine’s grasp to look at him. “Blaine,” he says, because it seems to be the only word that wants to come out of his mouth. “Are you okay?” Blaine asks, again, looking at him critically. He shifts his arm up to Kurt’s shoulder and squeezes, just barely, and -- it just feels so good, everywhere Blaine is touching, where the bare skin of Blaine’s hip is against his own, slick with water in between -- “Blaine,” Kurt repeats, instead of giving a response, urgent and sort of stuck in his throat. “Hey, hey,” Blaine says, squeezing again, pressing Kurt a little away from him, “you should lay down. Lets get you on a bed or -- something.” He looks worried, Kurt can see that, but he groans when Blaine leans away, losing skin contact, and his skin tightens and burns and -- something -- in all the places he’s not being touched. "Come on," Blaine says, and Kurt feels the motion of being pulled forward only distantly. What he feels most is where Blaine's hand has curled around his own to lead him, the fingers hot against his knuckles, all the way up his arm. It's irrational, really, but he can't help it, Kurt's body moving before his mind has the chance to catch up, walking along with Blaine until he's pressed up against the cool skin of his back, so much cooler than the skin on Kurt's chest that it's almost like walking into ice, but his body caves forward with it, a little, twisting until he's pressed all the way along Blaine's spine, resting his cheek against Blaine's shoulder. "Kurt," Blaine says, and then more urgently, turning in Kurt's grasp to look at his face. He looks worried, still, though Kurt's eyes feel blurry and strange, trying to look at the expression on Blaine's face but instead only focusing on the little dry ridges of his lips, the points of his eyelashes, stuck together from the chlorine of the pool, blinking. "God, you -- you have a fever, I think," Blaine says, reaching up with a hand and pressing his palm against Kurt's forehead. Kurt groans -- hears himself groan sort of distantly, a little too high -- and leans into the touch because it feels so, so good and right and his chest is tight with the feeling, the need to get closer and closer. Blaine walks backwards while Kurt stays as close as he can, not paying attention at all to the way his feet are moving or walking, just to the points where he's in contact with Blaine, where little sparks of heat are thrumming under his skin. "Here," Blaine says, opening the door to his room. It's a familiar room, one Kurt has spent more than a few days in, even a few nights -- their record marathon of every movie Judy Garland had a role in lasted more than one day, and they refused to sleep or leave the room until they ended up finally passing out in a tangled mass of limbs that Kurt was very, very reluctant to untwist himself from. Kurt follows him to the bed, where he sits, but Blaine turns to walk away, and Kurt reaches out for him, has to, can't help it. "No," he says, chest tight and the word coming out on a gasp. "I'm going to go call someone, or get help, or --" Blaine starts, and this time whatever rational part of Kurt's brain that's still working focuses in on the worry and mild panic all over Blaine's face. "I'm not --" Kurt tries, but Blaine is halfway across the room and the waistband of Kurt's swim trunks is digging painfully into his skin and everything, every cell and nerve ending in his body is just pushing and pulling and something and Kurt hasn't felt this way before and yet, equally, he almost knows exactly what he needs. He needs Blaine's hands, again, on his skin, all of Blaine on his skin, to make the feeling go away, to cool him off. It's almost like desperation, and not the sort of desperation Kurt feels moments before he comes in the shower, leaning back against the porcelain tiles to finish himself off; that's a gritty, needful sort of desperation too, his eyes squeezed tightly shut so he can visualize the last moments of someone -- Blaine -- kneeling on the shower floor in front of him, or whatever he's thinking about, and get rid of the racing, tight feeling spread out from the tips of his fingers to his teeth, just -- It's not that, it's more, it's want and need and Kurt can barely keep his eyes open with it, struggling with taking even breaths where he's sitting on the bed. It's not normal, not right, and not at all what he wants to be happening -- not like this, not right now, but. Kurt opens his eyes all the way, taking in the way Blaine is standing in front of him, hovering near the door and dresser, watching him tensely and worried and caring, and Kurt knows if he looks half as wrecked as he feels he must look horrible. "Blaine," Kurt says, again, because it's still the only word that will come easily out of his throat, "please -- don't go out, don't, I don't --" Blaine steps forward at that, Kurt tracking the motion, the fluidity in his steps forward, the way his chest is dry and no longer slick with water, and how Kurt just wants to, needs to see it slick again with sweat and more. "Please," Kurt says, when Blaine is close enough to touch, almost afraid to reach out. Blaine kneels in front of the bed, right at Kurt's knee. "What?" he asks, eyes searching, "what can I do -- you --" Kurt reaches out, fingers curling around Blaine's neck harder than he means them to in order to drag him up towards the bed, and it's not anywhere near how the same situation has been played out in his head countless times in the past few months, nothing at all like visualizing kisses stolen in the back of a playhouse or over the gear stick in a car with spring rain falling on the windows. Kurt drags Blaine up by his neck until he can bend down enough to meet his face, rolling forward and pitching off the bed, both of them on the floor before Kurt even realizes he's falling, barely registering anything but the way he can almost feel each strand of Blaine's hair on his fingertips and where his hips are settled heavily, almost painfully on top of Blaine's own. He does register, though, the wide-eyed look Blaine gives him right before Kurt crashes their mouths together with no semblance of elegance or thoroughness, just pressure and slick, slick wetness, his tongue darting out because it feels good, and it makes his spine arch up a little, his hips pressing down in tandem. "You're not okay," Blaine says tightly, while Kurt drags his mouth down the side of Blaine's jaw because the skin there feels good, the tiniest hint of stubble dragging over his lips. "No," Kurt agrees, wanting desperately -- and that's what this feeling is, desperation, want -- for Blaine to touch him, to run his hands down his back. "God, Kurt," Blaine says, his head bending back when Kurt rotates his hips, once, twice, and then again with more pressure because he can feel it all the way up his spine, tight and hot and good and he can't stop moving, pressing down and dragging his body down to Blaine's chest, his lips following. Kurt can hear the noises he's making almost as if he isn't making them, and he still can't find the right way to breathe, air coming in and out in little gasps. "Please," he says, "I can't --" and nothing makes sense, nothing at all, except for how he needs to be touched and how he needs Blaine to not be pulling away. "I need you," Kurt says, low, not even thinking the words, just hearing them come out, and it's true -- it's always been true, he's always sort of needed Blaine to figure this all out between them, to get them moving forward, just not like this, this isn't -- it's what he needs now, and has needed, just differently and -- "Kurt," Blaine says, dragging it out, almost pained. "Not like this, come on, you're not --" Kurt's forehead is sticky with sweat, though he doesn't know how or when he started sweating. He only notices when he drags his forehead across the expanse of Blaine's bare stomach, resting it there, frustrated and hot and not being touched, and it's awful. "I want this," he says, mouthing the words against the edge of Blaine's hip, the curve of the bone there that Kurt knows with his eyes closed, just from the glimpses he's been given before. The words don't come out right, and his mouth is dry with the heat of everything else. "So long," he says, "you -- you're always there and, I don't know what this is just -- want." Kurt leans so he can bend his neck up to see Blaine's face, squinting to narrow his focus down, trying to see past whatever sort of haze is fogging up his head and his vision, trying to pinpoint it all just to the little beads of moisture clinging to the dip of Blaine's collarbone, the dark red of his bottom lip where Kurt had pressed his teeth in. Blaine is looking down at him, shaking his head, just a little. "You have to know that --" he starts, frowning, moving backwards to lean up on his elbows, shifting so Kurt has to roll off his stomach, going up on his knees and then leaning back over Blaine so their faces are level. "This isn't how I want this to happen," Blaine says. "Come on, Kurt, you --" "Please," Kurt says, again, wishing he had a better way to say it, his muscles clenching just a little, straining forward. "We'll talk after, just -- now, Blaine, come on just touch --" Blaine bites into his own bottom lip and Kurt watches as the skin dents in and reddens even more under the pressure of his teeth, but he waits despite the shaking strain in his arms, the heat of where his thighs are barely touching Blaine's nothing near what his body is demanding. Blaine reaches up after a second, cupping his palm against Kurt's cheek and dragging his fingers up along the side of his face. "You're so pale," Blaine says, softly this time, "and hot. I don't understand." "I just --" Kurt says, and he can't think enough to even talk, his mouth drier by the second, leaning heavily into Blaine's hand. "You, now -- please." He's beyond recognition of what his voice must sound like, rough and dry and low, but Blaine closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them curling his fingers around to the back of Kurt's head and pressing, enough of a signal for Kurt to press back down all the way, groaning high with the feeling of their chests pressing together, of Blaine's lips on his own, this time working with Kurt, not against him. "Don't," Kurt grits out, when Blaine goes to roll away just as he starts to press a hand between them, determined to feel more of their skin together, to feel more all over. "Bed," Blaine says, "I'm not -- this isn't the time or place, but we're at least going to have a bed." Normally, Kurt would laugh at that, at Blaine's instance and his planning, but the sound gets stuck in his throat, watching the way Blaine's muscles shift and move as he goes to stand, extending a hand out to Kurt on the floor. Kurt's balance is off, he can tell, because he mostly falls forward into Blaine's chest, spreading his hands out against Blaine's back to press his fingertips in. Blaine turns them around, presses Kurt back until his thighs hit the edge of the mattress and he lets himself fall, back bending impossibly low until the sheets come up to meet his skin. Kurt gets his hands along Blaine's ribs while Blaine hovers over top of him, dragging them down to the waistband of Blaine's swim trunks, dipping his thumbs in and then hooking the rest of his fingers to drag them down. He focuses in on the red indents pressed out across Blaine's hips and sides, the parts where the elastic was digging in a little, and he groans, leaning up as he gets the shorts down over Blaine's ass to press his mouth against the indents, scraping his teeth over Blaine's hipbone. Blaine makes a noise, at that, and it thrums up through Kurt almost painfully, makes him swoop forward, yes, yes, pressing Blaine down backwards on the bed. "No," Blaine says, gritty in a way that barely matches how Kurt feels but makes a point, anyway. He presses back up and over Kurt so they are kneeling against each other for a suspended second before Blaine presses him back down the other way. Blaine gets his shorts all the way off, catching them on his knees and then sliding them over his ankles, and Kurt doesn't know where to look -- at the marks on Blaine's hips, still, or at his cock, pressed against his stomach, hard, or at his face, just to see what it must look like. Kurt's toes curl, a little, the itch under his skin growing and spreading and curling itself up like a weight in his chest, more pressure, more everything and Kurt has to close his eyes against it. He doesn't open them when he feels Blaine's fingers on his stomach, trailing down the waistband of his own swim trunks to slide them down. Kurt hisses through his teeth, eyes shooting open before he can resist, when the band scrapes over his own dick, adding unforgiving heat. It doesn't even feel the same as usual to be hard, not really, just another extension of the heat flying from nerve ending to nerve ending under his skin. It seems almost pinpointed there, though, when Blaine wraps his hand around, leaning down to drag his lips, finally, against Kurt's neck. "Kurt," Blaine says, "just -- say something." Kurt can't figure out words at all, really. He can only arch his back so his hips move further into Blaine's hand around his dick, hot and slick, his palm wet with Kurt's precome, making his motions fluid and god, of course, rhythmic. He moans out, though, when he can't get any words out, leaning his head to catch the side of Blaine's jaw as he moves upwards, kissing him there with more tenderness than his body feels at all, just sort of resting his lips there and rotating his hips up for a few seconds. Blaine sucks in a breath near Kurt's ear when Kurt reaches down to wrap his own hand around Blaine's cock. Blaine's hand feels overwhelming on his own, fisted around, and Kurt does his best to match Blaine's rhythm, shifting his hips until they are settled right under Blaine's own. His body wants more, something, somehow -- he can feel it under his skin still, and can feel it throbbing under his eyes, but he bites down on his own lip when Blaine's hand speeds up in time with Kurt's own, pulling himself down the mattress so he can get at Blaine's shoulder, panting out his breaths against the skin there. He twists his own hand along Blaine's dick, the feeling against his own palm running itself up Kurt's arm and spreading down his chest, good, so good, and he wants to do it properly, wants to see and taste, oh -- Kurt twists urgently and away from underneath Blaine, taking his hand away and shifting up, grateful when Blaine follow his motions, rolling over when Kurt presses against his side, only to slide quickly and inelegantly down between Blaine's legs. "Kurt," Blaine starts, and it sounds vaguely like a warning, sort of strangled and faded at the end, almost like Blaine understands how Kurt feels, though Kurt knows instinctively that he doesn't, can't feel the same way right now. Kurt's thighs are shaking from being tense, needing to be pressed up against Blaine again, his body straining with the undercurrent of -- of whatever -- still running all over his body. Except he part of Kurt's brain that is, not working, really, but processing better than the rest knows he wants this more, though, more than being touched himself. He wants Blaine in his mouth, wants to be able to look up at him and see his face, his mouth twisted desperately open in some semblance of the way Kurt feels inside. He wants to feel the heat and taste the salt, there, to really feel and taste outside of his behind closed eyelid thoughts, alone in his bed in the dark. Blaine groans when Kurt closes his lips over the head of his dick, barely pressing his hips up before settling them down into the mattress in what seems like self-restraint, though Kurt is barely paying attention, groaning up through his throat around where his lips are stretched. He wraps his hand around, too, mouth moving easily slick and wet, sparks of something, need want anything, running down his spine each time Blaine makes a noise, Kurt's own back arching up when Blaine grits out his name. Kurt looks up to watch Blaine, the way his neck tips back each time he lets out a noise, when Kurt drags his mouth lower, keeping his tongue pressed up with as much pressure as he can, pulling back up but not all the way off. Blaine looks up all the way each time his neck snaps back, forcing his head back up to look at Kurt between his legs, the image something Kurt can barely focus on, what he must look like. Blaine comes unexpectedly, his hips pressing up sharply on a near soundless inhale of breath, one his hands coming down to twist in Kurt's hair, not pressing him down or holding him anywhere, but digging into his scalp as Kurt groans, the muscles in his arms shaking along with his thighs, swallowing around Blaine's dick messily. "Fuck," Blaine groans, not letting go of Kurt's head but twisting his hips away, sitting up and making Kurt kneel back with the motion until their chests are nearly together, Blaine bending down to kiss him, sloppy and wet and -- dirty, not anything that Kurt had really focused on before, even when they'd been on the floor and Kurt felt like his skin was doing to melt off if he couldn't drag his lips across Blaine's own. Blaine wraps his hand around Kurt's dick, hard and leaking against his stomach, and Kurt's eyes roll back, gasping out a breath caught in his throat, the pressure in his chest racing down his back and thighs, expanding until Kurt has to bend his spine against it all, his mouth slipping from Blaine's so he can rest his forehead at the juncture of Blaine's shoulder and neck. Kurt mouths out the little sounds he tries to make against the skin there, coming out in gasps and bursts of breath, groaning intermittently as his skin starts to feel tighter and tighter. "You have no idea," Blaine says, almost into the top of Kurt's head, squeezing his hand almost deliciously tight over Kurt's dick, twisting on every upstroke, "how long I've -- I've been waiting for this, not like this at all, but, god, Kurt." Kurt can barely make sense of his words, hot, hotter still, all over, sweating down his back in a way he never does, mouthing nothing, everything, nonsense into Blaine's neck before his spine snaps back and his hips press forward, Blaine's thumb swiping over the very head of his dick, Kurt coming on the upstroke, feeling strung impossibly tight and then loose -- his whole body relaxing as he groans on a deep inhale of breath. "Blaine," he says, melting down into Blaine's chest, his thighs very nearly giving out their kneeling position before Blaine maneuvers him back down on the mattress, right against his chest. Blaine's name keeps coming out his mouth, urgent and quiet on each normal breath of air he inhales greedily, his orgasm still rolling in waves down his spine, impossibly cool and sharp as the heat and tightness on his skin begins to fade away. Blaine turns Kurt's face up so he can look down at him. "Are you -- fuck, Kurt. Are you better? I --" Kurt still feels unfocused, still strange in his own skin, but he doesn't feel the same way. Instead, he feels completely worn out, like he'd slip right through the mattress if Blaine wasn't right under him. "I'm better," he manages, knowing it's true as soon as he says it. He looks away from Blaine after he says it, too, biting hard against his own bottom lip. "You scared me," Blaine says, rubbing absent circles into the lower part of Kurt's back, warm and comforting. Kurt looks back up at him, feeling -- feeling too many things at once, the awful weight against his chest from before gone but replaced with something else, scratchy and full. "I'm sorry," he says, very nearly blurting it out, because he is and he didn't mean for it go like that at all, and he Blaine didn't want to -- oh, he -- "You didn't even want too -- I didn't --" Blaine shakes his head as soon as Kurt starts speaking, shushing him. "I don't know what that was," Blaine says, "but whatever you or it or whatever just happened, don't apologize." Kurt looks down again, the settling feeling on his skin feeling almost like an itch. "Kurt," Blaine says, low and soft, "you weren't yourself just then, I just knew -- stupidly, maybe, but I did -- that you needed me just then." Kurt breathes out against Blaine's chest, one long exhale. "That's not how I wanted that to go at all," he says, after a few seconds. "I don't know what happened." "What did happen?" Blaine asks, though not directly at Kurt. "All I remember is getting in the pool," Kurt says, soft, thinking about it, closing his eyes against the way his skin starts to warm and heat where Blaine's hand is moving against his back, willing the same feeling as before not to come back again. "I got so cold, and the water felt like it was stinging against my skin, but then you touched me and everything was hot." He sounds ridiculous saying it out loud, though he only realizes belatedly. "You looked like you were going to faint," Blaine says. Kurt shifts against him, almost unthinkingly trying to get away from his hand, the warmth of it, the way it's making his hips want to roll forward lazily into Blaine's thigh, even past all his tiredness. It's not the same feeling as before, though, not the tense, horrible tight feeling spreading out from his spine. Just warm with a sort of lazy arousal, like waking up just a little hard in the morning after a good, fuzzy sort of dream. Blaine moves his hand up, almost like he can sense Kurt's discomfort -- not discomfort, really, just, something -- but he brings it up to the back of Kurt's head, just resting his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck instead. "I should go out and tell everyone you're okay," Blaine says, after a few moments of silence. Kurt feels even more tired than he did before, closing his eyes against the motion of Blaine's fingers moving lightly through his hair. "Where are your clothes?" Blaine asks, shifting, allowing Kurt to roll to the side so Blaine can get up. "Far corner of the deck," Kurt says, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile for a moment when he feels the sheet being pulled up over him. "By those really nice roses." "Roses?" Blaine repeats, and Kurt opens his eyes -- he hadn't even realized they were shut, his body relaxing so much back into the mattress -- watching Blaine's face change suddenly. "What?" Kurt asks, vaguely hoping the word comes out as more than a questioning noise. "My aunt," Blaine says, somewhat thoughtfully, "she -- she breeds special roses." "Special?" Kurt asks. "She's sort of crazy," Blaine says, bending to pick up his swim trunks -- Kurt keeps his eyes cracked open despite their heaviness to admire the view, since he can, now -- "she sent us them last week with this long letter about how no one should -- shit." Kurt knows his attempt to ask, what, doesn't come out as a word this time, barely keeping his eyes open long enough to watch Blaine rush out the door to his room, still sliding his trunks up along his hips. -- Kurt isn't sure how long Blaine is gone, though he knows he didn't mean to actually fall asleep. He wakes up when he feels the mattress shift, though, blinking open his eyes to find the room quite a bit darker, Blaine looking down over him. "Hey there," Blaine says, quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you." Kurt blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. "Crisis averted," Blaine says, though it doesn't make much sense to Kurt. His face must show it because Blaine laughs, low. "I thought for a moment -- those weird flowers, I think, caused you to --" he gestures with his hands and Kurt laughs softly then, can't help it, turning his face into the pillow. "I sort of ran back out to the pool with all these visions of some sort of massive orgy on the deck, if the guys had gone over to the roses, too." Kurt makes a noise of displeasure at the though, turning his head away from the pillow. He thinks about it for a second, though, staring up at Blaine. Blaine laughs first, "Okay, so it's not so much a gross mental image as a --" "Not so bad one at all," Kurt offers, laughing a little, his jaw tired and tight. Blaine pokes at his shoulder under the sheet, "I bet we'd win even Nationals if we slipped some video of a Warbler's poolside orgy to the judges," he says, laughing again. "Oh, god," Kurt says, "now I'm having bad mental images." Blaine makes a face at him, sitting more fully on the mattress. "Anyway," he says, "there wasn't an orgy when I went out." "Were you disappointed?" Kurt asks, failing at the deadpan tone he meant to try for. At that, Blaine rolls his eyes. "I just got a lot of wolf-whistles," he says. Kurt ducks back into the pillow, a little. "I told them you were sick and everyone should go home, though. Then I came back here and let you sleep." "Thanks," Kurt says, after a second. Blaine nods, once, noticeably sitting up a little straighter. Kurt leans up slowly, shifting until he's sitting up all the way, the sheet pooled down to his waist -- he's naked underneath, he knows, but it doesn't bother him as much as it should. "Blaine," he says, slowly, "we should -- we could talk about it." Blaine shrugs, this time turned away, a little. "We don't have to," he says, slowly, "I mean, it wasn't your fault, you weren't yourself." He sounds sort of detached about it, just a little, and it takes Kurt a moment to catch on. "Oh," Kurt says, feeling much less tired, "I -- wasn't myself, that's true." He pauses for a second, trying to figure out how to say what he wants to, what he'swanted to say for so long now. "I wanted that, though," he says, after he thinks about his phrasing. "Not like that, necessarily, but -- you have to had known I was --" "Waiting?" Blaine finishes, somewhat hesitantly, more than Kurt expected. Kurt nods, easy. "For months," he adds, for good measure. Blaine's shoulder's relax noticeably. "Months," he repeats, "yeah. That's familiar." "If you say you were trying to be a gentleman about it --" Kurt starts, the warmth from his nap spreading out, lingering along his fingertips. Blaine turns all the way towards him and laughs, for just a second. "I was, actually. If you must know." Kurt makes a face at him, his mouth twisted up, and they look at each other for longer than Kurt thinks is really necessary. "I'm sorry it was like that," Blaine says, after a moment. "Don't be," Kurt says, automatic, almost sharply. "You could -- make it up me. Us." He adds as an afterthought, not wanting to push his luck, just -- "Make it up to you?" Blaine repeats, slowly, the sides of his mouth turning up to a grin, growing wider as he looks across at Kurt. Kurt rolls his fingers against the sheets at his waist, definitely no longer tired. Instead he feels -- appropriately, not feverishly and desperately -- excited, just a little, the tiniest bit of yes, want pushing up and settling at the base of his spine. "Like," Blaine says, when Kurt doesn't offer any suggestions, crawling forward across the bed, "we could just try again. I could lay you out right like I've thought about doing for way longer than I'll ever admit and we could go from there?" Kurt means to have an answer, really, but he's distracted by the roll of Blaine's tongue against his bottom lip, leaving it slick and wet, and by a fraying thread on the neck of Blaine's shirt -- which he must have put on while Kurt was sleeping, a choice Kurt doesn't really approve of at all. "Something like that," Kurt says, though, because Blaine looks like he expects Kurt to say something at least, his words coming out low and softer than he means. "I don't know," Blaine says, rolling back his shoulders and looking away, presumably to stop Kurt from seeing him grin stupidly, "I mean -- it's pretty late now, and I'm actually pretty tired, and --" "Shut up," Kurt says, leaning forward and reaching out to drag Blaine closer, this time taking time to curl the little longer strands at the back of his head around his fingers and use his other hand to fit his palm against Blaine's jaw, bringing their mouths together slowly and almost too carefully. Doing it right, like the numerous (countless) times he'd thought about doing it before. He can feel Blaine's grin against his mouth even with his eyes shut, and it makes him grin too because, yes -- this, this is what Kurt has been wanting, waiting for. The first swipe of Blaine's tongue against his bottom lip makes him shiver the tiniest bit, the warmth from waking up leaving his skin too-fast, replaced with cool air against his skin everywhere Blaine isn't touching -- almost like the sensation of before, when he'd been so gone from himself, but also so much better, just low need curled in his belly. Blaine bends him back while he kisses him, Kurt pliant under his unyielding hands; running down his sides and along his back and tugging the sheet draped against this waist down and out of the way. "Hi," Blaine says, right up against his lips after he's gotten Kurt laid out underneath him without any protests on Kurt's part. "Hi," Kurt says back, grinning softly up at Blaine. He stretches languidly back into the mattress, Blaine straddling one of his thighs. "You have far too many clothes on." "Do I?" Blaine asks, looking down at himself, the warmth of his steady breaths leaving Kurt's face as he leans up to thumb the hem of his shirt. "You do," Kurt says, reaching and tugging Blaine shirt off, hiking it up as far as he can, up enough to thumb over Blaine's nipples while Blaine takes over, pulling the rest of his shirt off over his head and arching his back gently under Kurt's hands, making a low noise at the back of his throat. "You still have too many clothes on," Kurt says, enjoying being able to run his hands down Blaine's sides, enjoying the way it makes Blaine rock forward a little on Kurt's thigh, his knee tucked between Kurt's and rocking, too. "I think I can fix that," Blaine says, after a second of having his eyes closed. He wiggles his fingers in front of Kurt's face for a second, and Kurt raises an eyebrow at him. "I don't know what that was," Blaine says, looking at his own hands. "Magic fingers or something." Kurt laughs, mostly a few breaths through his nose, at that because that -- this -- this is more like what Kurt imagined between them than anything, Blaine grinning into his neck, laughing together, maybe fumbling, a little. God, he's wanted this. "Take your pants off," Kurt says. "Bossy," Blaine says, but he rolls to the side for a second to comply, tossing his swim trunks across onto the floor. "I'll fold them later," he says. "If you're thinking about folding right now, we have a problem," Kurt says, right as Blaine rolls back over on top of him, leaning down to kiss him, slick and brief. Blaine drags his eyes down the length of Kurt's body in a way that almost makes Kurt want to roll his face back into the pillow, groaning. "I'm not thinking about folding at all," Blaine says, grinning down at him. "Good," Kurt says, not really surprised to barely be able to get the word out, a little breathless with lots of things, want, anticipation, with the way Blaine is still looking at him, like he's has something that could possibly be worth staring at for that long. "You're --" Blaine starts, groaning instead of finishing his sentence, "I -- shit." Blaine shifts down Kurt's chest, ending up back between Kurt's legs, hooking his hands under Kurt's knees and pressing his legs apart just slightly. "Can I?" Blaine asks. He looks as though he might finish the thought, might ask Kurt for something specific, but Kurt nods his head. "Anything," he says, honestly. "I'm holding you do that," Blaine says, voice low, before he ducks down, spreading Kurt's legs a little wider still, bending his knees up. Kurt honestly thinks he's going for his dick, hard already, the tiniest bit of slickness beaded at the top, and Blaine does linger there, just sort of looking, tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip again in a way that makes Kurt hold back an embarrassing noise in his throat. Blaine, though, ducks down further, taking his hands off Kurt's knees and moving to cup his ass, pulling him up and closer, spreading him just slightly while Kurt sucks in a breath, not even managing an intelligible sound when Blaine leans down all the way and licks with a barely-there swipe of his tongue. "Okay?" Blaine asks, the feeling of just his breath making Kurt roll his head back into the pillow under it, blinking wide-eyed up at the ceiling. He groans a little, low, willing Blaine to dart in again, and Blaine laughs -- again, low and warm -- and then Kurt can feel the flat of his tongue taking a long swipe up and around, oh. Blaine spreads him wider, gradually, bending his neck at an impossible looking angle when Kurt manages to look down before flopping his head back again, a little overwhelmed, rolling his hips just slightly towards Blaine's mouth with increasing urgency, just getting a rhythm as Blaine's tongue starts to slide slicker and slicker before he pulls away. "I have lube," Blaine says, sitting up, away from where Kurt really, really wants him to be. "I don't know if --" "Yes," Kurt says, cutting Blaine off in an almost automatic way, leaning up on his elbows so he can look right at Blaine, "yes." "We can wait," Blaine says, more softly, his lips red and slick and full, so much that Kurt can barely keep focusing on him without wanting to groan low in his throat. "I --" Kurt starts -- he wants Blaine to know it's not just, desperation, it's not him from before at all, even though that was great, it's -- this is different. Kurt wantsthis, too. "I want to," he says, simply. "If you do." Blaine's eyes widen, a little, and it would almost be comical if Kurt's breath wasn't stuck in his throat in anticipation. "You have no idea," Blaine says, familiar. Kurt just grins at him, once, quick, laying his head back as he feels Blaine's weight roll off the bed, returning faster than Kurt expects. Blaine's hands return to his thighs after a moment, though Kurt kept his legs open, the cool air on the slick skin of his ass sparking little bits of pleasure through his nerves while Blaine had leaned away. Kurt is momentarily disappointed when Blaine doesn't duck back down between his legs, though the press of a slick finger against his entrance makes up for the barely-there disappointment as quickly as it comes. This, Kurt is familiar with; rolling back on his own fingers in bed, leaning over to bite the heavy thread-count cotton of his pillowcase to not make any noise, slicking himself up in the shower, arm bent back with his cheek pressed against the cool tile. This, he knows, except -- Blaine twists one finger in, easy, curling up and moving slowly, too slow, and it's completely different. It feels like more, though more of what Kurt isn't sure. More sensation, something, and Kurt presses down when Blaine adds a second finger, almost a little too fast, enough that Kurt feels the stretch in a really, really good sort of way that he never really feels with himself. "Do you do this?" Blaine asks, over the sound of Kurt's breathing, a little like panting to his own ears. "Yes," Kurt grits out, managing not to groan, digging his heels into the mattress for a little more leverage to roll his hips down. He looks down at Blaine instead of keeping his head back; he hadn't been doing it intentionally, not really, but the sight of Blaine's face, the nearly open look of want there makes him realize he wouldn't last watching Blaine the whole time, not with everything -- the pressure of Blaine's hand just idly splayed out against his hips, his fingers twisting deep inside, pressing up just right. Not with that and the look on Blaine's face. Kurt groans, spreading his legs out wider when Blaine spreads his fingers out, rolling them to press in a third, slicker with more added lube. "Just --" Kurt starts, but Blaine makes a shushing sound, rolling his wrist down hard, effectively cutting off any words that may have wanted to make it out of the jumble in Kurt's brain, anyway. "Do you do this in the shower?" Blaine asks, the words dry and gritty out of his mouth. "Or in bed? I -- I thought about you doing this for me, at some point, opening yourself up, and if you did it at home, and if you thought of me, and then I would see you after in the hallway and wonder what you would think if you knew." If Blaine expects some sort of coherent response, Kurt doesn't give one. He manages a drawn out moan, nearly accidentally on a barely-managed exhale of breath. "Now," Kurt says, after that, managing at least some semblance of the word. Kurt leans up when Blaine rolls to the side to grab for a condom somewhere in the sheets. He takes the tube of lube Blaine was using from against his thigh, slicking up his own hand while Blaine turns back towards him, reaching down before Blaine can say anything to palm his dick, barely getting his hand curled around before Blaine's hips push forward fast and a little urgently, a low, guttural groan coming out from between his parted lips. Blaine grabs at Kurt's wrist to still his hand before he can get more than few strokes in, enjoying the the arch of Blaine's back into his fist, the way his eyelashes fan out against his cheekbones with the way he has his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Kurt digs his heels further down into the mattress as Blaine gets settled, wanting to just wrap them around his back and dig in, press him in all the way, but Blaine goes slow; pressing instead and taking his time, the stretch a slow tease of pressure and weight and pull that Kurt's never gotten from his own fingers, has never been able to think about before, and -- Blaine groans deep at the same time Kurt does when he finally sets in all the way, as deep as he can get in this position, and Kurt's brain tires to make some sort of cheeky joke about harmonizing and auditioning for a duet for the Warblers like this but his thoughts short-circuit before the words get anywhere near his vocal chords, instead leaving him on a soundless gasp as Blaine pulls back and presses forward, hard. "Oh," Kurt says, though he's not sure the word makes it out, only that his mouth forms the right shape, because Blaine pulls back and presses in again, faster than he probably means to because he groans and leans his neck down, shoulders bowed, his hands pressing into the mattress by Kurt's ribs, scrabbling at the twisted sheets. Kurt reaches down almost blindly, unable to look at anything but Blaine leaning over him, and grabs at Blaine's hands, curling his own fingers over the tops of Blaine's, twisting with the sheet until their fingers are curled together, the sheet bunched in-between them. Blaine finds a rhythm after a moment, and Kurt finds the counter-rhythm, pressing up against Blaine's thrusts as he pulls back, and rocking steadily with him. It doesn't last for long, though, Kurt untwisting one of his hands from Blaine's and reaching up to press at Blaine's lower back, bending himself upward when Blaine uses his free hand to get between them, curling it around Kurt's dick, a little sticky and hard between them. Kurt can feel himself clenching around Blaine, both of them groaning, Blaine's hand speeding up without much thought for anything but pressure and sloppy, slick speed. Blaine looses his rhythm right after, thrusting in erratic and hard and amazing, Kurt rolling his hips in near-circles each time, gasping out breath without sound, words and moans stuck in his chest and throat, Blaine looking right down at him with blown pupils and an open-mouthed, panting grin, looking wrecked and -- gorgeous. Kurt comes before Blaine, over sensitive and snapping his hips up, stilling even as Blaine's hand and hips keep moving, Kurt's chest rising and falling rapidly with too many breaths at once, moaning out loud at the sight of Blaine coming, the sound that rolls deep out of his throat. Blaine gradually slides out of him, though Kurt looses track of time, just focuses on Blaine's slowing breaths until Kurt's inhales match Blaine's exactly, Blaine slipping down to lay pressed up all along Kurt's side, too-warm but completely welcome. "That --" Kurt starts, though he has no idea how to finish. "Yeah," Blaine agrees, easily, rolling away to tie up the condom and then stretching back against Kurt's side, pulling him against his chest with an arm thrown over Kurt's hips. "Months," Blaine says, after a few minutes, "We possibly could have been doing that for months." Better late than never, Kurt wants to say, except Blaine rolls over top of him with more energy than Kurt feels like he will have for days, and kisses him, pulling back far too quickly. "You got sunburned," Blaine says, swiping a thumb along Kurt's cheek. "I told you not to lay out so long." "No," Kurt says, barely managing not to yawn, "You told me to get into the pool, and look what happened after I left the safety of the very finest plastic chaise lounge in all of Ohio." Blaine makes a face at him and rolls back over, though he pulls Kurt right back up against his chest, anyway. "Hey, it didn't turn out so bad after a while," he says, though it's almost a little hesitantly, like he's unsure if he's right. Kurt doesn't roll his eyes. Instead, he rolls over, taking Blaine's hand off his hip and holding it between them. "It didn't," he agrees. Blaine's nose scrunches up a little with his answering smile, and for the third time in a day, Kurt falls back asleep, tired down to his bones but this time with Blaine right next to him, pressed together hip to hip.

They arrived home in the long twilight of early December. Fraser went into the cabin to start the fire, while Ray took care of the dogs. He unhitched them from the sled one by one, checking for any damage they'd taken from the extended trip, then settled them in their kennels with dinner. He unpacked the sled, rolled up the harness, and stowed it in the back of their large shed before heading inside. Holliday, the lead dog, and her brother Halpern, came inside with him. The woodstove was blazing, warming the air of the four-room cabin. The lights in the main room were lit, and Ray could see Fraser's silhouette through the kitchen door as he prepared dinner. Everything was as they'd left it: the neatly made bed with its hand-pieced quilts, the bearskin rug in front of the fire, the wood-frame couch and two bentwood rocking chairs. A book of poetry was spread face-down on one arm of the couch; a knit afghan was folded on the other. The wood table, which Fraser had built twenty years ago, was polished and gleaming. The shoe rack beside the door already held Fraser's boots, sitting beside Ray's sheepskin house slippers. "How are the dogs?" Fraser called out from the kitchen. Halpern pushed past Ray and into the kitchen, nosing at Fraser's elbow as he stirred the pot. Holliday, always more contained, tossed her head to clear the last of the snow from her ruff, then went to take her place on the rug in front of the fire. Ray hung his parka, snow pants, hat, gloves, scarf, next to Fraser's on the pegs by the door. He sat down at the table and went to work on his boots. Ray grunted as he pulled a boot off, flexing his aching toes. "Good," he said. "Zoe's paw still seems sore, but I'm sure she'll be fine now that she can rest up for a couple days." "Probably," Fraser replied. "I suppose it was a long ride back from Tuktoyaktuk." "Yup," Ray replied, slipping his other foot free and reaching for his slippers. Fraser came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, Halpern following close at his heels. He'd stripped down to jeans and a flannel shirt, even though it couldn't be more than 50 degrees inside the cabin yet. He walked over to the door and grabbed the bags, bending over to give Ray a brief, heated kiss. "Soup's on," he murmured. "Let me just unpack the laundry and toiletries and we can have a quick dinner." He took their satchels into the bedroom andHalpern joined Holliday on the floor by the woodstove. Ray grinned. A quick dinner, and then, to bed. They'd been traveling too damn long out in the cold, and he knew they were both looking forward to a warm room, a big bed, and a whole lot of naked time. After he'd set his boots on the rack by the door, Ray went into the kitchen to check on the soup. He stirred it a couple of times, turned up the heat, and pulled out some bowls. He had just dipped his little finger in to test the temperature when he heard the phone ring. Fraser picked up the phone in the bedroom immediately. "Kowalski and Fraser residence, Benton Fraser speaking." Fraser wandered out of the bedroom, looking as puzzled as Ray felt. Who would have even known they were back? Then, Fraser's face lit up and he said: "It's Mellie. She just wanted to make sure we got home safe." Ray seized the kitchen extension. "Hell no," he retorted. "We're dead in the snow, sweetheart, I always told you it would happen one day." "Dad, stop it." Their oldest foster-daughter sounded amused. "I know you love it out there." Her voice was thin and tinny over three thousand miles of static, but it was wonderful to hear. It had been almost a year since the last time they'd seen her. "Yeah, well, keep it to yourself. How the hell did you know we were getting home today?" Fraser, as usual, had fallen silent once Ray was on the line. Mellie said, "Jake sent me a text message. Said you'd stopped by Paulatuk last week and were going to run by Tuktoyaktuk before heading home." Ray shook his head. Text messages. He sometimes felt like a stranger in the twenty-first century. But he took comfort in the fact that Fraser had still barely made it into the twentieth. Ray'd had to talk him into having electricity and plumbing in the cabin, back when they'd built it, and he still wasn't too sure about this email thing. "How's Jake doing?" Mellie asked. "He didn't say much." It had been a year since they'd seen Mellie, but even longer since she had seen Jake. Ray and Fraser had fostered him until he was 18, and then he'd moved up to Paulatuk , wanting to live with his own people. He'd made it back home once or twice since then, but Ray and Fraser mostly saw him when they were up that way on patrol. "He's good," Ray said. "The fishing's going well. He's got a nice little house, and he's seeing a girl named Sunny-- she just moved to town from Tuk. Seems serious. He's happy, I think." "Good for him," Mellie said. "Do you think he'll be able to make it down for the holidays, this year?" "He said he'd try, but you know it's hard. There isn't exactly a road from him to us." 200 miles over the tundra from Paulatuk to Inuvik. Jake didn't have the money for air travel, much less for a snowmobile, and he didn't have the gear for a low-tech overland trip. Fraser had tried, in his own way, to let Jake know that they could help him out with the travel. But Jake was his own man and he was having none of it. Honestly, Ray couldn't blame him. Accepting help from your parents was a hard thing once you were an adult. Ray respected Jake's independence, even though he missed not seeing him more. "So how're you doing, kiddo? Will we be seeing you over Christmas Break?" "Oh, I'm greatness," she said. "Depot lets out in the middle of December-- I thought I'd stick around here for a week, probably try and get a plane up your way on the 20th or so. A lot will depend on travel schedules." "Whenever you can get here, we'd love to see you. You know that." "Thanks, Dad. " "So how's life going otherwise?" "I'm doing fine. I'll be done at with the academy in the spring, and they're already trying to talk me into staying on as an instructor. On Inuit customs, no less." "Really?" Ray asked. "What's that about? You're nothing like the first Inuit in the RCMP." " 'Course not," she said, with a snort. "But they're all out in the field, just like I'm going to be. Seems like none of the other Inuit or First Nations folks who've come through here recently have been interested in city jobs, either." Ray glanced up at Fraser and noted at the proud smile on his face. "So where are you hoping to get posted?" "I dunno," she said. "Yukon, maybe; the division in Whitehorse has an open post. But-- I'm thinking about Baffin Island, actually. I remember the trip we took to Alert when Jake and I were kids. I don't think I'd want to move quite that far north, but maybe Iqaluit. It's beautiful up there when the Lights are out, and there aren't many cadets with the skills they need. " "I'll bet," Ray agreed. "Can't be many RCMP applicants who can track caribou, read Inukitut, and live north of the arctic circle without any modern technology." Fraser made a hushing gesture at him. Ray knew that Mellie's unique skill set was sometimes a difficult subject for them. She'd been placed in foster care when she was nine, after a house fire had killed her parents. They h ad been Inuit traditionalists, living in Tuktoyaktuk , hunting their own food and spending most of their year out on the land. Mellie had received the benefit of their considerable knowledge about arctic life. So, when she was placed with an Inuit family in downtown Inuvik, she'd just run away, back into the wilderness she knew best. Fraser was the one they sent to track her down. Ray hadn't been with Fraser when he went out after her. Their three boys needed to be looked after. But he heard about it later- from Mellie, not from Fraser, who was always reluctant to discuss his own successes. Fraser had found her huddling in a small but sturdy igloo with her father's rifle and the remains of a caribou she'd killed and butchered. Her parka was bloody and her face streaked with tears, but she was healthy and safe despite her long stay in the snow. And she was adamant in her refusal to return to her foster home in town. And so Fraser, rather than dragging a kid home who had already proved she was willing and able to disappear, just moved into her igloo. He stayed with her for three days, helping her hunt, tend her fire, dress her game, heat her water. After the first day, he didn't say anything about taking her back, just listened to her stories of her parents, and told some stories of his own. Stories about his dad, aboutInnusiq and Quinn, the places he'd lived and the things he'd seen-- in the territories and in Chicago. They traded Inuit stories, and it turned out he even knew a few she didn't. And he told her about Ray, their little cabin an hour outside of town, and the three kids they were fostering. On the third day, she'd asked if she could come to live with them. Fraser, who wouldn't promise what he couldn't deliver, not even to bring a little girl in from the cold, just said, "I can certainly ask." Because Fraser got it. He understood what it was like to loose everything you ever knew. He knew what it was like to be left with nothing but arctic snowfields in your soul. So Mellie had come and she had stayed. Of the six kids they'd fostered over the years, Mellie and Jake were the only ones who'd stayed with them throughout. Harry, the first, left when he was eight, after his mother had finished out her thirty-month sentence for drugs and another six months of rehab. Warren joined them when he was 7 and left when he was 11, when his grandmother agreed to take him in. The little girls, Kate and Lane, came later-- babies when they arrived, toddlers when they left. They'd been sent back to their real families with hardly any memory of the foster parents who'd cared for them for years. Jake came to stay when he was five, Mellie a year later, and both had stayed until they were out of school. Ray and Fraser would have adopted them both, but Jake's parents didn't want to surrender their rights, and Mellie didn't want to surrender her memories. She loved them but, when she was a teenager, she never lost the chance to remind them that they weren't her real parents. Then, after getting her criminal justice degree from the University down in Yellowknife, she had joined the RCMP. If that wasn't enough to make Fraser proud, she'd called and told them: "I didn't want to take your names, before, because I didn't think it'd be fair. I mean--everybody knows who you guys are. It wouldn't be right for them to let me in just because of you." Ray didn't think he'd ever seen Fraser closer to tears. So, once she started at Depot, she changed her name formally. When she graduated in the spring, she would be Constable Melisande Okpik Kowalski-Fraser. It was a mouthful, but they all knew that the bottom line was another Fraser continuing the family tradition. Fraser was going to bust the buttons on his Serge at her graduation, Ray just knew it. But now, Mellie said, "Yup, and I damn well want to use those skills to do my job, not just teach other people to do it." "It's important to remember, though," Fraser spoke up for the first time in several minutes, "That those skills will die out if no one teaches them. They said my father was the last of a dying breed-- we've proved them wrong twice now. I'd hate to see it be true one day." "Well, I'd still rather do it the way you did," she said. "Don't worry. I'll find some fledgling Mountie and take 'em under my wing." Ray looked up at Fraser again, but found him distracted by looking at something out the window. "What's up, Ben?" he asked, then said, "Mellie, hold on a sec," into the phone. The dogs in their kennels had started barking, andHolliday and Halpern jumped up from the rug in front of the fire. " 'K. What's going on?" "I hear a truck, coming up the road," Fraser said, peering off into the distance. Ray couldn't hear anything but the dogs, but he trusted Fraser's senses. Fraser's shoulders were tense-- even in the wilds of the Northwest Territories, they had a few enemies. But the dogs didn't seem concerned, just excited. Halpern was wagging his tail at the door, and Holliday had jumped up to look out the window next to Fraser. She woofed once and licked his face. "Oh, really?" Fraser asked, and then the vehicle came into view. Fraser smiled. "It's Miles Dawson. He must be bringing the mail." "Oh, OK," Mellie said, over the line. "Well, then how about I let you guys go? I can check back in tomorrow. Or, better yet, drop me an email and tell me about what you did on patrol. You should let people know that you're back-- update the blog or something." "Yeah, right," Ray said. Mellie knew them better than that. "But yeah, we'd better go. We'll be in touch, kiddo. Take care." "You too. Love you both," and she hung up before they could respond. Fraser set the phone headset down and pulled Ray into a fierce hug, finishing it with a kiss. "What was that for?" Ray asked, as Fraser broke away. Fraser didn't respond, just went to the door and opened it to usher in a surprised Postmaster. "Mr. Dawson, it's good to see you," he said. "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?" He closed the door quickly behind them, shutting out the bitter cold. Halpern quickly moved to rub up against Dawson's leg, bumping his head against Dawson's elbow demandingly. "Hi boy, just a second," Dawson said, trying to maneuver the large postal bin in his hands. Ray stepped forward to take it. "Thanks," said Dawson, and dropped a hand to the dog's head. "And no, thank you Sergeant, I can't stay. I just came to drop off your mail. And-- some presents." He dug into a pocket and pulled out a couple of round, white bones, which he tossed to the dogs. Holliday caught hers neatly and lolled her tongue in gratitude, and Halpern took his treat back to the rug in front of the fire. Ray emptied the mail bin onto their table and said, "Thanks a lot for this. But how did you know we were getting back, today?" He handed the bin back to Dawson. Dawson, who had to be even older than they were-- close to seventy, unless Ray missed his guess-- looked at him oddly. "Horrocks, the postmaster up in Aklavik emailed me a couple days back. Gave me your itinerary," he said. Ray shook his head. Even the mailman had email, these days. "Well, however you found out," Fraser said, casting a chiding look at Ray out of the corner of his eye. "Thank you kindly for bringing the mail out to us. You've spared us the trip into town, tomorrow." "Think nothing of it, Sergeant," Dawson said. "Least I could do, considering. You boys deserve a rest." He looked them up and down, clearly taking in their trail clothes, their still-disheveled appearance. "And I'll leave you to it." He put his hat on and turned back towards the door. Ray opened it for him, as Fraser said, "Have a safe trip back to town, in that case. I'm sure we'll see you later in the week," as Dawson stepped out into the night. "I'll see you then," Dawson called from the door of his jeep. "You boys take care." He turned the jeep on and drove off into the darkness. Ray sat down at the table and started sorting through the mail. As usual, it was mostly bills, catalogs and junk mailings. Some things never changed. But one envelope. . . Ray held it up and squinted at the return address. Fraser had stepped into the kitchen to check on their dinner. "The stew is hot," he said, coming back into the main room with his hands full of utensils. "We can eat whenever you like." He set the table, then took his own chair across from Ray's. Ray had pulled his glasses on and was studying the heavy cream-colored envelope, its neatly hand-calligraphied address and label, the embossed seal and the carefully positioned row of stamps. "Is that from Ray Vecchio?" Fraser asked. Ray nodded. "Looks like. Bout damn time, if you ask me," he said, and tore the envelope open. He pulled out the thick, gilt-edged cardstock, read it, and held it out to Fraser. "A wedding invitation," Fraser said, taking it from Ray's hand and reading it over. "The twenty-fifth of March." He set it back down on the table. "I'll put in for the time off for us when I go back into the detachment on Monday." A faint smile played over the corners of his mouth. "I can almost guarantee it will be approved." Ray snorted. After his last promotion, Fraser was technically the ranking officer in Inuvik. His junior officer did all the managerial work; Fraser had absolutely refused to get stuck behind a desk. He'd made fieldwork a condition of accepting promotion, and Benton Fraser, theRCMPs most decorated and celebrated veteran, could actually get away with that. Just like he could get away with asking for Ray to be hired on as a "Civilian Aide." "Make it two weeks, if you can," Ray said. "Let's eat." And he went and served up the soup. Over dinner, Ray asked, "How long has RJ been with Ethan, anyway?" Fraser looked up at him, frowning. "Five years? They met in college, I think," he said. "I guess so." It was strange to think of. In Ray's mind, Frannie's oldest son was still the angsty teenager he'd been during his visit with them. Ray Vecchio Junior had spent the summer he was thirteen in Inuvik with Ray and Fraser; Mellie and Jake were about the same age. RJ had been driving Frannie crazy with his secrets and his lies and his sullen withdrawal, but he had nothing on a couple of traumatized Inuit kids being raised by two queer white guys in the most northern town that you could reach by road. Fraser and Ray had taken everything RJ could throw at them with complete equanimity and lack of surprise, until he stopped trying to shock them. Once his mood brightened, Mellie and Jake had really taken him under their wing. They ran around town like wild dogs for a few days, then took off to go camping. Ray had been worried, but Fraser had reassured him and, he had to admit, Mellie was more than up to the task of keeping them all on track. And Jake was no slouch, either. So Fraser made sure they had a cell phone to call in if there was any trouble, and released them into the wild with nary a concern. Ray hardly slept the whole week they were gone, he was so on edge. He had his own theories about why Frannie had sent the kid to them, and he didn't think it had anything to do with camping. He hadn't wanted to say anything about his suspicions. But Fraser, who'd practically made a career out of not noticing that sort of thing, asked, "Ray, do you think Ray Junior is. . . " Fraser still had trouble saying the words back then. But Ray had known what he was asking and said, "Yeah. I think he is. That would explain a lot." Fraser had still seemed puzzled. "Yes, it would. But. . . he can't have said anything about it to Francesca or she would have told us. And if he hasn't mentioned it, we certainly can't bring it up. I'm not sure what Francesca's expectations of this visit could be." He had been frowning. Ray just shrugged. "Maybe she hasn't got any," he had suggested. "Maybe she just wants us to be, I dunno, role models or something. And maybe she just wants to get him out of the States. All this culture war shit is really heating up, with the election and all. At least, that's what I hear." It'd be a hell of a time to be a queer kid in Chicago, was what he heard, actually. Fraser, of course, had stuck on the first thing Ray had said. "Role models," he repeated. "Oh, dear." Ray thought RJ had needed friends more than role models, actually. When Mellie, Jake and RJ came trudging back up the road, RJ was like a totally different person. A perpetual smile split his thin, Italian face and his lanky body had settled into a comfortable grace. He called his mother that night-- the first time he'd done so without Ray and Fraser having to nag him-- and told her all about his trip. "And Mellie taught me to build a fire, and Jake and I shot a caribou and dressed it and then we cooked it for dinner. Then, the next day, we tracked the herd up the river. . ." He hardly gave his mother the chance to respond. Of course, she had an earful for Ray and Fraser once he got off the phone. It started with: "What the hell were you thinking!" and concluded in, "I mean, he could have been eaten by a polar bear!" Fraser patiently explained that they were much too far south for polar bears this time of year, and tactfully omitted mention of the grizzly bears, whose prints were a common sight in the woods around their home. Fifteen years after Frannie had given up her hopes for Fraser, he still had the ability to distract her with a scientific tangent skillfully inserted into a conversation. Ray marvelled at it. RJ was with them for three more weeks, but he spent almost none of it at home. Ray was working at the detachment with Fraser by then. Every day the kids rode with them into town, and caught a ride back long after Ray and Fraser had settled in for the night. They went to the Aboriginal Day festival together, and then RJ and Jake stayed to protest at the Inuvik Petroleum Show while Mellie came home to post pictures online. A week later, it was the Northern Arts Festival, and they were again all out of the house nearly every day. They only came back late at night, when the last of the bands, fueled by the midnight sun, had finished playing. RJ , who hadn't bothered to tell Ray or Fraser that he played guitar, even joined in a couple of jam sessions with one of the bands, towards the end of the week. Whatever Frannie had intended, RJ's visit seemed to serve its purpose. By the time he left, he had matured considerably, come out of his shell, and was worlds freer and easier in his own skin. Six months later, when he sent Ray and Fraser an email telling them about the boy he was dating, they hadn't been surprised in the slightest. Picking at his stew, Ray examined the invitation again. He looked over its enclosed RSVP cards with available menu options. Steak, chickenparm , fish, or some veggie thing. "This sounds like it's going to be a real high-class party," he commented. "Give you an excuse to break out your Serge before Mellie's graduation." He hardly ever saw Fraser in uniform anymore; he only wore it when he was going into the detachment office, in Inuvik and then, he wore the blue one. Fraser grimaced. "I can't help but wonder if it will even fit anymore." Ray scoffed. "What, have you grown out of your other clothes? I know for a fact that you haven't bought a new pair of pants since 2019." "Oh, it's been longer than that since I've worn the Serge, Ray," Fraser said. "At least five years, not since. . ." and he broke off. Ray remembered that the last time Fraser had worn his dress uniform had been at Buck Frobisher's funeral. He'd been one of the pallbearers, and one of the only people left who could honestly say he'd known Frobisher well. Fraser was staring down at his hands, the swollen knuckles and the twisted veins, the wrinkling skin of the palms. Ray suddenly realized that they were older now than Frobisher had been, when Ray first met him. He reached out and took Fraser's hand. "Of course it will fit," he said. "You take good care of yourself." It was mostly true. It had been years since Fraser had done anything stupid, like walking into a firefight unarmed. And Fraser worked out hard; he had to, to fight off his body's natural tendency towards plumpness. He had more muscle on him now than he had thirty years ago. Ray, on the other hand, struggled to keep the weight on. He had to buy new jeans every couple of years, and his ass got skinnier every time. "Shit," he suddenly realized. "I'm gonna have to buy a suit." That broke the mood. Fraser was grinning at him, clearly glad to get his own back. "Oh, I'm certain we can find something that will fit you," he said. "Shit," Ray said again. "I don't even remember what happened to any of my old suits." He reclaimed his hand and fidgeted with the invitation, tearing the envelope into small pieces. He had worn black slacks and a grey turtleneck sweater to Buck's memorial. Same outfit he'd worn to every semi-formal event in the last twenty years, without anyone batting an eye. It wasn't like there was a tuxedo in every closet in the Northern Areas. Somehow, he doubted he could get away with that at a high-class wedding in Toronto. He squinted at the gold leaf edging on the RSVP card. "I hate these things," he confessed. "Tuxes, fancy china, champagne. All the women competing to show off how much money they spent on their dress or their jewelry. At least there won't be bridesmaids at this one." Fraser said, "I can't say that I've ever been to an event of this type." "Really?" Ray was amazed. It was probably true, he realized. Certainly, in the years they'd been together they had been to weddings. But those had mostly been people their own age, who had grown out of the need for this sort of spectacle. Before that-- Fraser had spent his twenties and thirties in near complete isolation, deep in the wilderness of the frozen north. Not many white weddings going on there. "You know," he said, thoughtfully. "I guess most of them that I went to were just because of Stella. Her friends from that private high school she went to, or from the SA's office. Lawyers and lawyers' wives mostly. None of my friends did that sort of thing, either, I guess." Fraser didn't seem reassured, though. He just looked uncertain, and uncomfortable. Finally, he asked, "Do you ever regret that we didn't. . . have a real wedding?" Ray remembered that day in early spring, back in 2005 when, after living together for seven years, they'd stood in the front room of the McKenzie Hotel and said their vows. Fraser's boss and one of Ray's pool buddies had been their witnesses, because none of their friends or family (approved) could make it. The UU minister they'd brought in from Yellowknife, because the local clergy wouldn't do it. The dirty looks they got from people on the street. But mostly he remembered the little boy, Harry Kimet, that Child and Family Services had told them they had a chance at getting custody of, if they were married. "What are you talking about?" he asked, softly. "It was plenty real. Ten times as real as. . ." he stopped, realizing what he was about to say, and then forced himself to continue. "Not that me and Stella weren't real, but. . . So we had this wedding, right? Only we were kids and we didn't know what the hell we were doing. We thought the wedding would make us married, and it didn't. We were married, but it happened years later, and it was over a long time before either of us were ready to call it quits. And even though we were married, we were never really family. "You and me, though," he went on, smiling. "We got married some time back in 1998, out there on the snowfields in a tent, looking for a dead guy's hand. The wedding was just a formality. We didn't need a wedding to be a family. I think that's why our family worked." Fraser watched him with a queer expression. He scrubbed his eyebrow with a knuckle, the old nervous gesture he hardly used anymore, and he blinked his eyes rapidly. He stretched out across the table and caught Ray's reaching-out hand, squeezed it, and looked into Ray's eyes. "Let's go to bed," he said. Ray grinned. " 'Bout damn time," he said, dropping his spoon into the empty soup bowl and letting Fraser haul him to his feet. They only lit one lamp in the bedroom, undressing in the dim circle of light. Ray stripped quickly, then watched Fraser. Fraser unbuttoned his two layers of flannel shirts and slipped them off of his shoulders, then stripped off his jeans, so that he was in just his long underwear and his undershirt. He started to take off his long johns, then it turned into a stretch-- it was the first time Fraser'd had room to stretch out, without being completely bundled up, in weeks. Ray watched the play of Fraser's muscles under his faded ivory skin with a smile on his face. Fraser had changed little over the years. He was still strong and handsome, though his edges had been rounded slightly by age. He had broad shoulders and a smooth chest that was thick with muscle. And if his abs were a little less toned, if his waist was a little less narrow, if the perfect curve of his ass had, sadly, diminished a bit since he was thirty-five, well, those changes were more than compensated by the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, the twinkle in his eye, and the elegant silver that streaked his hair. Time and familiarity made lovers more beautiful. Fraser's muscular arms, square hands, heavy genitals, had been Ray's pleasure and his home for so long. It was like the lines of Fraser's body were inscribed into Ray's skin, like they were words written into each other's souls. They slid together under the soft quilts and furs, bodies fitting together like finely tuned gears. Ray's hand on Fraser's hip, Fraser's arms around Ray's shoulders. They kissed with closed lips, a gentle, slow tease which quickly gained speed. Enclosed in Fraser's arms, Ray could feel himself swelling, hardening. His hips thrust forward, bringing his half-hard penis into contact with Fraser's, already fully erect. Fraser's lips parted in a gasp, and Ray slipped his tongue inside that familiar wide mouth. Fraser hummed happily against his lips and Ray laughed into the kiss. "Jeeze, Ben, I'd think you missed this or something." "Or something," Fraser replied, breathlessly. He was rocking his hips slowly into Ray's. Truth be told, they'd both missed it. Almost a month out on patrol, most of it spent on a dogsled or in a tiny little arctic tent. Always close, huddling together for warmth and comfort. They talked and bickered just to hear the sounds of oneanother's voices; their real communication was wordless. They found perfect intimacy under grueling adversity, collapsing exhausted into each other's arms at night, their shared bedroll the only home they needed. For all their intimacy, they almost never made love on the trail, anymore. Too little energy, too little time, too little space in their small tent. It had been one thing when they were young, inexperienced and desperate for each other. They'd fucked everywhere in those days, whenever they had enough privacy for courtesy. Those first few years, it was like they were trying to make up for all the opportunities they'd missed in Chicago, when they had been trying so hard to play by the rules. They'd finished making up for lost time decades ago. And, while the passion had not faded over the years, Ray had learned the value of patience and a big, soft bed. Ray felt Fraser's hand on the side of his face, holding him still for a harder kiss. Fraser's tongue moved against Ray's like the slide of their cocks: wet, firm and demanding. It was always Fraser who lost patience first, something that had surprised Ray in the beginning. But it was as if Fraser, who had waited all his life for this, could only wait so long once he had it in his hands. Ray had had Stella, after all. He'd gotten used to having, even if the loosing had almost killed him. Ben. . . Ben never had anybody before Ray. Before Ray, he'd just wanted, longed, and done without. It had scarred him in ways that hurt Ray to think about, even now. So Ray liked giving Fraser what he needed. He moved closer until he could get both of them into his hand together. Fraser's breath shuddered against Ray's mouth, and his cock shuddered in Ray's grasp, anointing Ray's fingers with a few small drops of fluid. Fraser loved this, loved feeling Ray rubbing hard against him. He'd never said it in so many words-- he never said anything much about sex, still-- but Ray knew. When Ray took them both in hand, Fraser would always go very still and whisper, "Yes, yes, please," into his ear, like it was perfect, like it was just what he wanted. And his face would twist up and he would look absolutely undone, every fucking time, like he'd never imagined it could be so good. Gently, Ray started stroking; Fraser was leaking against him, the head of his cock soft and moist, slipping out from behind his moving foreskin. Ray twisted his hips to rub them together, squeezing his palm over the heads of their joined cocks, holding them so Fraser could feel him pressing right up against the sensitive spot under the crown. Fraser groaned and thrust, pushing hard against Ray's hand, Ray's dick. "Yeah," Ray said, "Yeah, that's it." He watched Fraser's face, Fraser's eyes screwed up tight, desperate, all his precious control gone. God he was lovely. All these years, and the touch of Ray's hand still made him come apart. It was awesome, humbling, how much Fraser loved him. Ray captured Fraser's mouth in his, licked and sucked at Fraser's lips until they were both gasping. Ray's hand, moving faster, pressed them together rhythmically. The smooth skin of Fraser's cock was stretched tight around his swollen length, the soft skin at the tip wet like the tip of his tongue. His balls were throbbing, plump and tight where Ray's fingers caught them on each tight downward stroke. And then Fraser rocked his hips, hard, up into Ray's clenched fist and Fraser was coming, taking a sharp, broken breath through flared nostrils. Ray could feel Fraser's orgasm right up against his own cock, and an answering spasm reverberated through Ray's body. Ray wasn't ready to come, yet, so he had the luxury of watching. He watched Fraser avidly, watched his contorted face and the shadows of his eyelashes like moth's wings against his pink, windburned cheeks. Watched the flexing lines at the corners of his mouth, which grew deeper with every passing year. Watched his lips, red and wet from kissing, and the soft supple tongue that licked across them as Fraser's face went slack. Ray kissed the crows-feet at his temples and held him close, easing him through the aftershocks. "God, Ray," Fraser whispered, hoarsely, against his shoulder, head bent as if in prayer. "God." Ray cradled Fraser close in his arms, running gentle hands over the muscles of Fraser's back. Ray was still hard and turned on, still waiting for it. But he didn't mind waiting, didn't mind feeling Fraser all warm and loose and satisfied in his arms. He liked the way Fraser melted against him, draping over his hard, aroused body and surrounding him. He liked the sated sweat on Fraser's skin, liked licking the satisfaction on his lips, kissing the sex-flush on his cheeks. He knew Fraser wouldn't leave him hanging. Fraser was touching Ray's face again, stroking his cheek and his mouth and kissing him softly. Ray returned his lazy kisses with heat and Fraser pulled back, smiling. Fraser grasped Ray's wrist and pulled Ray's come-covered hand up to his mouth. With slow, gentle swipes of his tongue, he cleaned his semen off of Ray's skin before pulling Ray's fingers into his mouth to suck. "Jesus," Ray breathed. Fraser's tongue teased the knuckles and the space around his fingernails, rubbing at the pads of his fingers and drawing them into his throat. It was all there in that mouth: the hot, wet suction against Ray's fingers like the memory of Fraser sucking his cock, like the soft slick welcome of Fraser's ass when Ray fucked him. Their history was recorded in the union of their bodies, in the press of mouth and hand and groin. Ray's fingers slipped out of Fraser's mouth with a little pop and Fraser said, "Do you, ah. . ." And he licked his lips, glancing down towards the blankets. Ray grinned, breathless. "Nah, I want you up here," he said, kissing Fraser again. "OK," he felt the puff of Fraser's breath against his mouth and then Fraser's big, hard hand was closing around his cock. It sent a shock of renewed arousal shooting through him, wrenching a cry from his throat. God, he was close. Fraser jacked him steadily, hand firm and constant. The huge, unmovable weight of Fraser's body against his was overwhelming. Every point of contact was another point of pleasure, terrifying and almost too much-- still not enough. So Ray leaned closer, pressed them tight together. He trapped Fraser's hand between them so that it was barely moving, and Ray just pushed up into the circle of Fraser's hand. The slide of Fraser's chest against his, the muscles of his pecs moving, provided more delicious friction. He pushed his mouth up into Fraser's, too little coordination to call it a kiss, just needing to feel Fraser's lips against his. Then Fraser did this thing with his thumb over the top of Ray's cock and that was it, all the pleasure that had been burning in his skin, his lips, his hands, suddenly condensed on that one spot and he was coming. Every muscle in his body convulsed with the power of it, but Fraser was right there, holding him, holding him down, holding him together. He arched, crying out and straining against Fraser's grip, and flooded Fraser's hand with hot semen. After, they rested in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling beams overhead. Fraser was a comforting weight against Ray's side, arm thrown over his chest in a gesture that was equal parts protection and possession. Fraser's breathing was even, but not deep enough for sleep. Ray squeezed his shoulder and Fraser settled closer against him, sliding wetly through the sweat and semen on their skin. "Twenty-five years. Jesus." Ray said, out of the blue. Fraser understood, though. "I know," he said. "It doesn't seem like twenty-five years at all." "Yeah, seems like a fucking eternity," Ray said, felt Fraser's breath move against his shoulder in a silent laugh. Ray smiled. "It's not nearly long enough." "Not nearly." Fraser agreed. He sighed. "I feel old. Ray Vecchio Jr, getting married. I knew, of course, knew that he'd grow up, have a family of his own. Just like our own children will. But I still find myself. . . unprepared." Ray nodded. He got it. Frannie's oldest son had been born the same year they moved north, on that amazing adventure to find the Franklin expedition. They'd watched him grow up in bits and pieces, during their visits to Chicago, a couple of visits theVecchio clan had made to Inuvik , and the summer he'd come to stay. They'd had so many kids over the years, in and out of the house, for a short time or a long time, but they'd loved them all. RJ was one of them, even if they hadn't fostered him. Now here he was, getting married. First of their kids to do it. Kinda brought tears to Ray's eyes. "He has no idea what he's getting into," Ray said. "Indeed," Fraser murmured, voice muzzy with sleep. "It's the adventure of a lifetime." Ray smiled and held him close. He drifted into sleep in the arms of his partner, and dreamed of a long journey over cold snow, days and nights made warm by the company he kept. the end

"The Parkinson table, yes, sir." The host led Draco to a table at the rear of the restaurant portion of Upper Ten, to a table before a wide bow window, centered directly beneath a rosette of stained glass that left beams of pink and scarlet streaming across the white tablecloth. Two women waited at the table, each with a goblet of wine, the bottle between them half-empty. Draco raised a brow as he neared the table. The woman facing him was as familiar as his own reflection. Dark hair coiled into a French knot, dark brows arching over eyes the pale blue of a winter sky. Lips painted deep burgundy were parted over even teeth, the left incisor twisted just enough to add a playful look to her smile. Pansy was laughing, her head tipped back to expose the long line of her throat, the blue veins shadowing her skin, the reddened mark over her clavicle. He'd left it there, just two days earlier, biting on her throat as she writhed beneath him, her thighs taut as stone as she strained to pull them from their bonds and wrap them around his back. Draco smiled at the memory and stepped up behind the woman sharing Pansy's table, her blond hair swept back to obscure the lines of her chair. He suspected that when she stood, those heavy strands would reach her arse, and he indulged in a moment of wondering how all that length would feel in his fists. How it would feel to pull her head back, to lick her throat and tug her mouth to his cock. Pansy caught his eye before his fingers could do more than twitch, and she smiled at him, her eyes lit as if she knew what he'd been thinking. There was a good chance she did. She'd always known him best, known his secrets, his fantasies, and his desires. They shared everything, even lovers, and he wondered if he was about to meet the new fancy she'd been so coy about for weeks. Bit unusual, if so. It was rare for her to take a woman to bed, though always a glorious thing to watch. "Darling," she said in that low, throaty voice that inevitably made his cock stiffen. "Have a seat." Draco took the chair indicated, trying not to stare at the blond woman. She'd averted her face when he sat, and all he could see were dark lashes, so long they'd obviously been enhanced with a charm, and her mouth, painted the same pale pink as the tip of the tongue that flicked against her bottom lip. She seemed slightly familiar, but he couldn't quite place her. Her hands were beneath the table, and he could hear the slight jingle of metal. A bracelet, he thought, chiming as she trembled. It was oddly flattering that she was so nervous to meet him. Draco wondered what stories Pansy had been telling her. "Pour some wine for Draco." Pansy rubbed her nails on the table, scratching at the fine linen like she'd scratched his shoulders and back that weekend. Draco caught a movement in the corner of his eye. The woman bowed her head, her long hair falling forward to shield her face. Pansy flattened her hand on the table and her voice hardened. "I said pour the wine, Astoria." Astoria. Draco nearly groaned aloud. He caught her chin and tipped her head up. Her eyes were the deep blue of peacock feathers and her lashes trembled as she watched him. Draco smiled, a heated knot of pleasure wrapping around the base of his spine. He'd not paid much attention to the younger Greengrass in school, but during the previous couple of years, he'd seen her over and over again at society events. She'd grown into an lovely young woman and he'd formed a bit of an attraction for her. That had turned into a full-blown want after he'd sat beside her at a dinner and she'd blushed so temptingly when he'd essayed a few flirtatious teases. His heart started to race. He'd made a few private inquiries and determined that her leanings matched well with his, but had never quite found the opportunity to verify that in person. Pansy had brought him that chance. He laid his hand on Pansy's wrist and patted it with appreciation. Pansy turned her hand over, sliding it back to press her palm to his, and repeated her order. Astoria exhaled audibly, then brought both hands above the table. The chiming grew louder, and Draco raised both brows when he saw the chain that linked silver cuffs on her slender wrists. Draco gave a soft laugh and squeezed Pansy's hand as Astoria poured wine for him, her hands clenched around the bottle with her chain dragging on the table. "Very nice," he murmured, leaning over to kiss Pansy's cheek. "Still needs a little training, though. First time at the club, I take it. You mean for me to have a go at her?" The wine bottle clattered against the glass. Draco caught the bowl of it before it could tip over. Astoria's pale cheeks had turned nearly as pink as her lips, and Draco looked back to Pansy. She grinned at him and nodded once. "She still owes me a bit of service tonight before I will release her to your very capable hands, but yes, darling. After that, she's all yours." Pansy pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. "I do hope you'll let me watch." "Watch?" Draco took a long sip of the wine and smiled until he felt his cheeks creasing. "I intended to let you share." --- The dinner passed with pleasant conversation between Draco and Pansy. Astoria had not been given permission to speak, but she watched them both from under her lashes. After the final course was cleared from their table, Draco ordered a coffee and dismissed the waiter. "See that we are not disturbed." To ensure their privacy, he tossed a distraction charm around the table, then moved his chair closer to Pansy's. He leaned over and caught her chin, giving her a long kiss. Her tongue brushed his and he pulled back with a shake of his head. Pansy cocked her head and pouted. "Thought you wanted to play, darling." "More interested in seeing what she's capable of," he said, nodding at Astoria. "I assume you've tested her out." Pansy smiled and shifted to lay her head on his shoulder. "Of course. I wouldn't offer you a present if I wasn't sure of the quality." Her fingers wrapped around his thigh and she squeezed, digging her nails in. Draco kept his eyes on Astoria as Pansy dragged her fingers to his cock. She rubbed her palm over his length, ground the heel of her hand against the base, tapped her fingers on the head. Draco shifted his chair, sitting parallel to the table, his legs spread wide. He crooked one finger at Astoria, then pointed to the floor between his feet. She glanced over her shoulder at the restaurant patrons, none of whom paid the slightest bit of attention to their table. Draco allowed her one moment of uncertainty, but only one. He slapped his hand on the table and she jumped, whipping around with her hair spread over her face. He pointed to the floor again and she moved. She slipped off the chair to her knees and crawled around the table, the white cloth running over her shoulder as she moved. Draco heard the rustle of her skirt, the quiet whisper of her silk stockings, and he leaned back in the chair to cant his hips forward. Astoria knelt up, her shoulders touching his legs, her hands folded atop her thighs on the bare skin between stockings and skirt, with the chain of her cuffs dangling on the floor between her spread knees. Her head was lowered, but her eyes were focused on Pansy's hand, moving slowly over the length of Draco's cock. She licked her lips and Draco snapped his fingers. "Hold that pose," he said, pointing at her mouth. Astoria glanced at him, her lips parted, the tip of her tongue resting on the center of the lower. Draco took a long sip of his coffee and set the cup down. He put his arm around Pansy's shoulders. "How good is she with her tongue?" he asked Pansy without taking his eyes off Astoria. "Decent enough," Pansy said, spreading her fingers to rub two up either side of his shaft. "She hasn't had much experience with women, but she's a quick learner. I gave her a taste of Dragon and she seemed quite a bit better at that." Draco chuckled at the reference to Pansy's favorite strap-on. They'd had it formed to match his shape exactly. "So you're saying she's better at sucking cock than licking cunt?" he asked, watching Astoria's face to see her reaction to blunt language. She kept her tongue on her lip as he'd ordered, but he saw her cheeks go pink. Her chest moved as her breath quickened and he nodded with satisfaction. Not the sort who wanted to admit it turned her on, then. He pressed his free hand down over Pansy's, rubbing her fingertips on the head of his cock until the material of his trousers went damp. He dragged his thumbnail over his zip and Pansy took the hint. She opened his trousers and reached in to lift his cock into view. The distraction charm did enough to keep anyone from noticing their activities, as Pansy and Draco both knew well. They had played together for years, despite the rules against public activities in the restaurant. They knew exactly where the limits were. Pansy kissed his jaw and smiled at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She wrapped her hand around his shaft and pumped slowly to ease back his foreskin, her thumb spreading a thin layer of precome over the helmet, now dark red with the blood that had stiffened him to full erection under Pansy's ministrations. "Let's see if you're right," he said, his free hand loose on his thigh. "Astoria, suck my cock." Her blush deepened. She shuffled a few inches forward and Draco pushed against her knee with one foot. "No. From there." He knew she would have to rise up on her knees and lean forward, putting her in an unbalanced and vulnerable position. It took her a few seconds to move, but not long enough for him to decide she'd need punished for it. She kept her hands together, fingers interlaced. It made Draco smile. She hadn't been given permission to use her hands and he enjoyed that she had noticed that. Pansy held his cock up, her fingers low around his shaft, and Astoria circled the head once with her tongue before closing her lips around him. Draco squeezed Pansy's shoulders and settled his other hand on the back of Astoria's head. Her hair was silky in his palm, warm in his fingers as he wrapped them around the thick strands. He heard her take a slow breath through her nose before she lowered her head. Draco felt her mouth sink halfway down his shaft, felt her tongue move against the underside, and he tipped his head back, eyes closed to concentrate on Astoria's efforts. She wasn't bad. Not as good as Pansy, he thought, but that might be due to a lack of experience with him and his body. Depending on how this went, she might get the chance to know him very well. As Astoria's confidence grew, so did her skill. Soon she'd picked up speed and varied her actions, from squeezing her lips around his shaft to swirling her tongue around his head. Any bashfulness had disappeared completely and her eyes were half-closed with pleasure as she sank down until her lips brushed the edges of his trousers and the fine golden hairs around the base of his cock. Draco tightened his grip in Astoria's hair, guiding her to keep his cock deep in her mouth, as he turned his head to kiss Pansy. Pansy gave a soft moan and opened her mouth for him, flicking her tongue against his lip in invitation. Draco responded, pushing into her mouth in rhythm with Astoria's movements on his cock. "She's good," he murmured when he drew back. He locked his hand in her hair as well, ripping the French knot loose. Pansy moaned as hairpins clattered to the floor. "Astoria, stop." She froze. Draco looked down to see her holding position, her lips stretched wide around his cock. She watched him without moving, not even her tongue. He released her hair and pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth, breaking the suction with a soft pop. "Sit back. Open your mouth. Pansy?" Pansy moved without having to ask what he wanted. She leaned over, fastening her mouth on him. She pumped his cock and rubbed the tip of one finger against a sensitive spot beneath his bollocks. Draco shuddered and bit the inside of his cheek to keep silent as he came. Astoria had not yet earned the privilege of hearing him moan. Pansy held on until he grunted, then straightened up with her cheeks bulging. A few drops slid down her chin, leaving a shining track on her skin. Draco gestured her close and licked his come from her lips. He nodded at Astoria. "Give it to her." Astoria blinked as Pansy leaned over, gasped as Pansy drooled Draco's semen across her face and into her mouth. Astoria trembled, her mouth opened wide, her face bright pink under the thin layer of translucent white. Draco leaned back and smiled as he tucked his cock into his trousers. "Good girl," he said to Astoria. "Pansy, take her upstairs. Get her ready." --- Draco paid a brief visit to the Purser of Upper Ten, verifying that his membership dues were paid up for the next six months, then strolled into the gentlemen's bar for a glass of cognac from the Malfoy bottle. Blaise Zabini, sitting in the shadows of a booth, nodded at him, but didn't speak. Draco collected his drink and took it to the booth, curious. As soon as he was close enough for the dim light of the single candle floating over the booth to give him clear vision, he smiled. Blaise sat naked in the booth, his mouth held open with a circular metal gag. The center of it gave enough space for a phallus, man or man-made, to slip into his mouth. Draco slipped into the booth across from Blaise, shaking his head. "What did you do this time?" Blaise raised his head and Draco saw a leather cord around his neck. It led to a parchment dangling against his chest. I am impertinent and cheeky. Teach me the proper use for my mouth. Draco laughed and saluted Blaise with his glass. "Shame I have plans for the evening, mate. Been a while since I had your mouth. Millicent's a jealous mistress." Blaise stuck his tongue out through the hole in the gag and wriggled it. Draco took a sip of cognac, set the glass down, reached across the table, and deliberately slapped Blaise. One side, then the other with a firm backhand. "I won't be telling Millicent about this," he said. Blaise looked disappointed and Draco hid a smile. He knew too well that Blaise was aiming for further punishment and had no intention of giving that pleasure. Not when it was clear Millicent was annoyed with her boy. Draco stretched his legs out under the table and propped one foot on the bench between Blaise's thighs. He pushed the heel of his boot into Blaise's groin, applying just enough pressure to make Blaise sit up straight, eyes widening. Draco drank his cognac, absently drumming his fingers on the table as he watched acquaintances and former schoolmates wander through the bar, on their way up to or back from the upper floors of Upper Ten. He nodded and raised his glass in salute as Theodore Nott pranced through, his hoof-boots clopping on the flagstones. Theo grinned and wriggled his hips, swishing the long black tail that had been inserted into his arse. He tossed his head and whickered a greeting. Draco wondered if Marcus would let him have a ride on Theo later. He had a new buggy whip he wanted to test out. By the time he was nearly done with his drink, Millicent had come down to examine Blaise. Technically, women were not allowed in this bar, but no one was fool enough to refuse Millicent. She gripped Blaise's chin in a gloved hand, the leather dark as Blaise's skin and creaking as she squeezed down. "Has anyone used him?" she asked Draco, sweeping her thick braid over her shoulder. Draco shook his head. "Not while I've been here." Millicent made a face and grabbed the straps that held Blaise's gag onto his head. She yanked him out of the booth and shoved him to his knees in front of her. He knelt with his legs wide, arms folded behind his back, bollocks touching the floor. His cock stood up against his stomach, a glistening line of precome smeared across the taut muscles. "Worm," Millicent said, and spat in Blaise's face. She placed the stiletto heel of her boot between Blaise's testicles, pinning the slack skin to the floor. Blaise whined through his gag, his eyes watering. "Backtalk me, be rude to me, and then fail to take enough cock to make up for it. How many were you ordered to take, slut?" Blaise blinked, three times, the movements of his lids slow enough to be obviously deliberate. "Three. Correct, you little whore. How many have you had?" She ground her heel into his scrotum and pushed his head back, forcing him to arch. Blaise keened and shuddered, his lashes moving once. One blink only, and Draco clucked his tongue. "Bad form, mate. Bad form indeed." He drained the last swallow of cognac from the glass and stood. "I hear the club's got some new weights in," he said to Millicent. She nodded without taking her eyes off Blaise. "Ten pounders. I brought my hooks." Blaise managed a yelp even through his gag and Draco laughed. "Sounds like he's not keen on that." Millicent pressed her boot flat on Blaise's bollocks, grinding them against the floor. "I am." --- Draco made his way up the wide stairs to the next floor and the open play areas. Halfway up, he paused and looked over Tracey Davis, hanging from a pair of manacles with her head bowed. Her legs were spread wide and hooked over two padded brackets, exposing her shaved cunt to all passers-by. A set of green ropes wrapped around her torso, squishing her breasts nearly flat. Two heavy clamps held her nipples out. They were swollen and dark red. Draco flicked one. Tracey yelped and snapped her head up, then yelped again as the chain attached to her collar yanked on the clamps. "Hi, Draco," she said, her voice hoarse. He cupped her cunt and drove two fingers deep into her. Through the inner wall, he could feel a solid shaft in her arse. He pumped his fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing against her clit. "Tracey," he said, acknowledging her greeting. "How're things?" She gripped at his fingers, the muscles of her cunt tensing. "Great." She licked her lips and wriggled her shoulders, setting the chain of the manacles to jingling. "Saw Pansy go by earlier. She's looking beautiful tonight. Wish I could have a go." He grinned and leaned forward to lick her nipples, then scraped his teeth across the bits not covered by the clamps. Tracey whined and thrust her hips onto his hand. Her heels drummed against the wall behind her. Draco fucked her with his fingers, juices dripping off his hand to spatter onto the carpet. "Want to come?" he asked as he flicked her clit. "Not allowed." She took a few rapid breaths and shook her head. "Not allowed tonight. Terence's orders." "Ah." He slipped his fingers out of her and wiped them off in her hair. Terence Higgs was fond of demanding that his pets wait for their rewards. "Next time he gives you permission, you look me up. Been thinking about your arse for weeks. Always was the most impressive out of our year." She smiled. "Thank you. I'll let him know you appreciate it." He tossed her a wink and headed upstairs. In the large, open lounge, Draco acknowledged greetings with nods and brief gestures, with a handshake for Greg Goyle. "Have a seat, Draco," Greg told him, nodding at the empty chair beside him. "Got time for a natter?" Draco thumped into the chair and snapped his fingers. Within seconds, Adrian Pucey had scurried over and positioned himself on all fours in front of the chair. Draco lifted his feet and crossed his ankles on the small of Adrian's back. "Haven't seen you here in a while," he said to Greg as he scanned the room. "Yeah. Off visiting some of Dad's business partners in Bulgaria. Bloody nuisance, let me tell you. Hardly any entertainment to be found." He lifted a hand in greeting as Millicent passed through, Blaise crawling behind her. "Did spend an evening out with Krum, though. He's built for buggery, did you know?" Draco chuckled. "So I hear." Greg stared at him in surprise. "You haven't had him? That's a fuckin' shock. You had a fancy for him that year." Draco wrinkled his nose. "Nah. Remember, he was drooling all over Granger. Not interested in going near any cock that's been up a Mudblood's cunt." Snorting, Greg shook his head. "You always were a picky twat. Give him a try, mate. Any taint's worth it for that Slavic dick. Got a curve on him that'll make your prostate howl. Definitely worth the spurt." "No, thanks." Draco kicked Adrian away and stood, straightening his collar. "Got to go. Can't keep Pansy waiting." He waved a farewell to Greg and headed for the private rooms. --- Halfway down the corridor, he passed an open door and a female voice called to him. Draco backtracked and peeked in the door to see Daphne Greengrass waving to him from her position atop a man laying on a long, padded bench. She had her arse pressed hard onto the man's face and, Draco assumed, the man's tongue up her cunt. Daphne's favorite position, he remembered with a smile. She hadn't picked up the nickname 'Queenie' for her arrogance. He stepped inside and Daphne gripped the spreader bar between the fellow's upraised legs. She pulled at it, and the straps running from the center pulled a Snitch-sized ball from the man's anus. She slapped the man's chest, hitting a taut ribbon that laced through a double line of large-eyed needles that ran along his ribs. Draco was somewhat impressed that the bloke managed to make an audible moan despite having Daphne's well-padded arse covering his head. "How's it going, Draco?" she asked, wriggling her hips and taking her grip on the bar again. "No one told you to stop licking, Graham." "Good," Draco said, coming closer to lean against the side of the bench. Daphne arched her chest out, offering her breasts to him, and he inclined his head in a polite refusal. "Thanks, but I'm saving up. Just on my way to have an evening with Pansy and--" He cut off, realizing that Daphne might not know what her sister would be doing that night. "Astoria," she said, tugging the spreader bar. Another ball squeezed free as Graham's legs rocked, and he groaned, his cock visibly throbbing between his thighs. "You know, she asked me who would be best to introduce her to the club. I couldn't think of anyone better than you and Pansy. I trust you'll give her as pleasant an experience as you did for me." Draco gave a half-bow, one side of his mouth curling up. "Appreciate the vote of confidence. I'll do what I can." A door opened on the opposite side of the room and two men crawled in. Draco grinned at Daphne as Lucian Bole and Peregrine Derrick moved to the bench and knelt up, one beside each of Daphne's feet, a long chain linking the collars they both wore. "Looks like you've a busy night planned as well." She laughed, head flung back, and yanked on the spreader bar. A final ball popped out of Graham's arse, and this one fluttered up to the ceiling, dragging the others behind it. Draco snorted. "You actually used a Snitch?" "He likes the wings." Draco shook his head, chuckling. He pushed away from the bench and gave Daphne a bow, then headed back to the corridor. He heard her giving cheerful orders as he walked away and his grin widened. Those boys were in for a workout. If her sister was half as enthusiastic as she was, he'd have to be on his game. --- He pushed open the door to the room he and Pansy always used when they chose to entertain themselves at the club. Astoria was in the center of the room, chains holding her arms spread wide over her head. Another set pinned her ankles, and a thick piece of black velvet encircled her head to cover her eyes. Draco let his heels hit the marble floor hard, the sound muffled by the plush wall-coverings but loud enough to make Astoria flinch. He circled her without touching her, only examining her position and body. Pansy glanced over her shoulder and blew him a kiss, then returned to her work, setting up a variety of instruments on a table near the tall bed to the side of the room. Draco stepped up behind her, his hands on her waist, and ground against her arse. Pansy hummed in pleasure and pushed against him, switching her hips until she aligned his cock to her cleft through their clothes. "Thought about making you flip a coin to see which of us got to be in charge," she said as she picked up a short flogger, its tails made of strips of butter-soft leather. "But I love watching you give orders." Draco purred, sliding his hands up her ribs to cup her breasts through her shirt. He felt for the buttons and undid one, then gripped the sides of the open collar and ripped it apart, buttons spattering across the table and floor. He splayed his hands over her bare skin, her nipples prodding into his palms. "Did you bring Dragon?" Pansy rubbed her breasts in his hands and he rolled her nipples between his fingers. "Yes," she murmured, straightening up to lean back against his chest. Her hands slipped up around the back of his neck and her head lolled against his shoulder as he stroked her body. "Wasn't sure who I'd be using it on, but I couldn't leave it behind." Draco put one hand over her throat and pressed down gently. Pansy gasped and writhed against him. Draco couldn't see her face, but he knew she was smiling. It did nothing for him, but she enjoyed a good choking, and he'd learned how close he could take her. Not tonight, though. That was for when he could concentrate, and with Astoria waiting, he wouldn't be able to focus properly. He released Pansy's throat, muttering a promise into her ear when she whinged in disappointment. "Has she come?" he asked. He reached around Pansy to grab a thin cane. It cut the air with a high whistle when he swung it. "Strip, sweets." "Haven't let her yet," Pansy replied as she pulled off the ruined shirt and wriggled her tight skirt off her hips. She kicked it away and stretched, putting her body on display for him. Draco smacked her arse with the cane and grinned. Pansy looked unrepentant. She strolled over to Astoria, the pointed heels of her tall shoes clicking on the stones. "She wants to, though." She grabbed Astoria's nipples and pulled them taut, stretching her breasts into points. "Don't you, little girl? You want to come something awful, don't you?" Astoria groaned, swaying in her chains, and nodded so violently that her hair swirled around her. Draco laughed under his breath and moved behind Astoria. He tapped her arse with the cane and she twitched; he tapped again, harder, and she shivered. "Too bad," he said, dancing the cane in light flutters down her thighs. "Can't come yet. Pansy gets to control when you have that, and she's far more patient than I am. And by patient, I mean devious, of course." Pansy grinned at him over Astoria's shoulder. Draco winked and drew back, slapping the cane hard on the soft flesh just under the curve of Astoria's arse. She shrieked and her body jerked in an instinctive attempt to move away from the pain, but the chains held her fast. Draco gestured Pansy to step away. She leaned against the end of the bed, her thighs spread wide and two fingers up her cunt, frigging herself as she watched Draco give Astoria a thrashing. Astoria's arse turned bright red in stripes and she shrieked with each blow. She was gasping for air after ten strokes and after twenty, she was sobbing. Draco could hear Pansy's harsh, heavy breaths each time his arm swung, and he knew she was imagining the thin cane slapping across her own arse. She had good skin and he could put his full strength into each blow without breaking through and bleeding her. Astoria was more delicate. He had to check his swings and before long, he tossed the cane aside. He switched to the soft flogger and stepped in front of Astoria. The tails of the flogger brushed her stomach, her hips, long and slow movements, gentle touches. When she looked like she was relaxing into the sensations, Draco flicked it hard, catching the undersides of her breasts with the very tips of the leather strips. Astoria gave a shriek and danced in place, the chains jingling. He struck her again, on the sides, and again, on the tops. Once more, directly across her nipples. Astoria howled, her head dropped back and sweat beading on her skin. Draco held his free hand back to Pansy and she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist. One hand slipped under his waistband to stroke his cock. She scratched through the patch of hair at his root and down his length to rub her thumb over the head. "She's very flexible," Pansy whispered to him. "You'd be astonished at the positions she can get into." Draco raised his brows and smiled. Slowly. "Interesting." --- Draco stepped back and examined his work. Astoria hung horizontally in the center of the room, one leg pointed straight to the ceiling. The other curved low, her ankle bound to the opposite wrist. She dangled with her body in a curve and a rope around her throat that ran taut along the length of her spine and between her arse cheeks. The rest of the rope twined around her leg to the ceiling, interrupted by a knot that rubbed against her clit. Lifting her head pulled the knot just a breath away from her clit but tightened the rope around her throat. Watching her struggle between knot and noose made his heart thrum. Draco stripped and shoved Pansy to the floor in front of Astoria's head. He pushed his cock into Astoria's mouth and Pansy fastened on his bollocks. Astoria's breasts, red with the marks of the flogger, were the perfect resting spots for his hands, and as it turned out, made convenient handles to pull her hanging body onto his cock. He pushed to the back of her throat, fucking her mouth until she tensed and swallowed around him. Each hard pulse of the muscles in her throat made him throb. He pulled out of her mouth and Pansy took over, sucking him deep. She rubbed two fingers on his perineum, humming around his shaft when he hissed in pleasure. Pansy knew his body, knew his responses, and she pulled away from his cock only a second before he could yank her back by her hair. She smirked up at him. "Slut," Draco said with affection. "Time for Dragon." She clapped her hands and scrambled to her feet, breasts bouncing. Draco spun Astoria around and pushed his fingers into her cunt, two on either side of the soaked rope. He reached far into her, until his knuckles were grinding against her labia. "Are you clean?" he asked, his other hand slapping at her arse. He pushed the rope into her cleft and rubbed his thumb on her hole. "Did you clean properly before joining us tonight?" "Yes," she whimpered, raising her head in an effort to look at him. The rope tightened and she choked. She dropped her head. "Yes, Draco." He slapped the inside of her upraised thigh without bothering to check the strength of the blow. Astoria screeched. "Yes, Master." Draco nodded as Pansy came up beside him, Dragon attached to the harness around her hips and sticking out in front of her. She wrapped one hand around the false cock and one hand around his, stroking both in a steady rhythm. Draco purred as he looked over the two women. "So many places to shove a cock," he said to Pansy. "Man could die from over-abundance of choice." "Two mouths, which you've had already. Two cunts, two arses left." Pansy grinned and dug her nails into the underside of his cock. "Think you have enough stamina to go four more?" He rubbed his chin, considering. "Not standing." Pansy cupped one hand over Astoria's cunt, thumb grinding into her clit. "Triangle?" Draco laughed. "Could. I was thinking double-tap, though." He glanced down at her hips and drummed his fingers on the flared end of Dragon. "Heads or tails?" She arched her brows at him, stepped to the side, grabbed Astoria's knee, and gave the hanging woman a good spin. Astoria shrieked as she spun, the ropes tightening up and unwinding in a dazzling rotation. When Astoria came to a halt, whimpering and panting, her hair brushed the floor in front of Pansy. "Looks like I get head." Draco snorted and slapped Pansy's arse before moving to stand at Astoria's rear. He unfastened the rope that led to her throat, not wanting her to choke accidentally while he and Pansy fucked her. Astoria shuddered. "Thank you, Master," she said. "Thank you, Mis--" Pansy shoved Dragon into her throat, cutting off the word. Draco followed suit a second later, driving his cock into her cunt. It took only a few seconds for them to find a rhythm on her body, back and forth between them, long practice and many shared lovers making it an easy process. Astoria groaned and trembled in her web of ropes, her voice muffled by Pansy's cock. Draco shoved in, deep and fast, until he could hear his bollocks slapping against Astoria's arse. Astoria's cunt squeezed around him. He could feel the pulses losing their steady rhythm as her body responded to the double efforts of his and Pansy's penetrations, and Draco jerked free of her. Astoria howled around Dragon as he left her empty. He slapped her thighs, one sharp blow per side, and stalked around her to pull Pansy free as well. "Can't let her have all the fun," he muttered, pushing Pansy down over the foot of the bed. She giggled and pushed up on her toes to wiggle her arse at him. "Don't have to ask if I'm clean," she said. "Never do." Draco pulled her cheeks apart and pushed his cock into her arse with ease. Pansy loved to be buggered and underwent a daily enema just on the off-chance she might be. Draco obliged as often as he could. He thrust deep as she exhaled and relaxed, taking him fully. She twisted to look around his body, grinning at Astoria. "Poor thing looks so lonely over there," she said. "Should we let her down?" Astoria made a keening sound of agreement and Draco laughed, shoving into Pansy's arse hard enough to make her squeak. "In a bit. I want her to know exactly what she's missing out on." He grabbed Pansy's hands and held them in the small of her back with one hand. He wrapped the other in her hair and held her down, pushing her face into the duvet. She moaned and bucked against him as the struggle for breath sent her arousal into flight. Draco held her down until her arse clenched around his cock, the muscles gripping tight on his shaft as her body shuddered through orgasm. Her muffled shrieks grew louder, nearly audible as words, and then she collapsed, every inch of her gone lax. Draco immediately twisted her head to the side, giving her freedom to breathe. He released her and leaned over her, his ear close to her mouth. She murmured quietly and opened one eye. Draco smiled and she returned it, then pillowed her head on her arms. "Your turn, darling," she said, voice thick with satiation. "Fill me up. I want her licking you out of me." Draco growled and shoved into her, fucking her arse, sharp grunts breaking from him with every thrust. He came with a long, rattling groan, his head tipped back and every muscle taut. When he pulled free of Pansy's arse, she clamped down, squeezing her anus tight. Draco staggered back, bumping into Astoria and setting her swinging. He grabbed her tits to stop her movement, and swiftly released her bonds. She clung to him as he lowered her to the floor, and he shoved her towards Pansy. "Drink," he ordered. Astoria dropped to her knees and crawled over. Pansy wriggled her arse and Astoria knelt up, pushing her face between Pansy's cheeks. Draco watched, idly rubbing his softened cock, as Pansy relaxed and his come dribbled from her arse into Astoria's mouth. Astoria licked up the thick drops, her pointed tongue delving into the stretched hole. When she sat back on her heels, Pansy's arse was shining clean. Pansy rolled over, Dragon pointing to the ceiling. Her breasts swayed as she took in great gulps of air. "What next?" she asked, one hand reaching for Draco. He sat on the bed beside her, rolling her nipples into solid peaks. "Astoria, good for more?" he asked in response, looking at the top of her head. She rose up on her knees between Pansy's thighs, smiling at him. "Yes! I'm having a blast." Pansy pushed up on her elbows and Draco leaned down as she whispered to him. His brows lifted and he eyed Astoria with interest. "Excellent idea, sweets. Let's get dressed." --- Astoria crouched naked on all fours, her arse taut and clenched around a thick, bulbous plug. Clamps on her nipples held two long straps. Draco held one of the leather straps; Pansy gripped the other. They clucked their tongues and Astoria crawled forward, out of the room. Deliberately, Draco held back, and Astoria howled when the strap pulled tight, hauling her breast sideways. She hunched onto her heels and he stepped forward, releasing the tension. Pansy rolled her eyes at him. "You're a tease." "Watch your tongue or I'll put you on chain too," he said. She held her fingers up to her mouth and wiggled her tongue between them. "Promise?" Draco snorted and clucked Astoria forward again. At the first open door they reached, Astoria stopped. She positioned herself in the center of the opening, her arse on display to any occupants. "Slut available," she called in a shivering voice, her face bright red. Despite their orders to the contrary, she'd come as soon as Draco had given her the instructions for their next game. Draco hadn't punished her for it. He thought it was always glorious when a body betrayed its desires over a mind. Astoria was definitely proving to be good fun. Millicent came to the door, her lush body barely covered by a red corset and a sheen of sweat. "Taking her for a walk?" she asked, leaning on the door frame. Pansy chuckled and tugged on her strap. Astoria yelped. "Slut available!" she called again, lowering her shoulders to put her plugged arse into greater prominence. "Cunt, arse, or mouth!" Millicent pursed her lips and gave a sigh. "Shame I've trussed Blaise up already." She pushed the tip of her boot into Astoria's folds, prodding at her cunt. She drew back and whistled at the thick juices that dripped off the pointed toe. "She's a game bitch, looks like. Bring her back by in a couple of hours and I'll let him have a go if he's still conscious. He took ten inches of Giantess tonight." Draco made a pained sound and cringed. Millicent snickered. "Right. I remember. You tapped out after seven. Wuss." A deep groan rolled from inside the room and Millicent shouted over her shoulder. "Shut your mouth, wankstain, or it's the box again!" The groan cut off and Millicent turned her attention back to Draco. "She's training up nice. Congratulations." Draco and Pansy both smiled and snapped Astoria's reins. She crawled on and they each gave Millicent a kiss as they passed by. Astoria stopped at the next door and called out again, her voice stronger and her face almost scarlet. "Slut available!" Greg came to the door, his chest spotted with green and black wax, looked her over, and grinned. "Good timing, mate," he said, inclining his head to Draco. "Just getting started with Daphne. Bring her in." Pansy cheered and tugged Astoria into the room.

Title: Flare Author: Froxyn Rating: FRAO Pairing: Buffy/Giles Synopsis: Buffy's temper gets the best of her when Giles states that he should leave Sunnydale. His head was tilted down, his eyes staring into hers. His breath quickened, her hands lingering on the lapels of his leather jacket for far too long. He noticed that the anger had suddenly left her eyes, being replaced by… His mouth was suddenly dry, a lump forming in his throat. Surely he was misreading her. Or maybe it was a simple case of transference. Seeing his emotions in her eyes, and not her own. He gasped lightly as her fingers tightly gripped the soft leather. "Buffy?" She stared into his eyes a moment longer before releasing her hold and giving him a slight push backward. His heart dropped as her eyes cleared of the emotion he had wanted to believe was there, leaving only the glistening of unshed tears. She diverted her eyes from him before she spoke. There was no anger in her voice, only resignation. "Why?" His hand trembled slightly as he reached up to wipe a tear that had spilled onto her cheek. He dropped it slowly as she turned away from him before he could touch her. "Buffy, I…" "Don't. Just…don't. Don't make this harder than it already is." Her back was to him, but he knew she was crying. "You're leaving. And…there is nothing I can do about it." He took a deep breath as he took a step forward, almost wishing she was still screaming at him. His heart crumbled at the thought of his Slayer crying because of something he had said. He cleared his throat softly, hoping to get the words out before she interrupted him again. "Buffy, I never said that I was leaving. I said…" He inhaled quickly in frustration as she whirled around, the anger back in her blue eyes. "I heard what you said! And you sure as hell didn't say 'Hey, I think I'll stay here in Sunnydale for a few more years', did you?" He winced as her voice rose. "Please, calm…" She took a step forward quickly, a finger pointed at his chest, her eyes dark with rage. "Don't you dare say calm down. I swear, if you say that I will knock you into the next room." His eyes narrowed slightly, anger sparking in his green irises. "Calm down." The words were said deliberately, in defiance of her furious request. Without thinking, she swung her leg into a quick roundhouse. Her foot made contact with his sternum, the air rushing from his lungs as he fell through the open doorway behind him. His head struck the floor with a sickening crack. He was aware of one last thought before he fell into darkness. 'She really did knock me into the next room.' ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ She realized what she had done as soon as it happened. "Giles!" She ran quickly to his side, wincing at the sound of his head hitting the floor. "Oh God, Giles! Open your eyes! Come on, don't do this to me!" She felt for a pulse, exhaling quickly when she found one. She carefully ran her fingers over his head and down his neck, feeling for any obvious injuries. She studied her fingers as she pulled them away from his neck. "No blood, that's good. Giles?" She placed her hand tenderly on his sternum, a tear falling down her cheek as she felt his chest rise as he inhaled. "It doesn't feel broken or anything. Come on Giles, wake up. Please?" He opened his eyes, quickly shutting them against the bright light filtering into the training room. "Giles! Are you okay?" Hearing the panic in her voice, he re-opened his eyes and grimaced as he pushed himself up. "I'm fine." "Shouldn't you lay down? I mean, what if your neck is broken, or your back, or…" He interrupted her with a soft chuckle, which ended abruptly when he winced and clenched his hand in a tight fist. "My neck is not broken, Buffy. Nor is my back. A rib or two, possibly. But, I'll live." "Your head. It cracked…" "I'm rather sure it was the floor that cracked. Not my head." He lifted his hand and gingerly placed it on the back of his head before holding it out for her to see. "No blood. No crack. I'm okay." "But…you were…unconscious…" He placed his hand on his chest, pushing slightly against his sternum to ease the pain. "Yes, and that's never happened before." Her eyes fell to his hand on his chest. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" He looked up at her, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "I know." The words were simple, and simply stated. She met his eyes, hers filled with concern at the way his face showed the pain as he inhaled. "We need to get you to the hospital, Giles." He nodded slowly. "Probably. I'm quite sure that I should see a doctor." He registered the worry in her eyes. "But, I'm okay, Buffy. I'm going to be just fine." She sniffed back a fresh onslaught of tears and slipped her arm around him. "I'll help you up." ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ He carefully slid into the passenger seat of his car, his ribs firmly taped in place. He offered his Slayer a smile as she climbed behind the steering wheel. "Buffy?" She turned the ignition, looking at him as the car roared to life. "Are you in pain?" His smile widened. "No, no pain at the moment. Just…could you not drive as fast this time?" For the first time in hours, she smiled. And for the first time in days, she laughed. It was music to his ears. His teeth clamped down on his tongue, biting back the words that almost escaped. He leaned his head back onto the headrest and closed his eyes. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Feeling a hand brush across his left hip, he opened his eyes to find a smiling Buffy leaning over him. "Hey…" He glanced around quickly, taking in the surroundings. "Are we home?" She nodded as she unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped back to help him out of the car. "In one piece, even. My driving must not have scared you…you slept the whole way home." "Either that or Loritab is my new best friend." Buffy laughed and gently eased him onto his feet. She kept her arm around his waist as they walked to his front door. Flipping through the keys on his key ring, she quickly found the one she was looking for and slipped it into the lock. She followed him through the door, keeping her arm firmly around him for support. She got him settled on the couch and took a seat on the coffee table in front of him. They were quiet for several minutes before she took a deep breath and spoke to him softly. "Giles, why are you leaving me?" Slowly, he inhaled deeply and stared at her. "Buffy, let's not start this again. I'm not sure that I can handle another round of getting kicked through a doorway." Her eyes glistened as she looked away for a minute. Turning back to him, she sighed. "I'm not going to argue with you. I just want to know why you're leaving." He absently licked his lips and nervously ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not leaving Buffy. What I said…well, it was said in haste. And, I didn't say I was leaving. I said that I probably should leave." He tilted his head slightly and looked into her eyes. "There is a difference." She wrapped her arms around herself and slowly nodded her head. "Okay. But why do you think you should leave?" He leaned back into the couch, his eyes never leaving hers. "I…I don't think we should have this conversation at this moment." Her eyes widened, her hands falling to her lap. "Giles…" He shook his head quickly, a little too quickly he realized too late. His hand darted out, grabbing onto the armrest of the sofa to steady himself. "No, Buffy. Neither of us are in a position to have a rational conversation. I'm…well, I'm not exactly sober. And you…" He paused, trying to find the right words as his heart pounded in his chest. "Well, your emotions are running at a slightly elevated level at the moment." His eyes narrowed in confusion as she started laughing uncontrollably. "Slightly elevated? Try 'off the scale', Giles. You tell me that you're leaving…" She shook her head as he tried to interrupt her. "No, that's how I heard it then. I know differently now, but not then. What am I supposed to do without you here? Who is going to keep me grounded if you're gone?" His lips curled into a half-smile. "I don't keep you grounded when I am here, Buffy." She stood up quickly. "Of course you do! Look at me…I'm grounded Buffy. Feet firmly planted. That's me." He chuckled softly. "That's not quite what I meant. You keep yourself grounded. You have for quite a while now." His smile slowly faded, his vision blurring from a thin layer of tears. "I'm very proud of that fact." She sat back down and folded her hands in her lap. "But, I still need you Giles. You're still my Watcher." A sad smile played at his lips. "I haven't been your Watcher for some time, Buffy." "Well, maybe not officially. But, you still watch over me. Don't you?" He diverted his eyes for a split second and nodded. "That I do." She jumped back up and started pacing across the living room in front of him. "And…you have the knowledge." She gestured towards the bookshelves full of ancient volumes. "And the books. And, you speak like ten different languages. You can translate anything. I…I have enough trouble with English. There are times when I don't even understand you…" He smiled in spite of himself and reached up, grasping her arm on her next pass. "Buffy, please sit back down." She did as he asked and took a deep breath. "I don't understand why you think you should probably leave." His eyes closed briefly, the painkillers clearly wearing off. "Buffy, I can't talk about this right now." He rode the wave of pain coursing through him and then reopened his eyes and looked at her. "I promise you, we will talk about it. But, I just…I just can't right now. I'm physically unable to have this deep of a conversation." He could see when it suddenly clicked in her head as the grimace took over his features and then float away. "I'm sorry, Giles." She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a bottle of pills. "I stopped on the way home and got your prescription filled." He gave her a brief smile. "That was very kind of you, Buffy." She shook two pills out of the bottle and handed them to him. "I'll get you some water." "Not needed." He popped the pills into his mouth and quickly swallowed them. He looked towards the stairs that led to his bedroom and sighed. "I think I'll just lie here." She nodded silently and helped him get comfortable before pulling off his shoes and draping a blanket across him. "Do you…would you like me to stay with you?" His fingers lightly touched her arm and he offered her a slightly drugged grin. "I would like that, but it's completely unnecessary. I'm sure that you have other things that need to be done." He yawned as his hand fell from her arm, struggling to keep his eyes open. "I doubt I'd be much company anyway." She watched him closely as his eyes fluttered before finally closing in sleep. She sighed heavily and gently ran her fingers through his hair. "I'll stay." She quietly whispered. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ He woke up to a mostly dark room. The only light was the soft flickering of the television in the corner. He squinted his eyes and slowly pushed himself up. He stared curiously at the television before turning his head to find Buffy asleep in the chair beside of the couch. He smiled as he stood up, taking the blanket that was covering him and placing it across her body. He shuffled his way to the bathroom, careful to be as quiet as he could so that he wouldn't wake her. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ She woke suddenly, confused by the blanket covering her. "Giles?" She leaned forward, suddenly panicked when she realized that he was gone. Then she heard the running water in the bathroom and slowly relaxed. She sat back in the chair and yawned, pulling the blanket tighter around her. She inhaled deeply, smiling at the distinct scent of Giles wafting around her. It was a scent that could only be described as 'Giles'. She suddenly felt safe and secure, just as she did whenever she was in his presence. A small smile formed on her lips at that thought. She wasn't surprised or shocked, she had known for a few months that her feelings for her Watcher were heading in a different direction. She sighed wistfully, a sigh that she would expect Giles to question if he had heard it, and snuggled deeper under the blanket. Hearing the bathroom door open, she turned her head towards the hallway. Her heart quickened its pace as he came into view. "You okay?" He halted his movement, clearly startled by her voice. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?" She chuckled softly and shook her head. "No. I was just dozing. Are you okay?" "Hm? Oh, yes. I just…" He motioned towards the bathroom. "Had to…well…" His eyes darted towards the television. "Why is the closed captioning turned on?" She stood and placed the blanket over the back of the couch. "I thought that if I turned the volume up I'd wake you, so I read instead." "I very much doubt anything would've woken me." She followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he poured two glasses of orange juice. He turned around to find her standing right behind him and smiled as he handed her a glass of juice. "Thank you for staying." She took the glass from him, her fingers brushing over his. "As if I wouldn't." He cleared his throat and dropped his hand to his side. "What time is it?" "A little after 4 am." He nodded and finished off his juice, placing the empty glass in the sink. "Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat, if you'd like." "Giles, I'm here to take care of you, not the other way around. If I'm hungry, I'm more than capable of putting something together." She placed her empty glass next to his. "Are you hungry?" He shook his head slowly. She slid her arm around him and gently ushered him back towards the couch. "Okay. Do you want to go back to sleep? Do you need more painkillers?" He sat down and shook his head again. "No. And…no. I think I've slept enough and, at the moment, the pain is manageable." They were quiet for several moments. But, it was a comfortable silence. Comfortable enough that Giles was afraid to say anything at all. Then he realized that he had to say something. "Buffy?" "Hm?" "The reason I thought, think…that I should leave…" She stopped him quickly, placing her warm hand on his arm. "We don't have to do this right now, Giles." He placed his hand over hers, his thumb brushing across the back of her wrist. "I think we do." Buffy sighed nervously and turned so she was facing him. "I'm not going to like this, am I?" Giles took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. "Perhaps not. But, I'm hopeful that you will understand." She slowly removed her hand from his arm. He instantly missed her touch. "What's going on, Giles?" "I, uh…well, I…I have this situation…" He paused, unsure of what to say next. She tilted her head slightly. "Situation? Is that a code word?" "No, not exactly." "A situation like you're in trouble with the mafia? Or the council is sending their guard dogs after you? Or you're sick? You're not sick, are you?" His head tilted down, his chin almost touching his chest as a smile appeared on his face. "No. No mafia, no guard dogs, no sickness." "Okay, so what kind of sitch would make you think that you should leave Sunnydale?" He almost hesitated in his answer, but knew if he did he'd never get it out. "The kind of situation that involves a woman." "A woman?" She turned her head from him and inhaled deeply. "Oh." He sensed a wave of disappointment wash over her and quickly turned his eyes towards her. "Buffy…" She stood up, ran her fingers through her blond hair. "No, no…I understand. You probably have a very nice lady waiting for you back in England." She swallowed hard and continued to ramble. "Of course she'd have to be very nice if she's still waiting for you. I mean, you've been here for 4 years. That's…." She turned and looked into his eyes for the first time since this conversation started. "That's devotion. You – " He quickly interrupted her, a smile glinting in his eyes. "She's not in England, Buffy." "Oh." She began pacing again. "Oh…she's in Sunnydale? I…uh…wow…do I, uh…do I know her?" Giles nodded as he watched her pace back and forth. "You do." She wrapped her arms around herself as she continued to pace. "Oh. So, uh…do you…are you in…" "Do I love her?" She said nothing, merely nodded at his question. "I do. Very much, I do." She turned her back to him, quickly wiping at her eye. "And, she…she…loves you?" "Therein lies the situation." She made her way to the fireplace and lifted her hand, lightly running her fingers along the frame of a picture on the mantelpiece. "What does that mean?" He stood and silently made his way to her. Standing right behind her, he whispered softly. "It means…I don't know if you love me." Her hand jerked, knocking the photograph to the floor. She turned slowly, finding his eyes full of hope and fear. "Giles?" Her eyes narrowed in confusion as she stared at him. He shook his head sadly and took a step back. "Buffy, I...I'm sorry." "Giles..." She reached out to him as the back of his legs hit the coffee table behind him, missing as he lost his balance and stumbled backwards. "Giles!" He groaned as the pain shot through him, the stabbing sensation in his chest taking his breath as he hit the floor. "Bloody...hell..." She was at his side in an instant, crouching beside him with her hand on his shoulder. "Giles, are you okay?" "Did...you kick me again?" He asked slowly as his body slumped to the floor. She stared at him, shocked as his eyes closed. A split second later, she had the phone in her hand. She quickly dialled 9-1-1 as new tears streamed down her face. "Don't do this to me, Giles..." ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ She found herself pacing back and forth across the hospital waiting room. It had to be close to 90 degrees, yet she wrapped her arms around herself to fend off the chill in her bones. 'Giles has been hurt before. He's always come through. He'll be okay. He will.' She stopped long enough to stare down the empty hall. 'But, I've never been the one to hurt him before. What if I've...' "Buffy?!" She turned towards the voice of her best friend. "Will..." Seeing her friend's red, but dry, eyes, Willow gasped. "No, not...please tell me no..." Buffy crossed to her quickly, wrapping her arms around Willow. "He's not...he's..." Buffy sniffed, but no tears fell. "It's my fault, Willow." "Buffy, no. Things happen. I'm sure you tried to protect him." She looked up as Xander walked into the waiting room. "He's going to be okay, Buffy. We'll find the demon who did..." Buffy stiffened and pulled away from Willow. She looked down at the ground, unable to meet the eyes of her friends. "It wasn't a demon." "Vampire?" Xander asked quietly as he stood tall beside Willow. "Because, hey...we have the means and the knowledge to take care of a vam..." Buffy's quiet admission interrupted him. "It was me." She braved a quick glance at her friends, finding their faces masked with confusion. "I didn't mean to...but...I..." Xander nodded slowly. "So, you were training and you accidentally..." Buffy shook her head. "No, we weren't training." She shivered from the cold that only she could feel and looked back down the hall, wishing that the doctor would come back and tell her something, anything. "We...we were arguing." "So, you hit him?" Xander asked, not quite believing what Buffy was saying. "Must've been some argument." "I kicked him. I told him that...if he said...I'd knock him into the next room. I was so angry. He was so angry. He said it...and I did it." Buffy slumped into the nearest chair, her head in her hands as the tears finally came again. "I broke two of his ribs..." Willow and Xander sat down on either side of her. Xander gently patted her back. "Ribs heal Buffy. You got him here quickly, they'll tape him up, he'll be good as new." Buffy ran her hands through her hair as she sat up. "That was yesterday afternoon, Xander. And yes, I did get him here. And they did tape him up. But..." Willow's eyes widened as she looked at Buffy. "What happened then? Why is he back there now?" "I...he tripped...over the coffee table. He fell...I tried to catch him. But...I missed. I missed him." Buffy laid her head on Willow's shoulder, letting the tears come freely now. "I should have...I didn't catch him." ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Giles opened his eyes, immediately squinting them against the bright light in the room. "Buffy?" "Mr. Giles?" Giles' brow furrowed at the strange voice. "You're not Buffy..." The doctor chuckled lightly. "No, Mr. Giles, I'm not. My name is Dr. Tansten. Your friend brought you in a couple of hours ago. Can you tell me what happened?" Giles licked his dry lips and braved the light, slowly opening his eyes. "I...tripped over the table. Fell...hit the floor." The doctor nodded. "Yes. And it seems that you've damaged your ribs even further. Nearly punctured a lung with your fall." "That was suave..." Giles muttered under his breath. "Tell the girl you love her, then end up in the hospital. Good job, Giles." "Excuse me?" Giles shook his head lightly. "Nothing, doctor. Just the musings of a foolish man." "Hm, yes." The doctor made a quick note in Giles' chart. "You have a few people here to see you." Giles narrowed his eyes and looked up at the doctor. "I do?" Dr. Tansten glanced over at the monitor, a smile playing in his eyes. "Yes. Would you like me to send them in?" Giles took as deep a breath as he possibly could and nodded silently. The doctor smiled brightly at him and placed the chart into the bracket hanging on the wall. "Alright, I'll send a nurse down to retrieve them." Giles narrowed his eyes as an image of a golden retriever fetching Buffy popped into his mind. He looked down at the i.v. needle in the back of his hand and then followed the tubing to the bag hanging on the stand next to his bed. "What's in that?" The doctor followed Giles' gaze. "Demerol. Is it not strong enough for the pain?" Giles shook his head slowly. "No, the pain is fine. Just some strange images…" He met the doctor's eyes and smiled lightly. "All is well. I would very much like to see my friends, however." The doctor chuckled again and exited the room, closing the door behind him. Giles took the time to try to form the words that he wanted to say to Buffy. He found that he was having extreme difficulty in the normally minor task of word formation. "Shouldn't be this hard." He grumbled to himself. Hearing the click of the door, he turned his head towards the doorway. A brief smile touched his lips as Willow and Xander walked through the door. His smile faltered when Buffy followed them into the room. Willow rushed to his bedside, quickly taking in the fact that he was hooked up to a few monitors and had an i.v. placed in the back of his hand. "Giles!" She leaned over and carefully gave him a hug. "I was so worried that...well, that..." Giles smiled, soothing her fears. "I'll be okay, Willow. It really isn't as dire as it seems at the moment." He lifted up his hand, showing her the i.v. needle. "This helps." Xander chuckled. "Obviously whatever they're giving you is pretty good stuff. And…maybe next time you'll think twice about arguing with the Chosen One." Buffy bit her lip while Giles softly cleared his throat. "Yes, well...it wasn't exactly planned. My theory was correct though." Willow tilted her head slightly as she looked down at him. "Theory?" Giles licked his lips, giving Buffy a glance before looking back up at Willow. "At least I know without a doubt that Buffy will be able to take care of herself when..." Buffy quickly shook her head and spoke one word. "No." Three pairs of eyes turned towards her, suddenly making her feel even more uncomfortable than she already was. She stared at Giles, frustration tinting her eyes. "You're not." Willow and Xander exchanged a look of confusion before casting their eyes back to their friend. "He's not...what?" Buffy refused to divert her gaze from her Watcher. "Leaving. He's not leaving." Willow quickly turned back to Giles. "Leaving? No, Giles, you can't leave. You just...can't." Giles held Buffy's gaze as he gently patted Willow's arm. "Buffy, I really think that I..." Buffy straightened and walked with purpose closer to his bed. "That you should go to sleep. Rest, let the medicine do what it needs to do. We'll talk about this later." With that, she took a deep breath and strode out of the room. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Buffy re-entered the room less than an hour later to find him resting comfortably. She combed her fingers lightly through his hair, regretting all of the times she had hurt him. Her mind ran through all of the snide comments she had directed towards him over the years…as well as the most recent incident. It was the first time that she had physically hurt him out of anger. Not only had she hurt him, he was now lying in a hospital bed. And…that was her fault. "God, Giles…I'm so sorry. I really am." She whispered softly. "You probably can't hear anything I'm saying, but…" She pulled a chair to his bedside and sat down. "I need you to know that I never really meant to hurt you. I was such a brat when I was younger and said, and did, a lot of stupid things. You always forgave me. You always stood by me…until I decided I didn't need you anymore. And you know what? That was the stupidest thing I've ever done." She sighed softly. "I do need you. I needed you then, but pushing you away was to prove to you that I didn't." "What a brilliant plan that was, huh?" She shook her head in frustration. "I don't want you to leave, Giles." She moved her small hand into his larger one and squeezed lightly. "I do love you, Giles. I really, really do. And…I'll tell you all of this again when you're awake. Consider this a practice run, okay? I'm really not good with relationship things, you know. But…I want to give us a try. I'm sure I'll make all kinds of Buffy-sized mistakes, but…I love you." She licked her dry lips and sat back, waiting for Giles to wake up. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Giles woke a few hours later to find Buffy asleep in a chair next to him, her hand resting on the bed next to his. A sudden rush of emotions – love, sadness, adoration – flooded over him. Gently, he lifted his hand, allowing his fingers to lightly brush across her skin. He was intently staring at her hand when she opened her eyes. "Giles?" He exhaled slowly. "Buffy, I...I'm so sorry. I...never should have told you...my true feelings. It has just made the situation much more..." He paused, searching for the word. The word never came as Buffy gently placed her hand on his. "How long have you known?" Giles closed his eyes and sighed, wishing he could go back a few days in time. "Buffy..." She shook her head, her resolve face firmly in place. "How long, Giles?" Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling. "Since the first time I almost lost you. Far too long." "You...didn't say anything." Giles chuckled unhappily. "You were sixteen. I was responsible for your well-being. And...you were with Angel." "Would you have told me if I hadn't been in love with Angel?" Giles shook his head slowly. "No. No, I wouldn't have." He took a deep breath. "I was put in charge of you. To teach you. I was brought here to be your Watcher, not your..." His eyes closed briefly. "A Watcher should not have deep emotional feelings about his Slayer." Quietness settled over the room for a few minutes. Each searching for the right words to speak. Finally, she broke the silence. "Has it ever happened before?" "You were my first Slayer, Buffy." Buffy leaned forward, her fingers nervously picking at the sheet. "No, with other Watchers and Slayers. Has it happened before?" Giles turned his head and looked into Buffy's eyes. "It has. With most disastrous results." "Disastrous?" He shifted in the bed and turned his eyes towards the ceiling. "One incident comes to mind immediately. Peter Toscano – he was a Watcher from 1827 until 1832. He fell desperately in love with his Slayer, and she with him. He did his best to protect her. The problem was she was too focused on him and not the battle at hand. In the end, they both died." He swallowed the lump in his throat and continued softly. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you because I was too caught up in my emotions to properly protect you." "So..." She exhaled slowly. "You thought it would be best to leave altogether? How would you be able to protect me if I'm here and you're in England?" "You are very capable of protecting yourself these days, Buffy. And...it was getting more difficult to hide my true feelings from you." He clenched his jaw momentarily. "I...I saw the fear in your eyes when I...when you realized..." "That you love me?" She asked quietly. She watched him carefully as he nodded silently, his eyes glistening. "Giles..." "Buffy, there's no need..." She interrupted him quickly. "You got it wrong, Giles. All wrong." She paused for a few seconds before taking a breath and continuing. "Yeah, I was afraid, but not because you love me. Giles, I...I was scared because I...I thought maybe I was wrong…that I heard you wrong." His eyes shifted to hers, full of questions. There were too many questions in his head, so he picked the first one that entered his mind. "What?" She continued on, her words rambling quickly out of her mouth. "And then you...you backed away from me. I saw the...the coffee table. I tried to catch you, Giles...I tried. But, I missed...I was so close, but missed you. You could have punctured your lungs...or...your heart...or...Giles, you could have died. And I never would've been able to...to tell you." "Tell me?" His voice was a mere whisper. "Giles, I can't let you leave. Not now. Not when I'm just finding out..." New tears spilled over her eyelids. "Finding out?" "I'd almost given up. For so long, I've been looking for a sign. Any sign. There were times...I thought I'd see something. But...then it would disappear. I thought it was my imagination." Giles felt a lump beginning to form in his throat again as he held his tears at bay. "Buffy..." "And then you told me that you should probably leave..." "I was angry, frustrated. It was becoming too difficult to control." "And I lost it. I broke two of your ribs because you were leaving me. You..." She choked back a sob as she continued. "You were leaving me." His fingers tightened around hers. "I thought I was doing the right thing, Buffy. I thought it was the only way." "The only way?" "The only way to keep you safe." His hand lifted up and his fingers lightly brushed her tears from her face. "Toscano was unable to keep his Slayer safe because of his feelings. I want you to be safe." Shakily, she stood up and leaned over him slightly. Her trembling hand wiped away a tear that had rolled down his cheek. "We...can keep each other safe." His heart pounded in his chest as she leaned closer to him, brushing her lips lightly across his. "Don't leave me, Giles." He kissed her back, a gentle, but not hesitant kiss. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Giles watched Buffy sleep, his fingers playing with her blond hair with a smile on his lips. He thought over the last two months. His release from the hospital, his recuperation from his injuries, waking up with Buffy beside of him every morning. She had practically moved in on the day he came home from the hospital, insisting that she take care of him. He smiled as he remembered the way she looked after him, nursing him back to health. They had kept their budding relationship quiet for a couple of weeks. Not because they were worried what their friends would think, but because they simply wanted to savour the newness of it themselves. He sighed softly at the memory of their revelation to the others. They had been researching a particularly nasty demon that Buffy had encountered the previous night. He was sitting at his desk, flipping through an ancient volume, when Buffy placed a mug of tea down beside of him. He looked up to find her smiling at him. He returned her smile and then gently pulled her down for a tender kiss. Her fingers ran through his hair as she returned the kiss, quickly dipping her tongue into his mouth before pulling away slowly. Her fingers lingered in the soft locks as she stood back up and his hand rested on her hip as they turned towards their friends, shy smiles plastered on both of their faces. Willow's eyes had widened at the display. Xander had silently stared in open-mouthed shock. Anya had grinned brightly, crossing her arms over her chest, wondering aloud how long Buffy and Giles had been orgasm friends. Once the initial shock had worn off, Willow had been giddy and embraced the couple. Anya had stated that the only surprise for her was that it hadn't happened sooner. Xander had shaken his head in disbelief and began to pace back and forth across the living room. When Buffy asked him if he was okay, he stopped pacing and darted his eyes between the two of them. After a moment, he nodded slowly and stated that he was fine…somewhat shocked and definite that he'd never get the image of her kissing Giles out of his head…and then he had asked her if she was happy. Giles grinned as he recalled with perfect clarity the next exchange between the two. "I love him, Xander. And…this is real. Very real and very…permanent. He's the one. Just like Anya's the one for you." Xander was quiet for a few seconds and then smiled. "I get that, I do. Just…give me a few days to get used to it before you start kissing in front of me again." He curled a strand of blond hair around his finger as his mind suddenly turned towards the first time she had seen him aroused. It was an innocent enough experience. She had told him that she loved him and then caressed the side of his face. His arousal was instantaneous. A mere touch of her hand was enough. It had stunned her, even though he had told her that he was quite used to the sensation of being turned on around her. He had wanted to make love with her that night. She politely said no. Not that she didn't want to, but that she was afraid of hurting him. His ribs were still mending. He tried to assure her that he was fine, but she had made up her mind. Watching her sleep now, he realized that he wanted nothing more than to wake her up and show her that he was completely healed. That's not to say that they didn't know their way around each other's bodies. There had been fondling and oral encounters, touch and taste and kissing…but, she had never allowed it to go any further afraid of setting his recuperation back. His eyes glazed at the memory of her telling him that it would be beneficial to both of them to wait until the doctor gave the green light. Her hands and mouth on his body never failed to make him happy. However, he wanted more. He wanted to feel her muscles clamping down on him while she climaxed. He wanted her to feel his cock pressing against that special spot with each thrust. He wanted to feel her hot juices coating him as he... He moved his hand down and gently squeezed the shaft of his erection, putting a halt to his impending orgasm. He groaned softly, then bent his head and placed a tender kiss on her forehead. He smiled as she mumbled his name and snuggled closer to him. He leaned over her, kissing her lips gently. He pulled back in time to watch her eyes slowly open. "Hi..." She smiled lazily up at him. "Hello." He leaned back on his elbow, his head resting against his head as he looked into her eyes. "Good dreams?" She moved closer to him, snuggling against his chest. "Mm. Yeah." He let his hand wander slowly down her bare body, letting it rest on her hip. His fingers traced small circles against her skin. "Buffy..." She placed a soft kiss on his chest before she looked up at him. "Hm?" "I...it's been two months." She smiled as she reached down between their bodies, her hand instantly finding his erection. "What were you thinking about?" His eyes closed, a groan escaping his lips as his head fell back onto the pillow. "You..." She gently squeezed the hardened flesh, licking her lips when he gasped. "What about me?" He licked his lips as her hand began to slowly manipulate him. Sliding up and down, changing her pressure here and there. He groaned again as her thumb slid across the head. "I...uh...there is nothing...about you that...doesn't do this...to me..." She grinned, leaning forward and running her tongue across his chest. She stopped at one of his nipples, lightly nipping at it with her teeth before sucking it into her mouth as she continued her manual assault on his erection. "Oh, dear Lord...Buffy..." She smiled against his skin, releasing his nipple from her mouth. Moving up his body, she kissed him passionately. She let out her own groan as his tongue invaded her mouth. He thrust his tongue against hers with the same rhythm that her hand was keeping. His left hand found her breast, his fingers rolling and gently pinching her nipple. His chest rumbled with lust as she whimpered into his mouth. In one swift motion he had rolled her onto her back. He was leaning over her in a way that still gave her access to his now raging hard-on, but also allowed him to bend his head slightly and pull one of her nipples into his mouth. His left hand gently pushed her thighs apart, his fingers easily finding their way to her swollen lips. She moaned loudly as his fingers spread her lips, allowing his thumb to brush across her clitoris. His middle finger easily slid into her as his thumb pressed lightly against the hardened nub. Her hips thrust up against his hand as his name rolled off of her tongue. His mouth released her nipple, moving up to reclaim her mouth. Their scorching kiss lasting until they physically needed to break for a breath. They stared at each other through lust-filled eyes. "Buffy...I need you..." He said breathlessly. She lightly placed her hand on his chest. "I don't want to hurt you..." He smiled sweetly and moved his body between her thighs, supporting himself above her with his hands resting on the bed on either side of her waist. "You won't." She shuddered involuntarily as he suggestively pressed his hips forward, letting his erection slide across her clitoris. "Rupert..." He stopped his motion and stared at her. "That sounded…odd." She narrowed her eyes and nodded. "Yeah, it really did. You okay if I stick with 'Giles'?" "Mm-hm." He mumbled softly and resumed his movement. "Giles…wait…what if – " He shook his head and pressed again. "No 'what ifs' darling. You won't hurt me." He leaned down and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth briefly. "What if I promise you something?" Her hips arched towards him as he pressed harder against her. "What?" "If I feel..." His eyes closed as her nails lightly raked across his nipple. "pain...any pain. I'll stop." His eyes found hers again, gleaming with love and lust. "I promise." She pushed herself up slightly and captured his lips with hers. Her fingers grasped the back of his head, holding him against her as her tongue plunged into his mouth. She felt, rather than heard, his moan as she slid her lithe muscle against his. His teeth lightly scraped across her tongue when she slowly pulled from the kiss and lay back until her head was resting on the pillow. Her lips pulled into a smile as she raised her legs, resting her knees against his sides. "Make love to me, Giles." He held her gaze as he shifted slightly, the head of his erection pushing gently against her warm opening. "If you're not sure, please tell me now..." Her smile lit up her eyes as her hand lifted to rest on the side of his face. "I'm sure." He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss into the palm of her hand. He pushed his hips forward, easing his way inside of her. They both gasped simultaneously at the sensation when he had fully entered her. He remained still, allowing her body to adjust. He waited for her to make the first move. He felt her body tremble slightly, then her hips move up towards him. He whispered a soft "I love you" before they fell into a gentle, easy, and surprisingly familiar rhythm together. She groaned loudly as he brushed across her g-spot repeatedly. Her quivering muscles gripped him tightly. He matched her groan with a loud one of his own as she bucked her hips up, driving him deeper inside of her. He bent down, his lips finding her collarbone. He lightly nipped at it, sucking her tender flesh into his mouth. Her fingers wound in the hair on the back of his head, holding his mouth to her skin. "Harder, Giles..." She gasped. For a split second he wasn't quite sure if she meant that she wanted him to thrust or suck harder. She answered that quickly for him as she slammed her hips upwards, forcing him to thrust harder. He groaned in ecstasy, letting her skin fall from his lips as he pushed himself up so that he was practically kneeling between her thighs. His hands slid under her, pulling her into a different angle so that he could penetrate her deeper and harder. His fingers kneaded the firm flesh of her ass as he increased his thrusts. He felt her inner walls contracting as she cried out, her hot juices flowing over him as she reached orgasm. He rode out the waves of her climax, his eyes focused on her face. Within a few seconds, he could feel a second orgasm beginning. He held on as long as he could, slamming his body against hers. He let go only as she screamed his name. He fell forward, capturing her mouth with his to stifle her screams. She shuddered violently, feeling him flood her inner walls. Her hands slid down his sweat-drenched back as she kissed him. Only when he was sure that her screams had calmed did he release her mouth from his kiss. She held him close, keeping him inside of her for as long as possible. He gently rolled them onto their sides, facing each other. She whimpered lightly as his softening cock slipped from her grip. She looked into his eyes, raising a trembling hand to gently wipe the sweat from his face. "Are you..." He chuckled softly, brushing her damp hair back from her face. "I'm fine, Buffy. Are you?" She grinned, nodding slowly. "Mm...better than fine. You are...I never thought, even in my wildest dreams..." She licked her lips, her fingers playing with the wet curl of hair above his ear. "The things you make me feel..." His chest still rising and falling heavily, he leaned forward and kissed her lips. "You're absolutely amazing." "Why did we wait so long?" He laughed, his fingers twirling a strand of her hair. "Because you kept saying that I wasn't medically sound." "No..." She shook her head gently. "I mean...we've felt this way about each other for so long. Why did we wait?" His eyes took on a serious turn. "Timing. The timing wasn't right." He lightly stroked her bare back with his fingers. "There was always something in our way. People, events, demons, a few apocalypses..." She nodded silently in agreement. "But...then you kicked me through a doorway." He offered her a playful grin, which widened as she began to laugh. He gently rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him. She raised an eyebrow when she felt him twitch beneath her. He smiled knowingly, letting his hands rest on her hips. "You did ask me one time what a stevedore is…" Her hands covered his as she rocked her hips, rubbing herself against his quickly hardening flesh. "I think I'm kinda getting the picture. Do stevedores have as much stamina as a Slayer?" He chuckled as he lifted her up, allowing himself to enter her again. "One way to find out." She grinned at him before closing her eyes in pleasure. "Or…two or three…" ~ End

Trek Fic: Bang (Pike/McCoy, NC-17) Title: Bang Author: skyblue_reverie Fandom & Pairing: Star Trek Reboot, Pike/McCoy Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Uh, for the 2009 movie, obv. Warnings: None Word Count: Around 7700 Summary: Chris and Len fight. Then they make up. Disclaimer: Any resemblance to anything whatsoever is purely coincidental. A/N : For the pikemccoy holiday-a-thon. Thanks to ennui_blue_lite for handholding, cheerleading, and being the most awesomest ever, always. It ended not with a whimper but a bang. Fights with Len were a not infrequent occurrence, as they were both proud, stubborn sons-of-bitches. Given Len’s tendency toward free and open self-expression, said fights usually included shouted curses and slammed doors (Chris’s restored Victorian had antique wooden doors, and Chris winced each time Leonard took out his frustrations on one of them), which is why Chris didn’t realize at first that this time was any different. It went something like this: “I’m goddamned sick and tired of sneaking around, Chris.” At this point, Leonard was half under the bed, looking for a stray sock that had been flung away in their earlier rush to get naked. His bare ass was raised temptingly, and Chris could see the red marks where he’d been gripping Len’s hips when he fucked him through the mattress not twenty minutes ago. Chris was contemplating that very fine ass, and wondering if he had enough stamina for a second round anytime soon, and as a result he didn’t really process Len’s words. Leonard pulled himself out from under the bed with the wayward sock in hand and glared at Chris, his hair adorably mussed. “Did you hear what I said?” “Hmmm?” Not, maybe, the most articulate answer but really, who could think straight when they’d just had a mind-blowing orgasm courtesy of one Cadet Leonard McCoy, M.D., Ph.D., and when that selfsame Leonard McCoy was crawling around the floor naked looking both well-fucked and eminently fuckable? Leonard’s glare intensified, and strangely, it only made him look even more fuckable. “I said, Chris, that I’m goddamned tired of sneaking around.” Chris rolled his eyes. He really didn’t want to do this right now. Been there, done that, had the souvenir t-shirt. “We’re not sneaking around, Leonard, we’re being discreet. There’s a difference.” “Oh, there’s a difference. Well then, why don’t you enlighten me as to the difference?” Leonard’s tone was dry as the Mojave. In response, Chris heaved a sigh. Apparently they had to hash this out right now. “You’re a cadet, I’m an instructor – “ “There’s no rule against it,” Leonard interrupted. Chris glared. “And I’m next in line for captaincy of the ‘fleet’s flagship – “ “’Don’t ask, don’t tell’ has been dead for two centuries.” Now Leonard was raising his voice, and here they went again. Chris tried to keep his voice level. “You know as well as I do that even though there’s a policy of non-discrimination based on sexual orientation or identity, in practice, there’s still a lot of bigotry.” “And you’re perpetuating that bullshit mindset by buying into it and making me your dirty little secret.” “I’m not ‘buying into’ anything, and you’re not a dirty little secret.” “Sure feels that way to me, when you won’t even acknowledge my presence in public even though we’ve been screwing for six months now.” Chris flinched as the barb struck home. “Is that all this is to you, Leonard? Screwing?” Leonard didn’t back down. “What would you call it, Chris? It sure as hell isn’t a relationship, when I can’t even tell my best friend about us.” Now Chris was really getting pissed. “Somehow I knew that this would end up being about Jim,” he bit out. Leonard rolled his eyes. “Get over your stupid goddamned jealousy, Chris. This isn’t about Jim. It’s about how I can’t eat a meal with you in the Academy cafeteria. It’s about how I can’t let anyone at the dorm know why I come home so damn late every night – they all assume I’m a maniac who studies in the library every waking moment. It’s about how I can’t join in conversations with my co-workers at the clinic about our partners, because everyone thinks I’m single. It’s about how I have to listen to half the cadets talk about all the x-rated things they’d like to do to you and I can’t tell them to back off because you damn well belong to me.” Now Leonard was flushed and breathing heavily, and not in the good way. Chris was a tiny bit flattered that he was apparently the subject of so many cadet fantasies, but he pushed that away. Now wasn’t the time. “Look, Leonard, you knew the score when we started this. Those were the rules we agreed to. I was very clear about that.” “Yeah, well I didn’t have much choice, did I? It was that or nothing.” Now Leonard sounded bitter, almost defeated. Warning bells were going off in the back of Chris’s mind and he gentled his tone. “Come on, Len, it’s not that bad, is it? You know I love you.” He barely ever said the words, didn’t like making himself vulnerable that way. But he knew how much Leonard liked to hear it, so he forced himself to say it once in a while. And besides - it might’ve been uncomfortable to say, but it always took the wind right out Leonard’s sails, made him smile that soft little smile that Chris saw so rarely. But it didn’t seem to have the desired effect this time. “No you don’t,” Leonard shot back. And just like that, Chris was pissed off again. “Don’t presume to tell me how I feel,” he said, and he could hear the ice in his voice. Starfleet officers and cadets alike cowered in terror at that tone. But not Len. They were standing toe-to-toe now, both naked, and it should have been ridiculous but it wasn’t. “Well don’t tell me you love me when you obviously care more about your public image than you do about me.” “It’s not just my ‘public image,’ Leonard, it’s my career. It’s what I’ve worked for my whole life. Until I’m sitting in that captain’s chair, they could take away the Enterprise. If it gets out that I’m gay, I’ll be sidelined – not that I’ll ever be able to prove that’s why, but it’ll happen nonetheless. They’ll give me a supply barge in the Berengaria system, if I get another command at all. I’m not going to risk that for you or anyone else.” Leonard reared back like he’d been hit. “All right, fine. I get it. You’ve made your choice crystal clear.” “Why do I have to choose, Leonard? You’re the one making it an either-or situation. We can both have our careers and each other, we just need to be discreet.” “Discreet.” Leonard spat the word out like it was a curse. “Unbelievable.” He turned away from Chris and started jerking his clothes on as fast as he could. “I never once in my life pretended to be something I’m not, until I started this thing with you. It makes me feel dirty and dishonest and it’s tainting everything between us.” “You’re being melodramatic, Len. Nothing’s ‘tainted,’ and you’re not dishonest.” “A lie of omission’s still a lie, Chris. I thought it’d be enough, what you were offering. But it isn’t. So I’m getting out while I’ve still got some shreds of self-respect left.” “Self-respect? You’re an alcoholic whose drinking drove away your wife and nearly got your medical license suspended. Starfleet’s your last chance, and you practically have a panic attack every time you set foot in a low-atmo shuttle, so lord knows how you think you’re going to manage a starship posting. You’ve already got three demerits on your record for fighting, thanks to your so-called best friend, and if I hadn’t been pulling strings for you both you’d have been out on your asses months ago. How much self-respect could you possibly have?” As soon as he said the words he knew he’d gone too far. Leonard went white, and then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room without a word. Chris heard the front door slam shut, hard enough to rattle his teeth. It was the nastiest fight they’d ever had. Still, Chris figured if he let Len cool down for a few days, he’d come back like he always had before and they could talk it out, he could apologize for his harsh words and convince Len that they needed to stay with the status quo. Only, it didn’t happen. Days passed and Leonard didn’t come back. As much as he hated to do it, after a week Chris swallowed his pride and sent a comm: Cadet McCoy: Please come to my office at 0900 on Wednesday, as there are several items I’d like to discuss with you. Capt. Christopher Pike It was the best he could do – he couldn’t afford to send anything more personal over Starfleet comm channels. Leonard didn’t answer Chris’s comm, and he didn’t show at Chris’s office. The end of fall term was coming up, and Academy life was a flurry of preparing for finals and making plans for winter break, for both cadets and instructors. Chris tried to throw himself into it, but somehow he just couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm. He wasn’t sleeping well, and when he lay in his cold, lonely bed and closed his eyes, all he could seem to do was replay his last fight with Leonard, over and over. When he did sleep, his dreams were uneasy, and he’d wake with vague recollections of wide, wounded hazel eyes. He found himself looking for Leonard around campus – in the library, in the cafeteria, in the quad. He never saw him. It wasn’t that they’d ever run into each other much – they both had busy schedules that didn’t really coincide – but he was used to at least catching glimpses of him, and it had always given him a little secret charge to know that Leonard was his, even if he couldn’t or wouldn’t announce it publicly. He was surprised at how much he missed those glimpses. He wasn’t sure if Leonard had previously gone out of his way to make sure their paths crossed and he just wasn’t bothering anymore, or if he was actively avoiding Chris. Or hell, maybe Chris was being paranoid and Leonard was just holed up in his room, studying for finals, and taking extra clinic rotations to earn a few credits. Either way, though, he didn’t like it. He was uneasily aware, too, that he was letting the situation bleed over into his mood, which was pissy at best. He was snapping at his teaching assistants, and worse, the Academy admins, even though he knew that getting on their bad side was a horrendously bad idea. His lectures, which were usually relaxed and informal with plenty of interchange between students and instructor, were now tense affairs wherein he tersely bit out information and the cadets kept their heads studiously down and scribbled notes on their PADDs, hoping to avoid his individual attention. If Philip had been around, he probably would have given him sound advice – well, after he slapped Chris around for being an idiot, no doubt – but he wasn’t here. He was on a posting on the Excelsior and wouldn’t be back earthside for another eight months. So Chris was on his own. It was the last week of the semester, and Chris was in his office at 2200 hours because he didn’t want to go home and face his empty house. After trying and failing to make a dent in the stack of term papers he had to grade, he gave up and pulled up the latest status reports on the Enterprise’s construction, which had never before failed to fill him with a sense of pride and anticipation. Not tonight. He scrolled through her schematics listlessly, not feeling even a flicker of enthusiasm at the notation that construction was actually ahead of schedule and launch might be moved up by a couple of months. For the first time in his entire life, he felt a seed of doubt about his life’s ambition. The lot of a Starfleet captain was a lonely one, but he’d never minded that before. Then again, he was coming to realize that he’d never had anyone in his life that he really minded being away from. Now he did. And he was only just beginning to see how damn much he did miss Leonard. Whoever said “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” had gotten it right. Also, Pike kind of wanted to punch them in the throat. Or anyone, really – at this point he wasn’t choosy. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that his ire should be directed at himself. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then rubbed his palms against tired eyes. He couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to give, and it was going to have to be him. He hadn’t the slightest idea how he and Leonard would work out their differences, but he knew he had to try, or he was going to regret it for the rest of his life. Only three days left in the semester. He figured that Leonard would probably stay on campus over the break, same as he’d done last year, since he really didn’t have much to go home to in Georgia. On the first day of vacation, he’d track down Leonard and beg him to come back. He only hoped it would be enough. *** Problem was, when the term was finally over, Leonard was nowhere to be found. There was no one at his dorm room, the receptionist at the Academy clinic said he’d taken the vacation period off, and he wasn’t at any of his usual haunts. Feeling only a twinge of guilt, Chris used his captain’s clearance to check the recent Starfleet shuttle and transporter manifests. If Leonard had used them, it would leave a trail. But he hadn’t. He’d pretty much disappeared off the face of the planet, and Chris could only hope that that wasn’t literal. Without getting into serious violations of both protocol and Leonard’s privacy, he wasn’t going to be able to find him. Which made begging Len to take him back kind of difficult. He sent Len another comm, but didn’t have much hope that it would be answered. Not that he could blame Len. That left only one choice. Shit. It wasn’t really that hard to track down Jim Kirk – the man pretty much left a visible swath of debauchery and destruction in his wake. Not to mention that everyone knew who he was, so all you had to do was stop a random person on campus and you were more than likely to be pointed in Jim’s general direction. When he found Jim, he was at a fancy theme bar designed to look like a 20th century ski lodge, of all things, complete with roaring fire. He was holding court in front of the huge stone fireplace, each of his arms draped over a gorgeous woman, while regaling a crowd of cadets and other hangers-on with the tale of driving his stepfather’s car off the edge of a quarry at the tender age of eleven. When he spotted Pike, he brought his story to an end and then shouted in his direction, “Captain Pike! What are you doing here, slumming with mere cadets?” Jim’s grin was easy, but his eyes were hard and glittering with dislike. Fuck. This was not going to be easy. The entire group turned to look at him, and even though Chris was used to being the focus of attention, this was different. He forced himself to focus. “Kirk, I was hoping to have a word with you.” Jim raised one eyebrow, and put on a look of mock innocence. Oh yeah, he knew exactly what had gone down. “With me? I’m flattered! But as you can see, I’m a little busy right now, and I wouldn’t want to abandon anyone, now would I?” Chris flinched. “I can wait,” he gritted out. Not like he had much choice. Now the group had moved from vague curiosity about why a Captain had showed up at their little soiree to outright avid interest. Obviously there was a subtext here that they weren’t privy to, and Chris could already imagine the rumors that were going to start flying after this little confrontation. “Well, then, by all means, join us,” Jim said with another one of those easy, false grins. As soon as he’d settled into one of the low armchairs around the fire, Jim went back to entertaining his enthralled groupies – there was really no other word for them. Only now, instead of stories of daring and adventure, he went into an excruciatingly detailed – and entirely fictional, Chris would be willing to bet – story about how he’d had his heart broken by someone he’d loved with every fiber of his being, but who was ashamed to be seen with him and who wouldn’t publicly acknowledge their relationship. Some of the group shook their heads angrily, and others cooed sympathetically at Jim. From the looks of the two on either side of him, Kirk was easily going to score a threesome that night. Chris gritted his teeth and endured it. It was no more than he deserved, really. After an hour or so, Jim apparently decided that he’d made his point, and he rose, smiling at the disappointed faces around him. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” he said. “Just got to go see what Pike wants. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, after all.” His hangers-on nodded in understanding, entirely missing the irony. Chris had never felt a stronger urge to roll his eyes, but he heroically suppressed it and followed Jim out of the bar and into the chilly San Francisco afternoon. “Well?” Jim asked flatly when they’d reached the sidewalk. Great. He wasn’t done making Chris suffer. Not that Chris blamed him – if the situation was reversed, he wouldn’t have been any different. In fact, he should probably be thankful that Jim hadn’t already taken a swing at him. Chris didn’t bother playing games or trying to get into a pissing contest. It would only make things worse. He took a deep breath and allowed his pain and vulnerability to show on his face, despite every instinct screaming at him not to. “I screwed up, Jim. I need to find him. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.” Some of the tension left Jim’s posture, but he was still guarded. “Oh yeah? You going to come out, acknowledge him the way he deserves?” Chris closed his eyes briefly. “Kirk. You don’t understand. I’m next in line for the Enterprise…” Jim growled, and the hairs on the back of Chris’s neck stood up. “You stupid asshole. You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to rise to the top, to be the best of the best? I’m on track to be the youngest Starfleet captain in history, and one day I’m going to command the ‘fleet’s flagship.” Chris answered slowly. “All right, then you understand why I can’t – “ “No, Pike,” and he spit Chris’s name like it was a curse, “you don’t understand. Your priorities are all fucked up, man. If I had someone who loved me the way Bones loves you, I wouldn’t even think twice. Do you have any idea how rare that is – how lucky you are?” “I – “ Chris began, and he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say, but Jim cut him off again. “You don’t even know that coming out would cost you the Enterprise. You’ve got plenty of supporters, both in the brass and in the ranks, not to mention at the Academy. You’re one of the most highly-respected officers Starfleet has. Did you even put out any feelers to see what the reaction might be if you actually acknowledged your relationship with the man who loves you?” Chris shook his head slowly. He was ashamed to realize that it hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d been hiding for so long that he hadn’t even really thought there might be another option. “No such thing as a no-win scenario, remember?” Jim’s voice was mocking, but not as harsh as it had been moments earlier. “For whatever it’s worth, if you came out, I’d go to bat for you. For Bones’ sake,” he added pointedly. “I may only be a cadet, but I do have some connections. And I know you have people who would support you too.” “I appreciate it, Kirk, I do, but it may not be enough.” “Well, I guess you have to decide whether it’s worth the risk. Look, I know where Bones is. If you give me your word that if you convince him to take your sorry ass back, you’ll treat him like he deserves and acknowledge him, then I’ll tell you where he is. Otherwise, you can fuck off and die, for all I care.” He crossed his arms and stared at Chris. Well, shit. He really didn’t expect to be making the biggest decision of his entire life on a sidewalk in front of a stupid frou-frou theme bar with Jim “T-for-Tomcat” Kirk of all people, but then, life could turn on a dime and you had to be ready for it, ready to grab the moment when it came. He could almost literally see the fork in the road. One way, and he’d have his command, his Enterprise, and a life filled with cold duty and no love. The other, and he’d have Leonard in his life, for as long as he could hang onto him – and he was smart enough to know that there were no guarantees on that score. Maybe he’d have the Enterprise and maybe not, but he’d have love, and passion, and for the first time in his whole damn life he wouldn’t be lying about who he was. He could hold his head up high and walk beside Len, and anyone who didn’t like it could screw themselves. And really, looking at his two potential futures, it wasn’t much of a decision at all. He took a breath, deep and sure and easy for the first time in longer than he could remember. “You have my word.” Jim stared at him for a few long moments, and then relaxed, nodded, and gave a smile – a real one, this time. It made his eyes light up, and Chris couldn’t help but smile back. Damn, but this kid had more charisma than anyone ought to. Jim pulled out his comm unit and punched a few buttons. “There. I’ve sent you his location. No transporter pad there, and no shuttle pad anywhere near either. You’ll have to rent a hovercar. If you hurry, you can probably still get there tonight.” Chris took a shaky breath. “Kirk – Jim – thank you.” “You treat Bones right, and we’ll call it even. Of course, if you hurt him again, I’m going to string you up by your balls in the quad.” “Fair enough.” Jim clapped him on the arm, hard, and Chris winced. “Go get ‘im, tiger!” This time Chris didn’t suppress his eyeroll. Then he turned and strode away purposefully. He had a car to rent and a strategy to plan. *** The hovercar didn’t prove to be much of a problem, but the strategy did. Chris wasn’t foolish enough to think that Leonard was going to welcome him with open arms. He also didn’t think he’d have the element of surprise – no doubt Jim had let Len know that Chris was on his way the second Chris had left. That would give Leonard plenty of time to get his emotional armor in place. Chris didn’t kid himself that it was going to take anything short of a miracle to get Leonard to take him back. Of course, you couldn’t exactly plan for a miracle. He’d just have to wing it. He hated winging it. When he reached the general area indicated by the coordinates Jim had sent him, he felt a prickle of unease. It was really isolated, and really cold. He was somewhere up in what used to be called British Columbia. This is the last place he would’ve expected Leonard to be, which, he supposed, was the point. He glided the hovercar smoothly above a thick evergreen forest, the headlights picking out snowflakes steadily falling onto the frozen ground below. Finally he reached a clearing with a small cabin. This had to be it. It was the only building for miles around. Now his prickle of unease was full-blown worry – this cabin was obviously not equipped with any modern amenities – there was no environmental screen to keep the snow away, the structure was old and ramshackle, and there were no lights on, no woodsmoke coming out of the old chimney. All of his instincts were screaming that something was seriously wrong. He parked the hovercar, noting that his was the only vehicle in sight. Leonard must’ve been dropped off by someone. He grabbed his overnight bag and opened the car door, flinching at the wall of cold that hit him. He climbed out and braved the snow, walking as fast as he dared given the icy ground. The front door was unlocked, which made sense given the isolated location. He stepped in, noting with increasing distress that the inside of the house was nearly as cold as it was outside. “Hello?” he called. Total silence greeted him. He dropped his bag near the door and quickly checked the downstairs, illuminated only by moonlight. Small kitchen, small living room with a cold hearth, and a twentieth-century style bathroom with an actual water flush toilet. He grimaced at the wastefulness, then shook his head. He had bigger fish to fry right now. He climbed creaky wooden stairs to the second floor, finding himself in a corridor with a few doors. Before he could take a step, he heard a faint groan from behind the door nearest him, and he nearly tripped in his haste to rush over and pull it open. The room was cold and dark, and once again the only illumination was from dim moonlight filtering in through the window. It was just enough light to make out a bed, with a huddled lump in the middle of it, far too still. Chris was grateful he’d heard a groan or he’d be thinking that Leonard was dead right now, and that thought brought up a panic in him that he really didn’t want to consider. He stepped toward the bed, murmuring, “Leonard?” He didn’t expect the response he got. “Oh, it’s you again.” The voice was raspy and weak, but it was unmistakably Len. Again? Who did Leonard think he was, and who had been visiting Len? He ruthlessly suppressed a twinge of jealousy. “Leonard, it’s Chris. Chris Pike.” He felt really strange having to identify himself, and especially having to use his last name, but something odd was going on here and he didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings. “Yeah, Chris, I know who you are. Who you’re pretending to be. Whatever. Will you stay awhile this time?” He sounded wistful. “This time?” “Yeah, you know… last time you turned into a giant mushroom and then disappeared.” Chris felt a moment of giddy relief that Leonard hadn’t been receiving bedroom visits from anyone else, but then it passed as he digested Len’s words. Okay, this was bad. Hallucinating couldn’t be a good thing, and while he had his field medic qualification, it didn’t exactly cover these circumstances. Still, he was a goddamn starship captain, and he had handled scarier situations than this. Or so he told himself, anyway. So, status assessment. Leonard was sick, obviously delirious. The house was freezing and dark. He couldn’t do much about the first problem until he’d fixed the second. That meant that as much as it pained him, he was going to have to leave Leonard’s side for now. He placed a hand on Len’s forehead and confirmed his fears – Leonard was burning up, even as his teeth were chattering. “Len, I’ve got to go see about getting the heat on in here, and getting some light so I can see. I’ll be right back, as soon as I possibly can.” “No! No, don’t leave me. Please. I’m sorry, Chris.” He sounded so forlorn, so broken, that Chris felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. Their fight was the only thing that Len could be apologizing for, and that wasn’t his fault at all. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked shaking fingers down the side of Leonard’s face. “Shh, Len, no. You have nothing to be sorry for. And I’m not leaving you. Never again, okay?” Leonard shook his head. “That’s what you said last time. Then you…” “Turned into a giant mushroom and disappeared. I know. But I’m not going to do that this time, I swear.” Luckily, that was one promise he was pretty sure he could keep. “But I’ve got to get the heat on, or you’re going to freeze to death.” The only answer was a muffled mumble, but it sounded a lot like “Goddamn stubborn bastard.” Chris grinned in sheer relief. If Leonard could still curse him out, things couldn’t be too bad. “Yeah, I am, but I’m your goddamn stubborn bastard and you’re stuck with me. I’ll be right back.” With that, he pressed a chaste kiss to Leonard’s flushed cheek and then left the room quickly, before Leonard could convince him to stay. Turned out that if this cabin had ever had central heating or power, it was long since defunct. He found an antique kerosene lantern in the kitchen, next to a box of old-fashioned matches. After lighting that, he could see well enough to start up a fire in the stone fireplace – luckily there was a good stock of firewood or he didn’t know what he would’ve done. Probably started burning furniture, because he sure as hell wasn’t leaving Leonard long enough to go chop down a tree for wood. Once he got a good-sized blaze going, the room heated up quickly. Of course, this was the only room that was warm. There was no way around it – he was going to have to move Leonard down here. He found a linen cupboard with stacks of blankets that didn’t seem too musty. Working as quickly as he could, he created a soft nest-like area in front of the fire. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Now, time to get 180 pounds of cranky, delirious Starfleet cadet down the narrow, creaky stairs. That would be fun. It was about as enjoyable getting Leonard downstairs as he thought it would be. Len was so weak that he could barely walk, although thank god he could at least stumble with Chris’s help so Chris didn’t have to try to carry him down the steps. Leonard was confused as to why his vision-Chris was solid, and even more confused as to why vision-Chris was making him move downstairs. He wasn’t happy about this latter development, and he expressed his displeasure in no uncertain terms. Chris was pretty sure he heard threats of cream of giant mushroom soup, once Len was feeling better. Finally, though, Chris was lowering a shaking Leonard into the blankets by the fire, slipping one of the throw pillows from the sofa under his head. Leonard turned toward the heat, gave a heartfelt sigh, and fell immediately into a deep, relaxed sleep, his shivers subsiding. Chris kicked off his shoes but didn’t bother with anything else and curled up around Leonard’s body. No way he’d sleep tonight – he had to keep watch and make sure Leonard’s condition didn’t get any worse. But he couldn’t resist the opportunity to feel Leonard against him once more, warm and solid, before the inevitable anger and recriminations that were to come. He might never again have the chance to hold Len in his arms and he wasn’t going to waste it. The long, dark night gave Chris plenty of time to realize how right it felt to hold Len, to understand how stupid he’d been to let that go, and to solemnly vow that he’d do better if he were given a second chance. Unfortunately, it didn’t give him enough time to figure out how to make that second chance happen. The morning light was streaming in through the windows, gray and cold, in contrast to the warm gold of the fire that Chris had kept going all night, when Leonard finally stirred. He rolled onto his back, stretched lazily, and blinked open his eyes. His gaze met Chris’s and Chris saw a look of heartbreaking hope, vulnerability, and sadness, and it killed him to know he’d been the one to put that pain there. Then Len stiffened, and his eyes shuttered. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, the harshness of the words only emphasized by the roughness of his voice. Chris winced. Well, at least Leonard wasn’t hallucinating any more. That had to be a positive sign. Before he could say anything, though, Len was answering his own question. “Jim. Son of a bitch. I’m gonna kill him.” At that moment, Chris was extremely grateful not to be Kirk. Of course, he had his own pit to climb out of when it came to Len. If only he could figure out how to begin. Well, direct was his preferred style, and Leonard didn’t much care for beating around the bush either. He took a deep breath. “Len, I was an asshole.” Leonard snorted but didn’t contradict him, not that he expected him to. “I’m sorry. The things I said that night were completely out of line.” Leonard didn’t say anything, but his gaze darkened, and Chris could tell that he remembered each and every vicious word that Chris had hurled at him. He’d give anything to be able to take it back, turn the clock back and do it differently. He reached out to touch Leonard’s face and Leonard flinched back violently. Chris felt it like a knife to the gut. He took a deep breath and spoke, unsurprised to find that his voice was unsteady. “I fucked up, Len. I was wrong. You were right. I should have been open about our relationship, I shouldn’t have made you feel like I was ashamed of you or of us. If you give me another chance, I’ll do everything in my power to make it up to you. It’ll be different this time. No more hiding. I swear it.” There was a long pause. “What about the Enterprise?” Len said quietly. Chris closed his eyes briefly. “I’m going to fight to keep her. I was recently reminded that I do have allies. Maybe I’ll get to captain her, maybe not. But if I get her at the cost of no longer having you in my life, and of having to continue to hide who I am, then the price is too high.” He looked straight at Leonard, letting him see the sincerity. He saw doubt warring with hope on Leonard’s face, and he stopped breathing. He’d never felt more like he was balanced on the edge of the cliff’s face, with his fate completely out of his own hands. Finally, Leonard spoke. “You better mean it. I won’t give you a third chance.” He gave Chris his trademark glare. Chris sagged in relief, the blood pounding in his head and his face tingling with it. “I swear. I won’t screw it up again.” Leonard nodded, and then closed his eyes, and Chris could see all of the energy drain out of his body, leaving him pale and exhausted on the blankets. He must have used the last of his reserves for this conversation, and Chris felt suddenly guilty. “Rest now,” he said soothingly. “I’ll be here. Do you want anything?” “Just – stay here with me,” Leonard said gruffly, sounding a little embarrassed about the request. “You got it,” said Chris. He settled back into the blankets, wrapping an arm around Len as Len snuggled into his side, resting his head on Chris’s shoulder. Len smelled of stale sweat, and his forehead was uncomfortably clammy and damp against Chris’s skin. Chris had never been happier. When Chris woke, it was several hours later, judging by the embers that were all that remained of the fire he’d built. He and Leonard had shifted while they were asleep, and Leonard was once again facing the fire with Chris spooned up behind him. Chris was warm and comfortable and content – and incredibly hard, his stiff cock pressed tight against Leonard’s ass. He groaned softly. Leonard murmured in his sleep and shifted slightly against Chris, making him gasp at the friction. He automatically thrust forward, and he could tell the exact moment when Leonard woke, freezing in his arms. “I’m sorry,” Chris said. “I didn’t mean to – “ What could he say? He didn’t mean to molest Leonard in his sleep? He didn’t mean to take advantage of the trust Leonard had placed in him, and once again prove himself unworthy of it? “’Sokay,” Leonard said, relaxing once again. “You just startled me is all. Been waking up alone too long.” Chris felt a new wave of guilt, and then he felt a hard elbow in the ribs as Leonard said, “Quit beating yourself up and fuck me already.” “Leonard, no – you’re not well, and I – “ “It’s just a goddamn cold, not like I’m at death’s door.” Now he was sounding irritated, and Chris’s irritation rose as well. “Len, you were delirious last night. It’s not ‘just’ anything.” Leonard twisted in his arms, facing him now, one eyebrow raised. “I was delirious? What’d I do?” Chris chuckled, running a finger over Leonard’s furrowed brows. “You said something about me turning into a giant mushroom, if I recall correctly.” Leonard blushed slightly, and Chris thought he’d never seen anything more adorable. He planted a gentle kiss on Leonard’s lips, but Leonard was having none of that. He surged forward, turning the chaste kiss into something passionate, almost desperate. Despite his concern for Len’s health, Chris was drawn into it almost instantly. Hell, he needed this too, this reaffirmation. He rolled them until Len was under him, their cocks lined up and pressing together through the layers of their clothing. He broke off the kiss, gasping with the sensations coursing through him. Leonard was clutching his arms, thrusting up against him, and if Chris didn’t put a stop to this, they were both going to come in their pants, and that was not what Chris had in mind for their reunion sex. He pulled back and sat on his haunches, ignoring Leonard’s indignant protest. He tore off his own shirt and then urged Len to sit far enough up that he could pull Len’s off too. Then he moved off of Leonard, grabbing his bag from near the door, fumbling for the lube he’d stashed in there in a fit of optimism. When he got back to Len’s side, he shimmied out of his remaining clothes as quickly as possible. Leonard followed suit, shaking slightly from the exertion by the time he was done. Chris gently pushed Len back, until he was lying flat on his back against the blankets. “Len, let me take care of you,” he said. “Let me do all the work.” Len nodded his agreement, and that was a sure sign of how weak he really was. Chris began to have second thoughts about doing this, and then Leonard said, “Come on, Chris, fuck me already. Got to feel you in me right now.” Any hesitation flew out the window. He groaned and quickly lubed up his fingers, pressing one into Len. Damn, he was tight, no doubt because Chris hadn’t been fucking him wide open every night. Leonard hissed and bore down, then said, “Yeah, Chris, that’s it. More.” Normally Chris would have taken more time to prepare Leonard, both for Len’s comfort and because he liked to torment them both by drawing it out, but there was no way he could wait that long this time. He added a second finger and then a third, reveling in the helpless, wanton noises Len was making. He couldn’t hold off any longer. He hooked Len’s legs over his shoulders and then lined up, loving the way the head of his cock looked, snug against Leonard’s puckered hole. He pushed forward, watching as his length sank into Len’s body, slowly and inexorably. Len was moaning, his head thrown back and his hands clenched in the blankets at his sides. Finally Chris was buried all the way inside, Len’s body gripping him like the warmest velvet. He let out a shaky breath. God, to think he’d nearly lost this, lost the man who was spread out beneath him. He closed his eyes and placed a kiss on the inside of Leonard’s knee, taking a long moment just to absorb the knowledge that this was really his – that he’d been given a second chance. When he opened his eyes back up and looked down, he saw that Leonard was looking back up at him, his eyes suspiciously bright. He felt a lump in his own throat. Reaching out one of his hands, he threaded his fingers through Len’s, squeezing tight, feeling Len clutch back just as hard. The moment couldn’t last forever, though, and the need to move became overwhelming. He had to reclaim Len, brand him so they both knew who he belonged to. He drew back slowly, pulling almost all the way out, leaving just the head of his cock embedded within Len. Then he pushed forward again, bottoming out, and they both moaned. He did it again, repeating the movement slightly faster each time, until he reached a deep, punishing rhythm that had both of them gasping. It wasn’t going to last long, not this time, and Chris couldn’t bring himself to hold back, to slow it down and make them both wait. He dropped forward, bracing his hands on either side of Leonard, while Leonard dropped his legs down to wrap around Chris’s waist. Chris leaned in to share a desperate, messy kiss with Len, their teeth clacking together almost painfully as he tried to keep up his thrusting at the same time. He raised himself back up until he was a few inches above Len’s face, and keeping their eyes locked together, he reached between their bodies and took Leonard’s cock into his hand, jacking it in time with his strokes into Leonard’s ass. Leonard cried out but kept his eyes wide and focused on Chris’s. Chris thrust forward twice, three times, tightening his grip on Leonard’s cock, and then they were both coming, Len clenching his ass and spurting over Chris’s fist, just as Chris gave a harsh groan and spilled himself deep inside of Leonard. They stilled, and stayed in position for long moments, heavy breathing gradually slowing to a more steady rhythm. Still, neither looked away from the other’s eyes. Eventually Chris’s softening cock slipped out of Leonard, and with a shuddering sigh, Chris let himself down on the blankets next to Len, pulling him into his arms. He buried his face in Len’s sweat-damp, tousled hair and inhaled deeply. “I love you,” he said softly on his exhale. “Love you too,” Leonard murmured into his chest. For a while there were no words, just the glow of the embers in the hearth, the heady scent of their lovemaking, and the solidity of Len in his arms. He drifted peacefully for long minutes, content to just be. “You’re still in the doghouse, you know,” Leonard mumbled sleepily. Chris huffed a laugh. “Fair enough.” “Couple more sessions like that, though, and I might consider forgiving you.” “Noted.” He certainly had no problem with that. “Chris?” Len sounded hesitant, and Chris tensed up a bit. “Yeah?” Len took a deep breath, and then, after a silent struggle, spoke. “You weren’t wrong, you know. With the things you said about me that night.” There was a bleakness in his tone that Chris had never heard before, and his gut clenched in response. “No, Len, I – “ Len cut him off. “No, Chris, listen to me for once. The drinking, the aviophobia, the stupid shit Jim drags me into – you were right. That stuff has to change. I just… I don’t know how.” His voice had dwindled to a whisper, and it was so different from Len’s usual brash manner that Chris ached for him. He pulled Leonard tighter against his side. “We’ll figure it out together,” he said, a solemn vow. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll be there, and we’ll do it together. Whatever it takes, as long as it takes.” Leonard sighed, and Chris felt some of the vibrating tension leave his body. “Yeah. All right. But I’m bound to be a surly bastard about it.” “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” And oddly enough, it was true. The coming days and months weren’t going to be easy, for either of them, but Chris felt a sense of calm purpose, a sense of rightness, that no promised starship captaincy had ever been able to touch. “Love you,” Len said again, already sounding half asleep. “I love you too. Now get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he said, so softly he could barely hear the words himself. And so it began, not with a bang but a whisper.

"So in your opinion P9Q759 isn't a viable -" General Hammond broke off as the sound of the gate once again being activated interrupted the debriefing of SG-1. Without another word he left the room, SG-1 trailing in his wake. From the gateroom they heard the metallic scrape of trinium plates sliding into place over the activated stargate, abruptly shutting off the rippling blue and white of the event horizon. "What teams are due back?" Hammond asked, staring at the iris currently sealing off the base from the rest of the universe. Harriman glanced up, chipmunk-like face mildly perplexed. "None, sir. The last team checked in at 1900 hours." "And how many times...?" "Twelve so far." Hammond frowned at the gate as if by doing so he could decipher its secrets. Since six o-clock that morning the gate had been activated off world several times. Of course the iris had remained closed but there had been no tell-tale thud as something on the other side tried to reintegrate, no signal sent through to indicate friendlies trying to reach them. Major Carter was peering over Lt Simmons' shoulder, frowning at the records displayed on the computer. "Sir, there seems to be some sort of pattern forming." "A pattern?" "Yes sir. Each time the stargate has been activated for a different period of time before being shut down from its place of origin. If you look you'll see the pattern is starting to repeat itself after six attempts." "Not seven?" Daniel asked, his mind immediately drawing the obvious conclusion. "No. But without the point of origin…" "So using the earth point of origin as a starting point…" Daniel murmured. "And moving clockwise, matching the number of minutes to the glyphs…" Sam added. "We get an address." Sam and Daniel smiled at each other, pleased with their conclusion, and looking please with one another. "Good thing the address doesn't include the 39th symbol," Sam said to Daniel and they shared a grin. Jack scowled, unnoticed. He grabbed the cup of coffee next to Daniel and pointedly took a large gulp. His nose wrinkled. "It didn't taste like that last time." Daniel was oblivious. "Oh! What if they've excluded the point of origin to give them 38 symbols?" Teal'c leaned a fraction towards Jack and informed him. "That was Sergeant Harriman's coffee. I believe he uses Nutrasweet." Jack made a choking sound. "In that case we'd be counting from…" "Okay, stop!" Jack snapped, pausing to scrape at his tongue with his incisors. He noticed Daniel frowning at him and stopped. "What's with the 38 symbols?" "Jack, there are 39 symbols on the stargate." "A wormhole can only be maintained for a maximum of 38 minutes. So if someone was trying to keep the gate active for three minutes to match the third symbol…" "Okay, I got that. So what's the address?" "Well, we'll have to match the pattern to the symbols and establish whether the Earth point of origin really is being used as the starting point…" "And that will take?" "Ten minutes," Sam replied. Hammond nodded. "Go right ahead, Major. This is turning into a damned nuisance. And it could indicate one of our allies needs our help." "Why not use that Satan box-" "Sagan," Daniel muttered. "-we've been giving out like party favors. That whole radium-" "Iridium," Sam mouthed. "- leaving a signature thing," Jack wondered aloud, ignoring his two scientists. "Or use a damn radio?" Sam and Daniel blinked. Twice. "Oh. Huh. Um, I have no idea," Sam said, first to recover, "and we won't know unless we establish contact. With your permission sir…?" Sam said pointedly and moved to stand next to the computer, Simmons and Daniel. * Sam was true to her word. After ten minutes she was informing the others, "P3x989." She winced and waited for the colonel's reaction. Jack gave an expectant look. "Altair," Teal'c muttered to himself. He looked uncomfortable with the thought, one hand clenching across his stomach. Jack gave Daniel a 'Huh' look. "Harlan's planet," Daniel elaborated. "With the robots?" Jack almost yelped. "Yes, sir." "Why? They were supposed to bury the gate!" Jack complained. Daniel gave him a long look. "Would you?" "Yeah!" Jack snapped, defensively. "And?" Daniel probed, eyebrows raised in his 'I can smell bullshit from a mile' expression. Jack sighed and grumbled. "OK. So I'd probably unbury it soon after. That place really sucked." "They may need our help," Sam said. "How? Harlan made them 'better'." There was an edge to Jack's voice, the discussion clearly making him feel as uncomfortable as Teal'c looked. He and Teal'c shared a look of understanding and matching scowls and stood a little closer in solidarity. "Sir, that place was falling apart. Maybe they need to leave?" "How? They needed to stay to get power." "Maybe they came up with another power source?" Sam speculated. "If I were in that situation and gate travel was possible, I'd design a portable power source. Just because they are robots built to repair the complex we saw doesn't mean they're incapable of creating devices unrelated to their assigned task…" Daniel nodded. "Or incapable of a desire to explore beyond their world. Harlan said he downloaded a copy of our consciousness into the machine bodies." "Exactly! If they are us-" "They are not us!" Jack growled. "They look like us but they're not us. Right, Teal'c? Back me up here, buddy." "Indeed. We know they are not flesh and blood, merely designed to give them the appearance of living beings. Such constructs could be programmed to use any sense of affinity against us. It would be wise to be wary." "Thank you!" Sam looked across at Daniel for support. "I think we should check that everything is okay," Daniel said. "I agree." Sam turned to Teal'c. "These contructs as you call them are highly sophisticated technology. Do the Goa'uld have anything like them?" "They do not." His face registering his distaste, he admitted, "There may be some strategic advantage to be gained from establishing contact with these duplicates." He didn't look happy with the thought. Jack gave Teal'c a look of betrayal. Having been content to let SG-1 thrash out the pros and cons of a mission, Hammond decided now was the time for a decision. He looked round at his premier team than let his gaze rest on Jack. "This is your call, colonel. Do we establish contact? In your opinion is this Harlan a threat?" With the eyes of his team on him, at least two of them willing him to agree, Jack considered their options and reached his conclusion. Damn it. "No sir," he admitted with reluctance. "He screwed up the first time but we were okay and I don't think he really meant any harm. The robots might disagree… Sir, I think we should go. See what's going on. If they've unburied the gate there's no knowing what they've been up to." "Okay, colonel. I'll leave you to deal with this. But do it soon. We can't be shut off from our gate like this." "Yes sir. Permission to go tonight after sending a probe. We can be ready to leave by 2100 hours." "Permission granted, colonel. Check in as soon as you know something." * "Well?" General Hammond asked, face expectant. He had been hoping to leave early to attend Kayla's recital; without Asgard beaming technology that wasn't going to happen and he was not in a happy frame of mind. Sam frowned. "The probe indicates... Maybe you should see this for yourself," she said, a hint of a smile on her face. Beside Hammond, Jack tugged at his shirt sleeve and wondered if he could manage to grab a shower before setting off. Carter's tone caught his ear and he peered at the monitor showing footage from the origin of the coded address. He did a double take when he saw a brown-haired version of himself looking back and waving. Oh, for cryin out… Clearing his throat he spoke into the microphone linked to the probes audio. "What do you want?" "So you finally figured out my message?" robot O'Neill said, smirking into the camera. "Well, when I say you, I know you didn't figure it out, Jack." Jack glared. "It wasn't complicated. Why didn't you just use a radio?" The robot froze mid-grin. Jack gave a bark of laughter. "You were too busy over-thinking, right? I thought Harlan said he made you 'better'?" "Um, Jack?" Daniel murmured, shooting a wary look at Hammond. "Sir? I think perhaps we should find out what he wants?" Sam interjected, years of discipline keeping the impatience out of her voice, though she did slide a look across at Daniel and exchange a 'we can't take him anywhere' look. They both offered placating smiles at General Hammond who merely sighed, resigned to whatever was about to unfold. "Fine," Jack groused. "Let's ask the machine what's got its wires in a knot. What do you want?" The other O'Neill smirked. "We need your assistance here. Well, actually, we need Daniel. You can stay home and watch the game." Suspicion edged Jack's response. "Why do you need Daniel? You have a Daniel already." "We figured your Daniel will have had more time to figure out that writing at Heliopolis." Daniel pushed forward until he was near the microphone. "You have more writing? What does it look like? Can you send a sample? Can-?" The smile on robot O'Neill's too-perfect unmarred face was affectionate. "Hey, Daniel. You guys coming over? I'll cook if you are. Of course, you'll have to bring your own food but I bet I can still cook a mean barbeque." Jack exchanged a look with General Hammond and some unspoken message passed between them. "All of SG-1 will pay you a call." "I'll go set the table." The robot wandered off out of shot and the wormhole was disengaged. "Okay. That was weird." Jack gave a little shiver and rubbed a hand through his silvering hair. * The android Jack was waiting for them on the other side, alone. Jack gave him a look of suspicion. "So. Where's this thing you want Daniel to look at." "Nice to see you too, Jack." Jack narrowed his eyes. "I see me in the mirror every morning." "Little grey on top aren't we?" Robot O'Neill ran a hand through his brown hair. "I mean aren't you. How are the knees by the way?" Jack heard a murmured "Jack" to his left and bit back his immediate response. Jaw clenched, he ground out, "Let's just get this over with." A wry smile crept onto the robot O'Neill's face. "Still not comfortable with this, are you?" "Not really." Jack huffed and looked self-conscious. "Look. It just feels…" "Weird?" "Yeah." "I get that." His gaze slid across to Daniel, who was watching human Jack with a sympathetic eye. "Hey, Daniel. You look ... well. I like the shorter hair. Suits you." "Ah. Thanks." Daniel frowned, looking around, but the confusion looked false. If anything, there was a knowing look in Daniel's eyes. "Where's the other me?" "Somewhere else." Raised eyebrows and a slight pout greeted that reply. "I can see that. What happened?" Given it was a robot, there was a surprising amount of transparent…well…shiftiness. The robot was looking downright 'did not chop down the cherry tree'. "What do you mean?" Daniel gave the robot a look of reproof. "The other me. He would be here if everything was okay and you wouldn't need me to look at anything for you. If I - if he was still functioning he'd have been here to greet us. I would have. For that matter so would Teal'c and Sam." "They're off exploring - they're due back soon. Harlan's gone." Daniel gave the robot O'Neill a penetrating look. "The robot me is dead. What happened?" Human-looking hands clenched, human-looking lips thinned. "There was an accident." Jack took a step forward into his robot double's personal space, bristling with aggression. "What kind of an accident? What the hell happened to him? Why didn't you take care of him?" "Jack," Daniel said soothingly before turning his attention to the robot. "Then he is dead. Like the first Teal'c?" "No. There was no problem with the transfer. It happened topside. We were looking for Harlan. He's dead, too. Once we got this place functional again Harlan had time to brood. He went looking for the family home. Daniel went looking for him. Took a portable power supply deal Sam had been working on. It would have run out after a month. He's been gone three months." "You looked for him?" Teal'c asked, his voice a threatening rumble. "Of course I looked!" robot O'Neill snapped. "Damn it, you think I would have just left him? You want to know the damnedest thing? Sam was working on this tiny battery deal. Lasts a lifetime - well, she reckons around two hundred years. I think the idea of living another two hundred years without a purpose in life freaked out Harlan. He was always going from one crisis to the next, never had time to think about his life. This place was all he knew. We all went looking for them. Teal'c found Harlan. He'd gotten rid of the power pack. Just waited to die. Daniel ... wasn't around. We looked. He's out there, like Harlan..." "What if he has Harlan's power pack?" Sam suggested while taking an unconscious step closer to her Daniel. "Still would have run out a month ago. And how come he didn't come back?" "I'm sorry," Daniel said, and, oddly, there was a trace of guilt on his face as though he had been responsible. "Yeah. Well, I do need something from you, Daniel." "The translation?" "No." "No, damn it!" Jack spat out, grabbing at Daniel's arm and hauling him away from the robot O'Neill. Sam brought her weapon up reflexively, while Teal'c stepped forward, ready to respond to whatever threat Jack had detected. "Sir?" "I know what you want!" Jack growled. "No way in hell." Daniel frowned, now truly confused. "Well, I wish someone would explain it to me. You want us to bring you back with us?" "He wants another Daniel!" "Wha -? Why? There's nothing to translate. Is there?" "I miss him," the robot confessed, subdued. "You do?" Daniel asked, touched and drawn to the sadness in the robot's eyes. No matter how synthetic this other Jack was, that emotion seemed real. "We'll be going home now. Have a nice life." "Jack, wait." Jack swung round to face Daniel, trying to rein in his anger and impatience to be gone. "No, Daniel. Do you know what he wants to do? He wants to have a robot you to play Transformers with. Well, no way pal." "What? Only you're allowed, is that it?" "No. You don't have the right to go around creating copies of people like a damn Xerox!" "I think this is my decision, Jack," Daniel protested. "What! You're actually going to listen to this guy? And the other you you'd be making? He doesn't have a say in the matter? Jesus, Daniel..." "Jack, I want to hear the reasons why I should do this. I'm capable of figuring out why I shouldn't." Passionate outrage twisted Jack's face. "How can you even be considering this?" "Because. You're asking me to." "That thing is not me!" Jack said explosively. By contrast, Daniel's voiced dropped, softened. "I need to do this, Jack. I need to ask questions." A brief examination of Daniel's face told jack what he needed to know. "Fine. Go knock yourself out." Jack stomped off in a fury, looking for something to kick. There was a discreet cough from the left. Daniel and robot O'Neill looked across to find Sam looking uncomfortable. "So… Where are Teal'c and me?" * "After we'd stopped searching for Daniel's body… It's pretty nasty out there. The last search we did, Sam and Teal'c had to haul me back here before I was too damaged to absorb power. The radiation and acid rain is bad enough but add the storms -" "They're not dead too, are they?" Daniel asked, shooting a concerned look at his friends, as if discussing their robot counterparts demise was tempting fate. "No. We took a lot of damage but the synthesizer and incubator fixed us up. Sam figured out a way of contacting the Nox, so she and Teal'c paid them a call and hopefully the Nox will let them talk to the Tollan. We don't want to stay here forever and I think Sam would like to talk to Nareem." He looked at Sam, who was listening, and smiled at the faint flush that pinked her cheeks. "You always did have a soft spot for that guy." Before Sam could be further embarrassed, Daniel said, "The Tollan freed Skaara. They removed Klorel. Skaara's fine and back on Abydos." Robot O'Neill smiled. "That's good news." His smile faded as he continued, "They haven't come back. To be honest, I wouldn't blame them if they stayed there and left me to rot. I've been an irritable son of a bitch." "We came back from Tollana a month ago. They weren't there." "Tollana?" "The Tollan home world." "Well, they only left a couple of weeks ago. It's been kind of quiet around here." "Why are you still here? You could go anywhere." Robot O'Neill grimaced as though in pain. "Alone?" "This kind of thing happens, Jack. You lose people. You move on." Sam shifted, a little uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation, then exchanged a look with Teal'c. "We'll just be over there, checking out the computers." Robot O'Neill waited until they were out of earshot before he said, "Not if I can do something about it." He gave Daniel a searching look, gaze fiercely tender. "You know, you'd be a lot more sympathetic if it was someone else I'd lost. Why does it being you make it so hard to understand? Would you say that if it was Sam? Teal'c?" "I have doctorates, Jack. I can help you with archaeology, anthropology, I can even be your linguist. But repairing things?" "Why would that be the only reason? You think I - we just want you back on the team because of your skills?" "It's nice that you're missing me on a personal level but people die. No matter what your bodies are made of you're still people. You can't cheat death forever. You eventually have to play by the rules." "Oh yeah. You always play by the rules, don't you?" O'Neill leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me. If Jack died right now and there was a way of bringing him back, would you do it?" "I - " More stridently he repeated, "Daniel, would you do it? I know you'd do it. You used the sarcophagus on Sha're. You wouldn't do that for Jack?" There was no hesitation. "Yes. But he'd be Jack. The Daniel you get will be me. Not the old Daniel. I - there's a lot of extra baggage with this model." "I miss you." "You lost your Daniel - whoa. This is weird." Eyebrows twitched, various emotions flashing across Daniel's face, too swift to pinpoint. "Isn't it?" the robot agreed with a gentle smile, watching closely as Daniel collected himself. "What I'm saying is you lost that Daniel. I'm a different person." His hands provided a sudden source of fascination, Daniel's head bowed so that the robot had to tilt his head and lean forward to peer into Daniel's face. "So much has happened." "You ever find Sha're?" O'Neill asked gently. Daniel's head lifted and he flinched when he registered how close robot O'Neill was. "She's dead." Synthetic eyes close briefly, though the flash of regret in them looked human enough. "Ah. I'm sorry." "It wouldn't be the Daniel you know. I've changed." "You're still Daniel. I can overlook a few minor faults in the programming," O'Neill said with a crooked smile. There was a loose floor tile at Daniel's feet and he toed it restlessly, shoving his hands into his pockets to still their restless flexing. His words were brutally frank, but his voice was filled with sympathy. "I can't do this just because you're lonely. I can't create a substitute Daniel just because you ask me to. We could take you to Tollana, they could-" "Daniel, dammit, listen to what I'm saying to you. I miss you - him. I miss Daniel. I was in love with Daniel. I don't want to carry on without Daniel in my life. Can I spell it out any clearer?" Daniel's entire body stilled. "What?" "Yeah. Me and Daniel. In love." "But -" "I know. That whole married thing. We didn't have that any more. Really were starting fresh. I always was a little in love with you and I don't see how that would change no matter which Daniel it was." "Oh. I don't know what to say." "Like you were always a little in love with me." "What! I uh-" Daniel looked around nervously, relieved to see both Sam and Teal'c were too far away to hear the discussion and Jack had disappeared. "Come on, Daniel. I got to know that other you real well - and not just that way." "Oh. Oh! You - that-" "Well, you know. When a boy robot and a boy robot love each other very much…" Daniel glared. More seriously, the robot continued, "We talked a lot. 'fessed up to a few things. Are you going to deny you feel more than friendship for him? Well, for me any way. I don't know if you still feel that way about him. Maybe he became even more of a pain in the ass and you moved on." "I really - I don't -" Daniel fumbled for the words to explain. "But to do this to - well, to myself, I guess. Make a substitute Daniel for you to, um, love. I'd be doing to him, to the other me, exactly what Harlan did." "You were okay with it." "Was I? I spent all that time lying on a table with my mouth taped shut, remember? I have no idea how that other Daniel felt." "He found it fascinating," Jack said, face softened at the memory. Daniel watched, fascinated by the play of emotion on the robot's face. "So he said. But he may have said that to reassure me." "Would you?" Daniel considered the question for a moment. "No. To someone else, perhaps. Not to myself. I'd have to be honest. I think. But how do I know how he'd feel? How would he feel about being a replacement for the Daniel you lost?" "I would love him, Daniel. Try to imagine it." "I can't. I get so far then I can't -" "I want him back. I want my life back." "I want to give you that. But only if it's what he wants - the replacement, the substitute we're talking about. Tell me, Jack. The Daniel you lost. Was he happy?" "Yes, I made you - him - happy. You told me that you'd finally found a place you belonged. I want that back, Daniel. I want that happiness. I can make you happy again. Are you really happy now?" He moved in closer, his expression full of intense longing. "Maybe you and Jack haven't got the guts or the sense to grab what you can while you can, but I did. We did. I just want a second chance to have that again." He stepped closer, voice deepening with emotion as he whispered, "I promise I'll make you happy. With the new power pack the whole galaxy would be ours to discover, together." The sudden sound of an alarm broke the mood. Sam and Teal'c ran over. "What's going on?" Sam snapped out, eyeing robot O'Neill warily. Teal'c moved forward and stood beside Daniel, glaring pointedly at robot O'Neill until he took the hint and moved away from Daniel. Robot O'Neill rolled his eyes. "What's happening is what I figured might happen. Your Jack decided to pay a visit to the synthesizer and incubation chamber and activated the forcefield. We'd better go switch off the alarm. He's going to be pissed at getting caught." Robot O'Neill sounded pleased at the thought. * Having established that Jack was fine, if indeed pissed at having been busted with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, SG-1 left the two O'Neills together. "What were you planning to do? Blow it up so Daniel couldn't help me?" robot O'Neill asked, mockery in his voice. "Sorry the forcefield screwed with your plans." Jack regarded him, his face very still, his gaze grim and promising a world of pain. "I know what this is about. What was going on between you and the other Daniel." The robot shrugged. "The special ops death glare doesn't work on me by the way. As for you knowing? I knew it wouldn't take you long. I told Daniel. About how we feel about him." "Dammit, you had no right," Jack spat out furiously. "Oh, stow it. What? You won't let yourself have Daniel so no other O'Neill can? Look. I liked Daniel. He liked me. We got together. We were in love. Now, if that's a problem for you, tough. I don't give a damn. Now, I have a way of getting Daniel back. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn't do the same?" "He won't be Daniel! He'll be a robot, just like you!" "Just like me. Exactly." "How can it be real? You don't have bodily excretions, right? You can't taste him. You can't feel his heartbeat." "Every plus has a minus. You got a pulse, I got Daniel. I got to have Daniel's love for two years. We both have different lives, Jack - but we both have different needs. And I love Daniel." He gave Jack a speculative look. "That love didn't come from all this," he ndicated himself and complex around them. "It was already in place, just waiting for me to do something about it. And since I'm you -" "You're not me." "No? How about we let your Daniel decide." "You just stay the hell away from him!" Jack said menacingly. "Why? I'm the new improved model - with enhancements." "Hey, that never needed enhancing!" Jack said with a scowl. "I meant your mind - which is still stuck in that sewer. What are you afraid of? That I'm more Jack O'Neill than you are? That Daniel might prefer this Jack to you? Harlan made me better in oh so many ways…" Jack grabbed the robot by the front of his jumpsuit, thrusting his face into the robot's cocky smiling visage. "I'll pull those goddamn wires out your throat if you try anything with him!" "Face it. You want him. I know you wanted him years ago and that kind of thing doesn't change so easily." "He's my friend." "That's what I used to tell myself. And he could be so much more. You're just too afraid to try. And now that Sha're is dead you're running out of excuses." "It's against regulations." Jack's grip relaxed a fraction, the impossibility of the situation with Daniel hitting him anew. "Oh yeah. And you were always so careful about those, weren't you. You've got to accept it - you're a coward. Maybe I should put a move on Daniel, show him what he's missing." Jack gave a guttural roar and launched his fist at the robot's face. The robot barely moved beneath the impact and gave Jack a pitying look as Jack clutched his hand. "Dammit!" "Hey, here's a saying for you - try love not war. You'll find it less painful." "Not always," Jack mumbled around his wet knuckles as he sucked them to ease the pain. "That's a risk you just have to accept." "Jack?" Both Jacks looked up to find Daniel in the doorway, a strained look on his face. "I'd like to stay here for the night. Think things over. Sam said she'd like to look over the technology. Teal'c said he'd stay with her." Jack looked reluctant and he shot a resentful look at his robot double. "One night. I'll be on watch. I don't trust this guy." Narrowed eyes bore into the robot. The robot chose to ignore Jack. "There are proper bedrooms with actual beds on the lower level. You should be comfortable there. I'll take you there now so you can settle in for the night." The robot hesitated a moment then said gently to Daniel, "I've sprung a lot on you, I know. Whatever decision you make, I'll respect it." Daniel opened his mouth to reply but closed it abruptly when human Jack tugged him away. "First we have an overdue check in to take care of." * The steady hum of machinery was almost soothing. Jack had checked on the robot O'Neill at 0200 and found him lying on a slab like a corpse laid out for an autopsy. Freaked, Jack had made his way back to the bedrooms allocated. The beds looked comfortable but he had yet to try out his and wasn't planning on doing so. His current position, propped up outside Daniel's room with his MP5 resting on his thighs while his butt grew numb from the metal grating it rested upon, wasn't exactly comfortable, but he'd experienced worse. Jack knew the robot O'Neill, if it was indeed a copy of his own consciousness, would never hurt Daniel. What he also knew, and it was something he had no intention of revealing to anyone, was that if he had lost Daniel to some accident and was living alone, and likely to be alone for the next few thousand years, he would be doing exactly what the robot him was doing. And if he was being brutally honest with himself, if the robot didn't try to sneak in to see Daniel and persuade him while human Jack was sleeping, then he truly was a 'better' man that Jack. Because Jack would be pleading with Daniel and using whatever emotional blackmail he had in his arsenal to get Daniel to agree. A noise to his left had him rising to his feet, swiftly and silently albeit not as smoothly as in his special ops days. The impressive bulk of Teal'c moved into view, low light levels bleaching his face, casting it in purple shadows. With enviable grace, Teal'c lowered himself beside his friend, face set forward. "You keep watch, O'Neill. You fear an attempt to sway Daniel Jackson or a forced submission to your robot double's demands?" The sigh in response was soft but heartfelt. "I can only go on what I'd do, T. If there was a way to get Daniel back…" He looked across at Teal'c until the other man turned his head to meet his gaze. "You know that the robot…me and robot Daniel were, um, playing with each other's hard drive if you know what I mean?" Teal'c's lips curved into a rich smile. "You are hardly subtle. I understand that they were lovers. I also understand that this is something that had its roots from an earlier time." Teal'c's smile gentled. "You should go to Daniel Jackson." Jack closed his mouth abruptly with a sharp click of teeth. As surprise faded, he pointed out, "Well that's not happening tonight. I still don't know what the son of a bitch me is going to do." Teal'c rose to his feet effortlessly. "There is but one way to enter this section of the complex. Major Carter spent the past three hours ensuring your privacy. I have now begun my watch, O'Neill. Rest assured no harm will come to either yourself or Daniel Jackson." He placed a hand on Jack's shoulder, fingers clenching briefly into the fabric of the crumpled green shirt. "Be at ease, my friend, and be assured that your Daniel Jackson is indeed yours, and that no other O'Neill can compare." * Jack entered the bedroom, soft-footed, and quietly stripped off. As he slid into the bed occupied by the sleeping Daniel he told himself it was to keep his friend safe. He told himself the bed was so big it could easily accommodate two adult men without there being physical contact. He told himself the things he had learned today would have no impact on this new day, and it would be the same as any other occasion he had shared sleeping accommodation with Daniel off world. Daniel stirred at his presence and awoke. As he focused on Jack, Daniel's eyes told him everything had changed. "It's me," Jack whispered, feeling a little ridiculous. "You know. Real Jack." "I know. You smell right," Daniel whispered back. And darted a swift tongue across Jack's throat. "Taste right, too." Jack had wondered if they would talk about things. Daniel liked to talk, to analyze and hypothesize. Daniel was naked. It all happened so easily that, for a moment, Jack wondered if he was lost in fantasy. Daniel simply slid over Jack, propped his arms either side of him, and kissed him. Jack tugged Daniel down fully, feeling the weight of Daniel pushing him into the mattress. He could feel the ridges of ribs and the contrasting softness of Daniel's abdomen pressed against his chest and belly. Jack's shorts were tugged down clumsily, fabric clinging where it wasn't wanted until it was close to being torn in frustration, just enough to allow his erection to slid against Daniel's hardening length. Jack's hands slid round Daniel, cupping the curved, firm ass and tugging him down, closer, tighter against him. He thrust up, grinding their erections together, no thought of taking things slow, just animal instinct driving him to savour this moment with Daniel, to answer desire with desire. His thrusts grew wilder, one hand moving from Daniel's ass to rest on his bucking hips, steadying him as he rolled them over so that Daniel lay, panting, beneath him. He took Daniel's hard prick in an ungentle hand, firm demanding strokes dragging an orgasm out of Daniel. Daniel bucked helplessly as Jack continued with slower gentler strokes, Daniel's hips snapping up automatically even though he was spent, the last echoes of pleasure pulled from him. Jack pushed down, smearing his erection in the slick heat of Daniel's semen-covered groin and belly, grinding against him as though trying to absorb Daniel's essence. Daniel grasped the rocking hips above him, steadying Jack as Jack humped frantically against Daniel, trying to come, trying to claim, as close as was possible without actual penetration. Jack choked out some incoherent sound that was part demand, part declaration. He gave a sob, then he was coming, his climax a fierce and wild thing that left him drained and slumped against Daniel. Daniel soothed and petted him and Jack hid his face against Daniel's shoulder, feeling unmanned by what was happening. He whispered, "My Daniel," and clutched the other man to him, fingers clenched into soft flesh, blessed warm flesh and bone and blood that flushed skin, and his grip was hard enough to bruise. Exhaustion finally sent him tumbling into a peaceful sleep. * "Did you try to convince him not to help me?" Jack looked up briefly from checking his MP5. "That's none of your business." "So you did." The robot's gaze sharpened as he picked up on something different about Jack. He gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You had sex with Daniel." Jack was torn between bristling with outrage and looking smug. He thought he was too old to blush so he put the sudden heat on his face down to bad air conditioning. The robot's laughter eventually died but a smile lingered on his face as he regarded the other Jack. "You're going to find this hard to believe but I'm actually happy for you. Smartest thing you've ever done." "Actually, I believe you mean that. You'd want Daniel to be happy, me being happy is just a by-product." "There is that", the robot admitted then shook his head. "No, I'm honestly happy for you." He seemed about to say something more when an alarm sounded, blasting from the main chamber. Both Jacks exchanged a look. "Is that-?" "Security alert we installed in case of visits from the Goa'uld. An unauthorized person has entered the complex." Robot O'Neill pressed a button on a wrist control and the alarm stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence they heard Daniel yell "Jack!" They both started running. * The first new arrival they saw was the robot Sam. She was smiling uncertainly, instinctively moving closer to robot Teal'c and shielding two other people behind her when she saw human members of SG-1 staring at their group. "What's going on? Jack?" She glanced around until she spotted the robot O'Neill sprinting into the room. "Why are they here?" Behind robot Sam, the familiar sight of Nareem stepped forward, past the protective wall formed by robots Sam and Teal'c. The fourth person, dressed in Tollan clothes similar to Nareem's outfit, moved into view, leaning on robot Teal'c for support. Robot O'Neill didn't answer. His eyes were on the fourth person, the beloved face scarred, showing the metal and workings beneath the synthetic skin. There was a pathetic sound, something that sounded close to a whimper, then robot O'Neill was rushing forward to pull an unsteady robot Daniel into his arms. Jack watched his counterpart having an emotional breakdown on the ramp and had to look away. He cast a glance at his flesh and blood Daniel, safe and well, who was watching the reunion with a sappy look on his face. Pushing down his own unwanted surge of sentimentality, Jack ignored the flood of relief that had swamped him when he'd seen robot Daniel stepping through the stargate. Hey, he was just happy that the other O'Neill could now quit bugging his Daniel to Xerox himself. That was all. It had nothing to do with being glad to see the other Daniel - robot Daniel - wasn't dead. Jack wandered over to the new arrivals, determinedly ignoring the way his robot counterpart was crying and whispering into robot Daniel's neck. Oh jeez... He smiled at Nareem in greeting, nodded at the robot versions of Teal'c and Sam. "So. Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Nareem finished greeting Major Carter, his eyes still warm from their exchange as he met Jack's questioning look. "It is good to see you all. I…trust you are in fact human?" "Yep. The real deal. All organic. So what's going on? I thought the robot Daniel was…dead. Ceased to function. Whatever you want to call it." He saw robot Sam wince and grimaced. "Sorry." "Samantha contacted the Nox and both she and Teal'c came to Tollana, asking for our help. When we discovered that their friend Daniel was lost somewhere on this planet we came by ship to search for him. We located him some considerable distance away, outside of the range of the power source. We were able to restore his power. Unfortunately, his physical body has suffered considerably due to the severe elements of this planet. We do not have the technology to repair him, certainly not on the ship though perhaps in Tollana… But no matter. Samantha informs me that they have a device that will do the repairs necessary to restore their friend to his previous condition." Jack blinked. "And you're okay with all this?" "I am sorry, I do not understand?" "They're robots." "Yes. That contain the essence of your team. Samantha feels that her friends will be prepared to return with us to Tollana, where they will be most welcome." Jack gave a cynical smile. "All that sweet technology must be a point in their favor." Nareem frowned, a faint smile that was not a smile on his face. "I won't pretend the technology will not prove fascinating to our scientists, but the reason I insisted I be the one to return here is because these are copies of your team. We owe a debt of gratitude to SG-1, especially Daniel Jackson." He glanced across and watched robot Sam chattering to her human counterpart and his eyes warmed. "You know I have always held Samantha Carter in high esteem. Whatever her physical body may be, her spirit is that of the human Samantha Carter. I could never stand by and do nothing while she required aid." Jack pulled a face that could possibly be interpreted as a grimace of apology then patted Nareem on the arm. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you got the Daniel robot back." He left Nareem and wandered over to the human Daniel, who was watching his robot self being kissed by his lover. Daniel's face was drained of color and Jack stepped towards him a little bit faster. "You okay?" Daniel frowned, horror on his face. "Jack, I was going to say yes. I was going to do it. What if I had? I'd have doomed a version of me to playing wallflower while those two…" he indicated the canoodling robots and seemed unable to continue. "Nah, my robot would have suggested a threesome," Jack said casually then could have bitten his tongue off. There was a muffled snort from Daniel. "Thanks for that image, Jack. It still would have been a huge mistake." Jack regarded the robots for a moment then said softly, "I wouldn't let him be left alone." Daniel looked at him, eyes questioning, though the tentative smile waiting to happen seemed to indicate he had some idea of what Jack was saying. Just to make things crystal clear, Jack elaborated, "The new robot you. If you'd gone ahead and let him be made, then the other Daniel and shown up, I'd have made a robot me. Hell, I'd have insisted they make another me." He gave a snort of laughter, embarrassed at his sudden emotion, at the way his throat felt like it was closing up, and the way Daniel was staring at him as if he was something incredible. "Robot O'Neill over there would hate that, but I'd have made sure we didn't leave another you alone. The new robot me would take care of him." They both looked across at robot O'Neill, who was guiding his lover in the direction of the synthesizer, presumably to begin repairs. They pictured his reaction to another robot O'Neill invading his territory. Robot O'Neill's confused look at their loud laughter made the picture all the sweeter.

It's too hot out and Tyson won't sit still. Those are the two things which Nick will remember when he looks back over this sort-of memory. Tyson's not good at sitting still, though, and sometimes Nick just wants to hold him down until he quiets a bit, because fuck it's distracting to have 6"5 of gorgeous best friend jigging up and down beside you. But now, Nick's gone on heat and tequila, too warm and drunk to move. Tyson giggles at him as he sprawls out a bit further on the lounger and lets the warm evening sun bake him a bit further. The ground is actually emitting heat and the blacktop would be lethal right now. Nick's just glad he doesn't have to go anywhere. "Want another tequila, Nicky baby?" Tyson asks and grins at him. Nick flips him off lazily. "You offering to go get some more? Cos the bottle's finished, sweetheart." The sweetheart has a mocking slur, a twist to it, and Tyson grins, sweet and crooked. "You want some or not?" "Yeah," Nick drawls out the word, heat and alcohol numbing his muscles. He waves the empty bottle at his friend, who climbs, shakily to his feet, towering at an impossible height over Nick's lounger. Nick blinks at him sleepily. "Th'nks." "No problem." Tyson takes the empty, walks a little unsteadily back inside. Nick lets his arm flop back down on the lounger. In this heat, just breathing is too much. When he looks back at it, he thinks he fell asleep at that point, lulled by the evening sunshine and the tequila, because when he opens his eyes again, it's darker. The sun has sunk behind hazy clouds, and Tyson's back on the lounger next to him, sitting up this time. Nick focuses blearily as Tyson stares into the distance with shadowed, deep-set eyes. He yawns, and Tyson looks at him quickly, his expression changing to one Nick recognizes as unease before the cheery grin is back. Hauling himself upright - wincing as the world swims sickly back into place - he pokes Tyson's leg with his big toe. "What?" Tyson says absently. "Whatcha thinking about?" Nick asks, watching as Tyson tugs his sweat-sticky t-shirt away from his body. Tyson grins sardonically. "You gonna ask me about my feelings, Nicky?" "Nope," Nick yawns again, fighting sleep. "Just wonderin'." In the recesses of his mind, Nick feels himself sobering up a little as the air slowly starts to cool. Tyson giggles, and Nick glances at him as he says, "dude, you're hammered." Nick wants to object - of course he's hammered, one and a half bottles of Cuervo between them, and who wouldn't be? The point is, he's not as drunk as he could be - but decides against it, and merely grunts in reply. Tyson giggles again. "I am, too." Tyson's twenty, but his tolerance to alcohol is pretty high (Nick will take most of the credit for this, thanks). When he's drunk, he's very drunk. "Y'ever gonna tell me what you're thinking?" Nick prods him again, grinning as Tyson gives an irritated huff and shifts away. "Nahh...it's stupid." "Ty-son," Nick sing-songs obnoxiously. "Tell me!" "Fine, fine. So I was thinkin'...y'ever..." Tyson's hesitant, and part of Nick recognises that this could be a bad idea. "Sex," Tyson restarts, and Nick blinks. "I think I have a kink." And Nick definitely needs more alcohol for this. But he's sleepy and pretty drunk and Tyson is trashed, so he asks anyway. Chances are, one of them won't remember this in the morning, so it's all to the good. "Oh yeah?" "Yeah." Tyson shrugs up at the sky and takes another swing from the new, already half-finished bottle. All pretence of salt and lime has disappeared by this point. "Like. It was back when we were playing that club in, like, fuckin' Washington or somewhere, and I hooked up with that dude with the tattoos?" Nick remembers. Nick remembers so well - the burn of jealousy down the back of his throat, hand twitching at his side before he turns away - that he gestures for the bottle and refuses to say anything until Tyson hands it the fuck over. "Yeah? What about him?" He asks, rasping with the aftertaste of the tequila. Now he knows why they always serve it with lime. "He kink you up, Ty?" Tyson's grin is a bit far away, and Nick does not like that he had sex that good with someone who wasn't Nick. Not that Nick and Tyson are having sex. Nope. They're Nick'n'Ty, inseparable, but 'inseparable' does not mean 'fucking'. Nick knows this too well. "Nah, not really. I mean, not intentionally, y'know? He just, we. Up against a wall." It's ludicrous that Tyson would mumble that, but he tries to anyway, and he kind of stumbles over his words, lips numb with alcohol as he tries to lower his voice. "Yeah, and I was just thinking. Best sex has been when someone held me down." The picture that gives Nick is too vivid. Tyson, dressed for a show, black jeans and band-t-shirt, pressed up against a wall with that guy behind him, head leant back against the guy's shoulder, long throat exposed, hair curling back against the guy's neck as the guy fucks into him, forceful-slow... Nick clears his throat because that's too powerful an image for him this side of that much tequila. "Ty, I'mna tell you for the good of our relationship, that you overshare." Tyson grins too quickly, eyes flickering away from Nick's face, hands clenching on his bottle, and Nick feels like a dick. "Yeah," Tyson says quietly, clearing his throat. "It's stupid. Doesn't matter. S'not like we're going to remember tomorrow, though, right?" His laugh is hollow, unconvincing, and Nick drains the rest of his bottle before clumsily sliding onto Tyson's lounger, hooking arms around Tyson's waist. Behaviour he wouldn't get away with normally is accepted without question when alcohol is involved. Safe in that knowledge, he rests his cheek against Tyson's back, listening to his breathing. "Not stupid," he murmurs sleepily, lips moving against the fabric of Tyson's t-shirt. Tyson shivers. "God, so not stupid." Tyson turns abruptly, extricating himself from Nick's grasp."You takin' an interest, Nicky?" he laughs, but it's forced, suspicious, and Nick has to reassure both of them before Tyson gets freaked and Nick ends up jumping the guy. It's difficult. His mind is crowded with images: Tyson up against the wall; flat on his back, arms above his head, body exposed; faint bruises spotting pale wrists - Nick needs more tequila. Nick needs to pass out, fast. "Sorry to disappoint," he says, as sardonically as he can while half his brain is stunned with tequila and the other half is reeling with images of Tyson restrained and panting. "But you're drunk and I'm not that kind of girl..." Tyson laughs, low, and Nick can feel it in his cheek. Tyson is way too fucking skinny, he decides, all tiny wrists and perfect skin, and god, the idea of bruising that skin, marking it so that Tyson's- god. Nick tries not to moan, but it's OK because Tyson's speaking. "Oh, Nick, you're totally that kind of girl." Nick draws back, but leaves his hand on Tyson's back. "Ty, sounds like you'd let me be." Tyson laughs again, sounding suddenly drunker than he is. "Yeah, maybe I would. But you'd have to be really nice to me." "Or tie you up real good and hold you down." Nick means for it to sound like a joke, but his voice is laced with intent, and he's pretty sure he doesn't pull it off. Tyson's breathing hitches and he stands up abruptly. "Yeah, I guess that'd work." he agrees, but before Nick can say anything, Tyson's heading back into their crappy little two-up-two-down rent-a-shack and that's pretty much the end of the conversation. Nick flops back against his lounger and wonders whether it's late enough to jerk off where he is without getting arrested for public indecency. Despite Tyson's assurances, Nick did remember the following morning. If Tyson did, he didn't say. And that, so Nick had thought, was that. ** They're in the garden next time it comes up, but this is three years down the line and it's their own house this time. Or own houses, really, but they both wanted bigger gardens than they were ever going to get and solved the dilemma by living next to each other and knocking down the fence between the two. It's pretty sweet. Anyway, it's hot again, hot even for Florida, and Nick really just wants Tyson to sit still. Tyson loves downtime. He loves his own house, he loves his own bed, he loves that he can wake up and actually remember where he is. Yeah, he loves it. For about five minutes. Then he gets bored. And he fidgets. Sometimes, the fidgeting can be stopped by writing, but if the words dry, if the lyrics aren't coming, Tyson winds himself up further, frustrated with himself. Now is just one such time. He's sat down and stood up more times than Nick can count and in the rare moments when he's actually sat down, he's fidgeting like he's on speed or some shit like that, and Nick can't stand it anymore. "You gonna settle the fuck down?" he asks tiredly, and Tyson gives him this look. "Seriously, are you?" "No." He says, dragging a hand through his hair. "Can't. How is it possible that you're not bored out of your mind, Nicky?" "Because unlike some people round here, I can occupy myself. You're fucking - you're like the duracell bunny, seriously. What's it going to take to get you to sit down quietly? Can't you read a book or something?" He carefully doesn't mention his first idea, which involved tying Tyson down with something. Hot, but possibly counterproductive. Tyson's mind unfortunately, seems to be working along all-too-similar lines. "Sex." he says simply, but with a grin. Nick absolutely does not choke on his beer. Except in the way that he does. He heads straight into a coughing fit, tears streaming down his face; he can practically feel Tyson grinning unrepentantly, smoothing a soothing hand over his back. "Wrong pipe?" he asks mockingly, and wiping his watering eyes, Nick glares at him. "Sex, huh?" he says, hoping Tyson doesn't notice the way his voice catches over the word. "Wish I'd known that earlier on." "Why? Would you have volunteered your services?" Tyson stretches out on his lounger, back arching, and Nick frowns. There's something... off... with Tyson today, and Nick can't figure out what. "Not me," he says, watching Tyson's face. His eyes are shut, face relaxed in the sunshine, but there's this tension playing around his shoulders. "I'd've had the groupies lined up, waiting to tire you out." Tyson just grins. "You wouldn't throw me to the groupies." He says, every inch of him imbued with the confidence of years of friendship. "You wouldn't get me back." "See, you say that like it's a bad thing." Nick grins lazily, and Tyson laughs. His goddamn leg is still jigging up and down, though, and Nick just wants it to stop. Without really thinking about it, he reaches out a hand and puts it on Tyson's knee, pushing down to keep his friend still. When he looks up, Tyson's eyes are a little darker than normal, and Nick remembers the conversation of two, maybe three years ago, the one he hadn't been able to get out of his mind ever since. "'Kay, I got your point, Nicky." Tyson stands again, but his foot's tapping the moment Nick's no longer touching him. "I'll leave you to your beer. I got barbecue ribs later, you want to come over for 'em?" "Ty..." Nick trails off. He doesn't know how to start this conversation. "Yeah?" Tyson's halfway round the side of the house when he stops, looking back. He's barefoot, in shorts and a t-shirt. All modest and proper, but nevertheless Nick swallows like Tyson's naked in front of him. He wishes he hadn't spoken; he has no fucking idea how to bring this up without destroying ten years of friendship. The silence stretches between them, and Nick can almost hear the tension crackling. Tyson's fidgeting again, shifting from one foot to the other. "Yeah?" he says again, voice hitching a little, and Nick's mind throws him straight back to that conversation. He takes a slow, steady breath as the tension in the air ratchets up a notch. Suddenly, Tyson laughs, and ducks out of sight, round the side of the house. "See you later - bring your own beer," he calls back, and once again there's that off tone. Something's wrong, and Nick's up off the lounger and sprinting round the side of the house, grabbing Tyson's arms. "Dude, what the -" Tyson stops short as Nick's momentum spins them sideways against the house, until Nick's virtually pinning him to the wall. Gasping a little, Nick looks up at Tyson, who has suddenly gone very still. "Hey, Ty," he says, hoarsely, feeling his heart hammering uncomfortably against his ribs. This could all go so wrong. "I'm - " He doesn't know how to say it, can't put it into words. Instead, he tightens his grip on Tyson's arms, hears Tyson's slow, shaky exhale. "Nick, what're you...?" Tyson asks, and it's easy to forget that behind all the bravado and attention-seeking is the kid who dragged himself to New York for his best friend's dream and only found out later that it was his own too. Right now, he sounds every inch that kid, even though he outgrew him years ago. "I wanna hold you down." Nick says, more sighing than speaking. "Look, I get it, I fidget too much." Tyson doesn't quite struggle, but he does move as if he's going to leave. Nick tightens his hands on his friend's arm, holds him in place with greater force, and pretends not to shiver as Tyson's eyes go dark. "No." He says quietly. "It's not about your fidgeting. At least, it's only partly about your fidgeting." He risks a smile but he's pretty sure it didn't really work. "I wanna hold you down, make you- Fuck, Ty." He meets Tyson's eyes, and that's not quite all it takes, but from the way Tyson's eyes darken even further, Nick'd say he got at the very least the general gist of it. The fact that he's still quiet and still under Nick's hands gives him the confidence to go on. "I want to tie you down and make you take it, OK? I want to bruise you, Ty, fuck." He leans his forehead against Tyson's shoulder, and one of Tyson's hands comes up, resting on his side, because he can only move his arms from the elbow; Nick's holding him against the wall elsewise. "Nicky, if you think that hasn't been every jerk-off fantasy of mine since I was nineteen, you're really fucking slow." Nick smiles shakily into Tyson's shirt, relief so palpable it's almost embarrassing. Still, it's nice to know that he won't have to run very fast when he eventually lets Tyson go. As it is, he swallows, and slides his hands down Tyson's arms, curls his fingers tighter around his wrists. Tyson hisses; Nick's grip must be on the edge of painful. Tyson's breathing catches, and he flexes his arms a little, testing, shuddering as Nick leans forward fractionally, the extra weight cutting off Tyson's movement. Nick just concentrates on not coming in his own pants; they haven't even done anything, and Tyson would never let him live it down. "Nick, Nick," Tyson sing-songs his name, shifting restlessly under him. "We gonna stay here all night? 'Cause I'm not complainin' about the view, but -" "I want you on your knees," Nick blurts out in one breath, listening to Tyson' sharp intake of breath. "Right here." Tyson breathes in unsteadily. "Don't start something you're not gonna finish, Nick," he mutters, pulling against Nick's hands, and then moans quietly as Nick rocks against him, hard against his thigh. "I'll finish it," Nick assures him, voice steadier than it should be. Nick's heart is still pounding fast, a mix of nerves and want making him light-headed, because face it, he has no idea what he's supposed to do with this situation. Tyson searches his face for a long moment, unsure, then grins, that crooked, shit-eating grin Nick's been in love with for so long. "What do you want me to do, when you've got me down there?" Nick glances around, checks they're out of sight. "C'mon, Ty." He says with a grin of his own. "Use that imagination of yours." "OK, so say I suck your cock for you," Tyson says, lazy, "which is only a possibility, gotta tell you. What do I get out of it?" He pauses. "And if I decide I'd rather not suck you off today, thanks for offering, what happens then?" This is straying uncomfortably close to role-playing that Nick's not happy with and he almost says so. He won't ever, ever hurt Tyson, not even if that's what Tyson needs to get off. "You don't want to suck me off, you don't have to, Ty." he says quietly. "But you do want to, or you'd have decked me by now. I know you." Tyson's grin grows, the little fucker. "Yeah, well. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page, and you weren't going to be doing the decking. I'm into a fairly narrow margin of kink, Nicky baby, and you need to know that." "Oh, I know exactly what you're into." Nick grins back, tightening his grip on Tyson's wrists and watching Tyson's eyes glaze a little. "You're sure yourself today," Tyson taunts, breathing a little ragged. "Yeah," Nick agrees, "I am. So can we get on with this, or shall I leave you to climb out of your own skin for the rest of the day?" He loosens his hold on Tyson's wrists, grinning as Tyson whines a little in the back of his throat. "No?" He asks innocently, and reapplies the pressure until he feels the bones creak under his fingers. Tyson groans, low and raw, head thudding back against the wall of the house. "Ok, ok, you smug fuck," he says, staring at Nick with glazed eyes. "How d'you want me?" It's said with a flirtatious grin and a sideways look, one that Nick's seen directed at other people, but never at him. He's uncomfortable. As much as he's wanted this to happen - God, so long - he can't help but feel that this is a bit fast. Still. No going back now. "Like I said," he hears his own voice, hoarse with arousal. "On your knees." Tyson meets his eyes with a crooked smile. "You gonna let me up?" Nick grins, and releases Tyson's arms, watching as his friend shrugs off the wall, and slides in one, graceful movement to his knees. Nick takes a moment to think about cars and riffs and carpets; anything to take his mind off Tyson on his knees in front of him, and so ensure he doesn't embarrass himself completely. He feels a bit like one of Tyson's one night stands, but he's not going to say so, not when he's getting exactly what he wanted, not with Tyson on his knees in front of him, undoing his jeans with clever practised fingers. "You're- a bit too-" he manages, before Tyson wraps his hand around Nick's cock, his fingers slightly callused from playing bass, and by the time Nick's got used to that sensation, Tyson's licking his lips and sucking almost experimentally on the head. Nick lets his hands fall to Tyson's head, his fingers digging in through Tyson's hair. Tyson's good at this. (Too good, a treacherous little voice in his head says, but he can ignore it so easily. Till now, Tyson's sexual partners were his own business.) He sucks hot and fast, his tongue working at the underside. The angle leaves little room for anything creative, but no one ever said cocksucking had to be creative; the surge of tighthotwetgood is pretty much all Nick needs. He digs his fingers into Tyson's hair a little harder, pretending that the little moan Tyson can't quite suppress didn't feel like the best thing ever, and lets his hips jerk once, twice. Chances are Tyson can take it and if he can't, he'll relish that edge of pain. Nick knows this almost too well, the knowledge sitting heavy at the back of his mind. How far would Tyson let him go? He doesn't register that he's actually digging blunt nails into the thin skin at the back of Tyson's head, but it's Tyson's long, low broken moan which carries him over the edge, too fast for him to get out a warning. It doesn't seem to matter; Tyson swallows what he can and licks up what spills out. It's pretty much the hottest thing Nick's ever seen. He lets his head fall forward bonelessly for a couple of seconds, then he gently tucks himself away again and gives himself another couple of seconds. Tyson's still on his knees in front of him, a little of Nick's come at the corner of his mouth, and Nick allows himself to stare for yet another moment before yanking Tyson up and pushing him against the wall with as much force as he can manage. He grins into Tyson's surprised face. "Your turn." "Nick –" Tyson begins, but then Nick shoves his hand down the front of Tyson's jeans, and he gives up speaking in favour of a long, ragged moan. "Shit, I –" He tails off, panting, and this whole situation is beyond Nick's wildest dreams, and Nick really isn't sure that's something to be proud of. The angle's not good, there's not much room to manoeuvre, but he tightens his fist around Tyson's cock, and works it in slow, hard strokes that have Tyson's hips coming off the wall. "Nick. Nick, you fucker, come on-" Nick smoothes his palm over the head of his cock, wrist twisting awkwardly, and Tyson's hips buck forward. Barely thinking about it, Nick slides his other hand down to Tyson's hip, holding him against the wall, unable to move. The hand inside Tyson's jeans speeds up, and Tyson groans, loudly. "Dude," Nick murmurs into his ear, "we're about ten feet away from the neighbours. You wanna keep it down?" Tyson swallows convulsively, eyes flying open, and Nick grins. Trust Tyson to be an exhibitionist. He leans forward to mutter in Tyson's ear, hand on his cock working faster, twisting on the upstroke to slide a thumb under the head. "Gotta keep quiet, Ty, don't think the neighbours would be happy if they caught me jerkin' you off in the backyard. Get any louder, and they might come see what's going on. You really want Mrs. Kratovac to see you strung out like this?" Tyson sobs a little, hips shifting futilely under Nick's grip. "Fuck, you do! You wanna get caught! Fuckin' hell, Tyson!" Nick swipes his thumb against the underside of Tyson's cock, and Tyson's clenching his teeth and coming over his fingers. He yanks his hand out of Tyson's pants whilst he's still panting and wipes it on Tyson's jeans. He's probably due a laundry anyway. "Any other kinks you wanna share whilst we're at it, baby?" he asks, and Tyson swallows as Nick leans his full weight against him. "Exhibitionism, being held down..." "I'm not gonna make you dress up in leather and beat me if that's what you're asking, Nicky." Tyson manages. Trust him to turn it into a joke. "I think you've got everything by now." "So a coupla bruises here and there are your kind of thing, huh?" Nick leans into him a little harder, keeping him pressed up against the rough brick of the wall. "If I were to tie you up and fuck you, what would you say, hmm?" he zips up Tyson's jeans, because he doubts Ty's going to get the necessary coordination back any time soon. Tyson just gapes at him, and Nick laughs. "OK, sorry. C'mon, let's get you inside." "What's inside got that here hasn't?" Tyson manages. "Beds?" Nick replies with a grin, and Tyson huffs a laugh. Nick moves away, but before he can get anywhere, Tyson grabs his hand. "Hey, Nick, this- this isn't just about sex, right?" Nick shakes his head at the question. "Jeez, Ty, ten years and you still gotta ask that?" He leans back in, hip bones sharp against Tyson's, holding him in place as one hand comes back up to cup (grip) Tyson's head, the other soft and gentle at his jaw. "Baby, like it was ever going to be." He kisses him before Tyson can get him to say anything soppier with that wide-eyed-and-worried look of his. It's not exactly a sweet kiss, not the tender kind he's used to with the various girls he's been with. Tyson's more than that. He might like being held down but that doesn't mean Nick's leading him anywhere; he kisses back just as strongly as Nick ever imagined he would and it's kind of perfect. When Nick pulls back, he smiles at Tyson stupidly. "Answer your question?" He's not quite sure of this whole thing himself yet; unsure of where they stand now; love, friendship, a band together, for fuck's sake, he's not sure where factoring in sex is going to lead them. But it'll be worth it, he knows that for damn sure. ** Over the next couple of years, he gets comfortable with it, knows where they're going. And it's not always about holding Tyson down; after they won the VMA, after the after-party was done, the sex then wasn't about bruises or violence or anything; it was a celebration, they were too keyed up and joyful to care about whatever foreplay was involved in Nick holding Tyson down into it. It's not always what Tyson needs and it's not always what Nick wants, and they know each other so well now that those times often coincide. If they don't, they'll make concessions for each other. But sometimes, it really, really is what it's all about. And Tyson's right; sex with that factored in is some of the hottest Nick's ever had. (It helps that Tyson's involved in that equation.) And Nick's got quite good at reading the signs. It can be a sideways glance, or Tyson fidgeting, or simply being so bitchy that Chris gets fed up and tells Nick to 'screw the bad temper out of him, goddammit' (Nick has never fully recovered from this incident). It works; it's fun, it's harmless, and if Nick gets as much of a kick out of it as Tyson does, then that's fine. Even when Nick has to push Tyson's boundaries a bit. Nick is tired. Nick is tired of touring, Nick is tired of ever-changing locations and Nick is tired of having a bedroom with wheels. If he's honest, all he really wants to do is skip the last two concerts and head home to Florida, where he can sit in his garden, walk his dog and forget the rest of the world exists for a couple of weeks before they start all over again. But they've got three concerts to go before that happens and countless interviews and events, and it's taking Nick real effort to be civil to those around him. He manages it. Barely. Tyson's faring no better. He's got to be alive and enthusiastic at all times no matter where they are or how he's feeling. At this stage of the tour, he's exhausted, tetchy and running on adrenaline. Nick kind of hates Tyson when he's like this. He hates how false he sounds on camera (no one else can hear it, but Nick knows how much it's taking out of him to be cheerful and over-exuberant, and Tyson can't sell it to Nick), hates how he switches off when it's just them, hates how he's all about the band and not at all about them. It's selfish of Nick to think like that, but it's not reason which makes him feel it, and unreasonableness tends to kick in at this stage of the tour. If Nick didn't know Tyson hates this more than he does, he'd give up completely. And Tyson tends to take out his frustration through sex; at least, that's his least self-destructive habit, so Nick likes to encourage it. But now, Tyson hasn't asked, Tyson probably isn't going to ask. Nick just wants him to sit down and shut the hell up. Tonight should be a good night. It's a hotel night, for a start, which means a shower you don't have to lose weight to fit inside and a bed that doesn't rumble and in which Nick can sprawl out next to Tyson. But they've just done an interview, a whole slew of interviews, in fact, and their show is tomorrow, so Tyson's all keyed up with nowhere to go. He's not going to ask, Nick can tell, which means it's one of the nights when Nick has to do it for him. They're in New Orleans, and the fact that they all turn down the party going on down at some executive producer of something-or-other's house should clue everyone in as to just how tired they are. Tyson's out on the balcony 'to cool down'. Nick wants to point out that as it's 85 outside and unpleasantly humid, any chances of Tyson cooling down are pretty remote. But he doesn't. Instead, after an hour of waiting for Tyson to come inside, Nick opens the sliding door, and joins him. "You plannin' on talking to me at all, or are you going to brood all night, instead?" The words sound harsh, but Nick cards a hand through Tyson's hair. Up close, Tyson looks even more tired. "Not in the mood, Nick," he answers softly, staring out at the city beyond the balcony. Nick rubs a hand between his shoulder blades, feeling the tense muscles, and the individual bones of Tyson's spine. "C'mon," he says, taking Tyson's wrist. "You know what's indoors?" "Unless it's a year's supply of Valium, I don't care." "Air conditioning!" Nick says mock-seriously. "But not just any air-conditioning - air conditioning that actually works." Tyson grins at him lopsidedly, allowing himself to be towed inside the sliding doors. "No, really? Well, I never." "I know. Doesn't even leak, either." "Wow. We must be going up in the world," Tyson flops backward onto the bed, limbs sprawling everywhere. "How long have we been on the road this time, Nick?" Nick answers without even thinking. "Three months, five days." "Oh, God, I want to go home," Tyson mutters, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. "So much. You have no idea." It's easy for Nick to forget how goddamn young Tyson is, sometimes. None of them are exactly old, but Tyson's the baby of the group by a fair margin, for all he hides it behind relentless energy and a dollop of insanity. It makes him a little uncomfortable to remember it, though, so he shakes off the thought and slides towards Tyson across his bed. "Hey," he says, poking Tyson in the side. "Three gigs. A week. Then it'll be done." "If I accidentally stab myself with a fork, it'll be over faster." "Death by fork. Kinda ignominious, don'tcha think?" Nick eyes the clock. For once, they don't have to be anywhere, and he's not one to waste an opportunity. "Besides, I can think of better ways to die." Tyson rolls onto his side, "Oh, yeah?" "Yeah." Nick's on him in a second, yanking off his jeans, and throwing them into a corner before grabbing the hem of Tyson's t-shirt and pulling it upwards. Tyson, evidently deciding to be as difficult as possible, merely raises an eyebrow. "What're you doing?" "Dancing," Nick deadpans. "Now lift your arms." Slowly, Tyson does, arching a little to slide the shirt over his head. He angles his arms to allow Nick to remove the t-shirt completely, but Nick pauses, looking down at him thoughtfully, as a vivid image flashes through his mind. They've never done this before. So far, Nick's stuck to the boundaries Tyson has defined, not really daring to go further than that, and normally that's fine. At the moment, though, it might not be enough. Maybe Tyson needs something different. Nick slides one leg over Tyson's hips, straddling him, and Tyson obediently extends his arms further. Instead of taking the shirt off though, Nick tangles it around his forearms. Tyson can't move his arms. "Nick?" Tyson asks, flexing his arms experimentally as Nick slides down until he's cradled in Tyson's hips. The T-shirt holds. "Thought you might want to try something different, baby." Nick grins, and leans down to press a kiss to Tyson's neck. "Think maybe it's what we both need right now." "Tour getting you down?" Tyson asks, arching up a little against Nick. Nick kind of likes the power contrast of being fully clothed whilst Tyson's naked - naked except for the T-shirt wrapped around his forearms, at least. He takes a moment to savour it before shucking out of his own clothes, and reaching for the lube in his bag. "I'd say you have no idea if I didn't know exactly how much idea you had." Tyson offers him a smile, forcing himself up so he could press a kiss against Nick's shoulder. He was probably aiming for the mouth, Nick realises, but the angle was awkward, what with not being able to use his arms and having very little motor control like this. Nick grins, pushing one of Tyson's legs up for ease of access and leaning down to oblige him, kissing him firmly, licking into his mouth with intent. Tyson moans into the kiss and Nick realises that the hand which has been cupping the back of Tyson's knee is gripping tightly. When he pulls his hand away, there's a red mark there. It won't bruise, but it's a reminder of what Tyson wants and needs right now. And what Nick wants, he won't lie about that. "S'alright, baby, you'll get it." He promises, and slicks up one finger, circling Tyson's hole and watching his face. "Any time you wanna stop teasing," Tyson says, best bitchface in place, but his face slackens as Nick abruptly pushes in two fingers. "Too tired to tease," Nick grins, scissoring his fingers, and watching as Tyson's eyes flutter shut. It's not gentle, but Tyson doesn't need gentle right now. If he wanted gentle, he'd ask for it, but the way he jerks his hips tells Nick that the last thing he wants is slow and sweet right now. Nick grips one hand round Tyson's too-skinny hip and holds him down, delighting in the way Tyson bites his lip against a groan. Things have been mad the last few weeks, spiralling out of control the way they always do towards the end of a tour, and Nick loves that Tyson allows him this space to regain control. It's a sexual high he hadn't even known he wanted to achieve before Tyson introduced him to it, and if he didn't already love Tyson to distraction sometimes, that might have pushed him over the edge. The fact that Tyson wants it so badly, needs it, is delicious. He's reminded of where he is and what the hell he's doing by Tyson arching up against him, the leg Nick pushed out of the way sliding down again. "Thought - you were too tired to tease," he grits out. Nick grins, shoving his leg up again. "Got lost in you for a second there, baby." he teases gently, and Tyson manages a grin before Nick scissors his fingers again and words are evidently a higher brain function sacrificed in the interests of sex. "Nick, Nick, Nicky..." Tyson chants for a moment, one arm moving futilely in an attempt to touch him. Nick gives in this time, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips, moving back before Tyson can gain any kind of purchase on him, thrusting his fingers in-out fast, before adding another and shoving back in. Tyson masks his gasp with a moan. "S'enough - s'enough, Nick, please..." "Ty, it's enough when I say it's enough, OK?" Nick tells him. "I won't hurt you like that, you know I-" "Wouldn't hurt." Tyson promises, and Nick sighs. "Baby-" "It won't hurt, Nicky!" "Ty..." "For fuck's sake, now." Tyson grits out and Nick pauses as Tyson writhes against him, one long, lithe temptation. Turns out, Nick's will power really isn't that strong, and he slicks his cock up before sliding into Tyson, easy-slow, relishing in the resistance and Tyson's long-drawn-out sigh, the way his eyes shut instinctively with pleasure. Nick will never get over fucking Tyson, how good it feels, how he's actually allowed to do this, to hold Tyson down until he bruises and fuck him till he moans, blissed out. Tyson's desperate right now, wound up after weeks of touring, and though they've fucked before, it's been with Chris and Mike in the front lounge and only minutes to spare rather than a whole night. Right now, Nick's got as long as he can last to fuck Tyson, to make him scream. He knows when he's got the right angle when Tyson arches up with a strangled whine, eyes squeezing even more tightly shut, panting as the sound dies away. There's nothing remotely attractive about Tyson's face at the moment – all the pouts and careful poses burnt away by desire – but Nick thinks he's beautiful right now. In retaliation, he squeezes Ty's hips more tightly and watches him bite his lip against the sob choked in his throat. Suddenly, Nick wants to hear the noises (he always wants to hear them, but most of the time he doesn't have the luxury. Here, it doesn't matter if Tyson's screaming for him), and he sets about distracting Tyson from keeping quiet, leaning down to mouth at his throat, thrusting carefully and relishing in the way Tyson arches up against him despite Nick's hands holding him down, fitting their bodies flush against each other. Tyson chokes out a long, broken groan as Nick takes one hand off his hip to jerk at his cock, rough and fast. Tyson wraps one leg up around Nick's hips, pulling him in deeper, tighter to him, and Nick smiles as he kisses him, sloppy. "God, I love you," he manages, high on sex and Tyson, but Tyson's too busy coming to respond, tightening his leg round Nick's hips and moaning low in his throat as Nick's hand tightens impossibly on his hip. No way he doesn't have bruises there tomorrow, and he's going to fucking relish them. Later, when it's over and they're cleaned up, lethargic and satisfied, with Nick wrapped around Tyson like some bizarre limpet, Tyson turns to him with a grin. "We're fucking good together, Nicky, y'know that, right?" ** When Tyson comes out of the bus wearing the suit and the skinny tie, Nick pretty much swallows his tongue. He already knows how he wants the night to end, but the T-shirt incident aside, that's further than they've ever been and Tyson, Nick knows, prefers the way it feels when it's Nick's hands holding him down, Nick keeping him in place physically, himself. But Nick also knows that Tyson is willing to take things further than before and that their sex could do with some spicing up now and again, some other options being brought into play every so often. Tyson catches the look Nick gives him and cocks his hips. "Come and get me, baby." He grins, and Nick winces. "Dude, no." He says simply, and wonders miserably to himself at what point he became that transparent. "What, you mean this look doesn't turn you on?" Tyson looks faintly downcast. "Well, baby, what's going to do it for you? I mean, short of going naked-" "No!" Is Chris' contribution. "You could do the dance of the seven veils?" Mike suggests brightly. "Oh, for god's sake, no!" Chris repeats with fervour. Nick has to agree. Some things he likes to keep to himself, and Tyson with scarves is one of them. Nick swallows firmly and shakes his head. "I like the look just fine." He says with a Look, and Tyson grins, draping himself over Nick, whose shoulders protest at the unexpected extra weight. "How much more will you like it when the tie's around my wrists?" He breathes in Nick's ear. Nick closes his eyes and counts to thirty. "We have a show," he protests weakly. "Please don't do this now." Tyson gives a delighted little snigger and shimmies away, leaving Nick with the hard-on to end all hard-ons. "Fuck off." He tells it futilely and grabs his guitar. ** Tyson, not unsurprisingly, spends the entire show teasing Nick mercilessly. At one point the bastard even holds his wrists out to the audience shouting, "so, who wants to tie me up, then?!" Predictably the crowd goes wild, but Tyson glances at Nick and grins. "Ding ding ding, ladies and gentlemen, we have a volunteer! How about it, baby, you up for tying me down?" Nick forces himself to grin and shake his head, playing it down for the crowd, but when Tyson comes near enough he whispers in his ear, "fuck off, Tyson, fuck right off, I am not playing this show with a boner." Tyson licks his ear by way of reply, because Tyson is about as subtle as a brick. "Oh baby, y'already are." He slips his hand down between Nick and the guitar and the solo gains an entirely new chord. "You are going to regret this when the show's over. So much, oh my god." Tyson grins at him and presses a kiss to his neck, intimate. "I'm counting on it, sweetheart. Now smile and wave, baby. Smile and- tonight, I'm weak – it's just another day without you, and I can't sleep-" He's launched himself away from Nick and is now screaming down at the pretty girls on the other side of the stage. Nick thinks up punishment after punishment for both the implied infidelity and the sheer tease. Tyson is nothing if not a giant cock-tease. Nick knows this. Nick has first-hand and painful experience of this. And Tyson is going to pay. During one of the breaks between songs, Nick gets a little payback, doing something he has never done before. His guitar tech is off changing guitar for him, and he is left on stage, momentarily just standing there like a lemon before the spark of an evil plan implants itself in his mind. He wanders over to Tyson, and slides his left arm around his neck whilst Tyson banters with the audience, talking shit as normal, plastering against Tyson's back and taking absolute delight in the way that Tyson's voice hitches a little. He makes sure that every eye in the house is on his left arm as he slides his right hand down the back of Tyson's jeans. Tyson jerks, shocked, and Nick feels a kind of evil glee. "And that's when Nick came in his pants. Right when he saw those War-Hammer models." Tyson twists round to look Nick in the eye, in a way which has to be uncomfortable. Beating Tyson at his own game has never been easy, so Nick just squeezes his hand, and backs off with a quick, unnoticeable kiss pressed to the back of Tyson's neck. This thing they have right now might be about scoring points, but normally they're not, and the kiss is a way of reminding Tyson of that. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Chris look to the heavens. True to the silent plea in the kiss, Tyson backs off for the rest of the concert, keeping his comments simply risqué rather than blatantly obvious. But Nick is still worked up and seething by the time the concert ends and he has Tyson slammed against a wall almost before he's got his guitar off. "What the fuck was that out there?" Nick demands, hands fisted in Tyson's lapels. "Aw, baby, don't you like a bit of foreplay?" "Not in front of a thousand strangers! A thousand strangers with internet connection and access to YouTube!" "Hey, Nicky, I'm not the one with my hands down your pants-" "Oh, that serves you right and you know it." "Yeah, but of the two of us, I'd say you were riskier out there." "I was provoked." Nick grits out. "That's my job, baby!" Tyson grins back. "Provoking the innocent-" "I am not innocent-" "Not since I got hold of you-" "Innocent, huh?" Nick grabs Tyson's ridiculous skinny tie and yanks him towards the hotel, glancing back to make sure he's not choking the bastard. "Dude, dude, what the- it was just a joke, OK!?" Nick doesn't let up, grinning insouciantly at the receptionist as he drags his lanky lead singer past the desk and into the lift. "Dude. Shut the fuck up." Tyson swallows as Nick shoves him against the wall, the hand-rail digging into his hips. "I, er. OK?" "Oh, thank fuck, finally." Nick scrabbles embarrassingly with the key-card into the room, but thankfully Tyson seems to have taken the 'shut the fuck up' order to heart and says nothing until Nick all but shoves him into the room and throws him on the bed. It's damn lucky Tyson lets Nick do this because his sheer height would have made it easy for him resist – but they're both in this as far the other. Nick glares down at him for a long, silent moment, and Tyson meets his eyes squarely, but there's something hot in the blue of his gaze. Nick reaches down and yanks off his tie. "You just had to play the whole show with this on, didn't you?" "Well, yeah," Tyson smirks, "I'm not stupid. I know what I want, Nicky." "And what's that?" "I want you to tie me up." Nick wraps the rough material of the tie around his knuckles, and watches Tyson's eyes follow it. "I want you to leave bruises." Tyson swallows as Nick flicks the end of the tie between finger and thumb. "OK, lie back and think of – um, America. That doesn't work so well." Nick curses inside his head – being smooth is a lot easier when he's drunk. Tyson doesn't seem to mind, sitting up on the bed, and catching Nick's face between his hands. "You OK with this?" he asks, pulling Nick's head down until their foreheads are resting together. "Am I OK with this? Dude, you're the one who's going to be tied to the bed, you need to tell me now if you want this to stop." Tyson's expression is surprisingly soft when he pulls back. "You'd stop if I asked you." Nick shrugs – that's pretty much a given. "Nick, I'm the one who asked for this." "Damn right you are." "So, tie me up, bitch!" "Wait, I'm the bitch? Please." Nick grins. "Shut up." Tyson throws himself backwards on the bed, stretching his arms up above his head in one lithe, graceful movement and then wincing as his wrists thwack painfully against the headboard. "OK, so that didn't work so well." He shimmies gracelessly back down the bed, and it really shouldn't be attractive, but Nick's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth all the same, especially when Tyson's movements pull his shirt out of his trousers, exposing one sharp hip-bone. Nick clambers onto the bed with even less grace than Tyson, settling himself over Tyson's hips and looking down at him for a moment. "See something you like?" Tyson asks with a grin, and Nick nods wordlessly, reaching for Tyson's wrists. He wraps the tie around them in a loose figure of eight, and Tyson shakes his head. "Tighter." Nick pulls a little, and Tyson manoeuvres himself upright, somehow. "Nick, I really wasn't kidding when I said I wanted bruises." Nick's doubtful. "Not too tight, baby." When Tyson shakes his head, Nick persists. "What if you freak out and I can't get you loose?" "How about that pocket knife of yours?" "Oh, you mean the key ring thing I had back in Junior year? Yeah, I haven't carried that around since Junior year, Ty." "Nick." Tyson's voice is very serious. "What indication have I ever given you that I would freak out?" "Ty." Nick shakes his head. "I don't know enough about this - neither of us know enough about this to be sure that something won't go wrong." "You've researched this?" Tyson grins up at him, and Nick nods, wordless. "Sweetheart, I'm not going to let you do anything to me I'm not OK with. You know me." "I know you, and I love you. I'm not going to risk hurting you." "Which is why I want you to do this, jesus, Nicky." Tyson shakes his head, lying back on the bed like a supine invitation to sin. "C'mon." Nick unravels the tie from around Tyson's wrists, despite his protestations, and shakes his head when Tyson starts to whine. "How about we get your jacket off first, genius. And your pants." "And my socks! I am not having sex wearing only my socks – I am not that dude!" "We haven't got your shoes off yet," Nick points out, amused. "And I'm not taking those things off – you tied the knots." Tyson sighs long-sufferingly. "Fine, fine. What is the point of a sex slave who won't even take your shoes off for you?" He leans down and untangles the knots of his converse with long, dextrous fingers. Nick takes a moment to admire it before grinning up at Tyson. "Funny, I thought my job description was 'guitarist'." "Exactly. Sex-slave." Tyson's answering grin is insouciant in the extreme. "Oh, fuck you, you are clearly my sex-slave." Nick grins, and shoves him back down onto the bed, loving the way Tyson's eyes go dark at the forcefulness. "This is better. I like this." Tyson nods regally. He would never admit that his voice goes breathy. Nick yanks Tyson's pants off, followed by his own. But when Tyson's hands go to the buttons on his shirt, Nick shakes his head. "Nah, leave it on." He drawls, and grabs Tyson's hands as he straddles him again, pressing two quick kisses to the knuckles on each of them, before pushing them back above his head and looping the tie around them and pulling it so tight the material goes thin. Tyson's breath is catching in his throat, his eyes hot on Nick's face, and Nick can feel his cock hard against his thigh. Tyson whines high in his throat as Nick pulls the tie tight around the bars of the headboard and knots it, cursing as his fingers fumble the knot. Tyson chuckles a little, and Nick thwacks him on the shoulder. "Eh, I'm trying my best and you're high maintenance." He can't get a finger between Tyson's wrists and the tie – it's digging in and the skin is already white under the make-shift restraint. He pulls a face, and Tyson shakes his head, biting his lip. "Nick, don't-" "Shut up." Nick tells him roughly, leaning down for a kiss which is more a bite than anything else. When he pulls back, Tyson's lips are bitten-red, and his breathing is heavier. Nick could get used to this – he takes a moment to drink it in. Most of the time he can't believe his luck, because Tyson is Tyson Ritter, and even though Tyson Ritter is a guy Nick Wheeler grew up with, saw through all the awkward stages of adolescence, he's also the model and the lead singer, and every time he goes on a shoot, Nick's reminded that this guy is both fucking gorgeous and way out of his league. "You're doing that thing again." Tyson shakes his head, his eyes soft. "What, sorry?" "You're out of my league, Nicky, and this is not the moment for a big psychological discussion, so either you fuck me, or you untie me. Your choice." He emphasises this by stretching out into one long tease, grinding against Nick's thigh. Nick makes a pretty split-second decision. "Like it was ever a choice." He reaches for the lube Tyson so presumptuously placed on the night-stand, and slicks one finger up before sliding down into a more comfortable position. He doesn't even have to tell Tyson to move his legs anymore – he just moves them. "You think we've been doing this for too long?" He asks, noting the way Tyson automatically arranges himself into the easiest, most comfortable position. "Why, you getting bored of me?" Nick presses a kiss to one bent knee. "Yeah, as if." Tyson smiles and tugs against the restraints, arching himself up against them, towards Nick. "C'mon, you gonna get round to fucking me this week any time?" "Patience." Nick sings out, one finger sliding into Tyson. Tyson's moan is long and unabashed, broken by the way Nick thrusts in and out. "God, you love this don't you?" "Oh, yeah." Tyson breathes. "And you know it, so stop teasing." "Mmm... don't wanna." Nick grins, leaning down to kiss a line down Tyson's chest as his finger thrusts in-and-out again, accustoming Tyson to the feeling of it although he's more than used to it by now. "Fucker." Tyson says fondly. "You wanna touch me." Nick breaks off the kissing to shake his head at him. "What have I said about quoting yourself in bed?" He drops his head onto Tyson's shoulder as he laughs. "Not sexy, Ty." "Success is always sexy." Tyson disagrees, and Nick uses his free hand to pinch at Tyson's nipple. Anyone else, that would jerk them out of the mood, but with Tyson that just pulls him further under. Nick loves that about him – among many other things. One finger becomes two, and Tyson is unabashedly writhing, trying to fuck himself on Nick's fingers without much success as the (too-tight) restraints keep him in place. Nick loves it. He's worried about the white of Tyson's wrists, worried about the bruising that will undoubtedly come when the tie comes off, but he loves the way Tyson loves it. Tyson's all but mindless with pleasure at this point, hips jerking futilely against Nick's, and he whispers over and over, "Nick, Nick, Nick..." Nick isn't going to deny that the way Tyson clearly just wants him is a real turn-on. Whoever it was that said people just want to be wanted was clearly right, because Tyson's want is fucking hot. He certainly won't be stringing this out much longer. He knows what Tyson can take, what Tyson wants, and that's clearly Nick, right now. Nick wants Tyson. Nick has wanted Tyson since they were stupid kids together, back in Oklahoma when it was still illegal to want your male high-school friend like that. He adds a third finger, ignoring Tyson's almost silent pleas for him to 'just get on with it, fucking hell, fuck me, please, oh God, please please please', until those pleas become a long, strung-out whine. "Shut the fuck up, Ty," he says roughly, his voice rasping over the words, "you'll wake the neighbours." Tyson isn't coherent enough to come up with a response, and Nick's hands are shaking as he slicks his cock up. He slides into Tyson and shuts his eyes for a long moment, savouring the feeling because being inside Tyson is still one of the best feelings he knows. Before he knows it, his hands have come up to cup Tyson's face, his hands gentle against Tyson's jaw, and he leans his head down against his shoulder. "Fuck, I love you," he whispers, embarrassed to be voicing the sentiment now, of all times, even though there's no way Tyson doesn't know it already. He takes away Tyson's ability to reply – doubtless with some flippant comment – by pulling out and thrusting back in as hard as he can. Tyson sobs, throwing his head back and yanking at the restraints. Nick grabs his shoulder and pushes him back forcefully, his grip turning the skin white. "Don't you do that, Tyson. Don't." He orders, and Tyson shakes his head, mindless. "Let me go, Nick, c'mon, let me go, wanna touch you, wanna feel you-" Nick cards his fingers through Tyson's hair, knotted from the show, rubbing against the delicate skin above his ear. "You're doing so well, baby," he breathes, hips jerking of their own accord, and he takes pleasure in the way Tyson moans, "just a little longer." "Can't, Nicky, can't, I can't, please, just-" "For me, Ty." It's a low blow. Tyson will do anything for Nick, and Nick knows it. To make up for it, he grabs Tyson's hips, too-tightly (it's got to hurt, but just the way Tyson likes it), and thrusts in. Tyson feels amazing, his hips jerking as Nick fucks him. It's fantastic. Nick glances up at the tie around Tyson's wrists, biting into the skin and holding Tyson in place for Nick, and Nick bites his lip as he comes. Tyson shakes his head, completely gone, and moans, "no, no, wanna hear, Nicky, wanna hear." Nick's never been able to say no to Tyson, so he lets go, moaning Tyson's name as he finishes inside him. It's only been a couple of months since they stopped using condoms together, and it's still new and exciting enough that Nick takes a second to slide out and watch for a long moment as his come trickles down onto the sheets. But Tyson starts to writhe again, and Nick's not a monster. He takes hold of Tyson's cock, firm, almost too hard, the way Tyson likes it, the way Nick knows Tyson likes it, and jerks once, twice, hard. Tyson cries out as he comes, and Nick kisses him to muffle the sound, Tyson's come dripping over his fingers. He wipes them unceremoniously over the bed cover, secure in the knowledge that they'll be taking this thing off before they go to sleep. Reaching up with hands that shake, he somehow manages to untie the knot keeping the tie in place, sighing as Tyson immediately curls his arms around him. "Thank you, baby." Tyson whispers into the skin of his shoulder, and Nick grins to himself. It's always worth this. Later, he's glad that he couldn't see the skin of Tyson's wrists, because they're red and puffy where Tyson jerked repeatedly against the tie, trying to free himself and touch Nick as he fucked him. They're sensitive – not so sensitive that Tyson can't play, but raw and painful to the touch, and Nick can tell that Tyson loves it. Nick isn't so sure that he does, isn't so sure that he could ever do this again, let it go this far, and Tyson knows it. He'll never ask again. But as the red, puffy skin fades into deep blue bruises, Nick knows Tyson thinks it was worth it. In a secret part of his mind, Nick agrees. But as he kisses Tyson, gentle-soft, curled up in Nick's bunk, he figures he loves every part of this relationship, no matter how it goes or where it leads them. It's got him and Tyson in it, and that's always been enough for Nick. **

This girl body does what she asks it to, when she asks it, but sometimes when she doesn't ask nicely enough she finds it does what it pleases. She's been teaching it when to kiss and when to kill, though it wants to do both those things all the time. If they knew, if Mal knew, if Simon knew what she knows they would throw a party for her willpower, a zui wu hui for her flesh instead of her presence, for its change and its control. But today she's allowed to kill, Mal told her to kill, and her body's so grateful it wants to leak and bleed. They came two by two, hands of blue, liao tien bu!, trying to repopulate the 'verse. Not like giraffes or goats but like dinosaurs or dodos, something wrong, something not at all supposed to be here, something antediluvian and timeless and creepy. She'll nail them to the wall. This place Mal sent her has big round halls with big round windows with fish on the other side. Inside there's air but outside there's fish and it's like being on Serenity again so she breathes shallow because she knows oxygen's limited. She's evolved beyond the dinos and dodos but she doesn't have gills. This body is the body of a girl. This girl needs to breathe. This hall is round and strange like the barrel of a gun. She loves her guns. She touches the right one, the one Jayne gave her, with her right thumb. She doesn't need to look to see its deep black blackness, the scrapes of carbon scoring under the hammer. The sweat-smoothed grip. Jayne had loved the gun well, mannishly and often. He'd probably slept with it under his pillow with his big clumsy graceful hands curled around the rubber butt. When he gave it to her it was with a sort of shruggy grunt, sidelong and grudging like he didn't remember who she was and didn't know she knew how much he loved it, didn't know she knew how much it hurt to give it up. It was the first time Jayne had written her off that way but it was understandable, 'cause it was because of the gun. The others, they never really knew what she knew when they spoke to her, and they'd talk slow with big gaps between their words figuring River'd fill in the spaces with her own breed of crazy, but Jayne always assumed she knew everything. 'Course he was right, usually, and he was right this time with the gun even though he pretended. So he handed her the gun with a big yellow bow tied around it -- some strip of fabric he'd pinched from Kaylee -- and a sideways smile and a grunty "Happy whatever, yeah." And she heard the scar on his chest where she'd stabbed him say, "It's okay, River, we love you. Jayne and me, we love you more'n we love this gun." And she'd smiled at his chest, at the scar, and said "Thank you." "You're welcome," the scar said. Jayne drank water from a canteen and nodded. Her girl-feet bound from left to right on the arched floor of the round barrel corridor but she's making good time since she stopped talking to the fish. "You are good fish," she'd said, nearly an hour ago probably, "very very good fish but I need to hurt people now." * Back that other time, that last day, the Jubal day, Simon met her at the airlock and gave her a big hard kiss on the hair. She giggled. "Just when I think I've got you figured out," he said to her head, but she knows he didn't think that. In fact, he's got her figured out better than he admits, but that's because it scares him to know what he knows and sometimes at night it makes him sick, even. Sometimes she goes into the bathroom to vomit and he's already in the bathroom vomiting and then he washes his face and brushes his teeth and goes back to bed and in the morning they don't talk about it. Sometimes she doesn't make it to the bathroom and he cleans up, quietly. He always makes it to the bathroom when he has to throw up. She doesn't want to be like Simon but she envies that. "Mal says I can stay," she said to Simon, and she started toward their quarters without taking her space suit off. He grabbed her by the neck and pulled her back, gently, so he could tug at all the velcros and zippers and he undressed her like he did when she was a little girl. "Jubal's getting tired now," she said. Simon helped her out of her left boot. "The air's thinner, big spaces between." "Yes," Simon agreed. "But we had to do it, you understand we had to do it, River." "We didn't have to do it," she shrugged, kicking off the other boot. "I could have smashed his brains with a rock." She watched Simon look for something to say. "You don't have a rock," he said at last, and led her barefoot down the cold metal of the catwalk. Kaylee was waiting outside their room when Simon and River got there, and when she saw them she leaped to her feet and pounced and gave River a hug like a coat and gave her a kiss on the hair too. She smelled all sweaty and engine grease and peaches. The peaches came in some sort of spray that Inara bought but they smelled like real peaches and Kaylee sprayed River with them once and River bit a tiny hole in the underside of her arm where no one could see. But her arm didn't taste like peaches and her blood only tasted like blood. She hugged Kaylee back with arms like a girl and she didn't bite Kaylee's neck which smelled like peaches. She gave it a little lick, though. Just the tip of her tongue, and Kaylee giggled and wiggled her fingers under River's arms and it tickled and River giggled too. Kaylee wanted to hug Simon, probably wanted to kiss him too but River didn't want to let go, even when she heard Kaylee looking at Simon over her shoulder. Even when she heard the little nerve endings in Kaylee's body bristle and when she felt Kaylee's thighs get hot and palms get cold. She didn't let go till she heard Kaylee say "Simon" out loud, even though she'd said it over and over in her head. River wanted to be treated like a girl, and girls have ears, and words go in them and change the world. She let go of Kaylee and watched her, shy and shuffling now, give Simon a sideways hug. "I didn't do anything," Simon said. "Ain't it enough I just like having you around or I gotta have zhu yao yuan yin?" Kaylee smiled. "Ain't it enough I didn't get --" She trailed off, and River heard everyone and Jubal and the word "rape." "Now his brain is breaking," River said. "It's popping, piece by piece." "River --" Simon shushed her. "It's okay," River said. "He doesn't feel it. He's asleep, and he doesn't know he's alone." That might have been the first time River used that kind of lie, the kind that makes things easier to swallow. Simon had explained that kind of lie to her but it never made sense until she'd overheard the crew trying to figure out if she was dangerous. They didn't say it out loud, not to her face, not even Jayne who knew she knew. And it was because they thought they were nice, and nice people don't say mean things, not out loud, not even to River. It made sense now. In space, Jubal was in sucking agony and his eyes bled fluid all over the inside of his helmet and he screamed and he was all alone for miles and miles and miles, dying in the dark. Kaylee smiled and squeezed Simon's shoulder and they all went inside. Kaylee sat on the couch with her fingers up through her hair like a comb and River sat on the floor and Simon went to put the teapot on and River knew Simon wanted to have sex. He didn't know he wanted to have sex, but his body felt wet and stretched taut, a lingering loneliness from when he thought River was gone, a hole that wanted filling. He felt cold and wet and lonely because he was alone in space like Jubal and he didn't want to be alone. Kaylee wanted to have sex too, but Kaylee always wanted sex, maybe even with Jubal, a little. Kaylee loved sex the way Jayne loved his guns, the way Mal loved his ship, the way Simon loved River. From Jubal's ship River had tasted Serenity and it tasted like Mal and Kaylee, sweat and engine grease and peaches and Mal's brown hair and the stretchy part of Mal's suspenders and his wide spatulate thumbs. She listened a little and heard Mal in the galley with Book, listing things. Book loved to list things and Mal loved to see the things he'd listed, things he had control over, like what kind of food they had to buy or how many people he'd killed since February or the names of Inara's clients. Whatever they were listing now had mechanical parts in -- probably a tally of the systems Jubal had destroyed, or River had. She heard Mal take a bite out of an apple slice and it tasted a little like Kaylee's neck. When Simon came back with the tea River stood on one foot. "You want to have sex now," she said to her brother. He put the tray down but the hot water spilled over the back of his hand and he popped it in his mouth. "Um," Simon said, and she could taste he was embarrassed and Kaylee was too. "No, it's okay," River said. "It's so loud in here and we both know what Kaylee tastes like and she's pretty." "Kaylee...is pretty," Simon agreed. "Kaylee's a girl," River said. "She has legs and hands and girl parts and she likes us." Simon sat down on the couch next to Kaylee but he didn't look at her. He looked at River instead. "You're sure -- you'll be okay?" he asked and there was a flash of understanding like a symphony and all of a sudden Simon didn't love her anymore, he loved Kaylee, he wanted Kaylee more than River and River was wrong. "Gotta go," River said. "Need an apple." And she buzzed out of the room like a thing that buzzes and she found Mal in the kitchen listing things and she talked loud at him about apples and circuits so she didn't hear Simon's hands on Kaylee's breasts. * Six months after Inara left they saw her again somewhere else. Mal had left her on a border world near a transport depot full of dignitaries and horses that were all one color. But when they found her again, she was in the Core. It was one year and three days after Jubal's face exploded, three and one-half days after River's unbirthday, after Mal and Jayne gave her her guns. Wash did a song about superheroes and Book made a cake and Zoe said "I'm glad you stayed" in a dark and serious tone. Kaylee put something sparkly on River's nails and it was still there, chipped where she'd chewed it but pink and sparkly like little flecks of Kaylee. Simon had said, "It's not your birthday, you know." And three and one-half days after that they set Serenity down in a rocky place on a Core world and Mal and Book and Kaylee went to the city to find things and they found things and came back with Inara. Mal brought her back in his head, sure as Book brought back two heavy water reclamators and Kaylee brought back food on sticks. Mal wanted to hold her for himself but they made him share at dinner, so he talked about her apartments and her clients and her clothes, talked about her computers and her promotion in the guild. They all took little pieces while they ate their food on sticks, Kaylee watching Mal with big Kaylee eyes and asking "Was her house real pretty? Was there lots of shiny? Did you meet her clients, any of 'em?" but she meant to say "Did she ask about me? Did you tell her?" Mal answered as best he could, eating his meat on a stick and chasing it with hard brown water. But River felt every question peel another layer from Mal's Inara, leaving her paler and more translucent where he clung to her, and River knew he'd never tell anyone that he'd told Inara he loved her, that he'd begged her to come back, that she'd cried and she loved him too and she said no, over and over and over, and that she'd stopped him when he tried to make love to her. "She's doin' right well for herself, seems," Mal said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Does a man's heart good to see her that way. So happy, so well-off and all." "Well lao tien!" Book agreed. "I wish her all the best of luck.” "I don't know what was wrong with where we left her, is all I wanna know," Zoe said. "Why a girl would up and move from a nice busy border colony into the Core where she's gotta be up to her ass in taxes just to keep her job." "I'm just glad to be getting the tien ta di gui out of here," Jayne said. "Gorram Core gives me the creepin' willies." Mal stood up and made a big show of clearing his plate. "Yeah, well, I ain't sure we're leavin' here quite so soon as we thought," he said. "Shepherd and I were downtown today came across a mechanic shop looks worthy of investigation." Only River saw Book's eyebrows arch. "You gotta be shittin' me!" Jayne slammed a fist into his own forehead. "Parked out here just waiting for the feds to come use us for target practice?" "We'll do all right for another day, two at the outside," Mal said to his plate. "Just wanna make sure Serenity's got all she needs 'fore we take off for the rim again." "Serenity's in real good shape, Cap'n," Kaylee said brightly, and Mal nodded. "Can't be too careful, little Kaylee," Mal said, and left the kitchen and that was the end of that. "Wonder what's got him all xiang huo shan yi yang tu ran bao fa?" Kaylee asked Simon, and River didn't say "Inara" but she liked the taste of it in the back of her throat. "No idea," Simon said, and as always, that was enough for him. River hooked her two feet around two legs of her chair and listened to Mal shuffle down the corridor, down the ladder into his room, heard him fall heavy on his bed. She heard the dull ache behind his eyes, heard him thrash his head from side to side to try and shake it, heard him press two fists against his forehead. Heard him hear Inara saying no, and no, and no, Mal, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, over and over again. He said, I love you, Inara, gorram it, I guess I always did and she said I know, I knew, and I love you too but it's not my life there so I had to leave. He said, we can make a life for you. She said, I'll always come second to Serenity, and he tugged his thumb and didn't argue. She said, I can't be some crook's go zhe ji nu, Malcolm, and he said, I'm not some crook. She said, slowly, I. Know. And she cried and her hair hung down over her forehead and her lips were painted crimson like a bleeding heart. River heard Mal breathe, heard him grit his teeth. Heard him lie down, arching his back away from the bed to take his trousers off, heard an elbow get caught in his suspenders, heard him curse. Heard his cock harden and sing and it sang to River in Simon's voice. She looked at Simon, who was clearing his plate, and Kaylee's, looked at Kaylee leaning back in her chair with one knee pushed up on the edge of the table, her head back watching Simon at the sink upside down. And River heard Kaylee's girl parts sing, and they sang to River in Simon's voice. Mal's body cried out like River's body, and she thought of him in here and thought they should have given him a gun too. She stood up on noodly legs and went sideways down the catwalk and nobody saw. She stopped outside Mal's door and squatted there quiet and waited for Simon. Simon went to Kaylee's room, quiet because he thought people were sleeping-- "Hurry UP," River whispered, listening hard through Mal's door and hearing Mal tug his cock and growl. "Hurry UP," River whispered to Simon, and on the other side of Serenity Simon tumbled onto Kaylee's bed. Kaylee's hands on Simon's chest, Simon's shirt up over his head, the neck-part caught in his teeth, covering his eyes, Kaylee kissed his unseeing mouth. "Wait," Simon said. "Wait-" "Can't wait," River said, mumbling against Mal's door. "Mal can't wait-" She stood up and talked to Serenity and pushed some buttons and the door flipped open and River went down the ladder quiet and Mal didn't know she was there until she kneeled beside his bed. He scrambled for his blankets and slapped on the light and she slapped it off again and he slapped it on again and wrapped himself in the blanket, penis ringing and singing and crying Inara's name. "Whoa, ho, hey now, little girl,” he said. “How'd you get in here?” "She won't come back," River said, one hand dancing in the air, tracing the circles of Simon's fingers on Kaylee's round pink nipple. "Inara. She won't come back here." "No, she made that right clear to us when she left," Mal agreed. "There's more for her out there, business-wise." River tipped her head to one side, flicked out her tongue just a little, tasting Kaylee tasting Simon's mouth. She frowned. "I don't understand! I don't understand how a person loves a person and can't – I don't know what I'm supposed to do!" "Well, first thing, mayhap not so much with the breakin' and enterin'," Mal said, chuckling that clever captainy chuckle. "But it's, now, Inara's what's got you bothered?" "She loves you," River said. "She said – I heard, she said she loved you and I don't – there's something broken in my brain and I can't make it better! I can't make it work in my head, I can't get her here for you." Mal sat down, patted a spot on the sheet beside him for River to sit down too, and she did. He put a hand on her shoulder, a warm man-hand, warm like Simon's smart surgeon fingers wiggling into the top of Kaylee's purple underpants. The underpants had little butterflies on them. “This body I have," River said, looking at it, wishing Mal could see. "It wants things. It wants to do things, touch, and kiss, and fuck, and kill. And it can't sometimes. It gets mad when it can't." "You're learnin'," Mal said, and River wondered why they didn't get him a gun too. "Sometimes it can't." Outside, Kaylee's girl parts blazed, all wet heat and she wiggled to rub up against Simon's hip. River felt the heat between her own thighs, and she reached over, picked up Mal's hand, the one he'd tried to squeeze Inara from his own cock with, and looked at his wide, calloused palm. He watched her, half-caught between confused and frightened, watched her the way everyone watched River, all the time. She spoke to his hand. "Hands help," she said."I heard, before. Your hand, helping, trying to get Inara, to make you feel like--" Mal wrenched his hand back and goggled, then coughed. "Whoa, girl. Some things a man likes to keep private, dong ma? And this, what, what, whatever you heard, da sou qiang's probably the most private thing a man's got. Between a man and his own hand, you know? Private." "I want you to make it work for me," she said, reaching for his hand again, but he pulled it away. "You can't hear it, but my brain – Simon loves me. He loves me the most, most of all, more than anything, me and Simon." Mal nodded. "I don't doubt that." "But his parts, his mouth and his penis and his hands all over Kaylee, and we like Kaylee, so it's okay, but my body – it wants." "Well, sweet holy sha gua ju tou zhong de sha gua if that doesn't just take all," Mal said, swiping that hand across his forehead to knock some sweaty hair away. "Lemme get this straight. Tsao, no, I really don't want to get this straight one bit. I think it's best you go back to your own bed, little River. Do what, do what you do with your...body-touching, private, mind you, and in the morning I'll bet you'll find your body's back to doin' what it's told." "You're afraid you'll be taking advantage of me," River said. "You're thinking, this girl, she's crazy, she doesn't know what she's asking, doesn't know what she wants." "I'm thinking – yeah, that pretty much sums it up." "I am crazy, you say I'm crazy, Simon says, and I am, but you can't take advantage if I remember how to say yes --" She heard Kaylee giggle, a short sharp burst swallowed by a kiss, and then Simon's hands were down along Kaylee's waist, down between her legs, finding things to play with, things that made Kaylee shudder and gulp. River leaned forward and kissed Mal squarely on the mouth. He pushed her away. She pushed back, had the advantage 'cause his back was near the wall and used it, fit two knees on either side of his hips and kissed him again. "Please," she said. "Captain." She tore the blanket away, slapped the light on so she could examine his body in beauty. All hard, brown, compact muscles, sweat down his sternum and his penis still hard, or hard again, probably – she tested it with a hand, quick, then pulled away – and getting harder. "Captain," she said again, in Saffron's voice. "River you know if I do this your brother'll have my hide," Mal said, and it sounded weak, and it sounded convinced and unconvincing. "You're stronger than Simon," River said, because she could play too. "Different. Rounder, maybe. Brown and round and solid. Simon's skin is translucent; I can see his workings underneath. Not yours." She had always thought Simon was beautiful; her body knew he was, but Mal was beautiful too, and hot, and screaming, and this time maybe not just screaming for Inara, maybe screaming for River a little bit too. "That tickles!" Kaylee said, and Simon moved a toe someplace. "It's an okay tickle," she said. "A good tickle." "Sorry," Simon said, and moved his toe back. River squatted over Mal and raked her fingers through her hair and shouted to her body and her guns and parts and brothers. "Make it STOP," River pleaded. "Just for a minute, just a minute where I'm all me, here, and not them --" Simon was hovering above Kaylee now, her ankles hooked behind his head, her legs spread and hot and inviting – Simon reached a hand around to steer himself, poking for the right spot, the round slippery head of his penis missing slick a couple times, sliding up, then over, then in and he PUSHED- River took Mal's cock in two hands and held it like a talisman, looking up at him bigeyed. "Ah, River," he said, and she knew she had him. "Just this," she said. "Just for tonight, just for us, and for them, and Inara – you know – if I listen just right I can feel her, she's everywhere, you brought her with you and I can feel her in you, did you know? Did you know you have a piece of Inara in your brain?" "Um," Mal said, eyes closed like if he didn't see what River was doing to his penis then it'd be okay. "No, can't say I did." "She has a man tonight," River said. "She's falling into him, again and again, she's got hair in her eyes, he's biting her nipple--" "De le!" Mal said. "That's enough! No more Inara, dong ma?" River didn't dong de. Inara was here, whether Mal knew it or not, but Simon always said she had to know when to stop talking, and this was when, because even Simon wasn't talking anymore. River eased Mal down onto the bed, reached around and stroked him slick and hard and skin and slippery, held him and then steered him inside her, easy as pie, and her body breathed out with the punch of the punchline. And then Mal was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and she wanted to eat him whole, so she kissed him hard, and he kissed back, and his hands were on her back, and her waist, and everywhere and her body sizzled with every touch -- Simon arched his back, one hand on Kaylee's breast, the other in the air, thrashing like a rodeo clown and River giggled and Simon groaned, and thrashed, and looked at Kaylee -- "You close?" "Nah, but it's okay, get me after." "Good 'cause I can't--" And Simon bucked, and groaned, and collapsed next to Kaylee, and Kaylee hugged him like a bear and kissed him on the forehead. Mal's calloused palms dragged across River's tiny nipples and every nerve ending called out with every scratch of his fingerprints, making themselves known and River clenched her inside muscles around Mal and slid up and down, slick, hard enough to feel the round pound of impact every time he hit, the dull mysterious echo of sensation, she grabbed for his hair, his ears, she kissed him, bit his chin, his shoulder, his neck, his chest, chewed at his flat solid muscles and let the round pound answer all her body's questions and then Mal's fingers walked their way up her thigh and into her curly hairs, and one thumb parted her lips and flicked and she yelped- And Simon's eyes were closed and he'd slung one knee over Kaylee's thigh, was letting his own fingers wander between her thighs, and she said "oh!" and "there" and "that's good, yeah, that's good" and then she couldn't talk anymore and he went round and around- And Mal went up and down, instead, with a thumb, got the beat like a musician and River closed her eyes tight and pressed her face into his chest, sweaty face, sweaty chest and he bucked his hips into hers and bone met bone and he pulled out a little, like a tease, maybe, and then back in all the way, and the deep warm thud again and again and his thumb flicked against her in point, then counterpoint, then counterpoint against the melody of Simon's circles on Kaylee, then harmony against Kaylee's keening "ohhhhhh" and River tried it "ohhhhh" but she wanted "guhhhhhhhh" and she moaned and Mal moaned- And Kaylee's toes pointed and her knees buckled and she said "yes!" and "yes!" and "that's good, that's good, okay. Okay. Yah. Okay." And she sank heavy in the mattress with both hands over her eyes and Simon kissed her ear. And River squeezed her knees tighter around Mal's hips, and thought "Simon" and thought "Inara" and there's sex everywhere and the 'verse is enormous but if it's got a fiery center it's around about Mal's thumb, tracing ovals now, losing the rhythm as he lost his mind and he lost control and he clawed for the blankets and took them in fistfuls and said "oh sweet lord in heaven!" And River said "oh!" and "oh!" and "oh" again and Mal said, "that's good, that's real good, more," and River thought, "I can do more" and so she thundered into him, harder, and faster, and "oh!" and that was four but there were more and Mal said, "lao tien!" and River tried it too and Mal said "you good?" and she said "NOW" and then she seized up, shuddered full-bodied, murmured "guhhhhhh" and melted wet and hot and sticky across Mal's chest. Quiet now. Somewhere, quietly, Inara's "oh," was muffled with tears her client never saw, and two by two they fell asleep. * The next day, the men with the blue hands come. Two by two they come and Mal is gone and Jayne is gone, Mal and Jayne and Zoe are gone and so with her guns, with her new guns River has to kill them all by herself. She sees Shepherd Book in the cargo bay all covered with blood, after. Her face remembers smiling and that's what makes her sickest of all. It's Kaylee's blood. At first River thinks she killed her. Then she feels Kaylee hiccup and she smells her iron heart bleeding and she thinks, only almost. And she thinks, next time, knife first, then guns, and she thinks maybe she likes her guns a little too much but Simon doesn't know that. "You didn't shoot her," Simon says with big eyes and everybody's in the infirmary and Mal's back and he's so, so sorry and he doesn't say anything about Inara and how she cried. "You got four of them," Simon says. "But you didn't shoot Kaylee. It was one of them that did it." Simon's smooth, incredulous, adorable, magic. He's covered with Kaylee's blood and it's just the most beautiful shade of crimson rosy and River smiles, because she didn't shoot her, and she shot them, and she can kill them all any time she wants. "Gotta go," River says, but Simon's up to his wrists in Kaylee again and River knows, sure as she can kill them all, he can fix her. He shakes his head without looking at her and she knows it's 'cause his heart and his penis are all pulsing full of blood for Kaylee. "Mei mei," he says, more to Kaylee than to River, and when he looks up he's angry, more to Mal than to River even if he doesn't know why. "Don't kill anyone else," he says with Kaylee's blood. River slips her knife into her boot. "You take away all my fun," she sizzles and smiles. "This isn't fun, River," Simon says with his penis, and River leans in to kiss him and he tastes like Kaylee's peachy blood. His tongue is pointy. He shakes his head. Mal is still and small in the corner with Zoe and Book and he'll never tell them that they stayed because of Inara, and that the men came because of Inara, that Kaylee got shot because of Inara, that River would kill because of Inara. That River can do what Mal can't. It's worth it, River thinks. Any excuse to find these men and kill these men and love is better than any excuse at all. "Simon," River says, calm and cool like the knife in her boot. "You wish you could carry their heads back to me on sticks. You understand. You'd come, if she didn't need you." Simon swipes a bloody glove across his forehead and Zoe makes a little gaspy gasp. "I need you," Simon says, all small because he thinks Kaylee's gonna die and if she does River's all that's left. "No," River says, because Kaylee's not gonna die. "Not need. Something else." That last part to Simon's penis, which will tremble when his surgeon's hands won't. * She's in the round corridor at the end of the round corridor all alone. She touches the gun on her left hip, the revolver Mal gave her. It's a six-shooter with a spinning chamber and a pearl handle and it takes .45 caliber bullets which Mal makes himself, in the dining room, at night. Sometimes River watches him pour the hot careful molds and she wants to stick a finger in the melted lead and she doesn't and she thinks he'd be proud of her for that. She has six bullets in this gun and eleven in Jayne's, one chambered like he taught her, and it'll be more than enough. She pushes open the round door. She has been here before. Not here, she knows, not this planet, not this undersea place with the good fish and the extinct men, but she knows this taste, bactine and gunpowder and burned flesh and spinal fluid and the furry slip of paper shoes on tile. There's a pair of pairs and they look at her like she can't hurt them, and they take little paper steps toward her like she can't hurt them, around the metal gurneys where they can't hurt her again. One of the pairs beeps, flickers a glance at the computer, pokes something and there's her picture. She smiles for the camera. "River Tam," one of the pairs says, and the pair of pairs move toward her, and there's another pair coming in the door following a keening siren. "We've been waiting for you." "I've been waiting for me too," she says, tipping her head to the side and watching them wiggle toward her like spiders. "It was my birthday," she says, and she slides the knife from her boot. "It was my birthday and I'm better now." A pair shakes its head. "We can help you," it says. "I know," she says, turning the knife over in her hand. It's warm, like her leg, like her blood, like Kaylee's blood. She looks at the tip, so small it disappears into nothing, deadly sharp nothing. She licks the tip so she can taste the blood on her tongue. Then she throws the knife. It makes a casual arc and buries itself in the eye socket of half a pair, and the other half falls to his knees and grabs for the handle with blue hands. River shoots him with Jayne's gun. Now the remaining pair of pairs is scared and they swipe for her with long blue arms, but bang bang bang bang with Jayne's gun and it's twelve blue hands on the floor and the klaxon shuts off. And now she's sad, because the room's empty and she's still got six bullets in Jayne's gun and six in Mal's and through the round windows the fish are scared. River holsters the knife and vomits on the frictionless floor. She wakes up on Serenity, in her own room in her own bed. Simon is there, but before she can say "Simon?" he says "Kaylee? She's awake," and Kaylee scurries in and crouches next to Simon and puts her hand on River's. "We was worried you were gonna sleep all day," Kaylee says. "We didn't know what happened or nothin', till Mal got back said you killed a dozen of those guys. Didja really, River? Kill a dozen of 'em?" "I don't remember," River says, and she doesn't. "The fish – there were fish, and men. I killed the men. I didn't kill the fish. And then I – don't remember." "You come back here middle of the night half-dazed, or sleepin', maybe," Kaylee says. "Anyways, we put you to bed 'cause you were right set to drop right there in the cargo hold. Didn't know what you'd been up to till Mal got back. Said you killed six in the hospital, 'least six more who'd tried to get on Serenity when Mal left to get you. Said you ran like you was flyin'." River blinks a couple more times. "You were – hurt," she says to Kaylee. Kaylee smiles at Simon. "Was," she agrees. "Hurt bad. But Simon fixed me. Says I'm a fast healer." "I didn't shoot you," River says. "No," Simon says. "You didn't shoot Kaylee. You saved her, maybe. Maybe saved all our lives, taking down those guys. You did good, River, really. I'm proud of you." She smiles. "I don't remember. I don't – where's Mal?" "Packin' up, getting us the gorram hell outta here," Kaylee says. "Reckons we've had enough of the core to last us a good couple lifetimes." "He's leaving Inara," River says. "I don't – remember. Why it is. Why it works like that. Like how it does." Kaylee looks at Simon for translation, and River thinks it's the first time that's happened in a while. The words in her head, the things she sees and hears are her own, thick and undiluted sensation, everything closing in. But when she speaks, she speaks like a girl, and usually they understand. This time Simon looks back at Kaylee as if to say he doesn't know either. "You'll understand," River says, to both of them. "Later. Soon. About why we want what we want. Inara's down there, but we're here, us. All of us." "You saw to that," Simon says, but he's not scared of her anymore, not today, anyway. "You took care of those men so we'd be safe, here. Together." "Me and my guns," River says. "Me and my girl parts and my guns."

Abject poverty was no stranger to Buster McHenry, he'd seen plenty of it in the ghettos of Philadelphia but the unsophisticated surroundings gave the impression he had stepped out of the United States and into a Third World country. Rusty wrecks of cars adorned the frontage of many a dwelling, their battered frames substituting as a playground for dirty children in tattered clothing. Here and there was an exception, an island amid the sea of apathy. Buster was almost grateful to leave the houses behind as he drove deeper onto the Reservation. The seemingly endless rolling hills of coarse grass and wildflowers were a new experience to his city-eyes. He had grown up in a thriving metropolis where skyscrapers were aptly named as they stretched their masonry fingers towards the stratosphere, but it was the openness that awed him most of all. Until now his sense of distance had been restricted to the heights of the skyscrapers and to the lengths of grey pavement overshadowed by those same buildings. He pulled the car off the side of the long, dusty road, got out and walked a short distance away until he was surrounded by grassland. Taking a deep breath in through his nose, he held it in his lungs then released it slowly through his mouth. It felt strange to not find that bitter metallic taste of the city coating his tongue and the back of his throat. The air was hot and dry yet sweet with the perfume of shrubs and wildflowers. Buster coughed feeling the lifetime of accumulated city pollution and nicotine congeal inside his lungs and throat, noticing for the first time in his life how blocked his nose felt as he tried to inhale the sweet, pure air. As he gazed around he forced his mind to stop thinking and allowed his senses to take over. Gradually he located sounds in what had seemed at first like an eerie silence compared to the constant hum of the city; the buzzing of insects, the cry of birds overhead and the soft hushing of the slight breeze through the tall grass. His eyes took in colors; lilac, red and all shades of green and brown blending naturally in the vista set before him. "No wonder Hank came back here." His own voice seemed alien to him after driving for several hours in silence. The last person he had spoken to had been the girl at the car rental counter - all efficient and impersonal with a smile that seemed glued to her pretty face until he had stepped up to the counter. Her dark eyes had widened a fraction in appreciation. He snorted as he realized what a change he must have seemed from the usual pot-bellied tourist dressed in obligatory Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts and baseball cap. Buster looked up into an azure blue sky, squinting even through the Raybans as his gaze took in the brilliant yellow orb climbing towards it's zenith. "Rest stop over." Moments later he was behind the wheel edging the rental back onto the highway and with nothing else to distract him his thoughts returned to Hank Storm. Over a month had passed since that night at Marino's ranch and he could still taste the fear in his mouth as he looked down the wrong end of a gun knowing there would be bargaining with the man holding the weapon. In that moment, when the cold eyes had captured his own, Buster knew he was dead. It was the battle cry of Hank Storm and the ensuing fight with JJ that had distracted the ruthless killer giving Buster the opportunity to save them both. Even now he could not comprehend the strength and accuracy with which he had thrown the Lance. The logical part of his mind told him it was a surge of adrenaline caused by desperation but the primitive believed the mystical qualities of the Lance had guided his hand. He remembered sitting in the dirt watching his winded friend climb to his feet, eyes still holding his own as Hank stumbled towards Marino. Hank had put out the flames burning along the broken shaft of the Lance with his coat before pulling the weapon from the dead body. The sound of sirens in the distance had broken the spell and the rest of the night retained a nightmarish quality as he was manhandled by the local Sheriff's department. From that time on Buster saw only snatches of his new found friend as both were handcuffed and led away towards separate vehicles. His last sight of Hank Storm had been through the back window of a Police car. By the time the authorities had confirmed his innocence, the Indian had gone. "You never even said good-bye." -ooOOoo- Hank Storm stood up in the saddle and counted the bodies trailing behind him. "Yep. All there." He'd not managed to lose a tourist yet but there was always the first time. He couldn't remember how many times he had performed this same tour guide but it brought in much needed dollars, even more so since the death of his brother, George, and his father. The Lakota had readily accepted him as the new Wicasa Wakan - the Medicine Man - and he found that, between the two duties, there was enough money to support his mother and George's family. So why was he not content? The emptiness that had filled him all of his life, that had driven him from the Reservation as a young man, was still with him. Hank shied away from remembering how that loneliness had dissipated during those five days in Philadelphia for that path led nowhere. Buster was a white boy, city born and bred, and Hank... Well, he could never imagine giving up this life again despite the loneliness. He gazed across the rolling hills hearing the whisper of the breeze through the long grass and frowned as he noticed a strange sensation growing in the pit of his stomach. It was a nervous tingling like butterflies fluttering inside him - a feeling of excitement that grew stronger with each passing second and yet it was a pleasing feeling. Hank shook his head in consternation. He was still trying to come to terms with his gifts and had yet to figure out how to unravel all the images and sensations into something more coherent. Had he been alone he would have led his horse into the taller grass and allowed the sensations to build, calling upon his Spirit Guide to lead him to revelation. Hank pushed the errant feelings aside and devoted his full attention to the expectant faces of this latest group of tourists. For a change all the people behind him were native Indian so he altered his normally neutral dialog to express pride in his own nation, almost gloating as he described the way the Lakota Sioux had defeated the superior forces of the Cavalry at Round Ridge. The blare of a car horn caught him by surprise but there was no mistaking the face behind the wheel as the car pulled to a halt beside the group. Hank barely restrained a cry of pleasure as a familiar figure stepped from the car, having to look away for a moment to regain his composure, but not before he had taken a good look at the stocky figure. Buster appeared slightly thinner from the last time he saw him but the crystal blue eyes were as bright as the azure sky above them. "Hey! You're under arrest." Hank felt the shock ripple through the group despite the playful tone in the voice and found his own lips savouring the feel and sound of a single word. "Buster." The meeting felt strangely awkward. He wanted to say so much, wanted to reach out and touch the man standing in front of him, to ruffle the golden hair and wrap his arms around the leaner frame in greeting but he could feel the presence of the others watching his every move. Hank smiled as he recognized the same need written across his friend's expressive face, but he also read indecision - and fear. No words had passed between them since they had separated at the burning barn on Marino's ranch and Hank knew how inscrutable he could appear at times. The Indian smiled as Buster turned away and headed back to the car. It was so like his friend to ignore his own desires and not force his company onto others. Hank felt a stabbing in his heart as he took in the slightly lost expression. He couldn't allow Buster to leave all uncertain and insecure. "I found you last time." Judging from the light that leaped into the beautiful eyes his words had conveyed all he intended. He watched as the car receded into the distance and knew, somehow, that this particular tour would seem the longest of his life. -ooOOoo- The hotel looked no different from the dozens of others he had stayed in yet there was something intangible in the air as he waited in the small, empty lounge. A cool glass of beer lay untouched before him despite the dryness of his mouth. His heart leaped into his throat as a silhouette passed in front of the opaque window and he waited impatiently for the door to open. Hank paused on the threshold, his eyes drinking in the sight of his friend once more. He watched as Buster gained his feet and moved around the table towards him. Moments later he found the smaller man wrapped in his arms and he hugged him back with all his strength. All too soon he felt the other retreat to a safer distance but he couldn't mistake the pleasure written across the flushed face. Buster looked away in embarrassment. "Sorry, Chief. I didn't mean to get so emotional." "S'Okay." An easy silence fell between them as if words were unnecessary then suddenly the dam burst open and they were talking and laughing as if they had been friends all their lives. Eventually the lateness of the hour brought a halt to their reunion. "How long are you planning to stay?" "Just a few days... but I can extend that up to a week." "Good. I'll see you tomorrow - I'll give you a special guided tour." "Ahh... Chief? Do we have to go on horses?" Hank smiled enigmatically and watched as dread furled the tall forehead. He reached out and pushed the errant lock of golden hair back and nodded as if dealing with a small boy rather than a grown man. Buster sighed in both resignation and acceptance before accompanying Hank to the door. There was a strained moment as Hank reached the threshold where he was almost convinced Buster was going to invite him up to his room - but it passed. His thoughts returned to another hotel where he had been forced to pick up the wounded Police officer and carry him to their room. The words of the concierge drifted through his mind as he walked back to his pick-up 'must be on their honeymoon' and he smiled deprecatingly when he recognized the slight wistfulness that wished it had been true. -ooOOoo- Buster closed the bedroom door behind him and sank against it, terrified at how close he had come to ruining everything. Long ago he had accepted his own preference towards men but Hank was special. He wanted Hank so bad it hurt but he couldn't bear to see those enigmatic black eyes turn from his in betrayal and disgust. He would do anything to prevent that happening. That night, his dreams were filled with visions of long, delicate fingers tracing paths of fire across his sensitive skin and of a mouth devouring his own in hungry kisses. He awoke to find his body burning with desire and his mind's eye supplied images of his dream lover as he stroked himself to a strangely unfulfilling climax. Buster rolled over onto his stomach as the last spasms faded away, muffling his gasps in the soft down of the pillow. As always, he felt the heat of tears prickling his eyes but a lifetime of control prevented them from falling. He took a deep breath and glanced up at the bedside clock frowning when he realized he had slept longer than he had intended but there was still time for a shower and breakfast before Hank arrived - and still time to force his wayward emotions back under control. -ooOOoo- Buster eyed the horse with a certain amount of trepidation. It seemed gentle enough but looks could be deceiving. "Are you sure it won't bite?" Hank smiled. He'd been riding since he was old enough to walk but was sensitive enough to recognize the fear that darkened the blue eyes. He'd seen the same expression on a dozen faces but none had ever invoked such a protective streak in him as it did at this moment. Hank held tightly to the reins as he instructed his friend on how to mount up. "Always mount from the left. Place your foot in the stirrup and spring up. If you try to go up slow the horse gets uncomfortable and will start to move off. See... You're a natural. Now take up the reins like this." Buster gripped the reins tightly after looping them across each palm between thumb and little finger then watched the agile Indian mount his piebald horse. "Doesn't it hurt?" "What? The bit? No. Only if you pull too hard. Now shorten the rein so she knows you're there or she'll ignore your commands." Hank smiled again. He'd deliberately chosen the most gentle animal in the stable - the one he normally placed inexperienced children on - for he wanted this day to be perfect. Last night, after leaving Buster, he had returned to his home and had spent the rest of the night in front of the small log fire in silent contemplation. His mind replaying the myriad expressions on his friend's face but they always returned to that final moment when the longing and desire had been written so plainly for a split second in time. The realization and fear that had swept desire away had been just as apparent and it was for this reason alone he knew he would have to be careful in his seduction of the other. Buster McHenry had been burnt too many times in his short life to willingly place his hand in the fire once more. His dreams, both waking and asleep, had been filled with the warmth of this man since the day his eyes had first been captured across a museum floor. By the end of this week he wanted to have the reality - and if the Spirits were kind - he would hold Buster forever. It didn't matter that they were from different worlds for the Spirits had revealed their ever-crossing paths down through the centuries. In this lifetime he would bind their souls together in a bond that would survive even death and they would walk the same path in future reincarnations until the end of time. Hank turned off the normal trail leaving civilization well behind them as he headed for the secluded places he had discovered as a child. Every once in a while he looked back at his companion, drinking in the sight of golden hair ruffled by the slight breeze. He wished he could see the wonder in the blue eyes as they gazed around in awe but the Raybans hid them within their dark depths. Often he could sense those eyes burning into his back sending a tingling sensation along his spine and nerve endings. They spoke rarely, enjoying the companionship in silence. Finally, they reached the crest of another hill and stopped, staring into the breathtaking sight stretched before them. "There." Buster followed the line of the outstretched hand to where a ribbon of water disappeared into a small copse. He gave the horse a small kick and followed the piebald down the slope, thankful their goal was now in sight after spending several hours in the saddle. The rest of the day passed so quickly yet was filled with frustration for both men as each tried hard to hide their true feelings from the other. Neither had the urge to be the first to break that final barrier for the stakes were too high. Their friendship had taken only a few days to bind them to the soul and neither wanted to lose it. They watched as the sun sank slowly towards the horizon dragging a brilliant red cloak behind that promised another beautiful day. "Time to head back." For a moment time stretched between them filled with emotion and heavy with the words that neither was prepared to speak. The moment passed and soon they were on the trail heading back towards civilization. -ooOOoo- Buster watched as the long, dextrous fingers unsnapped the buckles and pulled the bulky saddles from their mounts. The smell of fresh hay filled the stable along with the fresher smell of manure. Buster crinkled up his nose but smiled as he recognised the teasing expression on his companion's face. "It's a lot healthier than Carbon Monoxide." They walked slowly across the yard towards the rental. Buster stopped suddenly and turned to his friend, his arms wrapping around himself in a self-conscious gesture. "Thanks. I had a great day." "S'Okay. Perhaps we can do something else tomorrow. I could show you where the Elders keep the Lance when it's..." "Sure, I'd like that. Well... I suppose I'll see you tomorrow." "Okay." Hank watched his friend clamber behind the wheel and waved once, almost perfunctorily as the car pulled away, his heart wishing he had been wrapped in those arms, moving towards dawn. Am I in love, or is it the magic of tonight? The words of a song reverberated around his mind and he sighed. He knew the answer already. He was in love. -ooOOoo- Buster stretched to ease the kinks from sleeping on a mattress that had seen better days. He almost sneered as he thought of how he would like to have added to those better days. His dreams had been filled with warm hands and dark eyes that swept the uncertainty from his soul leaving him desperate for contact. He stared at the clock wondering whether the Indian would be awake. "Of course he will be." Buster reached for the phone by his bed and dialed the number he had committed to memory. It was answered on the fifth ring by a well-remembered and well-loved voice. "Hank? It's Buster. I hope I didn't wake you..." A small chuckle drifted along the wires, warming his heart and taking the sting out of the following words. "I've been up for hours with the horses." "Yeah... well I thought I'd give you a call as we didn't make any firm arrangements..." The silence drifted on for a moment while Hank dwelled on the soft melodic voice that whispered down the line. He sensed the sudden strained silence. "How about I pick you up around 11. I've got a tour party until then." "Outside my hotel?" "Sure. Did you sleep all right?" "Yeah. Fine. You?" "Yeah. One of the mares was a little restless but...." Hank stopped, suddenly aware he was talking gibberish merely to keep Buster on the line. "Well, I'd best get back to work. I'll see you at 11." "Yeah. I've got a few chores to do before then." Hank held onto the receiver long after the disengaged tone had sounded. Buster squinted up into the strong sunlight as he stepped through the doorway. The street beyond reminding him more of the old westerns he had loved as a child rather than a modern day township. He could almost visualize Gary Cooper striding along the main street to meet his destiny. He shook his head and stepped off the sidewalk onto the dusty road. The decision to stay a few days longer necessitated a trip to the local Bank. The heavy shutters kept the morning heat from stifling the bank's interior and a ceiling fan brought welcome relief. Everything seemed to be more relaxed - less chaotic than the city, like stepping into another time zone. Buster felt all his impatience ebb away as he felt his mind and body relax into the unhurried atmosphere. He made his way towards the cashier and began the small transaction that would ensure he had enough cash to cover the addition time he intended to spend on the Reservation. With his mind so relaxed the sudden flare of his Cop's sixth sense raised the hairs on the back of his neck and he turned in one swift movement towards the door, his hand reaching for his gun beneath his left armpit. Panic widened his eyes as he came up empty suddenly remembering how he had felt secure enough to leave the gun behind at the hotel. The swarthy man sneered as he relaxed his finger on the trigger of the extended weapon and motioned the blond-haired man away from the counter with the gun. "Now all you good folks can put your bellies on the floor - except you." Buster glanced back at the frightened cashier but knew he could do nothing to help the young man so he sank to the floor as ordered. The cracked linoleum felt cool yet rough against his cheek but he forced away any discomfort as he concentrated on the robbers. From his prone position he could see three pairs of denim-clad legs still standing yet his sixth sense told him there was one other - someone who had crept through the back entrance to the bank. He stiffened as he felt the reverberation of soft footsteps behind him, hearing the soft creak of stretched denim as someone crouched down beside him. Just as he decided to turn his head and take a look at the stranger Buster felt fingers card through his hair from forehead to the nape of his neck then move forward again to gather up the silky, golden strands that fell across his forehead. "Make a nice addition to my scalp pole." Buster swallowed hard as the swish of a knife leaving its sheath sounded close to his ear. He tightened his muscles ready to fight but the hand released the tight hold on his hair and he felt the other push away from him. Buster watched as a well-built man in denim jeans and jacket stepped over him, his eyes taking in the glossy dark hair that fell below shoulder level. As the man turned he caught a fleeting glance of a white feather secured into a tight side-braid before his eyes were captured by deep brown depths; Buster committed the face to memory. The skin was a deeper shade than Hank's and the features, containing none of the softness he associated with his friend, were typical of the stereotype Red Indian he seen in comic books as a kid, with hooded eyes, high cheekbones and heavy nose. The Indian sneered at his hostage, his white teeth gleaming against a sun and wind burnt face as he took in the pale complexion and deep blue eyes beneath the blond hair. He pulled out a thin piece of rope from his back pocket. "Keep your gun trained on him." "What'ya doing, Red?" "Hostage." "We don't need no hostage. Just' git the money an' let's go." The Indian ignored his associate knowing the gun would be aimed as directed. He dropped down beside the young Philadelphian and, with the speed of a wrangler, had tied the small hands firmly at the wrist. The Indian stood dragging Buster up with him. "You should listen to your partner. A hostage will slow you down." Buster was pulled unceremoniously through the door and towards a rusty blue Plymouth but moments later found himself being forced back inside the bank. -ooOOoo- A sense of unease filled Hank and he glanced back along the line of tourists. The tour was almost over and the final words of thanks fell from his lips automatically as he watched them slide from their ponies. Hank handed the reins of his favorite piebald over to Theresa, his brother's widow. "Teri, could you see to the horses." Teri frowned in concern but nodded. She knew better than to ask what was wrong, recognizing the strained expression that came more often to her brother-in-law as his Spirit powers increased. Deep inside Hank knew something had happened to Buster. He forced himself to walk to the pick-up despite every instinct screaming at him to run. As the car pulled away in the direction of the small town he chanted softly to himself the only certainty he felt. "He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead..." The scene in town was one of chaos with people milling about in the center of the dusty street while police vehicles destroyed the peace with the insistent whoop of their sirens. Flashing blue and red seemed out of place; an encroachment of modern technology against an Old Wild West back-drop. Hank pulled to a halt just beyond the circle of police cars and pushed his way through the crowd towards the Bank at the center. He was half-expecting to see Buster in the thick of the action but a quick scan did not reveal the presence of his golden-haired friend. "What's going on?" The Reservation officer turned in annoyance at the interruption but his features schooled quickly to respect as he recognized the new Wicasa Wakan. "The Bank was hit about half an hour ago. The gang tried to make a get-away but we were waiting for them. They're holed up in there right now." "Hostages?" "Yep. As far as we know there's Mike Harshaw, young Ted Bearclaw who's the Cashier and about three customers, Mrs Markham, John Hewitt and some tourist." "Fair-hair, blue eyes, stocky build, late twenties?" The cop nodded in awe of the close description. "You know this tourist?" "Yeah. Yeah, I do. His name's Buster. Buster McHenry." -ooOOoo- "Red, we've gotta get outta here before the Sheriff can bring in the f**king FBI." Buster glanced from the agitated robber with the swarthy complexion up into the Indian's expressionless face. He ignored the quiet sobs of the woman who huddled in the corner with the Bank's other hostages and concentrated on the man who held him so securely. His own soft voice sounded calm and even compared to the quiver in the other's. "He's right, Red, robbing banks and taking hostages is a federal offense." "Keep it buttoned or I'll cut the tongue out of your pretty head." Red emphasized this by drawing the flat of the blade across McHenry's cheek. The Indian smiled slightly as his hostage stiffened in apprehension and then hauled McHenry across the room to force him down on the floor inside the cashier's small compartment. "Bring the rest of them over here. I want them some place secure and out of the way." Buster McHenry grimaced as the four other hostages were forced into the small compartment leaving no room for him to maneuver. -ooOOoo- "I want everyone to get back. Now!" The local sheriff sighed in exasperation as his words went unheeded by the people around him but he was not surprised. This was a small town where there was rarely any action taking place except for the usual Saturday night fight at the local bar. There had been a murder or two in the past but nothing as exciting as a full scale siege on the local bank. Sheriff Running Elk pulled off his Stetson and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. He glanced around as he spotted one of his deputies approaching with the Wicasa Wakan, Hank Storm. Although he did not believe in all that spiritual mumbo jumbo he had enough sense not to annoy the mainly Indian population and waited patiently. "We've gotta name for that tourist. Buster McHenry. The city Cop that helped retrieve the Lance." Running Elk gave Hank Storm a hard look and nodded, unsure whether they had just found an ace up their sleeves or not. However, this was one occasion when Storm hoped McHenry would sit back and let the local cops and the Feds deal with the situation. As it turned out there was no need for him to worry. The FBI arrived and within a few short hours they convinced the Gang to release all but one hostage, Mike Harshaw, the Manager of the Bank. Ted Bearclaw was first out and a few moments later Buster McHenry found himself walking unsteadily through the bank door into the bright, early afternoon sunshine, a silent, frightened woman holding onto one of his tightly bound arms. He stumbled on the shallow wooden step that led down off the sidewalk onto the dusty road, the woman falling with him but was saved by a strong pair of arms that seemed to come out of nowhere. His eyes turned towards his savior and a broad smile swept across his face with recognition. "Hank." Other hands grabbed Bearclaw, the woman and Hewitt. All but McHenry were led quickly to safety beyond the ring of police cars. Running Elk watched the young policeman as the rope binding his wrists was cut away, sympathizing with the man as the blood flowing back into his fingers and cramped legs caused sharp pins and needles. Within a minute the FBI had a clear picture of who was left in the bank and their last known positions. Despite his protestations, Buster McHenry was led away once he had imparted the information. "Hey, Chief, you're hurting me." Buster glanced across at the expressionless features. No, not expressionless. The fine features were tightly drawn, the eyes narrowed and hard. The hand gripped more tightly onto his arm as Hank Storm pulled him away from the buzzing scene towards the small hotel. Savagely, Buster pushed away all thoughts of fighting and allowed himself to be steered in to the hotel and up the stairs to his room. As the door closed behind them, Hank turned and pulled the smaller man into his arms, crushing McHenry against his chest in a fierce hug, burying his face in the blond hair. McHenry pushed, savagely, against the other man forcing some distance between them. "What the hell do you think you're--" "I thought I was going to lose you just when I had found you." McHenry felt a shiver run through him as the soft words reached him through the hot haze of anger, suddenly understanding the true depth of Hank Storm's feelings for him. Gently, he reached out and drew the lankier frame into his arms. "Hank? Hank, it's okay? I'm alright." By now Hank could feel the tightness of his erection against his jeans. Hands moved down to gently cup his buttocks through the rough denim and he was pulled firmly against McHenry. He could feel an echoing hardness against his stomach. The soft lips took his once more and he felt Buster's hands move up to slowly push the buckskin jacket from his shoulders. He did not resist and allowed gravity to take the heavy item from his body. The hands moved back to his sides and he could feel them gather up the edges of his tee shirt. He moaned in disappointment as Buster pulled away so he could lift the thin cloth over Hank's head but sighed in pleasure as he was drawn back into strong arms, his naked chest lying against the soft cotton of Buster's shirt. Hank reached up but felt himself gently pushed away as Buster unfastened the buttons and shrugged the shirt from his shoulders. As the material dropped to the ground he reached forward and pressed his naked torso against Hank. He reached between them to caress a dark nipple and then took Hank's mouth once more in a deeply satisfying kiss. Their tongues entwining lazily. Buster broke the kiss and stared into love-soaked eyes asking and receiving consent to continue. The flushed face softened as Buster's hands moved to pull down the zip of Hank's jeans. He eased his hand inside to rest against the hard length still covered by thin cotton briefs. His palm rubbed sensuously along the length and felt the shaft harden even more. A moan escaped from Hank's lips and Buster looked up to see Hank's head thrown back in abandonment. He nipped at the exposed throat and then, with both hands he tugged at the black denim, pulling the jeans down over the sharp hip until they fell of their own accord. Buster reached back to grab the waistband of the light briefs and gently eased them over the burgeoning erection. He pushed them down as far as he could and then took Hank's hands and placed them against his own now very restrictive clothing. The non-verbal request reached Hank's inflamed mind and he reciprocated. The Lakota let his fingers toy with the long shaft that sprang free. He felt Buster's fingers slide over his hip, down his flat abdomen to slide through the dark hair to the base of his throbbing shaft. The fingers wrapped tightly around him and then began to move slowly up to the sensitive tip and then down to the base. Hank's body began to thrust in time to the rhythm of Buster's hand and his own hand moved to the silken shaft of his partner and mirrored the pumping movement. Together they rubbed and pulled until Hank felt the nerves in his groin tingle ever stronger until they finally overloaded. A warm sensation spread out from the pit of his stomach through his groin sending his mind into orbit and he shuddered hard as warm fluid jetted between their closely pressed bodies. New warmth followed moments later covering his hand and they collapsed against each other in completion. Hank buried his face in Buster's neck as his knees weakened and found himself held in a tight embrace. He could feel the strong pulse in the Philadelphian's neck and could hear the echo of his own heartbeat in his ears. Once he felt that Hank was strong enough to stand alone, Buster pushed himself away to arms length and gazed at his new lover. He smiled in lazy repletion and leaned forward to pull Hank against himself once more. His head moved until his mouth was close to one delicate ear. "I've wanted this for a long time." He drew back several paces. A smile curved on Hank's face as he realized how strange they must look standing in the middle of the room with their jeans around their ankles. He saw the same thought mirrored in his lover's face. "No." Hank stopped Buster from removing his clothes but kicked off his own trainers and jeans. He moved back to kneel in front of Buster and began to untie the laces of Buster's shoes. Buster leaned onto the broad shoulders as each foot was lifted in turn to remove the final articles of clothing. Once they were both fully undressed, Hank stood up and moved into his lover's arms. This time the kiss was full of tenderness and Buster allowed Hank to cover his face in feather light kisses. Eventually Hank pulled back. "Let's move somewhere more comfortable." He gently pressed Buster back until they stood over the bed and then he eased Buster down until his own body covered the smaller man. Buster's mouth sought his once more and he softened beneath the insistent touch. As the kiss lengthened he felt his body begin to respond. A warm stirring in his loins sent fingers of energy carousing through his body until his whole being was aroused and demanding. His senses seemed to soak away into his needs and he felt his body being turned over until he lay on his stomach. Soft caresses from tongue and fingers across his buttocks only served to heighten his pleasure. Some small part of him knew what Hank intended but its voice was drowned out by screaming nerve endings. Buster felt his buttocks parted and a finger, dampened with their previous come, teased about the entrance to his body. He felt a strong finger press against the hot ring of muscle and pushed back as it slipped inside to caress the inner wall. He squirmed against the welcome intruder and moaned in loss as it slowly pulled out of him but then in pleasure as the single finger was returned with another. The delicious torture continued until he was almost thrusting against the fingers that explored him so intimately. Suddenly the fingers withdrew and Buster shivered in anticipation. The blunt, thick shaft that nudged against him made him tighten his muscles but gentle words of encouragement and the soft caresses of Hank's hands willed him to relax. As his body released it's tight control, Buster felt the thick shaft penetrate the ring of muscle and stop. Discomfort was quickly replaced by pleasure as Hank's hands reached beneath him to stroke his softening organ back into life. Hank waited while Buster accommodated himself and sobbed in delight when Buster pushed back to bury the rigid shaft deep inside him. Buster felt Hank's groin pressed tightly against his buttocks and remained still as they gloried in his new experience. Hank leaned forward and kissed the nape of his lover's neck and Buster twisted his head so their mouths could meet in an quick, awkward yet satisfying kiss. The movement started slowly. A gentle rocking but with each forward motion the thrust became stronger until Hank was plunging into the captive body with wild abandon. Each movement increased the friction between Hank and the bed and he felt his own pleasure escalate. With a cry of intense pleasure, Hank stilled as his seed jetted forth into his lover's body feeling the strong muscles clench around his shaft as the warm sensation filled the smaller man. Hank collapsed against his sweat-soaked back and lay still, breathing heavily. After a while he moved and his swiftly softening organ escaped from its tight prison. Hank rolled his weight off the body beneath him and turned Buster over to pull him into his arms. He smiled as he saw Buster's firmly erect shaft. He laid Buster back on the bed and then moved until he could lick the silky skin. His tongue swirled along the taut skin and across the sensitive head. He let the tip of his tongue push into the circle to lick the delicate flesh beneath the foreskin. Hank leant forward and gently took the rosy tip into his mouth allowing his tongue to swirl across the sensitive nerve endings. His hand slowly pumped from the base of the organ in time with his sucking and he listened as Buster's breathing became more ragged. Raising his eyes he watched as the blue eyes closed and ecstasy crossed the soft, boyish features. Buster thrust harder and harder into the warm, wet mouth until Hank felt the shaft throb in his hand and tasted the jet of salty fluid. He swallowed the creamy liquid that filled his mouth with each thrust, sucking hard on the shaft until he had drained every drop from Buster's body. Hank licked around the tip and along the shaft before releasing the softening organ and clambering back up the bed. He lay alongside the sweat-slicked body and pulled Buster against him until Buster's head lay on his chest. Hank kissed the satiated face over and over in a litany of soft caresses as they drifted off to sleep. -ooOOoo- The strong sunlight had long since faded into the weakness of dusk by the time the lover's awoke and, for a long time they gazed into each other's eyes, giving and receiving assurance that there were no regrets. Eventually, Buster sat up and reached for the bedside lamp. The small wattage bulb pushed away a little of the encroaching darkness. "So what comes next?" Hank Storm sank back, averting his eyes from the other man as he considered all their options, knowing that he had already discarded any that meant he would leave the Reservation yet afraid to ask Buster to give up his city life. The silence stretched between them until McHenry sighed. "It's obvious you can't leave here. You've become too important to the People - and to your brother's family." "I won't beg you to stay." "Did I tell you that I've decided to quit the Force? Do you think there might be work for an white-ass, ex-Cop on a Lakota Reservation?" "I can't ask you to sacrifice your career for me." McHenry chuckled softly. No, Hank would never make any demands of him - it was not in his nature. "It's no sacrifice. That episode with Marino made me realize how little I cared whether I lived or died - until I met you. I want to stay with you." Hank Storm smiled and reached out to pull the other man into a tight embrace. He kissed the full mouth and then moved his head until his lips were close to one ear. "I heard Sheriff Running Elk mention he needed more ethnic minorities in the Reservation Police Service... and you can't get more ethnic than a white-ass Philadelphian." THE END

The first time he sees Captain Jack Harkness is when he passes Yvonne Hartman's door on his way to have lunch with Lisa. Normally, he doesn't look in unless he's been summoned. This time, he can't not look, because Yvonne is (one) at loggerheads with someone (two) who won't back down. It's too fascinating not to sneak a peek, though he won't linger. He does stop, though, because Yvonne is red-faced and he's never even imagined that. And then there's the man with whom she is arguing, who is no less of a spectacle as he rounds on Yvonne. It is the cold, hard look in his face as he tells her that Torchwood's charter required the protection of Great Britain from alien menace, not the torturing of sentient beings, that lasers its stamp on Ianto's brain. The statement is impassioned but the eyes – bright as starlight – are almost lifeless. Ianto is glad that a crowd has gathered, because when those eyes catch his, he is sufficiently hidden not to be recognisable. He moves on with all the others when Yvonne follows the man's gaze. ***** The first time Ianto tries to touch Captain Harkness, it is to probe a weevil scratch to the man's neck. But even before Harkness intercepts his hand, Ianto can see that the wound has closed. He's read about Harkness, of course. He's quite sure he's managed to gain access to all the secret files, including those that were hidden from Yvonne. But seeing those recuperative powers in action for himself is very different from reading about them in a heavily protected file. Perhaps that explains the frisson that passes through him when Harkness does deflect his hand. He can't help but notice that the gesture of taking it between thumb and forefinger has a sexy grace to it, even though it's meant to minimize contact. And even though he never touched Harkness' neck, he is now forcibly aware of the smooth perfection of the skin that covers it. Besides, the man is wearing an aftershave that would make anyone want to shag him against the nearest tree. Even one Ianto Jones, who is straight as an arrow, practically engaged, and trying desperately to save the life and soul of his partially cyber-converted girlfriend. The first time he actually does touch Harkness, it is to stop him in his tracks and force the man to listen to his plea. And once again, Ianto notices that peculiar shying away from a hand near the neck or face. Ianto is confused, because he thought that Captain Jack Harkness would shag just about anything that got near him. He can't figure out where he's gone wrong, because everything he's read, heard and seen says that Harkness should be attempting to remove impeding garments from at least one cock, possibly even on the boardwalk of Mermaid Quay as the first few bleary-eyed citizens straggle into work at this hour. He's done everything he can to throw himself at Harkness, and it hasn't worked. And then he alters his strategy. The first time Ianto Jones and Captain Jack Harkness end up in each other's arms, it is painful and fun and impossible and very, very wrong, and Ianto gets up despite his hard-on and leaves, pausing only to listen to Jack Harkness telling him to report to work. He doesn't look back because he is trying not to cry. And then Jack speaks again, an in-joke between them and an invitation, and Ianto fails and doesn't want to be seen. ***** The first time Ianto kisses Jack Harkness, it is an accident. He's been adjusting his game with his new boss, learning how to flirt without throwing himself at the man and how to put his foot down without being insubordinate. At this moment, he is leaning over Jack's shoulder to see the codes for the secure archives – just one time, Jack said, because they mustn't be copied, and Ianto has an eidetic memory – when Jack asks if he's memorised them yet. As he's mouthing the last one, he turns his head toward Jack just as Jack's turning towards him and their lips brush. "Sorry," they both say, and, "It's all right, I—" and "It's my fault...." And then they are snogging, and it feels so good, because Jack's lips are lush against his, and the man's frighteningly good at kissing, and Ianto hasn't had anything like it in so long. And it's the second time a man – this man – has made him hard, though he puts that down to the sex deprivation and stress that have been his life for the past few months. He's not sure how he's going to deal with the decision that must come next, but it's taken out of his hands when Suzie clears her throat at the door. Ianto thinks he might just hate Suzie. ***** They're searching the archives for a means to send the Fauxmingo, as Owen has dubbed him, back to his ship before he gets stressed and bursts into a million flaming, angry, pink, bipedal rodent-like creatures with very long necks and a galaxy-wide reputation for burning planets out of existence for the very slightest perturbation. They're both edgy, Jack is lashing out at everyone and Ianto is wound so tightly that he's ready to kill his boss. And then Jack starts walking towards the door to the deeper archives – far too close to Lisa – and Ianto nearly bottles it. He reaches for his gun, even though he hates it and hasn't fired it once since it was issued to him. Jack stops suddenly. Ianto freezes. He always forgets about Jack's hearing. Jack wheels around, eyes bright, and disappears into the shelving stacks. Really disappears, because Ianto can't see him, even with the torch he always carries into this section of the archives. "Jack?" Silence. "Jack!" "It's okay." Ianto jumps a mile when Jack's voice sounds from a yard behind his shoulder. "Perception filter-blocked area. I'd forgotten it existed, so I need to give you the code. But first...." Jack brandishes a pink abacus before organising the beads until they glow and send a blue beam towards the Fauxmingo's cell. Ianto shuts his eyes against the painful brightness and shudders at the cry that reminds him too much of noises that Lisa makes when she's most in danger of losing her battle. "Ianto? You can open your eyes, now. Ianto!" Ianto looks up, blinking, swallowing his thoughts. "It's gone. We did it!" "We did it," Ianto echoes, staring at Jack's sparkling eyes. Jack's expression changes. Goes feral. He lunges for Ianto. The kiss is desperate, hungry, primal, and insanely mutual. Ianto doesn't want it to stop, even though he should. Jack's tongue is in his mouth, exploring and opening sensations in places Ianto never knew he had. Ianto gasps, opening more to Jack. And then Jack pulls away, panting and staring into Ianto's eyes. "I've gotta put this in the deep archives—" Ianto rips the abacus from Jack's hand and tosses it on the nearest shelf. "It can fucking wait!" He grabs Jack's braces and yanks him forward, not quite able to focus on the narrow escape he just gave Lisa. All he knows is want and need and too long and fucking NOW! His hands are on Jack's arse before he can think, and he is surrounded by Jack's scent and infiltrated by Jack's breath and pulled against Jack's sex. He undoes Jack's belt, one-handed, but falters on the trouser button. He pulls his other hand around Jack's hip and pauses, breaking the kiss long enough to ask the silent question. Jack searches Ianto's eyes and gives him a silent snarl that means now! before attacking his mouth and his trousers at the same time. Jack's hand is inside Ianto's trousers, inside his pants, on his cock, and Ianto moans and thrusts without volition, barely controlling himself as he slips his hand inside Jack's unzipped trousers and cups hot hardness through Jack's pants. Jack hisses a breath in and pushes himself against Ianto's hand as he pushes Ianto's trousers and pants down. Ianto gasps as his cock springs free and slaps against Jack's wrist. He pushes his hand down to cup Jack's balls – firm and full against his palm – and drag his fingers up Jack's dick, which is long, thick and pulsing against him through the cotton. And then nothing is more important in that moment than removing everything between his hand and Jack. He dips trembling fingers inside the waistband of Jack's pants and pushes them down. The waistband catches the tip, and Jack hisses. "Sorry," Ianto says, and then he's wrapped his hand around Jack's cock and sliding-squeezing-fisting and thrusting into Jack's fist and gasping-moaning when Jack teases his slit or plays with his balls. Jack tries kissing him, then, but they're breathing so hard that it doesn't work. Ianto tries to keep his eyes open, but he can't. He never can when it gets this intense. It takes him until now, as he moves faster and thrusts harder, to realise that his other hand is on Jack's face. That he can feel Jack's sex sweat. That Jack's hand is on his arm. That Jack is panting almost as desperately as he is. That his thumb is stroking over Jack's slit, and that Jack is coming and once again he must look and see Jack's head thrown back in pure relief. And then Ianto comes without warning into Jack's hand, harder than he has in more than a year, and collapses as Jack catches him. "Thank you," says Jack, when they're sat on the floor in a heap of inconvenient limbs and they can breathe a bit. "Tha-thank you," Ianto replies, much less steadily than he'd like. "Any time." There's a comforting leer in Jack's voice. "You seemed like you needed it almost as much as I did." Ianto has to pull his thoughts back into his brain. "It's ... been a while." Jack kisses his forehead as their breathing slows to normal. "And you're good for a first-timer." Ianto stiffens. "How'd you know?" "Trust me, I know." Ianto looks up at the huge grin in Jack's voice to find one on his face. It even reaches his eyes, a little. "Sorry." "Hey, like I said, you're good." Jack gets up and offers Ianto his clean hand. Ianto takes it and scrambles to his feet, remembering a little slowly to start putting himself back together. Jack hands Ianto a handkerchief and leans in. "Next time, try catching it or maybe aiming it someplace more strategic." He pats Ianto's shoulder, looking pointedly at his suit coat before kissing him quickly and turning to leave. "I'll see you upstairs in ten." Ianto flushes hot as he dabs at the trails of semen on his suit coat and tie, but his embarrassment is eclipsed by his relief that Jack has forgotten to put away the abacus. He makes a note to remind Jack to give him the code for the filtered area. He tries not to think about how he feels about the first time he touched another man's dick. ***** The first time Ianto starts to suspect that he might not know everything about Jack's healing powers comes at the end of a very long week. It's late. Ianto can't remember the last time he slept for more than an hour, and that in the archives or one of the disused cells near Lisa. Everyone's on edge. Owen and Suzie are biting each other's heads off, Tosh has just pressed the wrong key at a particularly loud shout from Owen, sending the CCTV system into shutdown, and Jack— "Everybody SHUT UP!" The pterodactyl screeches and seeks refuge in her eyrie. Owen and Suzie halt, mid-jab. Tosh spins around as her hand pulls at her hair, tears in her eyes. Ianto gazes at Jack in the bedlam of it all, forcing himself to think of Lisa instead of Jack's flashing eyes and utterly perfect skin set off by the gore splattered around the hole in the coat. It's a good thing it's a big coat, he thinks, because otherwise Jack wouldn't be standing there. "Owen, there's a dead alien in the SUV and a live ASBO kid with a particle blast to the leg who needs specialised medical attention and retcon. Toshiko, we need a cover story for the broken window at the Norwegian Church." "Stained glass?" Tosh asks, wiping her face and setting the CCTV system to rights. "Yeah, and broken from the inside." "On it." "That's my girl. Suzie, take a look at this." Jack tosses her a metal gauntlet and sets the cruelest-looking, most intriguing dagger Ianto's ever seen on her desk. "A guy tried it on and touched a dead rat." Suzie turns the gauntlet over in her hands. "And...?" "Rat came back to life." Suzie's eyes widen. "Ianto, with me." Jack swishes into his office. Ianto follows as the others get to work. Even so, he feels the pressure of their eyes on him. Jack is sitting at his desk. "Shut the door." His voice is unexpectedly ragged. Ianto finds a prickle of worry near his spine. "Privacy filter?" Jack nods. Ianto flips the switch that makes it impossible for others to see in. It also locks the door, which Ianto isn't as sure he can stomach. He stays very close to the switch. "You're not in trouble." Jack starts to pull off his coat. He is slow, lacking the grace of moments before. Ianto would quip, but Jack's difficulty makes him round the desk and offer a hand with the coat, instead. "Thanks." Jack looks up, revealing a shirt in a worse state than the coat. "Any chance you know someone who can fix this?" He waggles a finger through the hole in his coat, which distracts Ianto from the one in his shirt. Ianto takes a moment to smirk. "My father was a master tailor, sir. Taught me a few tricks of the trade." A shadow of something crosses Jack's face for a split second before he smiles slightly. "Good." "What about the shirt, sir?" Jack shakes his head. "Just leave it. I have lots of them." He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes, his angle changing enough to let Ianto see the gaping chasm in the other side of the shirt and the healing wound underneath. "Jack!" It's a whisper that escapes before Ianto can contain it. Jack's eyes snap open, but he doesn't move. "You know I heal fast, right?" "Yes." Ianto doesn't need to say it, because that knowledge became clear to both of them on first meeting. "The others don't. Not even Owen." "And you want to keep it that way." "Yup." Jack closes his eyes again. Ianto moves behind Jack on the way to hanging up the coat. "Is there anything I can do?" "Just ... stay with me. Maybe sort out my paperwork." He closes his eyes. Ianto puts it down to insanity, but all he can think about doing is kissing the pain-sweat off Jack's brow. And then he realises that human vulnerability is something he's missed for what seems like a lifetime. It's also something he's never seen in Jack. Not like this. So he stops as he passes behind the chair again and leans down to kiss Jack's forehead, astounded by how gently he does it. He is also a bit surprised that Jack hasn't thrown him across the room when it ends. Jack's eyes stop Ianto from pulling away. They are searching, questioning, maybe begging. Offering. Ianto leans down again and kisses the same place, lingering longer. Jack breathes deeper. Ianto kisses the bridge of Jack's nose. Jack's breath hitches ever so slightly. Ianto kisses Jack's nose, his chin, his mouth. Jack's hand cups Ianto's face as his lips open slowly to Ianto's kisses. Ianto sinks deep and slowly into the kiss. It's intimate this way. Much more so than he'd allowed himself to consider being with anyone. He hasn't even done this with Lisa. Not lingering like this. Not comforting like this. Not being comforted like this. "Ianto...." Ianto follows the entreaty and slides down to take Jack in his arms, careful to avoid the wound that still hasn't closed. Jack seems off kilter, somehow, perhaps a bit clingy. It's probably due to the injuries and exhaustion of the day, but it's still unexpected, and touches Ianto too close to where Lisa lives. He puts her in a safe place and lets himself feel for Jack. He tells himself that it's the first time. He insists that it's also the last. ***** There were too many firsts to count on the day that Lisa died. It was the first time that Ianto was complicit in a murder. The first time he punched his boss. The first time he failed a mission. The first time he experienced Jack's cruelty. The first time he died. The first time he was brought back to life. The first time he wished Lisa dead. The first time he betrayed his country, his team, his girlfriend, his – Jack. The first time he hated himself so much that he just had to do everything wrong and make all of it their fault. The first time he had ever been that wrong in a history of a life gone wrong. The first time he couldn't decide whether to pray for life or death. The first time he went so numb that he forgot who and where he was. He slumps on the sofa – one he'd bought for Lisa with his last pound from the government hush money after Canary Wharf – and plays it over in his mind. She only saw it once when he smuggled her in for a night before her new accommodations were ready. And then it hits him that even though she was only in his flat once, she's everywhere, along with all of his wasted effort and fucking useless hope. There are pictures everywhere. She was responsible for all of them, either snapping them herself or making him or one of her friends do it. They made him cringe, at first – a sort of visual clutter that he never could stand – but she loved them, so he brought them all with him from her flat when they fled London. At first, the photos were a sort of lifeline – a reminder of his purpose when he couldn't block out the horror of what Lisa was going through. But now.... Now he recognises another reason why he stayed at the Hub as often as possible. The buzzer eats into his grey reverie and he gets up and lets the caller into the building and opens his door. He doesn't know who it is, though he can guess, and he can't be bothered. If it's a serial killer, it might be good if he was the target, but hope is obscene. The footsteps are familiar, as is the sound of coat hem swirling against the door. Ianto doesn't look up. "You shouldn't be here." "Oh, yeah? Well, neither should you. You're supposed to be at the gym taking out your frustrations on a punching bag, as of half an hour ago." "They're closed. Gas leak." "I know. I went there first, when I heard." Jack sits on the other end of the sofa. "I came straight back here." "Good." "Is that all, sir?" "You're not on the job, so you don't have to call me 'sir'." "But I am following your orders or getting shot, sir." "Good point. But don't." "Yes, si—Jack." The name sticks in his throat. "Why did you come? You've got cameras following me everywhere, I'm under house arrest and it's not your day." "I thought you might need a punching bag." Ianto looks up. Jack holds his arms out to the sides. Ianto feels more than a bit sick. "Trust me, I can take it." Ianto shakes his head. "I'll just go to the gym as soon as they're open again." Jack stands up and braces himself in an open spot. "This is a test, isn't it?" Jack beckons with hands and body. "Come on, Ianto. You know it's what you want to do." Yes! And "No." "What if I order you to do it?" Ianto wants so much to stand up to do this, to face Jack and his fucking loyalty test, but he knows he'll lose it if he does. "Then you'll have to shoot me, sir." "Hey, stand up and face me like a man! You did before." "And I lost everything!" He realises that he's on his feet. "'There's always something left to live for,' you said. How would you know that when you've never lost your fucking soul?" Jack drops his hands and for a terrible, frozen moment, he looks just as he did when he ordered Ianto to kill Lisa. "Do monsters have souls in your world?" In the middle of the spear of guilt lancing through him, Ianto sees a world that isn't grey for the first time in many months. "I'm—I shouldn't have said that." He wants a glass of water, but won't go near the kitchenette because there are too many weapons in it. He sits again, on the end of the sofa farthest from Jack. "I shouldn't have said any of it." He lets his eyes drop. "I shouldn't have done any of it." There is a very long pause. Jack is in the kitchenette, running water. He sets a glass down on the other end of the coffee table and another one in front of Ianto. He sets three white pills of different sizes and shapes in a row beside the glass. Ianto looks up. "I'll let you choose how much you want to forget." "What if I don't want to forget any of it?" Jack shrugs, which makes his Webley just visible under his coat. Ianto can't help a very small, very grey smirk. "For someone who thinks subtlety's overrated, you can be very good at it." "You think so?" The hopeful light in Jack's eyes is enough to make Ianto go spare. "I don't want to forget any of it, Jack. So..." He nods at the weapon. There is another long pause. The sun is beginning to set. Jack sits near the other end of the sofa. "Tell me about her." For the first time, Ianto Jones reveals himself to Jack Harkness. ***** It's been hard, and he still hurts so much that sometimes he wishes he'd chosen the retcon, but Ianto knows that he's been forgiven. At least by Jack. He won't chance things with the others yet, but he doesn't care right now because Jack forgave him this morning. Jack forgave him even though he'd been there three hours earlier than allowed. He still can't bear to go home. His flat isn't home. Jack didn't seem to know he'd spent all night at the Hub in a cell. He's scared to confess it, because he's starting to feel like he might live again, but he knows he must. Jack forgave him. It's a first, both for him and for Jack. Two days into his newly forgiven state, he has just finished putting the workstation area to rights when the cog door alarm sounds. He fights a moment of panic and guilt, reminding himself that he's the only one there, and it's his job to monitor the facility as well as the workstations. He makes sure that he's sitting at Tosh's. But when they come through the door, the silence is ugly. Ianto vacates Tosh's chair immediately. He doesn't bolt for the archives, but he does find a way to fade into the woodwork. He tries to ask Tosh what happened, but she shakes her head and pushes past him to get her things. Gwen and Owen are having nothing to do with anyone, especially Jack. The team are gone within minutes, leaving a frigid silence around him. "I suppose you want to leave, too." Ianto un-fades. "Is there any reason I should?" "You know what happened." "Tosh told me, and I heard some of it over the comms." Jack deflates, revealing the dashing of a hope. "Just go home, Ianto." "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." "Why not?" "Because I want to hear your side." "Why?" Jack's tone is tetchy, which means that he is close to giving in or lashing out. "Because it sounded like you did the right thing, and I don't understand why everyone's so cross about it." Jack crosses his arms. "I gave a child to the faeries." "What would've happened if you hadn't?" Jack's facial muscles work and then his eyes drop and he shakes his head. "Let me guess: the world would've ended?" "Something like that." There is a long silence, and it is as if a door stands ajar between them. If it closes, it will be permanent. Ianto stands at the brink of that threshold, knowing that his next choice will direct the rest of his life. "Sometimes a bit of company can help," he offers. "You know, friendly face, even if you don't want to talk about it." Jack looks at Ianto for a long moment as though gearing up to ask if there's another Cyberman in the basement, and the tension becomes almost unbearable. But Jack relents and unfolds his arms. "I don't suppose you can get that thing to make hot chocolate?" Ianto does his best not to goggle, but he knows he's failed miserably when Jack smiles. "Hey, don't knock it! There's nothing like a really good hot chocolate with a jigger or two of twenty-five year old Macallan in it." "Owen's got some Horlicks." "So that'd be a 'no', then." "Yep." Jack sighs. Ianto makes a note to acquire a recipe as soon as he's free. "I have some dark chocolate if you have the whisky." "Where's the pterodactyl?" "Out hunting." Jack nods and walks towards his office. Ianto hesitates, recognising a last chance to flee. But when Jack's head turns the smallest fraction, pain seeping out, Ianto collects the chocolate and follows. As Jack sits, Ianto reaches for the decanter, but is stopped by Jack's hand on his. "Not this time." Jack pulls a bottle of Macallan from his desk and waggles it. "Only way to eat chocolate." "Don't let Myfanwy hear you say that." Ianto opens the wrapper on the chocolate bar, breaking a perfect line of segments from the end as Jack pours the whisky. "Myfanwy?" Jack's eyes widen. "You named it! I told you not to name it!" Ianto shrugs. "We were already attached." He sips the whisky. "Besides, it was either that or shoot her." Jack freezes, whisky glass an inch from his lips. "Have you made up with her, yet?" Ianto nods. "It wasn't her fault." Jack hesitates, and then touches his glass to Ianto's. Ianto drinks, closing his eyes on the sight of the amber liquid passing between Jack's lips. He savours the dark, oaken smoke of the whisky as he imagines those lips on his own. "Hey, don't forget the chocolate!" Ianto comes back to himself and swallows. "Sorry ... I thought I left it on the desk." "You did." Jack hands him a strip of it. "But your whisky's almost gone." He nods at the glass. "Oh." He looks at Jack from hooded eyes. "How would you suggest I consume these items, Sir?" Jack has just bitten off a piece of chocolate and is chewing it. He stops for a second, as though Ianto's question has just registered, and picks up his whisky glass. Winking at Ianto, he raises the glass and takes a mouthful of the liquid, rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing the lot. "You haven't done this before, have you?" Jack grimaces. "No, not really." He coughs. Ianto swallows the last of his whisky slowly and lets a bit of chocolate melt in his mouth while the flavour permeates his senses. It's wonderful. Smoky and sensuous and masculine. He leans back in his chair. "Good combination, huh?" Jack's voice is soft and low, but it doesn't reach his smile, which doesn't reach his eyes. "Mm." Ianto swallows the last of the chocolate. He wouldn't want it every day, but he's not telling Jack that. Not until he can feel good about being smug again. "She wanted to go." Ianto looks up again. "Jasmine. She wanted to go with them." Jack shakes his head and stares far away, as though he's looking through the structure of the world into time itself. Ianto can't remember seeing Jack this sad. "I, er, did some research on her," he offers. Jack is silent. "She seemed to enjoy her own company. Never really got on with other children. Never had any human friends. She got bullied in school." Ianto pauses. "Maybe they offered her something she thought she couldn't find here." "She'll live forever." The words are squeezed from Jack, as if he knows. Ianto knows that Jack has already lived longer than the average Torchwood agent, and that he can recuperate from wounds that would put most anyone else in hospital or worse. But the questions flooding him now make his mind go blank. "I think you did the right thing." "Never reassure," says Jack, absently. Ianto frowns. "From what little I heard, the faeries said she was the last chosen one?" "Yes." "Which means that they'll leave us alone for ... at least a while, right?" "Forever." "And Jasmine wanted to be with them." "Yes." "And the faeries would've killed more people if you hadn't allowed her to go." "Yeah." "Then in what way am I reassuring you?" Jack's sigh is a tetchy mixture of annoyance, exasperation and grudging amusement that curls his lips in a way that lasers Ianto's brain all over again. The moment fades. "It's not that simple." Ianto turns the empty glass in his hands, watching the stubborn drops release their hold and chase around the bottom edge. "It never is." "The others hate me. They'll never trust me, now." Ianto looks up at Jack. "They'll come around," he says, quietly. Jack meets Ianto's eyes with an indecipherable look. "I hope so," he says at last. "Go home. Get some sleep." Ianto feels the colour drain from his face. "Or are you planning to spend yet another night in a cell? You know, I can show you a better one than the one you've been using. And you're kind of cute when you snore. At least, I think that's you snoring. The sound doesn't work on that camera." Ianto tries to sit down and stumbles when he finds he already is. "I—" He swallows and stands, pulling out his security pass. "You'll be wanting this. As you know, I don't have a weapon whilst on probation. If you're offering a choice, I prefer execution to retcon—" "I'm not terminating you, Ianto. Not yet, anyway. Just tell me why you're disobeying my order not to stay here once you've been dismissed." Ianto places the security pass on Jack's desk and feels his ears go crimson. "I'm not sure I can." "Try." "It's ... pathetic." "Let me be the judge of that." "It's just ... I've ... I can't ... there's ... too many memories of her. Sometimes I can't even open the door to the flat." Jack softens. "Go on." "There are photos everywhere. Her favourite books, her favourite clothes, favourite sheets. I packed them all up when I got her out of London. I bought a sofa she'd love for when she was healed. She never even lived there." Ianto's heart is thudding so hard that Jack must be able to hear it. He swipes at the moisture on his face. "She was only there for one night." Jack rises and walks around the desk, half-sitting on the edge of it as he hands Ianto the security pass. "Sounds like you need a new flat." Ianto nods. "I ... haven't been able to think about it properly." He wishes he could stop the tears, but knows it's pointless. Jack sighs as he rises and invades Ianto's personal space. He hesitates a fraction of a second before taking Ianto in his arms. Ianto isn't sure what to do with the fact that this isn't a prelude to sex. He's never been good at being comforted. And he isn't sure why his arms seem to be making their way around Jack. "You're going to sort this out." Jack's voice is soft and sure against Ianto's ear. "Think of it as an added condition of your probation." Ianto can only nod against Jack's cheek and shoulder. Jack shifts enough to kiss him, closed-mouthed but soft, lingering just longer than necessary. Just long enough to offer renewed – continued – interest. Ianto accepts it – returns it. Wishes he could stop. Wouldn't stop for the world. Jack pulls back. "You can stay tonight, if you want." Ianto is surprised by the wisp of pleading in the offer. He doesn't think Jack meant it to show. "Where do you want me?" Jack smiles at him, impossibly close. "Ya really wanna know?" "I wouldn't want to break any more rules." Jack nods after a moment. "Come on." He drapes an arm around Ianto's back, hand resting on his shoulder. It's warm and comforting, and Ianto wonders about the feeling of disappointment at the possibility of sex vanishing as quickly as it appeared. Jack leads him one step to the hole in the floor three feet from where they were standing. "Best bed in the house. It's all yours for the night." Ianto swallows, waiting for another boot to drop. "All yours, Ianto. I won't need it tonight." "You haven't slept the last two days." Jack's hand stiffens on Ianto's shoulder. "If you know that, then I'm not the only one with an insomnia problem." "I always did have a problem with concrete beds." Ianto gazes at the dishevelled mattress, at this moment the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "You sure you don't mind?" Jack chuckles. "I'm sure. Just budge over if I join you later. All this talk of sleep is making me tired." Unexpected warmth infuses Ianto at that thought. He feels himself flush again. "Alright." Jack turns Ianto towards him. "Sex with the boss is not part of the rules for any Torchwood employee. Not while I'm boss, anyway." He searches Ianto's eyes. "I know." Ianto leans forward slowly and kisses Jack when he doesn't object. It is sexy and sweet and new without the cover of Lisa, and it scares him to death because for the first time, Ianto Jones cannot deny that he wants Jack Harkness. But he's going to keep trying. ***** Today is the first time Ianto has faced his fears of life and death. When Lisa killed him, he died with a sense of relief that it was so quick. When the cannibal had the meat cleaver at his throat, the thought flashing through his abject terror was the reality that Lisa had relieved him of his duty to her and responsibility to the others. For the first time in his life, he came face to face with his will to live. And now, he sits alone in a flat he can't bear with two cracked ribs and a concussion, surrounded by memorabilia he can no longer avoid. He also has the unwelcome opportunity to examine his thoughts and conscience. He is not brave. He does not like how he behaved with Tosh when they were trapped alone and discovered the gory freezer. He derives some satisfaction from giving her the opportunity to escape later, but doesn't know that he could manage the hero thing again, knowing how fucking painful it is to be kicked and beaten half to death. And all of this reminds Ianto that he has never felt so terrified, so abandoned and so inundated by physical pain all in one day. Not even when his father pushed him too hard on the swing and broke his leg. Rib pain is worse than leg pain, he decides for the tenth time as he reaches for another photo to pack into the box. He's been at this for two hours and has only managed to pack six pictures. He is sitting on the sofa when the buzzer sounds. It hurts like hell to get up with the kicked knee, the bruised kidney, the cracked ribs and the headache that won't go away on the painkiller he's allowed, so he just buzzes his visitor in with a "Door's open, Tosh." He hopes that he can persuade her to help with packing up the photos as his ribs protest yet again. He also hopes that Jack and Owen saw Gwen home all right. He could lie to A&E about having a neighbour see him through his concussion, but her shotgun wound looked grim enough that she couldn't. "You know, you really should stop doing that." Ianto whips around at the sound of Jack's voice and nearly passes out from the cacophony of agony from every injury site. "You wanna move slowly when you've got that many wounds." Ianto is back to hating Jack, or would be, if he were strong enough. "What are you doing here?" "Wow, you really are hostile when you're in this place." "Everything hurts. What did you expect?" "For you to be following doctor's orders and resting." Jack puts a take-away bag down on the kitchenette counter. "Like Tosh is doing, because I insisted." "Is she okay?" "Mostly, for someone who's been beaten by cannibals, but she's in no shape to do concussion duty." Jack gives Ianto a pointed look. "That bit about waking up a concussion victim every hour is a myth. I'll be fine on my own." Jack looks around at the pictures on the floor. "Yeah, because you're always such a slob." He gathers up the twenty-two fallen photos and puts them in the box within thirty seconds. Ianto's mix of fury and relief is almost too much to bear. "And by the way, it's not a myth. Not entirely. You shouldn't be alone the first night with a grade three concussion. And since you fibbed your way out of A&E, you're stuck with me. Unless you want to do the sensible thing and go back there." "No." "Right." Jack goes to the kitchen and runs the tap. Ianto hears water glasses being filled, and hates the reminder of the last time they were doing this. Just a few weeks ago, wasn't it? So he's not surprised when one of the glasses appears in front of him along with a white pill that he doesn't recognise. He looks up at Jack and his head spins. Jack sits next to him. "It's a present from Owen. It's supposed to prevent brain bleeding and swelling. It's also a fantastic painkiller." Ianto swallows it immediately. "Thought you might appreciate that." Ianto thinks about smiling, but that is waylaid by dizziness. Before he knows what's happening, he wakes up in a bed in which he hasn't slept for four months. "It also knocks you out for a few hours." Ianto's head turns, without pain. Jack is stretched out beside him, fully dressed and reading a book on top of the covers. "Gives me the opportunity to give you a shot for the bones. They'll heal quicker, now." "And you couldn't have given that when I was conscious?" "It's better this way. Trust me." "Should I knock you out if you ever need that drug?" Ianto asks, fervently. "Um, yeah, though it's complicated...." "I think my headache's coming back." "Really?" Jack is all business, snapping his book shut. "Sarcasm. Thanks. For the medicine. I do feel better." "Good. Then I get to ask you a few things." "Could we do the debriefing at work tomorrow?" "Not this part of it. Why did you say your last snog was with Lisa?" There is curiosity and perhaps hurt in it, but not the anger that had been there when it happened. "I ... wasn't sure you wanted the others to know we've been ... doing that." It's the closest thing to the truth that Ianto's willing to admit. Jack looks at him with the same expression he wore in Brynblaidd. The one Ianto still can't bear. "It's too soon." Ianto says it so quietly that he almost doesn't hear it. "It didn't seem like that the other night." Ianto agrees, but can't speak. Something in Jack closes. "Look, like I said, I don't require sex from my employees. But I do require truth. I don't care if you tell the others that we've snogged—" "You weren't exactly forthcoming about it when you were asked." "That's because you weren't the last person I kissed." Ianto's mind reels and chooses the least threatening possibility. "So you snogged a non-human life form?" "Well at least you agree that they're people, too." "How many legs did it have?" "He had two legs, two arms, one torso, one head, all the usual accoutrements of human-based shape except for six digits on each visible extremity. And deep kissing is their way of greeting a diplomatic liaison." "Did you enjoy it?" Ianto realises instantly that he would do anything not to have said those words. "Ask me that again the next time we're in bed together, and I might just tell you. Right now, let's talk about trust and how you're going to stop lying to at least one person in your life. And that person would be...?" Ianto feels sick. "You." "Yeah. So. What did your father do, again?" "He was a mas—" Ianto sighs at the expression on Jack's face. "He did alterations at Debenham's. He wanted to be a tailor." "So what stopped him?" "He was apprenticed to a man on Savile Row, once. But then one of the more important customers didn't like his stitching on a cuff hem." Jack settles back against the wall, arms folded. "So they fired him?" "Yeah, but not for the stitching." "Oh?" "Dad told the man that he was wrong and brought out the measuring tape to prove it." "I thought they only gave warnings to apprentices who did that. At least, the first time...." "Not when the client is the Prince of Wales." Jack winces. "Ouch! Fired and blacklisted, then?" Ianto nods and rubs his head. "Have you had enough truth, yet?" Jack smiles, and it very nearly reaches his eyes. "Yeah, that'll do for now. Besides, I verified that story, already. Odd thing, a master tailor letting an apprentice get his hands on a suit for royalty." Ianto falls asleep during Jack's musings, oddly lifted by telling someone the truth about his dad and more than a little disturbed that he's glad it was Jack. He dreams about Jack alternately kissing and punching a six-fingered Prince Charles. In his dream, he begs for retcon, even though he can't scream. ***** Jack finds Ianto after his talk with Tosh in front of the Millennium Centre. "How's the Rift?" "Quiet. Nothing new since you left." Ianto wonders about the agitation in Jack's step. "Good. Come with me." Jack turns on his heel without waiting for Ianto's opinion. Ianto follows Jack down to the firing range. "What am I doing h-here?" Jack turns to him, eyes nearly as lifeless as when Ianto had first seen him in Yvonne Hartman's office. "Getting a refresher course in how to handle a weapon. I should have given you one before Brynblaidd, but I got lazy. Now that your ribs have healed enough, it's time." He hands Ianto a Glock. "Let's see you put six bullets in the target's head." Ianto turns side-on to the target and fires six times. "Wow! That's pretty good, especially since the angle of your hand is off. Try straightening your wrist – no, not like that. Here...." Jack moves up behind him and fits them together. "Drop your shoulder a bit." Ianto can feel Jack's hand on his shoulder, and lets it sink to where it should be in that firing position. "Yeah, that's it. Now sight along your arm...." Jack draws his hand along Ianto's arm. "Good...." Ianto lets his arm slot into the configuration Jack's hand and arm dictate. He tries hard not to think of the heat of Jack against him. Or that damned scent.... "Now your wrist. See how it's pointing out?" Jack cups Ianto's hand in his own. "Relax." Ianto tries to comply. That voice in his ear, though, and that hand against his own, and that fucking scent.... "Relax, Ianto." There is nothing anyone could do, Ianto thinks, but obey that voice when it's swirling in one's ear like that. He relaxes. Unfortunately, that means taking in a breathful of Jack's scent. "That's it. Now hand like this...." Jack supports Ianto's hand and manoeuvres it into position. "Good! Now stay just like that and aim right for the centre of the head." He stays against Ianto's back but takes his hand away. Ianto concentrates on keeping his arm and hand in place and tries not to think of Jack anchoring him. He focuses and squeezes the trigger six more times. He wonders where five of the bullets went and checks the clip and the barrel while the target moves towards them. "Wow! We need to get you out on field work more often." Jack presents the target to Ianto. "See that?" "I see one bullet hole, dead centre. Where'd my cluster go?" "Look closer at the hole." Ianto does. "It's irregular and a bit too big." "Exactly. Which is why Torchwood has a new sharp-shooter." "You mean...." "All six bullets through one hole with just one little hand position correction. Nice work, Ianto." Jack shifts slightly against Ianto, which seems to release more of that intoxicating scent into Ianto's nostrils. It also reveals that Jack is hard. Ianto spins around and pins Jack to the weapons table with a sound snog. Jack breaks the kiss. "You sure this isn't too soon?" "No, but I don't care." He assaults Jack's mouth again, and this time Jack participates. Ianto unbuttons Jack's shirt, kissing his way quickly down the taut torso, revelling in the contact with perfect skin as he reaches the trouser waistband and unfastens it. He never thought he'd put his mouth on another man's cock, but he is unable to think of anything but consuming Jack. Jack's breath hitches as Ianto tugs at the trousers. He shoves the braces off his shoulders and the trousers fall to puddle at his feet. Ianto kisses the outline of Jack's erection through the tight knit of the pants confining it. It is hot and hard. It throbs against his lips, bringing his own dick to full, aching hardness. He cannot resist the urge to mouth further down, feeling, smelling, imagining, listening as Jack moans. He mouths the place where Jack's cock and balls join, breathing moist heat onto it. "Ianto..." It is a plea with just that hint of dangerous impatience that Jack uses to keep people in line. It inflames Ianto, who latches onto a ball whilst pinning Jack's interfering hand against the table. Jack acquiesces, moaning as Ianto snakes two fingers inside the leg band and strokes his groin just an inch to the left of his balls. "Ianto!" Ianto breathes his way back up the line of Jack's hard-on and pulls the pants carefully down. Inches away from it, Ianto gets his first full view of the length and thickness of Jack's cock. He wonders for a moment if he'll be able to stretch around it, how much he'll be able to take in, if he'll choke. But then Jack moans as Ianto is breathing on him, and all he wants is to taste the precome welling at Jack's tip – salty and scented with Jack's musk – and feel the head of Jack's cock in his mouth. It takes him a moment to get used to having something that size in his mouth, especially when the object in question is twitching, thus arousing him to the point of insanity. He licks and sucks experimentally, relishing the moans and pleas from above. Jack, to Ianto's surprise, restrains himself from thrusting into Ianto's mouth. His groin and thigh muscles are tense. So are his abdominals when Ianto strokes upwards, feasting his hands on taut, quivering flesh. Ianto moans around Jack's cock, and immediately feels a responding sheen of sweat as he pulls his hands down and around Jack's ample, gorgeous arse. He tries relaxing his throat and taking more of Jack, but can only manage another inch before he has to stifle a gag. "Don't worry," Jack pants from above. "Just ... keep doing ... THAT! Oh...!" Ianto squeezes Jack's arse cheeks and makes a spiral, sucking lick around Jack's cock head. He is rewarded by Jack thrusting forward uncontrollably and hitting the back of his mouth. "Sorry!" Ianto redoubles his efforts, settling into a fast rhythm of head motion and licking and humming and swirling— "Coming!" Ianto sucks harder and flutters his tongue against Jack's slit. "Ianto!" Jack comes. It's far more than Ianto had expected. He swallows what he can, but it's a strong taste of bitter saltiness, and it's hard to control the swallowing around something so big. But he doesn't let go, because he knows how wonderful it is to be held in someone's mouth at that moment. He holds Jack's cock in his mouth until Jack pulls it out. He wipes his face as best he can with his hand, all too aware of the ache that still remains in his own dick. Jack reaches down and pulls him gently to his feet. "That was fantastic." He kisses Ianto, slow and sweet. "And for a beginner, it was spectacular." He kisses Ianto again, licking a forgotten trail of come from the corner of Ianto's mouth. "Can't wait to taste us together." With a suggestive smile, he begins to undo Ianto's tie. Ianto grasps Jack's hands in his own. "No." He swallows. "I want you." "I think that can be arranged," says Jack, after a moment. Ianto lunges for him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Jack grasps his shoulders and holds him back. "Not here. Not for a first time." "I don't care." Ianto is hoarse with need. "Well, I do. And so will you. Trust me, this wants a bed." "I can't wait that long." "Yes, you can. And I've got two words for you: refractory period." With that, Jack pulls up his pants and trousers, grins and runs up the stairs. "Race you!" "Bastard," Ianto mutters. It takes him a moment before he is physically able to follow Jack without pain. He's glad there's nobody else in the Hub. When at last they're facing each other in Jack's bunker, Jack pauses, searching Ianto's eyes. "You want me how?" "I want to fuck you." "Okay, I sort of figured that." Jack's shirt is hanging as though it were a rag, one side caught haphazardly in his belt, the other dangling free. His trousers are unfastened, exposing his pants. His belt is fastened, forming the base of an upside-down triangle of white that accentuates his reawakening interest. His braces are hanging down. It's a wonder that the man didn't get caught in one or both of them in his rush up the stairs from the firing range. One nipple is exposed. It is hard. And his face is – worried. Ianto hadn't expected worry. "What's wrong?" "Nothing. Just ... you know I'm not a hearts-and-flowers kind of guy, right? I mean, you're hot as hell and I want you, but I'm not going to go picking out curtains with you tomorrow, or anything. You know that, right?" Ianto rolls his eyes. "I had sussed that, yes. And even if you were, it really is too soon for me. Okay?" "Works for me." Only the worry is still there on Jack's face. "Look, could we just do this the old-fashioned way?" "What way is that?" "Just shut up and have sex? This is Torchwood, after all." Jack grins and removes Ianto's tie before attacking the buttons on his shirt. "Works for me." Ianto devours Jack in a hungry kiss as he removes the dangling shirt and lets it drop on the floor. He pushes Jack to the bed, stripping him naked by the time his own shirt is off. He reaches for his own belt. "Hey! You had your turn, now let me have mine!" Jack pulls Ianto down onto the bed with him. It's crowded with two, but it doesn't matter because before Ianto can protest, Jack is kissing and tasting his skin, from collarbone to nipple to sternum to the sensitive places between newly (mostly) healed ribs. Jack is surprisingly tender about it. Ianto was expecting it to hurt, but it doesn't. Ianto feels himself flush under Jack's touch, and gets harder as he feels Jack's naked body moving down his own part-clothed one, touching, tasting, kissing, caressing, nibbling, unclothing. He is beginning to regret not letting Jack suck him when he feels his last sock being pulled off. And then all thought is destroyed when Jack sucks Ianto's right big toe into his mouth. Ianto cries out and squeezes the base of his cock to keep from coming. "Ooh, very interesting! I'll have to keep that in mind. Maybe for when you're tied up." Jack grins up at him and kisses his foot. "But for right now, I want to feel that huge cock of yours inside me." Jack crawls up Ianto's body, dragging the moistening tip of his fully erect cock slowly over hypersensitive skin – marking him with mouth and prick. "When was the last time you had a micro body scan?" "Yesterday, after the weevil ... incident. All clear. You?" "This morning. All clear. Do you want a condom?" "Been with anyone since the scan?" "Nope. Haven't even kissed a diplomat." "Have you snogged Owen?" "Hey, don't kill the mood!" "Then no, I don't. Do you want me to wear one?" "It's completely up to you." Jack hands Ianto a tube of lube. "I do want this, though. Besides, it kills everything worth worrying about." "Oh, erm, of course. Um, I've done some research, but—" Jack squeezes some onto Ianto's first finger and rolls over onto his side, facing away from Ianto. "Just stroke me a little and put that inside me when I relax enough." Ianto squeezes himself into position behind Jack and only now realises that this is the first time they've been naked together. It's also the first time he's been so close to Jack's unclothed back, and the vulnerability of it strikes him every bit as much as the perfect skin. Ianto could lose himself in worshipping that skin. He touches it, strokes it, smoothes his free fingers over it, kisses Jack's strong shoulder and long neck. "I meant stroke me where you're gonna poke me." Ianto bites Jack's shoulder blade. "What did you say about killing the mood?" Jack groans and leans back into Ianto's touch. "Never mind. What you're doing is—" Ianto nips Jack's side. "—Perfect!" Ianto smiles and starts peppering bites and nips over Jack's warming back and arms. Somewhere around the mid-back, he reaches down, letting his fingers find their way between Jack's arse cheeks. He realises that if he ever gets another chance at this, he must spend at least half a good hour feasting on Jack's arse, but he's stretched himself beyond his limit of endurance and strokes the small opening until he feels it give way a little. Not thinking too hard about what he's doing, as he's near breaking point, he pushes his finger inside, marvelling at the way Jack draws him in. This, the books hadn't told him to expect. "Oh, god!yes.... Yes, that's it! Just get it in there ... mmm ... god, you're hot! Ianto! I want you inside me so much ... can't wait ... hurry up!" Ianto bites Jack's upper arm. "Lube." Jack hands him the tube. "I'm ready." "Just give me a moment...." Ianto calms himself enough to be able to touch his dick with a handful of cold lube – a near impossible thing when faced with a writhing, begging Jack. He'll never be sure quite how he did it, but he does, and then he's positioning himself at Jack's opening. "Oh, yes! Take me, already!" The begging in the tone makes up for – or rather, enhances – the impatient words. Ianto pushes in, remembering all the instructions he's read about going slowly, only to be pulled in nearly as quickly as his finger had been. Jack pushes back against him, into his arms, as Ianto drives himself into Jack. And then there is that glorious moment when Ianto is fully seated inside Jack, and must prevent himself from coming right then and there. He can do this, even though he's never been enclosed so tightly, or in such a heated sheath. "Jack...." It's a whisper. Jack holds perfectly still, as if he's read Ianto's desperate need. "It's all right. You feel marvellous inside me." Ianto tightens his arms around Jack and kisses his neck. "You feel so good...." After a moment, just when Ianto starts to feel that he could move again, Jack nudges backwards even more. Ianto bites Jack's shoulder, thrusting involuntarily. Jack reaches around to pull Ianto's arse closer. "Touch me...." Ianto pulls back until he's almost out and thrusts in again, reaching for Jack's cock. For a few moments, he sets up a rhythm, just enjoying the sensation of thrusting into Jack, of engulfing and being engulfed. "Ianto!" Ianto strokes Jack's cock, relishing the feel of the slick head against his thumb even as he thrusts into Jack. He shifts and reaches to kiss Jack's face – such a beautiful, handsome face. Jack turns to answer the kiss and their lips glide and slip against one another as their tongues meet, and it's too much too fast too perfect and goes out of control so fast. Ianto thrusts wildly, and Jack pushes back with abandon. Jack fucks Ianto's hand and Ianto buries his mouth against Jack's neck. And then, as Jack squeezes down on Ianto's cock, Ianto cries out and comes. Two seconds later, Jack cries something Ianto doesn't understand and his semen floods Ianto's hand. There are aftershocks for both of them. Ianto has never experienced this strong an orgasm, and he doesn't think he'll ever get enough. The thought sends him thrusting into Jack again, hard, and he feels another spurt from himself and one from Jack against his fingers. He doesn't want to leave. It's far too good where he is. Jack slowly relaxes and settles back against him. He turns his head and captures Ianto's mouth, kissing him as deeply as their position will allow. Ianto could swear that he experiences one last contraction, and Jack's smile against his lips says that maybe he has. "Are you finished, yet?" The question is filled with humour and affection and Jack at his very best. Ianto thrusts in one last time, just to be sure, and feels one last twitch before his dick is so sensitive that he dare not move. "Yeah, just ... let me...." "Take your time. I'm doing just fine." "Should I ... what about my hand?" "Just leave it where it is for a moment?" Jack asks, ruefully. "No problem." Ianto starts to relax against Jack. "Don't think I can stay awake, though." "That's okay, neither can I. And Ianto, this feels really good." "Same here." ***** Ianto becomes aware that they have separated when he feels Jack leaving the small bed some hours later. He isn't fond of the feeling of loss that occurs when it happens. Having spent a few nights in Jack's quarters of late, he knows that Jack doesn't sleep much, and knew he would most likely leave. He rolls over and sighs his way back to sleep. When he feels the bed dip some while later, Ianto starts awake. "Shhh.... Go back to sleep." Jack spoons him, settling a naked arm over him. Ianto fits himself back against the warmth of Jack, grasping his hand. He turns his head. "Are you all right?" There is a pause, and then Jack extricates his hand to cup Ianto's face into a long, languorous kiss. "Yeah. How about you?" Ianto wishes he could see Jack's eyes in the dark, wonders if there's life in them now. He strokes Jack's face. "I'm fine." There is another long, deep kiss. "Then let's sleep."

The first time it happens, Eames is about 30 seconds from coming in his own trousers. They've got 4 years of verbal foreplay between them, the last 24 hours of which were designed to see who would break first. If breaking is coming, then Eames is the clear winner, having held out for, oh, a minute longer than Arthur. In the face of it, Eames doesn't much care about winning. Watching Arthur suck in huge gulps of air as he comes down with Eames hand still stuffed in his pants is better than outlasting him, Eames thinks. Arthur flushes and looks down, but then he's grinning at Eames and sinking to his knees, so really, there are no losers here. - The second time it happens is about 34 minutes after the first time it happens. They're naked this time, and Eames hovers over Arthur, splayed out below him. Eames is enjoying himself, enjoying the way Arthur's hands grip his ass, the way his own hand fits around Arthur's throat when he dips down to kiss him. Arthur arches up, his cock sliding up Eames hip. When Arthur's grip tightens, Eames pulls back to watch the way his eyelashes flutter when he closes his eyes. There's that reddening flush again and Arthur gasps as he comes against nothing but the pressure of Eames' body on his. "Jesus," Eames says. Arthur blinks up at him. "Fuck, fuck, sorry," he says. "What?" Eames says stupidly. He kisses Arthur again, so he won't have to look at the way Arthur's stopped looking at him. Arthur kisses back, shaky and breathless while Eames rolls his hips through the slick mess on Arthur's stomach, then does it again, Arthur's softening cock still trapped between them. After a few unsteady thrusts Arthur starts to whine, his body shying away, and Eames stops. Arthur just holds on and tries to press closer. "No, fuck, stay. Please stay, do it. Come on." It's the noises, Eames will think later, the way Arthur whimpers like it's too much but he wants it anyway. Eames ruts against him, no finesse at all. It's good, really good, but he doesn't think he can come this way, not so soon after spilling into Arthur's mouth and down his chin. Arthur rolls up into him again and again, all while screwing his face up in a beautiful display of the sweetest agony. Eames can't get enough of just looking at it. Maybe he can come like this. Arthur's fingers traverse the cleft of his ass, making their way down to rub against him. Eames groans into Arthur's shoulder. "Yes," he says, "like that." Arthur breathes into his ear, a broken hiccup of a gasp, and that's enough - that's more than enough. It's fine. Eames is the furthest thing from unsatisfied. Of course he would really like the both of them to hold out long enough that he can get inside Arthur, but he has no real complaints. They can try again in a little while. - A little while turns into the morning. Eames wakes up first. Arthur is filthy; his torso is long and lean and if Eames were to touch it he's sure he'd feel dried come, his hair is matted up by both sweat and leftover product. He looks gorgeous. Eames wants to kiss the soft curve of his lower lip and fuck into him for hours. Eames is not above prodding Arthur to wake up. After the third or fourth poke to his chest, Arthur bats his hand away and grumps, "What?" When he finally looks at Eames, Arthur grins enough to dimple. "Hey." "Morning. Think I could fuck you?" Eames would like to think they're past needing anything like a line. Arthur tilts his chin up for a kiss. "I think we could make that happen, yeah." It's just like it was before. Eames gets close, kneading his fingers into the flesh of Arthur's hip, and Arthur is immediately responsive, so much so that Eames is dizzy with it. Arthur's dripping before Eames even tries to remember where the lube and condoms are, leaving long streaks of precome where his cock drags along Eames' stomach. And then it's like something clicks in his brain. Eames pushes Arthur into the mattress. "Let me try something." "Uh," Arthur says, but Eames is busy slinking downwards. Arthur's cock is flushed and heavy, and Eames wastes a second or two licking the salty taste off the head, but before too long Eames holds on and sinks his mouth over him. He pulls off and looks up at Arthur. Arthur looks back and Eames knows that Arthur knows that Eames knows. "Fuck," Arthur says. He drops his head back on the pillow. When Eames takes him back in his mouth Arthur pushes his hips up and Eames lets him. Arthur groans sweet and low and comes down Eames’ throat. - Arthur's got his arm thrown over his eyes so Eames can only see the tip of his nose and the firm set of his jaw. Eames pulls his arm away, but Arthur keeps his eyes shut. "So you've got a bit of a hair trigger," Eames says, "It's not exactly the end of the world." "It's not- I'm not actually- I'm almost thirty. Fuck." Eames leans in to nip at his lips because this is torture to watch. Arthur rolls up to meet him immediately. "You're so needy I-" Eames is interrupted by Arthur's factory setting ring tone. Arthur sighs and it sounds an awful lot like relief. Eames rolls on his back and tucks his hands under his head. He's more than willing to wait Arthur out. It's unfortunate, then, that it's starting to sound like he won't get the chance. Arthur hangs up and starts gathering his scattered clothes. "I'm going in," he says. "Alright," Eames says, and gets up to help. He holds out Arthur's shoes and makes him come to him to collect them. He reels Arthur in by the wrist. "Can I make a suggestion?" Arthur doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no. Eames kisses him quickly and says, "Shower first," flicking lightly at Arthur's stomach. It earns him a genuine flash of smile before Eames risks ruining it when he says, "We'll talk about this later." - That afternoon Eames corners Arthur in the warehouse, crowds in close, and licks the shell of his ear before biting gently. Ariadne and Cobb are sprawled in the lawn chairs, likely out for the next fifteen minutes or so, and Yusuf's gone on an errand to procure something chemical with a long name Eames can't be arsed to remember. They've got time. Not that Eames thinks he'll need much. "Are you this easy for everyone, or is it just me?" Eames asks. It comes out just as hushed as he intended. Arthur doesn't answer. He exhales and noses down Eames cheek until he finds Eames' mouth instead. Eames gives in and crushes Arthur to the wall, hands at Arthur's sides, at his back, in his hair. At his groin. Arthur is hard. Eames had his suspicions, but confirmation is still nice. "You'll come like this, won't you." Eames says. It's not a question. Arthur shudders as Eames rubs his cock through his trousers, palming over the head. He drags his thumb down to trace the outline of his erection and watches Arthur bite his lip. "Show me how you'll come like this." He can see Arthur fighting to stay quiet. He keeps his mouth pressed tight and breathes through his nose. Arthur pushes his hips into Eames' hand and lets his mouth fall open enough for a soft 'ah' sound to slip out. Eames feels it when Arthur comes. It's fucking fantastic. Arthur looks wrecked. He looks mussed and drained and enormously satisfied. "Fuck," Eames says, and crushes his mouth to Arthur's. - Arthur comes out of the bathroom fresh as a daisy in Spring. Eames watches him make his way to one of the desks. There is nothing about him that suggests he was just cleaning come out of his underpants after being palmed in a hallway. Eames realizes he probably didn't bother cleaning them - taking them off would be a much more efficient way of handling the situation. He loses roughly an hour to thinking about Arthur's bare ass beneath his trousers. Eames has just settled into a file on the mark's ex-girlfriend when Arthur approaches the table Eames has commandeered for the day. "Check my math on this?" Arthur says and slides a notebook across the rough grain of the wood. Eames reads, then he chews on his pen to cover the way he smiles down at the note. 'IF THAT IS YOUR IDEA OF TALKING ABOUT THIS WE NEED TO HAVE A SERIOUS DISCUSSION ABOUT WHAT TALKING ACTUALLY MEANS' Arthur, inexplicably, has the penmanship of an architect. Eames has always liked it. Eames holds his hand out for Arthur's pencil. Arthur looks at the pen hanging out of Eames' teeth but hands it over anyway. Eames writes, 'Have dinner with me." He hesitates over a question mark under the pretense of puzzling over the pretense of an equation, but in the end Eames flips the notebook around and passes it to Arthur. "Excellent. Thank you for your assistance," Arthur says. "My pleasure," Eames says. Eames might be enjoying this a bit more than he's supposed to be. He watches Arthur walk away and doesn't care if he is. Arthur turns on his heels. "My pencil, Mr Eames?" Eames holds it out and doesn't let go when Arthur pulls. It's weird, the power he feels when he's the one causing the dimples. - They meet at the hotel restaurant for convenience's sake. Eames, straight from the warehouse, calls up to Arthur's room from the lobby and watches the clock tick closer to the 10:30 mark. He mills around the desk until Arthur emerges from the elevator. There's a low thrum in his stomach as Arthur spots him and closes the distance. Eames waits with his elbow perched on the high counter, then they silently cross the wide, marble expanse to the restaurant. As they're seated, Eames begins to think that perhaps he's made some kind of monumental mistake. The environment, the intensely date-like atmosphere of the restaurant, the low light, it only adds to the pressure of an already loaded situation. For lack of a better term. Or maybe that's just Eames. Arthur seems fine, steady and relaxed across the table from him. He swirls the ice at the bottom of his water glass and tilts his head back to let two cubes slide into his mouth. He crunches them between his teeth. "How was your tail?" Eames asks. Arthur laughs. "Fine. Great. Nothing we can't go over tomorrow." Eames nods. He unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap, then tosses it back on the table. "There was something you wanted to talk about?" Arthur prompts. "You can ask me." "Ask you what?" Eames says. "How long it's been since I last had sex. If it's always going to be like this. That kind of thing. I mean assuming you want to continue sleeping with me." "Okay - I do, by the way. I would very much like to continue sleeping with you." Eames meets Arthur's eyes across the table. On that point he would like to be very clear. Arthur smiles down at the table and Eames thinks, There he is. Before he can talk himself out of it, Eames reaches for him, puts a hand on his cheek and runs his thumb over his mouth. Arthur strains forward to indulge him with a swift kiss, then a sweeter, lengthier one. Arthur kisses beautifully. "You're a good kisser." Arthur laughs at him. "Oh, god," he says, "You're a good kisser? Really?" "What?" "It's just. We're having a conversation about how I come in under a minute. It would. It would go better for me if both of us didn't sound like we were fourteen." "Ah, I see your point. You are, though. For the record." "Thank you." "So when was the last time you had sex, then?" Their waiter chooses that moment to make himself known. Arthur says, "Nine, no ten days. Excluding you, of course," before he turns to focus his full attention on the specials. It's been longer for Eames, a month and a half, give or take a week. No, two months. Two months and a week. It's not important. The waiter turns to Eames and Eames keeps his eyes on Arthur's. He idly wonders who it was Arthur was sleeping with ten days ago, two days before meeting up, and struggles to not let idle wonder grow to desperate. "And for you?" the server asks. "Same," Eames says, "I'll have the same." "Also with the-?" Eames interrupts, he hopes not unkindly, "Yes, with the-" He sprinkles imaginary ground nuts over whatever dish Arthur's ordered. Eames hasn't the slightest. "Excellent, I'll be right back with your bottle of wine." Eames wishes they hadn't gone in for the table service. He'd really like to ask some specific questions about ten days ago, but he'd rather not have that particular discussion interrupted. He goes for it anyway. "And how did that go?" "The sex? It was fine. Nice." Arthur is very nearly stoic in his seat. It's common, comforting even, but Eames can't get a read on whether it's an act or not. If it's an act, it's a very well executed one. "Nice?" "You mean did I embarrass myself?" Arthur asks. "I never said that, Arthur. I never even implied." "It is surprisingly easy to rile you up." Arthur grins. "How you've managed to hide it until now is a complete mystery." Eames plucks at the corner of his crumpled napkin and feels the way Arthur watches him. "Okay, here," Arthur says. He puts his knife and spoon in the center of the table, maybe two feet apart. "Let's say there's a scale." Arthur traces an invisible line joining his utensils. "The spoon, you feel nothing, the knife you feel too much, right? On any given day I generally land about here, sexually speaking." Arthur moves the glass jarred candle from the center of the table right up to the edge of the knife. Eames swallows. "If I concentrate, or think about something else, or somehow disengage, I can wind up here." Arthur pulls the candle back, not significantly, about halfway between the knife and the middle of the scale. It's nothing Eames wasn't able to put together on his own, but seeing it laid out is almost intoxicating. He drags his pointer finger down the dull serrated edge of Arthur's knife and wonders why they're wasting time with mundane practices like eating meals when they could be upstairs, together. Arthur goes on. "And with you, it feels like I wind up-" The server, having snuck up quietly, plops their bottle of wine at the edge of the table, well beyond the confined limit of the knife. Arthur sets the now useless candle back down and says, "Yeah, right about there." The waiter pops the cork. "Thank you, I've got the rest," Eames tells the waiter, rather smugly. Alone again, Arthur says, "You don't have to look so proud of yourself. You're carrying around a lot of ego as it is." "I've no idea what you're talking about," Eames says as wine sloshes messily into Arthur's glass. "What I mean is, it's not just you, but that it is isn't exactly helping. And the thing that makes it worse," Arthur continues, "is that I've thought about being with you for a very long time." Arthur is very frank. Eames is finding it unbelievably hard not to peel his clothes off right here, right now. Eames leans back in his chair and breathes out. "It'll get easier with time." Arthur says. "Historically, it's the only thing that really works for me." "Are you diminishing your affection for me by implying that your affection for me will diminish eventually." "Will that make you less cocky?" "No, not really, still feeling pretty proud of myself." "Okay, then let's just say the, uh, urgency of my affection will diminish. But, um, it could always be kind of a problem." "Arthur, Arthur, I am willing to put in the time." Eames leans in conspiratorially. "And just in case it had escaped your notice, I don't mind the urgency. I rather like it." Arthur matches his posture and tucks himself close. "I kind of picked up on that, yeah." If it's possible for a meal to be both unbelievably pleasant and seemingly interminable, this is that meal. Arthur drinks his wine and eats his dinner with impeccable manners, manners his own mother would probably adore. There is, however, the matter of the wicked glances Arthur keeps shooting Eames, and the coy corner of his mouth that keeps turning upwards. The sly manner in which Arthur has insinuated his feet between Eames'. By the time they've paid and made their way to the elevator Eames feels somewhat helpless. He doesn't even try to keep his hands to himself. The sleek doors slide closed and Eames pulls Arthur in. "I can. Do you want me to go slow? I can go so slow. Whatever you want." Arthur leans back so Eames can get at any part of his throat that he might like. "I don't think that will be necessary." Eames nudges Arthur back against the elevator wall with two fingers to the chest, then looks pointedly at the obvious bulge in his thin trousers. "No?" "Nope." Eames fingers go to Arthur's waistband and slip behind his belt to reel him back in. "And why is that?" Arthur must find it hard to talk when he has his mouth all over Eames' neck because it takes a little while for him to answer. He's too busy sucking and kissing and scraping his teeth over the line of his jaw. "I had some time before dinner," he says eventually. "I got ready for you." Eames goes entirely still. "How ready?" "Pretty ready." "Oh, Arthur. Arthur Arthur Arthur, you are making it very difficult for me to be the one in control." Arthur kisses him soundly. "Then don't be. Anyway, we're here." Arthur is right. Eames has no idea how long the elevator doors have been standing open to his floor. He has no idea how they make it to his room. Or the bed. But they do. Taking off Arthur's pants is the singular best part of Eames' day, and it's been a pretty great day. Arthur flops back on the bed and spreads his legs wide and watches Eames shuck his shirt. Eames can see where he's wet and his mouth goes dry. Eames crawls up on the bed, on Arthur, and cages Arthur's head between his elbows. "Did you come? Getting yourself all wet and open for me did you come?" Arthur says, "Yes," and Eames nearly groans into his mouth he's kissing him so fast. Eames fishes for Arthur's leg and hooks his hand under his knee before pulling away from Arthur's mouth. He crouches between Arthur's legs and kneads at his thigh while he pushes two fingers in, quick but careful. He goes in easy, but Arthur feels tight around him. He gets another finger in and Arthur squeezes around him. "Good?" Eames asks. "Need more lube?" "Yeah, no, I'm good. Like this is good." Arthur sounds breathless, a little choked and mostly desperate. Luckily, Eames pants are half on the bed, half off, so he doesn't have to go far to dig through the pockets for a condom. Finding it is much easier than putting it on, his fingers are shaking and Arthur is on his back, watching, just barely trembling. He's distracting as hell like this and he must know it. He grins like he knows it, anyway. "Come here. Fuck me," Arthur says, and Eames does. He pushes in slow, but he doesn't stop until he's buried deep inside. "Doing alright there, Arthur?" Eames checks in from up close. Arthur rocks his hips up, and god, god, it is hard to keep still. "I'm great," Arthur says, strained, "how about you?” Arthur takes a deep breath. “Eames, it's okay, I'm okay. You don't have to be so careful." "Mmm, hold your legs for me, darling." Eames fucks into him slowly and builds up steam. "You feel so good, Arthur," Eames says and Arthur moans sweetly in response. He hasn't touched Arthur, but he looks down as he's sliding in again, and the underside of his cock looks so inviting, velvety and flushed dark red and wet at the tip, drips slipping down to his stomach to shine there. Arthur seems to know exactly where Eames' thought process is headed. "If you," Arthur swallows and the bob in his throat is amazingly delicate. "I'll come," he says simply, even if he follows it up with a full body tremble. Eames wants him to. Eames wraps his hand around him and Arthur cries out almost instantly. He gets in only a handful of strokes before Arthur's orgasm crests and he shoots all over his stomach and up as far as his chest. Eames wrings every last drop from him and hangs on until Arthur shakes with it. There's come in his hand when he touches Arthur's face. It gets in Arthur's hair, on his cheek, the corner of his mouth where Eames hooks his thumb. Arthur sucks and Eames slams into him. "I'll get hard again," Arthur says, voice rawer than Eames has ever heard it, almost pleading. "I will." Eames puts both hands on Arthur's chest and forces himself to slow down. "I know you will, baby," he says as he tries to calm himself down by degrees. "Do you need a minute? Do you need me to stop?" "No," Arthur says, and Eames drops his head and groans, swiveling his hips. "Don't stop. You feel so good." "Next time, I'm going to finger you open, darling, and I'm going to make you wait for me. Do you think you can wait for me?" "I can try," Arthur says, and cants his hips up. Eames sinks deeper on this thrust and Arthur bears his throat to groan out as Eames drags his cock out again. "Oh, fuck," Eames says and angles for the same place. "But I don't," Arthur says, "I don't want to think about something else. I don't want to feel anything else." "You're killing me," is the only thing Eames can get out. "I know it's selfish," Arthur says, groans, whispers, "I can't help it." "Arthur," Eames says, then again. He's got his hand closed around Arthur's spent cock and he doesn't know how it happened, just that Arthur has tears leaking out of his eyes. He clenches tightly around Eames in shaky little spasms. Eames has to exert every last ounce of self control not to come on the spot. The tremors don't subside, but Arthur tells him "Don't stop. It hurts, it feels so good." so Eames doesn't. It takes a while for Arthur to get hard again, and by that point, there's so much sweat mixed with come on his stomach that the two are indiscernible. Eames thinks about how it will look when Arthur messes himself up again and fucks into him harder, telling him exactly what he's thinking in filthy, bit out whispers. Arthur pleads and clenches around him and Eames doesn’t think he can hold out much longer. But he tries. Arthur’s hard in his hand, and twitchy, and Eames wants him to come first. He wants to know they can do it, both of them. “Come for me again,” Eames says, and Arthur looks spent and so gorgeous beneath him, like he’s mostly just sensation now. He whines and strains and thin spurts of come thread Eames fingers while Arthur arches up. He squeezes weekly around Eames and Eames follows him down. He stops breathing entirely and comes in Arthur harder than he’s come in recent memory. Maybe ever. - Eames wakes up to the absence of Arthur. It's not unexpected and it's not personal, Arthur generally shows up to work far earlier than he does. Which is not to say that Arthur works any harder, only that he works differently. Eames rolls on his back and breathes in the faded smell of sex. The problem, Eames thinks, is that when confronted with Arthur's desperation, Eames reaction thus far has been to counter it with his own. This in turn garners further desperation from Arthur and a vicious cycle is created, an ever growing sense of impatient urgency that appears to be delightfully, recklessly unending. Logically, then, the only solution is to stop the cycle. Eames begins to formulate a plan. He flops his hand around, patting the bed for the lube. When he comes up with nothing, he remembers that they hadn't needed it because of Arthur's clever preparedness. Eames chokes on his breath and thinks his plan will work out infinitely well because look at that, he's already getting hard. He digs the lube out of the night stand and settles back into the lush, sex scented sheets. When he wraps his wet hand around himself, he is blissfully assured of his own genius. - The problem, Eames revises, is that he grossly overestimated his ability to quell his own desperation. There's a thin red scratch on the back of Arthur's neck and Eames can't keep from staring at it. He thinks maybe he put it there. The job is far enough out that this kind of distraction isn't dangerous, but Eames still thanks his lucky stars that this is a relatively easy extraction. That the job is fairly run of the mill works out nicely because Eames can't seem to turn off the part of his brain that knows the way Arthur fucks. He looks at that thin red scratch and is helpless to do anything but let it all flood in. Passing behind Arthur's desk, Eames puts his thumb on the scratch. "You have something," Eames says, "just here." Arthur puts his hand to his neck, like maybe he doesn't know, but when his fingers push Eames' thumb away, Arthur cranes his head to look at him. "Subtle," he says, before turning back to his laptop and getting lost in the research there. It's not that it's hard for Eames to reconcile this calm, professional Arthur with the one he gets to see when it's just the two of them, it's that it's much easier than Eames expected. He sees Arthur in the warehouse, confident and intelligent and self assured, and he doesn't even have to close his eyes to see Arthur pliant and needy beneath him, stripped of any self consciousness. Eames volunteers to get lunch. Eames never volunteers to get lunch. He is not the get lunch sort. Until today. Instead of heading straight to the Thai place on Third that against all odds every last member of the team loves, Eames tells the driver the address of his hotel. Once inside the room he heads straight for the bathroom and undoes his trousers just enough to get a hand around himself and jerk off dry. It's rough and Eames groans at the way his calluses feel, sharp but not entirely unpleasant. And then there's nothing but the way his hand fits around his cock and the way his sounds fill up the tiny, echo-y room and the way he's shocked by his own consuming need to get off. It takes no work at all to remember exactly how Arthur sounds when he says Eames' name on an exhale, or the way his eyelashes get damp and his cheeks get as red as his dick. His thoughts push him close, so close. When he comes the slide gets easier, and he keeps his fist tight and stokes himself long past the point of comfort, just so he can feel what Arthur feels. Long enough that he curls in on himself and can't stop the way it feels like he might cry or lose his footing. When he's done he feels kind of fucked up and still a little turned on, but he puts himself to rights and the overwhelming edge of it has faded. He gets back to the warehouse about an hour and a half after he left, but no one seems to notice. Maybe Arthur looks at him like he knows all his secrets, but Eames is oddly okay with this new development. - They share a cab to the hotel. "Hungry?" Eames asks. "Not particularly," Arthur answers. "I had a late lunch." "I'd say that's convenient. We can call up for room service later." "I don't remember that we had plans, Mr. Eames. That seems awfully presumptuous." Arthur says, but then he takes Eames' hand in his and plays with his fingers. "My plans, Arthur. You've no idea." Arthur raises his eyebrow. "I have a little bit of an idea." - Eames is kind of a heartless bastard. He kisses Arthur, pulls him on top of him and kisses him slowly and sweetly. He won't let Arthur deepen it, despite his persistence. Despite the way Eames really likes his persistence. When Arthur gets frustrated and angles his hips into Eames, Eames rolls the two of them on their sides and holds himself apart. He closes his eyes and puts a hand on Arthur's neck, fingering over the scratch he has yet to forget, and kisses him again. "You're not making this any easier on me," Arthur says. "I'm not trying to make it easier," Eames says between kisses. "Don't pretend you don't like a challenge." Arthur doesn't answer, just reaches for Eames again. Arthur curls in like he's dying to touch and Eames gives up on holding out. He likes it much too much when Arthur wants him like this. He wants to reside there for as long as Arthur will let him. Arthur pushes at his hips and makes him roll back. He folds over and pushes Eames shirt up to plant wet kisses at his stomach, rubbing at Eames through the thick fabric of his trousers. Eames breathes, pleased that he had the forethought to take the edge off. A couple of times. Eames uses the opportunity to run his hand up Arthur's back, then circle around to pinch at his hip. Arthur shivers slightly, just enough that Eames can feel it only because he's touching him. He loves how sensitive Arthur is. "You should lose the shirt," Arthur says, and he pushes his fingers through the hair below Eames' belly button, licking between his index finger and thumb. Eames is happy to oblige. He goes a step further and ditches his trousers, too, he's just that eager to please. When he's naked, the sharp contrast with a fully clothed Arthur is terribly apparent. Eames pushes his hands away when Arthur goes for his top button. "I'll take care of it," Eames says. He almost wishes he hadn't let Arthur take off his tie. He pushes Arthur on to his back and holds him down by the shoulders because Arthur has responded well to that on prior occasions. Tonight, Arthur doesn't disappoint. "This time," Eames says, "I get to come first. Deal?" Arthur looks up at him and nods. "Okay." "What if you fucked me? Would that be better?" Arthur laughs. "I think," Arthur says, "I think we should probably work up to that." Eames smiles down at him, closed mouthed. "Fair enough." He steals a quick kiss before retreating to unbutton Arthur's trousers. He stops there and leaves the zipper untouched. He rucks the fabric up at Arthur's thighs, rubbing his thumbs in tight massaging circles. Arthur's pants are slim, but there's just enough give for them to crease and bunch. Eames watches Arthur's cock twitch beneath his clothes and drags his eyes to his face. Arthur licks his lips and raises his eyebrows expectantly. "Is it easier like this, or on your knees?" Eames asks. "Or you could be little spoon. I'd like holding onto you from behind, I think. Pushing your leg up so I can get in?" Eames circles the bones of Arthur's ankle and works his way down to the soft arch of his foot. "Shall we consider the desk?" Arthur tilts his head back, laughing breathlessly, just this side of slightly hysterical. Eames scoots up and starts at his buttons. "Whatever you want, Arthur," he says before kissing lightly at his newly exposed collar bones. "Like this," Arthur says. "You can." Arthur shudders as Eames hands skim over his nipples. "I - when you hold me down it's easier. Oh, oh god." Arthur squirms and Eames is barely touching him. Eames may have no trouble at all coming first, actually. Eames smacks at the part of Arthur's arse he can reach, so, his hip more like, and says, "Lift up for me." He unzips Arthur's pants with his hips raised in the air, then slides everything off at once. Arthur kicks them off the rest of the way and sits up to struggle with his shirt where it's rolled up at the sleeves. Eames thinks he could watch Arthur get caught up getting undressed every day of his life and never tire of it. He's so wonderfully flustered. Eames pushes him back down when he's free and keeps his fingertips at his chest while he pops the top of the lube. Working Arthur open is an exercise in restraint. Eames tries so hard to be careful, to avoid Arthur's prostate. But Arthur pushes down against his fingers like it's all he wants and Eames is helpless to deny him. He retreats quickly to add more lube and he hears it when Arthur's breath catches at the sudden lack. He pushes two fingers in, and because he's a bit of a prick, he sucks wet kisses to Arthur's inner thighs, his knees, the base of his thick cock. Unsurprisingly, Arthur arches his spine and gasps. But just because it wasn't a surprise, it doesn't make it any less hot. "Hold on for me Arthur, hold on," he says, because Arthur's shaking with it now, and oh god, Eames wants him to. Eames wants him to come all over himself with two fingers buried in him, but he wants Arthur to wait more. He puts a hand on Arthur's stomach and anchors him to the bed. Arthur struggles to slow his breath and he reaches to squeeze his cock at the base. "I can't, I can't." "You can," Eames says. "Fuck, you’re so pretty like this." "Oh, god, stop talking, I'm gonna." Arthur trails off, but he doesn't come. His fingers are red around his leaking cock and as he releases his grip they go a little white. Eames concentrates on matching his breathing to Arthur's. He pets him, slow and calming, but otherwise he's still. Arthur reaches between his legs to grasp Eames wrist and pull. "That's enough. That's really, really enough." Eames makes a humming sound, unconvinced. "No, I know. But it's good. If it hurts a little, I can. It's okay, it's easier if it hurts a little." There's a tiny crease between Arthur's eyebrows. He must read Eames' reluctance because he goes on. "I like it," Arthur says, "trust me." Eames nods. "Right." Arthur rubs at Eames arms then up to his neck. "Trust me," he says again. He pulls Eames with him when he goes back down, kissing at his cheeks, his chin, finally his mouth. He wraps his legs around Eames and squeezes. "How long are you gonna make me wait?" he asks. "Long as I want, right?" Eames says and Arthur closes his eyes. It's light enough that Eames can see the purply veins in Arthur's eyelids. "Ready for me, then?" Eames asks. "Yeah," Arthur says. Eames guides himself in and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut again. "Okay?" Eames asks. "Yes, yes." Arthur's so fucking tight that Eames is short of breath. Eames groans and quickly thrusts in, then again. Arthur's fingers press into his back, then go to his skull and push into his hair and hold tight, loosen and grasp again, in time with Eames' pace. "Yeah," Arthur says, "like that." "You're doing so good, Arthur, so good." He mindlessly throws a few more 'so goods' on the tail of the first couple, just to focus on something that isn't how good Arthur feels around him. When his higher brain function comes back, Eames may reflect on the irony of that, but probably not. "No," Arthur gasps, "I'm really, really not. I want to-" "Not yet," Eames says, and shifts Arthur's legs up to pound into him harder. "Fuck, fuck, can I? Can I please?" Arthur pleads, "Please?" Eames forces himself to slow down. He ducks in and licks at Arthur's bottom lip. "No." Arthur very nearly sobs. "Try for me, Arthur. Just a bit more." Arthur nods against the pillow, sweat at his temples and at his chest, pulse pounding in the dip between his collar bones. His teeth sink into his bottom lip and Eames can't think. Arthur's hands flutter towards his cock, then away. Eames gathers them at the wrist and holds them above his head, probably a little too hard, but Arthur just nods and says, "Yeah, fuck." When Arthur whines, his throat sounds scratched raw and hoarse and still the very best sound Eames has heard. "Want to come, Arthur?" Eames asks. Arthur nods, then shakes his head. "No. Keep fucking me. Please keep fucking me." And Arthur pushes his hips up, up, up. Eames gets in a thrust then another, then Arthur's untouched cock pulses out thick ribbons of come as he cries out, voice high and reedy. Eames pulls out to another cry and tosses the condom god knows where. He jacks himself once, twice, and comes all over Arthur, painting his stomach and chest. Arthur looks at himself dazedly and smears a hand through the mess. "Sorry," he says, "I couldn't..." Eames can't necessarily breathe, but he can press down and kiss Arthur silly. "That was," Eames doesn't even know, "That was. Jesus Christ." He presses his forehead into Arthur's for a minute, just until at least one of them remembers how to breathe. Eames rolls over and tucks Arthur close. He pulls Arthur's wrists to his mouth and places feathery kisses against the knobby bones. "Sorry," he says, "Sorry if I held on too tight." Arthur shakes his head. "Sorry I couldn't hold on." Eames shrugs with the only shoulder that's free. "We we're pretty neck and neck, I thought." He hauls Arthur in tighter. "Sorry I can't move." The tip of nose drifts down Arthur's check, then over the tip of Arthur's. He's not sorry at all. "We can try again," Arthur says, eyes closed, stuttering breath against Eames mouth. "It'll be better next time." "I can't imagine that it could be any better, darling, but we can try again whenever you like." "You're not even a little disappointed?" "No," Eames says, "no. Are you?" "No." Eames pulls at Arthur's sweaty hair and angles up for a kiss. "Feel like letting me lean against you in the shower?" "Uhuh," Arthur says, "in a minute." Eames shuts his eyes.

Ulquiorra raised both hands, barely catching the downward swing of Byakuya’s zanpaktou. The grind of metal against his palms filled his senses, lighting his nerves on fire and setting off warning signals. This shinigami was dangerous, and yet he was holding back. Ulquiorra narrowed his eyes, Byakuya had been trapped in Hueco Mundo for a few days, and it was understandable he would hold back. The path out of the arrancar world was dangerous, and this shinigami would need to save his strength if he hoped to return to soul society. It was for this that he fought with reserved power. Ulquiorra curled his lip; he understood why the captain would hold back, but he still couldn’t explain why he was holding back. +++ +++ Aizen’s plan was perfect. He had planned everything down to the last detail, including knowing soul society would send backup for Ichigo. He knew the backup would include captain-class shinigami and that they would destroy any Espada that attacked them. It was all a distraction, leaving the ex-captain room to continue with his main goals. Ulquiorra had observed from the shadows as a few Espada travelled out to pick fights with the shinigami captains and the battles had commenced. He watched as the arrancar scientist, Szayel Aporro Grantz met his shinigami counterpart. The fourth Espada recorded a portion of the encounter with his eye, but quickly lost interest as both shinigami and arrancar postured and proclaimed a sick love for science. Neither of them actually attacked the other directly, and Ulquiorra had no patience to listen to Grantz’s ego compete against a formidable opponent. They were made for each other, and their boasting left a foul taste in Ulquiorra’s mouth. He turned from that battle, looking for something more interesting to record with his eye. He found himself moving along to the tower of the ninth Espada, Aaroniero Arruruerie. The battle – if it could be called that – between Aaroniero and the shinigami, Rukia, had been wasteful. In the end, Rukia had destroyed the ninth Espada who left her at death’s door; none of it had real concern to Ulquiorra. Aizen had accounted for everything that happened, including Rukia barely surviving the battle. Ulquiorra stepped in, remaining in the shadows as he observed Zomari le Roux, the seventh Espada, moving in and taking it upon himself to execute Rukia. The seventh Espada postured himself as some holier than thou knight, intent on tying up Aaroniero’s loose ends. “Rest in peace, Aaroniero,” he said in a loud voice to no one but himself. “I will follow through with what you could not.” Ulquiorra watched as a newcomer rushed in, placing himself between the fallen shinigami and the arrancar. He narrowed his green eyes, taking in this new shinigami in a glimpse. He understood everything about him, his power levels, his fighting technique, he could even pick out what his Bankai might look like, and yet, Ulquiorra found himself pausing in his analysis. Something seemed to radiate from the shinigami; something he could see, but not yet identify. He flexed his fingers from their place in his pockets. There was something proud and pretentious about this one. Kuchiki Byakuya. “Is the one who fought with that you?” the shinigami Captain asked, indicating the fallen shinigami, sprawled out on the floor behind him. Ulquiorra watched, recording the captain’s simmering reiatsu as he spoke, listening with a neutral expression as Zomari indicated his intentions. The reiatsu shifted. The fourth Espada detected a change in the air, suddenly feeling cold, though his eye could not see the variance. Instead, the shinigami’s form became firm, solid and heavy with burning reiatsu. Ulquiorra watched, remembering that which his eye could not pick up. “… I don’t comprehend,” Byakuya spoke as Zomari tried to speak. His form became fuzzy around the edges, as if his reiatsu were becoming thick and agitated. And then… he moved. The fight progressed. Ulquiorra could see Zomari becoming reckless, allowing his clones to take damaged as his confidence rushed up to overstep his abilities. Byakuya remained calm throughout the entire battle, and something about that chipped away at Ulquiorra’s nerves. His eye could not detect what it was and that concern burned in his subconscious as he watched the remainder of the fight. Whatever it was, it would surely come out once Zomari released his true form. Ulquiorra found Zomari’s released form both intriguing and boring. The sight of brujeria was an ability that allowed the arrancar to possess another’s limb or entire body. If one was unlucky and became marked with its inky black eye, they were completely at Zomari’s mercy. The shinigami stood his ground as the seventh Espada cast his power out, quickly snaring his left leg with the vicious ability. The seventh Espada began explaining his power, laughing as he forced the captain to move against his will, and then… Ulquiorra raised an eyebrow as Byakuya slashed through the muscle and tendons of his left leg. The moment he realized Zomari had taken control over that limb, the shinigami had removed its ability to function. It was unbelievable the will he possessed. The next attack captured his arm, which he slashed apart as well. Ulquiorra watched him for a long time, watching the blood dripping from his injured limbs. It was nearly mesmerizing as it flowed down his arm, and yet, what captured his attention was the captain’s face, which remained impassive and strong. Commanding. Respectable. His brow twitched slightly – the only outward sign that he was irritated. The pale Espada closed his eyes; it was bothersome that he could not see everything about this shinigami. He could sense something beneath what he saw. It was disturbing and left him feeling uneasy. He would follow the captain for a time until he could discern what that feeling was, if it was some hidden power that could threaten Aizen’s plans. His eye was powerful and could see and remember everything, and yet, there was something beyond him he wasn’t seeing. Something right in front of him. +++ Ulquiorra paced in his chamber, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he replayed images of the shinigami captain in his mind. His eye recalled in perfect detail the fight with Zomari and the ease with which Byakuya moved, dispatching the seventh Espada. The captain had done so as if Zomari were nothing. Just like trash. The fourth Espada would not have called his fellow elite trash, though, many of them behaved as such. Their skills may have been exemplary, yet they way they conducted themselves was deplorable and left Ulquiorra looking at them with well-concealed distain. They could all burn and he would feel nothing for them. Aizen was aware of this, and yet, knew how to put them to use. He had his uses as well, and Ulquiorra’s dedication to his position earned him trust. Not complete. No, never total trust, but more than his compatriots. Ulquiorra’s dedication to his role was absolute. It took first priority in everything he did; his own needs came second or third. He was a tool, after all. That fact had not bothered him for his entire existence under Aizen’s command. It shouldn’t have. He felt the air in Las Noches shift, calling to him. Aizen required his presence and he pressed his fingers together, snapping them in a short and precise gesture that tore a hole through space, bringing him right to the throne room. He nodded slowly, acknowledging that he was in charge as Aizen made his move. The trust placed in him was not complete, but he was given some freedom to deal with his prisoner. Orihime waited for him at the edge of the row, near-shivering in the shadows where she had been left. She looked at him with the same wide, grey eyes she always did. Ulquiorra tilted his head as he walked forward; there was something about her that he could not see clearly either. She mentioned her heart so often – it must have been a human trait – and it grated on his nerves. She referenced her emotions and showed them so readily. He could see everything about her, except for her reasons. He approached her, about to ask her to explain when he sensed someone approaching. He snapped his fingers, tearing a hole through space into his chamber. “I haven’t been instructed to kill you,” he said as he pushed her inside. Whoever was rushing in to meet him was powerful and familiar and he let the opening stitch closed just as he felt a strong surge of reiatsu land behind him. +++ +++ Ulquiorra’s foot dug into the floor as he skidded backwards. The attacks were more powerful than he had expected, though he kept his face neutral. He had been expecting Ichigo to rush forward to save Orihime. Aizen’s invitation was open to all, and he had truly expected the orange-haired substitute shinigami to be the one eager to save the girl. The fourth Espada frowned inwardly; he could not see why this man had come in his place. The black-haired shinigami who stood before him came without his captain’s haori and showing signs of his arm recently being healed. There was no way he could have been operating at full strength, and yet, Ulquiorra was forced to use both hands. He widened his eyes, trying to see the thing he was feeling. Was it the way Byakuya moved or his silent communication with his blade? It was a familiar air that grated right to Ulquiorra’s bone. He was not fighting for revenge or honour… The pale Espada blocked another attack and fixed Byakuya with a hard stare. He should not have been fighting at all, and yet… it was as if his purpose paralleled Ulquiorra’s own. As if he fought out of duty and responsibility, a purpose greater than himself. Byakuya did not feel like trash. Ulquiorra pressed his attack and the shinigami skidded backward, kicking up a small cloud of dust as he fought to maintain his footing and toppled backwards. He clattered against the steps up to Aizen’s throne and the Espada stepped up to him. His eye twitched, replaying images of the shinigami’s previous fight in juxtaposition to this battle. No matter which battle he observed, this shinigami, this captain did not feel like trash. He felt… better, superior to the fourth Espada in some unknown way. Byakuya had injured himself to save the lesser shinigami, Rukia. The girl was weak, dying. She should have been forgotten, but, instead, he took responsibility for her life. Their power levels were comparable, but Byakuya seemed to have something above the arrancar… and it bothered Ulquiorra. He breathed heavily, feeling energy buzzing around him like invisible flames. It burned and he felt the first layers of control begin to fray off his mind, hanging and flying in loose tendrils around his thoughts. He tried to remain calm, to show nothing of the fiery anger beneath his surface. His fists relaxed at his sides, though he could feel his eyes burning down into the prostrate shinigami. This one should have been trash like the rest, but the black-haired shinigami made him feel like trash instead. He steadied his breathing, stepping closer to Byakuya, intending to see what it was about the other man that made him feel so… tense. He leaned closer, half-watching the way the shinigami’s body twitched, noticing all-too late as the dark-haired captain jerked his frame to the side, kicking out and knocking him to the ground as well. Ulquiorra rolled to the side, gracelessly ready to retaliate, but Byakuya was on him in an instant and he realized – though could not believe – that he was pinned beneath the taller creature’s body. He tested the shinigami’s strength, suddenly desperate to push him away, but his struggles stopped as Byakuya pressed in close. He stopped moving, held there by nothing more than a stern, disarming… disconcerting look that bore into him and froze him where he lay. His fingers twitched, aching to drive upward and grasp at the shinigami’s throat, tear a hole through him just to shift that unidentifiable look to something more familiar burning in those black orbs. He could feel it; something was bubbling inside of him, some ignored tension pushing itself forward and he sucked in a breath, unwilling to give the shinigami an inch on him. His mind raced, searching for a way to break the hold this black-haired captain held over him, and in the search, his subconscious took hold. It replayed the images in his eye, focusing on the way Byakuya moved and drawing out his desires. He shuddered in horror as it whispered ideas and made him feel the firm weight, comfortable heat of that body. His mind seemed to venture down that path, distracting him. His eyes went blank as their struggles drew them close and his breath caught in his throat. He shuddered as realization suddenly tore through his mind when he felt the softness of Byakuya’s lips as they moved against his. Those lips that were willing and probing and… Ulquiorra wrenched back suddenly, horrified at what he had done and utterly confused. Trash. The shinigami made him feel that way, but he had just proved that feeling to be true. Aizen had given him the rank of fourth. He was the fourth-strongest Espada with a duty greater than all other arrancar, but three. He commanded and others obeyed him because of his strength. Because of his authority, he was trusted to watch over Las Noches. He was in control of the palace and yet he couldn’t even control his own body’s urges. He felt a hiss burning in his throat, echoing in the hole there. How could he look at Aizen again when he had proven to himself that he was nothing but weak trash? The arrancar turned his head when Byakuya leaned in again, feeling the terrible mixture of shame and arousal tumbling in his guts. The hot breath he felt on his cheek and the way the shinigami moved above him, straddling his legs and sitting heavily on his thighs. That heavy pressure was delicious, pressing the feeling that churned in his guts, pushing it lower still. He inhaled sharply and forced himself to look back at the shinigami, glaring intently into those dark eyes and seeing his reflection in their smouldering, black depths. The shinigami didn’t move and Ulquiorra listened to his breathing for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts. He could feel the weight of Byakuya’s reiatsu pressing down onto him, and he recalled the way that reiatsu had simmered during the battle against Zomari. He had maintained control of that power, always keeping it under reign as his responsibility dictated. His authority burned down and Ulquiorra narrowed his eyes, feeling his own mind reflecting that duty. “Get off,” he finally hissed, his body going rigid, suddenly feeling their similarities burning into his mind. He recognized the authority burning in those dark eyes; responsibility and duty to his cause, to those beneath him – to that girl – but there was something more. Byakuya held him firmly, making the Espada uncomfortable. The moment could have lasted only a heartbeat, but to Ulquiorra it felt like long minutes with the shinigami bearing down on him, seeming to strip away his power with an authority he couldn’t touch. That energy intensified as Byakuya leaned forward, his face expressionless as he kissed the arrancar. Ulquiorra tried to wrench away, but couldn’t move as that mouth descended upon him, reconnecting them. He hesitated briefly before the warmth seemed to pool into him and he felt his mouth kissing back, amazed at the feeling of someone willing and alive against him. He felt Byakuya guide his tongue deep within his mouth, his fist tightening in Ulquiorra’s clothes and holding him there a long moment before he decided to pull back. Ulquiorra panted, feeling his cheeks burning hot and he frowned. He… wanted that. He enjoyed it and wanted more… but something at the back of his mind was telling him to resist. He had responsibility. Even though he was weak, he shouldn’t throw it all away. He couldn’t turn his back on Aizen for simple pleasures. He had to remain strong, even though he could feel his reiatsu mingling with the shinigami’s aura and every caress of power made his heart beat faster. That singular thought of resisting out of duty gave him strength to struggle once more, kicking out and attempting to push the shinigami back. Others were counting on him; he couldn’t afford to be weak for a second. Couldn’t allow himself to give into any pleasure. Duty came before all else. His struggles were short-lived as the captain grabbed his wrist, pinning it above his head and leaned down with unforgiving eyes. He seemed to look Ulquiorra over before his eyes lightened to a frown, “You don’t know what to do with yourself… don’t you know how to take care of your frustrations before facing an opponent?” Ulquiorra narrowed his gaze and kept quiet. His frustrations? He tried to take matters like this in hand when he could, rubbing out his frustrations alone in the dark of his chambers, but with Aizen’s looming plans, and his near-constant vigil over Orihime… it had been impossible. He shifted beneath the captain, feeling his clothed erection brushing the inside of Byakuya’s thigh. The pressure was insistent and the contact sent a shock of desire through his body. He wanted to groan, it was amazing. Ulquiorra paused at that thought. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Byakuya meant… what they were doing at the moment. Not masturbating, but actually finding someone else to lie with and fuck? He wanted to laugh; he couldn’t open himself to someone else. Not another arrancar. His position and duty… if one of his fraccion got it into their head that he could be manipulated through sex, his authority would be compromised! His desires were not required to serve Aizen and he could not compromise his authority with any of his subordinates. He couldn’t let them in, making himself vulnerable. His mind flashed to other Espada who, he knew, used force to get what they wanted. That force maintained their subordinates’ fear of them. Sex was a tool used to mold fraccion to their wills, and fear of sex carved power out of weak souls. Fear was superfluous to Ulquiorra and he had built his reputation without it. He understood this required some sacrifices, he would not allow any arrancar to see him as one step below his rank. He was the fourth and could not compromise that for anything, not even his own comfort or pleasure. He felt his body pressing up against the shinigami. He’d never used force on another arrancar, not even the lowest fraccion. He clenched his fist as Byakuya released his arm, trailing his fingers down to close around the horn on his hollow mask. He’d never acted upon any of his tensions and desires, just late at night when it became too much and his wandering fingers pulled and scratched at the burning hardness between his legs. He arched up, dragging his torso against Byakuya’s lean, muscular frame. He tilted his chin upward, the gesture dragging the shinigami down to kiss him, firmly and without regret. He never imagined he could touch someone without compromising his status as the fourth Espada. Kissing a shinigami might not have been the best alternative, but at that moment, he didn’t care. He would destroy the shinigami in the morning, but right then… he gasped as Byakuya kissed him and let loose a throaty moan as enemy fingers trailed around the edges of his hollow hole. He arched again, twisting his hips to feel the weight of the shinigami’s body against him. He felt a hardness digging into his abdomen and a rush jolted through his body. He needed, wanted, craved. His body was alight with sensations and emotions as he allowed himself to feel them. Byakuya was so much like him; he understood the ache of repression and denial. The shinigami appeared to be the driving force of their encounter, but his body was just as tense. His breath still rasped in his throat, still showed that, despite his posturing, he was nearly as repressed as the Espada. It seemed that, even for someone aware of their body’s needs, it was difficult to trust anyone, someone willing to forget their status for just one night. Ulquiorra wanted to laugh; he was the last person this shinigami should trust. He felt his body tense up. Byakuya was the last person he could trust as well, but his illogical reasoning looked beyond their ranks. Byakuya was the only person he could do this with, the only one who understood his duty and could ignore it. He bent his knee, pressing his thigh between Byakuya’s legs and parting the sinewy limbs. He could feel the shinigami rest heavily on his leg, sliding down his thigh until his pelvis rested against Ulquiorra’s hip. The shinigami was acting on all his desires, giving in to what his body craved. Ulquiorra felt a pang of envy as he still wanted to hold back; a force of habit that robbed his hands of confidence as he began pushing the robes from Byakuya’s shoulders. The dark-haired captain hissed into his mouth, taking the Espada’s hands in his own and directing them to his bare chest. He said nothing and Ulquiorra recognized the lesson: he needed to learn to let go. Ulquiorra took a breath and spread his fingers against the shinigami’s chest, feeling the firm, strong muscle beneath Byakuya’s collarbone. He noticed a bead of sweat trailing down Byakuya’s throat and snapped forward, lapping up the salty liquid with his tongue. He could feel the captain’s body moving against his, helping to remove his clothing, but the Espada could only taste the delicious spot in the shinigami’s chest. He licked, irritated by the lack of opening there. The feeling burned across his mind, leaving him with the impression there should be a hollow hole in the shinigami’s throat. He licked and bit at the bony juncture until Byakuya pulled back to sit on his haunches. Ulquiorra looked up from his place on the ground, feeling the cool air hitting his bare chest now that the shinigami had put some space between them. He breathed deeply, his lungs suddenly needing more than he could inhale and the hole at his neck ached. It hurt. Everywhere the shinigami touched burned: his hole, chest, his abdomen… He shuddered as Byakuya trailed his rough fingers along his torso, working the ties to his hakama and Ulquiorra did nothing to stop him. He watched with unreadable eyes as the black bands loosened and his white garments fell aside. A shudder spread across his body as Byakuya touched him again. They were rough and hard, ghosting over his lower abdomen like lightly falling sakura petals. He watched the captain move, observing as he drew those peculiar sensations from his body and he arched up into his embrace like a lover. He wrapped his fingers around Byakuya’s wrist, squeezing tightly, stopping those nails from scratching any deeper into the fine hair trailing up his abdomen. Those dark eyes bore into him, wide and questioning. The Espada dug his nails into the captain’s wrist, drawing a hitching breath as he guided those fingers lower. Byakuya seemed to understand and allowed the arrancar to guide his actions, letting the arrancar guide his tentative release of duty. Ulquiorra felt his senses awash in desire as he sat up, pulling the shinigami against him. His black lips desperately seeking that mouth that was as unforgiving as he was merciless. Those lips that were seemingly unyielding and cold, but pliant and hot as Ulquiorra sucked gripped him tighter, biting at the tongue that pushed its way inside his mouth. He closed his eyes and let go of the voice telling him to hold back, to attack rather than to feel. He held Byakuya’s shoulders in a death grip, doing what he wanted, rather than what he knew was right. He was only so strong because of Aizen, and what was right was what Aizen asked of him. What he ordered. He only lived to further Aizen’s plan. It was what he had been elevated for – but he couldn’t stop the selfish urges and Byakuya was the first person who pushed aside his resistance and ignored the danger that came with fucking an Espada. It might have been dangerous to fuck a captain as well, but nothing could deter Ulquiorra from continuing on. Byakuya moved lower, lavishing his throat before his mouth made Ulquiorra moan deep in his chest, bucking into the hand that delved beneath his clothing and wrapped around his aching erection. The shinigami held him captive as his teeth worked the edge of his hollow hole. The Espada bucked again, his chest heaving as splashes of white appeared behind his vision. The gaping wound in his soul was tender and jagged around the edges. He never imagined he could still feel so much from the old injury. It was as if the soul chain had ripped away, leaving raw nerve endings that Byakuya nipped and licked at, pushing the arrancar beyond thought and into pure feeling. He bucked against the shinigami, dragging his nails down his torso, working the ties around the hakama, sliding his fingers along the captain’s bare skin and pushing the garment away. Byakuya sat up, giving him more access as he dragged his nails down the shinigami’s milky-white skin. “Good,” Byakuya purred, nuzzling Ulquiorra’s chest as the Espada touched him with growing urgency. “Very good.” The words were comforting, encouraging and completely… alien. He had never heard words spoken in that tone, except maybe by Orihime. Yet, these did not fill him with contempt for the one who spoke them. It was not weakness. When Byakuya said them… he wanted to hear more. To be guided to experience more of this… feeling. He could feel the heat pooling from between Byakuya’s legs as he reached inside. He could feel his muscled thighs shifting as he reached with confident fingers, dragging his thumb along the underside before taking hold of Byakuya’s erection in a firm grip. He felt a rush spread through his abdomen as he was rewarded with a groan. “You’ve done this before.” “No,” the Espada murmured, fascinated by the way Byakuya’s pale erection looked against his own paler shaft. He stroked them together. “Not with someone else,” he corrected, his voice catching in his throat as their dicks rubbed together. Their skin was soft and dry, catching against each other as they mindlessly rocked against one another. Byakuya frowned at the statement. His brows knit together in irritation before a twitch of excitement lessened their severity, though the unasked question remained. “I mean, I’ve never done this without holding back.” Ulquiorra said, suddenly pushing the shinigami back and crawling between his firm thighs. He crawled along the length of the captain’s frame, running his fingers through Byakuya’s soft hair as he climbed up to straddle his lap. The white hakama fell away as he crawled, dragged along Byakuya’s own falling garments that were pushed somewhere behind them. Ulquiorra’s skin prickled in the cool air as he sat heavily in Byakuya’s lap. He felt nothing holding him back. Nothing at all. He spread his thighs wide, feeling his prick resting against the captain’s thick erection. He ground forward, enjoying the feeling spreading up through his abdomen as he braced a hand on Byakuya’s chest and licked his fingers. He knew what he wanted. He saw how this was going and at that moment, he would show Byakuya just how little he held back. He withdrew his fingers from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva to follow them to his ass as he pressed an eager digit inside. He released a breath as he moved inside, curling his finger around and lightly pressing it deep before pulling out. He leaned over the captain, pressing their bodies together as he bared his teeth to kiss Byakuya, easing a second finger in as their lips met. Byakuya gripped Ulquiorra’s hollow mask, wrapping his fingers around the horn and wrenching his head back. He held the arrancar there, hovering just above his face as Ulquiorra continued to move his fingers in and out of that tight opening. His dark eyes smouldered, wavering as they stared back, unmoving. He shifted, never looking away as he reached along Ulquiorra’s body, feeling his way to press his fingers in beside the Espada’s scissoring digits. Ulquiorra moaned as Byakuya’s fingers twined alongside his. He couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop fucking on those fingers that parted him and stroked alongside his own digits. His body shuddered and he let his head fall forward; he wanted to moan, scream, and vocalize the feelings churning inside him like a storm. The rumbling desire clashed against his ribs, filling him completely and suddenly the fingers were not enough. Definitely not enough. He withdrew his fingers, feeling Byakuya move away as he grabbed the shinigami’s erection in a determined grip. The organ felt solid and soft beneath his fingers, he spat into his palm, slicking the engorged flesh and preparing it before he crawled forward, ready to seat himself on that burning shaft. He needed to feel… needed Byakuya inside of him and he rushed along, feeling the head pressing against his ass, which still tried to tighten against its entry. The Espada gritted his teeth and sat down further, releasing a gasp as he felt the head of Byakuya’s cock push inside him. He braced himself on the shinigami’s chest, breathing deeply. It took great effort to continue moving, moving downward with each exhale, finally seating himself in Byakuya’s lap, nearly shaking with effort. A throaty gasp broke Ulquiorra’s concentration, making him aware of Byakuya blindly digging his nails into his thighs. That pain was only a small distraction from what the arrancar was feeling. His entire body shook as he raised himself up, falling forward and he dropped down once more. His cock was going soft as he moved, but he ignored it and began the slow, painful act of fucking. He had to keep going and pushed himself to never stop, even as he felt the captain’s shaft spread him open, tearing deeper inside. He winced at the sensation, focusing on the fact that he was doing this to himself. He could feel Byakuya’s dick forcing its way inside and he braced himself on the shinigami’s chest, doing little to hold back the long, rasping moan that built up inside him. Nothing was holding him back, not even the pain. He slid down, covered in cold sweat as his thighs tightened around Byakuya’s hips. He took a deep breath, forcing himself up again, but finding it difficult as the captain held him down. He looked down with dangerous green eyes, seeing the force the captain used to press into his thighs, locking him down into his lap. Ulquiorra inhaled sharply, grinding his teeth as he tried to wrench back. Attempted to rise up and begin the course of raw fucking he knew he wanted. Damnit, he fucking needed it! Byakuya’s hands were firm, holding him down and keeping that delicious cock buried deep within his body. His body which shuddered and Ulquiorra suddenly dropped his head forward, feeling the desperation pouring into his actions as he looked questioningly at the other man. Wasn’t he supposed to want this? To just keep going without holding back? Byakuya held him tightly; unmoving, though the hardness in his eyes had softened. “Do not rush this,” he said firmly. The Espada tightened his lips and braced himself against the shinigami’s chest. “I just want…” he finally sighed, his fingers digging into the muscular body. “I want…” “Release,” Byakuya filled in knowingly, sadly. He shifted, removing a hand from the arrancar’s hip and placing it against the pale chest, inches from the hollow hole. “Do not force yourself. There is no reason for either of us to impress the other,” he shifted, his fingers curling slightly. “That is not what this is about.” Ulquiorra narrowed his eyes, “Don’t presume to instruct me, shinigami.” Byakuya frowned. “If I did not have to, then we would be enjoying ourselves right now instead of discussing this.” He accentuated his words with a sharp, upward thrust that seemed to rip through Ulquiorra’s core. “Now, pay attention, Espada.” He thrust again, using the momentum to flip their positions, rolling Ulquiorra over so he lied on his back while Byakuya remained between his legs. The green-eyed arrancar didn’t react right away. He was taken by surprise, watching as Byakuya settled inside him, bowing low as he started moving again. It started out like a dance, or some writhing ceremony. The shinigami moved gracefully, fluidly, like a snake about to devour its prey. Ulquiorra licked his lips as the pain was replaced with something else; not pleasurable, but pleasant and sensual. He could hear his breath in his ears and was surprised by how light and desperate he sounded. Byakuya arched, baring his throat, chest and belly; everything was on display as he drew back, driving himself deep within Ulquiorra’s body. Every movement the shinigami made was grand, perfect and Ulquiorra thrust his hips upward, wrapping a leg around his thigh and letting the captain go even deeper within his body. He closed his eyes; this was much better than jerking off, much better than pain. The shinigami moved above him, shaking the arrancar’s frame with every thrust and grazing against something within him that made him choke. Ulquiorra broke free with a low, vibrating moan that seemed to emanate from every inch of his body. The sound went through him and set something off inside him; he began fucking up into the body above him. Somewhere along the line, he forgot all about his position, status, or anything else that dictated this was wrong. What was a position? All he knew was the weight of Byakuya’s frame pinning him under a mountain of sensations and wanton abandonment that he had never experienced before. Not like this. He arched up. Never like this… He dug his black nails into Byakuya’s back, spreading his legs wide and taking the other into him as deeply as he could. His senses were filled with the smell of sweat and blood, his belly felt wet and sticky as his cock leaked his arousal over his navel. Byakuya’s slick, jerking movements brushed him in just the right way. Ulquiorra gasped, suddenly unable to fill his lungs with air. His green eyes opened wide, but he couldn’t see anything except for the strong, dark-haired being above him. That image filled his mind, the movements rubbed his nerves raw and he felt a tightness wrapped tightly within his belly. It shifted, like a snake as it slowly uncoiled. Loosened its grip on him and churned about inside him. It rolled around inside him, touching every nerve, every raw piece of feeling and then it struck. Biting into his chest as his orgasm ripped through him and filled his vision with white and black. He was vaguely aware of the shinigami arching above him. His body shook as he clamped down around Byakuya’s erection, sputtering release across his belly and, finally, he felt the shinigami stiffen above him, his erratic grinding growing short and he filled the arrancar with his release. Ulquiorra lied there, letting his vision return to him. He watched Byakuya, seeing those dark eyes flick down with satisfaction. He released a breath as the shinigami laid him down and withdrew from his body. He stayed there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling of the throne room and listening to the captain gathering his clothes before rolling over and slowly rising to his feet. He stood, comfortable in his nakedness with his hands at his sides. Things had settled back into something familiar; he was prepared to fight. “I see what you mean,” he flexed his fingers. He felt loose, unguarded. He allowed his green eyes to rover over Byakuya’s form as he tied the bands around his waist. “Do you wish to continue?” the shinigami asked as he turned to face him, resting a hand on the handle of his zanpaktou. Ulquiorra watched, the action drawing attention to the weapon and bringing them both back to reality. “I’m only to watch Las Noches and keep the woman here,” he said comfortably. “My orders are not to fight with you…” “Mine were only to assist Ichigo,” he seemed to tilt his head slightly. Ulquiorra nodded at that; their silent agreeance to leave each other that one time. Ulquiorra couldn’t help watching his figure turn and retreat into the darkness. Byakuya always stood tall and strong, even though the responsibility of his status weighed heavily on his shoulders. The Espada cracked his neck, pressing his shoulders back; now he knew how the captain found relief from that weight.

"I can't believe you're making me do this," Colonel Jack O'Neill hissed. The recipient of his hissing, the Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, merely looked innocent. He dismissed Jack's objections as more formality than reality. No one outside of General Hammond could make the Colonel do something he really didn't want to do. In that elegant accent so typically mistaken as English by Americans who didn't realize aliens were living and working on Earth as part of a top-secret government project, Obi-Wan replied, "But Jack, you promised us long ago you would take us to some place we can dance together." Obi-Wan leaned back in the arms of his lover, the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Qui-Gon hugged Obi-Wan within the cradle of his arms, his physical support affirming his Padawan's reminder of Jack's promise. Dr. Daniel Jackson shrugged and the big Jaffa Teal'c only raised his eyebrows when Jack looked to them for assistance. With a disgusted shake of his head, Jack turned back to face the front of the line as it surged forward. The doorman at Pittsburgh's hottest gay night club, Babylon, however, seemed to have heard Jack's lament. Looking bored but polite, he said, "Members only. No pass, no entry." "Well, guess that does that," Jack said gleefully as he turned to the others, quite unfazed at the rejection. "How 'bout a movie?" The excuse of specialized military training and an archaeological conference both occurring in Pennsylvania had been a great excuse to escape from the depths of the mountains and the constant trips to foreign planets where people tended to shoot at them, and see a nice, normal, American locale. Jack had been thrilled to pack up his crew and head to Pittsburgh. He was less excited by Obi-Wan's discovery of the gay side of this town and his insistence on visiting it, though a part of him was tempted by the chance to walk hand-in-hand with Daniel, his lover. "A moment please, Jack," said Qui-Gon, stepping forward to be close to the doorman. [Master, what are you doing?] [Getting us in, Obi-Wan,] he replied, while leaning close to the doorman. "Here's my pass," he said, holding up the false Irish passport procured for him by General Hammond. His hand drifted slowly, the passport waving in front of the doorman's face. "That's your pass," the doorman repeated dutifully. "The others don't need passes." "The others don't need passes." "We should go right in." "You should go right in." "Thank you." "You're welcome," the doorman replied politely. The five walked into Babylon, their ears instantly assaulted by the loud beat of the music. [I can't believe you did that!] thought Obi-Wan, sounding both shocked and amused. [I don't think the Council would condone mental control to crash nightclubs.] [It feels right to be here.] [It's the Will of the Force to have a good time?] [I think we deserve it, don't you?] [Yes, Master] Obi-Wan answered, but he shook his head ruefully. As much as he enjoyed living on Earth, sometimes he wasn't sure if it was the best place for Qui-Gon. His Master's rebellious instincts tended to emerge even more than on Coruscant, sometimes encouraged by Jack's maverick tendencies, other times in direct opposition to Jack's rare 'chain of command' moments. Jack took one look at the gyrating male bodies that filled the floor of Babylon and yelled, "I need a beer! Come on Danny, let's go to the bar." He directed the others, "Find some place to sit and we'll bring some drinks." "We're dancing," Obi-Wan said, grabbing Qui-Gon's hand and pulling him into the thick of the crowd. "I will find a place to sit," Teal'c offered. For a second Jack hesitated at leaving the Jaffa alone, truly a stranger in a strange land. Teal'c had been living on Earth for several years now, but was still relatively sheltered, staying mostly at the base, only rarely visiting town and interacting with civilians. But if Teal'c could handle hostile aliens on foreign planets, surely finding an empty table in a crowded nightclub wasn't beyond his capabilities. "Okay, we'll find you." Daniel and Jack headed toward the bar, while Teal'c strolled through the throngs of male bodies, examining them with fascination, and headed toward the tables that lined the dance floor. ************ Across the room, Brian Kinney took a swig of his beer and studied the dancers. Options were grim tonight. The majority of guys at Babylon were regulars. He'd fucked them and he didn't need to do it again. One night was sufficient to know a guy's body and he wasn't interested in learning about their personal lives or emotions. With half of his attention, he listened to his friends banter as he searched for the hunk he wanted to take home tonight. Then a particular face caught his eye and he talked over Mike's raptures on the artistry of his newest comic book purchase, "I've seen what I want. I've gotta go." "What about dinner?" Mike called as Brian stalked toward his prey. Brian took a moment to turn back and smiled, "There's only one meal I'm eating tonight." He walked away, missing Emmett's soft, "Oh my." Ted and Mike were both trying to figure out Brian's target but re-directed their attention to follow Emmett's gaze. He was staring at a man sitting down at one of the tables. The man was massively built, with impressive muscles displayed by the close-fitting black t-shirt and jeans he wore, a bald head, and skin the color of very dark, bitter-sweet chocolate. And Emmett loved chocolate. After Cher and cyber-sex, it was his very favorite thing. "Weird tattoo. Wonder what it's made of?" Ted commented, straining to glimpse the gold mark on the guy's forehead as the light from the disco ball flashed off the shiny surface. "But a little out of your league. Pardon me, make that a *lot* out of your league." The accountant wasn't intentionally putting down Emmett. Considering the two of them on the lowest rungs of the gay-attractiveness ladder was an ingrained habit for him. "He's gorgeous," Emmett said wistfully. "Gor-geous." "Well, I don't think he's out of your league," Pitts9X6 murmured in Emmett's ear. "You are a big, burly top. Don't forget it." Emmett turned to look at his cyber-persona, the - well, the whatever-he-was. When Pitts9X6 appeared and talked to him, invisible to everyone else around him, Emmett was scared that he was developing a split personality. Wearing only faded cut-off shorts clinging to his slim hips and curvaceous butt, the buff, smooth-skinned, 6 foot two, 195 pounds, 4 percent body fat, uncut Pitts was everything Emmett wanted to be and never could. Never, that is, until Pitts encouraged him. Finishing his beer, Michael stood up. "Well, I'm hungry. Let's go get dinner." Emmett asked, "Do you think I could take him?" He was speaking only to Pitts, but the others didn't realize it. Regardless of whether Pitts was a figment of Emmett's imagination or a sign of serious mental disturbance, Emmett trusted his judgment. Mike laughed, "Not a chance." The humor wasn't intended to be mean, but everyone knew Emmett was a big Nellie bottom, a drama queen with a unique flair for interesting and frequently appalling clothes. Pitts knew differently. "Of course you can. You're a tiger and he's the steak you've been waiting to devour. Go take a bite." Ted was standing also, pushing his chair back in. He and Michael started to walk away, expecting Emmett to follow. They paused several steps away and Michael asked, "Emmett?" Looking at Pitts' cheeky grin for encouragement, Emmett said, "You guys go ahead. I'm not hungry." Michael and Ted glanced at each other and shrugged. "Whatever," Mike said. He looked down at the floor to see Brian dancing in a trio with a young guy with close-cut hair and an old guy with long hair. A really old guy, in Mike's estimation, since he was even older than the chiropractor Michael recently dumped. Brian was dancing with an ancient and Emmett was thinking he could take on a dude who could lift him with one hand? Placing a companionable arm around Ted's shoulders, he decided wisdom dictated escaping such oddness as they left Babylon. ********** Obi-Wan was laughing as he dragged Qui-Gon onto the floor. Reaching the middle, he turned to face his lover, instinctively finding the rhythm of the pulsing beat and sinuously moving with it. [Do you know how to do this dance?] Qui-Gon asked, standing without moving, glancing around at the dancers. He spoke through the connection of their bond, unwilling to yell to be heard. [I don't think there are choreographed steps. Just move with the music.] Qui-Gon would have been happy to just stand there, staring at Obi-Wan. The Padawan was wearing a white t-shirt and faded blue jeans, his favorite Earth outfit. His eyes were closed dreamily, his thin braid swaying with his body, swinging back and forth. The Force had truly blessed Qui-Gon, to give him someone so special and so beautiful to train and love, and Qui-Gon could have watched endlessly as Obi-Wan enjoyed himself. But conscious of the necessity of blending in with this strange environment and he began dancing to the music, his movements powerful yet graceful as befitted a Jedi Master. Then a young man stepped between the two, dancing with both of them. Dressed in all black, with brunette hair and hazel eyes, he exuded sexual energy from every pore. In normal circumstances, Qui-Gon would simply have ignored him, dismissed with the type of scathing look that a supreme diplomat could muster when necessary. Something - some trickle of the Force - made him hesitate. The young man's aura was clouded, as if the forces of both light and dark were fighting for possession of his soul and it was unclear which side was winning. Instead of dismissing him, Qui-Gon stepped slightly to the side and Obi-Wan did the same, the three dancing in a triangle. A fourth person inserted himself into the triangle between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, forming a rectangle. He was younger than Qui-Gon would have guessed was the allowed age limit in a nightclub, a slim youth with blonde hair and pale blue hair. An expression that Qui-Gon couldn't read flashed across Brian's face. Irritation, lust? Or some combination of both? The Force awareness surged higher. Whatever was happening involved both of these men and Qui-Gon decided to trust in the Force and see how this evening would end. ********* "Quick! Hide!" Major Samantha Carter grabbed the drinks menu and spread it wide, shielding them from the rest of the room. Her best friend, Doctor Janet Fraiser, leaned forward over the table, also hiding her face behind the menu. "What's wrong?" "The bar! Look at the bar!" Janet peered out, trying to look nonchalant. Guys were everywhere. Hot guys with rippling muscles. Hunky guys in tight clothes. Buff go-go boys wearing silver underwear. Not-so-sexy guys trying desperately to look attractive. As a female doctor in the military, she was accustomed to being around large groups of men. During medical school, she strove to project authority and be noticed, needing to combat many patients' sexist inclination to regard her petiteness as an indication of her intelligence and turn to her taller, male colleagues. Until tonight, she never felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb. Being in this club made her so visible and yet so totally unseen. In the military, she was always careful of fraternization concerns and not accidentally creating awkward misunderstandings by being too friendly. But in Babylon, the men looked directly at her, as if wondering why she was here, and yet also straight past her, since she was female and therefore, not attractive. Then Janet saw what Sam had seen and any nervousness at being in Babylon disappeared, chased out by sheer shock. Jack and Daniel were leaning on the bar, apparently waiting for drinks. They were talking softly while giving each other nuzzling kisses. Their hands were resting lightly on each other's waists, both men smiling and relaxed in a way not often allowed by the stress of working on the Stargate project. "What are they doing here?" Sam hissed. As much as she enjoyed her teammates' company, this was a rare night out for her and Janet. She didn't want to make awkward explanations if their presence was discovered. "I don’t know but if they're here - look at the dance floor. Right in the middle." Both women peered over the menu at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, dancing in a rectangle with two other men. They continued looking around until they spotted Teal'c, sitting at one of the tables by the floor, a man in the most flamboyant purple outfit standing next to him. As they watched, the other man tugged at Teal'c pulling him upright, pressing a kiss on his lips. They knew that only Teal'c's willingness got him out of the chair. "Hi!" They jumped in their seats and turned to face a young black woman standing by their table. "I'm sorry to bother you but - " She took a deep breath. "My car won't start. I came in with my friend Justin but he's busy." She grimaced, looking past them at the dance floor, and they followed her gaze to the men dancing with the Jedi. "I decided to leave but the car wouldn't start and the doorman let me back in but I know Justin. Nothing can interrupt him when he's trying to get Brian." Sam patted the seat by her, instantly liking this friendly chatty teen, even as her maternal side wanted to scold her for being out so late on a school night. She risked putting down the drinks menu, turning away from the dancers. "Sit down." "Thanks. I'm sorry, I just feel so weird being by myself in this place. I saw you guys and I thought you might help. What are you doing here?" "A friend of mine brought us." Janet wasn't surprised Mark had disappeared. Looking up her old high school friend had been fun, but he'd been totally flummoxed when she suggested he could take her and her best friend to a gay bar, giving her sideways glances in the car and muttering darkly about the oddness of faghags. "Which one is Justin?" "That one, right there," she said pointing to the blond. "He's wild about Brian. Brian was Justin's first lover," she whispered confidentially. Sam and Janet looked at each other, the circuitry in their brains overloading at the image of the blond and the brunette now dancing with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. "We need to get out of here," Sam said. "Agreed." If Mark was still anything like he'd been in high school, he'd ditched them already. He certainly wouldn't search too long if they caught a taxi back to the hotel. "My car?" Daphne prompted. "You'd be amazed at what Sam can do with mechanical equipment," Janet said. All three rose, the two Stargate members taking a last look around. Jack and Daniel had their hands full of beers and were leaving the bar area. The Jedi were still dancing and Teal'c was gone. It looked like it was going to be an interesting evening at Babylon. "We have got to get out of here," Sam said again, and they departed before they risked exposure in their insatiable desire to see what would happen. ********** Teal'c found the music unusual and too loud, but he was having a good time waiting at the table, watching the dancers. Sex was the only enjoyment allowed to the Jaffa guards by their Goa'uld masters and since coming to Earth, Teal'c had too little of it. He didn't understand why the American government prohibited one of the simplest and sure-fire ways to release tension after a battle, but he'd been reluctant to question. Saving his people was the main goal in his life and if he had to disperse energy through meditation for several years, he could make that sacrifice. Jack hadn't explained things very explicitly when he conceded to Obi-Wan's request to visit a gay club but Teal'c understood from his muttered, "Whatever you do, keep your shirt on," that tonight was an exception. As long as no one saw the crisscrosses on his abdomen that hid the Goa'uld larvae, anything could happen tonight. And in Teal'c's mind, it was long past time. A man stopped in front of Teal'c, wearing purple velvet pants, a purple and silver vest, and white silk shirt. "You are mine," he said aggressively, wrapping one hand in Teal'c's t-shirt and pulling. Teal'c studied the man as he obeyed the demand, standing. He was a young man, older than Obi-Wan but younger than Daniel, with short brown hair and an expressive face, currently trying to look tough and to the battle-hardened Teal'c, not succeeding very well. His body was in decent shape, but it was from the softness of gyms, not from military training or fighting for his life. But Teal'c's expectation that good things would happen was occurring already and Teal'c wasn't in the mood to hang up on small issues. The man kissed him, grinding his thin lips into Teal'c's fuller ones. The kiss was good but only a prelude of what Teal'c wanted. He let himself be dragged by his shirt into a back room filled with other men in varying stages and poses of sexual activity. "My name is Emmett but tonight you can call me Master," Teal'c's captor said roughly, pushing on Teal'c's shoulders to force him to the ground. The Jaffa almost resisted, disinterested in a game that smacked of the control exerted by the Goa'uld, but he remembered the way Obi-Wan could breathe, "Master," and even in a crowded Stargate cafeteria, Qui-Gon would visibly melt at the knees. This game could be played different ways. He lowered his head waiting instruction. Emmett thrust his hips forward. "Unzip me. Suck me." Teal'c complied, freeing Emmett's cock from his trousers. It was so good, to have this taste in his mouth again, to have the feeling of a stiff hardness wanting release. Release that Teal'c would give only when he was ready. And in that moment, as Teal'c's lips closed around his cock, Emmett realized he had made a major blunder. He couldn't top this man. This man was in control. He wasn't thrusting his cock into that warm mouth but rather being devoured alive by steaming heat. The lips were soft and supple, the tongue wet and flexible as they wrapped around his cock, tasted it, explored it, pulled it in, sucked hard until Emmett was ready to scream, then released him again, teasingly exploring the length, painfully coaxing Emmett back down from the approach of orgasm and then forcing him back up that hill. As Teal'c took over, Emmett's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against the wall, his muscles no longer able to support his body. Through blurry vision, he could see Pitts sadly shaking his head at him. "I'm sorry," he whimpered but the apology was false. Pleasure this good was worth experiencing. Pitts kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Next time, tiger. I'll make a real man of you yet." Teal'c freed Emmett's cock from his mouth, fondling his balls. "Come for me," he ordered in his serious voice, catching Emmett's cock in his mouth again as Emmett could only incoherently sigh, "uh huh," and come, caressing the soft skin of Teal'c's bald head. Pitts was nowhere to be seen in the crowded room as Teal'c rose and turned Emmett to face the wall, pushing down his trousers and caressing his butt. Emmett spread his legs wider, wiggling his ass back into Teal'c's big hands. Damnit, if he was going to be a big Nellie bottom, he was going to do it right. A finger slicked by saliva began to slide into him and Emmett froze. "What is wrong?" Teal'c asked, sensing a tension beyond play. Emmett bent, scrabbling in his trousers' pockets, handing Teal'c a condom and lube. With his velvet trousers down to his calves, Emmett still displayed his own sense of style as he twitched his bare hips while intoning, "You know what they say, better safe than sorry." He turned back to the wall and braced himself, his fingers splayed on the smooth surface. Teal'c examined the articles for a moment, dimly remembering when Doctor Fraiser matter-of-factly instructed him on human sexual practices soon after his arrival. He dropped his trousers, preparing himself quickly, and Emmett more slowly, then sank his thick cock into Emmett's opening, his teeth clenching as he felt the resistance squeezing his cock until he breached the ring of muscle. Emmett wailed softly as he felt himself fully invaded. He couldn't see the cock, but he could feel it opening him wide, big and bulky and long, just the way he liked it. The other man's hands closed around his own, bringing them behind him, until Emmett was supported by his chest and face pressing against the wall. The position made him feel even more dominated and controlled, unable to move or resist, but merely accept. Accept the wild pounding into his body, the huge cock that filled him full and threatened to split him apart. He loved being taken, claimed, possessed, losing all willpower and authority until he was fucked into a melting satiated puddle. Teal'c's chest expanded with his breathing as a stress he hadn't even known existed freed itself. Denial and restraint had lasted too long. He missed this sensation, a warm human body under him, the physical contact and pleasure, the muscles of his entire body shaking with ecstasy and excitement as he plunged harder and harder, rocking on the balls of his feet. A finger stroked down his arm and a young man murmured, "Hey, man, me next?" "Wait your turn," Emmett snapped. Teal'c grinned savagely as the building tension in his cock exploded and the first throes of orgasm shuddered through his body. He was very glad they had come to Babylon. ************ Carrying the beers, Jack and Daniel wandered around the dance floor looking vainly for Teal'c or the Jedi, trying to avoid being jostled by the crowd. Giving up on finding Teal'c, they finally settled in empty chairs. Jack asked, "Can you - you know - chat with Obi? See if he knows where Teal'c is? Where they are?" "I'll try." Not being telepathic, Daniel couldn't contact Obi-Wan, but since their accidental bonding, he found that if he cleared his mind, Obi-Wan seemed to sense him and would touch his mind. The proper state of blankness was difficult to attain in the midst of the noise and spinning light from the disco ball, but Daniel concentrated and soon felt the Padawan's faint mental voice. "Ah, Obi says Teal'c's busy." "Busy?" "Yeah, busy. Obi says not to worry, he's keeping his shirt on. Umm…just his shirt." Jack gaped. "You mean he - " "Uh huh. Apparently so. And Obi and Qui just walked out the door." "They left?" "Yeah, with - umm, two guys. Qui says it's the will of the Force." Jack took a long gulp of his beer. "Let me get this straight. In the time it took us to get beer, Teal'c's - uh, found a partner - and Obi and Qui found a foursome?" "Yes, I think that would about sum it up," Daniel responded. Tipping his head back, Jack drank half of his beer before wisecracking, "Jaffa and the Jedi - miracle workers of the galaxy and the gay clubs." "I think it's kinda nice." "Nice?" Jack said, his voice rising. Nice was hardly the word Jack would use to describe the current situation. He was a Colonel in the military, risking his career by his mere presence in this place, only to find his entire team AWOL. "Well, Teal'c's busy, the Jedi are busy, Sam and Janet are busy. So it means we could sit here and drink five beers. Or we could go back to the hotel. And be together. Without interruptions." His voice dropped until Jack could barely hear him, but the intense expression in his eyes said more than his words could convey. In Jack's mind, the contest between guzzling overpriced microbrews or being with the only man he ever loved had an easy victor. "Let's go." ******** For once in his life, Brian the stud, Brian the man in control, Brian the ad exec who made an extremely good living by manipulating people, was trying to figure out how the hell what happened had happened. He had planned to cut out the old guy and take the cute stud away, loosen that ridiculous ponytail, wrap the braid around his hand, and fuck him hard. Instead, he was driving his jeep, the old guy was sitting next to him, and Justin and the stud were in the back seat, kissing. As he drove, Brian watched them in the rear view mirror and decided maybe things had turned perfectly. Their hair was both blond but the resemblance was superficial. The new guy's hair had a reddish tinge next to Justin's almost Scandinavian blond. Both were bottoms, and with neither taking the aggressive lead, their kisses were sweet, long, and passionate. Brian shifted uncomfortably, getting hard, and a large hand curled over the front of his black jeans. "I think we need to arrive at your place soon," the other man said. "Just a few minutes." "My name is Qui-Gon and he is Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan? What hell kinda names were those? Brian grunted, not really interested in exchanging chit-chat, but the hand stroking him was exquisitely talented and he felt obligated to answer, "I'm Brian and he's Justin." "You're lovers?" Trying to explain Justin's role in Brian's life was beyond his ability. How could he describe that Justin was a one-night stand whose virginity he'd taken, who then turned almost into a stalker, became Brian's only repeat lover and now, surprisingly, a friend? "We've made out," Brian said briefly. Affairs were arranged to Brian's satisfaction when they reached his bed, Qui-Gon hanging back, presumably to relish being a voyeur of the scene. A guy his age wasn't likely to be able to get it up as often as the other three. Qui-Gon sat on the chair by the bed slowly unbuttoning his shirt while Brian, Justin, and Obi-Wan ended up in the middle of bed together, frantically stripping off each other's clothes and flinging them to the floor. Brian lay back, grabbing Justin and Obi-Wan, making them sprawl on top of him. He curled one hand around each of their heads, bringing their faces close to his. A kiss from Obi, a kiss from Justin, a kiss from Obi…they shared languorous and slow kisses while Obi-Wan and Justin explored his body, Obi-Wan with touches still tentative, Justin with bolder caresses. Justin knew what Brian liked and wasn't slow to share his knowledge, guiding Obi-Wan's hands across Brian's body with murmured instructions when his lips were free, "here…there…no, harder…yeah, tickle him…" Obi-Wan followed his lead until Brian was squirming with pleasure and realizing he needed to establish order. The difference between being serviced and being a plaything was enormous. Breaking away, he shoved at Justin, pushing him to sit with his back against the headboard. He stroked his fingers through Obi-Wan's short hair, encouraging him to suck Justin's cock. With his lips hesitating a mere inch from Justin's slim cock, Obi-Wan asked [Master?] [Yes, Obi-Wan?] [Do you want me to do this?] Obi-Wan looked sideways at his Master, now naked and sitting on the edge of the bed. Qui-Gon cupped his fist around his erect cock. [If you want to.] [Master.] With one word, Obi-Wan insisted Qui-Gon respond honestly. [It is - sexier - than I expected, to see you with another man,] Qui-Gon confessed. Seeing the hesitation but not hearing the conversation, Brian whispered, "His cum is so good. Almost sweet. Suck him and find out. Suck him." Obi-Wan opened his lips, letting the head of Justin's cock slip into his mouth. Not as big as Qui-Gon's, but long and slim like Justin himself, and as Brian promised, somehow sweet in flavor. Justin's hand twisted in Obi-Wan's braid, unconsciously tugging in rhythm to Obi-Wan's sucking. Brian's cock felt so hard he could drill nails as Obi-Wan went down on Justin, seeing the pleasure cover Justin's face as his cock was consumed. The two were so beautiful together. Dressed, they might appear similar, both pale and slim. Naked, Justin was still slightly gangly in his youth, while Obi-Wan revealed the lean whipcord muscles of a martial artist. Impatience seized him and his motions were swift and efficient as he readied Obi-Wan, feeling the muscles contract around his fingers and gradually relax under his ministrations. The younger man was welcoming and open, adjusting his body to position himself for Brian's claiming, Obi-Wan's knees on the bed between Justin's spread legs, his forearms on the pillow on each side of Justin's hips, bracing himself. Then Brian was thrusting into Obi-Wan, his forearms on top of Obi-Wan's, their hands clasping, his weight divided between his knees and the support of Obi-Wan's supple back. Having finally reached where he wanted to be since he saw Obi-Wan, he slowed down. He made it last because it was just too damn good to rush, watching Justin's face as Obi-Wan sucked him dry, hearing the long moans drawn from Obi-Wan's throat made even with his mouth full, feeling the pressure of Obi-Wan's ass clenching around his cock, drawing him in and clinging to his cock, squeezing him in time to Justin's breathy gasps. Brian's thrusts were deep but measured, making every inch count. "Full of cock," Brian muttered, "don't you feel full of cock?" [I want yours too, Master. Want to feel your touch. Need it. Need you.] Obi-Wan's plea was rewarded by Qui-Gon's powerful hand curling around his cock, finding the rhythm of Brian's thrusts and Obi-Wan's sucking, stroking him to the tune of hoarse breathing, muttered curses, and flesh slapping flesh. Obi-Wan was drowning in pleasure, completely surrounded by male flesh. Possessed and used. Fucked but cherished. Filled but still empty, needing more and yet more, until the taste of Justin's come overflowed his mouth, Brian's come shot hard into his body, and Qui-Gon's hand drained the come from his cock. ****** Jack and Daniel maintained a careful distance between their bodies as they walked through the hotel lobby, talking casually of the archaeological conference Daniel would attend while the rest went through training. Daniel didn't expect to learn much from the conference. After all, since his colleagues didn't share his knowledge that Earth civilization had been influenced by the alien Goa'uld, their theories were bound to be flawed. But after Shau'ri's death, Daniel had started to look ahead to a time when he might leave the Stargate Project and had begun reconnecting with his academic peers. On those days when he wearied of being chased and fired upon by some unique form of weaponry, Daniel acknowledged it was only Jack keeping him tied to the project. Jack and their love. The door to the hotel room shut behind them and Daniel was suddenly unaccountably nervous. Free time together away from the base was so rare, he hardly knew where to begin. Should they chat? Have a drink? Or just strip and leap into bed? Then Jack pulled him into his arms and Daniel's doubts vanished in the fire of his kiss. Jack didn't know what to say to Daniel. Small talk seemed inane, wisecracking inappropriate, and Daniel had already forced more relationship talk from Jack than made him comfortable. Jack didn't enjoy uncertainty - he liked action. So he took control of the evening with true command style. Holding Daniel was a rare but wondrous feeling for Jack. Other than a brief experiment in college, his previous relationships were all with women, women who were shorter and smaller than him, and felt fragile in his arms. Daniel was approximately his height and weight. He didn't have to bend his neck to kiss him. Their bodies met squarely, chest pressed to chest, growing erections rubbing on each other, the length of their legs touching. They didn't kiss long before Jack pushed Daniel away. The scientist was confused by the abrupt action, his blue eyes blinking behind his glasses. Jack settled into the 'at ease' posture, his hands behind his back, feet spread slightly apart. "Strip, soldier," he commanded. Daniel flashed a grin for a second then composed his face into the military blankness drilled into him during his tenure at Stargate. Moving slowly, he undid the small buttons on the front of his long-sleeved blue shirt, then the buttons on the sleeves, pulling the ends out of his waist and dropping the shirt to the floor. The steadiness in Jack's gaze, the unwavering attention to his every action, those hazel eyes almost visibly caressing his bare chest, brought the blood rushing to his cock. "Continue, soldier," Jack barked as Daniel paused. The scientist obeyed, unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his jeans and undoing his zipper. He left his clothes like that, his jeans hanging open to display the top front of his underwear as he kicked off his loafers. One smooth motion and his jeans and underwear were on the floor, crumpled into a bunch, leaving him standing in only socks, his cock pointing out toward Jack. "Complete your job, soldier." His momentary smirk couldn't be restrained. Jack might pretend to be a tough guy, but he was definitely affected by this little scene, the front of his jeans almost bursting with his own erection. Daniel pulled off his socks then slowly turned in a circle to prove that his task was completed. "Job all done, sir!" he snapped. Taking Jack by surprise, Daniel dropped to his knees, unzipped Jack's jeans, and freed his cock before the Colonel could protest. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted it now. His first time had been all nervousness and insecurity, needing instruction, wondering how to avoid grazing his teeth on the sensitive flesh. But now he loved giving head, devouring Jack, driving the confident soldier to a whimpering, shuddering bundle of flesh. "This is out of line, soldier," Jack said, but his tone had lost its force and his hands were patting Daniel's head. He gently lifted Daniel's glasses off his face and tossed them onto the nightstand. Daniel didn't argue, humming in agreement. The vibrations bounced off Jack's cock, making him gasp and clench Daniel's head. Daniel's hands closed over the back of Jack's thighs, the faded jeans material soft under his palms, Jack's long muscles firm and tight. Unable to form another coherent sentence, Jack thrust and thrust, burying himself in Daniel's mouth, his drives met by heat and harder suction, as Daniel took every inch and begged for more with his moans. Jack could only hold on for the ride. Daniel may have turned the curve on him, but Jack loved every minute of it. Loved the way Danny loved him, the way Danny insisted on having what he wanted. No one had ever taken him with such energetic vigor and devotion to his pleasure as Danny. His body felt ripped apart, as if every nerve with alive with the mind-blowing sensations, until he was gasping with ecstasy, his body shaking as Danny swallowed his come. The Colonel was physically drained as the scientist caught him in his arms, holding Jack while he regained his breath. "That wasn't the way it was supposed to go," Jack muttered without regret. "That's okay," Daniel whispered, pulling Jack with him toward the bed, "when we play scientist, the test subject can misbehave." They were both laughing as they fell onto the bed, Danny helping Jack strip off the rest of his clothes. There was a lot of evening left before everyone returned from Babylon. *********** Qui-Gon curled his fingers around Justin's arm. "My turn now, I believe." Though tempted to crawl into Qui-Gon's lap and start another threesome - a foursome, this time? - by kissing him, Obi-Wan stayed where he was, lying on the far side of the bed. Through their bond, he had seen Qui-Gon's heart and soul. His Master might find it unexpectedly erotic to see other men loving Obi-Wan but he had no interest in having sex with others. Qui-Gon was generous to a fault with his heart and his care for defenseless lifeforms, but his passion was saved for Obi-Wan. Something besides desire was motivating Qui-Gon. Justin looked nervously at Qui-Gon but began scooting toward him until stopped by Brian's hand closing around his other arm. "Do you want this?" "Do I want what?" "Do you want to be fucked a man older than your father?" Justin's eyelashes shuttered his eyes. "It's just sex, isn't it? He's got a great body." Brian tone was impatient. "Yes, it's just sex. It's also your body. Don't do it if you won't enjoy it." Through his lowered lashes, Justin tried to read the message in Brian's obvious irritation. What did Brian want him to do? Didn't he know Justin only really wanted to be fucked by him? Brian wouldn't want to hear that truth. Brian didn't do boyfriends or committed relationships. But despite his flaws, Brian was honest and didn't tolerate bullshit. If he was asking the question, he would want the truth, regardless of any detrimental impact on tonight's activities. "No," Justin said starkly. "I don't want him to fuck me." "Fine. Play time's over," Brian said to Qui-Gon. "I'll be satisfied with you," Qui-Gon replied, releasing Justin and cupping Brian's face with one hand. Brian batted it away. "No one fucks me." Qui-Gon rose off the bed, the firm springs barely dipping with the movement. "This hardly seems fair," he said. His tone was mild but his height and rampant erection were imposing. "No one ever said life was fair," Brian snarled without a trace of sympathy. "You must be old enough to remember Kennedy." [Kennedy?] Qui-Gon asked Obi-Wan, glaring at Brian with his hands on his hips. [An American president. He said life wasn't fair. He was later assassinated.] While speaking mentally, Obi-Wan rose to his feet on the bed and walked across it, stepping between Brian and Justin's naked legs, stopping on the edge. "Allow me to relieve that," he murmured, one hand clasping Qui-Gon's cock and stroking. [Indeed, not fair.] Qui-Gon said in response to Obi-Wan's information. "My love," he said aloud, his hands closing on Obi-Wan's hips. "I need you." "Anything you desire. Always," Obi-Wan avowed. Seamlessly, Qui-Gon's hands on his hips pulled Obi-Wan to him while Obi-Wan leaned back and wrapped his legs around Qui-Gon's hips, digging his heels into Qui-Gon's upper thighs. Demonstrating an acrobatic ease, Obi-Wan was soon suspended in mid-air, his back parallel to the bed, his hands holding onto Qui-Gon's wrists for balance. Already loosened by Brian, he was easily impaled on Qui-Gon's cock. A cushion of Force supported him, but the position also required his and Qui-Gon's strength to maintain, making their muscles contract with the strain. Justin melted back into Brian's arms, wiggling his ass so Brian's cock slipped into the crevice as Brian's wrapped his fingers against Justin's cock. He didn't want to be fucked by Qui-Gon, but he couldn't help getting aroused by watching the two handsome strangers together. Qui-Gon's powerful chest heaved as he struggled for breath, his long silvered hair gently brushing back and forth on his shoulders as he rocked. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, catching loose tendrils and plastering them to his skin. His long, muscular legs were slightly parted and bent to give him leverage and balance, the muscles rippling with his effort. Obi-Wan's body was covered with his own sweat, as well as Justin and Brian's. The muscles of his abdomen were sharply defined as he clenched them. The thin braid hung down to touch the sheets, flicking back and forth with their rocking. He was erect again from the stimulation of Qui-Gon's cock raking against his prostrate. But even better than the sex was the emotion in Qui-Gon's eyes, the sapphire blue shining with love for his Padawan as their minds merged, each experiencing the other's thoughts and feelings, the demanding physical ache of their approaching orgasm and the beauty of their souls merging as completely as their bodies were joined. Hoarse masculine voices panted and then groaned as they both reached the pinnacle in unison, Qui-Gon's come filling Obi-Wan while Obi-Wan splashed onto his own torso. Obi-Wan straightened from his perilous position to hug Qui-Gon. The Master's knees gave out, sinking to the bed. Justin was hard in Brian's hand and wondering if he had made the wrong decision when Brian said, "You don't wear condoms." Obi-Wan ignored Brian, nuzzling at Qui-Gon's shoulders, but Qui-Gon responded, "No, not when we're together." "Thanks for the show." Brian flung them clean cloths from the stack kept discreetly by his bed. "Now get out." [Master?] [Yes, let us leave, Obi-Wan. I think we've proved enough.] They separated and cleaned off. Having undressed by himself, Qui-Gon had piled his clothes in one place. Obi-Wan's were spread around the floor and it took time to find them in the mess. Justin craned his head back to look at Brian, but Brian's expression was closed and impossible to read. Taking the wise option of silence, Justin kept his mouth shut and just continued to watch as the two got ready to leave. Brian's arms were still around him, which Justin considered a good sign. Qui-Gon sat on the bed by Brian, squeezing his shoulder. He leaned forward for a gentle kiss, before saying softly, "You should consider why it disturbs you to see someone else make love to Justin. Why you need to protect him." "Don't try to read my mind, old man. You don't know me." "Do you even know yourself?" Qui-Gon stood, not expecting an answer. "Thank you for the evening." He draped an arm around Obi-Wan and they left, walking out without further good-byes. "That was wild," Justin said as the door slid shut behind him. "It excited you." Now that the others were gone, Justin could feel Brian relax, the tense muscles of his body unwind, the tone in his voice more teasing and amused. "Yeah." His slim fingers closing around Brian's hand on his cock, he asked, "Are you going to do something about it?" "No." Justin flinched, confused, even more perplexed as Brian pulled at him, maneuvering Justin to turn around and sit on his lap. "I'm going to let you do something about it." Brian's fingers were entering his body, stretching him, and Justin grinned. "So why did you kick them out? Because they didn't use condoms?" "That and the fact they were military." Justin was squirming on Brian's fingers, trying to force them deeper. He liked this part of it, even if Brian didn't touch his prostrate. Brian was always so careful of him, making sure the pain would be minimal. He liked imagining that Brian was especially considerate of him compared to his other lovers. "How did you know they were military? Those haircuts weren't regulation. My cousin's in the Marines. You should see his hairstyle. Almost bald, his hair's shaved so short." Silly babbling was part of Justin's charm, but Brian wasn't interested in conversation. "So foreign military. Special terrorist group. Who cares. Their bodies, the way they moved. It was wrong. Now are we going to talk all night or fuck?" "Fuck," Justin answered promptly, and groped for the box of condoms, ripping one out of the package and unrolling it on Brian's cock. With Brian's guidance, he lowered his body onto Brian's cock. He could never decide which way he most liked to be fucked by Brian. He had thought the first way was the best, with his legs on Brian's shoulders. Bringing his ankles to his ears allowed them to kiss and he could watch Brian's face as the pleasure swept through him. Then Brian placed him on his hands and knees and that was even better, letting Brian pound him harder and deeper. But this way - oh god, this way he felt almost in control, a pleasure boy servicing his master, the muscles of his thighs and calves working to raise him up and down, setting a tempo that his demanding owner could only accept and enjoy. The control was only illusory, he knew. Though slim, Brian was taller, bigger and stronger than Justin. He could take charge whenever he wanted, those powerful hands on his hips forcing Justin to the speed he desired. Then almost as if Brian was reading his mind, his hands moved from Justin's hips to his nipples, squeezing them and playing with the gold circlet piercing the right nipple, signaling that he was content with Justin's lead. Their kisses were hot and wet, lips tasting, separating, moving to explore each other's face, throat, shoulders, all the while Justin continued to plunge up and down. Justin's hands roamed over the sculpted muscles of Brian's chest, delighting in the satiny texture of his skin. One of Brian's hands stayed on Justin's nipple ring, the tugging creating an echo of pleasure that reverberated through Justin's body, while Brian's other hand curved over one ass cheek, digging into the firm flesh. The heat burned between them, a fire begun with their first night that only seemed to flame brighter with time. As Justin shuddered with his orgasm, he could only hope the fire would consume them both together forever. ******** Reaching the street, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan stopped on the sidewalk. "And that was - ?" Obi-Wan asked, his words trailing off. "A young man who needs someone to keep the darkness at bay. His demons are fierce." "And you think Justin will be the one?" "If Brian will face his own emotions, yes. I fear it will be a long road for him. But he's started on the journey." "You have quite a unique way of making a point, Master." Abruptly concerned, Qui-Gon asked, "You enjoyed it, didn't you?" "You could tell I did, Master." Obi-Wan's smile was infectious, making Qui-Gon laugh and hug him. Qui-Gon dismissed Brian from the forefront of his thoughts. He could only hope that the other man would consider his words. For now, he could take this special opportunity to concentrate on his Padawan. "There's still much of the evening left. What would you like to do?" "We only got to dance one song," Obi-Wan said wistfully. "Then let us return to Babylon." Obi-Wan grinned and started walking but was halted by Qui-Gon's hand on his arm. He looked inquisitively as his Master put his left hand on Obi-Wan's waist and clasped his right hand in Obi-Wan's left. Understanding, Obi-Wan rested his free hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder. Humming a tune, Qui-Gon began waltzing Obi-Wan down the sidewalk. Back to Babylon. ~ finis ~

Kris gets the gift card for his birthday. It's the band's idea of a joke, he thinks. Lose your inhibitions, the card boasts in swirly black script. Our intimate massage packages will stroke you inside-out. He's pretty sure the inside-out part isn't a joke and just looking at it makes his cheeks flush. "Will you do it?" Adam asks, during one of their late night rambling conversations. "I don't know," Kris says, cheeks heating up even though Adam is half a continent away. "I think you should," Adam says. "It'll be good for you." Kris snorts. Of course Adam thinks he should go for the inside-out erotic massage. He probably does that kind of thing all the time and he doesn't even have to pay for it. "You have a show in Vegas next week, right?" Adam continues, as if Kris offered some actual input. "You could do it then." Kris cheeks burn and he stares up at the ceiling, wondering what it'd be like to have a complete stranger touching him all over. He doesn't even do one-night stands. "Isn't that kind of thing illegal anyway?" he asks. Adam laughs. "It's Vegas baby, they're always toeing the line." The conversation moves on to other topics after that and Adam doesn't bring it up again, but in Kris's mind a seed has been planted. It's been almost a year since the divorce, Katy’s already met someone new, and Kris still hasn't gotten to the rebound sex; maybe he does need to lose his inhibitions. * The massage parlor is fancy - all white marble, gold fixtures and thick red rugs. It's nothing like Kris expected it to be, and he spots no fewer than three celebrities as he makes his way through the lobby toward the front desk. He looked the place up before booking his appointment; it's really more of a spa and the intimate massages only get a side note on a side page on the website. If he hadn't been looking for it, he might never even have found it. Besides, the information seemed to be more geared toward couples looking to spice up their love life, and the only thing Kris took away from it was the promise about 100% secrecy. The receptionist smiles when he gives his name and hands over the gift card, telling him to take elevator two to the top floor for his special treatment. She winks when she says special treatment and Kris flushes bright red, thinking that's terribly unprofessional of her. His shoes make no sound on the thick rug as he crosses the floor and the elevator is so golden it's almost blinding. He doesn't even have to press the button for himself, there's a solemn faced young man in a red suit doing the honors. Possibly-shady massage business aside, the Golden Age Spa Resort is insanely posh. There's a woman in a silky black dress waiting for him on the top floor. She's got a clipboard balanced on her arm and a friendly smile on her pretty face. "Welcome to the Top Floor, Mr. Allen," she says, and Kris can actually hear the capital letters fall into place. "My name is Lea." "Good morning Lea," he mumbles, avoiding her calm gaze. "You can call me Kris." She's an inch shorter than he is, with flowing black hair and big brown eyes. Kris looks at her long blood red nails and blushes hard enough to match them. Those are not the kind of nails that stroke people inside out. "I will be your hostess today," she says, leading him down a long hallway. "It's my job to make sure your stay with us is both comfortable and pleasurable. If you at any time wish to stop the proceedings just utter your safe word." "My safe word?" Kris asks weakly. Lea consults her clipboard. "Cinnamon?" Kris stumbles over his own feet. No one knows about that but Adam. "Is that not correct?" Lea asks, sounding concerned all of a sudden. "Uhm… No, I mean yes. Yes, that is correct," Kris says, mind reeling. It must have been Adam that set the band up to this then, but why? "How do you even know that?" he asks. "Your boyfriend gave it to us when he made the reservation," Lea answers with a smile. "It's standard procedure." "Of course," Kris mumbles, blushing to the very tips of his ears. Lea leads Kris to a huge room with panoramic windows all along the wall, offering an amazing view of the Strip from above. "This will be your recuperation room between sessions," Lea says. "The bathroom is through that door." She points to a door on the left. "And the session room is through that door." She points to the door on the right. "If you shower and change into your robe, I will have breakfast sent up so that we can go through the rules in peace. Do you approve of this breakfast menu?" Kris scans through the menu she shows him. It includes all of his favorite foods. "I… uhm… yeah?" he says. She smiles prettily. "You'd be surprised at how often significant others get it wrong." It's clearly a dismissal and he retreats to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. There are candles lit everywhere, sending their flickering light over the white tiles of the floor and walls, enough of them that he doesn't even have to turn on the light. A white robe is hanging above a shelf loaded with towels and other supplies and there's an empty second shelf beneath it that he supposes is meant for his clothes. Huge mirrors cover most of the opposite wall and he flushes at his own reflection, wondering what he's even doing here. The shower stall is huge and right next to it there's a bathtub on lion's feet. The toilet is set against the far wall, shielded from the mirrors with a low wall and he's extremely grateful for that little mercy as he relieves himself, nerves making his bladder heavy. Music's pouring out of hidden speakers along the ceiling and Kris doesn't even have to pay attention to know it could have been snatched from one of his iPod playlists. This whole thing has Adam written all over it. Since his divorce Kris has seen Adam a handful of times, but he's talked to him on the phone for at least an hour every day, usually more. Whenever something happens in his life, Adam is the first person he calls, and more often than not Adam is the first person he talks to in the morning and the last person he talks to at night. They are closer now than when they shared a room every night and if Kris had actually seen Adam in person during the last few months he's pretty sure he would have thrown himself into Adam's arms and clung without any intention of ever letting go. The whole thing is like a never-ending courtship; there's a current of more to their every conversation, but so far it's never been articulated. Kris thinks about it while he removes his clothes, trying not to look at himself in the mirrors. Maybe this is Adam's way of asking if Kris is ready for more, but then why did he hide behind the band without telling Kris about his own involvement? Kris told Adam about booking the appointment about five seconds after he'd gotten off the phone and while Adam sounded immensely pleased, there was nothing in the conversation that let on Adam was involved in some way. The shower is amazing and has so many settings that Kris thinks he could shower here every day for a year without having tried them all. There's an arrangement of different soaps on a shelf and Kris carefully cleans himself everywhere, biting back a slight groan when his fingers slide inside. Ever since his mind connected Adam with sex there have been some extracurriculars involved with his masturbation, and if the thought didn't make him blush crimson he would have bought a dildo a long time ago, because damn. He doesn't let it go anywhere now though and the thought of breakfast with Lea and intimate massage from an unknown makes his erection wilt while he towels himself off and puts the robe on. He's curious, excited and terrified at the same time, nausea warring with butterflies at the pit of his stomach. Lea is seated at the table when he walks out of the bathroom. She slides to her feet easily when she spots him though and doesn't sit down again until Kris takes his own chair. She pours champagne into the flute beside his juice glass without asking and Kris sips it gratefully. He's not a big drinker, so maybe a small glass of champagne will be enough to mellow his frazzled nerves. Lea talks while he eats, occasionally plucking pieces of fruit from her own plate, more to make him feel good, he thinks, than of any real desire to eat. She throws around a lot of big words and he hums in agreement whenever he thinks the situation calls for it. The food is delicious but he can't get much of it down and eventually he just pushes his plate away, focusing fully on Lea. She fills up his flute again and he sips it while she outlines the day. Apparently there will be a number of sessions with recuperation time in between. Lea will not be present, but there's a call button if he needs her. According to the instructions made with the reservation he will be blindfolded throughout the session, only being allowed to remove it while resting. Lunch and dinner will be served by Lea in this room and there's a reservation made for him to stay the night in the hotel part of the Spa. Kris takes all of this in without comment, wondering whether the blindfold will make things easier or not. It's just like Adam to think of something like that, hoping that being blinded will help Kris focus on feeling instead of thinking too much. She repeats that his safe word will immediately end the proceedings but she doesn't mention if this means they'll be watched. He thinks of asking, but then he realizes he really doesn't want to know. "Have a good day, Kris," Lea says eventually, getting up to leave. "The first session will start when you put your blindfold on." Kris nods and empties the last of his champagne, watching the sway of her hips as she leaves the room without particular interest. He realizes he never asked if his masseur would be male or female, but he doesn't really think he has to. He's willing to bet his career on it being a guy. Kris drinks one more flute of champagne, contemplating the blindfold glaring at him from the table. It looks like one of those sleep masks Katy used to wear when flying and he's willing to bet it's snug enough to not let him get the slightest peek of his masseur. It's probably better that way, he decides, and empties the last of the champagne, grabbing the mask with a certain sense of dread. *Kris only has to wait a moment in darkness before he hears a door opening and the sound of someone approaching across the floor. He almost yells out his safe word at the top of his lungs, but manages to temper his nerves at the very last instant. A gentle hand guides him up from the chair and carefully leads him across the floor. The plush rug gives way to tempered tiles as they cross the threshold to the session room, and he sucks in a breath. He's really doing this. The masseur leads him further into the room that is pleasantly temperate and makes him stop with a hand to his shoulder. Kris stands absolutely still while the robe is slid from his shoulders, a blush climbing up his cheeks. Then he's being guided forward to a table and with some undignified fumbling that probably looks hilarious he manages to climb onto it, lying down on his stomach with his face fitted to the customary hole. His skin brushes against soft terrycloth from mid-chest to his knees and the implications of that make him blush again. He hears the masseur moving around the room, clinking with a bottle, and then something warm is drizzled over his back, making goose bumps rise all over his skin. The fluid is joined by warm strong hands and Kris no longer doubts that his masseur is male. He's tense at first, muscles knotting under the gentle hands massaging his skin, but then he starts to relax. The touch is strangely familiar, yet brand new, and it feels so good to have all the knots and kinks worked out of his shoulders, back, arms and legs that he almost forgets what the massage is really about. He makes a pleased little sound when those magic hands move to massage his ass cheeks and the very tops of the back of his thighs, not even embarrassed about the way he's getting hard. That is until the silent masseur guides him to lie on his back and Kris's erection becomes blatantly obvious. He flushes bright red, but his erection doesn't wilt in the slightest when warm oil is poured over his chest and those magic hands come back. He has no idea how long he's been lying on the table, sure strong hands working him over from neck to feet over and over again, carefully skirting the erection that rests heavy against his stomach. Then he's guided onto his stomach again and he can't help the groan that escapes when his cock brushes against the softness of the terrycloth. The masseur doesn't falter, he just adds more oil and goes back to rubbing pleasure into Kris's skin. Kris bites down on his lower lip and grabs the edges of the table, hips rocking against the terrycloth of their own volition. The masseur slides his hands down low, rubbing slick and firm over Kris's ass cheeks, aiding his slow rocking with gentle pushes against his hips. Kris groans, his breath picking up speed while his hands curl hard around the table. The masseur makes him spread his legs wider, thumbs dipping in between his thighs with hypnotic circular motions that make Kris drag his hips harder against the table. He moans trying to find leverage to thrust harder, but his skin is slick with the oil, sliding useless against the surface of the table. Getting on his knees only takes the pressure off his cock, happily snuggled between his slick stomach and the thick warmth of the terrycloth, and now leaking precome to add to the mess. The masseur slides his hands up to Kris's ass again, dipping his thumbs in between Kris's cheeks, spreading him wide. "Yes," Kris gasps, shameless in the darkness. "Yes… Please." The masseur doesn't respond, but he uses his firm grip on Kris's ass to rock him against the table, the very tops of his thumbs circling over Kris's opening in a maddening way. Kris's moans build in crescendo and he starts to feel hot all over, hips twitching and jerking underneath the masseur’s guiding hands. Then his hips drag hard against the table one last time and he's coming with a shout that's too loud in the silent room, his cock pumping slickness into the cloth and onto his stomach. Kris gasps for breath, already turning beet red. He can't believe he just came from rubbing against a towel. He hasn't done that sort of thing since he was fifteen. The masseur doesn't give him time to feel bad though, he just starts over with the gentle massage of Kris's back, working him over until he's relaxed into the table, heartbeat slowing down. Once Kris is so relaxed he's boneless with it, the masseur guides him up to sit on his knees and slides onto the table behind him. Kris lets his head loll against the masseur's shoulder, cock slowly swelling when he recognizes the scent of Adam's cologne. The masseur slowly runs a damp cloth over Kris's chest and down between his legs, cleaning up the mess he made earlier. Kris gasps when the plush cloth wraps around his cock, gently teasing him to full hardness with slow leisurely strokes. Then the cloth is pulled away and the masseur shifts him so that he's straddling the table, with his back against the masseur's clothed chest. Those clever hands wrap around him from behind, working more oil into the still slick skin of his chest. He moans when the masseur starts paying attention to his nipples, rubbing and pulling at them until they’re hard little peaks under his fingers. Kris reaches back to hold onto the masseur's thighs, the soft cotton of his pants bunching under Kris's fingers and he wants to push back, feel if the masseur is as hard as he is. The masseur slides his hands down over Kris's stomach to rub oil into the silky skin on the inside of his thighs, making Kris's cock throb with need. "Feels so good," Kris slurs, rubbing his head against the masseur's shoulder. "Don’t stop." One hand slides between Kris's legs to cup his balls, gently pulling on them until Kris arches his back, cock dribbling precome onto his stomach. "Oh," he gasps. "Oh fuck." The masseur moves his other hand to press against Kris's stomach, rubbing circles into his skin just above the base of his cock while the other keeps up its gentle squeeze and release on Kris's balls. The back of the masseur's hand brushes against Kris's cock with the slow massage of his stomach and he shudders, breath coming out harsh and keening. He moves one of his hands from the masseur's thigh to slide it on top of the hand on his stomach, making it press harder, his happy trail crinkling under the masseur's warm palm. He doesn't know if it's allowed and he doesn't care if it isn't, his entire world is focused on the hands on his skin and his cock throbbing between them. "God," he groans. "You have to… I'm… Fuck." The masseur guides Kris's hand up his chest to his nipples and Kris doesn't need more encouragement than that, pinching one of the tight nubs between his fingers with a shaky moan, while the masseur slides his hand back down Kris's stomach. Kris's blood is on fire; nothing exists beyond the thundering beat of his heart and the harsh pants of his breath. It feels as if he's been hanging on the edge forever, cock aching with its need for release. Then the masseur lifts his hand to rub his fingertips over the underside of Kris's cock and that's all it takes for him to come, digging his fingers into the masseur's thigh while his mouth opens on a soundless scream. The masseur slides his fingertips over Kris's cockhead smearing his come around before sliding down again to tease at the nerves just below it. "Oh, oh, oh, oh," Kris moans, completely senseless. "Oh God… Don't… Ooooh." His entire body quakes with the aftershocks, heart bouncing against his ribcage, and when it's finally over he collapses against the masseur's chest, trying to catch his breath. The masseur gently wraps his arms around Kris's waist, just holding him close for a while but Kris can hear the way his heart trips and feels his too-fast breath against his cheek. "If you need to you can…" Kris trails off, not sure how to phrase it. The masseur stiffens, his breath catching, and Kris almost apologizes, but then one of the masseur's hands scrambles in between them, knuckles hitting against Kris's back as he pulls at his pants. If Kris wasn't so blissed out he would offer to help but the masseur doesn't seem to need his input, knuckles brushing him with every frantic stroke. His breath grows louder and heavier, catching on breathy little moans and it's the sexiest thing Kris has ever heard. It doesn't take many minutes, maybe not even one, for the masseur to come, body shuddering against Kris's back while his come splatters hot over Kris's skin. Kris shivers with him, cock twitching limply and he turns his head to nuzzle against the masseur's neck, letting Adam's cologne fill his senses. If only. *After the masseur's quick jerk-off Kris is led back to the recuperation room, and his head spins when he removes the blindfold, blinking against the sudden light. The table has been cleared and there's no sign of Lea so he stumbles into the bathroom for a much needed shower. This time he meets his own eyes in the foggy mirrors, image softened and distorted. He feels different, lighter somehow, despite the lethargic heaviness of his body. A new robe has been hung up on the wall and he shrugs it on, discarding the old one, made sticky by the mess on his skin, in what he supposes is the clothes hamper. Lea is waiting for him when he comes back into the recuperation room and he promptly blushes crimson. She just smiles at the sight of him though, gesturing toward a tray set on the table. "I brought you a snack," she says. "Massage session can be tiring." "Thank you," Kris mumbles, still blushing. "Are you finding the arrangement to your satisfaction so far?" Kris nods, avoiding her gaze. She seems like a cool woman, but he really doesn't want to discuss having orgasms - not with her, not with anyone. "Good," she says, smiling. "I'll leave you to rest then. If you need anything don't be afraid to call. The second session will begin when you put your blindfold on again." Kris notices that there's a new blindfold on the table, which is a good thing because he must have accidentally thrown the other one in the laundry with his robe. He takes a seat at the table and eats way more of the snack than he thought he'd be capable of, turning the details of the first session over and over in his mind. A glance at the clock tells him it's close to noon and that the first session lasted much longer than he thought it had, almost three hours. Out here, in the real world, it's hard to imagine all of that just happened and if it wasn't for the sated lethargy in his bones, he would have thought it was all a dream. Before this Kris only ever slept with one person, Katy, and their sex life was not exactly what he'd call adventurous. Kris always suspected Katy considered sex more of a chore than a pleasure and while he tried his best to be a good lover, he's pretty sure he failed. Looking back it was probably the first sign they weren't meant to be, they had the love, but they never really managed the attraction. After the snack, he lies down on the Asian-style bed set against the far wall for a much needed nap. If he's going to survive a whole day of this he needs to preserve his strength. He wakes up maybe half an hour later, feeling rejuvenated and happy, and this time he doesn't hesitate before sliding the blindfold over his eyes, cock already pleasantly heavy between his legs. *The second session begins like the first, with the masseur sliding the robe off his shoulders and guiding him to the table. They way he hugs Kris tight for a moment before letting him slide onto it is new though, but at the same time it's so familiar and safe that Kris decides to let go of the last vestiges of his modesty. He doesn't need it here. It's with a newfound peace that he stretches out on the table, letting the masseur's magic hands push the last lingering tension out of his muscles. The table is wider and longer than a normal massage table and Kris appreciates the extra space, spreading his arms out wide. He feels more secure this time, he trusts the masseur to not let him fall. He doesn't know how much time has passed when the masseur guides him onto his back, exposing his swollen cock to the masseur's eyes. He doesn't blush this time though, he just hums with pleasure when the masseur starts working on his chest again. By the time the masseur is moving up his legs, Kris is slowly writhing against the table, hips twitching against nothing. This time the masseur doesn't avoid Kris's cock. Instead he wraps his oil-slick hands around the head, knotting them together. Kris groans, hips arching up off the table and when the masseur doesn't stop him, he keeps thrusting up, slick heels trying to find purchase against the table. "Oh God," he moans, struggling to thrust harder, faster. "Oh fuck." The masseur tightens his hands and finally starts helping Kris out, moving his joined hands up and down in with long sure strokes. Kris’s hands flail across the table, trying to find something, anything to hold onto until he finally grabs the edges of the towel, balling it up in his fists. He can feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine, arms and legs already tingling with it and he scrambles to thrust up, almost mindless with pleasure. Then the masseur slides his joined hands to rest against Kris's stomach, still gripping the base of his cock with his elbows pressed against Kris's thighs, and touches his tongue to Kris's cockhead. Kris shudders all over, the raspy slickness of the masseur's tongue completely unexpected. "Oh God," he almost shouts, hips jerking, when the masseur starts licking it at him, tongue swiping over the head over and over. "Please, please, please, please." The masseur slides his mouth over the head of Kris's dick, rubbing his tongue against the underside while he starts working the shaft with his hands again. It takes about five seconds for Kris to come, spilling into the hot wetness of the masseur's mouth over and over again, until he's writhing with it, making tiny pained little noises. The masseur lets him go then, bending forward to press kisses into Kris's stomach, licking at his skin. He makes breathy little noises and Kris shifts one of his legs to feel the masseur's hand working between his own legs. "Come on me," Kris demands hoarsely and the masseur is up and moving before Kris is even finished speaking. He straddles Kris, one hand brushing against Kris's shoulder and his knees pressed against Kris's thighs. Kris slides his hands up to cup the masseur's slim hips, spreading his fingers over the swell of his ass. The masseur jerks under Kris's fingers and then his come is splattering over Kris's chest in searing lines, a choked-back moan escaping his lips. Kris reaches down to smear the come over his chest, rubbing it into his skin as if he's been branded. "Fuck," the masseur whispers, and something stirs at the back of Kris's mind. Then he's bending down licking over Kris's chest and fingers, swiping the come from his skin. Kris feels glorious, dirty and carefree and when the masseur nudges on his hips, he happily rolls over on his stomach, pushing himself up on his hands and knees so that the masseur ends up straddling him. The masseur chuckles, pressing a kiss against the nape of Kris's neck, before moving downwards, kissing a line down Kris's spine. He pulls back when he reaches the top of Kris's ass, pressing one last kiss against one of his cheeks, and moments later Kris hears bottles clinking together. He tenses when something is poured into the exposed crack of his ass, but then he relaxes, shivering when it slowly runs down to drip from his balls. The masseur presses a hand between Kris's shoulder blades until he gets the hint, sliding down to rest on his elbows, leaving his ass even more exposed. The masseur slowly caresses the back of Kris's thighs, sliding his hands up to spread Kris's cheeks even wider. It feels strangely liberating to be this exposed and he doesn't feel awkward, he just feels wanted. He stiffens for a second at the first brush of slick fingers over his hole, but then he relaxes, humming encouragement when the masseur starts massaging his opening in slow maddening circles. The masseur is keeping his cheeks spread while he rubs his thumbs slowly around the rim of Kris's opening gently pressing against it now and again but not enough for his fingers to actually slip inside. Kris hides his flushed face in the crook of his arms, breath already quickening. He's only ever touched himself there and this feels entirely different, hips jerking helplessly whenever the masseur presses his thumb against the opening, almost but not quite slipping inside. He starts talking without even meaning to, an endless stream of filthy nonsense, as he rocks into the maddening touch. The masseur bends closer, blowing air over Kris's hole and he jerks, keening low in his throat. Then the fingers are joined by the masseur's tongue, swiping wet and raspy across Kris's skin and he moans loud enough for the sound to reverberate off the walls. He loses all sense of time after that, tongue and fingers rubbing over him and into him until he's a sobbing mess, cock arching hard and throbbing toward his stomach. He babbles, begs and pleads, reaching out to grab the edges of the table, pushing his ass into the masseur's face, completely shameless. Soon the masseur is working him open with three fingers, rubbing him inside out while his tongue worms around the rim, occasionally slipping in with his fingers. Kris can't stop shivering, rubbing his sweaty face against the table, his breath coming out in hitched sobs. He's never felt anything like it, every nerve ending is aflame with pleasure, and he feels too exposed and not exposed enough at the same time. His sweaty knees slip against the table as he tries to push back harder, wordlessly begging for more. Suddenly he's pulled up to rest on his knees, the masseur's fingers still buried inside him while his other hand slides across Kris's slick chest to hug him close. "Ooooh…. Oh God," Kris moans, hands flailing around until he reaches behind him to grab the masseur's t-shirt, fisting it between his fingers. The new position gives him more leverage and he shamelessly fucks himself on the masseur's fingers, lifting up fast and sinking down hard. His thighs quiver with the strain, and his entire body is arched into a tight bow, but he just can't stop moving, breath so rapid and harsh by now his head is spinning from a lack of oxygen. Then the masseur curls his fingers inside Kris, rubbing hard against that magic spot inside him, and Kris comes so hard he literally sees stars bursting before his eyes. He's never come untouched before and it's different. It starts deeper and goes on longer, cock jerking hard against his stomach, while the masseur keeps fucking his fingers into him, lips pressed against Kris's shoulder. He feels empty when the masseur pulls his fingers out and he sags against the arm across his chest, completely boneless. He falls forward, dragging the masseur with him, until he ends up stomach first on the table with the masseur's sizeable erection fitted to the cleft of his ass. The masseur moves to shift off him, his hand moving between them to pull at his pants. "No, like this," Kris murmurs, pushing his ass up to fit against the masseur's cock again. The masseur moans against his ear, pulling his pants down just enough to be able to slide his cock in between Kris's cheeks, rocking against him. "Yeah," Kris sighs, spreading his legs wider, lifting his ass up. "Mmm… just like that." It feels wonderfully dirty to have the masseur's big slick cock rubbing against his skin and he wants to feel it inside him so much he can almost taste it. He never understood people wanting to be fucked before, but now he does. It's like there's this hollow longing ache inside him, begging to be filled. The masseur gasps against Kris's ear, his hips stuttering, and Kris pushes up harder, helping him along. "Feels so good," he murmurs. The masseur reaches down to grasp Kris's hips, pulling him into his short jerky thrusts. It feels amazing, the slick head of the masseur's cock rubbing over Kris's opening with every shift of his hips. "I want you inside me," Kris groans. The masseur comes, adding to the slickness running down Kris's cleft and Kris moans with him, cock jerking feebly between his legs. The masseur collapses beside Kris, trying to catch his breath and Kris snuggles up to him, burying his face against the masseur's shoulder. The blindfold is sweaty and gross over his eyes and he wants to rip it off to see if the skin under his lips is as freckled as he thinks it is. He doesn't though and when the masseur leads him back to the recuperation room he doesn't even try to sneak a peek. Maybe not knowing for sure is better. *Lea is waiting for him after his shower with lunch set up on the table. Kris shuffles over to the chair and sinks into it, almost too drained to eat. She laughs, soft and sweet and reaches over to pet his shoulder. "I'm not even going to ask this time," she says. Kris flushes slightly and reaches for the fork. He's going to need food if he's to survive the third session. Lea looks at him for a moment longer and then she slides up from her chair. "Call me if you need me," she says and then she's gone. Kris eats, chewing and swallowing mechanically without even tasting the food. He's sure it's delicious, but he's so tired he can hardly even think. He keeps going back to his certainty that the masseur is Adam. On some level he's suspected it since the very beginning; the way Lea casually referred to his boyfriend fits with what Kris read on the home page. The Lose Your Inhibitions package is geared toward couples, more like a really expensive role play than the shady massage business Kris thought it was. He didn't think too much of it at the time, figuring the information on the homepage wasn't telling the whole story, but in his mind it's starting to make sense now. If Kris had gotten the gift card from Adam he would have probably been too wary and embarrassed to use it, but with the band as a middleman Adam managed to make it a lot less shady. There's really only one way to be sure without actually ripping his blindfold off. He goes into the bathroom and gets his phone, sending a quick text off to Brad. Does Adam know how to give massages? Like professionally? The answer comes within seconds; Brad is very attached to his phone. Oh yes, boy's got Magic Hands. Kris laughs and pushes his phone across the table, mind spinning with possibilities. He doesn't really understand why Adam would go to such lengths to get Kris at his mercy when he would only have needed to ask. Kris turns that over in his head while he sinks down onto the bed for a much needed nap. He wonders if Adam will reveal himself at some point, or if he means to keep Kris guessing. Things just got a whole lot more complicated. *Kris dreams that he's back in the Idol Mansion with Adam, lying together on Adam's bed as they so often did, but in his dream he's snuggled up to Adam's side, rubbing off against Adam's hip while Adam talks. Adam doesn't even seem to notice, hands waving in the air while Kris gasps and moans against his shoulder, thrusting against him with short jerky motions. He wakes up with his orgasm, not entirely surprised to find his blindfold back on and a mouth wrapped around his dick. Apparently the masseur got impatient and decided to come to him. He sinks back into the pillows with a groan, reaching down to sink his fingers into Adam's hair, needing to make sure it's still Adam. He almost freaks out, because the hair underneath his fingers is shorter than he expected, but then he remembers Adam telling him about getting a haircut. "I had such an odd dream," Kris murmurs, running his fingers through Adam's hair. Adam makes a pleased little sound, settling down with his head against Kris's hip, apparently waiting for the story. Kris lets his hand slip down for a moment, the back of his knuckles brushing against Adam's ear, and he smiles to himself when Adam's earrings slide against his skin. He was right. "I was with a friend of mine," Kris says, pretending he doesn't know who Adam is. He wants this to play out the way Adam intended. "We were lying together on his bed and I was rubbing off against his hip, but he didn't even seem to notice, talking about some song he wanted to cover. So weird…" Adam presses a kiss against Kris's hip and Kris wonders how much it's killing him not to talk. Adam's one of the chattiest people Kris has ever met and now he's been forced to be silent for most of the day. Kris winds Adam's hair around his fingers, it's just long enough at the top of his head, and tugs lightly. Adam comes easily, crawling up Kris's body to collapse beside him and Kris snuggles into him, the position oddly similar to his dream. He slowly trails a hand down over Adam's chest, hiding his smile against Adam's shoulder when Adam sucks his stomach in. The cotton of his t-shirt is ridiculously soft and underneath it Adam's skin burns like a furnace, heating up Kris's palm. In Kris's mind the t-shirt is white. He wonders if that's true. He hesitates for a second when his fingers reach the waistband of Adam's pants, idly scratching at the slip of skin he finds there, but then he moves his hand lower to cup Adam's bulge. Adam sucks in a breath, hips twitching, and Kris grins, rubbing his palm against the length of Adam's dick. It's arched up against Adam's stomach, tenting his loose pants considerably and Kris doesn't ever want to stop touching it. The fabric is damp around the head, slicked with precome, and Kris rubs his fingers over it, drawing a shaky moan from Adam's lips. Kris has never touched someone else's cock before and he takes his time, exploring it through the sinfully thin cotton of Adam's pants. It's bigger than his, thick and long and it curves harder, but that might just be the pants. Adam also seems to have considerably more precome action, the wet spot growing larger with every curious swipe of Kris's hand. Adam's breath is shaky and stuttering, as if he's trying but failing to not make noise. His hips keep twitching up against Kris's hand, even though Kris can tell he's holding himself tight as a bowstring, trying to control himself. Kris slides his hand in under the waistband, finally touching Adam's silky skin for real. He's so hard it ought to be painful, his cock like steel against Kris's fingers. The urge to taste is sudden and unexpected, but Kris is not going to hold back now. He impatiently pushes the pants down to bunch underneath Adam's heavy balls and crawls down Adam's body. Adam's breath hitches and ends on a moan when Kris reaches his destination eagerly licking across the head. It tastes weird, salty and kind of bitter, but it's not enough to put Kris off, tongue dipping out again and again. Adam's really losing his composure now, hips pushing up while choked off moans spill from his lips, and Kris wants to feel him come apart. He shifts around so that he's kneeling between Adam's legs, one hand wrapped around the base while he carefully covers his teeth with his lips and slides his mouth over the head. Adam comes before Kris has even gotten a chance to try sucking, the first jet of come taking him completely by surprise. He pulls off and the next burst of come smears across his face while he swallows. Adam's writhing under his hands making an unholy lot of noise and there's no way Kris would ever mistake that voice. He gathers his wits enough to jerk Adam through the aftershocks while he licks the come from around his mouth. The taste isn't entirely unpleasant. Then he's being manhandled up the bed and Adam rolls on top of him, stealing the air from Kris's lungs with a demanding kiss. He kisses back, giving as good as he gets, and soon they're writhing against each other, nipping and sucking at each other's mouths. It's everything Kris thought kissing Adam would be and then some, every swipe of Adam's tongue setting his blood on fire. He sinks his fingers into Adam's hair, keeping him close, while Adam gentles the kiss, taking his time to fully explore Kris's mouth. Adam rolls them over on their sides, pulling one of Kris's legs over his hips without breaking the kiss. Kris fits himself closer and groans when Adam slides a hand down to cup his ass. Adam pulls his hand away, fumbling across the bed and Kris moans when he hears the snick of a cap being popped open. Adam's fingers are slick when they return sliding in between Kris's ass cheeks and Kris does his best to spread his legs wider. Adam doesn't tease this time, sliding one long finger into Kris without preamble. "Fuck," Kris curses against Adam's mouth. "Mmmm." One finger becomes two, then three, Adam pulling back for more lube in between, until Kris is so slick he's almost squelching with it, hips rocking into Adam's hands. Then Kris finds himself on his back again, legs spread wide open, while Adam fits a pillow under his hips. He hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper and Adam's choked back groan that probably means he's putting it on, then Adam's back on top of him, fingers sliding back into Kris's body. "Oh," Kris groans, hips lifting. "Oh yes… there." Adam chuckles, mouthing kisses all over Kris's face, while he keeps rubbing his fingers in deep, hitting that spot every now and then, almost like an afterthought. "Please," Kris begs. "Please, please, please, Adam, pleeeeease." Adam stiffens with his fingers still buried deep inside Kris's body and Kris hardly dares to breathe. Then Adam's reaching up, pulling the blindfold away and Kris squints against the sudden light. Adam slowly swims into focus, blue eyes wide open and vulnerable waiting for Kris to speak. He's so gorgeous he takes Kris's breath away, eyeliner smudged around his eyes and cheeks flushed. His hair is a complete mess from where Kris's fingers have been pulling on it and his lips are swollen and red. Kris doesn't think he's ever seen Adam look so naked, face stripped bare before Kris's eyes, and he tries to find enough breath to speak. "If you don't fuck me. Right now. I will kill you," he manages, squirming on Adam's fingers. Adam's eyes grow wider for a moment and then he bursts out laughing, bending forward to press his mouth against Kris's skin. "In a minute, baby," he promises, voice rough. "I kinda lost my erection for a moment there." Kris's startled laugh turns into a moan when Adam shifts his fingers, sliding them out only to push back in, hitting Kris just right. "God, baby," Adam murmurs, pressing kisses all over Kris's face. "I've been so fucking scared today. It was just supposed to be a bit of fun but then I couldn't… and you were so fucking gorgeous and I thought for sure I fucked everything up." If he wants Kris to have some input in this conversation that isn't just random encouraging noise, he’d better stop doing that thing with his fingers. He turns his head into Adam's kisses, pressing their mouths together, hoping to say it with a kiss instead. "Okay… yeah," Adam says when they break apart. "No need for Viagra just yet." Kris bites down on his lower lip, spreading his legs wider. Later, he's going to need a moment to align everything right in his head, but right now he really, really just wants Adam to fuck him. Adam finally seems to be getting with the program, grabbing a condom and tearing it open with his teeth. Kris is pretty sure he's already wearing one, but he's not going to protest if that means any more delay. He's already shaking apart and if Adam doesn't hurry, Kris will miss the main act. Adam pulls one condom off and slides the other on with a one handed move that is really quite impressive. Then he slicks himself up with a ridiculous amount of lube, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, before moving closer, his body blocking Kris's view of the proceedings. It's probably just as well, because Kris isn't sure he could stomach actually seeing Adam slide into him without coming all over himself. Then Adam slides his fingers out and fits himself to Kris's opening, looking down on him with searching eyes. "It's probably going to be uncomfortable at first," he warns, pushing forward slightly. "But it'll get better, okay?" "Okay," Kris manages, sliding his arms around Adam's back. "I'm ready." "Take a deep breath for me," Adam instructs. Kris sucks in a breath. "And now breathe out slowly," Adam murmurs, pushing forward. Kris lets the breath out through his teeth, while Adam slides into him. It's too big and too much, yet he never wants it to stop. It burns slightly, but not as much as Kris expected, and the slack-jawed look on Adam's face makes it more than worth it. Adam doesn't stop until he bottoms out, hips pressed flush against Kris ass and then he just stays there, sucking in rapid breaths. Kris can feel Adam's arms trembling against his sides and he shifts slightly trying to get used to the overwhelming fullness. "Oh God," Adam groans. "You have to keep still, baby." Kris doesn't want to be still, squirming feels absolutely amazing, and he does it again shifting Adam inside of him. "Fuck," Adam curses and starts thrusting, sliding down on his elbows to curl his hands around Kris's shoulders. It feels so good Kris can't even breathe, better than he ever imagined. Adam's fingers were nothing compared to the slick hard length of Adam's cock. He pulls his legs up wrapping them around Adam's back urging him on with his heels. Things go hazy after that, time losing all meaning while Adam pounds into him, sending waves of crazy pleasure through his system. Kris didn't know sex could be this good and he tries to tell Adam, but he's pretty sure none of the words spilling from his lips make sense. He digs his fingers into Adam's back and mashes his mouth against Adam's trying but failing to kiss him between his breathless moans. He feels completely wrecked, overwhelmed with pleasure. Adam keeps up a running commentary on how precious, beautiful, special, amazing Kris is, words tumbling endlessly from his tongue to make up for his day of silence and it's that more than anything that finally pushes Kris over the edge, his vision blurring and his cock jerking hard with his most intense orgasm of the day. Adam follows moments after him, as if he were just waiting for Kris to come first, moaning his release against Kris's mouth. Kris forces his eyes open to watch Adam come apart above him. He's sweaty, flushed and gross but he's still the most beautiful thing Kris has ever seen. Then Adam's arms give out and he collapses on top of Kris, panting into his shoulders. He's heavy and it takes moment for Kris to adjust, but then he wraps his arms tight around Adam, keeping him close. It feels as if Adam's weight is keeping him grounded, as if he might float away if he didn't have Adam to anchor him. Adam rolls off him and Kris groans weakly when he pulls out, feeling empty all of a sudden. "Shh," Adam whispers, pulling Kris in to rest against his chest. "It's okay." Kris clings, wrapping arms and legs around Adam's body. He's never letting go again. "Shhh," Adam whispers again, threading his fingers through Kris's hair. "I'm here, baby." Kris lets his eyes slip shut and focuses on breathing. He feels high, floaty and spaced out, muscles twitching randomly, but Adam's soft careful hands are bringing him down, grounding him. The only thing Kris can think is that he's never going to let Adam go again, but when he tries to tell him the words come out an unintelligible babble, and Adam just shushes him again, fingers still stroking soft and slow over Kris's skin. The last thing Kris hears before sleep claims him is Adam's whispered I love you. The End Comments are love, as always. It's probably gonna take me months to answer, as always. Thanks for reading. ♥

As a small child Billy was serious. As a baby, his head was a little too large and narrow and domed for his spindly neck, his eyes unnervingly big. Billy grew gradually into his neck and eyes, and, to a lesser extent, his head, which was still domed, but no longer large enough to completely dominate his body. In baby pictures he looked like a little turtle blinking sagely, squinting at the camera, his mouth wet with drool. He remembered that sometimes later in life, when he was watching the sun rise, when he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe, when he was waking up all at once, warm and still and restless, feeling roped to the bed with lassitude. Because really, Billy as an adult was not very serious. But especially for the past few years he hadn't been serious. It was hard to be totally serious around these people who magically became the best friends you'd ever had, and all you wanted to do was laugh, and smile, and talk a mile a minute, pouring yourself out, drinking them in, mixing together happily, looking for perfect happiness and feeling together instead of alone. One morning the sun rose lazily and sat heaped on the horizon like a puddle of pink grapefruit juice, running out along the hills and blending wetly with the clouds. Billy sat on the porch of his little house in New Zealand without coffee and thought about Orlando. His hands were cold, warming only gradually in the weak, thin sunlight. His feet were stiff and unwieldy like bricks in his shoes, the way feet sometimes are in the morning. His mouth was thin and tight because he was pinching his lips together, frowning at the ground. The problem was that he wanted Orlando. Billy liked men and loved women. He always had. He liked the strength of another man; he liked the male smell of them and found it comforting. He loved women the way he loved shortbread biscuits at Christmas: he didn't want them all the time and he wasn't sure why, and when he had them he gorged himself until he thought he couldn't keep down another buttery bite. Women drew his eyes and kept them so he couldn't look away, their alien grace, their skin, smooth and fine-grained so you could see its scent and its feel. At the same time women frightened him a little. Orlando, while unquestionably a man, seemed to combine the best qualities of men--the strength, the depth and rumblability of voice, the ability to drink until he fell unconscious and lie on the floor making stupid jokes about pissing and sex--with the mysterious qualities of women. Orlando was graceful without being fragile. His skin was smooth without being femininely soft. But he laughed with his whole head and shoulders and chest, flashing large white teeth. He had bad breath. He liked to wrestle. He had terrible taste in clothes and wore them anyway. He didn't care if he got dirty. He didn't care that people stared at him everywhere he went--he didn't even seem to notice. And Orli drew Billy's eyes. He kept them, being sometimes radiant and sometimes strangely ordinary, and beautiful and sometimes, from the right angle, ugly--but no matter what, Billy didn't want to look away. The way Billy thought about it this morning while the sun crept like a half-feral cat across the planks of the porch--what use a woman, next to Orli? What was there left to want in a woman that Orlando didn't have? Like a microcosm of the differences between men and women and his two different wants for them, two different desires for Orli struggled to balance themselves within Billy's mind. He had entire conversations with himself about them. Desire should be a simple thing. Sometimes it was. Billy looked at Orli's long limbs and wanted to hold on to them, clamp around them with his arms and legs while they writhed against him as if Orli were trying to get away. He wanted to press Orlando's legs apart and move between them, and open his pants and thrust into Orlando's body without pausing to take their clothes off. Orlando would stiffen and press back and grunt and they would bite each other like men and Orlando would shine with sweat and undulate gracefully, as he couldn't help being graceful. They would jerk against each other breathless. The pleasure would be painful. Orlando's arse would be tight and the friction would rub them raw. Billy's prick would pulse and strain in its constriction and he would thrust in and out, in and out, frantically and forcefully and Orli would gasp and groan and grab him and claw him. While the many fantasy scenarios (of which that was only Billy's favorite) were fairly detailed, the desire itself was simple and straightforward. That was what he didn't mind. Desiring Orli was nothing out of the ordinary, because practically everyone did it. But there was another kind of desire, and Billy wasn't happy with it at all. If wanting Orlando were as simple as he was convinced it should be, would he be sitting here on the porch, with cold hands, frowning at the ground until he gave himself a headache? He didn't even have coffee or a cuppa. He was alone with the morning. The sun had reached almost to the door without his noticing, and he had a feeling the sun had not noticed him either. Orlando never felt so desperately, peevishly alone as when he was with Billy. It made him uncomfortable, being with just Billy--and it was too complicated for him to entirely explain to himself, something about how he sort of wanted Billy without understanding why, and because he thought it would really be better not to want him since Billy was a mate of his, and sleeping with his mates was rarely a good idea. Of course it didn't mean he had to sleep with Billy--he just really, really wanted to fuck him. As a connoisseur of orgasms, Orlando could tell himself critically that Billy was probably not all that brilliant a lay. He was short and Scottish. His dick was of good, but not really great, size. He was thin and easy-going. Billy was a quintessential mate, a perfect one-of-the-guys. Besides which Orlando had an excellent intuition about how good someone was in bed--he was often wanted at pubs by his friends and even by friends-of-friends to assess potential pick-ups. This was not ego, and Orlando didn't evaluate or judge his ability, or put much store in it--although he did tell the other members of the Fellowship frankly because he liked them and they would very probably want to know before long. It was a useful talent and he trusted it. So despite knowing Billy was probably going to come up a little short, Orlando found himself absolutely convinced he would really enjoy this fuck. Billy heated the pit of his belly and warmed his whole abdomen, made his hands feel prickly and over-aware, occasionally even made him clumsy, made him curse. The fuck in question was hypothetical, because it would be a particularly bad idea with Billy. Billy was one of his three best mates, with Elijah and Dom, and while fucking Dom, for instance, would likely be pleasant and no-strings, like a good pint of beer, fucking Billy would be indefinably different. He liked Billy, and while he was good mates with him he didn't feel he really knew him. He tried to know Billy and he never could. Hours of his company, six months already under their belts of spitting and pissing contests, drinking one another (and Elijah and Dom, and occasionally Astin and Bean and Viggo) under the table--he knew Billy's Gran's voice from four feet away coming tinnily from a cell phone, knew the stupidest things about his childhood and his disastrous first lay, his most embarrassing moment, his favorite color, his habit of sleeping on the couch sprawled like a starfish slowly oozing onto the floor--and he still didn't know Billy. Billy was somewhere under there, an unknowable person, a bug that couldn't be kept in a jar, a flavor that you chased with your tongue all over a cake until you'd eaten enough of it to burst at the seams and feel positively sick, and you still couldn't identify it except to say it was definitely neither coconut nor lemon. Anyway, Orlando didn't intend to sleep with Billy, but it was hard to remember when they were around each other. As a connoisseur of orgasms, he had a mind which was easily diverted to sex and not so easily diverted away from it. He tended to take sex lightly, but he also tended to have sex lightly, and having had a lot of it didn't make it any easier to think when he was smolderingly horny. He and Billy were looking for a present for Astin's wife and Dom and Elijah, the stupid wankers, had fucked off somewhere giggling hysterically and were probably playing video games at this very moment. Dom had given him two twenties, as if cash were the problem, and Elijah had acted like he was going to whisper in Orlando's ear and then licked it instead. Rubbing at his ear irritably, Orlando stared at Billy's crotch while Billy was looking away and shifted his legs a little further apart to adjust himself in his pants--just the beginning of hardness there, but enough to be uncomfortable because his jeans were snug through the hips and over his arse. Orlando wasn't shy about checking out another man's goods--even less so, that is, than most blokes were. He was curious, was all. Except it wasn't really all with Billy. He was always trying to picture Billy's good-but-not-great cock, and more importantly, thinking about the feel of it. His arse was hot with pooled blood, sensitive so he could feel his cheeks rubbing together under his jeans. He wanted a good fuck, a prick stuffed deep inside until he was full, splitting apart, sweaty, growling, shouting and out of breath. If they were in a pub he probably could have picked out some likely bloke and gotten off in the washroom--even a hand job would do; but here they were in a miserable department store while it was a beautiful day outside, and instead of any kind of dick whatsoever, a collection of stupid little glass ornaments were staring him in the face. He was in a department store feeling alone and dangerously close to sad, wanting and telling himself he couldn't have, with the smell of Billy's hair constantly near to his nose and no odor of alcohol to cover it up. "What about this one then?" Said Billy, holding up an amorphous paperweight-like blob. "What is that?" "Incense holder." "Too ugly," said Orlando. He rather liked it, and it was okay for a paperweight but lousy for an incense holder. Besides which, would Christine really want a glass incense holder? "Listen," he said, "Maybe a glass ornament isn't the right thing." "Christmas soon," Billy explained, picking up a blue glass skier on a gold glitter ribbon. "It's August!" Orlando said impatiently. Billy shrugged and smiled and stuffed his long-fingered rounded compact pretty little hand into his pocket. His jeans tended to the baggy and too-large. This pair hung from a belt a little above the hips, big square pockets starting after the ripe curve of his firm arse, the zipper long and a little obscene. Then again, in this frame of mind Orlando would have found a banana smoothie unpleasantly suggestive. "So how about something not glass," said Orlando. Billy raised one eyebrow, creating a profusion of forehead wrinkles. "It was your idea in the first place," he said agreeably, "if you've got another one?" Infuriatingly adult. "Uhm," Orlando muttered. "Sweater." "Hey, that's a good one!" said Billy, "Except we don't know her size." Orlando looked away with difficulty from Billy's delicate pink lips-- "Alright then. Potpourri. Or a clay pot." "Or just a bag of pot," said Billy innocently. "A bong." "Crystal meth." "Case of stout, that really good kind at that pub over in. Um?" "Playboy desk calendar." They were both really giggling by now and, thank God, well away from the glass ornaments-section of the store. "A good vibrator." "She could use one," said Billy with an irresistibly Puckish face. "What, I like her," Orlando got out in the midst of his surprised laughter, feeling naughty. "Oh yes," said Billy, "but everyone could use one." "Oh, okay," Orlando said, "That's true." And felt like a dirty old man, leering at Billy and thinking about good vibrators, but didn't bother to stop himself. "Oh, Orlando!" Billy exclaimed and reached out unthinkingly for his friend's arm to pull him around a display shelf. Orli's elbow almost knocked into it and sent crockery cascading across the floor, because his other hand was wedged in his pocket, unavailable to be used for balancing. But instead of that he stepped on Billy's toe by accident and the pots and plates were safe. Billy took a step back and muttered a curse, and all was well, if you ignored the part about getting itchily randy and his dick pulsing every now and then to remind him that Orlando was present. He let go Orli's arm and pointed proudly at what he'd found, plates in dusty deep-water indigo, and matching hand-painted ones with swirling green and bursts of cherry mixed in, little crockery mugs and everything, oversize salt and pepper shakers. Orli said, "Hmm. It's so blue," and it was, a lot of shades of it. "It just looks like a lot of water." "Yeah. But come on. It'll be great, no woman could say no to this, at least, not unless she was crazy. Women love stuff like that, the teapots and the plates, the painting." Orli wasn't hard to convince, mostly because he wanted to get out of the store. They said they'd have the package delivered and watched the blue on blue disappear into store-monogrammed tissue paper. So blue, smooth, and watery, the swirling pattern so hypnotic. Billy had had a little Ark when he was a boy, a toy one; and he would build toy boats out of anything and everything he could find, biscuits, forks and plates, bits of paper, wooden blocks. He was frankly obsessed by water. He was obsessed by the idea of drowning. He wrote stories about it and drew pictures of drowning. His drowned people always had their eyes open, so his teachers didn't realize they were dead without asking, until he was old enough to render their expressions of horror, open mouths, eyes bugging open, waving tendrils of hair like strangling seaweed. He'd wanted a tree house just so he could pretend it was a houseboat and he'd sit in the branches, imagining the world filling like a bathtub until the leafy treetops looked like they were floating on it, and the water was deep and dark and full of broken toys and bits of houses floating about. He'd used to fantasize about sitting in an overturned umbrella and bobbing and twirling through the water like a fallen leaf in a mud puddle. Blue had always been his favorite color. They bought a giant serving bowl and four little ones for salad and the salt and pepper shakers just because Orlando insisted, and walked out of the department store into the sunshine. The air was crisp and autumnal, the sky clear blue. The streets of Wellington were buzzing calmly and quietly along like a patch of flowers scattered with self-absorbedly industrious bees. "Thank God that's over!" said Orli with great feeling. Billy looked over at him, surprised, raising his eyebrows. "It wasn't so bad." Orli frowned inward for a moment and said, "I want to go to the park." Then he tossed over his shoulder without looking around, "Say that again--''Twasn't soh baad.'" He did a rough, gurgly approximation of a Scottish brogue. Billy laughed and did. He felt uneasy, though, walking along behind Orlando into the park and cutting across the grass, watching the easy loping stride, the way the denim pulled tightly across his arse, outlining the undercurves for a moment when he stuffed his fists in his pockets. The ugly shirt of the day was a ridiculous camel-colored button-down made out of cotton with a poncy flare from waist to hip. Worn unbuttoned, with the cuffs flopping undone, it was kind of like a jacket, and when Orli swung his arms and turned his torso it bracketed every move. It was silly, sort of mismatched, but it looked good on him--elegant. The trees were getting closer around the path, shadowing out the sun on the grass. They passed by a bench and Billy kept watching Orli's footsteps and putting his feet where Orli had walked, watching his hips and his shoulders and his waist and thinking so hard and densely about grabbing him around the waist and pulling his back against Billy's front that he could almost feel it. It was a while before he realized he was drawing closer and closer and they hadn't spoken for several bends of the path. A grassy hill unrolled before them like a bit of the Shire, with a little hut on it with toilets inside. The air was sparking on his skin. It almost smelled of rain. "Wait, what's that," Orli said, stiffening like a dog on a scent and moving swiftly towards the toilets. Billy, feeling very strange, followed like there was a leash tied to him. Where Orli stopped was a worn wooden bench against the exterior wall of the little hut, just around the corner from the door of the men's toilet under the window, shadowed by the overhang. The air was pale, and barely turning violet under the trees in the distance. Billy flopped onto the bench like a puppet with its strings cut, feeling almost dizzy. Orli stood next to him, halfway in front of him, shifting from foot to foot. "Shhh," he said. Inside was the muted ringing sound of voices pitched low and echoing on tile. It floated around the corner from the doorway and out of the open window. They both listened, and Orlando stretched his neck alertly, and Billy watched Orlando and felt sick, light-headed and drunken, with wanting. He was afraid he was going crazy. "M... harder--" "Yessss." And the soft sticking and slapping of flesh. Orli quirked his eyebrows twice and stretched on his tiptoes, cocking his ear to the window. A soft laugh. A muffled grunt or groan. What might have been a name. "Ahh--there--" "Yeah." Orlando was laughing silently, bright and sparkling with leashed giggles. Billy, who was blushing furiously and cursing coincidence, himself, Orlando, his hormones, and whatever deity would listen, realized belatedly that one of the voices could have been a woman's, and both were soft and muffled--hands over mouths? He wondered. If he presses his hand to her mouth and she pants humidly against his palm--if he buries his face in the slick curve of her neck, against the straining tendon, against her spine, if he bites the back of her neck--it might sound like that. Or maybe they were muffled with kissing, the sounds lost in one another's mouths. Dry lips and a drier throat were the inevitable result of sitting with his mouth open for so long. Billy could practically feel heat rolling from his neck and ears into the cooling near-dusk. There was a whisper of cloth and he thought they were probably finished. Orli turned and looked back at Billy and mouthed something totally incomprehensible. "What?" Billy mouthed back. The same gestures were repeated and exaggerated, but he'd still no idea what Orlando meant to say. Then he realized that footsteps were moving to the door on the other side of the wall and that Orli was moving with no apparent hesitation towards the corner as if to meet them face-to-face. The whole horrifying encounter with the anonymous couple flashed in his imagination, complete with introductions and Orli's devilish uncaring grin. He half-leapt to his feet, reaching out, and caught Orli about the ribs as he'd done any hundred times before playfully. Orlando was subject, sometimes, to the strangest altered states of consciousness. Like now, he really felt as though he had two skins, and the thin membranous inner surface of himself, flushed bright red, had forced itself painfully through his outer skin and was even now stretching and expanding into the air around him, pulsing with heat, while his dry formerly-outer skin dripped and sweated with blood. His head pounded; his hands tingled; all his awareness dripped down his spine, settled in his stomach and weighted it till it sank like a lead balloon to his groin. His arse and the creases of his legs were sweaty, his cock starting to stiffen even with no stimulation and chafing against the inner seam of his jeans. When Billy's perfect little hand spread against his hip, the other arm hooking around his ribcage, and pulled him back, all the air around him rushed away and left him like a landed fish. And the blood stilled and turned heavy and he went limp and pliant and stumbled obediently back. Scuff, scuff went Billy's ridiculous little driving moccasins on the ground and Billy pulled him back onto the bench. He folded into Billy's lap and there he was sitting with his thighs parted, looking dumbly down at Billy's knees in between his. Billy pressed all along his back. The subtle scent of Billy's hair was almost swallowed in a fainter musk that made Orlando clamp his mouth shut on a rumbly growl that wanted to escape. Nostrils flaring, he scooted back with two little wriggles, on the pretext of getting more comfortable--and it wasn't by any means all his fault, because Billy's arms around his middle had actually tightened and Billy was whispering, "Shh!", like he didn't realize all that stood between Orlando's arse and his good-but-not-great prick were two pairs of jeans, and possibly some undergarments. Orlando and Billy both stopped breathing as the bathroom-sex maniacs finally walked out the door just around the corner. Billy tightened the curve of his arm and made a fist in Orlando's favorite khaki shirt and Orlando said nothing; his own hands were tightening on his thighs because the last thing he wanted was interruption now. He had made a gradual, conscious decision over the last minute or so to forget about his confused spider web of reasons not to fuck Billy. That decision had been completely cemented just now by the feel of Billy's cock hardening against his arse. The reasons had never made sense anyway and he couldn't remember them now even if he strained himself reaching. So the footsteps went the other way--round the other side of the little bathhouse--and fell on the path going away from them, and gradually retreated. Billy and Orlando never got a glimpse of them at all. But it didn't matter. It was already too late. The world had drowned and re-made itself any number of times in the collective imaginations of its people. As long as there'd been people, as long as there'd been anger, turning seasons, blood and sex and birth and death and war and mystery and as long as people had looked up at the sky and down at the earth for something outside themselves, there had been Floods. But what if Noah hadn't built the Ark? What if Noah hadn't trusted himself to the boat, but had stayed and drowned with all the other people of the Earth because he was one of them, because he loved them? The rains falling, the air awash in electric charge as the water swirled higher and higher. The creeping cold, the torrents, the ripping tearing crashing rush of water smashing everything in its path. The seep of it into mouth and nose and lungs until the water was like air and there was no more breathing and the instants before death stretching out into water-logged eternity, a whole world, a whole life--even a short one--underwater. Not alone. They were alone now, still and silent, with only the wind and and the sunset. Billy's arms just--tightened more, like bands around Orlando's chest. The only sound was Billy's breath in his ear, until he was held about as tightly as he could be and still breathe. He left the moment to hang there like a glass ornament balanced on the edge of a shelf, on the edge of falling. When the tightness in his throat dissipated Orlando meant to say something but found, opening his mouth, that instead he had to cough and clear his throat. But before he could speak--the sound had broken the spell. Billy's hands were flat on his chest one instant, and the next they were on his thighs, sliding up. But then they stopped. Looking down, Orlando could see the delicate fingers on his fly, the dirty nails, the oddly elegant hollow on the edge of Billy's wrist, and Billy had hooked a thumb through one of Orlando's belt loops and let his fingers rest on the button. Blink, blink again--then he realized. Unbelievable, asking for permission! Orlando didn't know what to say. What do you have to say to give someone permission to undo your fly when you're pressed back against them, wriggling to rub your arse on their dick, and clearly aroused? Maybe the problem was that he wasn't wriggling enough--that one wriggle, before, might not count, and the little tremors going through him as his body tried to decide whether to hold still or not might not either. He made himself relax, sweet and boneless, and put his head back on Billy's shoulder, which gave him an odd view of Billy's jaw. He stretched his head back further, lifting his throat, which felt hot and damp, and pressed his hands on the bench beside Billy's thighs. Just the thought made his brain stutter: Billy's thighs. Every moment of this waiting was making him feel worse and worse, like a hollow vortex of hunger, a painful desire to consume Billy, to press him in through every pore until there was no more Billy left outside, to digest him and have him and understand him somehow. And the feeling just kept getting scarier and scarier, and Orlando bucked his hips and ignored the fear, because he was pretty sure, now, that he could at least get a really good fuck out of this. "Mmm," said Billy as he undid Orlando's fly. One hand was on each side of it after he flicked the button out, pulling the sides apart, and he pushed both of them inside and made another noise of appreciation and then Orlando had to close his eyes because his cock was pushing out into the air throbbing hard, with both of Billy's hands closing around it. He could feel fingernails, callused palms. Billy said as if to himself, "That's it." "Please," Orlando muttered, trying not to grit his teeth the way he was squeezing his eyes shut. This wasn't making the wanting any easier yet. Billy's hands moved up to the waistband of the jeans and tried to push them down. They were fairly tight, and he'd been sweating and going commando all day, and now was sitting with Billy's thighs between his. It just wasn't possible to get them off without shifting his weight. They did this, or rather Billy did it, by doubling Orlando forward. He was able to get his weight on his feet that way and straightened a little automatically--not far with Billy's warmth still up against his back. (Just the motion of standing up had rubbed them together groin-to-arse, and Billy had felt larger than Orlando ever quite imagined.) But once he was standing a little Billy pulled his jeans down, still facing his back, Orlando still looking away and shivering in the cold. Once they got past sticking at the tops of his thighs they fell to the knees, because the thighs of the jeans were cut much looser. Billy dragged him back down with a hand guiding his hip. "Sit," he murmured huskily, deep-throated. Orlando sat straddling Billy's knees again, his bare arse on Billy's thighs and his jeans ridiculously stretched between his knees. He pushed at the fabric, trying to get them over his feet, while Billy behind him fiddled very intently with his own pants--button, then zipper, then reaching into the front opening of a pair of blue cotton boxers. From the corner of Orlando's eye Billy's dick--reddened, fully erect--looked so good Orlando bit his lip, and it turned out he just didn't have time to get his jeans all the way off. Billy took hold of his hips roughly, one with each hand, fingernails biting into Orlando's flesh, and pulled him backwards. The cool metal of the zipper cut into one of his cheeks but he really didn't care. He didn't approve of the way Billy was nestling his prick in the cleft of Orlando's ass and jerking his hips to pull him back, rubbing and teasing. Orlando realized only dimly that Billy's mouth was open and hot and wet on his shoulder. He was trying very hard to string two thoughts together, but there were splinters in one of his hands, Billy's prick thrusting against his arse so close to what he wanted, and he couldn't think of where he might-- "Lotion," he finally gasped. There was some in his pocket, hand lotion, actually, in one of those little girly squeeze tubes, which one of the makeup ladies had given him along with a lecture about keeping his skin smooth and Elvish. "Get it then," said Billy immediately. He had to think for a second to remember where his pocket was. He'd not moved his legs since Billy pushed his knees up between them and started thrusting. "There," he said thickly, and leaned ponderously forward. The air was very cold, and he had a disoriented flash when Billy's hand thrust forward under Orlando's arm, because it was such an ordinary gesture, but here he was sitting naked and they were going to fuck. Billy didn't do a very careful job--just a glob of lotion, and half a second, literally. "Up," he said briskly, even that in a Scotch accent. Leaning forward, trying to get leverage to rise just a little, Orlando almost tripped over his jeans. "Fuck," he said disgustedly and kicked so violently that he freed his left foot. And then Billy held two hands tightly on his hips again, steadying, one slippery with hand lotion, and pulled him steadily back until he felt the thick head at his opening and all the breath left his body in one deep long breath and the motion continued without slowing at all; the pressure increased, quickly, and then he felt his body giving way eagerly and he gasped. He could feel the head, and the direction of the thrust, and the thickness going in after it stretching him so far there was a tearing soreness just in the ring of muscle. But he gasped too soon; it wasn't over. He was stretching deliciously and Billy was driving deeper inside. His prick felt so good, pressing deeper up towards the throbbing center of Orlando, filling him to bursting and still filling him further until his thighs settled firmly on Billy's. Billy shifted their weight on the bench, and the hot, throbbing length of him lodged inside Orlando pulled and pushed perhaps a millimeter, with an uneven stirring motion that was too good for words, and stopped almost before it started, leaving him wanting and gasping and the sparks of sensation fading as his arse throbbed slickly around Billy's prick. He stilled for a moment, put his mouth close to Orlando's ear, and whispered: "Right there. Are you comfortable?" "What kind of--" he had to pause and breathe, and surprised himself with how uneven the breath was, as though he'd been crying-- "--Question is that?" He tightened his arse pointedly around Billy's prick. Billy laughed, and didn't move--at least not inside him, because he did rest his lips just gently against the back of Orlando's neck, and one of his hands was smoothing down the outside of his leg. "Just making sure." His prick was throbbing, though. Then he slid his hips forward on the bench so that he could slump back in a fluid curve, reclining/curving Orlando with him. When the leverage was good, he flexed his hips. He wasn't in all the way after all, only mostly, only seated firmly and almost his full length pressed inside. Orlando just wanted any movement. The flex pulled Billy's cock out a tiny bit, and it felt thicker going that direction, actually, and then pushed it back in--still only a centimeter or so--but further than before, Orlando could tell, because inside him was alight with nerves and sparks of sensation, and Billy had thrust deeper to touch that spot just beyond where he'd reached before. Now another spot throbbed in agony of waiting, just past where Billy could reach, and Orlando twisted his hips, trying to push down. "Hmm," Billy said, a breath of surprised satisfaction puffing against Orlando's neck. Orlando was past fighting fair. He tightened his muscles one after another in a smooth, rolling wave around Billy's cock from base to tip, finishing with a few pulses. "Ah!--Oh," Billy said, and Orlando said, "Come on, Billy," but by that time he didn't have to because Billy had tightened his hands around Orlando's hips again, pushing up and flexing his hips to pull back in a swift, smooth, but very shallow move, and thrust back home much faster than that, and then before Orlando could savor that one motion, was still grasping for breath and hadn't closed his mouth, Billy withdrew again, faster still, and the friction as he drove deeper this time and out and back in, with a sharp grunt of effort, reaching, reaching for the deepest place inside as Orlando wanted him to. But the weight across his lap, melted back reclining on his chest, pressed him into the bench and made a full range of movement impossible. Orlando could only move his hips helplessly, driving himself back, writhing and pushing himself onto that hard, hot prick and spreading his thighs apart, tensing them, as if that would do any good. Billy moved to hook his chin on Orlando's shoulder, breathing hard, and leaned forward as he slowly pulled back, halfway standing up and steadying them with his arms looped around Orlando's middle. Which made the movement of his prick inside Orlando less than even or smooth. Ah. Standing had forced him to withdraw almost completely. It had also changed the angle--Billy shuffled forward half a step and the movement drove him shockingly deep all at once, seating them firmly groin-to-arse again. "Oh--" Orlando gasped, tightening reflexively against the movement. Billy growled at that and flexed his hips, rising on his tiptoes, to push that tiny bit further inside. With Billy pressed full-length against his back, Orlando was almost surprised to feel the button and teeth of the zipper against his arse cheeks again--he had forgotten them. "Against the bench, come on then," Billy whispered, almost a croon. Orlando turned around hesitantly, putting his hand out for the back of the bench, which stirred Billy's dick in wicked curling swirls, pulling it out just in burning teasing increments. The steps he took toward the bench separated their bodies entirely. Then he almost tripped over the jeans tangled around his right ankle as he spread his legs, bracing his arms against the back of the bench and facing the wall of the little hut. But Orli arched his back in invitation and looked over his shoulder, and he didn't wait long because this had ceased a long time ago to be about waiting. All of Billy's sexual fantasies about fucking Orlando were long and detailed, encompassing a wide array of techniques and thrusts, more than Billy thought he'd ever used topping with a man before, though he couldn't remember for sure. They tended to disintegrate into wanking around the time he thought about starting the second time around. He'd never had to use his hands to guide his dick into place in a fantasy, but he'd done it often enough in reality and he knew he wanted the right angle on the first thrust. Orlando's cheeks were spread with his legs, the pink opening flushed to purple, wet and sticky with hand lotion and sweat and pre-come, his cock bobbing, weeping, in front of him because both of his hands were clenched on the back of the bench. Billy took a moment to admire the way the forgotten sweat-damp shirt stuck to his back and the long pale lines of bare leg. Then he removed his hand and thrust all the way as deep inside as he could with one quick hard thrust, the kind he fantasized about all the time, and it was good, so good like that, Orlando's hole loosened and slick and easy to enter, hot and still tight inside, folding close around him and drawing him deeper, making him forget everything except the drive to possess for the duration of each wild thrust. Every withdrawal, every time thought intruded, Billy felt angrier with himself, for letting this happen in the first place, for being drawn to Orli like moth to flame, and each time he thrust harder to cover the sound of his thinking. The first thrust found the perfect angle, hitting the sweet spot deep inside and rubbing against it, from the way Orli stiffened, arched and writhed backwards, impaling himself, letting his head hang between taut arms as he drove back into the next thrust. Billy didn't want to take his time, didn't mean to, but they'd been fucking for longer than he'd ever meant already and he couldn't just take, couldn't just do it hard and fast and rough with those long-yet-fast dream movements while Orlando grunted and sweated in manly fashion. He couldn't look at Orlando and feel him, and want that. He paced himself. He measured the length of this thrust out, silently counting his heartbeat and feeling silly for doing it, as Orlando shuddered under him and then twitched jerkily alight when he moved back inside at the same angle, rubbing along the prostate as slowsweetlong as he dared. Billy didn't mind that he was drowning. It wasn't so bad once your lungs filled with water. He bent forward and pressed his lips to the back of Orlando's neck and wrapped his hand around Orlando's prick and thrust faster, more shallowly, giving him the stimulation he needed. Orli almost sobbed in relief and when Billy felt the long slender body in his arms really stiffen all over he came all at once, surprising himself--he had thought he had taken back control, that he was only giving to Orlando. Even now was he so desperate, still telling himself these lies? His body tightened painfully like a fist that becomes a hand-cramp, and his orgasm went through him in too-strong waves. His muscles unknotted and shivered shockily, spirals unwinding and turning, little vessels of tension exploding like miniature firecrackers in his his hands, then the back of his neck, then his nipples, then the small of his back. He gave a long shudder of reluctant release and turned his face, open-mouthed, against Orli's shoulder, and let all the bitter waves of release crash over him and through him, numbing him inside, until finally one lifted him and carried him away. Finally it came, the explosive finale, the well-timed, perfectly-aimed torturous too-long thrusts against his prostate, rubbing it both directions to the point of over stimulation. Something broke. Orlando opened his mouth to speak and no words came. His knuckles were white; Billy couldn't have noticed that, but he leaned forward again purposefully. Orlando shivered at the feel of hot breath on the back of his neck where the skin was chilled with the evening air and Billy thrust sharply, short movements, quick and jerky and powerful and not entirely controlled. He'd forgotten that his mouth was open. Oh. Oh. The last movement filled him perfectly, and he broke apart shuddering, and screaming, he thought, except he realized a moment later when he felt Billy's prick spurting inside him that he was still making no sound. Billy went still against his back, draped over him, and then paid out the rest of his own orgasm in slow, lazy, shallow, wet little thrusts, until at last it stopped and Billy stopped shivering and--everything stopped. It was like a door slamming. Every motion and every breath of air and Billy had gone limp like liquid, like honey, as soft as the way he slept sprawled on the floor or the couch. It wasn't until the orgasm faded that Orlando could feel it, but even through the just-fucked-through-the-fucking-wall haze, the chill started, because when he turned around Billy was looking at him very calmly, too calmly. He had no idea what Billy was thinking. He reached out with both hands, to sort of make a last grab. It was the afterglow that made him try. "Alright?" He said and smiled. Billy smiled back, but still Orlando couldn't tell what he thought, couldn't feel even for a second that they weren't strangers-- Or was that--when the corner of his mouth drooped--sadness? "Alright?" said Billy, raising his eyebrows, and they both laughed. "What kind of a question is that?" The moment of madness was gone. The shutters were in place. Orlando breathed a sigh and stood disheveled, half-naked, stinking of sex, bathed in sunset, and wondered if it had been a sigh of defeat or of relief. End

People cry and people moan They look for a dry place to call their home And try to find some place to rest their bones While the angels and the devils Fight to claim them for their own 1. J'adoube The first thing Lupin noticed when he walked into Azkaban was the blinding white. It should have been dark, damp, despondent; he had pictured slime and rotted moss hanging from the walls, strangling vines curling around heavy stones, and a seeping wetness everywhere, penetrating the island fortress with a chilling despair that had nothing to do with the notoriety of its former Dementor guards. Funny that, how in times of war, in times of crisis and desperation and panic and scapegoating, nothing is ever what it seems. Nothing. He stepped from the tiny rowboat and entered the complex with only the most fractional pang of apprehension in his chest. There was still a war on. Traitors had to be punished. The guilty needed to die. The stark hallways felt like a mental institution from a dystopian novel, like stepping from that dank, rickety rowboat straight into the pages of Zamyatin, or Orwell, or Huxley – with the exception of anything brave or new about it. This was a place for the cowardly, and the old. It was a world, though, Lupin would give it that. He had long stopped speaking with adjectives, anyway. Things simply were what they were: table, forest, cage, lips, dead, alive. World. He turned to the man beside him. "Stay here," he ordered, and the man snarled at him, but obeyed. Lupin was in charge now; he gave the commands. His footsteps echoed down the bare hallway, crisp tiles clacking under him as he passed row after row of solid doors, tiny rectangular windows at eye level the only indication that there might be something – someone – beyond. The shapeless Auror who led him down the hall was not much better than a Dementor, Lupin thought, his mind flashing back to the last time he was here, in a different life, to witness the suffering of a different man sentenced to death. Then, the Dementor's rattling breath had fallen too close to his ear when they stopped, and Lupin had had to force down the chill in his lungs and the fog in his mind that the creature invoked. It wasn't much better with the Auror, he mused now, but that wasn't really the man's fault – Lupin was already haunted by icy memories and that snaking sensation of dread, every single night. He shouldn't be here. He had to be here. It was too hard, but it would only get worse. He steeled himself. The Auror gestured at the door in front of them, then pulled out his wand and waved an intricate charm to dispel the locking spells. The solid white of the barrier shimmered with magic for a moment, becoming opal in translucence, and Lupin stepped through it. He heard it solidify again behind him, and he took a deep breath. The room in which he now found himself had four walls, like most, each equally proportioned. There was no bed, sink, nor toilet. The room was divided by bars, white and glowing. In Lupin's half of the room was a single chair and table, on top of which sat an immaculate white and black chess set. Behind the bars was one more chair, and a man in tattered robes. "I'm not playing chess with you," Lupin announced, eyeing the board with trepidation. The man in the chair seemed to relax. "Oh, come now, Lupin – you are here for no other reason." "I'm here for a lot of other reasons." "Such as?" Lupin began to answer, but then cursed under his breath and looked away. Snape knew all the reasons. "You see?" Snape replied. "None of them matter now. Sit down." "Snape, look, I–" "I said, sit." Lupin paused, appraising the man behind the bars. He had changed so much, and so little. His scowl was the same, and the way his left eyebrow sat slightly higher than the right one, especially when his agitation was showing on his face. The curve of his mouth was the same, and the way he tried to use his long hair to cover his face in shadow, even within the blinding light of this windowless cell. Then again, it had only been a week since Lupin had last seen him. A lifetime ago. He pulled out the chair. "You still think I'll do anything you ask, don't you?" he muttered. "Yes," Snape replied, "because you will." "I won't." "You just did." "You are going to die in an hour!" Lupin shouted, his patience stretched like skin on bone. "And you're still playing with me?" He turned to the wall and fought for control, glancing back over his shoulder after a moment to find Snape studying him. "And what is it you would rather I do, Lupin?" he asked softly. "Apologise? You will be waiting a long time." "No, I know you won't apologise, because you aren't sorry." "That's not true. I'm sorry for a lot of things." "Like murder," Lupin shot back, "or like getting caught?" "No," answered Snape, his face shuttered. "Different things." Lupin opened his mouth to offer a retort, but closed it again when he found he had none. A long silence passed between them. "All right," Lupin said at last, "then you must be sorry the Dark Lord found you out." The words cut through the air like glass. "Is that what you're calling him now?" Snape asked, almost sounding amused. Lupin couldn't reply. "Tsk tsk," Snape clucked, his gaze menacing. "Sacrificing me for your own gain – never would have thought you were up for it, Lupin. But–" He paused to give a false, oily laugh – "what the Dark Lord wants, the Dark Lord usually gets, isn't that right?" "You're baiting me," Lupin replied, trying to keep his voice even. "Perhaps." "It won't work." "Glad to hear it." Lupin shook his head in disbelief. "Snape. The Dark Lord found a stray conversation with Dumbledore in your mind. You're lucky to be here, and not with your head on a pike in his father's graveyard while he continues to Crucio your body." An unexpected smile curved Snape's thin lips. "Indeed." He glanced around his cell. "Lucky, I must be." "No, just useful," said Lupin. "As a test." Lupin nodded. "As a test." "Then pay attention, Lupin, because he's not very kind to those who fail his tests." "Ah. And you think I'll fail." "If you do, I'll kill you myself." Lupin laughed, rich and sudden. For a moment it was like old times, Snape pestering him with questions and comments just to see how quickly and ably Lupin could fire them back. When he looked up at Snape again, he found the man watching him with a gaze so intense Lupin was forced to drop his eyes. His smile faded at the same time. "No," he began. "No. Look, Snape, I don't want–" "Yes," Snape interrupted. "You do." They watched each other in silence until Lupin finally nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "I do. We've been lost without Albus – you had no right to take him." Snape sighed. "Are we really going to go through this again? It's getting rather tiresome." The rage Lupin always felt when conversations turned to Albus's death boiled up inside him again, threatening to ruin his calm, to ruin everything. He breathed deeply. "Fine." He glanced at the chess board. "You'd really rather spend your final hour with this?" Snape nodded. "It's the game the guilty play to prove their innocence." "Is that so," Lupin sighed. "Then it's not going to do either of us any good, is it? And anyway, it's Muggle chess." "You don't know how to play?" Snape raised an eyebrow, and Lupin's breath caught for a moment. "I know how to play," he replied quietly, his mind drifting to another time and place, but he dragged it back before the longing settled in his chest, and he cast around for another excuse. "You can't get your hands through those bars," he observed. "Can't move your pieces." Snape made a face, then waved a hand across his chest, smirking when his pawns began shuffling around in response. "I am still a wizard," he retorted, "despite all appearances to the contrary." Lupin regarded him carefully. "Chess." "Yes." "Winner takes all." "That's right." "Quite a risk on a night like tonight, Snape. You really think if I lose I'll just convince those executioners to pass you by?" "You could." Lupin felt his lungs constrict. He was quiet for a moment. "I know I could." "Then let's play." Lupin stared at the board, focusing for a moment on the quivering black and white squares. "No," he said at last, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "There's something else. What did you do?" He raised his eyes to Snape. But Snape didn't answer. He simply dragged his chair closer to the bars and waved his hand to set the pieces back in order. The stark light in the room seemed to dim as they glared at each other across the board – God and the Devil playing for the souls of the wretched, and for the outcome of a war that wouldn't end. Which of them was which remained a matter yet to be proven, and whether there was room in hell for the Devil to have two servants was a question yet to be answered. Snape cleared his throat. "Begin." ~~~~~ 2. Gambit The Forbidden Forest was dark that night, but this was nothing new. Darkness was simply who he was, Remus mused as he crept further from the school grounds and into the penetrating shadow of the trees. It followed him everywhere. He slipped easily off the path, his sharpened vision guiding him even without the light from his wand. By the position of the quarter moon in the sky, he calculated that it was nearly midnight. Almost time. He very much hoped that Snape would show up. "What do you want, werewolf?" An icy voice cut through the night air as soon as he thought it, and Remus turned towards it, and shiver of expectation and apprehension running down his spine. "Is that my name now?" he asked softly, brushing the hair from his eyes. "I don't care what your name is – you don't even deserve a name! You're just an animal." Remus could see Snape's chest rising and falling rapidly, his wand out and his eyes darting around the surrounding forest. "Put your wand away, Snape," he called. "Do I look like a wolf right now?" Snape appraised him. "Not like the one I saw in that tunnel, no." An involuntary twitch started in Remus's right eye at the memory. He squeezed it closed for a moment, rubbing it fiercely, before facing Snape again. "Look, I just wanted to- talk to you- about all that." "All that?" Snape mocked. "All that pesky business with you and your little friends trying to get me killed?" "That wasn't it." "That wasn't–?" Snape's eyes widened. "That was exactly it! You could have killed me – bottom line." "I wouldn't have," Remus insisted. "You would have! You can't control it." Snape's eyes flashed with indignation. "Look," Remus sighed. "I'm sorry, all right? I- I told Sirius something, and he did that to- I don't know, to teach me a lesson, I suppose." His face shuttered as he suppressed the memory of that conversation with his friend. "About me," said Snape, and Remus looked up. "No. Well, I mean, yes, I suppose, since he chose you instead of someone else, but it wouldn't have mattered who it was." Snape said nothing for a long moment, before finally stepping forward, an odd note in his voice. "You're a werewolf," he repeated. "I know that." Snape paused. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Why didn't I–" Remus gaped at him for a second, then shook his head. "Why on earth would I tell you that?" "Because… it's the sort of thing you tell a person…" Snape mumbled the rest of the statement under his breath, and Remus leaned closer, eyebrows raised. "A person's stocking?" he asked. "A person you're snogging," Snape declared, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "It's not like I was snogging you at the time." "At the–" Snape sputtered. "At the exact time? Well no, clearly, because you were too busy being a werewolf at that exact time to be snogging me." Remus frowned, watching Snape carefully. "Well, what if I snog you now – would that make up for it?" "No. Sod off." Snape hunched his shoulders and moved away, backing into a nearby tree. "No. Come here." "No!" "You're scared of me." "I'm not." "I won't bite you." "You might." "Snape! Have you really gotten this far at school without learning anything about werewolves? Third year, you idiot – think! What would happen if I bit you right now?" Snape glared at him, then dropped his eyes to the forest floor. "Same thing that would happen if I bit you." "Ow." Remus smiled at him. "Yeah. Ow. So don't bite me, all right?" "God, would you shut up for a second? I need to ask you something." "I thought we were snogging first." "You thought–?" Remus paused, shook his head in disbelief, then marched up to Snape, pushing him gently back against the tree and leaning in close. "You think I always do whatever you ask, don't you?" he breathed in Snape's ear, then lifted his hands to frame the other boy's face and kissed him. It began slowly, like it always did, as though they were still the shy sixth-years who had accidentally brushed too close together in the potions supply cupboard one day and ended up covering each other's lips with shy, experimental kisses. But they both knew they weren't those boys anymore, and the sweet touch of innocent lips soon grew hungrier. They were men now, forced to grow up fast by the shadow of war and the descent of evil times. Remus felt Snape part his lips, their tongues tangling together, the Slytherin serpent and the courageous bloody lion, pressed against a tree in the middle of the Forbidden Forest in May 1978, as if time didn't even matter. Remus's hands fell to Snape's neck, thumbs still caressing his jaw as their mouths moved together, tasting each other and moaning softly as the scant light from the stars above slanted through the tree tops. He pulled back reluctantly, resting his forehead against Snape's. "I'm sorry you had to find out that way," he whispered. "Black wanted me dead." "No," Remus insisted, his fingers in Snape's hair. "He wanted to keep me from – well. He just wanted you to stay away from me. Don't let him win," he added quietly. "I–" "Don't let him. Stay with me." "I- can't." Snape dropped his head and tried to escape Remus's embrace, shuffling around the tree trunk. "What? No- come back here–" Remus reached out to grab his left arm, his fingers slipping on Snape's robe, and he ended up digging in harder than he meant to, scrambling for purchase against Snape's sleeve. In an instant, Snape cried out in pain, collapsing onto the ground. "Snape!" Remus called irritably. "Come here- what–" Remus dropped to his knees, watching in bewilderment as Snape yanked his arm away, cradling it against his chest. "I can't," Snape repeated, his head turned away from Remus and the shadow of his hair cutting off his features. Remus sat back on his heels, running a hand over his face and a hundred theories through his head. When he finally landed on the right one, his eyes closed in horror. He reached out to touch Snape's shoulder. "You didn't," he said quietly. Snape was silent for a moment. "You're a werewolf," he said at last. "What did you want me to do?" "I wanted you to stay with me." "A house with two kids in the countryside?" "Snape–" "You're a werewolf!" Snape shouted, then clamped his mouth shut and turned away again. Remus slumped down against the tree beside Snape, gazing off in a different direction. "And you're a Death Eater," he said dully, feeling a sharp pain settle in behind his eyes. "The Dark Lord is gathering werewolves," Snape said softly, staring straight ahead. "I know." Snape turned to him. "Dumbledore told me. Thinks I could be useful. That's what I wanted to- ask you." "No. They'll kill you." "You could kill me. The Whomping Willow could kill me. A silver tea cup could kill me. What does it matter?" "You can't do Dumbledore's work. He can't ask that of you." "And what is it you're doing?" "I'm brewing potions for a lot of money. It's not the same thing." Remus let his head fall back against the tree. "I want to join the werewolves. That's what I tried to tell Sirius, and he – well. Didn't think it was a good idea." It seemed clear to Remus that Snape was fighting very hard not to state out loud that Sirius was right. "Greyback's in charge," he said instead. "He'll make you kill people." "No, Snape," Remus continued in earnest, ignoring him. "They'll know what it's like. They'll be able to see the things I see, and smell the things I smell, and I won't have to hide anything from them – I won't have to hide anything anymore. And we'll transform together, and help each other." He leaned against the tree and gazed up at the stars. Snape was quiet for a moment. "You'd really leave your friends?" "Maybe." Remus pulled his knees up to his chest. "They don't really understand me anymore." "And who does?" Remus turned towards Snape. "You do," he said, his voice even, and he believed it. "You always did." "No," Snape corrected him, "I never did, and I never will. You think those werewolf packs are some sort of support group? Sooner or later, you'll end up killing someone." "Maybe it'll be someone who deserves to die." Snape gaped at him. "And how would you know who deserved to die?" "I'd know." "You've lost your mind." "I'm tired, Snape," Remus said, slouching against the tree and letting his limbs scatter on the forest floor. "I'm so tired of it all. There has to be something out there for me, more than this." He felt Snape slacken beside him and heard the resigned thud of the back of Snape's head hitting the tree. "Yeah," Snape whispered. "I know. If–" He paused. "If I can help- you know, maybe we can- well." Silence lingered for a long minute before Snape continued. "I would, you know." "I know." And with those words, Remus knew that Snape understood. The pull of darkness was intoxicating, the chance to be in the majority for once, with others who felt the pain you felt, every time a new moon rose or a forearm burned. There was a place for them both, on the other side, where the wind blew colder but the shadow that embraced you was warm like a black sun. Neither he nor Snape needed a support group; they needed allies, because they were young, intelligent, and had never felt more alone in the world. On the floor of the forest, Remus slid his hand over the prickly grass until he met Snape's. Their fingers curled together as they each gazed up at the sky, their entire lives about to change forever. ~~~~~ "Still the stupidest thing you've ever done, joining the werewolves." "Or, conversely, the smartest. Where would you be now if I hadn't?" Snape looked up from the board. "Alive," he sneered. Lupin's heartbeat paused. "Don't do that," he said quietly, closing his eyes. "Don't you dare–" "All right, all right. No rhetorical questions, no rhetorical answers." "Fine. Your move." Snape glanced down again. "And you're right – it was stupid. I'd do anything to take it back." "Don't get maudlin on me, Lupin – this trip down memory lane you insist on isn't a picnic for me, either." "You insisted on it," Lupin corrected him, "and if you don't want to do it, then why are we bothering?" "We have an hour to kill." Lupin glared. "Your puns are getting worse and worse." "Good thing you won't have to hear them much longer." "Goddammit, Snape!" Remus jumped up from his chair and threw the table over, chess pieces flying across the floor. "I can't do this." He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes closed. "Albus would never have–" "Remus," Snape said softly, watching through the glowing bars from his perch on his chair. "Please." He glanced at the toppled chessboard. "I'm allowed to say no." "No, you aren't." "You told me something once, about choice. That's what that memory was for, wasn't it? I chose this. I know that." Lupin took a deep breath, as though the very procedure of filling his lungs with air would also steel his spine. "Then pick up the board," replied Snape, his inveterate calm like nails on a blackboard to Lupin's nerves. It was too late to turn back now. Lupin waved a hand at the board and the pieces where they lay sprawled, surprised and angry, on the cool tile floor. In a flash they sailed through the air and reassembled at Lupin's last move, the stark black and white of the painted stone seeming to gaze up at him in mockery. He watched Snape carefully as the man made his next move. ~~~~~ 3. Castled "You killed my best friend." Snape opened one eye and rolled it towards Lupin. "Sort of," he agreed, "but you knew that was coming." He closed the eye again and turned over, trying and failing to disentangle the sheets from around his legs. "Bloody freezing in this hellhole, Lupin, how do you sleep here?" "I have fur," Lupin retorted, sprawled on his back with one hand covering his face – though whether in shame, regret, or just fatigue, he couldn't say. "And I didn't know it was coming." "Not now. I'm tired." "You weren't too tired to fuck." "You weren't talking so much then." "You killed my best friend!" Snape sighed, then threw the covers away from his upper body and turned to face Lupin. "Perhaps you've missed the Dark Mark on my arm all these years," he hissed. "I kill people, remember?" "Why him?" Lupin had moved the hand to his forehead now, freeing his eyes to stare at the blank ceiling. He should have had sharper instincts, to foresee Snape's next move. He didn't, however, and in a split second Snape had shifted his body up and grabbed Lupin's wrists above his head. "Because he hexed my pants off at school." Snape's eyes glinted in the dark. "You fool – I didn't choose him! When the Dark Lord has a target, and gives an order, you do not disobey. Potter was marked, simple as that." "Let me go." "No." "Then tell me why you're here." Lupin felt sick at the way Snape's face twisted into a grin. "Trick or treat," Snape snarled. "That's not funny." Snape released his hold and fell back against a grimy pillow. "You're mistaken, Lupin. It's very funny." "Dumbledore was here, just before you." "So? Did you fuck him, too?" Lupin turned his head slowly, mouth open. "Why," he whispered, "are you here?" "Dumbledore must have told you why." "He just said you might need somewhere, for a few days, until he can get you to Hogwarts. Make sure Vol–" He grimaced – "is really gone." "Then there's your answer." Lupin suddenly sat up, squinting at Snape through the dark. "I know why you're here," he replied, waving his hand around the room before jabbing an index finger down onto the mattress. "But I don't know why you're here." Snape laughed, oily and dark. "I go where spread legs invite me in, Lupin, you know that. And it's been a long night. Thought you'd at least be good for a blow job." Lupin stared at him for another moment, then pounced, clawing the sheets away and straddling Snape's hips, pinning his arms down before pausing on top of him. His breath came out in staccato grunts as he bore down on Snape. "All you've ever done is fuck with me," he snarled. "That's why you come to me," replied Snape, calm even in the face of his trapped position. Suddenly consumed by a rage he couldn't control, Lupin brought his hand back and swung hard, his flat palm making a sickening sound as it connected with the side of Snape's face. "Don't fool yourself," he spat. "I come to you because no one else will have me – same reason you come to me." Snape's eyes flashed then as he recovered from the blow, his jaw open in disbelief. His calm morphed instantly into struggle. He fought against Lupin's restraining hands, kicking in an effort to bring his knees up to wedge between Lupin's legs and throw him off. "Let- me- up," he ordered. "No!" Lupin shouted. "You're not leaving me now, you're not–" He released Snape's hands only to use his own to begin attacking the other man's arms and chest with punishing fists. Snape winced in pain, struggling to grab Lupin's wrists and stop the assault. The room narrowed only to the black shadows on the wall opposite the window, two vaguely human shapes tearing at each other as the shadows bled together, then separated again, echoing like a violent danse macabre against the cold wall. Lupin couldn't stop; his blood raced as he pounded his fists into Snape, cursing him and punishing him for everything Lupin had lost. "I can't… I can't… I can't…" he heard himself chanting, and in a moment of weakness, as he relented on the assault just a fraction of a second, Snape grabbed his wrists and flung him off, scrambling to sit up as his eyes flashed with fury. "You will never understand what I've had to do!" Snape thundered, shoving Lupin so hard in the chest that he almost toppled backwards off the bed. He advanced on Lupin then, pressing his advantage and clawing at the pale skin as he moved closer. Finally, he yanked a hand into Lupin's hair and forced his gaze, desperation in his dark eyes, and before Lupin could react, Snape crushed their mouths together. It was hate, and salt, and darkness, and Lupin felt a stabbing of revulsion throughout his body at the evil inside him that would fuck this man and call it inevitable. He parted his lips to let Snape in but fought with him for every breath, grunting with hate and need and none of the resignation of an hour ago, when Snape had first shown up on Lupin's doorstep and bent him over the bed. It was past midnight now, it was November first, and a new day was dawning. Everything was different from what it had been an hour ago, or two, or especially six. His tongue thrust into Snape's mouth as he felt the other man retreat, and Lupin pushed his claim, raking his fingers through Snape's hair as he devoured Snape's mouth, hungry and hateful and angrier with every bite and lick. Snape groaned, scratching nails down Lupin's chest as he fought his mouth, Lupin's lips beginning to bruise. Lupin broke it off abruptly and sat panting, entranced by Snape's wild look, before pushing a palm flat against Snape's chest and shoving him, hard, back down onto the bed. Snape stopped fighting, lying on his back with his swollen lips and bruised chest and a murderous scowl on his face. Lupin fell on top of him in another fit of rage and passion, searching in Snape's lips, and Snape's body, for his misplaced youth – for everything he had lost in life. He reached a hand down and yanked hard on Snape's cock, quickly stroking it to hardness with his rough hand, while his mouth travelled to Snape's neck and bit down. Snape arched into him in pain and anger, renewing his struggle by kicking his legs and knocking Lupin's hand away from his cock. He reached between them for Lupin's cock instead, and Lupin drew a sharp breath at the rough contact of Snape's fist squeezing him. "You think fucking me will help, do you?" Snape snarled. "Go on, then, you stupid beast." Infuriated, Lupin bit down hard on a nipple, then grabbed Snape's hand away from his cock. In a swift movement, he locked Snape's arms at his sides and bent his head, taking Snape's cock into his mouth and sucking with quiet fury. He let his teeth scrape more than usual, ignoring the way Snape's hips twisted in an effort to get away. He released Snape's arms for a moment before planting one hand on the man's chest for leverage, and wrapping the other around Snape's cock to assist his ravaging mouth. It was too big, choking him as he took it in, rough on his tongue and nauseating on his heightened senses. He didn't want this, but he needed it, and only Snape would ever understand the difference. He laved and sucked, testing just how long he could block his own air passage with Snape's cock before he needed to draw back, coughing and shaking. Snape arched silently when he came, clawing at the sheets and suppressing a throaty groan, and Lupin's cock throbbed from the feel of Snape filling his mouth. He moved back a bit and spat into his hand, eyes raised to Snape, fury on fury, then slicked his fingers, running them over his own cock and across Snape's entrance. Snape watched with parted lips and a heaving chest, but did not stop him, not even when Lupin wasted no time folding his knees up and sinking into his body, inch by tearing inch. It was hot inside Snape, and claustrophobic, and wrong and dangerous and liberating like low tide. But it was also rough, and brutal, and punishing, because he had no time for romance or niceties, not on a night like tonight, not when he didn't want to be alive, and this was the only way to feel as though he was. He shoved in hard, Snape grabbing his hips and pulling at him, shouting at him about never understanding, never being good enough or hard enough to do the jobs that really needed to be done. He gripped Snape's legs and pushed them up higher, leaving bruises until his fingers shook from the pressure. His cock felt like lead, heavy and anchored where it slid in and out of Snape's body, as though each stroke was tied to a Time Turner that could go back months – maybe years was what they needed – and if only he pushed hard enough, he could erase everything that had happened. His orgasm was shuttered in darkness, like a shadow falling blunt across his mind as his body released, and he blindly grabbed what was underneath him and clenched fingers into skin. He heard Snape whispering and felt him moving, and only then did he open his eyes, unsure of what he saw in Snape's eyes apart from the loss and the confusion and the bitterness that mirrored his own. He collapsed onto Snape's chest in a fit of exhaustion, suddenly unsure he would ever move again, and was surprised to find warm hands on his back, soothing patterns shaped there by flat, dry palms. The sob that left his throat came unexpectedly, and he was appalled at himself for not concealing it, but after a moment that didn't even matter because another followed it, and another, and he couldn't have stopped his heaving lungs unless he tied the bed sheet around his neck and suffocated himself. Snape's breath on his cheek was warm and soothing, as though his fury was finally spent as well. "We shouldn't do this when we're angry," he said quietly, his voice low in Lupin's ear. Lupin stifled another sob, which came out like more of a hiccup and a cough. He pulled back to look at Snape, tracing the line of his jaw with shaking fingertips. "I'm never anything but angry with you," he replied, then dropped his head down again to burrow in Snape's neck. "I know," said Snape, stroking Lupin's hair. "If I told you," he continued in a halting tone, "that you need to get away from me for awhile, that I need to go where Dumbledore puts me now and you can't follow – would you do it?" "I'd do anything you ask, you know that," replied Lupin at once, his voice soft. "That's why I'm always so angry with you." He heard Snape smile. "I know that, but what if- you have to want to do it, too. It has to be your choice, not just something I tell you to do." Lupin pushed himself up again and regarded Snape. "You can't make choices in war, Snape – you can only follow directions. Rule number one." "No." Snape shook his head. "If that's your rule, you need to change it – now. With an enemy like the Dark Lord, you need to be able to follow an order, but also to know why you're following it – choose to follow it." "That's totally contradictory." "No, it's not." "Fine. Then I choose to get the hell away from you, and the sooner the better." Snape looked shell-shocked for a moment, but recovered before Lupin could comment. "Good," he replied softly. "Indecision is weakness, Lupin, remember that." Lupin snorted and shook his head, then rolled over and pushed himself off the bed. He searched the floor for his clothes, plucking various items as his rational mind began to whir again. "God, it's quarter to one," he muttered, glancing at a clock. "Got to find Peter and Sirius, got to make sure they're all right… why aren't they here, anyway… Dumbledore… got to ask him… the spy – need to find out…" He finished dressing and ran a hand through his hair, then paused and glanced back at Snape, still naked and tangled in the sheets. For a long moment they just watched each other, images running through Lupin's head of sweat and sex and potions and hidden meeting points and spies and enemies and soldiers and forest floors and the red that blotted Snape's lips after a thorough kiss, and he dropped his eyes to the floor, gulping for air. "Indecision is weakness," Snape repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper, and Lupin looked up again to find Snape's head turned the other way. "Go." ~~~~~ "You can't possibly remember that." "Why not? It wasn't exactly just any random night." "Then you should have suppressed that memory years ago." "Your move, Snape. And I think there were other memories more worthy of suppressing than that one." Snape glanced down at the board, a frown creasing his face. "That one," he muttered, "reveals that you and I were together that night. It would be dangerous in the hands of the enemy." He continued to study the board. "The enemy?" Lupin leaned forward. "And just who might that be?" He glared at Snape, silently willing him to meet his gaze. After a long moment, he did, raising his head to fix Lupin with a blank expression. He swallowed and nodded. "You're getting better at this, I'll give you that." "Don't have much of a choice, do I?" "No, you don't." "Are you going to move, or am I wasting my time?" Lupin sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Snape held his gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching, then barely glanced down as he plucked his rook from the board and slid it over to the spot occupied by one of Lupin's knights. Lupin stared at the board. "We've been over that," he said quietly. "Don't make me do it again." "You'll need to do it every day, for the rest of your life, Lupin, don't you understand that yet? After tonight, they will always ask you about it. How you captured the murderer, Severus Snape." Lupin was surprised at how easily Snape's tongue slid over those words, and that name, but he shouldn't have been. Snape was a shield, a fortress, and what was it the ancient Greeks used to say? You either return with your shield, or on it. The ancient Greeks never had to fight an enemy like Voldemort. ~~~~~ 4. Endgame "The defence calls Nymphadora Tonks to the stand." An oppressive hush fell over the courtroom as the young Auror with short, spiky hair made her way to the front of the vast chamber, seating herself in front of the Wizengamot. Lupin watched her carefully, knowing exactly what she would say, and what he would have to do to fix it. "Nymphadora Tonks," the faceless solicitor began, "you have been summoned to testify on behalf of the defendant, Severus Snape, who stands before the Wizengamot accused of the murder of Albus Dumbledore one year ago, and a long list of other war crimes. What say you on his behalf?" "It's not true, sir – he's not guilty. We all thought he was, for a long time, you know, but now we understand he had to do it." "Who is 'we,' Auror Tonks?" "Oh. Um…" "Are you speaking of Dumbledore's 'Order of the Phoenix'?" Tonks looked startled. "The Wizengamot is well aware of this rebel group, Auror Tonks. You are under oath to speak the full truth, as you know it." "Right." She took a deep breath. "Well, we knew Snape was working for You-Know-Who, but we thought he was also working for us, but then he- he killed Albus–" She stumbled over the words, pausing to bite her lip – "and well, then we thought he must have been fooling us, and was really a loyal Death Eater all along." "And now you and your colleagues claim to have changed your mind. Has Mr. Snape or any of the Death Eaters threatened you?" "No!" she exclaimed. "Nothing of the sort. In fact–" She paused to glance over at Snape, sitting stone-faced in the prisoner's box – "he's made it clear that he didn't want me testifying today, or any of us." She waved vaguely at the other Order members, seated at the front of the gallery. "And why do you think that is?" She sighed. "His cover's blown. With You-Know-Who." She turned to face the Wizengamot. "He needs your protection! You can't execute him – you've got it all backwards! Albus ordered his own death – it wasn't Snape's fault!" Lupin glanced at Snape as Tonks continued her plea for his innocence. The prisoner sat impassively, his face shuttered, but a single vein pulsed hotly at his temple. Lupin narrowed his eyes. After several more minutes of Tonks's chatter, the solicitor dismissed her and called Shacklebolt to the stand. "Kingsley Shacklebolt, you have been summoned to testify on behalf of the defendant, Severus Snape, who stands before the Wizengamot accused of the murder of Albus Dumbledore one year ago, and a long list of other war crimes. What say you on his behalf?" "Auror Tonks is correct. This testimony places Snape at great risk, however, and we ask the Wizengamot to release him into Auror custody until the war is over, for his own protection." One by one, half a dozen Order members and Hogwarts faculty took the stand, each repeating Tonks's assertion that Snape had been operating on Dumbledore's orders, and for the good of Harry Potter and the resistance, when he murdered Dumbledore. Lupin glanced discreetly over his shoulder at a disguised man in the back row, blond hair hidden under an unremarkable cloak, and inclined his head just slightly, a token two centimetres. This would be reported back to those in charge. There were accusations of disloyalty on the line. Lupin's stomach rolled over as he listened, his face feeling flushed and increasingly green as each witness paraded evidence of Snape's alleged innocence before the panel. Idiots, the lot of them. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they called his name. "The defence calls… no, wait–" The solicitor shuffled his parchment. "There's been a mistake – this witness has been moved to the prosecution's list! But–" The prosecutor rose. "We informed the defence of this change several days ago, judges," he said smoothly. "It is not our responsibility if the defence cannot keep its paperwork in order." A strained bout of laughter rose up from the gallery, but quickly died as the prosecutor continued. "If the defence has no further witnesses, then, we shall proceed with our own." The Wizengamot members mumbled to one another, then nodded. "Very well," the Chief Warlock called out. "Prosecutor, you may proceed." "Thank you, sir." The prosecutor turned to face the gallery as the defence solicitor slumped back into his chair, his face white. "The prosecution calls Remus J. Lupin to the stand." A collective gasp rose from the gallery, and Lupin had to steel himself against lashing out at them as he made his way to the front of the courtroom. Fools, the thought to himself. As if Severus Snape could possibly be innocent. "Remus Lupin, you have been summoned here today to give evidence against the defendant, Severus Snape. Now," the prosecutor sneered, "my colleague has been under the impression that you would be testifying for him today – why is that?" "Well," Lupin began, glancing at Tonks apologetically, "like those who have testified on the defendant's behalf, I too was fooled at one time into believing that Snape was innocent." A new round of hushed muttering erupted in the gallery, silenced only by the Chief Warlock's gavel. "At one time?" the prosecutor pressed. "But no longer. What changed your mind?" "I took the blinders off and realised that the evidence just doesn't hold up," he began, gesturing to the Wizengamot in earnest. "Why on earth would Albus Dumbledore order his own death? He was still a healthy man, and an absolutely crucial leader in our efforts against the Dar- You-Know-Who. He knew there was no one else capable of leading the Order of the Phoenix, and no one else capable of protecting Hogwarts so completely – sorry, Minerva," he added, inclining his head to the thin-lipped witch in the front row of the gallery. "Well, this is precisely what we thought," one of the elderly witches on the panel piped up, nodding her head. "Exactly why we tracked him down and arrested him – no reason Albus would do something like this." "Exactly," Lupin agreed. "Not to mention that Snape's track record regarding looking out for Order members is extremely suspicious. He has been highly antagonistic towards me, for instance, costing me my job at Hogwarts several years ago; he led the recently exonerated Sirius Black to his death two years ago; he has undermined the work of Auror Tonks by belittling her magical abilities and her appearance–" "But Mr. Lupin," the elderly witch interrupted, "you lost your job at Hogwarts because you are a werewolf, is that correct?" Lupin paused. "That is correct." "And rumour has it, Mr. Lupin," the defence solicitor added, rising from his table, "that you are currently working with the criminal Fenrir Greyback and the werewolf packs, against the Ministry of Magic!" "No," Lupin replied calmly, "that is untrue. I did briefly join the packs in my youth, during the First War, but never again. I don't make the same mistake twice." "Indeed." The prosecutor stopped pacing in front of Lupin and crossed his arms. "You are giving very damning testimony today, Mr. Lupin," he said, Lupin's stomach twisting at the way the man's eyes danced with glee. "Tell us plainly: why do you want Severus Snape executed?" "I simply want justice for Albus Dumbledore," he replied quietly. "He was a good man, and this war is all but lost without him. Snape wormed his way into Dumbledore's confidence, then betrayed him." He glanced over at Snape, catching his gaze and holding it. "Traitors must be punished." The buzz of the courtroom swallowed him after that, and Lupin couldn't remember what more was said. A gavel banged somewhere on the blurry edges of his mind, voices shouted, and verdicts rang in his ears. The question of whether or not Albus Dumbledore died at the hand of Severus Snape has never been argued – whether or not Severus Snape acted altruistically, or with evil intent, is impossible to determine, and is ultimately irrelevant to this verdict. Since both sides agree that the murder was committed by Severus Snape, the Wizengamot shall accept the testimony of Remus J. Lupin, and declare Severus Snape guilty of all crimes for which he stands accused. Execution will take place this Saturday night, eight p.m., at Azkaban prison. As the Wizengamot wishes this matter over and done with as quickly and quietly as possible, no members of the public will be permitted to attend… Lupin did not look at Snape as he filed out of the courtroom, did not look at the hooded blond man with the expensive family seal embroidered into his leather gloves who nodded with approval, and did not look at Tonks as she grabbed his arm to press for an explanation. He pushed through the crowd and Disapparated as quickly as he could, landing on his knees in a distant forest, where he bent over and threw up until his mind went blank. ~~~~~ 5. Checkmate The air in the white room lurched like invisible lava as Lupin breathed deeply, feeling his lungs burn with the fumes. If only he could figure out what the burn was, and what it all meant – heartache, fear, regret, courage, I can't do this You have to Don't make me Indecision is weakness No It's only you now god Severus… He stared hard at the board, black and white checks blurring his vision. "I'm done playing," he said at last, readying himself for Snape's retort. "We're not done until someone wins." "I said I'm done now." "You haven't won yet." "Are you morally obliged," Lupin sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes, "to make this as difficult for me as possible?" "If you want to put it that way." "You want me to hate you." "No, you already do." "I don't." "You must." Snape's glittering dark eyes frightened him for a moment. "When you walk out that door," he said carefully, "you must hate me – do you understand?" "You're sure doing everything you can to get me there." "Good." Snape paused, a shadow creasing his face as he gazed evenly at Lupin. "Remember how I killed all your friends," he began, enunciating every syllable. "Potter. And Lily. And Black. Remember how I made young Mr. Potter's life so miserable. Remember, Lupin, how I got you fired, telling the Slytherins you are a werewolf." He leaned in closer. "How I tried to keep Tonks away from you." Lupin swallowed, shaking his head. "She doesn't matter anymore." "She – ah." "I never wanted her anyway, you know that." "But I was a wanted murderer." "Yes." "You never wanted me, either – remember that." Lupin raised his eyes, staring at Snape for a long moment before pushing down his nausea and nodding. "Nope. You were a decent fuck, nothing more." "Nothing more," Snape repeated softly. "And Lupin? Don't forget my most important crime." Lupin watched him expectantly. "I killed Albus." Darkness descended, the shadow that was all around him lately, seeping in through his pores and choking him until he bent over double, spitting black and coal. So this was what Snape felt like, all those years. It was terrifying, and liberating, and suffocating, and upside down and counter-intuitive in every possible way, except for the ways that it wasn't. Except for the ways in which it made a frightening amount of sense. There was only one person left who could give Harry his chance. Lupin gestured at the board. "We playing, or what?" he said roughly, narrowing his eyes at Snape. "Your move." It was nearly over; they both knew that. The few remaining pieces littered the board as though casually discarded there, as though they meant nothing. The memories held within had offered sustenance, however, and a road map, for those lost and starving on a journey no man should ever have to undertake. Lupin would never understand how he had come to be that man, or how Snape had let him, but it was too late now, too late for all the wondering and questioning and regret. It was too late for everything. As the final pieces moved into place, with his hand and then Snape's reaching out and lifting rooks and pawns and knights that felt as heavy as iron bolts, Lupin noticed the formerly shimmering and blurred black and white squares moving solidly into focus. Memory dimmed as reality emerged. No. God, not yet. He watched the board with slowly dawning horror, tempered by a nauseating feeling of satisfaction, as Snape withdrew his hand after making his last move. Snape never threw a game, not even on a night like tonight. Lupin reached out slowly, refusing to meet Snape's eyes as the gravity of the result sunk in, and slid his last bishop four squares over, directly in line with Snape's king. He let his forefinger and thumb linger for a moment on the piece, then brought both hands back to rest on his knees, leaning forward. "Checkmate," he announced quietly. Snape raised his eyes. "Finish it, then." Wiping a hand across his mouth and glancing back at the board, Lupin reached out again and grasped the bishop. He dragged it across the board, knocking Snape's king over and squeezing his eyes closed at the sound it made as it fell. Snape sat motionless as Lupin rose from his chair. "Guard!" he called over his shoulder, his eyes not leaving Snape. "It's time." The Auror appeared a moment later, sliding through the magical barrier of the cell door and eyeing the board with interest. Snape stood then, at last, towering behind the bars like a blackened angel with neither wings, nor a soul. He still said nothing. "This is it, Snape," Lupin called, backing towards the door as the guard moved forward. "This good wizard will guard you for a moment while I just step outside to call the executioners, what do you think of that?" "Remus…" Snape whispered at last, his face entombed in pale light. "Unless you'd rather repent all your crimes – there's still time, you know. I'm the only one who can save you, Snape." "Remus, please…" "It was my testimony that put you here, and I can recant it just as easily, you know." His voice shook. "Last chance, Snape." "Remus!" Snape thundered, his calm disappearing at last as his visceral anger poured from his body in palpable waves. "Please!" The plea echoed through the blinding cell, the sound vibrating off the walls as Lupin gave Snape one last hard stare. "I hate you, Severus Snape," he spat. "I've never hated anyone but you, my entire life. I hated you when I was sixteen, I hated you when I was twenty-one, I spent twelve years after Godric's Hollow wandering the world doing nothing but hate you, and I hate you so fucking much right now I think I'm going to be sick. Hear that? So fuck you. And let me hear you beg one more time." Snape's chest was heaving as he watched Lupin, but he wouldn't meet the man's eyes. His anger evidently spent, he now stood impassively, arms hanging at his sides. "Please," Snape said simply, in a calm and even tone. Lupin nodded. "Right, then." He turned on his heel and slid through the wavering barrier of Snape's door, passing the executioners in the hallway. "It's time," he muttered to them, inclining his head back towards Snape's cell. "He's a murderer. No mercy." They swept past him and into the cell, as Lupin hurried down the hall, desperate to get outside, to gulp in fresh air. But they were too quick. He had barely rounded the corner to the next hallway when he heard a pierced, abbreviated scream, and a loud thud. His fingertips went numb, his mind fogged, and his knees gave out. He fell to the floor, struggling to breathe, blackness descending. Unforgiven. No. There was still work to do, to make all of this matter. He got to his feet, never again remembering how he did it, and staggered towards the door of the fortress. He righted his robes and ran a hand over his face, steeling his features in place and pushing it all down, down, to a place he would never visit again, never think of again, at least not until this war was over, and Harry had won. What was one more death, after so many already, if it gave Harry one last insider – one last chance? Lupin pushed the great door open, shrugging off the Aurors that followed him, and descended the staircase to the dock. A big, burly man with hunched shoulders and a grizzled, furred face turned to him, eyes wild. "So," the man snarled, baring yellow teeth to Lupin, "was the Dark Lord right about you, Lupin, or did you have the balls for this after all?" "The Dark Lord knows well who he can trust, and who he cannot, Greyback," Lupin said calmly. "Severus Snape was a spy, and a traitor." "Same could be said of you." Lupin paused. "The Dark Lord accepts my loyalty," he said quietly, "especially now." "It's done, then?" "Get in," Lupin muttered, gesturing at the boat. He clapped the man on the back and looked out over the black water, ignoring the cold seeping into his heart and the hate cementing in his veins. "Yes," he confirmed, "it is done." -fin-

John couldn't believe he was going to do this. Wiping sweaty hands down the sides of his pants; he picked up the slip of paper off his desk. It looked so harmless, and yet had such potential. Refusing to second-guess himself, he hopped the transporter to the Control tower. Woolsey wasn't in his office, so John let himself in, and laid the sheet down on the keyboard, where Woolsey would spot it just as soon as he sat down. Refusing to give in to the butterflies in his stomach, he turned and walked out. He knew that he should go back to his office - the day wasn't over yet - but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he went to the personnel quarters, bypassing his own and heading to Rodney's. The door slid open immediately, and John went in, practically collapsing on Rodney's bed. "Colonel Sheppard?" Woolsey's voice came through the radio. John swallowed painfully before reaching for the button. "Yes, sir?" "I found this paperwork on my desk, along with a matching request from Doctor McKay." It was all John could do not to hyperventilate. "Permission granted for both of you, of course. Will you be going together?" And there it was. He could say no, and no one would be any the wiser. They might suspect, but that would be okay. "Yes, sir." His voice was strangled. "Well, have fun on leave." "Right, fun," John said, staring blankly at the floor. He'd done it. Ever since DADT had been revoked, his relationship with Rodney had been an open secret, but going on vacation together? That was going to confirm the suspicion in everyone's minds, as if he'd gone down on one knee in the mess and proposed. Joint vacations. Jesus, they were serious about each other. He wanted to stay right where he was until Rodney came back, get a kiss and maybe a handjob. But he had work he needed to get done, if they were going to go on vacation in a week. Instead, he slapped his thighs and stood up, triggering his radio on a private channel for Rodney. "Hey." "Yes, Colonel?" Rodney said. Probably only John heard the hesitation before the word "Colonel." "We got the leave." Rodney didn't say anything, just breathed in John's ear. "Did you hear me?" he asked. "Yeah, I heard you. That's - that's good. Real good." Rodney sounded like he was about to be sick. "You okay, buddy?" John asked him, concerned. "Nothing to be concerned about. I guess I need to tell Zelenka he'll be on his own with the monkeys for ten days, and you should tell Lorne. Give them time to get their panties in a bunch." John couldn't help laughing, not that he'd ever repeat what Rodney said to Lorne. He liked having a... a... dammit, he could think the word, even if he didn't think he'd ever be able to say it... a lover who was still breathing. The laughter broke the tension that hovered over the two of them, and John opened Rodney's door, turning to the left and heading back towards his office. "Yeah, okay. See you at dinner?" "That's a plan. McKay out." Lorne had chuckled a little when John told him that he was going on vacation, like he didn't quite believe it. It was only when John pulled out the duty schedule to review - a job he hated and tended to procrastinate on - that Lorne sobered up. "You're serious, sir?" he said. "As a heart attack, Major." John tilted his head and looked at Lorne, who looked uncomfortable. "Is there a problem, Lorne?" "Nope." Lorne grinned a little, head tilted in question. "McKay going with you?" John couldn't help the flinch. He knew what Lorne was really asking, and years of repress and deny were hard to overcome. But he wasn't going to lie about it, now that he couldn't be fired for it. "Yes, he is." "You two going to Canada?" Lorne still had the most peculiar smile on his face. Mouth suddenly gone dry, John had to swallow hard. "Why would we do that?" "Well, figured you two might be getting hitched or something." Without thinking, John picked up an eraser and threw it at Lorne who ducked. "You ass," he said. "Come on, sir. Everyone knows what it means when two people from Atlantis ask for leave together..." But Lorne was still smiling, and that made something tight inside John relax. "No, just a vacation. I think we're going to Florida, though you'd have to ask Rodney. He made all the plans." That made something else twist in John's stomach - something almost like anticipation. Lorne asked a few more questions, but when John either evaded them, or honestly didn't know the answers, he gave up. Giving John a sly grin, he said, "I'll just find out from Parrish anyway." "Okay, I do not want to think about you with your botanist," John said, assaulted by mental images that he didn't want. Chuckling dirtily, Lorne pulled up the schedule and the two of them started going through it, day by day. John was determined that everything would go smoothly while he was gone. He should have worried more about the time before they left, because he barely saw Rodney for the next several days as one emergency after another occupied him. Twenty-four hours before they were supposed to leave, Rodney sent John an email. We are leaving tomorrow, come hell or high water. I need you to pack for me - one clean uniform and the rest civvies. There's a text file on my laptop with a list - thingstobring.txt. Just throw everything on that list into a bag for me and it'll be good. And don't forget your swimsuit! Feeling kind of like a wife, even though John had never dared ask Nancy to pack for him, John did as Rodney had ordered, and was standing in the gateroom five minutes before they were due to dial Earth. There was no sign of Rodney, and he was starting to really worry, when Rodney came bounding in. "I'm here, I'm here, and if Zelenka can't handle the next ten days, I don't want to hear about it." Woolsey came out to oversee the dial-in. "Have fun, gentlemen," he said as he waved them through the wormhole. "We will," Rodney said, and then they stepped through the puddle. **** Clearing medical in the Mountain was always a pain in the ass. Since they didn't just travel off world but actively lived there, the doctors seemed to want to poke and prod even more than Keller did. It was great seeing Carson, though, who'd recovered enough to be working in Cheyenne. John would have felt bad about not spending more time with the man if he hadn't waved them off. "We'll catch up before you go back," he said. "I know you two have plans." He knew that the smile he was trying to give Carson looked more like a grimace, but John wasn't sure that he wanted everyone to know his business like that. Unfortunately, the SGC was a closed community, which meant gossip traveled faster than anything else, and it was too late to stop it. "Yeah, plans." Carson tilted his head at the tone of John's voice, but didn't say anything. John's stomach squirmed as he felt guilty. He did want to go. He just didn't want everyone speculating about him and Rodney. One of the other doctors called Carson over, and as he walked away, he said, "You're both clear to go." Neither of them had to be told twice, jumping up from their respective tables and heading towards the elevator. They'd already been cleared by Landry to leave, so it was just a matter of getting a motor pool car and hustling to the airport. "You going to tell me what we're doing yet?" John pestered Rodney on the long ride up. "Nope. You'll see when we get there." Rodney looked devious and happy, and John decided that the gossip was worth it if it made Rodney look like that. Taking advantage of the empty elevator and the long ride up, John wrapped an arm around Rodney's shoulders and tugged him in for a hug. Kissing his forehead, he released him again. Rodney looked at him, a soft smile dancing around his lips, but he didn't say anything. Before John could try to justify what he'd done, the doors dinged, and they were out. They got a car - a white Honda civic, which made John curl his lip in disgust - and drove to the airport. John knew that they were going to Florida, but it wasn't until they checked in at the desk that he found out they were going to Key West. Key Weird, he remembered his father calling it. He'd never been there, but he'd seen pictures. It had looked like fun. The flight to Atlanta was annoying, complete with crying baby. But now that they were away from Atlantis and the SGC, John found it much easier to relax, so it didn't bother him too much. Not like Rodney, anyway, who looked like he was going to have an aneurism. Thankfully, the baby wasn't on their next flight, and then they were landing in Key West. The airport was tiny, which didn't surprise John at all, but he was genuinely surprised to discover that the airline hadn't lost their luggage. They rented a car, but Rodney insisted on driving. John was pleased to discover that at least he could drive in a straight line. They pulled up to a gated entrance, where they both had to produce ID. When John caught Rodney's eye, he raised one eyebrow over that. Rodney just smirked. As they drove past the high wall, John looked away. "Watch the road," he mumbled, ignoring the way that Rodney laughed at him. They drove all the way to the back of the complex before Rodney pulled into a parking space. John didn't really pay attention, though, since he'd realized that just about everyone he saw was paired, and usually with their own gender. That didn't bother him. What did was the severe lack of clothing on most of them. "Um, Rodney?" he asked, staring at a small co-ed group standing around a grill. "John?" Rodney answered. He sounded nervous. "If you don't like it, we can go." That made John turn to look at Rodney, who gave him a sickly smile. "Just tell me that nudity isn't mandatory." John may have had body modesty driven out of him during Basic - didn't mean that he wanted to show off for everyone. "It isn't. It's just... clothing optional, adults only, and gay friendly. Don't have to worry about being stared at." Rodney laughed a little nervously. "Well they'll stare at you, but it's because you're hot, not because of your state of dress." Something tight in John's chest relaxed all at once. Shooting a grin at Rodney, he said, "So, you think I'm hot?" Rodney just rolled his eyes. "Do you want to stay here or come in with me?" "Um, I'll stay here," John said quickly, not sure he'd be able to handle a lobby full of naked people. As if he could read John's mind Rodney smiled and then slid out of the car. John found himself staring at his ass. God, it had been too long since he'd gotten laid. Then Rodney - and his ass - disappeared into the lobby. John looked around, only to realize that there was an awful lot of skin on display. He wasn't sure where it was polite to look. He ended studying the dashboard intently, only to be startled by the door opening. He looked up at a smiling Rodney and he had to smile back. What was a little embarrassment when it put that look on Rodney's face? "All checked in?" he asked. "Yep," said Rodney, sliding back behind the wheel. "We'll be there in just a minute." He turned the car back on and backed out. It really was only a second before he was parking again. The building was small, set a little distance from the surrounding cabins. When Rodney had unlocked the door and switched on the lights, John looked around curiously. There was a small kitchenette, and a table with two chairs, but most of the room was dominated by a huge bed, covered with a bright comforter and enough pillows for all of Atlantis. John didn't care - his brain had locked onto the fact that he had Rodney and a bed in the same room, and no one was going to interrupt them this time. Dropping his suitcases, he turned to make sure that the door had closed behind them. Seeing that it had, he turned his attention to Rodney, who was watching him with a smile. Crowding up behind him, he used his own body to urge Rodney towards the bed. The smile on Rodney's face told him that he knew exactly what John was doing. It didn't bother John. In fact, he smiled back as he tangled his fingers in the hem of Rodney's t-shirt. He waited for a second to see if Rodney was going to object, and when he didn't, he pulled it off. He lowered his head to bite and suck at Rodney's neck while his hands were busy trying to get Rodney's pants undone. When the belt finally gave, he unbuttoned and unzipped before he dropped to his knees. He couldn't help the grunt of discomfort from hitting the floor too hard, but he had the perfect distraction, right at eye level. Yanking Rodney's pants down to around his knees, he shouldered him back until he sat on the edge of the bed. Burying his nose in the curls at the base of Rodney's dick, he inhaled deeply, smelling clean sweat and Rodney. Rodney's hands tangled in John's hair, but he made no effort to direct things. He probably thought that John was going to blow him. He was wrong. Instead of sucking Rodney's dick, John dropped his head sucking one of Rodney's balls into his mouth gently. He lipped at the loose skin, rolling the ball inside his mouth, as his hands were busy untying Rodney's shoes and pushing off his pants. He could hear Rodney panting like a freight train above him. His hands kept clenching tight in John's hair, but he didn't say anything. That wasn't enough for John. Releasing the testicle that he had in his mouth, he spent some time bathing Rodney's sac thoroughly. Then he set his shoulders, using them to force Rodney to spread his legs even wider. Dipping his head, he dragged his tongue along Rodney's perineum. Rodney made a sound at that, a bitten off curse. Still not good enough. Bringing up his hands, he spread Rodney's cheeks. Rodney tried to close his legs at that, push John away. "John, I haven't showered!" "Don't care," John answered. "I've got to taste you." Not giving Rodney a chance to keep arguing, John pressed forward and licked over Rodney's hole. Rodney moaned, his legs relaxing and spreading. His scent was stronger here, but John didn't care. What was important were the sounds that Rodney was making, the way that his hole twitched under John's assault. Forming his tongue into a point he pressed it into Rodney's body. Rodney moaned loudly. "Oh, god," he said, voice breaking. If he could have, John would have smiled, but he couldn't. Instead he focused on licking and sucking until Rodney was insensible with pleasure. He was finally stopped by Rodney's hand tightening in his hair and pulling him up. "Please, John, suck my dick," Rodney pleaded, pushing at John's head to get positioned over the head of his cock. John lifted his eyes, looking up Rodney's body, as he dragged his tongue over the head of Rodney's dick, licking away the pre-come. "Mmm," he moaned at the flavor exploding across his tongue. Opening his mouth wider, he sucked in the head of Rodney's cock. Trying to drag it out, make it last, he moved down slowly, taking Rodney's cock deeper a fraction of an inch at a time. He wanted to suck down the whole thing, but he couldn't get the angle right. Instead he wrapped his hand around the shaft, sliding down till his lips kissed his fist. Hand and mouth working in concert, John worked Rodney higher and higher, till he was gasping and groaning. His own cock was aching in sympathy when he finally starting focusing on the head, tongue lashing the sensitive point where all the nerves came together. With a drawn out cry, Rodney grabbed John's head with both hands, hips rocking up fast and hard. "I'm gonna... gonna..." he gasped out as he started to come. John swallowed eagerly, taking the time to lick Rodney clean before standing up. Ripping his jeans open, he yanked out his cock and started to jerk it roughly as he looked over a completely debauched Rodney. It wasn't going to take much, and when Rodney opened his eyes, giving him the barest of nods, he came, spattering come over Rodney's stomach and groin He wanted to collapse onto the bed, but his took the time to strip off his clothes. Then he fell into the bed next to Rodney, who had moved to the middle. He knew better than to expect a kiss before he brushed his teeth, but he could bury his face in Rodney's shoulder. He did so, letting sleep drag him under. **** John must have been more tired than he thought, because when he blinked himself awake, the clock was blinking three thirty a.m. Rodney was sitting at the kitchen table, working in the light of his laptop. John rolled out of the bed, waved to Rodney, and staggered to the bathroom. After peeing and washing his hands and face, he went back out. He was awake now, and absolutely starving. "Is there anything to eat?" he asked. Rodney waved him towards the kitchen, and John opened the refrigerator, not expecting much. It was full to bursting, and John stood there blinking dumbly in the dim light for a moment before grabbing an apple, taking it over to the table. Before he sat down, he leaned over to kiss Rodney's cheek. "What are you working on?" he asked. Turning the computer so that John could see the game of minesweeper, Rodney quirked a smile. "Nothing big. Just couldn't sleep any more." John took a couple of bites of apple. "Gate lag is a bitch," he offered after he swallowed. "Exactly," Rodney turned the computer back but didn't resume his game. "You should go back to bed." "You too," John insisted. "At least come lie down with me for a little while." He knew that he sounded a little like a girl, but they didn't get to share a bed to just sleep very often, and he didn't want to miss a second of it. Rodney's smile was blinding. "You want to cuddle, don't you?" It was something of a running joke, and John had finally realized that Rodney wasn't going to seriously make fun of his need to touch - not even in private. Two more bites finished the apple, and he tossed the core in the trash before rinsing his hands. He shook the water off, and then followed Rodney back to the bed. Rodney lay down on his back, and John crawled in after him, pillowing his head on Rodney's shoulder. He felt Rodney's lips brush his forehead as he drifted back to sleep. The next time he woke, the sun was shining in the window, and it looked to be a beautiful day. Rolling out of bed, he left Rodney drooling in his pillow and went to take a shower. The shower itself was huge, even bigger than the facilities on Atlantis, and John wasn't surprised when the door slid open, Rodney stepping inside. He got a brief kiss on the cheek and then Rodney reached past him to grab the shampoo, which he used to lather John's hair. "So, what's the plan today?" John asked, luxuriating in the feel of Rodney's hands in his hair. "Well, unfortunately for you, Key West sucks for surfing," Rodney said. "But there's snorkeling or scuba diving. I< plan on reading some of the journals that I never have time for." Rodney's skillful hands massaged John's scalp, getting rid of tension he didn't know he had. "Mmm..." John said. "I haven't snorkeled in years." Rodney picked up the soap and started to work up a lather. "You going to do everything or can I wash myself?" "I thought I'd make sure you were really clean," Rodney said, the leer in his voice clear. Strong hands started washing him before John could say anything else, so he relaxed, letting Rodney run his soapy hands over his body. And Rodney took his time at it, driving John right up the wall, since his hands went everywhere but where John wanted them. His cock was hard and his balls tight as Rodney washed his inner thighs. "Please, Rodney," John begged, widening his stance, hoping for a hand wrapped around his dick, or fingers in his ass. It wasn't like Rodney wasn't turned on - his cock jutted out between his thighs and he kept biting his lip. Finally, Rodney ran his fingers down the cleft of John's ass, but when John pushed back, Rodney pulled away. "Soap makes a lousy lube," he said, voice light. John growled softly but held still as Rodney washed him. That left just one place, and John looked at Rodney hopefully. Rodney handed him the soap. "Finish getting clean," he said. Disappointed, John took the soap and wrapped a slick hand around his cock. It would have been easy to jerk himself off quick, but he was more interested in what Rodney was going to do. Instead he made washing his cock and balls into a show, slow and easy, even if the feel of his hand was intense. "Rinse off," Rodney said, as he turned his attention to washing himself. John didn't know how he could sound so calm. He wasn't desperate - yet - but it was a close thing. But Rodney was just washing himself calmly, ignoring the hard-on that made John's mouth water. After he got all the soap off, he stepped out of the way and let Rodney rinse off as well. He hoped that he'd get slammed up against the wall, but Rodney didn't. Instead, he cocked a grin at John. "Don't worry. I'm going to fuck you, but in the bed. My knees can't handle the stress." John must have looked disappointed, because Rodney's face grew determined. "Dry off and get on the bed," he said. John sketched a sarcastic salute and turned to obey, only to have Rodney grab his shoulder and spin him around. "I am going to wear you out," Rodney growled, before slamming his mouth down on John's. John moaned into Rodney's mouth, opening his own in invitation. Rodney's tongue slid in, possessively, demandingly. As their tongues twisted together, the moaning got louder. Rodney knew just how to kiss John, how to make him offer it up. His knees grew weak, threatening to collapse under him. John found himself clinging to Rodney's shoulders, using them to hold himself up. And when Rodney transferred his attention to John's neck, he didn't hesitate to beg. Rodney chuckled into his skin before releasing him. "Ready to be good?" he asked. Damn straight, he was ready to be good, especially if it meant he'd get laid. He didn't say that, though, because the last thing that Rodney needed was more ammunition for his ego. Instead, he managed to release the death grip he had on Rodney's shoulder and turned around to go back to the bed. He couldn't keep from jumping when a stinging slap landed on his ass, but a glance back at Rodney showed him completely unrepentant, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm gonna get you for that," he said, but before Rodney could land another one, he hurried away. John could hear Rodney following him, but he didn't slow down, jumping onto the bed and bouncing to the middle before flipping over on his back. A split second later, Rodney was straddling his ass, his hands on John's shoulders, pushing him back into the bed. John glanced at the nightstand, where the bottle of lube sat. Rodney had been busy before coming into the shower. "You said something about wearing me out?" John said, hopefully. Rodney nodded, and proceeded to take John apart with his mouth. He was slow and methodical, starting with John's neck and working his way down. Each piece of flesh was licked and kissed and nibbled and sucked until John was squirming on the bed, his hips thrusting up. "Please, Rodney," John begged, his hips coming up in entreaty. "Not yet," Rodney said, his mouth near John's lowest ribs. The buzz of his lips made John laugh a little, and when Rodney lifted his head to see what was causing it, John found himself laughing even harder. He looked so put out that John couldn't help it. After a second, Rodney grinned widely as if he got the joke. Lowering his head again, he blew against John's stomach, making him squeal. They both started laughing, and for several minutes, every time one of them looked at the other, they started again. They sobered as quickly as they'd started laughing, staring at each other. John wasn't sure whether he'd pulled Rodney up, or if he'd come up on his own, but the kiss was sudden and intense, as if the hysterical laughter had simply been hiding something much more serious. Rodney thumbed one of John's nipples while they continued to kiss, coaxing it to a hard point. John panted into Rodney's mouth, moaning softly as Rodney pinched and twisted it. When Rodney slid down his body, John held his breath, hoping that Rodney wasn't going to tease him. It was a vain hope, though, as Rodney bypassed his cock to kiss his inner thigh. He kissed and nuzzled his way down John's leg, all the way down to John's foot. He even planted a kiss on the sole of John's foot, making him twitch. Then he worked his way up the other leg, mouth and hands busy waking nerves, bringing his skin to a tingling warmth. John opened his eyes, briefly wondering when he'd closed them. He looked down, meeting Rodney's frank and open gaze, and there was such caring, such love in Rodney's eyes that it took John's breath away. He reached down one shaking hand and pressed it against Rodney's face. Rodney tipped his head; pressing back for a second before he said, "So, want your dick sucked?" The moment wasn't broken, but some the tension in the air receded at Rodney's blunt question. "Am I breathing?" John responded. "For a genius, you sure ask dumb ques- Oh!" Rodney had taken him deep in one fast swallow, making John cry out. The blow job was slow and deep and perfect, making John groan. He would have thrust up into the wet heat of Rodney's mouth, but Rodney pinned him to the bed by his hips, holding him down as he sucked. John tangled his hands in the sheets, trying to keep from grabbing at Rodney's hair, since that was the surest way to end the blow job. "Please, Rodney, please," he begged as Rodney went even slower, driving him insane. Rodney dragged his tongue up the underside of John's dick, fluttering it against the nerve cluster at the base of the head, before he pulled away to say, "Not yet, John." Whimpering, John bit his lip as Rodney continued to tease and taste. He didn't know how Rodney was able to take his time like this - he was already desperate and that was after coming his brains out the night before. When Rodney pulled back, John cried out, hips lifting against Rodney's hands. "Shh," Rodney said, releasing one hip to grab the lube. Seeing that, John spread his legs even wider, encouraging Rodney, who smiled down at him. His mouth was dark red and swollen, and just looking at him was enough to make John groan. A slick finger circled John's hole briefly, before breaching him. John couldn't help the way that his hips rocked, trying to take more of Rodney, who knelt up between his legs so he could watch his fingers sink into John. Rodney pulled back a little and came back with two, making John hiss at the sudden burn. Even that wasn't enough to make him want to stop, though. Rodney pressed deep, fingers finding his prostate unerringly, making John gasp and groan. He couldn't stand it anymore. Pulling his legs up and back, he wrapped his hands around his thighs to hold himself open. "Come on, Rodney. Fuck me." "Oh, I'm going to," Rodney said, as he continued to finger him. But his rhythm was broken, and his eyes were darting down John's body, to where John was being touched so intimately. In encouragement, John rocked his hips, pulling in Rodney's fingers. That seemed to snap Rodney's carefully honed control, because he pulled his fingers out roughly before slicking up his cock. John took a deep breath as Rodney's cock pressed against his hole, and let it out as Rodney sank into his body in one slow stroke. Rodney didn't give him a chance to adjust before he started to move, setting a pace that was far too slow for John. Bent practically in half, he couldn't really move to try to make Rodney go faster, so he clenched down tight, making Rodney breathe hard. "You're not rushing me," he said, even as his hips jerked. John wrapped his arms around Rodney's neck and pulled him down, even though it was a fairly unpleasant stretch through his hamstrings, lifting his head so that he could kiss Rodney deeply. When Rodney finally pulled back, panting, John caught his eye and slowly reached for his own cock. "I need to come, Rodney. Please." He didn't even try to hide how badly he wanted it, not even when Rodney chuckled at him softly. Rodney didn't try to keep him from touching his cock. He just stopped moving, and John wanted to shake him. "Oh, come on, Rodney!" "I don't think you want it bad enough," Rodney said. John couldn't believe it - what else did he have to do to show how much he wanted it? Then it occurred to him, and he shifted so that he could push Rodney away from him with his legs, till Rodney slid out of his body and he had room to move. Then he grabbed Rodney by the shoulders and rolled the two of them, taking a second to be thankful that the bed was so large. When he was straddling Rodney, who was laughing, he reached between his legs to steady Rodney's cock, and to line it up with his hole. Letting out a breath, he slowly sat back, taking Rodney in. Rodney's laughter became strained, and his hands tightened on John's thighs. They groaned in unison, and when John started to rock up and back, Rodney whimpered. Without stopping his movement, John leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands on either side of Rodney's head, and kissed him. Tipping his head up eagerly, Rodney returned the kiss even as his hips lifted up into John. As they kissed and moved together, John felt his orgasm building. Every deep stroke passed over his prostate, and at this angle, the head of his cock brushed continuously over Rodney's stomach. He wanted Rodney deeper, as deep as he could get, so he sat up straight, one hand dropping to his groin to wrap around his cock. Stroking it in time to his movements, he whimpered. "I'm gonna... gonna..." "Yeah, John, come for me," Rodney said, his hands tight on John's hips. His own hips were slamming up, taking John from below, and with a cry, John let it all come together, freezing as he shot over Rodney's stomach. He sagged uselessly for a long moment, before Rodney jostled him. Now it was Rodney's turn to look desperate, which was a good look on him. "Please, John," he said. "Should make you work for it," John said, but he started to move, letting Rodney tug him down into a deep kiss. It didn't take long before Rodney shoved deep into him and locked up, coming with a groan. Carefully, John shifted so that Rodney slid out of his body, flopping down on to the bed next to him. "I think we'll just spend the day right here," he said. "At least for a nap," Rodney agreed. **** It had been a good couple of days. John had really enjoyed snorkeling and had even managed to convince Rodney to venture into the water a few times. But he just didn't feel like getting dressed again to go out to dinner. What he really wanted was to cook some of the fish that he had found in the freezer, and there was a grill not a hundred feet from their door. But a glance out of the curtains showed no shortage of people - especially young men - wandering about naked. John knew that he was considered handsome, and low self-esteem had never been a problem. But he didn't want to stand naked next to some twenty-five year old twink, either. Torn, John dropped a towel on the kitchen chair and had a seat, staring off into space. He was vaguely aware that the shower had cut off, and that Rodney was coming into the room, but he didn't turn to look at him. He decided that he was going to follow Rodney's lead, this once. Rodney had booked the trip, after all. Presumably, he was comfortable in this world, even if John wasn't. "John?" Rodney said, circling the table to touch John's shoulder. "You okay?" "I'm fine," John answered softly. "Just contemplating food." Rodney chuckled. "Isn't that my line? What are you in the mood for?" "Fish." "Well, there's a bunch of seafood restaurants around here." "Don't want to go to a restaurant. I'm tired of hearing 'Margaritaville.'" "They do kinda pound that theme into the ground around here, don't they?" Rodney laughed. "Okay, you want fish, but you don't want to go out. I know you don't want me to cook it - " They both made a face, remembering Rodney's adventures in cooking. He was a genius, but cooking definitely wasn't one of his talents. "So, you want to make something?" "Yeah," John said. "I want to grill." "Well, what do you know, there are grills right out there," Rodney said, pointing at the door. "So what's the problem?" "Don't want to go out naked," John said, knowing that he was blushing a little. He was grateful that he was as tan as he was, since it wouldn't show much. "It's clothing optional, John," Rodney said in his see-I-can-be-patient-to-morons voice. "You don't have to go out naked. In fact, if you're going to grill, I'd appreciate it greatly if you didn't. I like your parts unbarbequed." They both laughed a little at that, before Rodney sobered and said, "Seriously, John, I've seen you go naked for harvest festivals and weddings of our trading partners. Why is it an issue all of a sudden?" The blush intensified, and John knew that Rodney had to have noticed it by now. "I'm not really sure," he said. It was the truth - he didn't really know what the problem was. He hoped that Rodney would accept that. "Right," Rodney said. He sounded confused when he said, "You know, for a good looking guy, you sure are having problems with this whole naked thing." John wasn't sure what to say to that. "I'm not that good looking" would get him smacked, even if he thought it. "I don't like being stared at" was closer to the truth, but he didn't want to admit it. Finally he just said, "It kind of weirds me out." Rodney groaned. "There's nothing weird about it. You look good naked. I like looking at you naked. Just relax, would you?" "I don't know if I can do that, but I'll try." Rodney looked like he wanted to say something else, probably something scathing, but instead he slapped his hands on the table and stood up. "You go pull on some jeans, and I'll get the fish, okay?" "Sounds like a plan." He went to the dresser and pulled on jeans and a black t-shirt. Rodney had put the fish on a plate by the time he was dressed, and was pulling stuff out of the refrigerator for a salad. "You cook that and I'll do this," he said. Knowing that cutting up vegetables was about the limit of Rodney's ability in the kitchen, John nodded and went out to start the fire. There was a nice little picnic area right in front of the door, under a tree. There was even a bag of charcoal next to the grill, so John dumped some in and used one of the long handled lighters to light it. He stared into the flames for a while, trying hard to ignore the naked guys playing around in the pool a few hundred feet away. Just as the charcoal started to go white around the edges, he heard the door to their room open and then slam shut. Looking up, concerned, he saw something he'd never thought to see in public on Earth - a naked Rodney, carrying the plate of fish. "Figured you'd be about ready for these," he said. "Thanks," John said shortly, trying not to look at Rodney more than he had to, because the sight of him naked was always good for getting him hard. "What?" Rodney asked, holding the plate out of reach. "You've seen me naked before, so I know that's not it." "Don't you think that it's..." John said, grasping for words that weren't cooperating with him. "That's it's?" Rodney questioned. "Um, unhygienic?" he said. "Are you asking me or telling me?" Rodney said. "Aren't you embarrassed?" It slipped out before John could stop it. "Not really," Rodney said. "It's not like anyone's going to look at me when you're around." "I don't know about that," John said, sotto voice. Rodney's nearness and nudity were having a predictable effect on him. "I'm sure as hell looking." That made Rodney blush, skin going pink all the way down to his chest. John glanced around, and realized that two of the men in the pool were staring at them. He wasn't sure why, and he definitely wasn't going to ask. Instead, he took the plate and laid the fish on the grill, listening as it sizzled and popped. Rodney grabbed his arm and pulled him a little way away from the grill before wrapping his hand in the neck of John's t-shirt. Pulling him in close, he said, "They're looking at you, not me," and then he kissed John, deep and hard. It wasn't the first kiss that they'd exchanged in public on this vacation, but it was certainly the strangest. John could feel all that naked skin under his hands as he wrapped his arms around Rodney. The kiss went on for several moments, before Rodney finally broke it. John couldn't resist squeezing his ass one last time before he let go. Rodney squeaked quietly, making John laugh. "Want to eat out here?" John said, eyeing the tables that were scattered around. "Only if you relax already," Rodney said. John snorted. "That's rich, coming from you. You're like the king of type A personalities." Smiling, Rodney shook his head. "Not right now, I'm not. I'm on vacation. And besides, if you haven't noticed, I'm the one who isn't worried about a bunch of kids looking at me." "They're not children," John said. "Thank god for that," Rodney growled. "They also aren't you," he said. John couldn't help it - he had to meet Rodney's eyes to see if he really meant it. One look told him that he did, and John immediately went hot, flushing in embarrassment. "Go ahead and bring out some plates," John said, turning his attention to the fish, which was done on one side. When he looked back, Rodney was already most of the way back to their room, and John let himself relax. If Rodney could strut around naked, then John could do it too. By the time the fish was done, Rodney had set one of the tables with two plates of salad, beers, and silverware. He'd also brought out two towels that he draped over the benches. "I don't want splinters in sensitive spots," he said. John hesitated, holding the plate of cooked fish. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he set the plate down and started to strip. After sliding off his jeans, he wanted to hurry up and sit down, but he forced himself to stretch, loving the way that Rodney's eyes strayed down his body. It was weird, being naked outside like this. Like Rodney had said, it wasn't the first time it happened, but the last time, he'd been surrounded by people who'd looked like his grandmother. He hadn't been worried in the slightest that he wouldn't measure up to some standard. Maybe because they were back on earth, or maybe because they were surrounded by young and attractive men and women, it felt weird, like he was being judged and found wanting. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he didn't like that feeling. He looked down as his plate, taking a bite. The fish was perfect, even if he did say so himself, just melting in his mouth. A glance at Rodney's face showed pure pleasure as he took a bite as well. "Is it okay?" he asked, needing a little reassurance about more than just the food. "It's great," Rodney said, and then looked up at John. "You're pretty good yourself," he added. John felt himself flush, but he knew better than to argue. Eating the last bite of his salad, he lounged on the bench, leaning his chin on his hand and watching Rodney eat. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he knew that it was love, because no one liked watching the man eat. He noticed a young man approaching out of the corner of his eye, but figured if they ignored him, he'd go away. Unfortunately, Rodney wasn't on the same page. "Can I help you?" "Actually..." The man looked at Rodney, and then dismissed him, obviously showing a distinct lack of taste on his part. He turned to face John. "I thought I'd see if you'd care to join us in the pool?" John couldn't stop himself from looking over at the pool, where several other hard-bodied young men were staring at them. Then he looked back at Rodney, with a body that no one would call hard, and a nervous, crooked grin. "No, thank you," he said, still staring at Rodney. "I'm with someone." "I'm sure that he'll let you off the leash to fool around some." John wouldn't have noticed Rodney flinching at the word "leash," but he was looking right at him. Turning his head to look at the stupid kid who wasn't getting the hint, John said, "Maybe I don't want off his leash." When he opened his mouth to argue, John shook his head firmly. "You're a cute kid," he said, knowing that it would be taken as a slap. "But my tastes run to someone a bit more..." "What, old?" the boy said cattily. "Intelligent," said Rodney flatly. "You don't qualify. Now, scram." The young man sniffed, then turned on his heel and stormed away, leaving Rodney to look at John and say, "A bit more what, John?" "Well, you," John said honestly. "Accept no substitutes." Rodney chuckled, shoveling in the last bite of fish. Still chewing, he said, "Let's go in, shall we?" Standing, John gathered up plates and bottles, leaving silverware and towels for Rodney. "Sounds like a plan. Besides, I've got things I want to do to you." "Don't you mean with me?" Rodney asked, only a step behind him. "No, I mean to you." He set the plates in the sink, the bottles on the counter, and took the stuff from Rodney as well. As soon as his hands were empty, he slapped Rodney on the ass. "Get on the bed." Rodney grinned and hurried off. "Have I mentioned lately that I love it when you get all bossy?" "That's because I'm acting just like you," he shouted over his shoulder as he washed his hands. Drying them off on his legs, he turned and went to the bed, where Rodney was sprawled on his stomach, legs parted invitingly. John crawled up on the bed, forcing Rodney to spread his legs even wider as he moved between them. Arms braced on either side of Rodney's shoulders, he leaned down and licked up the back of his neck. "Mmm, tasty," he said throatily, and then he bit sharply, making Rodney jump. His cock was hard, pressed firmly against one of Rodney's cheeks. "Maybe I should just rub off against you," he said, hips flexing gently. Rodney sounded breathless when he said, "Maybe, but you don't really want to. You know you want to fuck me." As if to emphasize his words, he tightened the muscles in his ass, making John think about how tight and hot he was on the inside. He realized that he wanted to make some sort of statement about where he belonged, at least to himself. What better way than to go right to the place that he wanted to be more than anything? "You're right. I want to fuck you," John said. "Up on your knees." He had barely finished the words before Rodney had shifted so that he could get his legs under him, thighs spread wide. John grabbed the lube, spreading some on his fingers. Without bothering to warn Rodney, he stroked down his ass to his opening, and pushed in, hard and deep. Rodney cried out, his fingers tightening in the bedspread. "Yes," he hissed. As soon as Rodney's channel was slick, John pulled his finger out. He spread lube over his cock, hoping that the chill would pull him back from the edge, and then lined up with Rodney's hole. "Rodney," he said. It seemed like Rodney could read his mind, because he began to push back until the head of John's cock slid into his hole. John locked his hands on Rodney's hips, holding him still. Rodney fought him, still trying to take more, until John's hands went even tighter. "Stop, Rodney, or this will be over before it starts." Rodney whimpered but stopped fighting, letting John take several deep breaths. Christ, Rodney felt good inside. Hot, tight, wet, perfect. Slowly, John started to push in deeper. The sounds that Rodney made as he started to move were enough to keep John on the edge. Finally, after what seemed like forever, John bottomed out. Balls deep in Rodney, he leaned forward, resting his forehead on Rodney's back, his hands still on Rodney's hips. He waited till they were both breathing somewhat evenly, and then he pulled back an inch or two. Just as slowly, he pushed back inside. Rodney's breath caught in his throat, and John paused, waiting for it to smooth out again. Again and again he did this, moving only a few inches at a time, pausing each time one of them gasped for air or cried out. It was getting harder and harder to do, when all he longed for was to start slamming in, hard and fast. The next time that Rodney's breathing jumped and John stopped, Rodney growled. "Goddamn it, John, fuck. Me." "P-patience," John gasped out, maintaining his hold on his control only barely. "Want to make it memorable." Rodney snorted, twisting to look over his shoulder at John. "John, every time we fuck it's memorable to me. Now, please?" Somehow, Rodney always knew the perfect thing to say. How in the hell did he do that? John didn't say anything. He just kissed Rodney right between the shoulder blades, and started to move. This time, he didn't stop when Rodney groaned, or when his own breathing grew choppy. Instead, he just concentrated on keeping each stroke steady and smooth, in as deep as he could get, and then back out till just the head was still inside. Rodney started to beg, his voice tight and shaky. "Please, John, please. Touch me, fuck me, make me come. Please." It took a second to coordinate what he was doing, but he managed to slide one of his hands around to wrap around Rodney's cock. He squeezed it gently, giving Rodney a warm, tight place to thrust. The groan that he got was deep and heartfelt. "So close." Shifting slightly, John turned his head and bit down on the join of neck and shoulder, making Rodney cry out as his hips worked, pumping his completion over John's fingers. The way that his body clenched tight around John, the sounds that Rodney made, were enough to push John over the edge as well. Shaking, he slammed deep into Rodney and froze, coming hard enough that he was sure that he was going to sprain something. When the orgasm released its grip on John, he pulled out slowly, checking to make sure that he didn't rip Rodney through lack of prep. Then he turned to the side and let himself collapse, looking at Rodney's face. Rodney's eyes were closed, but he said, "Told you that you had nothing to worry about." With a loud groan, Rodney stretched out, opening his eyes and looking at John. "Think you can angst less about your age? You're still gorgeous - all the twinks are out there bitching that I got you and not them." John rolled his eyes. Those twinks had more than likely forgotten him as soon as he'd walked away, but it was still nice to hear. He kissed Rodney on the forehead. "Bed time. Sleep well, because tomorrow you're going to go snorkeling with me." "Not happening," Rodney squawked. "I still have journals to read. And we need to clean up - this is unhygienic. Weren't you worried about that earlier?" He just grinned, and pulled Rodney closer. Cleaning up could wait. Closing his eyes, he let sleep pull him under. **** John made one more pass around the room, checking under the bed and in the drawers for anything they might have missed. He managed to find one of Rodney's socks, but other than that, it looked like they'd manage to pack everything for once. Since they were going to be heading right to the mountain when they reached Colorado, he dressed in BDUs, which felt strange, stiff, after so long in civvies and naked. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the comforter. He wanted to go home, back to Atlantis with its mind-controlled plumbing and Teyla and Ronon, but he kind of didn't, too. They weren't going to have time together like this back home. Rodney came out from one last check of the bathroom. "Are we - " he cut himself off when he looked at John. Coming over to the bed, he said, "Now what's wrong?" Trying to shake the funk that had fallen over him, John said, "Nothing." "Right," Rodney said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Nothing is making you look like I just kicked your dog." "Just a little post-vacation blues. I'll be fine by the time we get back to Atlantis." And he would be, if he had to figure out a way to kick his own ass. Rodney wrapped one arm around John's shoulders, pulling him into a hug. "I have no idea what's going on in your head," he said. "But if you don't feel better by the time you have your first sparring match with Ronon, I'm telling him to kick your ass." "Oh, come on," John said, pulling away and glaring at Rodney. "He doesn't kick my ass every time." "Sure. If you say so," Rodney said, kissing the side of John's head roughly. "Now, come on. We're going to miss our flight." "I sure hope there aren't any screaming babies," John said without thinking, only to recoil from the glare that Rodney gave him. "Great, now we're cursed," Rodney said. Knowing that there was no way to get out of being in trouble now, John grabbed both duffle bags. "We need to get going." Chuckling, Rodney followed him out to the car. They were lucky on the flight from Key West to Atlanta - the flight was practically empty. They weren't so lucky on the flight from Atlanta to Denver - it was packed, and their seats had gotten messed up, so they couldn't even sit next to each other and bitch about the not one but three screaming babies in the back of the plane. By the time they landed in Denver, John was more than ready to get off the plane. He and Rodney hurried through baggage claim and back to the car. He was starting to get a feeling in the pit of his gut - something that he'd call homesickness, maybe. He was ready to be home. They breezed through security and down to medical just long enough to say goodbye to Carson. "You two look good," he said. "Nice and tan, Colonel," he grinned at John, before looking at Rodney. "And how did you manage to spend ten days in Florida without even getting a little pink, Rodney?" Rodney just looked smug. "Told you that you should try my sunscreen, Carson." They both chuckled, and then Rodney hugged Carson just as Landry poked his head into Medical. "Gentlemen, if you expect to go back to Atlantis any time in the near future, I suggest you get down to the gateroom." Not wanting to see how serious Landry might be, they both hurried to pick up their bags. With a final goodbye to Carson, they headed down to the 'gate. John realized they were both bouncing, and made an effort to still himself. After a minute, though, he started again. His earlier reluctance to go home was completely gone. He couldn't wait. The gate started to turn, and John shifted his grip on his bag. Landry was on their radios as he hailed Atlantis. "Mr. Woolsey, we appear to have a military commander and a chief scientist in our gateroom. Do you want them back?" Rodney and he exchanged glances as Woolsey said, "Our shield is down. Send them through." John turned to look at Landry, who waved them up the ramp impatiently. "Well, what are you waiting for?" Throwing off a quick salute, they walked up the ramp and into another world. Lorne and Zelenka were both there, as well as Woolsey. All three looked substantially more frazzled than they had when John and Rodney had left. Concerned, John stopped. "Gentlemen?" "Everything's fine, Sheppard," Ronon said from the side. "You guys were missed, though." "Yeah, it looks like it," Rodney said. He started towards Zelenka, only to have his hand grabbed by him as soon as he was within reach. Zelenka studied his fingers for a moment before turning to look at Lorne and raising an eyebrow. "What?" Rodney demanded. "I guess we need to call off the party," Lorne sighed. "What party?" John did his best to sound menacing. Unfortunately, it was clear that it didn't work. Lorne just laughed at him. "Your wedding reception, of course." John swatted Lorne's arm, laughing. "I told you we weren't getting married. Now, can you guys hold the city long enough for us to take our stuff back to our rooms?" "Room, sir." Lorne was still laughing. "What do you mean, room?" Rodney said. "I very clearly remember rooms, plural." "Not anymore," Zelenka said. "Now that you are together, we are conserving space. We moved you into one room." Zelenka was laughing too, the bastard. But Rodney was looking at John, and when he tipped his head to the side, John got it. Rodney wanted this. And if he stopped to think about it, so did John. Fine. "So, you two geniuses going to show us where this room is? And it better have a bed big enough for both of us." "Too much information," Lorne said, holding up his hands. "I'll let Zelenka take you. I need to get back to the office." John nodded. As much fun as this was, Lorne had clearly had a rough time of it. He'd have to get to the office soon, too. They followed Zelenka down a little used corridor to a nondescript door. When it slid open, John had to grin at Rodney. Not only had they been moved in together, these quarters were much bigger than their old ones - and they had a real person sized bed. Zelenka had gone away while Rodney and John had dropped their bags and were checking out the room, so John didn't hesitate to grab Rodney and kiss him. He would have tried for more, but the radio went off then. "McKay, are you coming to the lab today?" Zelenka's voice sounded even more frazzled, and they broke their embrace. "I'm on my way," Rodney said, and then looked at John. "See you later." He took off down the hall. John contemplated unpacking for a minute before he decided that he needed to go see Lorne. It was good to be home.

Elena is stretched out on the couch, leaning against Stefan and doing her math homework, when Damon crashes in with three college-age women in tow. “Here we are!” he announces, sounding drunk. “Hello Damon,” Stefan says, voice level. “Good afternoon, little brother. Girls,” he smiles at the blonde his arm is around, “that’s my kid brother Stefan and his girlfriend Elena. They’re boring.” “And who might your friends be?” Elena watches the brunette look around in wide-eyed awe. “This place is amazing,” she breathes, ignoring the invitation to introduce herself. “Boring couple, this is Amy,” Damon indicates the brunette, “Marilyn and Sandy.” The two blondes wave cheerfully. “It’s nice to meet you,” Stefan says. “I trust my brother is being good to you.” “Oh, he’s super nice,” Sandy nods. She appears to be stone cold sober, unlike the other two, but she’s smiling at Damon alluringly just as they are. Damon opens his arms expansively, gesture clumsy in that perfectly practiced way that means he is acting drunker than he is to get their guards down. Elena narrows her eyes at him. “Friends, let us party here. I’ll get the drinks.” Marilyn pouts. “Can’t we go upstairs? You could show us all over the house.” Her fingers walk a line up Damon’s chest. “Here is good,” Damon insists. Elena watches closely; if there is even a hint of mind control, she will break this thing up. Damon just smiles charmingly at the women and says, “Come on, there’s room to dance here!” He gets some music set up. Elena twists her head up and around to catch Stefan’s eye, but he shakes his head. He’s got a small indulgent smile, so she shrugs and goes back to her homework. Stefan turns a page of his book and kisses her hair. Elena finishes her math and moves on to her English assignment. She’s half way through making notes when she glances up to see Damon and Sandy making out on the couch opposite theirs. Damon’s shirt is off, his pants are unbuttoned, Sandy’s skirt is hitched up to her waist, and he’s currently taking her bra off. Elena slams her pencil down and turns around to face Stefan, who is looking at his book, shaking his head and smiling. He glances up at her. His eyes are warm and full of amusement; they flick over to the other couch, back to her, and he smiles wider. “How’s it going over there?” he calls. “Stefan,” Elena hisses, “what are you doing?” “Oh, I’m sorry,” Damon turns his head to look at them. His eyes are half-closed, but triumphant. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” “No, but you’re making Elena uncomfortable,” Stefan answers. He turns to her. “It’s a lovely day. Why don’t we take a walk?” Stefan pats Damon’s shoulder as he passes. “Have fun,” he calls, all but laughing. Amy and Marilyn are curled up in a nearby armchair, making out languidly. Damon looks over at them and winks at Elena. “Stefan, what the hell is going on?” Elena explodes once they’re outside. “Come on.” Stefan shakes his head. “Let’s go up to the falls.” They drive in silence for a few minutes, then he says, “Okay, we’re definitely out of earshot.” “What was that all about?” Elena challenges. “If Damon hurts those girls —” “He won’t.” Stefan has stopped smiling. “He didn‘t take them home to kill them.” “What then? For sex? Couldn’t he have done that somewhere else?” She’s trying not to think about the lines of his back. “It’s time I told you some things,” Stefan says softly. “There are things in my past that … I’m really not proud of.” They’ve arrived. Elena shuts the engine off. “Is that okay?” “Sure,” Elena nods, wondering where this came from. “You know you can tell me anything. I want you to tell me things.” They get out of the car and set off, walking on the cleared path. Stefan is silent for a minute. “Damon is trying to provoke me,” he says, frowning at the ground. “It’s — his attempts are so laughable — but he’s frustrated.” He looks up at Elena, no smile now. “That’s not good.” “No, it isn’t. Why is he frustrated? Is it that he isn’t killing? Is it that Katherine wasn‘t in the tomb?” Stefan shakes his head. “He’s grieving over Katherine, but that’s not why he’s frustrated. And he’s not one for killing these days unless it’s for a dramatic entrance. He usually feeds without it —” “Is he feeding on those girls right now?” Elena stops, coiled to run back to the car. “Probably,” Stefan says, and Elena moves. “Wait —” He’s in front of her in the blink of an eye. “He won‘t kill them, he‘ll take them back to their dorms and they‘ll be fine.” Elena doesn’t relax, but she doesn’t push past him either. “Why is Damon frustrated? Why is he taking it out on you, or is it just his usual way of dealing?” “Yes and no. I — let’s sit.” He indicates a nearby log, a thick branch lying near the path, covered in moss. “There are things … it’s not that I didn’t want you to know, it’s just that it wasn’t relevant, and I’m not proud of it. But it’s becoming relevant, so you should know about it.” “About what?” Elena puts a hand on his arm. “Stefan, you know you can tell me anything.” “Back when — right after we died, when we first became vampires — Damon hated me. More than he does now, even. He’d sworn to make the rest of my life a misery, and he set about doing it. He fed on every person I got close to, compelled them to turn on me. So I stopped making friends, stopped speaking to anyone, just tried to live as well as I could. But he wouldn’t stop doing everything in his power to make me miserable.” Elena takes his hand, laces their fingers, and squeezes. “By then we’d met a few other vampires, so I did have some friends. None of them liked Damon much, I don’t think that helped. Anyway, he started picking fights with me, physical fights. I wish I could’ve just ignored him, but I was a different person back then.” Elena squeezes his hand again. “What happened?“ He sighs. “We started fighting. Every night, no matter what I did to keep my temper, he’d just chip away until I snapped. I was young, so was he, and our friends just left us to it. I think there was something in the fighting he needed, some kind of release he couldn’t even get from killing.” “Hey,” Elena says softly, “it’s okay.” “One night,” Stefan continues, “we were throwing each other around the room, and in the middle of it, he kissed me.” Elena feels like she’s been doused with ice water. She doesn’t notice her slack jaw or the echo of her sharp gasp for a few seconds. “What?” “It was part of the fight,” Stefan says, turning to face her. “It was — the ultimate act of aggression. We were locked into this thing, by that point — one of us always had to win a fight, or it just wouldn’t end. There were no time outs, no backing down for either of us. I was sick of all of it, I fought back to make him stop. I didn’t realise that just made him fight harder.” “Did you kiss him back?” She watches the expression on his face as he nods. “Why?” “I thought it was to win, so he would finally just stop and leave me alone. I thought he did it as a test, to see what I’d do, and when I pulled away he’d have won.” “But he didn’t?” Elena’s head is spinning. “Stefan, are you — are you telling me Damon has feelings for you?” Stefan just looks at her for a minute. “Things are different when you’re a vampire,” he says, gentle. “Feelings, urges, they get mixed up sometimes. What you felt when you were human, it’s all amplified. It’s huge.” Elena stares at him, reeling. “Are you telling me that you have feelings back?” “I didn’t,” he says, eyes never once leaving her face. He’s the same open Stefan, telling her something deeply personal, but this isn’t anything she ever expected from him. “Not then.” This is too much. “But you do now?” She stands up, moving her hands around because she can’t keep still. “Stefan, what are you — what are you telling me?” “Elena,” he doesn’t stand, just looks at her earnestly, “please, I know this is a lot to take in, but — I will understand if you need some time, after this conversation, but it’s not over yet. Okay?” “You don’t — you — you have incestuous feelings for your brother?” His gaze is level. “Yes, I have feelings for him. But I will never, never act on them. Not again.” Elena runs a hand through her hair. “And you didn’t think this was relevant?” “I’m sorry, I know, but — look, it hasn’t been an issue in a century, I didn’t think it would come up again. I’ve pushed those feelings aside, I shut them off, it’s like they don’t exist.” “But they do.” She’s staring at him, like somehow if she stares for long enough he‘ll take it back. “It doesn’t change a single thing about how I feel about you,” he says, stance and eyes pleading now. “This, my love for you, this is so important to me. More than anything else.” “So that performance today, that — was that Damon trying to make you jealous?” There’s a small twitch at one corner of his mouth. “You think this is funny?” “I think that Damon believing he can make me jealous is hilarious.” Elena paces back and forth a few times. “You said he’s frustrated. So, what, he wants to be with you so he’s going to take it out on innocent people?” “No,” Stefan is suddenly standing, utterly serious. “I will never let him do that. Never.” “I have to — I have to go. You can get home, right?” He nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I’m sorry it’s true at all.” She gives a small, curt nod and heads back to the car. She drives home, tears threatening all the way. Jenna tries to grab her for a discussion about dinner, but Elena shakes her off and runs to her room. The door shut, she crumples onto the bed and lets herself cry. There’s a knock at the door twenty minutes later. “Elena?” Jeremy calls. “Dinner’s nearly ready.” She wipes a hand across her eyes. “Thanks,” she calls back. He opens the door a crack. “Are you okay?” She is so tired of lying to him. “Not really, no.” “You want to talk about it?” My vampire boyfriend has the hots for his brother, who might start killing people if they don’t have sex soon, and according to Stefan this isn‘t a big deal. “No. Thanks, though.” He gives her one of those sympathetic smiles she finds oddly comforting. “Okay. You should come down, it’s fajitas.” “I’ll be there in a minute.” She manages a smile. After he’s gone downstairs, her phone beeps. There are two texts from Stefan. The first, sent fifteen minutes ago, reads I love you. I’m sorry I freaked you out. Call me when you’re ready to talk. The most recent one says I think we should have a threesome with Damon. She types a reply, Damon, give Stefan his phone back. A few seconds later, she gets a text, This is really Stefan. Think about it, a threesome could solve all our problems. Clenching her jaw, she types, Damon. Give. It. Back. I really am Stefan, comes the reply. I’m serious. Damon, she types on her way downstairs, give Stefan his phone back or you will regret it. Just as she gets to the kitchen, her phone beeps again. He’ll have to fight me for it. Damon. She hits send, and looks up to see Jenna looking worriedly at her. “Everything okay?” “Yeah. I’m fine.” She shakes out her hair and calls up a smile. “These look delicious, thanks Jenna.” Both Jenna and Jeremy look suspiciously at her, but they don’t say anything. The fajitas really are delicious, and she ignores the beeps of received texts as they’re eating. Jeremy and Elena tease Jenna about liking Mr Saltzman, and Jenna finally manages to change the subject when Elena’s phone goes off yet again. “You’re ignoring your phone,” Jenna points out. “Who are all those texts from? Is everything okay?” “Yeah, it’s fine, just —” the first text reads Elena, the next What, that’s it, no threat? “Damon being an ass,” Elena mutters, reading through the texts. Or was just my name supposed to be a threat? Daaamoooon, then Maybe you should come over here and make me give Stefan his phone back, then He keeps trying to grab it, do you think I should let him?, then Oops, I threw him out the window. That’s the most recent, a few seconds ago. Elena looks up. “Excuse me, for a sec,” she says, and Jenna nods curiously. She slips out into the hall and calls Stefan. Damon answers. “Why hello there, beautiful young lady,” he says, his charm up full. “Damon,” Elena doesn’t try to hold any of the thunder back from her voice, “give Stefan his phone back. Now.” “Ooh, feisty. I like it.” “Damon.” There is a short silence. “That was hot,” Damon says. His voice is a little odd, like he really, sincerely meant it. Then his glibness is back. “Okay,” he says, and there are muffled noises for a few seconds. “Elena?” Stefan says. “You okay?” “Damon was being an ass.” Elena pulls her hair out of her face with one hand, letting it fall back after a moment. “You okay?” “Yeah, I‘m fine. What did you say to him?” “I just — I said Damon.” She tries to replicate the tone of voice she’d used, and does a pretty good imitation. “Oh.” He sounds surprised. “That is hot.” “Shut up.” Her playful mood only lasts a second. “I have to go. I still haven’t — I need more time.” “I know. Sorry about Damon.” “Tell him to behave,” Elena says, and hangs up. She goes back to the table. “Everything okay?” Jenna repeats, watching her closely. “Everything’s fine,” Elena nods. “I just had to stop Damon being an ass. For now.” At that moment, she gets a text from Damon’s phone. It just says, Make me. She deletes it. * * * Dear Diary, I don’t have anyone to talk to. With Bonnie gone, there’s just Matt or Caroline, and either of them would freak. I wish Bonnie were here. This isn’t the sort of thing I can leave a message about. I’ve tried saying just call me, but she hasn’t. I hope she’s okay. I just don’t know what to do. I haven’t spoken to Stefan in days, and whenever I see him, he smiles and says he loves me and to take all the time I need to think. He’s pretty obviously worried I’ll break up with him, but that — I don’t know. I don’t think I will, I just — this is weird, and huge, and wrong. I really am dating a vampire. I guess it doesn’t have much to do with being a vampire. Everything he’s said about it points to: you are who you are, just with a different morality. Like how being drunk takes away your inhibitions, maybe, but doesn’t make you do something you didn’t really want to, deep down. Is vampirism like that? Did Stefan want Damon when they were alive? I can’t ask him those questions. He’ll tell me the answers, completely honestly, and I’ll just be disgusted and wish I’d never asked. I can’t — how am I meant to deal with this? They’re vampires. They’re fucked up. If I can just see it as a part of that … but Stefan, he isn’t fucked up. Except he must be, but … he’s just Stefan, caring and considerate and thoughtful Stefan. He’s a good guy. I can’t reconcile incest with such a good guy, I just can’t. Why does he feel that way? Why does “Dear Diary,” says a voice behind her. Elena jumps, slamming the book shut. “How will I ever choose between those gorgeous, hunky Salvatore brothers?” Damon grins at her. “I know. I won’t choose.” “I’m not Katherine.” Elena stands, facing him squarely. He’s on her in less than a second, pressed close. She hasn’t moved at all, and she doesn’t, just tilts her chin to look him in the eye. “Katherine played us off against each other, made sure we were jealous and suspicious. You are nothing like her.” The realisation startles her, though she tries not to show it. “You have feelings for me.” He smiles a dangerous smile. “Bingo.” “You have feelings for Stefan.” His smile continues. “Yep.” “And now you’re not obsessed with Katherine, you’re concentrating on getting between me and Stefan.” “Right in the middle,” Damon moves his hips from side to side. He’s not pressing them against her, keeping a small distance. Elena studies him. “What makes you think it’ll work?” His smile changes. It’s less predatory. “I don’t. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.” Elena raises her eyebrows. “And suddenly appearing in my bedroom to practically assault me is the way you’ve decided to try and do that?” Damon frowns. “I‘m not assaulting you. I‘m very deliberately not assaulting you.” He moves his hips back further, keeping the rest of him close. “Nice try. See, where I come from, being a dick doesn’t get you anything but kicked out.” Damon tries a flirty smile. “What does having a dick get you?” “Ugh.” Elena steps away to sit on the bed. “Leave.” “Throw me out.” He does a quick eyebrow movement, then is standing over her. “I dare you.” She stares levelly at him. “Damon,” she commands, “leave.” An expression flits across his face, too quick to read. “Okay.” He makes to go. “I just thought you might like to hear my side of the story.” “Why, so I can feel sorry for you?” “No, so you can hear it from both of us.” Damon looks at her, a surprisingly soft smile playing at his lips. “I hear you like that.” She studies him for a minute. “Fine,” she says, “tell your side. But make one single move and you will regret it.” “What are you going to do to me?” He’s leaning over her in a flash. She moves her eyes up to look him in the face. “Don’t push me.” He looks surprised at that, and something else, something she can’t identify. She’s seen it on his face before, though she can’t think when. “Sit.” He sits obediently next to her on the bed, and opens his mouth to speak. “And drop the attitude,” she adds. “No smugness, don’t flirt with me, just be honest.” She stares him down. “For once.” He looks like he’s about to wisecrack, or say something dismissive or ridiculing, but she continues to stare him down until he just nods. “I want the truth,” Elena says. Damon laughs softly. “The truth? You really want the truth. What Stefan told you freaked you out bad, and you want to hear my side honestly?” She takes a deep breath. “Yes.” “Fine, okay, but you asked for it.” Damon leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out. “Before Katherine, I loved my brother. Even after she started playing us, I loved him. I wanted it to be just me and Katherine, undead, it pissed me off that she was with him too, but truthfully, I could bear it because it was him. We grew up the way any rich kids grew up in a town like this; our father was a dick, our mother died young, sometimes all we had was each other.” “You were close,” Elena nods. Damon looks at her, smiling half in amusement, half fondness. “Aw, you’re trying to understand.” She holds a hand up threateningly, and he holds his up in surrender. “I’ll play nice.” “Good.” She waits. “We didn’t exactly have health class back then,” Damon shrugs. “Puberty arrives, you have all these feelings and urges, and your brother is right there.” “That is gross,” Elena grimaces, “and I said to be honest.” Damon drops his smile. “Fine. You want the truth? Here it is. I loved my brother while we were alive. As in, loved, like I loved Katherine except without the obsession. I wasn’t stupid. I knew if my father ever found out he’d have me hanged as a demon. I thought for a while that I might be possessed.” “Did anything happen?” “Of course not,” Damon snaps. “I just said, I wasn’t stupid. It’s not like he felt the same way. Then we died, and I hated him. I am also a vampire, so I stopped caring that incest is wrong on a human moral compass. So is murder. Look what I can do.” He holds his arms out, grinning. Elena rolls over fast, and shoves her knee into his groin. “I hope your pain is amplified like your other feelings,” she says, pulling her knee back to dig it in again. Damon is writhing, face contorted. “Get off me,” he growls, flipping them over in a second. He shakes himself, pinning her down. “If you ever talk about people’s lives like that again,” Elena glares, “I will kill you.” “That’s my life you’re talking about,” Damon says. He is dangerous, he is pinning her, and he is angry. Elena kicks him. “You want the rest of the story?” Damon asks, holding her arms. “Let me go,” she commands. Damon’s eyes flick to her mouth, and then he’s gone. She sits up. He’s sitting next to her again. “You want to know what happened after we died?” “I want to know why you sometimes do what I say.” He tilts his head at her. “Sometimes you’ve earned it. You want to know what happened after we died?” he repeats. Elena watches him for a moment. “You attacked him,” she says. “Ten points to the lady,” Damon nods. “He was showing me the life, how to feed, who to feed on. He wasn’t always the wet blanket he is now. Way back when, he was fun.“ Elena tries not to shudder. Damon notices, but all he does is smirk. “For vampires, drinking blood is — it’s like eating your favourite food. It’s pleasurable.” Leaning in close to her, he murmurs, “Sensual.” She aims her knee at his leg, but it’s moved by the time she gets there. “In the beginning, I was weak. He was a lot stronger than me, and sometimes he got me to feed from him.” Damon isn’t looking at her any more. “I thought maybe he knew, maybe he was torturing me. We fed together, on the same person sometimes, but it was all just the blood. It wasn’t anything else, and I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to break him, make him as angry as I was. When we started fighting, I just wanted to win. Then one night, I realised how I could win completely, so I kissed him. Thing was, he kissed back.” Damon is eyeing her now, predatory. “He kissed me like he was starving, like he’d been waiting all his life. We fucked every night for thirty years.” The shock must have registered on her face, because he moves closer. Voice getting quieter, more focused, he says, “Every time he fucked me, I won because it was what I wanted. Every time I fucked him,” his mouth now an inch from Elena’s ear, “I won because he liked it so much. You should have seen his face.” Elena pushes, but Damon has already snapped back to his place. “In the end, he stopped being fun, and it turned out he still cared that it’s ‘wrong’,” he finger-quotes. “I say we’re dead, get over it, things are different for us.” “It’s still — you’re still related,” Elena points out. “It’s not like we can make an inbred baby,” Damon shrugs. “Who exactly did it hurt?” “Stefan,” Elena says. “It hurt Stefan.” Damon looks at her for a second, eyes filled with concern, and then he’s gone, leaving only a breeze coming from the window. Elena sits very still for a few minutes, wishing she could just empty out her brain of thoughts so she can sort them. A drive would help, so she grabs her jacket and her keys and heads out. She thinks as she drives, barely seeing the streets she passes. Damon and Stefan, young vampires, together. Damon and Stefan, older vampires, not together. She can’t stop hearing Damon say We fucked every night and he liked it. She only realises that she’s been driving over to Stefan’s when she gets there. This, she knows, is exactly where she should be; she needs to talk to him about what Damon said. The door is unlocked, as usual, so she goes straight in. She hears voices immediately; they’re not in the main room, they’re somewhere upstairs. She can’t see them, but she can hear them clearly. “I asked Elena who it hurt, and she said you,” Damon is saying. “Answer the question, did I hurt you?” “Why, so you can keep score?“ There’s a pause. “You went to see Elena?” Stefan sounds furious. “You told her your side, I thought she should hear mine!” Damon shouts. “Oh my God,” Stefan says as they walk onto the balcony. Stefan’s body language is angry, Damon’s tense. “You actually want a relationship with her, don’t you? Don’t you?” “Yes, all right? I want what you have, with both of you, are you happy now?” Damon storms into one of the upstairs rooms and slams the door. Stefan puts his head in his hands. Elena almost leaves, but he looks up as she starts backing away. “Elena —” He runs down the stairs, at a normal speed. “Elena, wait.” “Is it true what Damon said?” she asks. “Did you like it when you slept with him?” Stefan presses his lips together, anxiety all over his face. “Yes.” “Do you want what he wants? Tell me the truth, Stefan. I heard what he just said. Do you want that too?” He stares at her for a long time. “Yes,” he says at last, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear it. “I do.” Elena turns around and walks out. She gets into her car, starts the engine, and drives aimlessly around for a while. What if Damon’s right? she thinks. What if it’s different for them, because they’re vampires? But Damon wanted Stefan before he became a vampire, another part of her mind points out. That’s not okay. I don’t want to break up with Stefan, she reasons, so I have to deal with knowing this somehow. We’ll have to deal with Damon’s frustration. I have to talk to him. I have to talk to Stefan, I have to — I have to be okay with this. She takes a deep breath. Okay, so Stefan and Damon were together once. That’s … that’s gross and wrong but so is everything about being a vampire. They were so close growing up, then they shared Katherine, I guess it’s … not too far from it. Not when you’re dead, anyway. She shakes herself and tries again. I’ll be okay with this. I have to be okay with this, I can’t lose Stefan. I don’t want to lose Damon, either. She pushes that thought aside and goes back to that they were together once. It’s getting easier to think about the more she tries. She’s always had a very strong sense of incest being wrong, and still does, but she can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s judging one complicated relationship on a moral compass that doesn’t apply to it. She ends up back at the boarding house. Her shoes crunch on the drive, and she knocks that time. Damon answers the door. “I just want you to know,” Elena says, “incest is creepy. You’re creepy about your brother.” “You have sex with a corpse,” Damon snaps. “Stefan’s dead. How is that not creepy?” Elena turns on her heel and marches back to her car. She drives until she runs out of gas, then just sits for a while, holding the wheel. It’s getting dark when Jenna calls. “Honey, where are you? It’s late, when are you coming home?” “I ran out of gas.” She leans her forehead on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, I’ll be home as soon as I can.” “You’d better be. Elena, what’s wrong?” “I’m fighting with Stefan,” she sighs. “He told me some things, about his past … I’m having a hard time handling it.” “Well, what is it? Is it bad?” “It’s … have you ever been with someone who’s done something objectively wrong, but it didn’t hurt anyone?” “No,” Jenna says, “I’ve been with guys who’ve done things that are objectively wrong, and they’ve hurt people. What did he do?” “I can’t really talk about it.” She covers her forehead with a hand, the other clutching her phone tighter. “It’s between Stefan and Damon, the only people they hurt were each other.” Jenna sighs. “Sibling relationships can get complicated, and sometimes brothers hurt each other. It doesn’t make Stefan less of a good guy.” “I know.” Elena is getting cold. “Listen, I’m going to call someone, I’ll be home soon. Thanks, Jenna.” “Any time. It’s what I’m here for.” Elena stares at her phone for a minute, then calls Stefan. “I ran out of gas,” she says, and tells him where she is. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He sounds worried, and when he appears in a blur, carrying a huge bottle of gasoline, he empties it into her tank without a word. “Thank you,” she says when he’s done. “I have to get home, Jenna’s worried.” “Good, you shouldn’t be out here on your own.” She smiles tiredly at him. “I’m fine. How are you, though? You okay?” “I’m … hoping my girlfriend is still speaking to me.” He pauses. “Are you?” “Yes, Stefan, I’m still speaking to you. And yes,” she cuts off his next question before it’s asked, “I’m still your girlfriend. I just … I’m having a hard time with this.” “It’s understandable. Don’t — I just don’t like disgusting you.” The shock is sudden and a horrible sensation. “You’re not — Stefan, you could never —” “You think I’m wrong and disgusting,” he says, voice measured. “It — I think incest is wrong, not you.” “There’s overlap.” He sighs. “Love the sinner, hate the sin,” he mutters. “No, that’s — it’s not a matter of — I’m just freaked, okay? I’m trying to be okay with this.” “I’m not into incest for its own sake,” Stefan says. “I’m not saying that makes it better, or that I’d be a worse person if I were, I’m just saying it. Damon being my brother was what prevented me having feelings for him for a long time.” “So what made you have them?” Stefan heaves a long sigh. “He’s Damon,” he says at last. “Infuriating, smug, evil, smartass, unbearable, annoying, but … Damon. You can’t choose who you fall in love with.” She folds her arms on the steering wheel and rests her cheek on them, facing him. “Is he in love with me?” “Yes. Not as much as I am,” said with a smile. Elena smiles back. “Do you love him?” It’s not something she’s ever considered before. “I — I have feelings for him,” she admits. “But I love you.” “Look, I know he’s awful and we’d be much better off without him, but — maybe give the three of us a little thought?” Stefan leans on the door, smiling at her. “Of course, I’d rather it stay just the two of us, but —” “Would you?” He looks thoughtful. “Honestly?” “Really honestly.” “I don’t know.” Elena starts the engine. “I’ll see you later,” she says, and Stefan steps away from the car as she drives off. She waves, and he waves back, then she turns to look at the road. She’s been home for an hour when somebody knocks on the door. Jenna answers it. “Damon,” she says, “hi. Uh — Elena?” She’s already there. “I’ll take it from here, thanks.” She stands, holding the door open, making him stay outside. “Why are you here?” “I came to see you.” Damon waves a hand. “Can I come in?” She sizes him up. “Okay.” He steps inside, nodding a hello to Jeremy. “Can we,” he indicates the stairs. Elena folds her arms. “One wrong move,” she warns. He holds his hands up, actually looking sincere for once. They go up to her room. She closes the door, but only because she doesn’t want anyone to hear the conversation. “What is it?” she asks, facing him. He’s sitting on the bed. “Can I talk to you? I mean, really talk?” She stares at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Damon?” “Elena. Please.” She sits next to him. “What about?” “I know that you’ve talked to Stefan, and I know that you’re having a hard time dealing with me and him. Which, you’re human, whatever, just. This is my life you’re judging, and his, too. How would you feel if someone you cared about found out that Stefan’s a vampire, and called you disgusting for being in love with him?” “I’d — I —” She closes her mouth. “I’m sorry.” “The rules aren’t the same for us,” Damon says. “And who’s to say the rules are right, anyway? There’s a huge difference between abuse and being in love with someone who happens to be related to you.” “You’ve had this argument before.” Elena’s voice is faint. “Only in my head,” Damon says. “I had to prepare arguments in case Father found out somehow. At least be able to argue it to myself.” His mouth twists, like he’s smelling something foul. “I just — it’s too much to take in.” “What, so finding out vampires are real was a breeze?” He watches her, some of his anger back in place. “I know what it feels like to find out vampires exist, to be in love with one, so helplessly there is nothing you can do but be okay with it.” More of the usual Damon comes back as he says, “Of course, I really liked it, so —” She aims for him with a pillow. He dodges, laughing. “I should know by now that you aren’t normal,” Elena teases. “Normal is overrated,” Damon shrugs, grinning. “Live a little.” “That’s more like the Damon I know.” He drops onto his back, and she shifts to her side, head propped up on one hand. “The Damon you know and love?” He looks cautiously hopeful, which makes her heart lurch. “The Damon I know and like as a friend,” she says. “And … maybe have feelings for.” “So some day you’ll come around to a threesome?” That is definitely hope. “Not likely,” she shakes her head, though now she isn’t completely sure. Damon watches her face. “I don’t know.” “Well, I won’t push then.” She looks at him, surprised. “Damon Salvatore, actually giving me space to figure things out. Who are you really?” “No, you’re right, I’m really Stefan, I just mysteriously look like Damon. He is the handsome one, so —” She hits him with the pillow that time. “This wasn’t actually what I came here to talk about,” Damon says, pushing the pillow away. “I just wanted to point it out.” “What did you want to talk about?” “The times I do what you say.” He’s looking at her, intense and sincere. It’s almost alarming. “Oh.” “You wanted to know why I do it.” “Yes. Why do you?” He takes a deep breath. “Because I like it.” She raises an eyebrow. “You like it. As in…” “I get off on it,” he supplies. “Emotionally. Okay, not just emotionally.” “You’re admitting to having emotions?” She’s mock-shocked, but genuinely surprised. “Yes, don’t get used to it.” He’s gazing at her. She looks away. “So what you’re saying is,” she playfully starts. “I like it when you push me around,” he finishes for her. “Sometimes. On occasion. When you do that thing with your voice, it’s so sexy.” He does a ridiculous hand motion for emphasis. It dawns on her that he did it just to make her laugh. “Good to know.” “You do know what I’m saying, right?” “I … thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.” He’s looking at her intently. “I’m asking you to push me around,” he says. “So you can get off on it.” She raises her eyebrows again. “No, because nobody else does.” He’s holding her gaze, and he is actually being sincere. “I’ll think about it,” she says. “You do that.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back. “What makes you love him?” she asks, after a semi-comfortable silence of a minute or two. “I have no idea,” Damon sighs. “He’s annoying, he’s boring, he whines all the time, he’s got this stupid holier-than-thou attitude, he lets his feelings get in the way of everything —” He stops. “All of that, I guess. What about you?” Elena smiles. “I love him because he’s so kind and thoughtful. And smoking hot.” “Oh yeah,” Damon nods in agreement. “And the way he just lights up when he smiles,” he adds in a syrupy voice. “I cannot have a conversation with you,” Elena laughs. Right at this second, she wants to lick his neck. She pushes it aside. “What, a conversation like we’re having right now? I totally thought we were having one, that’s weird.” She tries to hit him with the pillow again, but he catches it, and pretends to wrestle. She laughs, and pretends to wrestle it back. Jenna opens the door. “Is everything okay in here?” “Everything’s fine, Jenna,” Elena smiles at her. She takes the opportunity to get the pillow back. Damon mock-glares at her. “Elena, family time is now.” Jenna’s arms are folded. “Well, shoot, is that the time — I’d better go.” Damon flashes her a smile as he stands up. “Jenna,” he inclines his head as he’s passing her. The second he’s out of human earshot, Jenna shuts the door. “What are you thinking?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elena says. “You’re flirting with Damon. Your boyfriend’s brother.” Jenna says it like Elena had somehow forgotten. “I wasn’t flirting. We’re friends.” She fights the urge to hug her knees to her chest. “Well, it was definitely flirting to him. Just — just don’t do anything stupid, all right?” “What, what exactly do you think I would do? Cheat on Stefan? Is that really what you think of me?” Jenna’s glare doesn’t let up. “Just make sure you stay the kind of person who doesn’t sleep with her boyfriend’s brother.” Elena opens her mouth to say something, but she’s too hurt to think of a single word. Jenna leaves, closing the door behind her, and Elena lets the tears fall. She looks up after a minute. Damon is standing in the corner. “Is this how you feel when I say — those things I say?” she asks. “Yes,” he says. “I shut it off.” “Liar.” She wipes her cheek. “Is this how I’ll always feel, if we do this? Whenever anyone notices something?” He walks over quickly, but slowly enough that she can see him move. He leans down, and wipes her other cheek. It’s a movement more tender than she’d thought him capable of. “Yes,” he whispers, and then he’s gone. “You need to stop doing that,” she mutters. * * * In school on Monday, she smiles at Stefan in class; the minute the bell rings, they meet at the door and head to lunch. “So, can I take it that you’ve processed things?” he asks. “Yes. Processed, thought about, decided I’m okay with. Not —” she glances around, “not what Damon talked about, I haven’t — just what you told me.” “I can live with that.” Stefan puts an arm around her. “So, are you doing anything after school?” “No plans,” she smiles at him. “Want to come over and do homework?” He nudges her affectionately. “I could kick Damon out.” Elena laughs. “He’s okay.” “Really.” Stefan’s eyebrows go up. “You’re not considering it … are you?” “I don’t know.” She ducks her head. “Honestly, I really don’t. But I’m thinking about … thinking about it.” “Well, just let me know if you need to talk.” He tucks her against him as they walk, and she puts her arm around his waist. The next day, she finds out that her birth mother was killed by Damon, so she avoids him for a while. * * * “Have you thought any more about the threesome?” Damon asks, when they’re in the car on the way to see Mr Saltzman. Elena slides her eyes off the road for a second to glare at him. “You turned my birth mother, rubbed it in Alaric Saltzman’s face, and then you tried to pick up Matt’s mom. You can forget it.” Damon shifts. “Right.” “Besides, didn’t you make a deal with Pearl so she can take you to your beloved Katherine?” Elena turns the wheel, finding a parking spot. “Actually, no. She offered, I refused.” Elena raises her eyebrows. “Why did you lie to us about it?” Damon shrugs. “You didn’t believe that she was scary enough all on her own.” He leans closer. “She is.” “You’re really over her, aren’t you?” It takes her by surprise. “If I ever see that bitch again, it’ll be an eternity too soon.” “You see me,” Elena says, tilting her face up to him. He moves until his is inches away, looking intently into her eyes. “You are not Katherine,” he says. “When I look at you, I see Elena Gilbert, the most wonderful person I know. I don’t know why you look like her, but you know what? It doesn’t matter how close the resemblance is. You look like Elena to me.” Elena stares back for a minute, then opens her door and gets out of the car. “Let’s just do this.” He tries to shut her out, shut her down, when she wants to go in there to rescue Stefan with them. She hates it when he does that, but he looks right into her eyes and tells her he gets it and that’s when it hits her that Damon feels the exact same way as her about Stefan. She’s known it for a while, but now she feels it, and she sets it aside to think about another time. When she’s not so mad at him. That it’s a given she’ll forgive him at some point almost completely passes her by, but she doesn’t think about that either. They get Stefan out of there, out and alive. Elena goes over to Matt’s as soon as Jeremy calls her about Vicki, and that and Stefan are all she thinks about until Uncle John shows up. * * * The night after Stefan comes back to school, Elena is getting into bed when she gets a text from Damon. Your boyfriend is driving me crazy. I need to either rip his heart out or fuck him senseless. Really not picky as to which. She texts back, Damon. You will not dare. A few seconds pass before her phone beeps. Call me and make it an order, and I’ll think about restraining myself. Or you could come here and restrain me. Stefan would help. She calls him. “Damon,” in her most commanding tone of voice. “You will not kill Stefan.” “Does that mean I can screw him?” “No. Not tonight.” “Not — Elena, are you saying what it sounds like you’re saying?” “I … might be. Look, I’ll talk to him after this interview thing tomorrow, okay? Just don’t do anything until we‘ve talked it over.” “What interview thing tomorrow?” “It’s this Miss Mystic Falls beauty pageant thing, part of the Founder’s Day stuff.” “You don’t sound too happy about it.” Damon’s voice has changed gear completely. “Yeah, well, I signed up forever ago. Things were different back then.” There’s a pause. “So did your mom ask you to do it?” “Yeah, it — was really important to her. How did you know?” “Well, I didn’t think it was your dad who asked.” Damon sounds … the same way he’s sounded a lot lately. Like he cares. Elena takes a deep breath. “Listen, I’ll be really busy tomorrow, but I’ll talk to Stefan. I think I want to give this a try.” “You do?” He says it softly, so full of hope. Elena’s heart is beating fast. “Yeah, I do. Can we talk tomorrow, after the pageant?” “Of course.” He inhales. “Listen, Elena — there are some things I need to apologise for.” “Wow, really? You’re apologising?” “Just, hear me out. I’m really sorry about Isobel. I didn’t know, and — I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about Vicki, I’m sorry about Jeremy, I’m sorry about Caroline, I’m sorry about Bonnie, I’m sorry about … everything.” Elena takes it all in. “Apologies accepted. Are you … what are you doing?” “Clearing the air. Getting anything that might stand in the way, out of it. Did I miss anything?” “That you used to kill people?” She doesn’t particularly want to think about it, but he did ask. “So did Stefan,” he points out. “We don’t any more.” “See to it that you don’t, ever.” “Is that an order?” His tone is playful, so she shuts it down with a commanding voice. “Yes.” “I’ll behave.” The change is instantaneous and surprising. She sort of believes him. “Good.” Elena pauses. “Damon, how do you feel about Stefan?” “What is this, like a test?” “Just answer the question, please. I want to know. How do you feel?” “I’m in love with him. Just like I’ve been for the past hundred and fifty years.” “And how do you feel about me?” “I’m in love with you,” Damon says, voice quiet. “Now it’s your turn.” She cradles the phone closer. “I’m in love with Stefan,” she says, “and I care about you. I’m … I think I’m falling in love with you.” “You think you’re falling?” “I haven’t let myself think about it! I’m new to this, okay? Just give me some time.” “If loving me is on the end of it, take however much you need.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “Hey, isn’t it time you got some sleep?” “Yes. Will you be good and not do anything to Stefan?” “Only because you told me to,” he says, flirty tone of voice back in place. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Elena.” “Goodnight.” She holds the phone to her ear until she hears the dial tone, then clicks it off and pulls the blanket around her. Stefan is in a brilliant mood the next day. He kisses her in the parking lot when he gets to school, they laugh about Ms Bell’s mistake in English the day before, and she checks that he’s definitely okay with chaperoning her to the pageant. “You’re free after school, right?” “Of course I am. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.” He smiles, and she slips her arm around his waist. She broaches the subject at lunch. “I talked to Damon last night.” He’s suddenly tense. “You did?” “Yeah, I … wanted to give the three of us a try.” Stefan looks up, startled. “Wait, you do?” “Yeah, I — I think so. He apologised for a lot of things. I care about him. You — do you still want to?” “I haven’t really — we were sort of fighting last night — not fighting fighting, just —” “I figured. Damon was pretty mad. But … do you still want to?” Stefan exhales and sits back. “Yeah, I do, just — this isn’t the best time for me and him.” “That’s okay. We can wait until it’s a better time, I just … I wanted to talk to you about this.” She takes his hand. “Is it really what you want?” He looks her right in the eye, and starts to smile. “You’re an amazing girlfriend, you know that?” “Thank you. I’m not just doing it for you, for the record.” “It’s still true.” He leans across the table and kisses her, a gentle kiss. She smiles into it. She calls Damon after the dance rehearsal. “I have to go home now and get ready,” she says, “but I talked to Stefan.” “What did he say?” “That it’s not the best time for you and him right now. Is everything okay? He seemed edgy about it.” Damon makes a small frustrated noise. “I have to go. He’s home, I need to talk to him. Everything is — it’s not okay. I’ll tell you when I see you.” “Damon —” She sighs. “Okay. But make sure you do.” “I know, Stefan told me about your whole honesty thing. I’ll make an effort.” “I appreciate that.” They hang up, and Elena concentrates on her pageant butterflies. Damon finds her at the pageant just as she’s about to get dressed. “You know what I said about honesty?” “Now? Really, now?” She holds up her dress. “You need to know this. I would have been happy, except for the council being on full alert, and this is really not the time for Stefan to lose control.” “Stefan — what’s wrong with Stefan?” “He’s still drinking human blood. He’s got a fridge full of blood bank contraband in the house, and this is not good.” “What?” “I talked to him earlier, I said I’d tell you if he didn’t.” Stefan chooses that moment to open the door. Damon mutters that he’ll be downstairs, and leaves them to it. As she’s putting her dress on, she thinks about the fight, about Damon and Stefan, about lies and trust and possibilities. What the hell am I going to do? No answer presents itself, so she waits with the other contestants, quietly freaking out and wishing she could be somewhere else. It’s when she’s dancing with Damon, Stefan disappeared to who even knows where, that Elena realises she’s definitely falling in love with Damon. She’s not all the way there yet, but dancing with him, looking into his eyes, seeing the expression there and knowing what it means, her heart stutters and her mouth goes dry. * * * Damon is standing outside the cell when Elena gets back. “How is he?” are the first words out of her mouth. “In the one hour it took you to grab some food, there was no change,” Damon says. “He’s still shaking.” She looks in at him; he’s lying on the makeshift bed, shaking constantly, eyes closed. “Is he asleep?” “Yeah. Well, this is boring. I’m going upstairs.” Damon’s footsteps recede, and Elena stays, looking into the cell for a minute. She finds him in the sitting room, sprawled over an armchair. “He needs to eat.” “I know. I’ve tried. He won’t even talk to me.” Elena sighs. “Me either.” She drops down onto a couch. “I just don’t know what else I can do. How long will it take for the human blood to get out of his system?” “It’s been almost a day, it should be gone by tomorrow.” Damon takes a sip of his drink. “You okay?” “Yeah, I’m — I just worry. Will he be all right?” Damon opens his arms. Elena smiles and shakes her head. “Come on,” he coaxes. “I think someone needs a hug.” “Jackass,” she says, poking him in the side as she settles across him. He folds his arms around her, and she rests her head on his shoulder. “Since when do you hug people?” “Since they’re my not-actually-but-sort-of girlfriend. What’s going on with that, anyway?” He’s smiling at her, almost emotionally open. “Last time I talked to him about it, Stefan wanted to wait. So, we’re waiting.” “Well that sucks.” He pauses until she’s raised her head to look at him properly before saying, quiet, “I really want to kiss you right now.” Her breath hitches. “We can’t, not until —” “Yeah, I know, not until Stefan says so. I’m not going to, I just — really want to.” “Yeah,” she leans their foreheads together, “me too.” She goes back downstairs and stands at the cell door for a while, watching Stefan sleep. He shifts and frowns. She hears footsteps, and then Damon is behind her. “It’s late,” he says, touching her gently on the shoulder. “You should get some sleep.” She just turns around and buries her face in his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her and kisses her hair, just like Stefan does when anything’s wrong, and it feels different. With Stefan, when he holds her like this she feels like everything will be okay. Damon holding her makes her feel like things may not be okay, but she can deal with them. Elena gets into Stefan’s bed and curls up on her side. She lies awake for a while, worrying, and when she’s finally half asleep, she feels the bed dip. “I’m not going to do anything,” Damon whispers, “I promise. I just — is it okay?” “Yeah,” she whispers, and he lies with his chest to her back, one arm around her. She laces their fingers together and falls asleep. * * * Stefan and Elena get back from Stefan’s suicide attempt, and Elena goes straight up to Stefan’s room. She sits on the bed and puts her head in her hands, crying silently for ten solid minutes. Shakily inhaling, she wipes her cheeks and gets up. Damon is standing in the doorway. “Hey,” he says. “Hey.” Elena brushes past him, and in the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face. Damon and Stefan are both waiting in Stefan’s room when she gets back. “Are you okay?” Stefan asks, rushing forward to hug her. She nods into his chest. “I nearly lost you,” she whispers. “I know. I’m sorry.” He kisses her hair. “Look, if this is a bad time, I can —” Damon jabs a thumb at the door. “Stefan, is — is he here so we can start this?” Elena asks, stepping out of his arms and looking back and forth between them. “We talked,” Stefan says, “and if you still want to, we’re both willing to give it a try.” “Please say that means I can kiss him now,” Damon adds, managing to sound annoyed. “And maybe punch him.” “No punching,” Elena says. “You can kiss him, though.” She expects to feel some of her old disgust at the sight of them kissing, but somewhere along the way, she accepted this the way she’s accepted everything else that’s different because they’re both vampires. Damon initiates the kiss, but Stefan kisses back like he’s been desperate to for years, and while Elena is blinking, Damon shoves Stefan into the wall. Stefan’s hands are in Damon’s hair, grasping handfuls, and Damon’s are tugging Stefan’s shirt up, undoing his buttons. It’s intense and she can’t look away. Damon breaks the kiss once he has every shirt button undone. They stare at each other, and Damon says, “Can I kiss her now?” “Not violently,” Stefan says. “Unless she likes that.” His eyes flick over to Elena. “The violence is all for you,” Damon tells him, nudging their noses together in a gesture equal parts love and aggression. Then he turns and walks over to Elena, a genuine smile spreading over his face. “Hi,” he says when he’s standing an inch away. “Hi,” she replies, wondering what this will be like. Damon kisses her gently, like he’s afraid of breaking her. Elena opens her mouth and responds to it, soft presses of lips, the tips of their tongues brushing. Her whole body starts to tingle, mouth outwards, as he wraps his arms around her and gradually deepens the kiss. She brushes her fingertips over the back of his neck, the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear. Their tongues curl around each other and Elena whimpers. The kiss slows, then stops. It takes a few moments for Elena’s eyes to open, but when they do, Damon is smiling at her. Stefan is standing beside them. Elena turns her head and tilts it; Stefan takes the invitation and kisses her. They take it in turns undressing each other, always two on one, until Stefan and Elena are standing in their underwear and Damon is naked. He kisses her neck as Stefan’s tongue runs over her lips, and Elena feels like she’s melting. She takes her bra off while Damon is kissing her. Stefan curls his tongue around each of her nipples in turn, and small noises escape into Damon’s mouth. The kiss shifts, breaks, Damon reaching for Stefan. Elena slides Stefan’s underwear over his hips and down as Damon kisses him with a focus that keeps them perfectly still. Elena kisses a line over Stefan’s chest, then over Damon’s. Stefan lays her on the bed gently, and Damon slowly pulls her underwear down. He dips his head, the tip of his tongue finding her clit. She arches, opens her legs wider, and Damon flicks his tongue, side to side. Elena has no idea where Stefan is or what he’s doing; her eyes are closed, her entire body focused on the sensation of Damon’s tongue, swirling and flicking in an ever-changing and completely incredible rhythm. She’s just feeling like she never, ever wants this to end when Damon stops. She opens her eyes; Stefan has his arms around Damon, is whispering something into his ear. Damon looks at him with that expression Elena’s seen sometimes when she commands him to do things, and suddenly realises that it’s arousal. Stefan kneels over her. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, soft. She lets her legs fall open. He licks his lips, then shifts further up her body. She angles her hips, looks at Damon over his shoulder, and smiles at him. He smiles back. Damon enters Stefan a few seconds after Stefan enters Elena; she can feel the momentum and Stefan’s reaction. He kisses her shoulder, moaning quietly, as Damon thrusts into him in a harsh rhythm that Stefan turns soft when it gets to Elena. She arches and exhales, eyes closed. With Stefan it’s always amazing, but with Damon too it’s somehow better, even more intense. Stefan inside her with Damon’s momentum feels unbelievable. She opens her eyes when she feels fingers on her clit; Stefan is holding himself up with both arms, so Elena looks further down. Damon has both arms around Stefan’s waist, one hand between his and Elena’s bodies. He smiles at her knowingly, fingertips circling, and her head falls back. Damon and Stefan keep up a relentless rhythm. Elena looks into Stefan’s face and sees what Damon was talking about; his mouth is open, neck arching up and down, eyes mostly closed. It’s the way he looks when they’re having sex in his favourite position, but more so, and Elena waits until his eyes open to kiss him. He kisses her with a ferocious intensity, and Damon’s fingers speed up. She breaks the kiss to arch up and cry out, feeling the build of orgasm. Stefan thrusts into her just right, Damon’s fingers flick and circle, and she comes, Stefan’s mouth on her nipples, her hands gripping the pillows, almost yelling it’s so good. At the very last crest of it, they both do a simultaneous upwards movement, and her orgasm breaks harder. She lets out a hoarse scream, arching up toward them, and then the orgasm is over. Stefan pulls out of her, Damon’s hand back on his stomach. Her afterglow sets in as she watches them, fucking harsh and relentless, Damon jerking Stefan off and leaving open-mouthed kisses all over his back. For all that it’s aggressive and violent — as much as they can be while staying in the same place — Elena notices that there’s a tenderness to Damon’s kisses. He looks like a man who’s been desperate for this for a really long time. Stefan comes after a while. Elena has never seen him come without her being involved before. The lack of semen has always been a jarring thing when she’s blown him, but somehow here she doesn’t notice. He shakes and moans with it, Damon watching all he can see of Stefan’s face with a soft expression Elena is glad to see. “Come on,” she realises Damon is murmuring, “for me.” Damon keeps thrusting in after Stefan’s come. Stefan pushes back onto him while Damon bites his shoulder, eyes perfectly blue and locked onto Elena. He starts making noises, building in volume, until he shudders into Stefan, whispering, “Stefan — Elena — fuck.” They crawl over to her and collapse, Stefan in the middle. “Was that worth waiting a century?” Stefan asks, a teasing smile on his face. “Shut up,” Damon answers, smacking him on the thigh. Elena takes Stefan’s hand and smiles at him. “That was amazing,” she sighs. “I take it you’re happy with this arrangement?” Damon grins at her. She wriggles closer to Stefan, curling up against him, and reaches across his chest to stroke her hand down Damon’s stomach. “Very happy,” she says, and Damon gives her a genuine smile for it. He turns, curls into Stefan’s other side, and tangles their hands together over his chest. Stefan kisses Elena’s hair, then Damon’s. “Is anybody going to ask if I’m happy?” he says, teasing smile still in place. Elena and Damon’s eyes meet. They nod at each other, and simultaneously grab pillows to hit Stefan with. He laughs, holding his hands up. “Stop, stop, I’m happy!” They put the pillows back and settle onto his chest again. Damon smiles at her, stroking along her fingers with his, and she smiles back. She kisses Stefan’s chest and lets her eyes drift closed. “You know I’m going to want morning sex, right?” Damon says. “Shut up,” Stefan and Elena chorus sleepily. Damon laughs softly. “No, but seriously, I’ll want more sex when we wake up,” he continues. “What do you think we usually do?” Stefan asks. “Excellent,” Damon says, and Elena falls asleep smiling.

It was just blind luck that she found him before the sheriff did. Veronica quickly swerved her beat-up old Datsun onto a side street and threw it into park, barely avoiding a stall. She was still learning the ins and outs of driving manual, but she'd already decided that she hated it. It didn't let her keep a free hand. Unfortunately, it was the only thing she could afford at the moment and she knew she was lucky to have it. She also knew that she was lucky about a lot of things, so she tried not to think about it too much. She hated to sound ungrateful. She got out of the car and shivered. Pulling her sweater tight helped keep back the chill, but it didn't protect her from the predatory glances of the men hanging around the lamppost. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. This wasn't the safest part of town, and if time hadn't been so short, she would have enlisted Wallace's help or better yet, Weevil's. At the very least, she wanted to kick herself for not taking Backup. Then again, if time hadn't been so short, she probably would have found a moment to talk herself out of it. Staying on the move was the name of the game these days. Hearing sirens in the distance, Veronica got back on task. Knowing her father, he was probably only a few minutes behind her, along with a few squad cars of Neptune's finest. She had no time to waste. After all, Logan couldn't be accused of resisting arrest if they never found him in the first place. Veronica spotted the bright yellow XTerra across the street, and then looked around at the decrepit buildings. She didn't have time to search them all, but wagered that the one with the seedy-looking bar on the main floor was probably the one she was looking for. She hopped off the curb and dodged a passing car before making her way across. The acrid smell of tobacco blasted her in the face when she opened the door. She had to blink rapidly for several seconds to adjust to the dim lighting and the clouds of smoke, but eventually, she saw him. Across the room, Logan sat sprawled on a chair, playing poker with a bunch of surly, drunken guys. Despite the urgency, she found herself frozen, and unable to move any closer. Her breathing quickened and she had to fight the hysterical urge to turn tail and run. Seeing him like this--unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, and playing cards in a sea of cigar smoke--drove a spike of fear through her body. It was as bad as she thought and she'd been right to avoid him these last six weeks. She could hardly recognize him. His eyes were sunken in, as if too little sleep and too much booze were the norm now instead of only occasional. She could practically feel his pain radiating outwards from him and it scared the hell out of her. Someone jarred her shoulder trying to get past, and the bar suddenly seemed even smaller. She forced herself to look down at her watch and noticed that, thankfully, only a few minutes had passed since she parked the car. Time. Time was of the essence and that was all she needed to remember. It wouldn't matter what he said. It wouldn't matter if he screamed or cursed at her. She told herself that she could handle it for as long as it took to get him somewhere safe. So long as he came with her. He could hate her as much as he wanted, so long as he just kept moving. She couldn't let him get turned over to the cops, again. She owed him that much. As she approached the table, the smell of cigar and body odor became almost unbearable. She opened her mouth to breathe, but found that the air filled her mouth like a thick, dirty rag. She forced the bile back down her throat. It took a moment before he looked up, but his reaction when he did was not what she expected. He just stared at her. "Logan. Can I talk to you?" She forced the words out of her mouth. He looked back down at his cards and discarded an eight of spades. "It's really important." "And it's nice to see you too, sweetie," Logan drawled, without looking at her, his sarcasm all too familiar. Then he gestured to the dealer. "Hit me." She took his cards and threw them down on the table. Then dragging him up by his arm, she managed to get him out of his chair. "What the fuck is your problem?" Logan yelled, forcing her to stop and ripping his arm away. Just at that moment, the door to the bar swung open and one of the deputy sheriffs walked in. She grabbed Logan's arm again, and dragged him down so that they were hidden behind another table. "Shhh," she hissed, imploring him to be quiet. Surprisingly, he listened. He followed her eyes until he saw the sheriff and then she felt him stiffen up. "Are you in trouble?" he asked, the sarcasm and anger gone from his voice. She shook her head. "Not me, they're looking for you." "Me?" Logan said incredulously. She studied his face for a moment before sagging slightly in relief. If he really was guilty, then he wouldn't look so surprised. "Just trust me on this, okay? I'll explain everything as soon as we get out of here. Look," she said, pointing to the doors that the servers used. "There should be an exit out back that we can use." Veronica turned on her heel, keeping her body low. Slowly, making her way around the table, she darted for the kitchen door when the sheriff was looking the other way. As she swung it open, she felt Logan close on her heels. Muttering excuses to the staff, she continued to push her way back until she found the exit. The cool, fresh air that hit her as she threw open the door was incredibly refreshing. It still surprised her that she felt claustrophobic so easily these days. She fought the desire to put her head between her legs and looked around instead. Unfortunately, her head started to spin again when she noticed that they were on a small fire escape, and there was barely enough room for them both. Below, she saw that the cop had parked his car in the alleyway below. They were trapped, again. She looked up and made the decision easily. Any way out was better than no way out. "Come on, let's go up to the roof. It won't take them long to figure out where we went, and we need to buy ourselves some time." Logan nodded, so she turned towards the ladder and climbed up to the second story. The roof was empty save for a service shed and provided them with easy access to the roof of the next building as well. They made their way over several buildings, hopping the few feet from rooftop to rooftop easily. That is until they came to the sixth building at the end of the block. Veronica looked over the edge and down into the alleyway below. The ladder to the fire escape was missing. "We're gonna have to jump, I think." "What?" Logan asked, coming to stand beside her. He looked down. "If you just said what I think you said, you can forget it." "There's a garbage dumpster over there that we can jump into." At that moment, two more cop cars drove down the street. "No way in hell. Not until you start telling me what the hell is going on." He stood firm next to the ledge and crossed his arms. "Why the hell are they looking for me?" Veronica looked at his hard expression and knew that she had to do some talking, fast. The problem was she had no idea how he was going to take the news. "Logan, something's happened to your father today and they're blaming you for it." He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to her. "What happened?" "He was stabbed in the mess hall during a small riot at lunch. They rushed him to the hospital, but he lost a lot of blood. He's in a coma right now, and they don't know if he's going to wake up." Logan closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels. For a moment, Veronica thought he was going to faint. Instead, he opened his eyes and gave her a small, alcohol-induced smile. "So? What's the problem?" "The problem is that they found the guy who did it, and he admitted to being paid off. Everyone knows how much you hate your father, which makes you the prime suspect. About an hour ago, I overheard my father talking on the phone and it sounded like they were looking for you. Apparently, they found some evidence and they wanted to pick you up." "So once again, you're here to save the day?" A bit of the bitterness returned to his voice. "You know you really need to get a better outfit. All the cool superheroes have spandex." Veronica grabbed his arm and brought him towards the edge of the roof. "Look, you can hate me all you want for what happened. That's fine. Let's just get away from here so that I can find out what evidence they have against you." He gave her an odd, penetrating look and then turned away. Looking down towards the street he half mumbled to himself. "You have got to be kidding." "Don't leap, just jump straight down, and aim for the center. When you're in the air, do half a summersault so that you can land flat on your back, and you'll be fine." "Funny, but I don't see your cape," he said, looking back at her. "Trust me." He shook his head in disbelief. "How many buildings have you jumped off of?" Veronica gave him a small shrug. "None. But they teach us this in Private Eye School. Come on." Without wasting time, she grabbed his hand and pulled him off the roof with her. She was pretty sure that the scream that came out didn't belong to her, but she couldn't be sure. Fighting the panic and the horrible stomach dropping sensation, Veronica forced her eyes open and concentrated on following her own instructions. She tucked her head into her chest and let her momentum turn her around. Before she could even think about it, she landed with a whoosh and a thud as the wind got knocked right out of her. Damn, but gravity always won, didn't it? She opened her eyes and tried to catch her breath. A surge of adrenaline was coursing through her veins and she had the feeling that if she tried to tense any of her muscles, they'd start to tremble from the strain. A groan from her right made her look there first, but she couldn't see anything except the garbage bags that had broken her fall. Then she realized that she was still clutching Logan's hand, so she gave it a squeeze. "You okay?" She found her voice. Logan groaned again and took his hand back from her. "You just pulled me off the roof of a building. What do you think?" There was something jabbing her in the shoulder and when she turned to look, she was grateful that she hadn't landed a few more inches to the left. She tried to roll out of the hole she'd created, but it was too difficult. The bags were slippery and kept rolling her back into the middle whenever she tried to shift around. It didn't help that her legs were shaking so badly that she couldn't get them to hold any weight. "Ugh. What's that smell?" Logan asked as she heard him move around. "And what's…ugh. Never mind." She looked up to see him kneeling over her. Veronica gagged as the smells started to overpower her ability to ignore them. Logan offered her his hand, which she eagerly accepted. He hauled her up. Once she was more or less out of her hole, she noticed that he was bracing himself on some broken down boxes that had also been tossed in the dumpster. "That would be the remains of someone's dinner special, I think," he said, pointing to something slimy that she was kneeling in. "I remember seeing a sign: Two-for-One, Fried Catfish Special over at the Blue Armadillo tonight." She tried to stand so that she could jump out of the dumpster but she slipped on the catfish special. She stumbled right into him and he caught her. For a moment, all she felt was the firm pressure of his chest against her cheek and she sagged against him. She had forgotten how strong he could be. He pushed her away gently. "You, okay?" he whispered. She nodded, but his arms stayed around her as they made their way to the edge of the dumpster. Taking care not to trip on any of the junk that was interspersed amongst the rotting food, they eventually made it. He helped her out, jumping down after her. She leaned over, finally taking a moment to put her head between her legs, and let her breathing calm down. When she looked back up, she found him looking around the corner. "Coast is clear." Veronica stood up. Her legs were still shaking but at least she had her breathing under control. Besides, she couldn't stop now. "Do you have any cash?" Logan gave her a look that asked if she was kidding. "We can just use my card." She rolled her eyes. "That's probably how they tracked you to begin with. And we can't use our cars… they'll be looking for them. I have some cash for a cab. I guess we can figure the rest out later." ~~~ Veronica threw open the door to the motel room and breathed a sigh of relief as she flicked on the light. They had made it, although finding a cab had been trickier than she thought it would be. It was only when she offered to pay three times the fare that the cab driver willingly took them and their horrible smell. Logan collapsed on the small chair by the TV. Looking over at him, she noticed for the first time that there were cuts on his hands and face. "So can you start by telling me what's going on now, or what?" Logan said, leaning forward slightly to talk to her. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her fingernails. They were broken and filthy. "I already told you most of it. Someone paid to have your dad killed while he was in jail. I was in my dad's office when I heard him on the phone. It sounded like they were looking for you. I think they thought we were still.... Anyway, they traced the payment for the man who stabbed your father to your family account…" "Not that. I don't give a shit about my father, and I didn't hire anyone to kill him either. I want to know why you've been avoiding me like the plague since this all went down. I want to know why you didn't even come by to apologize for thinking that I killed Lilly." Veronica got up and turned away. She lifted the edge of the curtains and looked out the window. The parking lot was empty except for the old, rusty Ford that had been there when they pulled up. She looked back over her shoulder and saw that he was still waiting for an answer. But the truth was she didn't know what to say. She reached into her jacket to get her phone. "I bought a disposable cell phone before coming after you; I think I know someone I can call to get a hold of the bank records. Maybe there's some evidence to show us who set this all up…" Logan got up angrily, and came over to her. He twisted her around so that she was facing him, his fingers digging painfully into her arm. "Are we going to talk about this, or what?" She immediately struggled against his arms, but he didn't let go. He just kept staring at her, as if he was trying to figure her out on his own and her world was starting to close in on her again. "I'm sorry. Does that make it all better? Now let me go." His silence answered her and she struggled vainly against him. "Please," she said, quietly begging him to let her go. His hands fell to his side, but it didn't ease her pain. He was still staring at her, silently demanding answers that she couldn't give him and it was suffocating her. Finally, she couldn't stand it any longer and something broke inside. She dropped the cell phone on the table and looked at the moth-eaten curtains instead. It was easier to focus on the ugly 1970s pattern than on what had happened. If she didn't think about it too much, and just let her mouth do the talking, maybe it wouldn't hurt too much. "I said I'm sorry. Can you forgive me now? Can you forgive me for destroying your family, even if your father killed Lilly?" Logan stayed close, unconvinced. "Try again. I'm not sorry for a second that you found out the truth about my father and neither are you. I loved Lilly too, you know. Can't you just be sorry that you didn't trust me?" He put his hands on her arms and she started to shake again. "No, I can't. And that's what makes it worse." Suddenly, all the words started to pour out of her mouth and she couldn't do a thing to stop them. She felt she was drowning. "I know how much you wanted me to trust you, but I couldn't. Not after everything that's happened. Six months ago, you were breaking my headlights and cheering when I got arrested and then all of a sudden you're kissing me as if none of that mattered. And somewhere, in some part of my brain, I had to wonder if it could all be a ploy, some form of revenge to get me to fall for you and then brush me off like Duncan did and break my heart all over again. I was scared, but the way you looked at me…I couldn't help myself." She felt her knees going weak as all the memories of the last year assaulted her and she twisted her hands into tight fists. This was why she had avoided him for so long. There was nothing easy or uncomplicated about their relationship and talking about it couldn't possibly fix anything. All talking did was bring the pain front and center. Unfortunately, she found that she couldn't stop herself, now. "Then I found out about the GHB, and I hated you for it, because it hurt me so much to think that you did that to me. Then it turned out to be as much Duncan's fault as yours and maybe mine for drinking that stupid drink. Just stupid, bad luck…and I felt guilty for hurting you again. "But then you went and stuck up for me in front of all your friends, and in one fell swoop, you made me fall for you even more. Then the pool house ?I would have let you keep going, I wanted you to keep going that night, but you got up for a drink and I found the video camera. And then all over again, my heart was being ripped out and trashed and I couldn't take it anymore. Because not only was it happening all over again, it was so much worse this time." She started to beat his chest, helplessly. "And it wasn't your fault I know that now. I doubt you even had a clue about the video camera, but once again, I have nothing but guilt for hurting you. And so on and on we go, but in the end, I still can't risk trusting you. Because every time I do, it just hurts so much more when something else happens. And I can't live with the guilt and the fear, going around in my head like this. All I've done is hurt you, just like everyone else in your life. How could you do anything but hurt me again?" Her hands finally stopped their pounding as he moved closer to her. "I would never hurt you," he whispered, rubbing her arms until she let her fists drop to her side. He searched her eyes for a few second and just when she didn't think she could stand the scrutiny any longer, he leaned down and kissed her firmly on the mouth stealing the argument from her so she didn't have to say the words. When he finally released her, he traced a finger along her cheek. "I'm a big boy, Veronica. Let me decide what hurt I can and can't live with. I'd much rather risk getting hurt by having you with me than by you running away." "I'm just scared…" she trailed off trying to explain again, but he silenced her by putting his finger on her lips. "Me too." His smile made her heart ache and for a moment she dared to believe that maybe she could trust herself and give in to the butterflies fluttering around in her chest. "I just wish you talked to me more." "Well, we're talking now aren't we?" He shook his head in mocking disbelief. "She's able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. She's more powerful than a locomotive, but also faster than a speeding bullet when it comes to running away." She pulled back and tried to hide her frown. "I warned you. This is how I deal with things. I need to deal with them by myself, or I feel trapped —" "Just so you know, I don't think bottling them up or ignoring them constitutes dealing with your problems." He interrupted with a light kiss. "But the good news is there's hope. I have now discovered a way to make you talk to me more often." He gave her a sly grin and she raised her eyebrow in confusion. Slowly, he reached up into her hair and pulled out a piece of limp, brown lettuce. "I just have to put some rotting Truth-Speaking Vegetables into your shampoo, and you will be helpless against their effects." Suddenly, she felt the tension diffuse a little. Seeing him smile at her openly lifted a huge weight off of her shoulders that she hadn't even been aware that she'd been carrying. She smiled back. "I though I felt their coercing effects." "Do I have anything on myself to go with the side salad?" Leaning in to take a sniff, Veronica was suddenly aware of how much heat he radiated. She lingered unintentionally, soaking in his presence. He instinctively leaned into her a little before she realized what she was doing and pushed him gently away. "I think I detect a bit of tomato sauce on your shirt, but it's been sterilized. You're sweating tequila." Logan lifted his shirt collar away from his neck and sniffed. "Good thing too. Otherwise I would have spilt all my dirty, dark secrets." She must have winced because he leaned in and kissed her quickly on the mouth. "Kidding," he whispered as he let her mouth go. "No more secrets, I promise." He grabbed his shirt from the bottom and lifted it over his head, taking it off. In the harsh light of the motel room, his body looked gaunt and battered, and she couldn't help but feel some of her guilt and fear return. As he turned around to throw the shirt in the corner, she noticed a long gash on his side and a series of bruises that were starting to develop on his back. "You're bleeding," she said, grabbing some Kleenex from the bedside table and applying pressure to his side. He contorted his neck to have a look but flinched in pain instead. She pulled the tissues back to see the wound and noticed that it wasn't bleeding badly. It had scabbed over, probably in the car ride, and reopened a little when he pulled his shirt off. "I'm fine," he responded, and then stood up, obviously trying to get her to stop fussing. She followed him in to the bathroom. He wanted to have a look and she wanted to stay close to him. "See? No, problem." "You're just saying that because you're probably still drunk," she accused, putting her hands on her hips. "Otherwise, you'd be unable to move. You're covered in bruises." He pinned her to the wall by the shower and brought his face close to her ear. "And whose fault is that anyway? Next time you want a flying lesson, let me book a plane instead." Without letting her go, he leaned into the shower and turned on the taps. Fiddling with the knobs, he adjusted the temperature and then pulled the shower curtain shut over the spray. Looking back at her, she fidgeted uncomfortably. His eyes were warm, and way too intense. "Why are you forgiving me so easily?" She just had to ask. He traced her jawline with his fingers and then caressed her cheek. "I think you know why. Don't make me say it; you'll just accuse me of being drunk." She smiled and felt a warm wave break over her heart. He leaned forward and placed a warm kiss on her neck, making her melt into him. Then slowly, he traced her skin with his lips until she felt his breath in her ear. "We could both use a fresh start. Wash my back for me?" Her stomach bottomed out as if she was falling off the roof again. She looked at him in the harsh lighting, felt the walks of the washroom closing in on her, and shook her head. "I can't." He rocked back and raised an eyebrow at her. "Can't or won't?" "I just can't," she replied. She wasn't about to stand naked in front of Logan even if her heart was racing from his kisses. She just wasn't that brave. "Well, we both need a shower, and I can't bend to wash my back." He took a step back to give her more room. "What if I promise to keep my eyes closed?" She gave him a nervous laugh. "Like you wouldn't peek." Logan quickly walked over to the door, closed it halfway and then turned off the light in the bathroom. They were immediately encased in semi-darkness, the only light coming from the bedside lamp in the other room. She heard rustling and a zipper open, and realized that he was undressing the rest of the way. After a few moments, he came up to her, naked from what she could make out in the half-light, and gave her a quick peck on the nose. "Come on," he whispered, his voice low and hungry. He waited a moment for her, but when she wouldn't meet his eyes, he grabbed the complimentary shampoo, slid the shower curtain open and got in. As she stood alone and the steam started to cling to her, she realized that she hadn't moved at all since he'd turned off the lights. Her momentum was gone now, and she had nothing to propel her forward except the unbearable urge to touch him again. He'd forced her to stop and take stock, and now she had no idea how to get started again. Part of her wanted nothing more than to join him in the shower, under the protection of darkness and feel how alive he was. All this time, she'd been so afraid--of him, of his hurt, of trying to sort out what a mess their relationship had become--that his promise of renewal now seemed like a hope she hadn't dared believe in. But she had to trust him now. She could walk away, say she wasn't ready for this, but that would be a lie. She'd told him as much when she admitted that she wanted him to continue that night in the pool house. No, she wanted him. She wanted to feel his strong muscles holding her; she wanted to risk giving up her control for just a little while. Now that she'd let him back in, she realized how very lonely she'd been. She'd spent the last year trying to figure out how she lost everything: her boyfriend, her best friend, her social group, always wondering, in some part of her mind if it was something she did or didn't do. And though she would never admit it, some days she had wondered if everything people said about her was true, even just a little. Now here was Logan, promising her that it wasn't. He wanted to be with her, although she'd hurt, betrayed, and mistrusted him, although she'd put a bong in his locker all those months ago. He needed her, even if she kept running away. In the darkness, she pulled off her t-shirt off and shook off her jeans, letting them crumble into a pile on the floor. She rubbed her arms and looked at the shower. He was making this completely her choice and maybe it was because of that that she didn't feel the familiar prickling of fear. Her choice: to be there or not, to leave when she wanted or to stay forever. No traps, no escape routes needed. She pulled the shower curtain to the side and slid in behind him, so that he was between her and the water. He was facing away from her with his head completely immersed in the water, washing his hair vigorously. She took the moment to study his body, even if it was half hidden in shadow. He didn't appear nearly as gaunt as she had first thought, and now that she was looking, she noticed how the muscles in his back rippled as he rubbed the soap in his hair. She forgot all the possible reasons she had for being scared of him. He turned, bringing his body around completely and cracked an eye open for a moment to look at her, before shutting it again and giving her a grin. "You're a little late. I had to rub my back against the wall to get it clean." "Well, it works well for bears, I hear," she replied, moving in a little closer so she could feel some water spraying on her face. The light was just as forgiving to him as it was to her, but she didn't mind. She preferred to get these first glimpses of his body, a few at a time. She let her eyes move down and linger on his chest before daring to take a peek further down. To her surprising disappointment, she couldn't really see anything. He stepped out from directly underneath the water and shook his head to clear his ears. He cracked his eyes open a little, and when she didn't protest, he opened them up all the way. He reached out and brought her closer to him, letting her step under the shower. As the jet of warm water washed away some of the grime, he wrapped his arms around her waist. She felt grounded for the first time in over a month. Twisting around so they were both partially in the water, Logan brought his hands up to her cheek, cupped her face, and kissed her. His mouth was warm and wet, and she felt intoxicated in the steamy mist and darkness. She wanted to cry because it was only now that she realized how much she missed this. Without ever stopping his kiss, his hands traveled slowly down to her shoulders and along her arms, making the tension melt away with the water. When he got to her hands, he gradually brought them up until he rested her hands on his face. His stubble was rough against her palms but she couldn't stop touching him. When she looked into his eyes, even in the spray of the water, she could see them clearly. There was so much want and tenderness and passion there that she felt her knees getting weak. She hooked her hands around his neck and brought his face to hers. That was all the invitation he needed and he wrapped his arms around her completely. Pushing her back onto the tiled wall, he attacked her neck with his lips and slowly started to make his way down. He trailed his tongue across her collarbone and brought a hand up and gently cupped her breast. As soon as his fingers brushed across her nipple, she couldn't help the moan that escaped into his ear. All of a sudden, she felt a sudden rush of tension between her legs and the insatiable desire to make him keep going. He brought his lips down to her breast and flicked her nipple with his tongue. She grabbed his hair as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her. He flicked and sucked until she couldn't stand it anymore. "Oh god, Logan," she moaned as he brought his lips to her other breast. "Don't…don't stop. Please." But, of course, he did just that, standing up straight and looking down at her with a smile. "You're so evil…" she started to complain. "Shh," he whispered , interrupting her with a kiss then picking up the soap he had dropped and started to lather his hands. Then, slowly moving her so that she was in the full stream of the water, he rubbed his soapy hands across her shoulders and down her arms. Turning her around as necessary, he washed her back and then her front, making her squirm when he refused to touch her nipples again. Then he bent down and washed her legs, starting with her feet and working his way up. When he got to the top of her thigh, he cupped her ass and brought her into an embrace again. She felt him hard against her stomach, and the realization of how much he wanted her made her want him even more. "Can I…" he trailed off, kissing her as his hands roamed back down to her stomach and skimmed along her thighs. She nodded and relaxed her legs, bringing them open a little wider. She couldn't imagine stopping now; she wanted nothing more than for Logan to keep touching her everywhere. Using only the tips of his fingers, he caressed between her legs, teasing her gently. As he slowly explored, she felt the contrast of his hard fingers against her soft flesh until she couldn't take it any longer. She needed and wanted him now. He slowly put a finger inside her and she dug her teeth into his shoulders to keep from crying out. This was so much different than she'd ever imagined, so much more intense. "Logan…"she moaned as he brought his finger in and out. He took his hand away and stepped back. "You'd better finish washing yourself or I'm going to take you right here in the shower," he said huskily, handing her the bar of soap. She took it reluctantly. "And that would be a bad thing?" she whispered back, feeling like she was going to die if he didn't continue. He nodded and grabbed the bottle of shampoo. "I want to go back to the room for that, if you don't mind. At least this time." She closed her eyes and let herself imagine exactly what they were going to do as he rubbed the shampoo in her hair. After she rinsed, he leaned over to shut off the taps and she took the excuse to run her hands up his back. She suddenly wanted to touch him everywhere and make sure that he was real. When the water was off, he stood up and turned around, giving her a moment to continue. She ran her hands across chest, and down his sides, and she would have continued but he leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Let's go to bed." Without wasting any time, he stepped out, held a hand out for her so she wouldn't trip on the wet tiles and passed her a towel. It wasn't very soft, but it was all they had and she hardly noticed anyway. The humidity was thick in the air. Logan grabbed the smaller face towel and patted himself dry. She barely had time to wrap the towel around herself before he was ushering her out to the relatively cool bedroom. She turned and went to the bed, taking a seat on the edge of it, shivering in anticipation and from the loss of heat. She watched as he moved around, not in the least bit shy about his nakedness, and she got her first full look at his body. He wasn't as gaunt as she'd originally thought, more lean than anything, though the last six weeks certainly hadn't been very kind. He went back into the bathroom, returned with a pile of their clothes and then spent a few minutes looking frantically through his pants before he found his wallet and took out a small package. Dropping the condom on the bedside table, he quickly went over to the lamp to shut if off before joining her on the bed. He crawled towards her slowly, making her lie back on the bed as he positioned himself on top of her. "Now, where were we…" His lips moved from her ear back down to her breasts before taking her nipple back into his mouth. He was so hot and his presence surrounded her completely. She arched into him and dug her nails into his arms as he flicked his tongue and then moved on to the other breast. Then looking up at her with a wicked grin, he slowly moved down her body, until he was completely between her legs. She shivered with nervousness and tension as he spread her legs a little more and gave himself more room. Leaning down, he brought his mouth down on her and started exploring her with his tongue. Lilly had always talked so brazenly, never bothering to hush her voice, about all the incredible things she was missing by taking her time with Duncan and then gone on to amend her statement that maybe she wasn't missing that much. He was her brother, after all. And although Lilly and Logan had had their differences, the one thing she had always bragged about was how talented Logan was with his tongue. Veronica couldn't do a comparison, but she didn't need to. As Logan kissed and licked, it was obvious that Lilly had understated his talents. What had happened between her and Duncan was a cold fact, but what she and Logan were doing now, she would never forget. Her world felt like it was spinning around violently, revolving around that one sweet spot that Logan had just found and she felt herself spiraling out of control. She tried reaching for him, desperate to find an anchor and grabbed his shoulder, digging in her nails. He didn't complain though, he just flicked his tongue even faster. She felt him slip his finger back inside her and suddenly everything coalesced and then burst into a wave of incredible pleasure. As she slowly came down from her peak, he slid back up her body with a satisfied grin on his face. She looked at him in amazement and leaned up to kiss him. She felt him incredibly hard against her thigh, and she reached down eagerly and took a hold of him. He groaned and writhed against her before pulling away, giving her hardly any time to explore what he liked. Grabbing the condom package, he ripped it open and put it on before she could even offer. "This isn't fair," she whispered. "I haven't had the chance to do anything to you." He kissed her, leaning forward again, until he was lined up above her. "Believe me, you've done plenty. There'll be lots of time to try other things later," he said as he nudged himself at her entrance. She nodded distractedly as he slid inside her and then quickly forgot about what they were talking about. There were just too many sensations and emotions flooding her. She felt full to the brim. He lifted her hips up and thrust into her, taking her to new heights and sensations, all the while his eyes never left hers. Between her own waves of pleasure, she watched as his eyes drank in the sight of her and his breathing became ragged and heavy. He started moving faster, pounding against her, until finally he arched his back and called out her name. ~~~ They lay together on the bed, with the towel tangled up between them, and Veronica traced her fingers along his chest. For the first time in over a year, she felt a completeness she didn't think she'd ever feel again. Logan was sleeping soundly beside her, oblivious to her caress. A light from the parking lot shone across the window, and suddenly Veronica was reminded of how fleeting happiness could be. She gathered up the towel, twisting it out from under Logan's legs and wrapped it around herself as she stood up. The cell phone that she'd left on the table caught her attention. The sheriff's department was still looking for Logan and their interlude hadn't changed that fact. She turned on the phone and used it to remotely check the messages on her own cell. "You have three new voice messages. First message. Hey honey, it's me. Where have you gone? I was hoping I could have your help looking for Logan. Listen, if you get this message, call me back, ok?" Veronica hit the delete button, feeling a twinge of guilt for going against her father. "Next message. Veronica. Look, I know you went to find him, but I don't know why you left your car there. It's important, call me back, ok?" Veronica deleted the second message and listened to the last one. "Veronica. It's past midnight. If you get this message, call me right away. Logan's in danger. We've been trying to find you guys all night, but you seem to have hidden yourselves pretty good. Look, Clarence Weidman's been hacking into Logan's personal accounts to frame him for arranging a hit on his father. We think he's working at Jake Kane's behest. Now that he knows we're on to him, we think he might try a more direct approach at harming Logan. Please, call me back. We can put a stop to this, once and for all." Veronica hit delete and ended the call, a small smile playing across her lips. Logan stirred and poked an eye open, looking for her. When he noticed where she was, he sat up. "Everything okay?" he asked. She nodded and came down and sat beside him. "Everything's fine, but I think we should go. They're looking for you to protect you, not because they think you had anything to do with your father's attack." He nodded and pushed some of her hair back behind her ear. "I told you I didn't do it." "I know. I believed you, otherwise I wouldn't have stayed. Sorry for making you jump off the roof for nothing." He smiled and brought her back into his arms. "It's ok. As it turns out, where you're concerned, I'm glad to be along for the ride." ~~~ 1/1 Fic based on this prompt:

The door opens and closes, the sound of music and conversation from downstairs briefly louder, then muffled once more. Arthur glances up only long enough to confirm the identity of the person entering, before turning his attention back to the job at hand. He attaches the green wire he’s holding, screwing the bare copper end of it carefully in place, then reaches for the blue one, which is the last; separates it out from the tangled nest of colors. Behind his bent back, the lock on the door clicks. There is the slow, deliberate rhythm of steps coming closer, stiletto heels on the parquet floor. He doesn’t look up when the desk sways, partly because the work he’s doing is too sensitive to allow for flawed concentration, but mostly because he knows it’s fucking annoying. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he sees the shimmer of black silk as his colleague slides up to settle on the polished mahogany surface next to the near-finished bomb, the way the slit in her full-length gown falls open just so to reveal long, smooth legs rubbing together like a caress as they cross, dangling elegantly off the edge of the desk, a bare thigh displayed inches from his hip. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Eames,” he says, twisting the wire in his fingers into place, “but I seem to recall the plan calling for you to distract the mark with your feminine wiles, not your team mates.” Eames chuckles, tossing her hair back, the warm light from the desk lamp refracting off the rippling blondness. Her foot hooks around Arthur’s knee, slides upwards along the back of his thigh: a light, suggestive pressure through the fine wool of his pants. The touch connects at a precise moment in his work when a slight unsteadiness in his hand is unlikely to blow them both sky high and put a premature end to the job. His hand remains steady, of course, which makes the expertly calculated timing infuriating rather than impeccable. “No reason I can’t do both, is there, darling?” Eames says. The voice is different, obviously - female, the accent more neutral - but the tone is insufferable as ever. Arthur reaches down and grabs her by the ankle - so slender on this frame that his fingers overlap when they close around it - lifting her foot away from his body and letting it drop, before picking up the miniature screwdriver again. His eyes still haven’t left the bomb. “You’re assuming I would let myself be distracted,” he says. “Deducing,” Eames corrects. “After all, we are in your dream, dear, and I can’t remember Ariadne furnishing this room quite so...invitingly.” Arthur does look up at that, following Eames’s nod towards the deeper recesses of the room. He’s pretty sure there were bookcases there when he began working on the bomb. Now there is a king sized bed - ripe with pillows, glistening with the soft glow from a bedside lamp that clings like honey to the champagne colored folds of satin sheets. Arthur hates his subconscious. “Or perhaps you were intending to be distracted by someone a bit more like this?” Eames says. When Arthur turns back around, Eames is wearing his own body, his own smirking face, male and familiar from the waking world up above. Somehow the tuxedo he’s dressed in - dinner jacket almost as well-tailored as the one Arthur has left hanging over the back of the desk chair - looks as perfectly indecent on him as the plunging neckline of the evening gown from a moment ago. Arthur also hates Eames. Or at least he hates that knowing smirk. Fortunately, he knows a number of ways to erase it. Some of them are more than a little elaborate, but if there’s anything he’s learned from working with Eames, it’s that the simplest methods are often the most efficient. And besides, they do have more than an hour of dreamtime to fill with distractions before Ariadne and Yusuf bring the mark back here. He puts the screwdriver down on the desk - precise, measured movements; the click of metal on wood sharp and exact - and takes the fragment of a step necessary to close the distance between them, his hip brushing up against Eames’s knee. He lifts his hand and lays it directly between Eames’s legs. The sudden, loud breath Eames lets out does indeed wipe the smile from his lips. “It’s true I like this,” Arthur says, leaning in to speak in Eames’s ear, squeezing down to clarify his meaning. It’s gratifying how Eames’s cock leaps into his hand at the first hint of pressure. “But I hardly need to provide satin sheets to enjoy it, do I?” Eames breathes a huff of laughter, warm against the side of Arthur’s neck, filling the hollow beneath the edge of his jaw. “No, you do appear to be quite content to make use of the nearest horizontal surface that presents itself.” A pause, for effect. For rolling memories and dreams around in their minds like wine on the tongue. “Or vertical surface, for that matter,” Eames adds, his voice at the same time rougher and more flippant, and Arthur bites his own lip at the flaring images of a Caracas back alley three nights ago, of the scrape he would see on Eames’s cheekbone now if this were reality, the broken skin where his face hit the wall. “But do you really think I’m more of a lady in this form?” Eames asks, and changes. Arthur still hasn’t wrapped his mind around the technicalities of forgery, and he suspects he’ll never fully understand how the human brain processes the shift as the forger slips from one shape to another. There should be a moment of transition, but though they’re touching, he doesn’t feel it. There is simply a different Eames in the place of the other one, instantly as solid and detailed and whole as though she had been there all along. Her legs are still spread for him. Beneath the black silk dress, she isn’t wearing any panties. “Not more of a lady,” Arthur says, skimming his fingers down along the soft folds of her pussy. Where Eames’s male body had been half hard, this one is slick with the first traces of moisture, leaking more. “But a different class of slut.” “Always such a gentleman, Arthur,” Eames says, but she grinds up against the heel of his hand, leans back on her own hands to tilt her hips up, give him better access. “Are you going to keep insulting my virtue, or are we getting to the part where you put your mouth to better use?” “Though obviously still a greedy slut,” Arthur amends. “Plus ça change.” All the same, they both know what it is he wants, here, and he isn’t going to be coy about it. He steps between Eames’s legs and they wrap around him. When he goes to his knees, she makes a breathless, feminine sound in the back of her throat, her heels sliding up the center of his spine, rucking his shirt up, and, no, he has no lies in him about this at all. He rubs his cheek against the inside of her thigh, against the almost surreal softness of her skin, closes his eyes for a second to simply breathe in her heat, the thick scent of her arousal. Dreaming, like life, is an immersive experience, only as real as the sum of your impressions, and every sense plays its part. In this, it’s the scent that breaks him, every time, the taste of Eames’s sex when he presses his lips against it, drags his tongue through her wetness to part her inner folds: the richness of the flavor breaking on his palate, the complexity of it; so very clearly woman, in all its components, and so unmistakably Eames. He digs his fingers into the firm muscles of her thighs and laps at the edges of her opening, shifting on the floor to ease the pressure of his pants on his rapidly hardening erection. Eames is a fucking artist at this, though far too obnoxious a bastard for Arthur to ever admit to that opinion out loud, and sometimes he thinks it’s the seemingly effortless display of skill that drives him dizzy with lust as much as the physical shape that is the resulting artwork. Not that this feels like art. It feels raw and hungry and primal, and Arthur has always loved this act, lost himself in it with every woman he’s ever been with, but this is Eames, who isn’t a woman at all, except when she is, and somehow that’s better, somehow the impossibility of it turns the screw of desire that last, extra turn, like everything Eames does winds him tighter, ratchets his annoyance and his confidence and his pure, overpowering want to new heights, until everything is clearer, sharper, hyper-real like the lines of a dreamscape. Eames makes another noise – a moan and a curse and an encouragement – and Arthur shoves his hands up beneath her dress to grab her ass, yank her forward on the desk towards him, shifting her body with ease the way he never can when it’s male and heavy with muscle. Shoves her pussy into his face, or maybe it’s his face into her pussy, and he hears her draw in a sudden breath, scramble for purchase on the desk, the screwdriver clattering to the floor by his knee, and her hand is in his hair, for balance, or just to hold him right there. “Fucking Christ,” she says. “You’ll be the death of me, pet. You really will.” And she’s grinding herself against his face, her clit a swollen hardness against the bridge of his nose, and he knows his fingers are leaving bruises on her skin, deep marks that will be washed away with the flood wave of the kick, marks that he’s breathing in like the slick heat of her flesh, that he’ll remember, like Eames will remember the red crescents her long nails are digging into the back of his neck, will trace them with blunt fingertips when the slate of Arthur’s body has been wiped clean with waking. All the traces there, in their minds, like layer upon layer of reality and dream, one within the other, depth within depth, all of them ephemeral and true. Genuine and forged, like the rough, high-pitched keening from Eames’s throat, the quiver in her thighs, and Arthur shifts his grip to hold her down, keep her still, bring his tongue up to her clit. She does grow still then, a beautiful coil of tension, anticipation held like an indrawn breath, and he has to take a moment to calm his own heart before he can run the tip of his tongue in a slow circle around the edges of her hardened nub. She lets her breath out, a low, drawn-out hiss, her grip tightening on his neck, and his hips cant forward in sympathy, his balls clenching with awareness of how close she is. Another circle, in the opposite direction. Forcing himself to go slow. “I’d tell you not to be a cocktease,” Eames says, “but considering what a contrary, arrogant prick you are, you’d probably stop altogether just to spite me.” Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to catch the laugh that wants to escape, and makes himself sit back and look up. He quirks his mouth in the most supercilious hint of a grin he can manage. “Want to come, Eames?” he asks. “What I want,” Eames says, “is to put one of these ludicrously high heels I’m wearing through your jugular if you don’t put your mouth back in its proper place right now, but since that would only wake you up and ruin everyone’s hard work, I’m trying my utmost to restrain myself.” Her face is flushed with sex, drops of sweat rising in the valley between her breasts. She squeezes Arthur’s neck, runs her thumb along the line of his throat. “I’m not sure I’ll succeed,” she adds, and it’s soft, gentle, like a secret confided. Their eyes are locked, their breaths loud in the quiet room. “God, I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel it when you’re awake,” Arthur says, unthinking, the rush of desire by-passing every filter in his brain. Eames smiles, wide and breathtaking. “That’s the spirit, darling,” she says, but Arthur is already bending his head again, and the “Yes” that follows is a moan, not a word. He licks her for real, then; no teasing, just the tip of his tongue drawing tight, swift patterns in that single, perfect spot, his ears listening for the shift in her breathing when he does it just right. He could lose his mind to this: to the swell of her clit beneath his tongue, the tickle of her pubic hair in his nose, the point of her heel clawing at his back through the fabric of his shirt. The level of detail vivid and intoxicating, and his mind could drown in it, if he didn’t know one level from the next, if he didn’t feel the weighted cube of his totem rest against his thigh, there in his pocket, safe. But Eames isn’t safe at all, in any shape, and here, in this shape, she comes like the releasing of a spring, body arching in harmonic tremors, voice raw with a beautiful, animal sound, and Arthur keeps licking, keeps making her tremble until he’s burning with the ache in his jaw, until her fingers tighten in his hair and pull him back, until she’s kissing him, long and deep and possessive. Her lips, paradoxically, are sharper like this, not nearly as soft, but Eames always, always kisses just the same. And then they’re simply breathing, forehead to forehead, Eames’s fingers relaxing in his hair, smoothing it back down, Arthur’s palms resting open on her thighs. Outside, it starts to rain, tinny music on the window sill, the skies bending to Ariadne’s blueprints. They still have plenty of time. “Hmmmmmmm,” Eames says, a sigh of something not quite like satisfaction, and straightens her back. “Bed, don’t you think?” She swings one leg over Arthur’s head to place her feet on the floor and walk away, not waiting for an answer. “If you insist,” Arthur says. When he shifts, his knee bumps against the screwdriver, making it roll on the parquet floor, turning hesitantly on its axis like the last spins of a slowing top. Arthur picks it up as he rises to stand, cutting the spinning short, and places it back on the desk. He takes a folded handkerchief from his pocket, uses it to wipe the traces of Eames’s moisture from his face. Refolds it, soiled parts to the inside, and puts it back. His totem is in his other pocket. When he looks up, Eames’s reflection is in the window glass, dotted with raindrops. She moves, and there is the sound of a zipper. Arthur’s erection presses hard against the edge of the desk. Eames smiles at him, knowing. Her dress falls to the floor. Arthur turns to her. She is standing by the bed in a pool of shed silk, wearing nothing now but a black lace bustier, her nipples half visible through the mesh. Her figure is a perfect hourglass, full hips and slender waist and breasts so heavy that when she undoes the hooks down the front of her bra, they come falling out, tumbling forward with the pull of gravity. Arthur can hear himself swallow. “Come on, then, pet,” Eames says, and drops her undergarment to the floor, kicking her shoes off as she falls back onto the bed, making the mattress bounce, her breasts bounce. Arthur goes, pulling his bow tie open as he steps to the bed, his fingers perhaps fumbling a little as he begins to unfasten the studs on his shirt, putting the first one in his pocket as he kneels by Eames’s feet on the bed, moving on to the second one. “No,” Eames says, leaning up to grab him by the shirt front, pull him down over her. “Like this.” Arthur catches himself with a hand on the mattress near her head, strokes the other one down her neck, along her shoulder, fingertips to collarbone. Her pale skin is cream-on-cream on the satin sheets, rich with golden accents where it catches the light, a perfect mix of colors. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I worry about this preoccupation of yours with ruining my clothes.” Eames arcs into his touch. Her hand is fisted in the collar of his shirt, her thumb tracing the hollow of his throat where the fabric falls open, her eyes focused on the same spot. Arthur wonders if she can see the pulse beating there, feel the breakneck speed of it. “Not ruining,” Eames says. “Disarranging. What can I say? It’s the small pleasures that make life worth living.” Arthur trails his fingers along the upper curve of her breast, down the center of her body, the surface of her breastbone smooth beneath warm skin. “Funny,” he says. “I didn’t realize you ever did anything small.” “Only because people in my vicinity keep failing to understand subtlety.” Her thumb stills at the base of his throat. “You’re teasing again.” Arthur’s lips quirk. “Yes.” Eames looks up to meet his eyes. “Don’t.” It’s like a punch to the gut, the heat in her narrow eyes, and he breathes her name, suddenly serious. “Eames…” “Come here,” Eames says, and pulls him down. His weight on top of her, and she gasps into his mouth when his leg slips between hers, his thigh pressing up against her pussy. She rubs herself against the wool of his pants, one hand on his shoulder, the other fisted in the sheets, and her pubic bone is hard beneath the softness of her flesh, unyielding resistance. For a minute all he can do is grind his cock against the swell of her hip, suddenly lost to the sweet, sweet friction, panting his hunger into the skin of her neck, mouthing at her jugular. “Jesus, Arthur,” Eames says. “Fuck. I want…” “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, hang on.” He shifts to cup her breast in his hand, find her nipple with his mouth. She lets out a low hiss and goes pliant beneath him, fucking herself with slow, languid movements against his leg as he licks her, suckles her, laps at the peak of her nipple like a cat. He reaches over, squeezing her other breast in his palm, the opulence of it overflowing his fingers, making him moan around the tight bud between his lips. He strokes his thumb over one nipple, circles the other with his tongue, and she arcs like a wave against him, rubbing her hand along his upper arm. “Yeah,” she says, “like that. Just…” A small laugh escapes her. “Bloody hell. I always forget how much I like this in this body.” Arthur lifts his head to look at her, momentarily distracted by curiosity. “I never get how it can be different,” he says. “I mean, you’re a woman in this dream, but you’re still you, you only have so many points of reference to work with.” Eames looks back at him, licks her lower lip as if considering how to answer. “You never…” She breaks off, her hips rocking impatiently against him. “Don’t stop, darling, if you’d be so kind.” Arthur is only too eager to comply, rubbing his cheek against the hardness of her nipple before catching it in his lips. He’s listening, though; gathering information is what he does. “You never have one of those dreams – natural, unconstructed dreams – an erotic dream, where you’re having sex, but you’re a woman instead of a man?” Arthur can’t say he has, not that he remembers, but it’s obviously a rhetorical question. And, besides, his mouth is not available for answering. “It’s like that…more or less. Your subconscious knows, or has an idea. You just have to be able to tap into that knowledge, believe that’s what you’re feeling. I don’t know, maybe… Fuck, yeah, that’s it, that’s…” Arthur soothes her with his tongue, opens his mouth to scrape his teeth over the flushed skin of her areola, before biting down to tug again at the peak of her nipple. She makes an even better noise the second time. “Mmmmmm,” she says. “You’re such a good boy.” It feels like a pat on the head, and he can’t let that slip, even if right now it makes something purr inside him. He lets go of her nipple, pointedly. “You don’t know?” he prompts. “Maybe…?” Eames sighs, long-suffering. “Such a good, single-minded boy,” she mocks. “Maybe Jung was right and there really is a collective subconscious to draw from. Or perhaps..” Arthur sucks her back into his mouth, and she shudders against him, her words coming ragged now. “Perhaps it’s all just a product of my imagination, my desires; not really like being a woman at all. My experience unique, tailor made, for being here, with you.” She lays her hand on Arthur’s face, cupping his cheek. Her thumb strokes along the edge of his cheekbone. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Arthur? Everything this body feels down here, existing just for us? Made to the measure of what I want from you.” Arthur’s hips stutter against her side, uncoordinated, eager as though he could push through clothes and skin to get inside her. He hates how it gives him away, although there’s hardly anything here that Eames doesn’t already know. “Yes,” she says, as if confirming his answer. “But then that’s equally true up above, isn’t it? You want this me to be just for you, too, don’t you?” The change registers first where Eames’s hand rests on his cheek, the weight of it suddenly more, the thumb at the corner of his eye larger, rougher. Then the totality of it comes crashing into his mind, and he’s aware all at once of how Eames’s nipple between his teeth is attached to flat muscle, of how Eames’s hard-on is straining thick against his thigh, of the smell of Eames’s sweat in his nostrils, sharper and muskier and male. He breathes in the transformation, absorbing the way Eames’s body is stretching taller and broader on the bed, the different way in which it displaces the air around them, lets it all take the half-second it needs to settle in his mind. Then he opens his eyes and levers himself up, one hand on the mattress, the other flat on the hard expanse of Eames’s chest, brings the weight of his hips down to rest fully between Eames’s legs, cock against cock. Watches Eames’s lips part at the pressure with a shuddering breath that he feels beneath his open palm, in the tightness of his balls. “That’s hardly a problem, is it?” he says. “For an attention whore like you.” Eames laughs, a low, barely audible rumble. His hands skim down Arthur’s sides, fingers spanning the cummerbund at his waist. “You know what sort of attention would be perfect at this particular moment in time? The sort that involves your hard cock up my arse.” Arthur’s dick twitches in his pants, leaking into the cotton of his underwear. He answers Eames with a scoff. “In your opinion, is there ever a moment when that would be less than perfect?” “Hmmm,” Eames says, grinding his cock up against Arthur’s stomach, shameless. “You may have to give me time to think about that one.” “Slut,” Arthur says, and it comes out the way Eames says darling, all condescension and needling and tender appreciation. Eames looks incredibly pleased with himself. Arthur sits back on his heels and says, “Turn over.” Eames gives him a long, half-lidded look and does as he’s told, rolling in one seamless motion to kneel on all fours, legs parted enough that Arthur can fit between them. He can’t help running his hands over Eames’s shoulders, the defined muscles of his back, the slim line of his waist. When Arthur reaches the curve of his ass, Eames says, “You’re not going to need any lubrication.” And it’s true, the dark skin around his opening is slick and glistening, as if already prepared. There’s something to be said for the expediency of dreams. Arthur strokes his fingers between Eames’s cheeks, watches his narrow hole expand and contract at his touch. He fumbles his pants open with his other hand, shoves his underwear down far enough to get his cock out. “Are you going to keep me waiting, there, pet?” Eames says, and the tone is impatient, imperious, but Arthur can hear his voice crack at the edges. If they had more time, he’d make him wait, just to teach him a lesson about trying to rush things, but as it is, all he wants is to shut him up the best way he knows how. He lines his cock up and shoves mercilessly in. Eames groans, deep and rumbling, his hands clutching at the sheets as Arthur’s hands clutch at his hips, and, God, Arthur loves this, the thick coil of strength in Eames’s body, like a wild, fucking animal, all that ridiculous alpha male size and density, excessive and beautiful, curled so tight just for him, poised and straining to take him, and take him, and take him, as hard as he can give. As hard as he can be made to give, and, fuck, but he loves that, too, how Eames pushes at him until there’s no restraint, no dignity, no limits to the things he wants, just this vicious fire and all the ways that he can make Eames feel it, yield to it, fucking burn for him. Long, deep thrusts that wrack the bed, and when he hits the right spot, Eames’s head drops low for him, neck bending on a shaking breath. There are rivulets of sweat forming at his nape, along the valley of his spine, lamplight dancing like flecks of gold on dampened skin, the tattoo on Eames’s shoulder blade shimmering like wet ink, as though Arthur could run his palm across it and his hand would come away blotted, black. He shifts his grip, one hand on Eames’s shoulder, fingers digging in above his collarbone, bending over him, dragging teeth up the arc of his back, harder when Eames gasps, when Eames says his name, ramming his cock home, thinking of biting down, of marks and wounds and of blood blotted away with the veil of waking. He licks the skin his teeth have scraped, licks up salt and the taste of sex. There is a bruise rising beneath his clothes, near the crease of his groin, where the totem in his pocket is ground between their bodies, again and again. The bed creaks, in time with Eames’s wordless grunts, in syncopation with the steady dripping of water outside on the window sill, single drops now from the roof above. They don’t have all night. “It’s stopped raining,” he tells Eames, lips to the back of his neck. “If you want to do it, you should do it now.” And then, because sometimes he can afford to give Eames an inch, and he wants this like he wants to breathe: “I’m waiting.” “Darling,” Eames says, laughing, incredulous and amused and wrecked and pleased. “I love being inside your twisted little mind, I really do.” And then the laugh is a woman’s laugh, and Arthur is wrapping his arms around her, gathering her up, pulling her upright into his lap. She’s smaller, and her ass is so tight, and for a second it’s all he can do not to come just from that. She shudders, reaching back to grip his hip for balance. “Oh, fuckfuckfuckfuck,” she says, string of words on one long exhale. “You feel huge.” His hips jerk up into her, pure reflex, and she swears again, scrambles to grab his hand, nails sharp like it’s life or death, and shoves it down between her legs. She’s wetter than before; soaking, helplessly wet, the way he’s always known women to go wet from this. He thinks about who, how many, Eames has fucked, and how - to know, to emulate. The research Eames has made for the sake of verisimilitude. He rakes his fingers through her cunt, possessive, and Eames clings to his wrist, thumb tight on the bone, moves on his cock with an undulating motion like she wants to feel and savor every inch. Her blonde hair is a deep honey at the temples where it’s moist with sweat, her shoulder white and clean, a canvas stripped of paint. Arthur kisses her there, where the edge of her tattoo is not, buries his nose in the curve of her neck. Fills his hand with the weight of her breast, her other nipple catching on the cotton sleeve of his shirt. She’s rocking back and forth on his lap, wild and driven, and he has to hold her tight to hold her at all, pinning her to him, back to chest. He can barely stand the perfect noise she makes when he squeezes down on her breast. He strokes her open, spreads his knees to push her legs wider, and drives two fingers into her. He can feel the shape of his own cock against the back of his knuckles, bending the walls inside her; her tightness is unbelievable, her soft, dripping heat. She chokes on an indrawn breath, so still, holding on the verge. He crooks his fingers, searching, his heart beating so fast, pressing up and in, in… She comes with a surprised shout, head tipping back on his shoulder, nails digging into the thin skin of his wrist, her ass squeezing at his cock, wringing her name from him. “Eames,” he breathes, voice moist against the shell of her ear. “Fuck, Eames.” “Don’t stop,” she says. “Don’t bloody stop.” Inside, she’s pulsing around his fingers, and just the thought that she isn’t done, that she wants more makes him moan as he fucks up into her, makes him desperate to shove under her skin like she’s inside his dreams, like he’s already inside hers. Her weight is on his lap and there is no in-and-out friction when he moves, just their bodies rising together on every thrust, sinking back down, her ass clutching and releasing around him, her breath coming in little pants, quick, quick, quick, chasing what she needs, and Arthur mouths at her jaw line, her cheekbone, the smudged edge of eye shadow shimmering at her temple. He presses the heel of his hand against her clit, feels her grind against it, writhing in his arms, clenching around the place where his fingers rub inside her, tight, tight circles on that soft, hidden spot, and she’s shaking, sobbing with need, or maybe that’s him, everything tension and closeness now, and he needs to come, needs her to tip him over, to kick his universe out from under him, the way she always does. “Come on, Eames,” he tells her, “come on. You’re not getting a musical countdown, if that’s what you’re holding out for.” Eames gasps, a jolt of breath, like laughter catching her unawares. “Very droll,” she says. The words sound like they’re a struggle, no room in her lungs for speech, but of course she doesn’t stop talking. Arthur twists her nipple between his fingers, just for the sadistic satisfaction of upping the difficulty. “I’m afraid…” When her voice falters, it makes his balls clench with something blinding and raw. “I’m afraid a little death still doesn’t amount to a kick under PASIV, though. You’re a decent screw, love, but you’re no shot to the face.” “Sweetheart,” Arthur says, deadpan, “if facials are your kink, all you had to do was say.” Eames does laugh at that, a near silent rippling of her diaphragm that Arthur feels rather than hears, another rhythm of her body, feeding into the tension, pushing it into freefall. “Don’t,” she pants. “God, I can’t…” There’s a lump in Arthur’s throat, a tightness sudden in his chest. “I’d rub it into your skin,” he says, and his voice, God, the sound of his voice. “Lick it off your lips, the corner of your pretty mouth…” “Arthur,” Eames says. “Arthur, please,” but she’s already coming, clamping down around him even before he scrapes his thumbnail across her nipple, making her bite her lip, spasm and thrash against his grip like a thing possessed. Arthur presses his open mouth against the place beneath her ear where her jawbone curves, his nose squashed in her hair, and drives into her – up and up and up; one long, dizzying climb as he fills her, paints her insides wet. Through the thin barrier inside her, he feels his cock jerk against the backs of his fingers with every spurt, his climax dirty and detailed and messily real, chaotic and devastating. His hand is going numb from the vice grip of her pleasure, the tips of his fingers wrinkling with the new rush of moisture within her. He feels as though he’s coming forever, time extended like a deeper dream, days and weeks and centuries unfolding within a moment of the mind. Through it all, he clings to Eames; beneath his lips her taste is weighted, falling loaded on his tongue. His breath is still uneven, his heartbeat louder than her voice, when she tugs at his hand between her legs and says, “Arthur, let me… I want…” She’s still moving, little twists of her hips on his cock, as though her body can’t give up the sensation. He shakes himself, pulling himself back into some semblance of focus, and lets his fingers slip from her. She shudders, and makes a noise somewhere between a benediction and a whine. His cock twitches helplessly inside her, one last aftershock. As soon as his fingers are clear of her, she pitches forward, already transforming as she takes her weight on her hands. Arthur is too dazed to expect it, and for a fraction of a second, before his subconscious catches up, there is a rattling in the window panes, a creaking in the paneled walls. Eames holds very, very still. “Too much?” he asks. Eames would say it’s due to a lack of imagination, but in fact Arthur is a notoriously stable dreamer for two reasons: he has discipline, and his conscious mind walks in step with his subconscious. He may wish it didn’t always project so clearly to Eames, but he knows his own psyche. Knows his desires. The glass has already stopped rattling. In his chest, there is a new breathlessness, a hollow shaped by the seamless exactness of the change. He curves himself over Eames’s back to speak in his ear, slides his hands up the lengths of his thighs; against rough hairs, over hard muscle, up to stroke at the edges of his groin. “If you ever overstep the bounds, Mr. Eames,” he says, “believe me, you will know.” “Oh, fuck,” Eames says, his hand scrambling to take hold of his cock. Arthur bats it away. “Just for me, remember?” he says, and Eames fucking whimpers, arcing his back to grind his ass down on Arthur’s lap. It’s too raw, this soon after coming, but his softening cock is still just about hard enough that he can shove back and fuck Eames through this. And if the friction is too vibrantly abrasive, then isn’t that merely in keeping with everything else between them? He closes his fist around Eames’s erection, and, God, yes, that’s good; the hardness of it, the way the long, thick shape fits in his palm. He squeezes down, just to feel it, runs his thumb over the sleek contours of the head. “Come on, darling, don’t dawdled,” Eames says, and Arthur would have some retort for that, except that Eames sounds like a man at the end of his tether, and Arthur wants to see him fall. Wants to catch him when he does. Rough, quick strokes, then, no attempt to hold anything back, and his hand on Eames’s cock is sliding smooth, slick with the juices from Eames’s pussy: a perfect paradox, like the vertigo thrill of every corner turned on the Penrose steps. Arthur wants… God, he wants… He bites at the strained muscle at the back of Eames’s neck, twists his hand harder on his shaft, digs his fingers into the flesh of his thigh. Shifts the angle of his pounding hips, and there, that’s it, that spot inside, and Eames is coming, spilling over the satin sheets, over Arthur’s fingers, falling forward onto the mattress as his arms give out, a beautiful, boneless heap sprawled on forearms and knees, moaning as Arthur’s cock slips from him, and Arthur keeps working him, keeps going, until his wrist is sore, until Eames is completely soft in his hand. Then he crawls up the bed until he’s kneeling by Eames’s head. Eames’s face is buried in the sheets, but when Arthur places his hand on the nape of his neck, he turns to him, looking up. Arthur holds out his other hand to Eames, the hand that has been around him, inside her. His heart is beating in his throat, so eager, but almost timid. Rabbit and predator at once. Eames licks his lips. Lifts his gaze to meet Arthur’s. His eyes are glazed over with a post-coital high that makes Arthur rub his thumb along his hairline, just behind his ear where the skin is thin and sensitive. Soothing. Protective in a way he would never acknowledge. “Yeah,” Eames says, smiling. “Yeah, come here, pet.” Arthur moves his hand closer, Eames cranes his head to reach it, and then there are lips on Arthur’s skin, Eames’s soft, voluptuous mouth around his fingers, Eames’s tongue in the creases of his palm, licking away the traces of his own semen, the remains of her own wetness. The act is a paradoxical, impossible obscenity, more right than any totem could reveal. Arthur holds his breath, watches every flick of Eames’s tongue, every glide of his lips. Eames keeps his eyes closed, but his face is intent. When it’s done, Eames stretches beneath Arthur’s hand, a languid, unselfconscious extension of naked limbs that should come with a purr. Arthur takes a deep breath, and gives Eames’s neck a shake. “You want a post-coital nap, you can have it after we wake up,” he says, turning away to sit on the edge of the bed, rearranging his clothes, refastening his pants. “Always such admirable professionalism,” Eames says, mocking. There is a rustle of sheets behind Arthur’s back, as though Eames is simply luxuriating in the softness of the satin, basking in his own contentment. Arthur makes a mental note about his subconscious’s observations on sensualism and the possibility of procuring new sheets in the real world. “I have a bomb to place in a briefcase,” he says. “You should put some clothes on.” “Hm.” Eames presses his leg against Arthur’s ass, curls an annoying foot around his hip, tugging slightly. “Dinner jacket, darling, or evening gown?” Arthur crosses the ends of his bow tie, tying it with precise, practiced motions. He doesn’t need a mirror for the task any more than he needs the light on to strip a gun. “Do I look like I care?” “From this vantage point,” Eames says, and Arthur can’t see his face, but he can hear him smiling, hear the satisfaction beneath the words, “it looks like you don’t give a rat’s arse.” Arthur folds his collar down over his tie, just so. “A remarkably astute observation,” he says, wrapping his hand around the slim bones of Eames’s ankle, dropping his foot onto the bed with a firm squeeze as he stands up. “If a little crudely phrased.” Behind him, Eames laughs. On his way to the desk, Arthur steps across the black silk of her dress, pooled on the floor. He loves the way it draws the light.

"You have no idea what you are getting into!" Martouf's voice was deep and dangerous, as close to shouting as he ever came. The low growl echoed off the crystalline walls, amplifying the sound until it was one long ringing noise of anger and hurt. Hebron watched Martouf, his dark eyes patient as he waited for the Tok'ra to calm down. Only when Martouf finally stopped his pacing and actually met Hebron's eyes did the younger man speak. "Did you have any idea what it would be like before you were blended? Could you have even conceived of it?" Martouf hissed in a breath between his teeth, but before he could speak the caustic words on his lips, he felt Lantash pushing at his consciousness. His symbiote was distantly amused; for once it was Martouf who needed a calmer mind to take over. Martouf was having a hard time distancing his feelings when it came to Hebron. While Lantash was careful, not allowing himself to get too close to Hebron after so soon losing Jolinar, Martouf couldn't council his heart the same. He had admired the man before Jolinar's death, and he loved him greatly after, finding solace in their friendship. Gladly, Martouf stepped back mentally, giving way to his Other as he simmered in his own boiling emotions. "This blending will be different, Hebron," Lantash spoke, his deep voice rising smoothly from Martouf's throat. "Even if it is not too late, and you both survive, it will be no Tok'ra that you are welcoming into yourself. It is still a Goa'uld. We have no way to be certain that it truly has changed." Hebron straightened his back, looking very proud and very regal. "I'm willing to take that chance." Martouf shuddered and snarled within himself, 'I will not!' but Lantash kept him from speaking those words aloud. Martouf ached and argued, and all the while Lantash stared aloofly at Hebron's face, preserving their outward calm. He could read Hebron's resolve was clear in the set of his jaw, the glint in his dark eyes, even if Martouf chose to fight it. "It is your choice," Lantash spoke aloud, while inside he repeated sternly, 'It is his choice. He knows the risks.' "Yes, it is," Hebron returned, dipping his head a little towards the Tok'ra. "And you understand that if it is still a Goa'uld, then you will have no control over your body. You will be trapped, nothing more than a prisoner to the powerful personality within you. We might not be able to separate you. You could still die." Again, Hebron dipped his head. "And if it truly wishes to join the Tok'ra, then we will be far closer to destroying the Goa'uld than we could have ever hoped." Hebron breathed deeply, his gaze going distant. Martouf knew his lover was remembering what was done to him and his people, and he mourned for the joyful young prince that Hebron might once have been. When he spoke again, his voice was rough and deep, as though he spoke through thick smoke or terrible flames. "I would give up my life to see that goal achieved." At last, Lantash withdrew, and with a sudden jolt Martouf was moving to Hebron's side, his body responding without conscious thought. He needed to be close to him, but he forced himself to stop before they could touch. His hands swung at his side, as aimless as his thoughts. With a breath, he found a measure of his usual calm and let go of some of the fear burning in his heart. "Many have already lost their lives for that goal," Martouf said carefully, forming each word deliberately as his thoughts invariably turned to Jolinar, to the many Tok'ra who died over the centuries. It was a long list, and it took him a moment before he finished his thought. "But you do not have to die this day. The Council can find another host. You can wait for a real Tok'ra, as we planned." Hebron was already shaking his head before Martouf finished his last sentence. "There is no time. Anise said that the Jaffa and the symbiote will die if a host is not found within a day. There is no other choice." With a rakish smile, Hebron threw off his sadness and embraced hope. "I will bring you a weapon capable of winning this war, Martouf. The symbiote won't be able to deny me that." Martouf had to return the smile; it was as beautiful as it was infectious. If there was one host Martouf could have chosen who could not only survive a blending with a Goa'uld but come out of it the stronger, it would have been Hebron. He had already survived their tortures, their death camps, and their enslavement. Brave, proud, and as tricky as any Tok'ra who ever lived... Deep inside, he knew the truth of Hebron's words, a truth Lantash had already recognized. Martouf couldn't settle his disquiet, though. The war was escalating. Unable to resist the need anymore, he reached out to Hebron, running his palm down his cheek before pulling him into a strong embrace. Hebron gave easily, leaning into Martouf's chest as they wrapped their arms around each other. 'One last night,' he mused sadly, remembering other nights that weren't always the last, but could have been. Living in constant war for survival was not a way to live, especially not for a hundred years. Martouf was tired, even though Lantash--who had survived much longer than he could properly conceive--was still able to continue the fight. Within his symbiote, he felt the weight of centuries upon centuries, and a passionate soul that sustained them both. Martouf may be tired, but within his arms he held the hope of billions. "You will survive," Martouf said, turning his face into Hebron's neck. He pressed his forehead into the heat of his pulse, burrowing into the strength of his shoulder. "You will survive and we will celebrate." "Just the four of us," Hebron joked lightly. Martouf smiled into his skin. "Just the four of us," he promised. He kissed the pulse beneath his mouth, repeating it softly. Hebron sighed, his hips swaying against Martouf's body. If war had taught them one thing, it was to take the quiet moments when they came, and waste as little of it as possible. Pushing the thoughts of Goa'ulds and danger from his mind, Martouf opened his mouth, licking and sucking a mark on Hebron's skin, right where his neck met his shoulder. Hebron's head fell back as he stretched out and up, moving into the harsh kiss. His fingers dug into Martouf's shoulders, pulling him along as the man staggered back towards the bed. Martouf let him lead, blindly following as he clung to Hebron's body, worrying the same patch of skin with lips and tongue. He stopped just short of using his teeth; Hebron was not Tok'ra yet, and any marks would still be visible the next day. The thought made him growl fiercely. The Goa'uld may take Hebron's body, but Martouf was there first. They tumbled onto the bed together, Hebron groaning as he hit the hard platform. Martouf's landing was a little softer, though Hebron's hip was sharp against his stomach. He stretched up over Hebron, finally finding his lips and kissing him breathless. Martouf loved to kiss Hebron, the way he could be soft and open one moment, then hard and demanding the next. He kissed like he argued; changing tactic often enough to keep his opponent off guard, on edge, ready to explode even as he calmly took control. Martouf slid off Hebron's chest, rolling him along until they were on their sides, legs entangled as they kissed and moved and moaned. Clothes came off with ease; the Tok'ra garments were designed to be removed quickly, though romantic trysts had probably not been in the minds of the tailor. All the same, it made things easier. The slide of a hand, and Hebron's chest was bare. The tickle of fingers, and Martouf's shirt fell off his shoulders. The discarded cloth helped to pad the bedding, to give them a better buffer between hard crystal stone and delicate skin. Martouf's lips were sore, bitten, his hands scrabbling to caress Hebron everywhere at once. It was so good to touch him, taste him, but it never seemed to be enough. Tearing his mouth away from Hebron's skin, he rolled over, turning his back to his lover. Hebron's hand caressed his flank, and Martouf seized it, pulling Hebron's arm across his chest. He tugged until Hebron was flush against him, their bodies almost lined up perfectly. He twisted his hips, moving sensuously until he could feel the hot length of Hebron's erection sliding between his cheeks. Hebron buried his face into Martouf's hair, his hips unconsciously humping into Martouf's movements. "We need--" "No. Do it now." "But--" "I don't care." Martouf twined his fingers with Hebron's and moved their hands down to squeeze his own aching erection. He gasped and groaned loudly, not holding back at all as their hands moved over his skin. "I need it. I need to feel it forever." He was nearly babbling, his words not making sense to his own ears, but he knew Hebron would somehow understand. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hebron's fingers untangled from his grasp. They outlined the bump of Martouf's hip, stroked the curve of his ass. The delicate play tortured with tenderness when he desperately wanted more. The soft touch brushed up the ladder of his spine and finally fell off all together. The wet noise of his lover sucking his fingers was loud in Martouf's ear, and he whimpered aloud, needing haste. When the soft touch returned, it was more determined, leaving a cool, wet trail behind as it slid between his cheeks. His fingers were just slick enough to let Hebron slip two fingers inside. The shallow burn was almost too good, too much, and Martouf's hand squeezed hard around his own erection. "Please. Hebron. Now," Martouf panted out, each word punctuated with a breath. He shivered as Hebron kissed the back of his neck. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered. Lantash had withdrawn to the edges of Martouf's consciousness. The host's inattention to his Other made it seem as though he were alone with Hebron, but now his symbiote pushed to the surface. There was a moment of blending. Every sensation jittered and magnified, nerves tingling as two minds felt the incredible pleasure of Hebron's fingers moving inside them, his body pressing against their back, his lips on their skin. Martouf's groans thickened, and his throat felt dry as Lantash spoke. "We can take it. Please..." Hebron nuzzled Martouf's nape. His fingers withdrew, every movement as tender as before. "Take care of him, Lantash," Hebron whispered fervently as he positioned himself. Both symbiote and host knew he was speaking beyond this rough coupling. Lantash nodded, and then stepped back once more. All thought for his symbiote, indeed all thought at all left Martouf's mind as blunt pressure grew, his body stretching until finally Hebron was inside. He teased, just on the edge of his entrance, hips barely moving. It was beyond torture now; every nudge made it seem as though Hebron was about to pull out, but instead he was pushing in, further and further, just barely slick enough to ease the movements. The ache was bearable, his body giving way as it had done so many times before. Martouf reached out and pressed his hands against the wall in front of him, using it as leverage to push back, but Hebron remained steady, slowly working forward just a little with every bump of his hips. The intensity of those tiny thrusts burned into Martouf's memory. He wanted to remember every moment, every sensation, to burn it into his skin so he could keep it forever. Even after they were both gone, Lantash would carry the memory of host and lover, of this moment and so many others. In eternity, somewhere, they would still be making love, in memories never forgotten. It seemed an eternity before Hebron stopped, his body plastered wet and trembling against Martouf's back. He ran his hand aimlessly up and down Martouf's chest as he paused, his breathing heavy and strained in Martouf's ear. His hips moved in tiny circles, causing the hot length of his erection to shift. It was maddening, the pleasure. Martouf hissed as Hebron withdrew almost completely, and then slid back inside with a long, slow movement. Martouf clawed at the wall, his body torn between want and need and pain. Tiny injuries tingled, Lantash already healing them, already coaxing his body to accept the invasion, amplifying the pleasure and the ache and every sensation until he was nearly crying from the intensity. Hebron petted his chest, moving down to grasp his penis. Martouf was only half-hard, and Hebron stroked him carefully, his face rubbing into Martouf's hair. "Are you... do you need... oh, I'm..." It was hopeless to try to speak. Martouf let go of the wall, his hand dropping across Hebron's roughly. He squeezed, hard, and started to stroke himself with Hebron's hand. He communicated the only way he could, through wordless noises of pleasure, his body jerking and twisting into his lover. Hebron didn't need much more coaxing. Martouf could feel the moment Hebron stopped holding back, his body suddenly surging forward with relentless determination. His hips pounded into Martouf, quick and deep. It wasn't long before Martouf was shuddering and gasping through his orgasm, his hips jerking back to draw out the pleasure as long as possible. Hebron's sticky hand grasped his hips, and he rolled Martouf onto his stomach. Holding the cradle of his pelvis in both hands, Hebron bore down hard, driving himself into his own orgasm. He coughed and groaned and nuzzled the side of Martouf's head as he thrust a few last times, then slid out, falling onto the blankets beside his lover. Blindly, his limbs weak and muscles trembling, Martouf pulled himself closer to Hebron, his head falling heavily onto his lover's heaving chest. Hebron gasped for long moments before he threw an arm across Martouf's back, hugging him a little closer. The noise of their pleasure still rang off the crystal walls, most likely traveling the labyrinthine corridors of the hidden Tok'ra base. Martouf smiled, placing a half-asleep kiss atop Hebron's heart. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't remember the words any longer. Even Lantash was reeling from their shared pleasure. Instead, he let his mind settle, the exhaustion pulling him into sleep. *** Though the Tok'ra didn't have doors, three large guards certainly served as well as one. Lantash was chafing for a fight, wanting to simply force their way out of the room since Martouf's gentle, but stern, negotiations were falling on deaf ears. He wasn't about to give into Lantash soon, but his symbiote was wearing down his resistance. Martouf tried again, letting his annoyance echo in his voice. "I wish to see Hebron. You cannot keep us in here." He took a step closer, feeling a quick trill of fear. "Please, tell me what has happened." Martouf had awakened to find the bed beside him empty and the entrance to the hallway blocked by the three guards. They would not speak to him, or acknowledge his commands. A terrible, dark thought occupied his mind--that they had already taken Hebron, that somehow things had gone wrong and he was dead. Lantash shared his anxiety and his anger, but not Martouf's withering patience. The symbiote growled deeply, "I do not want to harm you, but you will let us pass." A rush of quick temper flashed down Martouf's spine, and he felt the Tok'ra preparing to push his way through--fight if he had to. Before he could make the attempt, the guards suddenly snapped to attention, crossing their staff weapons across their chests. The guard in the middle stepped back and to the side, opening the entrance so that Freya could walk in. Her face was impassive, and before she spoke Martouf knew it was Anise in control. "I am sorry that you must be detained--" "I want to see Hebron," Lantash demanded, his voice deceptively calm. "You cannot." "I want to be there when it happens. It is my right." "We cannot allow it." "You cannot stop me." Martouf's eyes flashed, and his muscles twitched with a surge of strength feeding into his limbs. Lantash stalked across the room and pushed his face close to Freya's so that he could look deep in her eyes as he growled, "I brought him here. Hebron is mine, and I will not allow you to harm him. You will tell me what is happening, then you will take me to him." Anise, for her part, was unaffected by Lantash's aggressive display. "We are preparing him for the transference. Shau'nac of the Red Hills will arrive shortly. I am sorry for the..." She glanced over her shoulder, pausing as she considered her choice of words. "Interference. But it was necessary. You have another part to play." Lantash growled deep in Martouf's throat, drawing out the noise like a warning, but he didn't speak. Anise continued, unphased as before. "As you said, Hebron is your..." Again, she paused, choosing her words carefully and with much difficulty. It was a surprise when she dipped her head, and Freya looked up, her eyes soft and apologetic in a way that Anise could never hope to copy. "Hebron is your mate," Freya said, and Martouf could sense the sadness in her words, the connection that only two hosts could feel and that the symbiotes could never understand. She offered a shy smile in apology for her symbiote. "You know him best. You could tell if it were really an equal blending, or if the symbiote was simply pretending to be Hebron." Lantash barely listened. "Why can I not see him now?" Freya's gaze flickered to the bed, before centering on the far wall. "There is already much tension between the Tau'ri and the Tok'ra. An incident during the transference might further upset the balance of our alliance. If the blending doesn't go well..." Lantash nodded angrily, forced to concede the necessity in the precaution. In the past, Martouf was the one to smooth over any "incidences" between Lantash the Passionate and the Tau'ri--those times when his control slipped and diplomacy was replaced with cold, hard truth. If something should happen to Hebron, neither of them would be able to be very diplomatic. Freya stared at Lantash expectantly, and he snapped, "There is more?" Freya bit her lip as she dipped her head, allowing Anise to return and give what was surely unpleasant news. Anise gave no sign of Freya's apprehension; she delivered the news with a cold voice. "If they survive, and it is determined that the symbiote has not turned to the Tok'ra cause, then it will be your responsibility to guard him, and watch for any signs of danger." Martouf could bear it no longer. He forced Lantash's consciousness to the side. "You will not remove the symbiote?" "No. He will be more valuable if he believes his deception has been successful." Anise narrowed Freya's eyes, her head tilting up as she studied him. "You will be required to act as though the blending is equal, no matter the outcome, Martouf. This is an opportunity we cannot let die." It was a shrewd choice of words. Martouf knew that no matter what the Goa'uld's own private mission was, the Tok'ra would not kill it until every last piece of information was extracted from its mind. Even if Hebron was destroyed in the process. Martouf felt sick, dizzy. Even as Lantash shared his anger, his symbiote pragmatically agreed with the wisdom in Anise's words. The war was bigger and more important than any individual life. But in his own thoughts, Martouf couldn't make his emotions agree with them. He stumbled to the side, navigating his way to the bed before he could fall to the floor. He sat heavily on the edge, the warm, wet scent of their bodies still clinging to the blankets. Anise coldly stated, "He knew the risks." "Did you tell him that you were going to leave that thing in? You know as well as I what the Goa'uld did to him." "Yes, I do know. They have done the same to countless millions, and will continue to do so if we do not find a way to turn this war." "But did you /tell/ him?" Anise pulled herself straight, folding her hands in front of her chest. "I could not. If the symbiote knew of our plan, then all would be lost." The thought of Hebron being trapped--not for a few hours, or a day, but for years perhaps, while that Goa'uld wore his face... It was too horrible to imagine. Hebron was strong, yes, and brave, but no one should be forced to suffer that much. 'It is not yet hopeless,' Lantash's thoughts whispered to Martouf. 'It is possible that the Goa'uld has changed, that all this clandestine planning will be for nothing and a new Tok'ra will be added to the cause. A new hope, to end the war.' 'I never knew you to be an optimist,' Martouf silently countered, resenting briefly that he could not escape Tok'ra pragmatism even in his own mind. Another guard appeared at the door, coming to Anise's side with a serious look on his face. "The Tau'ri and the Jaffa have arrived. They are on their way to the rings." He waited until Anise nodded her head before he stalked out of the room. Anise dipped her head to Martouf was well, but before she could leave, Martouf called her back. "Anise! I want to see him as soon as it is done. Before anyone else does. I need to... We have to see him alone, to be sure." She seemed to think it over. For a moment she simply watched Martouf's face, Freya's eyes distant and calculating. Finally, she dipped her head again. "As you wish." *** Martouf could feel him before he came into sight. It was like a piece of ice sliding across his neck; Lantash shivered as he sensed an unfamiliar symbiote. Martouf was already starting to stand when the guards parted from the door and disappeared. Anise entered the room, her face unreadable. She folded her hands in front of her. "The transference was successful." Martouf sucked in a shivering breath, not sure if he could trust himself to speak. The need to see Hebron was a bright stabbing pain in his throat, a giant fist in his stomach, and yet he feared the moment just as much. What if it wasn't his Hebron? Would he be able to keep up the charade? There was no more time to spend on such thoughts; a dark figure stepped through the entrance. He moved slowly, majestically, his head held high with a slightly amused expression. For a moment, Martouf could almost believe it was Hebron, but the man's eyes were cold. "Martouf." Hebron's voice was still beautiful, its music enhanced by the deepness of a symbiote's voice. "Leave us," Martouf said to Anise. She paused, but he begged her with a look. She, or more likely Freya, understood, and Anise backed out of the room. A lone guard remained, but all that could be seen of him was his staff weapon and a little bit of his right arm. They were as alone as any Tok'ra could be. "Hebron?" Hebron's face smiled, but it was an alien gesture without a hint of its usual warmth. Whereas Hebron wore his regalness lightly, ready to cast it off in deference to a greater leader, this person held all the arrogance of a Goa'uld. Of a Tok'ra, too, Martouf noted, thinking of his own symbiote's haughtiness. They were all arrogant; only the hosts were capable of being humble. "He is here," the symbiote assured, teasing cruelly. "Let me see him." Lantash was threatening to come forward, to take over in a situation where Martouf was losing his control, but Martouf held him back. It was something he had to do. "I want to see Hebron." The symbiote let the smile slide into something almost flirtatious. He dipped his head, looking up through his lashes. He blinked, and his stance changed--shoulders dropping, spine relaxing. Hebron's fingers wiggled, as though they had fallen asleep. Then he looked up. "Martouf." Hazel eyes were shadowed black by thick lashes, but the gaze was warm, inviting, and filled with love. It was Hebron. Relief flowed into Martouf's body, stealing his ability to breathe. He couldn't move, but that was just fine as Hebron had full control over his body. The fluid steps, the sinuous grace of those hips, that smile... It was Hebron. His arms were around Hebron before Martouf even realized he'd reached out for him. As he held him tight, he marveled at the familiar strength and heat, the way his lover felt in his arms. It had to be real. He pressed his face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent. "It is you." "Yes," Hebron said quietly. He nuzzled against Martouf's ear and squeezed him once more around the ribs. Then his arms slipped down to Martouf's waist and pushed him away. Their eyes met. "I am fine," he said slowly, drawing out the words. "It... is strange." He smiled crookedly, his eyes going distant for a moment, as though he were listening to a distant song. "You were right; I had no idea what it would be like." "Your neck!" Martouf reached out, drawing his finger down the side of the wound, red and bloody but already healed. The front of his shirt was torn open, the clasp ruined by the violence of the action. "Who--" Martouf cut off his own words, turning his head away. He looked over Hebron's shoulder towards the door, his mind moving faster than his words could follow. Lantash had seen similar wounds hundreds of times. It was the mark left by a Goa'uld when it took over its host. Usually they would enter at the back of the neck, so that they could forget the horror on their host's face. As Martouf stared, Lantash came forward. "Something went wrong." His deep voice had a dangerous edge. Martouf's blood-coated fingers slid over each other as Lantash folded his hand into a fist. "Who did this to you?" "I did." The Other rose to the surface of Hebron's mind, eyes flashing and voice distorted. The transition was seamless; the symbiote was secure in the blending. For a moment, they glared at each other in challenge, testing each other's strength. It was Hebron's symbiote who broke the eye contact, turning away with a somber frown. "They had waited too long. It was dangerous; Shau'nac would have died." "His shirt?" Hebron's eyes flashed. "He did that to himself." Lantash made a noise, like a growl deep in his throat. "I swear it. He offered himself to me." Hebron's spine straightened, and he held his head high. "You should be proud of him. Without hesitation, he opened himself to me, and saved my life as well as that of my Jaffa." "Hebron, is this true?" "Yes." The voice came from the open archway. Both turned to see Anise walk into the room. Hebron bowed his head in acknowledgement, but Lantash watched her with suspicious eyes. "Tanith was forced to leave the Jaffa. Hebron knelt beside her and offered himself. There was no time for anything else." "'Tanith'?" Lantash repeated, his eyes sliding towards Hebron. His eyes glittered a moment, then grew dark. "I am sorry to interrupt," Anise continued, "but the implantation is completed. The Jaffa Shau'nac is asking for you." Tanith dipped his head towards Lantash, that strange flirtatiousness twisting his mouth. "I will return." Martouf wished to answer, but Lantash kept him from speaking. "I look forward to it," Lantash said softly. Tanith nodded to Anise and stepped out of the archway and into the corridor. The guard by the door snapped to attention and followed close behind as they headed towards the infirmary. Lantash kept his gaze on the man until he disappeared. "Is he Goa'uld?" Anise asked. "I have my suspicions," Lantash answered. "He is different, but that might be simply from the blending. I do not think I like this Tanith." Finally, his symbiote subsided and allowed Martouf to speak his mind. "I think Hebron speaks freely. He seems so..." But even in his desire to see his lover alive and healthy, Martouf could feel that niggling doubt in the back of his mind, itching as Lantash swam in uncertainty. "Yes?" Anise prompted, impatient. "I need more time. How can I tell anything after only a few minutes?" Anise paused, then dipped her head. "Very well. I hope you are correct, Martouf." She turned without waiting for a reply, following the same path Tanith took towards the infirmary. Martouf collapsed onto his chair, feeling his strength drain from his spine. Within he communed with his symbiote, Lantash's thoughts flowing as fast as his own. The few moments they spent with Hebron and Tanith were replayed over in their minds, searching for a clue, a sign of hope, or of failure. It offered no comfort, but it kept their minds occupied. By the time Tanith returned, Martouf and Lantash had come to only one conclusion--that Tok'ra never trusted someone upon first meeting them. And if they were anything, they were Tok'ra. Martouf didn't stand to greet Tanith as he walked in the door, but sat and watched as he calmly crossed the room, ignoring the Tok'ra guard who once again positioned himself beside the entrance. It was likely they would have to suffer his presence for a few days at the least. Martouf studied Tanith with new eyes. He didn't look at him as his lover, but as a stranger. It reminded him of the first time he met Samantha Carter--the odd sense of familiarity in a stranger's body. He hadn't trusted her at first, but she had proven her worth. He wanted to believe. Tanith stopped just a few paces away from Martouf. He didn't carry himself as a stranger. Confident, arrogant, at ease, in control; like Lantash, Martouf wasn't sure if he liked Tanith yet, but he couldn't deny that feeling of connection. It had not led him wrong with Samantha. Tanith tilted his head back, his shoulders rolling in a stretch. His shirt was once more tucked into place, but the red line where the symbiote entered could still be seen glistening just above the collar. He moved with an unconscious grace, stretching and yawning. When he met Martouf's gaze once more, he could sense the difference in the man. "The Tau'ri have left," Hebron said softly. He drew in a long breath, his gaze darting around the room. "Shau'nac is resting. She is adjusting well to the primta, but is exhausted by her ordeal." "And you?" Hebron's gaze once more returned to Martouf. He gave a weak smile, but it was pinched and tired, barely a shadow of its normal radiance. "Ready to save the universe." "You look ready to fall over." Martouf gestured to the only other place to sit in the room, the bed, and Hebron took the offer, perching on the edge. The silence drew out as Martouf sought a point of conversation, but he kept coming to the same question. Finally, he simply asked, "What can you tell me of Tanith?" Hebron seemed a little surprised by the question. His eyebrows hiked, and his gaze turned inward as he considered it and found the words to answer. "He's...young. And yet, I can sense so much--so much of a past. It is as though I just have to direct my thoughts, and I can see so much that is not my own." Hebron searched Martouf's face for some sign of recognition. "Was it like this for you? This...confusion?" Martouf nodded with a rueful smile. "Oh, yes. Sometimes even now, I can forget which of us is thinking, whose memories I am sensing. It can be overwhelming." He grew serious again. "But I think your feelings might be a little different. A symbiote carries the genetic memory of its progenitors. I cannot imagine what Tanith remembers." "Yes." Hebron pulled away a little, his arms wrapping around each other. Lantash's memories weren't always pleasant, and the symbiote held a great shame for the distant Goa'uld past he could still remember. For Tanith and Hebron, that past was not so distant. They fell silent for a moment, each contemplating the weight of the conversation. Hebron broke the tension with a tight, short laugh. "No one told me it would be so awkward." "What?" Hebron gestured around him. "This. You. I've known you for years." His smile grew mischievous. "I know you /very/ well, and yet, I feel like I just met you. I haven't been this nervous...in a long time. I keep expecting the worst things to come out of my mouth." "Like the time you complimented Garash on her breasts?" Martouf asked through a teasing smile. "How was I supposed to know that was an insult on her home planet?" Hebron's grin grew wider. "They were very nice, though." "Yes, they were." They shared the memory with a leer and a nod, and suddenly Martouf slid out of his chair to join Hebron on the bed. How could a Goa'uld remember such an obscure fact of its host's life? If it were not a true blending, then how could it carry out such an elaborate hoax? The last of his doubt fell away. It started out as just a friendly squeeze on Hebron's shoulder, a smile of assurance, but Martouf's hand slid across his shoulder and without thinking he had Hebron in his embrace. Martouf rubbed his cheek against the side of Hebron's face. "I have missed you," he said simply, feeling as though a hundred days had passed. Hebron laughed, a small huff of noise against Martouf's ear. "I never left." Hebron rubbed his fingers over Martouf's short hair, sending tickling sensations down his spine. His lips grazed Martouf's ear. Before more could pass between them, Martouf pulled back, shifting out of Hebron's arms. His lover looked hurt, but he calmed him with a smile. He carefully walked to the archway. "Guard," Martouf addressed the Tok'ra standing there. "There is no further need for you tonight." When the man didn't leave right away, Martouf leaned close. He spoke in a whisper, so soft that Hebron could not hear. "Tell the Council members I will speak with them. They are expecting my report. Make sure they are all gathered." The guard nodded and marched down the hall, his face serious. Martouf knew he wouldn't be back for a while. The base was large, and though most of the members were still on planet, they were scattered throughout the sprawling corridors It would take time to gather the Council on such short notice. If it were not enough time, they could wait for his report. It would be well worth it; Martouf had good news. He turned back to Hebron. The new Tok'ra smiled slyly. "What did you tell him to get him to leave?" "Merely that I wished to spend some time with my mate, and perhaps his time would be better spent... elsewhere." He stalked across the room back to the bed. Hebron stood to meet him, his mouth open and wanting when Martouf pressed against him. They undressed, barely breaking away, fabric suffering when it clung to skin too long. The need to be as close as possible was strong, stronger than the night before. They were celebrating a victory rather than preparing for defeat. Even their kisses were almost brutal in the urgency. Martouf's shoulder bruised when Hebron knocked him onto the platform, but he growled playfully, taking it as payback for the night before. His lover was heavy, and they wrestled for dominance. For the first time they were of equal strength, equal bearing, and Martouf rejoiced in it. He tore his mouth away from Hebron's to sink his teeth into his shoulder, nipping and sucking bright marks he knew the symbiote would quickly repair. Hebron chuckled deeply, his voice rough and almost metallic. It sounded so strange, so alien to Martouf that he pulled back, his head knocking against the rucked-up blankets. Hebron looked down at Martouf, and his eyes flashed white. "Tanith," Martouf started to say, but Tanith cut off his words by devouring his mouth. His teeth knocked painfully against Martouf's lip, almost drawing blood. For a moment, Martouf felt annoyed at the symbiote's presence. It was /his/ time with Hebron. He struggled to pull away, but Tanith gripped his wrists hard, pushing them down to his side as he kissed him again. He was softer this time, but not as elegant as Hebron with his tongue and teeth. Martouf settled, returning the rough kisses with licks and nibbles, teaching his new lover what he liked. Martouf tried to reach up and reposition Tanith's head, but his wrists were gripped harder, held down. He struggled for a moment, playfully, and felt bruises begin to form as Tanith squeezed too much. When he tried to speak, to turn his head away from the kiss, Tanith latched on with teeth, winning blood from his lips this time. "Hebron," Martouf gasped. He felt the surge of strength in his muscles from Lantash, but still could not break his bruising hold. Tanith's deep voice oozed into Martouf's ear. "I know you like it like this. I remember..." He returned the bite Martouf had given Hebron, only rougher, teeth lingering in the flesh to gnaw and tear until Martouf was sure he was going to come away with a chunk of flesh. He continued to struggle, but still couldn't get loose. Tanith finally lifted his face from Martouf's shoulder, his lips tinged red. His eyes flashed, and it was almost with relief that Martouf felt Lantash answer the challenging look on Hebron's face. His body shivered with the power the Tok'ra brought to his body, the way his injuries were already healing. Tanith growled, showing his teeth, and Lantash answered, wrapping his legs around Hebron's waist and pulling him closer. Martouf wanted to protest, but he could feel the determination of his symbiote, the fierce protectiveness that so dominated the Tok'ra's mind. "We can take it," he challenged Tanith. Within, he completed the thought. 'For Hebron.' Lantash stretched up his neck, licking at the line of dried blood left behind by the implantation. The metallic taste filled Martouf's mouth like a wound. Tanith let go long enough to position himself before he held Martouf down and drove into his body. The dry entry had to be painful for Tanith as well, but he didn't stop, thrusting forward at a brutal, unrelenting pace. Lantash concentrated on shielding the pain away from Martouf, protecting him even in this. He wanted to protest, but he could feel a part of himself breaking as Lantash stared up into the familiar face, taking the cruel fucking, encouraging it. He had never seen such a look on his lover's face, the sadistic joy at watching the pain he was causing. He searched Hebron's eyes, looking for a hint of the man hidden behind that mask. All he saw was Tanith, eyes flashing as he grew more violent, loving every thrash and writhe of Martouf's body as Lantash played along. Finally, Martouf looked away, turning his consciousness completely inward so he wouldn't be forced to think of how they had failed. Hebron was lost. *** The Council members were gathered in the Council hall, their faces expectant. Martouf couldn't face them, so it was Lantash who reported. The Tok'ra couldn't hold back his anger as he addressed the Council members. "He is Goa'uld." "You are certain of this?" Anise asked. Both symbiote and host felt the sting of those words, though they knew she held no malice. She was merely being thorough, as she had asked many times before. "There is no doubt." His body still stung with healing wounds, carefully hidden beneath the layers of his Tok'ra clothes. The Council members solemnly looked to each other, nodding as though they had known all along. Lantash's anger spiked. "I ask again that you remove the Goa'uld from the host immediately. Hebron should not be expected to suffer through this. He has--" Lantash cut off his words, distracted by the swell of Martouf's furious thoughts, the perfect echo of the symbiote's. Lantash turned his face away as he fought to find their calm with the storm of their emotions, not looking up until he could do so without betraying their pain. "He has suffered enough. We should end this before he is damaged beyond our ability to repair." Five heads bent close, conferring in low voices. Lantash's fierce protectiveness comforted Martouf; his Other would not leave Hebron to suffer longer than was necessary. They would fight, together, to protect him. The Council members sat back, all eyes concentrating on Lantash. Garshaw's face was hardly sympathetic. "We cannot remove the Goa'uld from the host. He is too valuable. We will continue with the plan." Lantash growled, showing Martouf's teeth through his curled lips. "Tanith is a monster. He should be destroyed before he has a chance to cause any more harm." "Tanith is our best chance at gaining valuable information about the Goa'uld," Garshaw corrected. "No doubt he is already planning a way to contact the system lords in order to betray us. We must allow him to do so." "We will not only be able to control what information he receives," Anise added, "but we will be able to understand how he reports the information to his master. The advantages far outweigh the risks. We will be able to better protect our operatives." "And what of the host? How will you protect him?" The members briefly shared meaningful looks between them before Garshaw answered. "He will not be allowed off planet. You will be assigned to watch over him, as we agreed. He will not suspect the reason. We will keep Hebron safe, as much as we can." "What if the Goa'uld does something to him?" "You will be there to prevent it," Anise answered confidently, oblivious to the pain on Martouf's face. "Hebron knew the risks. As do we all when we are called into battle. You know this. It is the way of war." "I am tired of war." Martouf could feel the weight of the centuries bearing down on them both. Though his body was healing, Lantash could not soothe the pain he felt inside. He ached for Hebron, for the thousands dying this very minute, for the worlds yet to be saved. He ached for every host ever forced to submit to a Goa'uld. Martouf knew the joy of a blending, of sharing his body, mind and soul completely with another being, but he couldn't comprehend the horror of being trapped in that same body, mute witness to a thousand atrocities. The Council session was interrupted by a single guard charging through the open door of the chamber. His face was red, and he seemed to have run from one side of the base to the other. He barely bowed before delivering dire news on his labored breath. "The Jaffa is dead." Martouf was already running through the archway, not even hearing the words the Council exchanged with the guard. The corridors were mostly empty, the sense of alarm apparently contained within the single messenger. He headed towards his quarters, to where he had left Tanith alone, but he was stopped short by several Tok'ra in the corridor. Another guard, and two Tok'ra he recognized from the infirmary. The doctor, Ren Al, knelt on the floor next to a crumpled figure. She was pulling a piece of linen over Shau'nac's face. "What has happened?" She looked up at Martouf with a distant expression. "The primta was too young, and she had waited too long. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. I am surprised she was able to walk this far." Martouf looked around, noticing that they were by a new alcove in the ever-growing maze, a small guest room set up for the Jaffa. So close to his own quarters... "There was no other cause?" Ren Al looked almost insulted by the insinuation. "What other cause could there be?" He turned his head and looked down the hall in time to see Tanith carefully picking his way towards them. There was a smile on his face that disappeared almost the instant Martouf saw it, a sickly smug grin that faded into a transparent mask of sadness. "Is she--?" "She is dead." He placed his hand over his heart, bowing his head. "Unfortunate," he said softly. Then Tanith turned and returned to their room, leaving the doctors to clean up the body. *** The Council members as well as several other Tok'ra stood in a formal procession as the powerful guards lifted the poles of the liter and began to carry it towards the glowing ring of the Stargate. Anise led the procession, her face solemn, her hands folded before her. She had been the one to make contact with the Jaffa Shau'nac, and she would be the one to take her body back to the man who had fought so hard for her life. Her sacrifice would be remembered by the Tok'ra, as they remembered all who fought and died by their sides. The blue-liquid light dissipated as the Stargate disengaged, and the assembled crowd broke away, returning to the safety of the underground caverns. Martouf lingered, his eyes unfocused as he stared into the wasteland framed by the empty ring. One day, all sacrifices would be accounted for. "A pity they waited too long to bring her here. Her strength could have brought many to the cause." The metallic-distorted voice of Hebron's symbiote crackled over the desert, filled with calculated sorrow. Martouf closed his eyes, not yet ready to look upon the creature that hid behind his lover's face. Tanith continued speaking, oblivious to the knowledge that tormented the Tok'ra. "We can only hope her lover, Teal'c, can somehow carry on her legacy." There was almost laughter in Tanith's voice, Martouf could sense it. "I do look forward to seeing the rewards of his efforts." 'And to other Goa'uld spies to add to the Tok'ra ranks,' Lantash remarked coldly, his mental voice rising above the frenzied venom of his thoughts. Martouf gathered strength from his Other's anger, finding his own calm in the face of Lantash's emotion. He turned, facing Tanith, and replied solemnly, "I am sure Teal'c will not allow her death to stop his crusade against the Goa'uld." He reached out and touched Hebron's shoulder in a familiar gesture of comfort, feeling the strange tensing of muscle that was completely alien in the man's body. "I am sorry we could not save her." Tanith tilted his head in acknowledgement, then his eyes slid to the side where two Tok'ra guards stood, staff weapons crossed over their chests as they watched the Stargate from a discreet distance. "Perhaps we could continue this in private..." Martouf felt a pulling in his heart, a painful tightening that stole his breath for just a moment. How he once had lived for that invitation in his lover's eyes... "I cannot. I must wait for Anise's return." It was a lie, but he offered no explanation, no sign that it was anything out of the ordinary. Tanith barely glanced over Martouf's features before he dipped his head and gracefully turned to follow the fading marks in the sand where the others had disappeared. Martouf watched until the tall figure was lost over the hillside. He turned his gaze back to the empty ring, the dying wasteland beyond it. Anise would return soon, but she was not the one for whom he waited. Despite the warmth of the distant sun, Martouf felt chilled. Perhaps it was just the cold, hard truth he was just beginning to truly comprehend. 'I should not have let him go.' 'It was not your choice.' 'I know. It is war.' 'There is still a chance...' 'It is a most dangerous game they play.' 'We all play.' 'Have always played.' 'Some will live. Some will die.' 'And some we can still protect.' 'We will not leave him.' "We will protect you," Martouf promised aloud, addressing the emptiness. Lantash's thoughts settled in his mind, a strange kind of calm falling over them both. There was nothing more they could do now but wait, and watch. As long as Martouf and Lantash survived, so too would Hebron. They would die before they would abandon him to the Goa'uld or to the Tok'ra's secret plans. Martouf and Lantash comforted each other with vivid details of what they would do to the symbiote once it was removed. They would enjoy watching the extraction process, witnessing the creature writhe and twist in agony. They would welcome Hebron back and find a way to heal his wounds. "We will not leave you." THE END

(polarity (po-lar'-i-tee) def.2 the presence of two opposite principles, qualities or tendencies) "She sells it." Such harsh words. He knew Jim had been taken aback by his attitude. After all, it was usually the detective taking the moral high ground, passing the judgements, not the hippie grad student who embodied the principal of live and let live. And as usual, Jim hadn't figured out the why behind the disapproval. It wasn't because she was a whore. It wasn't even because she was capable of so much more. Either of those, Jim would have understood. Blair shook his head, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window and staring out over the bustling grounds of Rainier University at full Autumn swing. It was because of the risk. She could lose so much. So much more than she realized. Practicality and need had no place in the world of written law and court judgements passed down by men in dark robes who had never had to sell the only thing they owned to make a dream come true. He tried to tell Amber that, last night, after he had loved her into exhaustion. Not an easy thing to do to a professional, but he had hidden resources, and he'd been up to the task. She had smiled at him with her eyes as well as her lips, and he'd kissed her goodbye knowing it was luck, not his words, not the circumstances, but plain stupid luck that would save her, too. People who said there had to be other ways to make a living were right. Those who said there were easier ways didn't have a fucking clue what they were talking about. Bartering one's body was easy. Ingrained. Bred in the bones. Anthropologically speaking, a medium of exchange that crossed cultural and period boundaries. Too easy. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and closed that little door in the back of his memory once again. He had too many other things to do. Things that he had to do. Things that he could do. Turning back to his scattered texts, articles and citations, he put Amber Larkin from his mind with a final wish for good luck, and returned to the central focus of his life. There had to be something in here that could help Jim with that filtering problem he was having with his hearing … ~ two years later ~ "Hey, Sandburg." "Hey, Rafe, how's it hangin'?" Blair nodded to various cops as he made his way deftly through the crowded bullpen. He'd been busy the last few days with mid-terms and Jim had been spending a lot of time at the station, so he didn't waste any time getting to his partner's side. In the last four years he'd learned that when Jim went into hiding, something nasty was in the offing. "Hi, Megan," another nod to Connor, barking in the phone, a smile over to Taggart, a wave across the room to Brown, and he was at his place. Jim glanced up long enough to toss him a strained smile, then went right back to staring at the computer screen. Thumping his backpack on the floor and shoving it under the chair with a practiced foot, he leaned over the detective's shoulder. "What's up, Jim? You've been pretty quiet lately-" He choked on the words as his throat closed up. There was a picture on the screen. A young woman, late twenties, long dark hair wound so tightly into the skin of her throat that the strands were indistinguishable from the bruised flesh, eyes staring blindly, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth to run along her jaw and pool beside her ear on the dirty pavement. She lay sprawled in what looked like an alley, from what few details were in the picture. The resolution was excellent, the scanner had been high quality, and the vivid colors assaulted his eyes. Her shiny, tight tube dress had ridden up on her splayed thighs, leaving a clear view of her ripped panties and the neck of the beer bottle that had been shoved into her. The pool of blood under her hips was much larger, darker in color, soaking under her buttocks and dribbling along her side. One hand lay on its back, fingers curled in the air, knuckles stained by the blood. The world tipped, spun, and Blair fought as hard as he could to keep from vomiting all over Jim's desk. No doubt sensing the change in heart rate and perspiration behind him, Ellison clicked the mouse and minimized the picture. It didn't do any good. Instead of the soothing blue and white of the Cascade PD insignia, all Blair could see was the afterimage of the dead woman on the screen. "Sandburg? Are you okay?" Strong hands reaching out to touch him, grasp his upper arm, and only then did he realize he was swaying. Light blue eyes full of concern and a measure of guilt scanned him, and he shuddered, ripping away from the grip and heading at high speed for the restroom. It wasn't until he was on his knees in the stall losing his breakfast that he realized that Jim was right behind him. A gentle hand stroked his hair out of his face, another offered a wet paper towel. Leaning his flushed cheek against the rim of the bowl, he coughed up the last of his stomach's contents, then buried his face in the towel. Dimly he heard the toilet flush, a door open behind him, Jim rumble something, the door shut. Not one of his finest hours. "You okay, there, Chief?" That soft rumble behind his ear, backing up the solid grip on his shoulder. Oh, yeah, fine, Jim. Never better. Just give me a minute to get my belly out of my throat and back where it belongs. Did you know frogs throw up by vomiting up their stomachs, digging out the contents with their fingers then swallowing the stomach back down? Bet you couldn't give a shit. I know I don't. He raised bleary eyes to his partner. "Yeah." Sounded like broken glass. The image came back, and he could literally feel the blood draining from his face. The world did that irritating swing again, and Ellison caught him before he keeled over and cracked his head on the rim of the toilet. "Maybe not." Strong hands came under his armpits, gently lifting and supporting him over to the sink. Clamping his own hands on the rounded porcelain edge, he gritted his teeth and shook his head until it settled down a little. When he felt he could trust himself not to ralph again or, even worse, pass out, he glanced into the mirror, meeting Jim's piercingly concerned look. "I'm sorry about that, Jim. Took me by surprise, that's all. I'm okay now." Well, not completely, but he could handle it. No need to go laying this one on his poor confused cop friend. "No, Sandburg, I'm sorry. It's a gruesome scene, and you weren't prepared." "How do you prepare for something like that?" His voice was a thready whisper. "No, wait," he lifted a hand to forestall an answer, "don't tell me. Retain the professionalism, keep the distance, solve the crime, no good to yourself or others if you can't be objective. I got it, man." He tried out a reassuring smile. It came out sick and weak around the edges, but it did the trick. Some of the tension lines eased out of Ellison's face, although the worry remained in his eyes. "Are you sure you're all right?" That was his Blessed Protector. Toss him feet first into the twelve foot end of the pool, then throw him the water wings. "Yeah, man, all right enough. Is this what you weren't talking about?" A little nod, that white line around the firm lips, that muscle twitching in the side of that strong jaw. Oh, yeah, Jim was having a tough time with this one. Forcing all the bad shit back into the shadows where it belonged, he took a deep, steadying breath, splashed water on his face, rinsed out his mouth and turned to his partner. Gesturing toward the door, he waited until Jim reluctantly headed back out of the restroom before saying anything. "So. What's the story?" Jim's forbidding look and Blair's reassuring nods kept the concerned inquiries to a few quizzical, quickly dampened looks. By the time they returned to Jim's desk, all was back to normal with the other cops. Blair nodded toward the computer, and Jim sat down, maximizing the screen and quickly opening the next page in the report. Blair carefully didn't look at it until his peripheral vision assured him that the only thing on the screen was text. "Prostitute, aged late twenties, early thirties, found three nights ago in an alley off Jackdaw street behind a bar. Street name was Babydoll, real name Madison 'Dolly' Montiguez. Several priors for solicitation, a few stretches in county, nothing major, no drugs, no connections. And nobody's talking. Even her pimp has gone to ground. She had a one room place she shared with two other girls, but we didn't find anything there that was helpful." In response to Blair's questioning look, Jim shrugged. "You were giving a test, Chief, and it wasn't a tough call." Both brows raised at that one, and Jim nodded. "Okay, the alley …" "Sucked." One hard word, a world of disgust behind it. Jim nodded. "Yeah. Sucked. But there wasn't much to find there, either. I just got the autopsy report today." He gestured at the screen. "Bled out. Massive hemorrhaging due to-" "I saw it, Jim. You don't need to go into details." The strain was back in his voice, as he pushed the words out past the blockage in his throat. Ellison stopped and stared at him, silently asking yet again if he was okay. He glared back. "What else?" "Well, at least she probably didn't know it." Blair stared at him. "How could she not know it, man?" "The killer had strangled her with her hair, and the pattern of bruising and placement of the corpse indicates that she was strangled before she was …" he stopped, narrowed his eyes, edited himself, and went on, "so she was unconscious when that happened, that she didn't struggle at that point, and probably never regained consciousness." "Thank god." He didn't pray often but he meant this one. Ellison nodded his agreement. "Any leads?" "No, and to tell you the truth, Chief, I've hit a dead end. There are no fingerprints on the bottle, none on her clothing, there were so many smells I couldn't isolate any specific to her other than the scent she was wearing, and there were no hair or semen samples recovered from the body. No skin cells under her nails, no indication that she fought at all, just gravel in the skinned patches on her palms and knees, a lump on the back of her head, and one hell of a lot of blood." And she's just a whore, Blair thought, but kept inside. He knew that Jim didn't differentiate, treated every homicide that crossed his desk with the same thorough attention, but he also knew that attitude didn't make it past the division. Simon would be just as willing to treat every crime the same, but the Chief of Police and the Mayor didn't. A murdered prostitute was something to sweep up fast before the tourists got wind of it, not a crime against a person that had to be solved. And if Jim said he had no clues, well, then, what Blair had to tell him wouldn't make one whit of difference. Slumping in his seat, he asked as calmly as he could, "Do you want to go back to the crime scene?" Ellison shook his head. "No point, chief. Nothing there to find." Instead of pushing the point, Blair let it slide. Just this once. Later that night, staring at the ceiling in his room, he listened to the soft exhalations of Ellison sleeping above him and let the door in his memory slip open just a crack. An experiment, a dream, one he was willing to change life as he knew it in order to pursue. Outwardly confident, excited, enthusiastic, inwardly alone as he had never been in his life. His earliest memories were of a commune, adults and children in one large, bustling tangle, a lap and a hug never far from reach. Later, as times changed and people drifted apart, it was he and Naomi, a commune of two, a mutual support society that was never broken, drifting together wherever the wind took them. Until a dream anchored him in one place, and the next time the wind blew, he was alone. Oh, not completely. He could always reach her, in an emergency, but he was determined on his dream. He loved people, was fascinated by them, wanted to know everything there was about them. Where they came from, why they did what they did, how they differed from one another. He wanted to be an anthropologist, and if that meant settling in at a University with people who were older than he was and more settled than he was and who didn't have a clue how to handle who he was, then so be it. He could deal with it. He had to, he had a dream to make come true. Except the reality wasn't quite like he'd expected. True, the classes were fascinating, and he had a few advantages over his classmates in that he'd been to a lot of the places they had only read about, and he was brighter than the vast majority of them. But he'd never been taught to hide his talents, he'd only learned to shine, and in a very short time he found himself adored by his teachers and ignored by his classmates. For the first time in his life he understood not only being alone, but loneliness. That wasn't the only problem. Financial aid covered the classes, and the texts, but not the living expenses. And while he wasn't a spendthrift, he didn't have the checks from home his classmates had, and he often found himself short of cash. He was in a dorm but had nothing in common with his roommates, who went out of their way to make things miserable for the skinny, runty little brat who was ruining the curve in their classes. He was adrift, vulnerable, although he only recognized that with the benefit of time and distance. He was looking for an anchor. He found Paul. A teaching fellow who taught Intro to Anthropology to the incoming freshmen, Paul was bright, and funny, and fascinating. He loved anthropology, but it wasn't his life. People were his life. He was always surrounded by friends, and he was always busy with one thing or another, but he also always had time for Blair. He listened, encouraged Blair to talk, took him out for dinner when the wallet got too strapped, let him crash at his place when the roommates got to be too much. Paul was gorgeous, light brown hair that showed gold in the light, big brown eyes, mobile face, big and brawny and beautiful. Blair would have followed him into hell. With a muffled oath, he squeezed his eyes shut, slammed the door on his memory, and buried his face in his pillow. Eleven years was a long time to go back, and like he was always telling Jim, repression was addicting. Unhealthy. Necessary. Another two days had passed, and the prostitute murder was pushed to the back burner by other, more pressing crimes that had more clues to follow. Ellison would bring it up on the computer from time to time, wander down to the lock-up to examine the victim's effects, but nothing new presented itself. Blair hung out, guided him through a very detailed examination of the blood-soaked dress, and did research beside his partner. The usual. Taking a break from a particularly dry if undoubtedly fascinating tomb on the correlation between game patterns, hunting rituals and tribal scouts, he wandered toward the break room in search of caffeine. Passing by Brown's desk he heard the detective bringing Rafe up to speed on one of his current cases. The first words out of Brown's mouth caused him to freeze. "Yeah, Nicola Hassim. Big time corporate chick, very high in marketing for Nordstrom's. Found her on her deck, hacked to bits. God, there was blood everywhere. Looked like some freak went finger-painting." Rafe mumbled something about headcases, and Blair felt the blood start to circulate in his legs again. Shakily, praying no one would notice, he bypassed the break room and made his way down the hallway to the supplies closet. Slipping inside, he let his knees do what they wanted to do and give out, sliding down to land in a little heap between the rolls of toilet paper and the fluorescent light bulbs. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he hugged them to his chest and rested his forehead on them. His hair fell down around his face, blotting out the weak light from the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, and he closed his eyes. They'd called her Nikki. Another brunette. Paul seemed to like the dark haired ones. The first time he'd asked Paul what he could do to repay him for his kindness, Paul had just smiled, then leaned forward, kissing him lightly. Blair hadn't shied away. He knew what sex was. It was impossible to grow up in a communal family without hearing things, and seeing things. Naomi had explained a long time ago about the body, and nature, and urges, and safety, and privacy, and loving the person not the package, and all those things. He'd lost his virginity to a girl when he was fifteen, shortly before deciding to go to Rainier. He loved Paul, and if that's what Paul wanted, he was cool with that. But Paul hadn't. At least, not after the first time. In the dark, in his mind, behind his closed eyes, a decade disappeared. It hadn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would. Paul had taken his time, used lots of slippery stuff, turned him on so thoroughly he hadn't really noticed until it was too late, but it was okay. He liked hugs, loved to be cuddled, and Paul was holding him. He'd come, so it couldn't have been too bad. "You're a natural, kid." Husky voiced approval, echoed in the light in those warm brown eyes. "I love you, Paul." To his surprise, Paul laughed. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but it hurt just the same. Before he could pull away, Paul pulled him closer and kissed the side of his neck. It felt wonderful. "No, you don't." He opened his mouth to protest, and Paul ran a finger along his lips, dipping into his mouth to press lightly at his tongue. "You like me, and I like you, and the sex was fantastic. But sex is, and you can confuse feeling great with loving somebody, especially when you like them." That sounded logical, but he wasn't sure he was supposed to be logical about this. He tried to raise the question but Paul's finger was easing in and out of his mouth just as Paul had just been easing his cock in and out of Blair's body, and the tactile memory was getting him hard again. He forgot the question. "You can have this any time you want it, Hotshot. Doesn't have to be me. It can be great with other guys, too." He wanted to protest, but the only sound he could make was a small moan around the finger in his mouth, as another finger quested along the crease of his ass, playing in the semen seeping from him, pushing at his hole, teasing him. The world polarized into those two fingers, his mouth and his ass, and before he was really aware of what was happening he was spreading his thighs again, whimpering, humping himself on those fingers, sucking desperately on the others. As the fingers left and the length of Paul's cock pushed back into him, he heard, dimly over his own moans, a satisfied laugh. "A fucking natural." A month later, he found out what a natural meant to Paul. He was desperate by then, wanting Paul so badly he was half hard all the time, but Paul wouldn't touch him. Then his roommates stole the last of his food out of the fridge when he aced his mid-terms, and he went around to Paul's house to beg some dinner. Paul was on the way out as he came up to the door. "Hey, man, are you … I was wondering …" Please feed me. Please let me stay. Please hold me. Please make love to me. Paul read it all without him having to say a word. "I'm on my way out to dinner, Hotshot, wanna come? There'll be some fun later." Blair was eager to go. Enjoyed the salmon and the rice and the veggies and the good wine, thought the Thai visitors were very interesting men, captivated them with his interest in their culture. The party moved on to their hotel, and Blair was given more wine, and there was more talk, far into the evening. Then Paul kissed him, and his clothes were stripped off him, and hands were touching him. Mouths were licking and biting at his skin, fingers running through his hair and along his legs, spreading them, slicking him. A mouth was at his cock, another covering his own mouth, a third, oh, god, eating him out, then stuffing him full. Then a cock was filling him, and he was blown apart, writhing between the mouth swallowing his cock and the one ramming him from behind and another somehow sliding down his throat, and he was moaning and coming and swallowing and the world was spinning away. He didn't know how often he was fucked that night, but he was taken at least once by all four of the Thai businessmen, and once by Paul. He sucked off at least two of them, but by then his memory was swamped with sound and images and tastes and smells, and he couldn't be sure. He didn't remember being dressed, but he came to in Paul's bed, with his mentor standing at the side of it, handing him strong tea and aspirin and grinning down at him. "A natural, Hotshot." And it had felt good. It had felt fantastic, in fact. He wasn't quite sure just what had happened, but his body had enjoyed it, if the lingering relaxation underlying the sore muscles was any indication. Then Paul had dropped an envelope on his belly. One thousand dollars. He stared at the money, tea forgotten. "What's that for?" His head was still muzzy, and he felt a little like he'd been hit by a truck, and he wouldn't be sitting down right for a few days, and he couldn't figure out why Paul was giving him a thousand bucks. "I told 'em you were a virgin," Paul said cheerfully, propping himself against the bureau and looking down at Blair. It still didn't make sense. "So?" Talk to me, he urged mentally. Explain to me. "For the sex. I told you it would be fantastic, even with other guys. And if they're willing to pay for it, hey, why not?" Blair stared at the money. "That would make me a prostitute." Paul laughed quietly. "You're not just a prostitute, Hotshot. You're a natural. You're hot, and you're horny, and you need the money. They were happy. You were happy. Did anybody get hurt?" Blair shifted, careful of his tender ass. "No," he said slowly. "Not really." "And they won't," Paul's voice turned serious. "I'll make sure they don't. I'll take care of you, Hotshot." The money had spilled across his lap as he shifted, and he stared at the bills. He could get that book he'd been wanting for months, the one about Burton that he'd had to special order. The one he wouldn't have been able to afford until at least next semester if then. And he could restock the fridge … maybe even get a little one he could lock in his room so they wouldn't steal all his food the next time he showed them up in class. He looked up as Paul lifted his chin with one gentle finger. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Blair. But if you want to, and if you need the money … you're not hurting anybody, and you're making some people really happy. And it feels good. So if you want to do it again, let me know. I'll make sure you're taken care of, Hotshot. I won't let anything bad happen to you." And he hadn't. Three months later, twelve weeks of no one touching him, six weeks after unwrapping the Burton tome and running his hands over the pages of his future, he went back to Paul. This time, Paul didn't go out with him. This time, he and a woman friend of Paul's went out to dinner; this time the visitors were German; this time he didn't drink as much wine; and he fucked the woman and was fucked in turn by the men. And it felt just as good as it had the last time. The next morning he woke sandwiched between the woman and Paul, with an envelope holding another thousand dollars tucked between his thighs, less of a headache, lassitude creeping under his skin along his muscles, and the sure knowledge that he would be doing this again. The woman's name was Nikki Hassim. He swallowed the bile from the mental image of Nikki violated as Dolly had been, forcing his mind away from the picture to focus on technicalities. He couldn't be said to be withholding evidence. It could be a coincidence. Brown would make it known soon if he was running out of leads, and Blair couldn't think how his knowing both women could help. It could only hurt. Running shaking hands through his hair, he composed himself as best he could and went back out to join his partner. The next few days defined hell. A small voice, gradually growing louder, was insisting that Blair tell Jim. A much louder voice, being slowly beaten down by the smaller voice, insisted that it would do no good, that it would destroy their friendship, that Jim would never understand and that it certainly wouldn't help the dead women. Jim kept sending him concerned little looks, but Blair ignored them. He had to process this. Had to come to a conclusion. Had to do something but he hadn't the faintest fucking clue what. Turned slightly away from his increasingly hovering partner, Blair did his best to tune him out and concentrate on his lecture notes. He was falling behind, all this distraction not doing a damned thing for his concentration. Underlining a point on structure in ancient Sumerian religious orders that he wanted to emphasize to his freshmen, he was startled to hear Megan's accented voice growling into the phone at her desk behind him. "I am well aware of the concept of attorney-client privilege in this country, Miss Saunders, but in case it has escaped your notice, your employer will not be invoking that privilege. Mr. Andros was murdered, and if we are to find the person or persons who murdered him we will require some cooperation!" His mind went blank. "Andros? Pyotr Andros?" He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Jim answered him. "Yeah, big-time corporate lawyer. Somebody killed him last night. Connor got the call. Why?" "Recognized the name," Blair managed to blurt out, then swallowed convulsively. Once was an accident, twice could be coincidence, but three times was a pattern. "Well, whoever did it did a pretty thorough job. They thumped him over the head, beat him to a bloody pulp then rammed a poker up his backside. Bled to death in his own office before anyone even knew the security system had been breached." Both Jim and Blair blanched at Megan's matter-of-fact recitation, for very different reasons. As Megan began to quiz Jim on operational procedure when dealing with balky secretaries, Blair stared down at the text now bleeding together into a swirling black mass in front of his eyes. He hadn't done it that many times. A half dozen, maybe eight times in the course of a year. The extra money came in very handy, and he was able to pay the incidental expenses when a research trip to the Tuxtla Mountains to study Olmec ruins came up. It was good timing, although at the time he thought it was a nightmare. Four days after he left on the three month long trip, Paul was arrested for running a stable of prostitutes, some of whom were underage. There were several charges brought against him, and during the trial, they were all proven. Seven of Paul's stable, including Dolly Montiguez, were arrested along with him. To his credit, Paul refused to testify about the women and men he had working for him, and since they were drawn from different schools on campus there was very little the seven arrested could tell about the others who hadn't been caught in the net. Others like Nikki Hassim. Pyotr Andros. And Blair Sandburg. Dolly and three others were convicted, as was Paul, but Paul got the harshest sentence, one that would keep him behind bars for several years. The courts didn't look kindly on what they considered to be child molestation. Neither did the convicts. By the time Blair got back it was old news, titillating but not in the front of everyone's mind and the tip of everyone's tongue as it had been eight weeks before. Blair was questioned perfunctorily, but more as a follow-up than for any real purposes of prosecution. He lied through his teeth with perfect innocence on his face, and they believed every word he said. Afterward, Blair shut down, devoted himself completely to his newly defined area of study, Sentinels, and tried to forget. Not what he'd done, but what had happened to the man he still considered that he loved. And his own guilt, rational or not, for escaping the punishment he believed that Paul had taken for all of them. Eventually, he pushed it all into a small, dark corner of his mind and slammed the door firmly. Now it was wide open. And blood was flowing through it like a fucking river. "Jim?" He cut into the discussion between the detective and the constable, not even realizing he was interrupting them. Megan cocked her head and studied him. "You all right, Sandy?" He was getting damned tired of that question. Of course he wasn't all right. He smiled at her anyway -- it wasn't her fault. "Fine, Megan, thanks. Jim, I need to talk to you." Jim looked askance at him. "So, talk." A question in his voice. "Not here." Megan made a movement as if to rise, and he waved her back into her seat. "We need to have Simon in on this one." Now both cops were staring at him. Jim opened his mouth to ask another question, and Blair simply stood and headed for Simon's door. He didn't see the glances they exchanged behind his back but he could feel them, then he heard Jim come up behind him. "What's up, Chief?" Quiet, concerned. Always protective. Dear lord, what this would do to Jim. Blair took a deep breath. Jim was just going to have to deal with it. There was too much at stake here not to come clean. There was a connection between all these corpses, and he was the only one who knew what it was. Pausing at the door, raising one hand and knocking firmly, he looked up over his shoulder at his partner. "I don't think I can say all this twice, Jim. Please, let me do this my way." Jim nodded, reluctantly, and Simon's muffled "Don't just stand there, come in!" came through the door. Blair took a deep breath and walked into the office, Jim trailing behind. "It better be important, Ellison. I've got the Mayor on my ass about this little murder spree we have going down and I'm not in the mood for piddly shit." Stress was showing on Simon's face, not to mention the chewed end of the cigar clamped between his teeth. "You'll have to ask Sandburg," Jim replied calmly, leaning against the table and crossing his arms, nodding toward his partner. Blair wondered briefly how long that calm would last once he started talking. Then he wondered even more briefly how on earth he was going to say it. Then the mental image of Dolly, overlaid first with Nikki, then with Pyotr, flashed in front of his face, and his mouth opened, words falling out on their own without any forethought or intent. "There's a connection. Between the killings. Jim's dead prostitute, Brown's dead businesswoman, Megan's dead lawyer. There's a connection." All in one breath. Then he hit a wall, staring at Simon, his tongue dead in his mouth. Banks leaned back in his chair and stared at him. "Well, go ahead, baffle me with your brilliance, Sandburg. How'd you find the connection?" He took a deep breath and the words came tumbling out again. "I didn't realize there was a pattern. One, maybe even two, that can be a coincidence, right? But not three. No way, man, you hit three and there's something nasty going down, something planned. There's a connection, and it's gonna spread, and I'm gonna get caught by it if we don't stop it and stop it now." Ellison came to his feet, all semblance of calm gone. "What the hell are you talking about, Sandburg?" "Dolly. Nikki. Pete. Me. We all … we worked for … Paul." The words were drying up as he tried to explain, to these two men who would never in a million years understand, what Paul had meant to him. "About eleven years ago. Paul Zaminsky. Graduate teaching fellow at Rainier U. My friend. We were all Paul's friends. And he would arrange things for us. He took a cut, but it was safe, we never went with anybody who'd hurt us. But we were all doing it. Sometimes Nikki and I would go out in a pair. But all of us were involved with Paul. Dolly was busted but the other three of us weren't -- some of the others were busted too, but they haven't died yet. Or at least I haven't heard about it." He stopped, drawing in a deep breath. "So, that's the connection." Into the dead silence in the office, as both men tried to figure out what Blair had been trying to tell them, two nearly whispered comments dropped. "Zaminsky." Musing, thinking back to another department, a whole different set of case files. "Go out? Worked for? What are you trying to tell us, Chief?" Disbelief, denial, the whole confused mass of not wanting to believe a word he was hearing. Blair paced back and forth along the front of Simon's desk. "Paul set up dates for people-" "Ran a stable of prostitutes," Banks interrupted. "I remember that case. I was in Vice then, right before my promotion out. Several students at the University were involved in a prostitution ring that … we … broke …" His voice trailed off and he stared at Blair, his eyes widening. Blair nodded. "No. Fucking. Way." That was his Jim. Deny reality as long as possible until it reached up and swatted him across the face. Blair turned to face him. "Amber's not the first student to sell what she can to make her tuition payments, Jim." His friend looked pole-axed, jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder they couldn't hear the enamel cracking from his teeth from clear across the room. "I was on a research trip to the Isthmus when Paul was arrested, or I probably would have been as well. Nikki was at a semester exchange at Harvard, or they'd've probably got her. I don't know how they missed Pyotr. But that's the connection. Somebody's going after Paul's group." Turning from Jim's set face, he stared back at Simon, still sitting there staring at him like he was an alien somehow dropped by mistake into his office. "We need to catch him, and I know how we can do it. Make me bait." "NO!" Blair flinched, certain they could hear that bellow all the way down to the streets. Reining in his instinctive movement to go to his Sentinel and calm him, he licked his lips and kept going. "The murderer has a list. I'm on it. If Nikki was on it, then I'm on it. He's going to be coming after me. With or without your protection. At least if I'm a tethered goat, man, I'll be a goat with guards." He turned back to Jim, one hand reaching out in spite of himself. Jim withdrew, not much, but enough to freeze Blair in his tracks. Letting the hand fall to his side, he repeated, "With or without you, Jim. I don't want to end up cut into chunks all over campus, man." Ellison turned white, then green, and Blair nodded, feeling green himself. He swiveled his head, to find Simon very slowly nodding his head in agreement. "Kid has a point, Jim. He's a target. We can put him into protective custody, in which case everyone at the precinct will know why," at this, both Jim and Blair choked, but Simon swept on. "Or we can call in a few trusted detectives, watch him around the clock, and catch the bastard when he goes after the kid." He paused for a moment, casting Jim a challenging look, daring him to find a logical reason not to run the sting. Jim stared back, then glanced over at Blair as if he'd never seen him before. Blair watched Jim's chest rise and fall as the man took a very deep breath, then nodded his own agreement. "I don't like it," Jim said quietly. "I don't like any part of it. But Sandburg has a point. He is a potential victim, and he will be a good draw." He paused, swallowed, then stared straight at Blair. "We have to talk." "Later," Blair put him off. "We will." He risked it again, one small touch to Jim's forearm, and this time the flinch was obvious even to Simon. Blair pulled back, took his own deep breath, and turned back to the Captain. Work first. Eliminate the threat. Then see if there was any way to heal the damage. The task force, if it could be called such, was a small one. Brown, Connor, Ellison, Banks and Sandburg, all the detectives currently working the Stable Killings, as Brown had dubbed them once they got the an edited version of the story. Simon downplayed the extent of Blair's previous involvement with the victims as much as possible, and the others believed that he had known them through his advisor, and that the killer would target him because of his past association with them. Nothing was said of Blair's own activities. Banks was quite happy to keep that just between the three of them. The next three days were tense. There had been no pattern of time or place to the previous three killings, one at work, one at home, one on the street heading back to her apartment after a night of picking up johns. Ellison provided cover during the nights with Brown as back up in a surveillance van out on the street. Megan shadowed Blair during the days, with Jim hovering as unobtrusively as possible in the background. As hard as constantly being watched was on Blair's nerves, the nights were even harder. Jim wasn't talking to him. Jim wasn't touching him. Jim wasn't fucking well acknowledging his existence for the most part, although every time he twitched Jim twitched in response, so obviously the Sentinel's senses were all trained on him, even if he was invisible to the man. Part of him was relieved -- he wanted to get this threat eliminated before he got into it with Jim. But the majority of him was pissed, and getting moreso by the day. Came down to judgement, again, passing it without even hearing his take on things, without wanting to know. And it pointed out the gulf between Jim Ellison, cop, soldier, man of rigid code of behavior, and Blair Sandburg, student of life, experimenter, risk taker, man open to experience without making moral judgements on a black and white scale. Neither was completely wrong, and Blair was willing to accept that. But neither was completely right, either. They were different, polar opposites in ways that went deeper than clothes and hairstyles and surface attitudes, that went to the core of who they were and how they saw life. He didn't know how to explain that those differences were acceptable to him, made the other man fascinating, made other people fascinating, and he didn't know how to ask if Jim was up to the challenge of simply accepting those differences. He was fighting with that dilemma Thursday afternoon in his office when someone knocked at the door. It wasn't office hours, and he wasn't expecting anyone. He tensed, then glanced at the small light blinking beside his desk on the floor -- the cameras were rolling, Megan and Jim were watching. "Come in?" Friendly, open, normal Blair voice. Not even shaking. He was proud of himself. A medium sized man with brown hair and faded brown eyes stepped into the room. His hands were empty, his demeanor was non-threatening, but Blair found himself tensing even more. There was something familiar about the man. "May I help you?" Looking up from his chair, one hand over the panic button just in case. "Blair Sandburg?" Soft voiced, to match the soft eyes. But there was something behind them … "Yes, and you are?" His hands were starting to shake. The man leaned against his door, staring at him. "My name's Benjamin. I'm a friend of someone you used to know." "Really? Who, man?" His eyes. His eyes were so much like Paul's. He reached instinctively for the panic button, and a flash of light caught his eye. A burning numbness spread across his wrist, and he stared in disbelief at the knife now pinning his sleeve to the desk. "Paul Zaminsky. He was my cousin. He was a good guy," the man said, coming across the small office swiftly. Behind him, someone, probably Megan, began gently rattling the doorknob. Blair hadn't even seen him lock it. "'Til a bunch of whores ratted him out to save their own asses and he went to jail." He was behind the desk now, his hand reaching out. With a startlingly swift movement, he jerked the knife from the desktop and brought it up under Blair's chin. Blair drew back in fear, and the knife followed, until he was pinned against the back of the chair, Benjamin leaning over him. "They said he was a child molester, but he didn't do nothing to any kids. They didn't care." The knife slid down his throat, leaving a burning line of blood in its wake. Blair stopped breathing and tried not to swallow. "Said he killed himself in there, but he didn't. They killed him." The face got closer, until Blair's field of vision was full of sad, angry brown eyes. "You killed him." "No, man, I loved him. I wasn't even in the country when he was arrested." It was hard to talk with the weight of the blade over his adam's apple, but he had to try. "I loved Paul, I would never have done anything to hurt him." Over his attacker's shoulder, Blair saw the corner of the door as it slipped quietly open. "Cascade police. Drop your weapon." Megan's voice was ice cold and completely steady. Benjamin didn't even acknowledge her. "You killed him, and I'm going to kill you." The anger unbalanced the sadness now, and Blair could see the tinge of madness below it. Megan couldn't shoot, not without risking the knife slicing into Blair's throat. He couldn't see anything but Benjamin's bulk in front of him, didn't know if Jim was even in the room or not. He licked his lips, staring up at the man holding his life at the edge of a blade, and knew without a doubt that he was going to die. The hands came from out of nowhere, a nylon cord held between them, looping over Benjamin's head and around his neck before anyone else could move. A knee came over and around, knocking the killer's elbow away in concert with the quick, hard tug of the cord, and Blair was suddenly free. He skittered sideways, scrabbling on his hands and knees out of the chair, around the desk and over beside Megan. She swept him behind her with one strong arm, and leveled her gun on the struggling men. "Don't kill him, Ellison," she reminded Jim. "Simon wants a live body for trial, if you please-" Before she could finish the sentence, Benjamin broke free of the strangle hold, slicing backward with the knife and nearly gutting Jim. The side of the desk caught Jim in the thigh and he almost went over, losing his balance for a crucial moment. Without wasting another breath, Connor drew a bead and fired, taking Benjamin directly in the middle of the back as he was lifting the knife to bring it down across Ellison's neck. Jim got his hands up in time to deflect the knife, throwing the wounded man off him. Benjamin was dead before he hit the floor. Staring at the corpse, panting, Jim stared over at Megan. "I thought you said the body had to be breathing?" She shrugged. "He was about to gut you like a fish." She jerked her chin over to Blair, staring in revolted disbelief at the mess on his office floor and absently trying to staunch the blood flowing down into his collar. "And he hurt Sandy." One hand came down and lightly patted Blair on the head. He wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, throw up, or run as far and as fast as he could while he still could. Before he could make up his mind, the back-up crew, led by Brown and Simon, crowded into the small office, and he did the next best thing. He retreated into a corner, let the paramedic that followed the cops clean and bandage him up, and did his best to shut down his mind. He knew the quiet wouldn't last, but at least Jim kept what was left of his hair on long enough for them to make it through statements, reports, final rundown with Simon, Connor patting him some more, and Brown giving him a hug. The ride back to the loft was tense, silent, the atmosphere between them so thick he could practically taste it. Blair was exhausted, but knew better than to think this could wait until they had both rested. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep with all this still between them. And after it was out in the open, he wasn't sure where he was going to be sleeping. Trailing along behind Jim out of the elevator and along into the loft, he dropped his backpack in a handy spot for a quick getaway, right beside the door, and perched on the end of the couch. Jim prowled over to the kitchen, snagged a couple beers from the fridge and tossed him one. Taking his favorite 'interrogation' position leaning against the window with the weak sunlight coming from behind him, shading his face, Jim wasted no time in preliminaries. "You ready to tell me what the hell just went down, Chief?" That was his Sentinel. Straight for the jugular. He gulped a good half the beer in three swallows and stared down at it, absently picking at the label. Almost all his instincts were screaming at him, based on a lifetime of experience, to obfuscate like a mad fiend. But one lone instinct was protesting just as strongly that this might just be the time to do something, well, different. Neither Jim nor Simon had hauled his butt in when he'd admitted to them that he'd been a working boy. Who knew? Maybe the statute of limitations on prostitution was past or something? Before he could go any further with that train of thought, a weird low rumbling noise starting coming from his partner. Recognizing the standard Ellison Talk to Me or I'll Whack You growl, Blair took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and went with the first instinct that made it past his lips. To his own complete surprise, it was truth. "I would never have said a word about it if it hadn't been for the murders." The beer bottle label was fascinating. Much more interesting than the thundercloud passing for his partner's face. "Why the hell not? I thought we trusted each other?" Anger he could handle, guilt he excelled at, but that layer of pain was something he had no defenses against. Tearing his eyes from the bottle in his hands, he forced himself to meet Jim's gaze. Yeah. That was pain, alright. "We do." He ignored the disbelieving snort and continued. "I do. But the past is just that -- the past -- and there's not a damned thing I could do to change it, even if I wanted to." "If you wanted to?" Disbelief was quickly washing everything else out of Jim's voice. "Yeah, Jim, if. I didn't see anything wrong with what I did at the time, and I don't now, and I know you do, and always will, and what's the point in introducing a topic into our friendship dynamic that we are always going to take diametrically opposing positions on? Huh, Jim? What's the fucking point?" He didn't realize he was shouting until he stopped. The silence was much louder than he'd expected. Jim was looking at him like he didn't even recognize him, and damn, but that hurt. "You don't think it was wrong?" A very quiet question. Maybe Jim was going to listen. "No, I don't. It was consensual-" "You were a kid!" A little less quiet. "I'd been taking care of myself since I was eleven years old, Jim, to all intents and purposes. I wasn't even a virgin. In some cultures, girls are considered women and boys are considered men at the onset of puberty. Even in some western cultures, the age of consent is as low as twelve, and in countries that don't penalize homosexual relationships, the age of consent is the same for any sexual activity, which is usually about sixteen. I was older than that. Women get married at fourteen in many places. My point, if you want to hear it, is that nobody forced me to do a damned thing." "He turned you into a prostitute, Sandburg." "He didn't turn me into anything, Ellison. His name was Paul. He was my friend. He fed me, he gave me a place to run when I needed to hide, he took care of me, and when I needed money, he pointed me in the right direction to get some. I don't have a moral issue with that. The law does. You do. I don't. If I hadn't gotten that money, I wouldn't have gone on fieldwork that got me hooked on studying Sentinels, I wouldn't be here now, and you'd probably be locked up in a padded cell someplace tasting colors." Ouch. He hadn't meant that to come out so harshly, but he knew, he just knew, what was coming. Of course Jim didn't disappoint him. "So I'm supposed to thank the son of a bitch for using you as a whore?" Shit, but that hurt badly. "HE DIDN'T USE ME." Okay, screaming was probably not the right reaction. Somebody had to keep their cool in all this. Unfortunately it didn't look like it was going to be himself. Somehow or other he'd ended up off the couch and nose to nose with Jim. Well, nose to sternum, anyway. The thought broke through the red haze and tickled his sense of humor, and he grinned in spite of himself. Wrong move. "What the fuck is so funny, Sandburg?" Woah. Jim had one hell of a grip. His biceps might never be the same again. "You were a kid peddling your ass for a creep who was taking advantage of you! God only knows what kind of diseases you could have picked up, what could have happened to you! That's a damned good way to end up dead!" Oh. So that was the problem. Time to rethink the strategy. He'd been sure Jim's objections would be on moral and legal grounds, not protective ones, but he should have taken that into account. Opening his mouth to address the issue, Jim blasted right on past him. "Not to mention that it's illegal!" Ah, so they just hadn't gotten to that part yet. "That bastard had the morals of an alley cat, and he dragged everyone else around him into it! Even if you did consider yourself an adult, it was the wrong thing to do, and if you couldn't see it, he sure as hell should have!" Okay, enough of this shit. Yanking himself back as far as he could in the iron grip holding him in place, he glared fiercely up at Jim. "Item one. IN MY VIEW, what I did was not immoral. It was my body, it was my decision, it was not forced, I ENJOYED IT, and if I had it to do all over again I WOULD. Item two. Paul didn't make me do a goddamned thing I wasn't quite willing to do. I came to him, not the other way around. Item three. I'm clean, I'm healthy, I used the fucking rubbers, and I lived through it. I would not do it today-" he upped the glare by a factor of three to stifle Jim's I told you so before it could escape - "because I have other options. Not because I have hang-ups about doing it. Because my best friend is a cop and if I was hustling now he'd have to arrest me. Because now I can get the fucking grants and the loans I need to cover what I need, and because I have a niche now that keeps me from being alone, and because-" A finger covered his lips, stopping the flow. "Alone?" Shit shit shit. Trust Jim to find the one weak link in the chain. "Yeah, Jim, alone. It was partly for the money, hell, mainly for the money. But part of it was to keep me close to Paul. I don't think he used it, actually, I don't care if he used it, but it was there. I'm not alone now." "It was wrong, Sandburg." His eyes closed in sheer frustration. Stuck needle. Endless logic loop. Basal polarization of world view. It just wasn't happening. "We are never going to be on the same side on this, man. I accept the fact that you think it's wrong. You have to accept the fact that I don't. We get past it or we don't. Your call, man. You want me to leave?" The hands on his arms grew rigid. His eyes slitted open and he stared up at Jim. Oh, but that sucked. From the look of the wide, empty pupils and the distraught expression, it was a full-fledged zone-out. Forgetting the argument, forgetting everything but the Guide imperative to reach his Sentinel, he began a steady stream of reassuring words, trying to reconnect Jim through hearing. To supplement the effort, he lifted his hands and began gently running them over Jim's chest and shoulders, before finally cupping his jaw and standing on tip-toe to look more intently into his face. A flicker, but not enough. He intensified his efforts, right in Jim's face, words flowing over one another. "C'mon, Jim, it's okay, nothing bad's gonna happen, come on back to me, big guy, everything's okay, it's gonna be all right, man, I'm right here, Jim, not going anywhere, it's okay, Jim, come on back now-" Mid-litany, the air flow was cut off as Jim sparked back to life, leaned forward, pulled Blair against him, ran a hand into his hair and kissed him like he was never going to let him go. Blair nearly passed out, from shock if not oxygen deprivation. Felt like Jim was checking every individual tooth to see if it was loose. He had never been so thoroughly kissed in his life. When sparkles were starting to show across his vision and he was getting light headed, Jim finally broke the contact. "No." Huh? Pardon me, big guy, but my brain is steamed jelly and most of it just evaporated. Care to elaborate on that? "Huh?" "No, don't leave." Then that mouth was on his again, and he couldn't have moved if his life had depended on it. All his brain cells were scattered, his muscles, with one major exception, resembled boiled noodles, and every nerve in his body was screaming for more. One thought did manage to survive the sensual onslaught, and he wrenched his mouth away long enough to ask a question. Jim's grunt of disapproval at his actions was heartening, but he had to ask anyway. "Did you kiss me because I was a whore?" He could have phrased that with a little more delicacy, except that most of his higher reasoning skills were centered in his erection and couldn't care less about motivations. Jim shook his head, obviously struggling to find some words himself. "No." Well, good, then why'd ya kiss me? "Part of who you are. Love you in spite of the past." Thank god for mental communication. Wait a minute. Love? "In spite of? Not because of? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, Jim, there hasn't been much indication that you had any intention at all of jumping my bones until you found out they'd been hired for that purpose in the past." Hey! Cool! Polysyllabic words! Good thing he had a sense of humor to hide the fact that he was both completely confused and half afraid he was about to get his heart broken. Oh, hell. Today was a day for epiphanies. Looked like Jim might not be the only one in a leaky boat on this ride. "Only way I knew to tell you it was going to be okay." Maybe not so leaky after all. And if worse came to worst, he did know how to swim. "How okay?" Lord, that one came from his ankles. From the shiver running up and down Jim's frame, looked like it had the intended effect. Jim bent down and started devouring him all over again. Feelings Blair hadn't allowed himself to express in years rushed through his body with the force of a runaway freight train. Next thing he knew, he was climbing Jim, wrapping his legs around those strong thighs, clutching at his shoulders, his arms, grinding his erection against the hard lump behind Jim's zipper. This is what had been building the last three days of silence. The last four years of partnership. Over breakfasts and during stake-outs, with each rescue and hug and cuff to the chin. He knew this urge, but never with this depth, never with this pure, raw need pushing it. He wanted Jim to a depth and breadth that he'd never thought existed. And he wanted him now. Clothes were an obstacle, but not for long. Nothing survived completely intact, but they could always pick up the buttons later, and knowing Jim's house rules, they undoubtedly would. Instincts trained by experience and enhanced by need took over, and Blair feasted on Jim from his brow to his knees, pulling him over to the couch and toppling him onto it without ever letting go. A love bite to the tendon along the side of his neck invoked a satisfactory moan, suckling bites to nipples showed all sorts of tender spots he hadn't expected, and talented hands working at an impressive erection got both of them totally wound up. By the time Blair got to Jim's groin, neither of them was capable of a coherent word. Which was fine with Blair. Whimpering worked. In fact, when he had swallowed Jim down to the root, whimpering was an added bonus. Jim really dug the vibrations around his cock, if the low level screaming coming from a few feet above his busy head was any indication. Jim tasted good, salty along the length, sweet when he pulled out and Blair teased the slit with the tip of his tongue. Smelled good, too, even to regular old senses, clean sweat and musk. And god, the way he felt … Blair's hands wrapped around the tight muscles of his buttocks, playing with the cleft, gently rimming and retreating, while keeping up a steady suction. When he judged that Jim was just about to lose his control completely, he backed off, gently petting and soothing him. Two or three times at doing that, and Jim was putty in his hands. Well, putty with an iron peg in the middle of it. While he'd been sucking and tormenting Jim, Blair's other hand had been busy. It had been a long time, but he knew what he was doing, and he knew what he wanted. Pumping strongly, he buried his face between Jim's thighs, sucking along his perineum where a love-bite wouldn't damage anything necessary like a testicle if he lost a little more control than he was planning, and holding his cock hard against his clenched thighs, he triggered his own orgasm. Judging from the muffled shriek, he'd bitten a bit harder than he'd meant to, and Jim was holding a pillow over his mouth. Cool. Didn't want to freak out the neighbors. He licked along the hot skin as apology, simultaneously soothing and driving Jim nuts, and gathered up the spilled semen from along his own leg. Spreading his legs, he nuzzled Jim's balls while at the same time spreading his own thighs. The combined taste of Jim and feeling of his own fingers probing at his anus caused an almost painful twitch in his relaxed penis, but wasn't quite enough to bring him back up. Only time would do that, and he had more pressing matters to deal with. There was something he wanted and he was damned sure going to get it. If nothing else, if Jim regained his sanity when this was over and wanted nothing more to do with him, at least he would have this. Gently tugging Jim's balls away from his body, holding them there, he moved up Jim's body. Straddling his hips, he reached up and kissed the base of Jim's throat, as high as he could reach while still holding Jim's sac. Then he slid his hand along Jim's length, spreading sweat and pre-cum along it, to ease the way that his own semen had prepared. Rising up on his knees, he carefully positioned Jim's cock and eased the tip into his body. It felt fucking incredible. The feeling had to have been mutual, for Jim was staring at him, eyes huge, mouth wide open, nothing but harsh pants coming out. His fingers were gripping Blair's thighs, not hard enough to stop him, more to steady him. Oh, yeah, Jim wanted this too. Blair smiled down at him, touched one finger to Jim's mouth, and sank down onto his cock, at the same time slipping his finger between Jim's lips and rubbing against the center of his tongue. Christ, that hurt. Even relaxed from orgasm, even loosened, the first few moments felt like he had a blowtorch up his butt. It didn't take long, however, with Jim sucking on his finger and making tiny circular pushes up into him, for the muscle to relax and the pain to melt into pleasure. Kinda like riding a bike, once enjoyed never forgotten, only of course if you tried to do this outside in the sunshine in the middle of the park dodging Frisbees you'd be arrested way before you got to the good part. Blair clamped down on his runaway thoughts and moved his hips experimentally. Oh, shit, yeah, yeah, god, yeah. No pain left. Anywhere. His brain was flying on endorphins and his body was moving all on its own, a sinuous little dance over Jim's cock that had them both on fire in seconds. He'd forgotten, or more likely never really known, how good that felt. Jim had been hanging on the edge too long for it to last as long as either would have liked, and when he came, the quick, jerky thrusts up against Blair's prostate shooting fire along his veins finished the job for him as well. There wasn't much to shoot, but he spasmed anyway, back arching, one hand falling behind him to clutch at Jim's quads, the other holding his cock more for comfort than encouragement. Then he was falling, limp, exhausted, onto Jim's chest, and Jim's arms were around him, and Jim's cock was slipping free, and he was pulled up and cuddled and surrounded and safe. Dimly, he was aware of words mumbled into his ear. Forcing himself to pay attention and not fall immediately asleep as his body was demanding, Blair concentrated on Jim's voice. "We're never gonna agree on it being right, Blair. But I've done things in the past I'm ashamed of, too." Blair sighed. Nope. Still didn't get. Maybe never would. "Not ashamed," he managed to mumble into Jim's shoulder, knowing Sentinel ears would hear every word, hoping the Sentinel's brain would actually listen. "Not proud. Just was. Over now." That was the extent of his effort, all he could muster. He hoped it would be enough. Jim, not being all that good with words even when his brain wasn't mush from incredible sex, release of tension and declarations of love, wrapped himself as far around his partner as he could reach and simply held him. As Blair drifted off to sleep, he read the things Jim couldn't say in the way Jim touched him. It was going to be okay. More than okay. It was going to be forever. ~F~I~N~

"Penny for your thoughts?" "Huh?" Donovan sighed as he caught sight of the slightly concerned look behind the smile, knowing he would not be able to brush off his mood with this person. Julie knew him too well. "Tyler." The smile melted into compassion as Julie hitched herself up onto the bonnet of the pick-up using the bumper to give herself a firmer footing. They sat in silence gazing across the dusty compound to where the last rays of a dying day slipped over the edge of the world plunging them into twilight. Julie shivered as the air grew noticeably colder. She smiled again as an arm snaked around her tiny waist to pull her into the warmth of Donovan's body, pleased that the end of their relationship had not also ended their closeness. "So, what about Tyler?" "I was just wondering where he is... right now." Julie shook her head in quiet resignation. To anyone else, Michael Donovan appeared to be as open as a book but, over the years she had discovered layer upon layer of defenses hidden below the surface. Some of them had been easy to peel away, others had taken the bitter experience of war to understand and yet there were still many more secrets hidden behind the locked doors within his mind. However, she had figured out a long time ago that the constant bickering between Tyler and Donovan was just a camouflage. Underneath the macho front were two men who were afraid to admit they cared about each other but getting Donovan to admit this would be near impossible so she chose her words carefully. "We all miss him - and Robin, and Chris..." "Sure." Julie chewed on her lower lip, certain she had missed something very important, something that danced around the edges of her mind, too elusive to capture when there were so many other things to deal with. "I came out to tell you we had a message from Tyler." Julie felt herself pushed away as large hands grasped her shoulders, his body twisting round until they were face to face. The chameleon eyes were wide with sudden interest. "What did he say? Is he on his way back?" "He said they had a few problems getting to Chicago but to tell everyone - you and Elizabeth - that they're all okay. He didn't say what he was doing next but I got the impression he's heading further east - perhaps New York." The light seemed to go out of Donovan's eyes and he looked away across the compound. The silence lengthened with the shadows and Donovan gave a wry smile as he likened the encroaching night to the darkness that eclipsed his soul. His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the soft shivering of the small body sitting close by his side. For a moment his spirit lifted as he remembered how lucky he was to have such a good friend but then he thought of the stocky man with ebony eyes that teased and taunted. What he would give to have that body by his side right now to dispel the gloom that weighed down his heart. Tyler had a knack of goading people out of their bouts of self-pity that was too calculated to be mere insensitivity. Donovan smiled as he wondered who Tyler was manipulating at this moment. His mind gave another translation to that thought and he felt a stab of resentment as he wondered whether Tyler had found someone to help him through the long, lonely nights. He hissed in annoyance. What Tyler did was none of his business and if the man should find some willing body to ease away some of the stresses of his life then what right did he have to complain. Brutally, Donovan squashed the small inner voice before it could be heard. "It's getting cold out here, we'd best get inside. We'll head back to LA in the morning." Confusion crossed the pretty features at the choked up words, certain once more she had missed something of extreme importance. "Sure." Donovan pushed himself off the bonnet and started to walk back towards the main building. He stopped suddenly and looked back. Their eyes met as the last light faded and Julie drew an inward breath as she read the intense need in her companion. He reached out towards her and, after a moments hesitation, she jumped from the bonnet and took his hand. ******************** "Are you awake?" "Hmmm Hm." "You're in love him, aren't you?" Julie heard rather than saw the head that turned towards her. A ragged sigh filled the quiet room. "How did you know?" "You called out his name when you came." "Oh God, Julie. I'm so sorry..." "Ssshh, it doesn't matter. Our love affair ended months ago. I'm not even sure why I'm here now except you needed me tonight - needed someone." The silence stretched between them as Donovan waited for the angry accusations of being used. He frowned, his breath catching in his throat when he realized Julie had no intention of making a big scene over his love for another man. "You don't mind me loving Tyler?" Julie laughed softly at the tentative words. "I've seen so many terrible things since this war began that a simple thing like that isn't going to faze me. Does he know?" A small choked laugh followed before he answered. "You must be joking. Can you imagine what he'd do if he ever found out?" "I think you'd be surprised..." "Sure, surprised if he leaves me alive. That man doesn't know the meaning of love. Jeezus, why did I have to fall for him?" Julie smiled to herself in the darkness. She knew things about Tyler that would... but now was not the time for discussion as she could sense Donovan was too wrapped up in self-pity to listen. ******************** The end of the war came swiftly following the arrival of the Leader, almost an anti-climax after all the years of fighting. Julie nudged Donovan's side as the shuttle carrying the Leader and Elizabeth took off towards the Visitor home planet. "Now that scares me." Donovan flicked his gaze over to where Diana stood with her henchman, Lt James. The metallic bands that bound their wrists gleamed as they awaited passage back to Sirius to stand trial for their crimes against the Leader, but it was the small smile playing about Diana's lips that caught Julie's eye. That Diana was up to something was not in doubt. Donovan's attention was recaptured by the ignition of the shuttle's main engines. The sudden flash of light filling the viewing screen as the craft exploded into a million pieces brought gasps of horror from around the large hangar bay. For a moment Diana was stunned. She had ordered James to set the timer on the bomb to detonate once the craft had reached the Dark Zone but that was many days distant from Earth. Her mind leaped at the opportunity to take advantage of the situation and she whipped the laser pistol from the holster of her momentarily distracted guard, her expression changing to false anger and disbelief. "Traitor!!" A shot rang out, echoing alone around the vast flight deck for what seemed an eternity until joined by fire from several more weapons. "Philip!" Donovan pushed his way between the scattering figures to where the Inspector General of the Visitor forces had crumpled to the floor. He pulled the Visitor into his arms, horrified by the green stain that spread across the bright red uniform. "Julie!" The small woman was at his side before he had finished calling her name, her hands pulling apart the tunic to examine the wound. As the realisation of what had happened swept through the tall resistance leader, horror was replaced by anger. Carefully, Donovan laid Philip's head on the floor and jumped up to join in the battle that raged around them. He spotted the dark, curly hair of his adversary, now free from her shackles and he wrestled a pistol from a nearby Visitor. Donovan added his own firepower to the fierce battle. The dark head jerked back as one of his laser bolts sliced across her perfect cheek. She screamed in pain, clutching her face where the pseudo-skin hung in a blackened and tattered ribbon. Donovan kept on firing as Diana's troops retreated. "Donovan." The well-remembered voice cut through the noise of laser fire and Donovan turned back to where Philip was leaning up on one elbow. Julie was sitting beside him, a grin plastered across her face. "What the..." "I thought Diana's people would try something so I left orders for my men to open fire at her troops should anything happen to me. Also, I took other precautions." Philip pulled back the red tunic to reveal the heavy-duty body armor. "But... all the blood..?" "The shot hit an unprotected part of my arm." "And the Leader's shuttle?" "The pilot located and removed the bomb. It was primed to explode once they reached the Dark Zone between Sirius and Earth." "I don't get it..." "The Leader's shuttle is safe. The bomb was transferred to a decoy shuttle sent out under automatic pilot. As the Earth expression goes, I had to give Diana enough rope so she could hang herself. Allowing her to believe she had destroyed the Leader accomplished that aim. Now there is no need for her to stand trial on Sirius. She has been judged and found guilty -and the penalty is death." A lieutenant came to a halt in front of his Commander, his breath coming in fast pants as youthful eagerness suffused his features. "Philip. Diana's troops are cornered on Flight deck four." "Excellent. Send two units to cover all exits including airduct outlets. No-one is to escape." Another two hours passed before the fighting was over. "Philip. One of the Sky fighter's is missing..." "And so are Diana and James." Philip hissed in annoyance as Donovan informed him of the escape. "Send out patrols. I want them back, dead or alive." ******************** Diana looked up as another thump sounded on the roof of the Skyfighter where James was busy concealing the craft. She turned back to gaze into the only reflective surface she could find in the small craft. Carefully, she pulled the remaining tattered fragments of the pseudo-skin away from her own burnt hide and threw the mask and hair piece onto the floor where it lay like the face of a deflated rubber doll. She gazed back at her own reflection. The humanoid sapphire eyes seemed out of place within the reptilian face so she plucked out each contact lens. Her own eyes glowed with pain and anger as she studied the charred and blackened scales. Once she had been called the most beautiful creature on Sirius. Males had fallen at her feet to worship her perfection but the tissue on her left cheek had been seared to the bone. A noise from behind sent her spinning round in time to catch a look of revulsion cross her Lieutenant's face. She hissed loudly, her forked tongue flicking back and forth in anger. "Get out!" James backed away leaving her alone in the skyfighter. Diana turned back to the make-shift mirror and made a solemn vow. "You will pay for this, Donovan. I will seek out the most precious thing in your life and destroy it, slowly, in front of you." ******************** Many weeks passed with no sign of the ex-commander of the Visitor forces. Diana seemed to have disappeared into thin air and, even after so short a time, people had begun to forget about her for there was too much to be done. Mother ships were reviving their cargoes and restoring the humans to their friends and families. Whole towns of people arrived dazed and disorientated. New mother ships entered orbit to release those who were still alive from the vast numbers that had been transported to Sirius as food and cannon fodder in their war against other alien races. Donovan stretched out to ease the muscles in his neck and sighed in disappointment. No-one had seen or heard from Tyler since that final communication from Chicago. He talked softly to himself. "I must be out'ta practice." It had never taken him so long to track down the elusive ex-CIA operative before the Visitors arrived but in those days Tyler had still been employed by the Government - and Donovan had made many contacts in that area. "Any luck?" He swung around in the seat as he was joined by his fellow resistance leader. Julie had been kept busy over the passed few weeks and the signs of strain were visible on her pretty face. Donovan reached out and allowed a finger to trail along the darkened circle under one eye. "You look tired. You should get some rest." "And you didn't answer my question. Any luck?" Donovan sighed and shook his head. "No. He seems to have vanished off the face of the Earth." Donovan forestalled the question that leaped into the bright, blue eyes. "Philip had them check the entry for every Caucasian male captured in this half of the hemisphere since Tyler's last report, listing all distinguishing marks. "I can only remember that semi-circular scar on his left temple." Donovan shrugged. "What are the others - and how did you find out about them?" Donovan blushed as Julie tried to lighten the air by teasing her ex-lover. "We were forced to share a room in Jakarta." "And?" "And nothing. At the time I had little more than contempt for him. Thought he was a mercenary, just in it for the money. To be honest I thought even worse of him when I found out he was CIA, 'cos' that left working only for pleasure." The voice trailed off as Donovan immersed himself in thoughts of the past. It was a preoccupation he had taken to over the passed few months as he wondered when contempt had turned to respect and then finally to love. "Playa del. Mar." Donovan looked back up in amazement at the answer to his unspoken question and watched as Julie pushed a hand through her honey-blonde hair. "That was the first time I heard you introduce Tyler to someone without there being contempt in your voice. And the first time I ever heard him thank you for covering his back." "Yeah, well I guess we'd both grown up a bit since Jakarta." ******************** Tyler groaned as a hand forced his chin up. He tried to focus on the malevolent pale blue eyes of a lizard he had never seen before. The Visitor smiled but remained silent. "Mr Tyler, how good of you to join us." Tyler snapped his head around as the silky voice penetrated the fog of his drug-soaked mind. "Diana." he breathed contemptuously. He squinted as he tried to make out the familiar features of his arch-nemesis. Her face was shrouded in shadows but she leant forward just as his vision cleared. Tyler sneered. "I see life's been a little ugly for you recently." Diana pulled back into the shadow, her human mouth drawn into a tight line. She had cursed James when he brought back this new mask. The late owner had not been very selective in her choice of design; the chin was too pointed, the forehead too high and the eyes narrow and close together. The sapphire contacts did little to improve the features. Diana had studied the human concept of beauty in great detail before designing her previous disguise. The now deceased owner of this mask had taken no such care. "But the mind is still as sharp." "Let's cut the small-talk, Diana. What do you want with me?" Diana smiled. "I see your social skills have not improved since we last met." Tyler bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile but his dark eyes were as cold as the blood of the reptile standing opposite. He said nothing. "Michael Sean Donovan." She paused but proceeded when she gained no visible response. "I want to know all about him. I want to know what will destroy him..." "Waking up with that face on the next pillow..." The force of the slap knocked his head sideways and Tyler tasted blood where his lip had split. He straightened up, his hard, obsidian eyes boring into the familiar deep blue of his enemy. "I believe Mr Tyler needs a little help." Tyler took a sharp inward breath as his head was pushed sideways and a gas-pressurized device was used to force an unknown drug into his bloodstream. James stepped back and placed the device back on the table and then waited, patiently, for the drug to take effect. "Now, Mr Tyler. Perhaps you would care to answer a few questions. What colour are your eyes?" Tyler frowned as he fought to prevent the words that echoed around his mind from spilling from his lips but the need to speak was overpowering. "...brown..." "Yes, you have beautiful dark brown eyes." Tyler pulled back as a cold fingernail caressed his face. Liquid sapphire eyes came within inches of his own and his muscles clenched with the desire to reach up and choke the insane light from them but he was held firm by the restraining straps. He wanted to spit into the exquisite face but his mouth was suddenly dry. "Where is Donovan?" He struggled not to answer even though the question was quite trivial. One only had to tune in the radio to hear Donovan's name and location mentioned. Sometimes you would even hear his voice. "...Los Angeles..." "Yes. Very good. Now, who would he die for?" "...Sean..." "His son. Good - but not good enough. Give me another name?" "...Julie..." "We know all these names. This is a waste of time." Diana allowed a predator smile to stretch the pseudo-skin as she approached her subordinate. "The death of Sean and Julie would hurt Donovan deeply but I don't want to hurt him - I want to destroy him. I want him to watch the most precious person in his life die slowly and painfully by my hand. I want him to beg for death because life no longer holds meaning." Diana returned to the dazed human. "No, Mr Tyler. The relationship between Donovan and Julie Parrish ended some time ago. Now there is someone else. Someone more important than life itself. Tell me who that is? Tell me her name." She watched in barely concealed excitement as the human struggled against the drug, her eyes gleaming in anticipation as she allowed the tip of her reptilian tongue to slide across the false, painted lips. "...me..." Her face creased in anger while James turned away in laughter. She reached for the hypo-spray intending to shoot another dose of truth serum into the human but her hand faltered part way. Was it possible? Her contact within Philip's forces had told her Donovan had been searching for Tyler since the end of the war. Her eyes narrowed and she tilted the human's head up until she could study the strong features. Her calculating look melted into a knowing smile. She had studied Human sexuality in all it's varied forms and knew it was a possibility, a very real possibility - but there was only one way to find out. ******************** Donovan spun around as his sixth sense kicked in but then a huge grin split his face in two. "Chris Faber." He reached out a hand and glanced around, his mind supplying an image of Tyler leaning nonchalantly against a nearby wall or hiding behind the larger frame of his associate. Faber recognized the action. "He ain't here and before you ask, I ain't seen him in two days." "Where is he?" "Well, that's why I'm here. I know you've been trying to get hold of him an' thought maybe one of your lizard friends picked him up." "No, they would have told me. Let's go talk." Julie and Donovan listened carefully as Faber described the last time he saw Tyler. "When I went back to pick him up a coupla hours later he was nowhere in sight. I checked around but nobody remembers seeing anything 'cept some big, blond guy." "James?" Donovan and Faber stared at the young biochemist and seeing Faber's quizzical look Donovan gave him a quick description. "About 6 foot 2, straight, blonde hair, blue eyes. Big build. Lt James came onto the scene shortly before you left for Chicago. He was Diana's playmate right up to the end of the war. When she escaped from the Mothership she took him with her... but why would Diana go after Tyler?" Julie frowned. "Revenge? Tyler caused a great deal of damage to her reputation especially after the destruction at Playa del. Mar. She probably had a very hard time explaining how a small band of humans could breach her security and kill some high ranking Visitors." Faber nodded. He hadn't been a part of that attack group but the results had lifted human morale right across the world. "It's possible. That scaly bitch can sure hold a grudge." "We've got to speed up the search for Diana..." All eyes turned as someone knocked on the door. "Come in." Donovan frowned as he read the concerned expression on the Inspector General's face. "Diana has Tyler." Donovan indicated the others around him. "We just figured that out. But there's more?" "Yes. I have a message." Philip unfolded a piece of paper and translated the Visitor symbols. "If you want to see Tyler then meet me at the scene of my greatest loss." Faber shook his head slowly. "That sure narrows the field down to most of the planet." "She's on board the LA mother ship." "What...?" "Impossible, my people would have..." "Think about it. Diana craves power. If her plan to assassinate the Leader, and you, had succeeded then she might have become the supreme ruler of both Sirius and Earth. That was her greatest loss." "I'll order a full search of the ship..." "No. If you get too close she might kill Tyler. Anyway, I think I know where she is. Let me go alone." "I don't think that's wise..." "Julie?" Donovan turned away from the others, his eyes wide as he begged for support from the one person who knew his deepest secret. Tyler was too important to him. He couldn't risk losing him, not now, not when he had finally worked up enough courage to make his love known to the enigmatic man. Julie felt her face collapse in anguish, wishing she could give in to the desperate pleading in the too bright eyes. "Philip's right. You can't go alone. I'll go with you." "You ain't leaving me behind." Donovan swallowed hard. He had heard that tone of voice from the large man before and knew there could be no compromise. His head dropped in despair and he nodded reluctantly. ******************** "Diana. This is Donovan." The view screen on the main control deck of the LA mother ship remained blank as the technician tried to override the programming that prevented them from accessing Diana's laboratory. Philip stood beside Donovan, his mind seething with anger as he recognised the way in which he had been manipulated into sealing off the laboratory area. The technician who reported the so-called dangerous radiation accident had been apprehended but showed only fanatical pride in his actions. A sudden flicker brought the screen to life to reveal the face of a stranger. Donovan frowned until a sneering smile crossed the narrow features - a sneer all too familiar. The sapphire eyes glittered in amusement as she saw recognition sweep across Donovan's expressive face. The honeyed voice gave final proof of the identity of the creature on the view screen in front of him. "Such a pleasure to hear from old friends." "Where's Tyler?" "I'm afraid he's a little tired following a very intimate conversation... but I see no reason why you shouldn't see him." The viewer panned round until it fell upon a prone, half-naked human. Alarm widened the green-blue eyes until a slight head movement gave Donovan proof that Tyler was still alive. Off screen, Diana smiled as Donovan's face softened, betraying the love he felt for her prisoner. She flicked a switch that would disable the two-way audio link so Donovan could hear every sound in the laboratory but none would bleed in the other direction, and then she nodded to Lt James. The big frame of the Visitor lieutenant blocked Donovan's view of Tyler momentarily as James reached down for his prisoner. Tyler was shaken hard and then pulled into a sitting position. The dark eyes fought to open and an unfocused gaze tried to hold onto the achingly familiar features of Michael Donovan before exhaustion took hold. He hissed in pain as his head was forced back up from where it had fallen and more drugs were forced into his bloodstream. Tyler found himself focusing on the crystal-blue eyes as Diana continued the soft litany of words that had started months before in the Conversion chamber. "Remember your wife and child. Remember how Donovan betrayed them. He took them from you and then he murdered them. Donovan betrayed the Resistance, he has betrayed you. Donovan handed you over to me. He wants to see you suffer. Even now he is watching and anticipating your pain. He wants to see you broken..." The iron fist striking his temple snapped his head sideways, stunning Tyler and reinforcing the words as his drugged mind formed images of Donovan's face twisting in sadistic pleasure. Disbelief opened the blue-green eyes wide and the word that echoed through Donovan's mind also resounded in his own ears. "NO!" Diana grinned insanely as she observed Donovan's shocked reaction - the silent cry of denial falling from his lips as he watched the large Visitor rained blow upon blow on the one person he loved beyond life itself. Diana's grin widened even further as the visual connection between the laboratory and the control center was broken by an unseen hand. "Mike? Mike?" Small fingers covered Donovan's clenched fists as they clung tightly to the edge of the console, his wide eyes still staring into the blank screen, his mind reliving the sight of the large Visitor reaching for Tyler. The voice penetrated the layers of shock and he turned his head until his pain-darkened eyes met horror-filled blue ones. "Oh God, Mike. Why? Why?" Donovan's jaw began to work but no words were uttered. He shook his head in denial. Behind him he could hear a soft murmur as Faber used every derogatory word his mind could dredge up to describe the creature who had ordered the assault on his friend. Julie backed away in fear as an expression of pure hatred crossed the face in front of her, an expression she had never thought to see upon those gentle features. Diana turned and watched the shudders quiver through the battered body as her Lieutenant continued his attack on the human pinned beneath him, her nose twitching as the heavy smell of iron assailed her senses from the blood seeping from many cuts. "Enough." James glanced up in surprise at the venom in his commander's voice but moved away from the human leaving Tyler wrapped tightly in a ball where he had tried to protect himself from the physical and mental assault. "He's no use to me dead. While he lives my revenge goes on." James watched as she knelt beside the barely conscious human, her long fingers reaching out to caress his stubbled face and then card through the sweat-dampened hair. She smiled and leaned down to lick at a small trickle of blood that spilled from the corner of his mouth, savouring it's taste as one would sample a rare vintage. "We should leave here now. Philip will..." Diana laughed. "Philip will do nothing. Not while we have Mr Donovan's beloved." An explosion rocked the laboratory. The viewer snapped back into life as Donovan gained his feet but the face on the screen did not belong to the either Diana, James or Tyler. Philip moved closer. "Sir, the Laboratory is secure." "And the occupants?" "Lt James is dead but the human lives." "And Diana?" The soldier flinched as he recognized the cold ferocity in Donovan's voice. "Alive..." "Make sure she stays that way. Diana and I have a score to settle." Donovan charged from the control room with the others in close pursuit. As he entered the laboratory Donovan's eyes flicked over to where Tyler lay curled in the fetal position and he froze. Angry red marks marred the pale, exposed flesh, blending with the purple and black signs of an earlier beating. He snapped out of his shocked state as Tyler's large associate pushed him aside. Faber shrugged off his worn fatigue jacket and covered the battered body but the deep bruising still visible was enough to fuel Donovan's hatred. He glanced across to where Lt James lay, green scales glistening through torn pseudo-skin where he had been hit by multiple laser fire. Slowly, Donovan walked over and dropped down by Tyler's side. He reached out and stroked the damp hair but stopped as the body shuddered beneath his hand. Glazed, dark eyes opened wide in fear and hatred, narrowing in confusion when they found familiar blue-green eyes above him rather than the crystal blue of his torturer. The pain-filled eyes dropped away in exhaustion and relief only to fall upon a group of Visitors on the other side of the room. Donovan frowned as another presence made itself known and he glanced across to find Julie on her knees by his side. He gazed into her drawn features but could not dredge up even the smallest of smiles as he dammed the tidal wave of his emotions behind a cold mask of fury. Diana sneered as Donovan rose to his feet and turned to face her. "Stand away from her." Donovan waited impatiently as the Visitor guards seeked approval from their leader before letting go of their former Commander. "You said Diana has been tried and found guilty of her crimes against the Leader, and the penalty is death." Donovan caught the affirming nod from the corner of his eye then raised the laser pistol, not surprised when he gained no objection from the Inspector General. The sneer dropped from the unfamiliar features and Donovan could read the fear that crawled into the sapphire eyes. He hesitated and Diana misread this as weakness. She laughed, walking towards him with her familiar arrogant gait, but stopped when he raised the gun once more. "Why, Diana?" Diana glanced passed the tall resistance leader to where Tyler lay curled on his side, his unfocused gaze watching the whole show. She could feel Tyler's hatred even through his pain and this served only to heighten her pleasure; her conceit fueling her belief that she had succeeded in her plan to destroy any love Tyler may have had for Michael Donovan. With a quick movement she ripped the human mask away from her head to reveal the ugly, raw wound across her face. "This is why. I had beauty, position, power - until you and your wretched little resistance group ruined everything. With human slaves for food and combat we would have wiped out our enemies." "You're insane." Diana turned to face the Inspector General. "Insane? It was I who led our people to this planet. It was I who created the serum against their diseases, the pseudo-skin to protect our scales. It was my great plans that brought about the downfall of every government on this pitiful world. And for what? To see my victories credited to others, to see the rewards piled on other heads while I waited for the summons from the Leader. Instead he gives me to Charles and takes Elizabeth, a pathetic half-breed, in my place. Eventually he may have tired of her exotic form. I was the Leader's favorite and I should have been his consort. I would have become the Empress of a mighty empire stretching across this whole sector of the galaxy, with or without our great Leader, but who could look upon me now without revulsion." She turned back to face Donovan. "You destroyed me and now I have destroyed you." Anger suffused her as a mixture of horror and pity crossed the faces of those present. She screamed at this final outrage -how dare they pity her! - and lunged for the drawn laser pistol, spitting venom at the creature she held most to blame for her destruction. The scream was silenced as the sound of a laser blast filled the air. The former Commander of the Visitor forces dropped to the floor, one fiery eye still visible through the dislodged sapphire lens. With a final convulsion the insane light died in her eyes and she lay still. The laser pistol dropped from Donovan's numbed fingers to clatter against the metallic floor. Somehow he knew it was over this time. There would be other pockets of resistance to the new-found peace but none would be as deadly. Donovan crossed to Tyler's side and lowered himself to the floor. Tentatively he reached out towards the battered face. Diana had known of his love for this man and her razor-sharp mind had used the knowledge to inflict the greatest pain she could imagine. He sighed deeply as warm fingers wrapped themselves tightly around his own and his eyes were caught and held but, suddenly, Donovan could see only pain, horror and hatred reflected in the dark depths. Diana had won after all. She had sought to destroy the one thing he wanted beyond life and had succeeded. All his hopes and dreams of a future with this man by his side shattered into tiny pieces and with bitter tears stinging the back of his eyes, he released his grip, stood up and walked away. ******************** Two days passed before Julie tracked Donovan down to the former resistance base. She sighed as she saw the forlorn figure sitting with stooped shoulders, staring out beyond the lighthouse to where the sea rolled gently and seabirds glided on the slight breeze. As she approached she noticed his eyes were red and sore from crying. Julie chewed on her bottom lip and pushed the blond hair away from her face in an unconscious gesture of concern. She sat down beside him, close enough for him to notice her presence but not close enough to touch, and pretended not to see the red-rimmed eyes. "He's been asking for you. He doesn't understand why you left." "You saw what she did to him." "Yes, but..." "How can I face him again? Even if he hasn't been twisted by that bitch he must realize she hurt him to hurt me. By now he will know how I feel about him, how I wanted him." Donovan turned away from the rolling waves, his dull, lifeless eyes held by the deep blue of his ex-lover. Her eyes darkened, a mirror to the pain he could no longer bear. "Even if he didn't hate me before, he will now." "No, you're wrong. Tyler doesn't hate you. How can you be so blind? He loves you. He always has loved you. Why do you think he turned up in the first place? There were a dozen resistance groups in the California area at the beginning of the war, but he came to ours. He came to protect you, afraid you would get yourself killed if he wasn't around to watch your back. He only left for Chicago when he thought he had become a danger to you..." "No, you're wrong. He wanted to take over the group..." "The only move he ever made was following my escape. Diana converted me - oh, not fully - but enough for me to pose a real threat to you. He wanted me placed as far away from you as possible and it took a long time to convince him to trust me with your life." Her voice lowered to a whisper as she realized the next few words would destroy any future she may have imagined with Donovan. "He loves you, Mike. Go to him." She gazed up into eyes that had widened with a desperate need to find hope and truth in her words. A soft smile of deep affection crossed her face. "Trust me." ******************** The lights in the infirmary were turned down low but Mike could still make out the angular features. Dark lashes fanned across the closed eyes and the nostrils flared softly with each slow breath drawn into the sleeping body. Donovan allowed his gaze to follow the contours of the peaceful face. The slight arching of the eyebrows, the high cheekbones that curved towards perfect ears and down to a strong jaw. Almost three days had passed since the vicious beating but the deep bruising that marred one side of the mouth and blackened one eye seemed worse than Donovan remembered. The swollen lip looked less painful but a frown creased the tall forehead as a slight movement pulled on the healing wound. Donovan knew there would be more bruising down the length of the strong body for he had not been able to take his horrified gaze away from the sight of Lt James kicking and punching the drugged and defenseless man. Donovan pulled a chair towards the side of the bed, trying to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man. As he lowered himself into the chair the eyes opened just the barest fraction and, as recognition reached the sleepy mind, they opened fully. Donovan held his breath as he waited for hatred to fill the dark eyes but his insides melted when, instead, he gained a hesitant smile. All his love for the other flowed out upon a single, soul-deep sigh of relief. Tyler smiled more confidently, trying not to put too much pressure on the damaged lip. He tried to sit up but was stopped by strong yet gentle hands. "You need to rest." Donovan grinned as he felt the body relax beneath his hands, finding no trace of fear or loathing within the other man. He reached out tentatively and brushed a hand across the scarred temple and into the dark hair, pushing the short strands behind one ear. His movements growing bolder when he felt no apprehension from the other and he leaned in closer until his mouth could brush the uninjured corner of Tyler's mouth. Donovan pulled back in awe when the expected explosion of outrage did not happen. Instead he found another small smile playing about his companion's lips. "Are you okay?" The soft expression died instantly and Donovan regretted his words. He had not meant to remind Tyler of his injuries only to know if the man was comfortable with the gentle caress. Donovan reached for his companion in mute apology and sighed in relief as fingers closed around his own. "I'm sorry." Tyler released the hand and covered Donovan's mouth with his fingers. "It's okay. You think you're the only... person she despised on this planet. You were just... flavor of the month because of that nice job you done on her face." Tyler swallowed hard. Talking was still a little painful but he wanted to reassure the other man. He wanted Donovan to know she had not twisted him with her drugs and malicious words. "At least the bitch is dead now. She can't hurt us anymore -unless you let her. Let's... dump the self-pity... where it belongs." "I will if you will." Tyler grinned and then grimaced, drawing in a sharp breath as he overstretched the cut on his lip. He allowed the tip of his tongue to tentatively explore the damaged area and sighed in annoyance as he tasted blood. Donovan dabbed at the small trickle of blood with a handkerchief, a devilish smile creeping across his face. "I knew your face would crack if you ever smiled." Tyler punched him half-heartedly and then pulled Donovan down into a deeper kiss. Donovan pulled away and laughed. "Now you've made it worse." "Then you'd better have... another go at kissing it better." Tyler frowned as he felt Donovan hesitate. The chameleon eyes were barely visible in the subdued lighting but Tyler knew what doubts would be churning around the ex-Reporter's mind. Tyler had been held by that same fear of rejection for years, frightened to see the trusting expression contort in disgust and betrayal. He believed his own fears had subsided after the halted discussion with Julie earlier that day but now he was not so certain. What if Julie had been wrong? What if it were just brotherly affection Donovan felt towards him? Tyler swallowed, suddenly afraid that his worst fears were to be realized. He trembled softly as he waited for that final rejection. Donovan watched the myriad emotions cross the expressive face, suddenly aware of how this man had interpreted his hesitation. "No." he whispered softly to give denial to the awakening dread but knew actions spoke louder than words. Donovan lowered his mouth softly onto the other's and allowed his tongue to tease across the lips sending electric shocks running through both of their bodies. He sighed into the mouth that opened cautiously beneath his insistent touch and let his tongue reach into the unexplored territory. The sensitive tip stroked across the soft inner cheek and strong white teeth, tasting the uniqueness that was Tyler. He felt a soft sigh of regret as he pulled back, releasing the mouth beneath his. "I thought she had taken you from me." "I came to terms with my Conversion... and the death of my wife and child... a long time ago. She was a fool to think she could use that against me... a second time." Pliant lips took Tyler's again with infinite tenderness and Donovan moaned as he felt the wet, velvet softness of the other's tongue as it battled idly with his own, his hand reaching out to pull the dark head closer. Gentle fingers carded through thick, golden brown hair then traced a path along the firm, square jaw as they tasted each other. Finally, Tyler pulled away, his breath coming in ragged pants as he tried to control his erratic breathing. Eventually, the trembling ceased and he surrendered to the soft caress of long fingers that followed the curve of his ear down to his vulnerable throat before trailing along his collar bone. Tyler stilled as the soft exploration continued. The palm of Donovan's hand skimmed across the plane of his companion's chest, gliding across one nipple and sending new sensations coursing through Tyler's body. "Come to bed with me." Donovan gazed around the silent room until his eyes fell upon the closed door. He looked back, his heart hammering in his chest as he was captured by lust and love filled eyes. "This isn't the time or the place, Tyler." "I don't... give a damn. Come to bed with me." Donovan took a deep breath then released it slowly as he reached up to unbutton his shirt. He shrugged the soft material from his shoulders and let the shirt drop to the floor then, having kicked off his sneakers, he stood up and unzipped the denim jeans. He pushed these down his long legs and stepped out of the restricting material. Tyler followed every movement until Donovan stood naked in front of him then he pulled back the light cover and shifted to the far side of the bed. Donovan paused for a moment to study the strong, firm body that had been offered to him. His eyes wandered down the broad, almost hairless chest, across the flat stomach then followed a path of soft, dark hair to the groin where the semi-erect organ bobbed with each breath drawn into the waiting body. The low lighting threw strange, dark shadows across the pale, exposed flesh but, as Donovan reached to outline the darkness spreading across the sharply defined ribcage he heard a soft moan. Donovan snatched back his hand as he realized there was no shadow, only a massive dark bruise. He glanced up in concern only to find embarrassment rather than pain reflected across the pale features. Donovan felt his heart flip as he recognized the cause of the embarrassment and grinned in adoration of the man lying before him. "You're beautiful." Tyler smiled, pleased that the physical perfection that stood before him could find beauty in his own battle-scarred form. Donovan reached out a hand and traced the length of one scar. "I don't remember this one. It looks new." "It is new. I caught a glancing shot... from a lizard patrol on the way to Chicago." As he felt the other pull away in despair, Tyler grabbed hold of the hand and pulled Donovan until the man was seated on the bed. "Stop tormenting yourself, Gooder. I'm here and I'm alive - and I want you." He pulled the sensitive face towards him and took the mouth in a soul-searing kiss, heedless of the pain it caused to his damaged lip. The mouth pulled away to press kisses against his jaw then lower as Donovan covered his lover's throat in soft bites, licking across the collar bone as he covered the smaller body with his own. His mouth descended upon a nipple, sucking and biting the small nub until it hardened under the onslaught. He could hear a soft gasp from his lover as sensations trickled along nerve-endings, rippling the muscles in his abdomen and triggering a pulse that coaxed the swelling organ into full life. Donovan smiled against the flat stomach as fingers dragged through his thick brown hair, clutching the locks in tightly clenched fists and grasping him tighter as Donovan's mouth descended upon him. Hands caught Tyler's hips as the smaller man bucked beneath the almost intolerable pressure of Donovan's tongue swirling over the sensitive glans as he sucked the life essence from his lover. Tyler twisted his head until he could smother his cries in the pillow and came with a silent scream that would have torn his throat apart had he let it loose. He collapsed in a quivering heap against the bed sheets, his hands pushed aside as Donovan crept back up the bed to lie alongside him. Desperately, Tyler tried to keep his eyes open, fighting to stay awake so he return the same pleasure to Donovan. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes when he realized he was losing the battle but a soft voice close to his ear reassured him. "It's okay. Sleep now. I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not going to leave you. I'll never leave you. I promise." Hours later Julie opened the door carefully and gazed in to find Tyler held in a strong embrace. A small movement caught her eye as she started to close the door and in the small amount of light spilling from the corridor, Julie saw Donovan smile. THE END

Reluctant Survivor Chapter 1 - Survivors "Potter? What... ?" Harry started: Snape was finally recovering full consciousness. Harry was tired of waiting there, sitting in a chair at the foot of Severus Snape's bed in St Mungo's. Two days before, Snape had emerged from his coma, and relatives and friends had been allowed into his room. However, no one had come to visit him besides McGonagall and Harry. His friends, if he had any, were probably all Death Eaters, too busy being chased by the Aurors. McGonagall, as the Headmistress of Hogwarts, couldn't stay at St Mungo's for a long time. To everyone's surprise, Harry had offered to stay with him. It was the least he could do for the person who had saved his life, but the truth was Harry had another reason to stay. "Snape." "What happened?" "You threw yourself in front of me and took the Avada Kedavra Voldemort cast on me." "I know that, Potter. What I don't understand is... why I am alive. Unless you have died too, and we are in hell. I wouldn't be surprised if we were." Harry rolled his eyes. "Why the heck did I want you to wake up?" "I haven't the least idea, but if you don't answer my question I... aaah!" Snape had tried to stand up and failed, too dizzy to move. Harry put a hand on his arm. "Stay put. You have been in coma for many days, and you only started to regain consciousness yesterday." "What I don't understand is why I am alive," repeated Snape. "When the Killing Curse hit you, you fell, apparently dead. But a phoenix came from the sky, landed by your side and..." "This is stupid. No one survives an Avada Kedavra... Damn. I should have known. This must have something to do with Albus. He must have created a horcrux for me, or contrived another stratagem." "Is this possible?" "I don't know, Potter, but Albus never stopped meddling in my life, even after..." Harry caught a pained look on Snape's face, and knew it wasn't just a physical pain. "Have some rest, you're still too weak," said Harry, his hand still resting on his former teacher's arm. Snape closed his eyes and fell asleep again. Harry went back to his chair at the foot of Snape's bed and kept observing him. Snape, ex-Death Eater, ex-Potions master and Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. Snape, who had told Voldemort about the prophecy, hence causing the deaths of Harry's parents. Snape, Dumbledore's murderer. And now Snape, the one who saved him from Voldemort and was apparently saved by the phoenix. How many mysteries were hidden behind that inscrutable face, sometimes clouded by strong emotions that Harry couldn't decipher? Snape became agitated, thrashing around in the bed. A nightmare, thought Harry. He had had a lot of them the previous day. Many times Harry had heard Snape begging Dumbledore not to ask him to do that, or reliving episodes of Cruciatus and other dark spells. Now Snape seemed to be reliving a very painful moment. "Lily... Forgive me... I didn't know." Harry bit his lip and experienced a nauseous feeling. Snape... and his mother? ~*~*~ Harry was awakened by a shake of his shoulder and an insistent voice. "Wake up, Potter." Harry groaned. "What is it, Snape? Leave me alone." "Where is my wand?" "I hid it to prevent them from taking it from you," Harry snarled. Snape stayed quiet for a moment. "I see. I'm a prisoner here. This is St Mungo's, I suppose?" "Yeah." "So they will take me straight to Azkaban. Why are you here? Why aren't you celebrating with your friends, giving interviews to the Prophet, snogging your girlfriend or creating havoc?" "Because that'd be too boring, Snape, and I'd rather stay near the man I most hate in the world waiting for him to regain consciousness." "If you are doing this out of guilty conscience or a sense of duty, forget it. Nothing I did to defeat the Dark Lord was because of you. You can go. Leave me alone." "I know! I know it wasn't because of me. It was because of my mother, wasn't it? You loved her." Snape's face showed surprise, then pain, and finally anger. "That is not your business." "I should have known. Dumbledore practically told me, but I was too young to understand." "And you are so much mature now," said Snape, but in a tired voice, and with far less venom than usual. Harry didn't even register the slight insult. "What was she like? No one talks to me about her." Snape shook his head. "This can only be hell. Why else would I be here, alive, sick and having to listen to James Potter's son's questions about his mother?" Harry sank in his chair, disheartened. "I only wanted to know what she was like." "Potter, each person who describes her will give you a different view. You will never know how she was." "Thank you very much. I should've known you'd give very enlightening answers." Snape sighed. "And you think you are so mature." Harry didn't reply, and silence stretched. When their eyes met, Snape said, "She was intelligent, fun and..." Snape averted his eyes from Harry's "... she was the only person who was brave enough to talk to me. I have always been..." "Weird?" Snape glared daggers at him, and didn't reply. Lupin had said Lily was very popular. Harry could understand why a boy like Snape - Harry remembered seeing him in the pensieve, stringy and pallid like a plant kept in the dark - could fall for a girl like Lily. Harry didn't want to ask further; it would be indecent. "Let's sleep, okay? I'm tired." Harry took off his robes and put on a nightshirt. Snape didn't take his eyes off him, and suddenly Harry felt embarrassed. He couldn't understand why - after all, they were both male - but he was too tired to think about it. He slipped beneath the blankets and turned to face Snape, who was still staring at him in the half-darkness. "Potter, just tell me one thing," Snape said, his voice low and controlled. "You hate me. You have always hated me, and you blame me for Dumbledore's death. Then..." "No. I don't blame you for Dumbledore's death. I blame myself." "What nonsense is this?" "Do you think I don't know? My friends and me did a lot of research to find the locket and destroy the spell. And we found out that that potion I forced Dumbledore to drink was a poison for which there are no antidotes. Dumbledore was going to die anyway. Because of me." Harry closed his eyes, but opened them when he heard Snape snorting. "Don't be an idiot. Albus was dying since he tried to destroy the horcrux spell encased into the ring and was hit by the protection spells. I could only delay his death, but he wouldn't have resisted much longer. Knowing he had only a few months of life, he devoted all his time to the search for the horcruxes, and he knew very well he wouldn't survive. He was aware that the Dark Lord had ordered Draco to kill him, and that I had been forced to make an Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa. He made me promise I would kill him when the moment was right, that is to say, when he decided so. And I obeyed him, as I always did." Each of Snape's words made Harry's heart beat faster. Harry had no reason to doubt him. He knew how Dumbledore could be persuasive and authoritative. He himself had been required to promise blind obedience to Dumbledore, which had led him to force the Headmaster to drink a potion that would end up killing him. Harry knew that what Snape was telling him was the only explanation that made sense. For a whole year, he had hated Snape more than he hated Voldemort. And now he was realising how mistaken he had been. "I'm sorry," he managed to say to the man he once loathed. Snape closed his eyes. "I am too, Potter. More than you can imagine." ~*~*~ On the fourth day, Snape seemed to be feeling better, which meant he had recovered his full ability to be a prick. "Don't you have anything else to do?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be studying? Hasn't Hogwarts reopened yet?" "I'm not going back," Harry replied. "Are you insane? Didn't you want to be an Auror?" "I've changed my mind." "Potter, just because you are the Golden Boy and saved the Wizarding World again it doesn't mean you can..." Harry lost it. "Enough! Spare me your sermons, okay? By the way, you're wrong, as always. I haven't saved anyone." "What do you mean?" "Look at your Mark." Snape frowned. Then he pulled his left arm from beneath the sheets, pulled up his nightshirt sleeve and observed his Mark. It was rather pale, but it hadn't disappeared. Just like the first time Voldemort had been defeated. "How..." "I don't know, Snape, I don't know how. I, Dumbledore and my friends destroyed all the six horcruxes: the diary, Salazar Slytherin's ring and locket, Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Rowena Ravenclaw's wand and Nagini. And we killed Voldemort. However, somehow, he's still alive." A strange light sparked in Snape's eyes, inscrutable and lifeless until then. "There is another horcrux left intact." "I am a horcrux," Harry snapped. Snape lifted his upper torso, his face contorting in shock. "That is too horrible to be conceived." "But it's true. Hermione warned me about this possibility, but I didn't want to believe it. Yet, it's the only possible explanation." Snape pushed off the sheets and sat at the side of the bed. "Potter, take me out of here. Let's go to a safe place, just you and me." "But you still haven't recovered completely!" "There is no time to lose. Apparate with me, now." Harry ran his hand through his unruly hair, not knowing what to do. Then Snape pulled him closer. "Apparate now, otherwise I will have to take more drastic measures." "Take your hands off me," said Harry, angry, and felt a strange regret seeing Snape flinch. "Let's do this right, okay? You're sick, and if you splinch yourself, you'll be screwed." Harry showed Snape a parchment with a statement by Aberforth Dumbledore, held Snape's arm firmly and focused on his house in Hogsmeade. ~*~*~ Chapter 2 - Decisions The terraced house where Harry had lived since he had come of age was protected by a Fidelius Charm. Aberforth, the Secret Keeper, was also the owner of the house, but he preferred to live in one of the Hog's Head's rooms. The house had a small parlour, a living room and a kitchen in the ground floor; two bedrooms - one of which was piled with boxes of miscellaneous objects Aberforth had left there - and a bathroom in the first floor. There was a tiny but lush garden in the back. Harry concentrated upon his destination, and they Apparated straight onto Harry's bed, because Snape wasn't supposed to be on his feet yet. Harry had heard the Trainee Healer telling Snape that morning that he needed to rest, otherwise he risked slipping into coma again. "What a mess," Snape complained, sweeping his eyes over Harry's bedroom. Indeed, there was an open trunk on the floor and things scattered all over. "I'm sorry, Snape, but I don't have house-elves working for me, and I had no time to clean the house for you," Harry snapped, standing up and adjusting the pillow and the blankets so that Snape could lie down. But Snape wasn't taking any of that. "Stop it. Sit down. We have decisions to make." "You must stay in bed!" "The destiny of the Wizarding World depends upon our next decision and you choose precisely this moment to be concerned with such a trifle as my well-being?" Harry couldn't help a half-smile. "I am special, you know." Snape glared at him. "Special or not, you have very few options. The wisest one would be to kill me now." "To kill you?" Harry looked at him astonished, and then smirked. "Great. The idea of getting rid of you is quite interesting and satisfying. There's just one problem: I don't know how this would help me to finish Voldemort for good." "Very funny, Potter. However, I hope you are mature enough to understand how grave the situation is. What I am proposing here is that you kill me and create a horcrux with my death." His blood freezing in his veins and making him dizzy, Harry sat at the edge of the bed. "You want me to kill you and create a horcrux? N-no. No way." "Don't be foolish. Why not?" "This is the Dark Arts at their worst." "And you are too pure for the Dark Arts." Snape snorted. "Dumbledore's man through and through." "Well, I'm very proud of it!" Snape sighed. "I should have known. You, Gryffindors, are a pain-in-the-neck." "Oh, you are Slytherin through and through." Harry's voice dripped sarcasm. "Sacrificing yourself for the others is a typical Slytherin trait." "We do what we have to do, when the time is right." "Really? Then you won't mind if I ask you to kill me. Because that's the right thing to do. If you kill me now, it's the end of Voldemort. I suppose he hasn't found a lackey to give him a new body yet; it's not an easy spell, and his closest friends are all dead, imprisoned in Azkaban or hiding from the Aurors. But he'll find someone eventually. If we wait too long, we'll lose the opportunity." "Exactly. That's why I'm saying we have to do it now." "So you agree to do it?" "To kill you? Of course not." "Why not? You agreed to kill Dumbledore, who was your mentor and protector. Why not me, the son of your enemy, the obnoxious brat who only causes you problems?" Snape's lips curved in a sardonic smile. "It's a very tempting proposal, Potter. I am afraid I will have to reject it, though. I have a life debt with your mother." "With my mother? I thought it was with my father." "Your father saved my life, it's true. However, as I have already told you, there wasn't anything noble in his act, considering he and his friends were the responsible for that very attempt of murdering me. It was your mother who made him go and save me. He would not have gone if Lily hadn't insisted." Ah. Finally that old story started to make sense to Harry. Hearing Snape talking about his mother disturbed him. At first, Harry had thought it was because he had always idealised his parents' relationship, and had never imagined there could have been someone else in the life of either of them. Besides, it was highly disturbing to think that Snape, of all people, could have been that person. But now Harry was starting to realise there was another feeling growing within him, a feeling he couldn't understand very well: he was jealous of the obsessive love Snape devoted to his mother. "Couldn't you pay this bloody debt by doing me the favour of killing me?" Harry asked ironically. "I doubt your mother would be happy with that proposal." Harry sighed. "Then we're at a dead end." "There is a third way out of our impasse." "What is it?" "I can try to remove the piece of soul the Dark Lord encased in you." Harry widened his eyes. "Is that possible?" "Honestly, Potter, I don't know. I know, as much as you, how to remove the horcrux spell from objects. Albus explained the process to me in detail. When he considered the hypothesis of Nagini being a horcrux, he confessed he didn't know whether the removal would kill the snake or not." "I... killed Nagini first, and removed the spell later," said Harry, dispirited. "You did well. It was the most logical and practical way." "Yes, but we still don't know if we can remove the spell from a living being whilst keeping them alive." Harry gave a deep breath. "Unfortunately, there's no other way, and no time to lose. Let's do it." "There is no time to lose, but we should not be hasty. You must understand what might happen and be prepared. When I cast the removal spell over you, the piece of soul the Dark Lord put inside you might fragment itself and spread through your body. And your body might reject it; your soul might be unable to stand it, the same way the Dark Lord's soul couldn't possess you due to... certain particular traits of your soul." Love, thought Harry, not without a dose of irony. "So what can I do?" "Be mentally prepared for this inner fight, and clear your mind. Perhaps more than a single attempt will be necessary to remove the piece of the Dark Lord's soul from you; I will cast healing spells to minimise the effects upon you, and try not to cause you much stress." "Right," said Harry, taking Snape's wand out of his pocket and handing it to him, shaking a little when he remembered all the times Snape had told him to "clear his mind" without any result. ~*~*~ Chapter 3 - Expellianimula Severus knelt in front of Harry, touched his scar with the tip of his wand and cast the spell. "Expellianimula!" Harry shouted with all the might of his voice and lungs, and clung to Severus. Closing his eyes, Severus concentrated his mind and started chanting the healing spell. It was an intense spell, and required all Severus's power of empathy and compassion. Or love in its wider sense: Agape. When the mental connection was established, Severus felt lighter, as if he were floating in the infinite space. A sense of peace and belonging swept over him. Feeling Harry relax in his arms, Severus opened his eyes. Harry had lost consciousness. Severus disentangled himself carefully from Harry's arms and laid him on his bed. Severus had barely straightened up when Harry started to convulse. The green eyes rolled up and his back arched off the bed. Harry began to shake violently, limbs flailing wildly. To prevent him from falling down or hurting himself, Severus lay on top of him, pinning his arms and legs to the bed. After about two minutes, Harry stopped thrashing. Severus sat on the bed beside him. Pulling the young man up against himself, Severus folded his arms across him, holding Harry's back against his chest. This way, if Harry had another seizure, Severus could control his upper body, protecting his head and neck. The legs could kick and thrash all they wanted. Severus was exhausted. Besides not being fully recovered from the Killing Curse, the spells he had to cast over Harry and the effort to prevent Harry from hurting himself had drained his last bit of strength. In spite of all the tension he was feeling, Severus fell asleep holding Harry firmly against his body. Severus awakened about half an hour later. Harry was still unconscious, but breathing steadily and easily. Severus looked at his own arm and saw that the Mark hadn't disappeared, but had paled further. He sighed. Unfortunately, the nightmare hadn't ended. Harry mumbled and opened his eyes. "What is it?" "It seems the piece of soul has been only partially destroyed. We will have to repeat the spell." Dismay reflected in the young man's face. "I'm so tired!" "We will not do it now. I am drained too. We must regain strength. Do you have anything edible here, Potter?" Harry tried to rise up, but Severus held him down. "Don't move. Stay in bed. Or rather... Wingardium Leviosa!" Severus made Harry levitate along with the mattress and propped the bed up against the wall. Then he lowered the mattress to the floor. "Why did you do that?" "You had a seizure. If it happens again, you will not fall off your bed." "Oh, shit... Will it ever end?" "Language, Potter. Behave yourself and stay in your bed. I will search your kitchen for something to cook for us." Severus was already on the threshold when he heard Harry calling him. "Snape!" "What is it?" "The garden. You're going to love the garden." ~*~*~ Indeed, the garden was like an oasis in the desert, and would be their salvation. With what he gathered there, Severus could prepare a good vegetable broth. In the kitchen, he found a packet of crackers. It wasn't exactly a feast, but he and Harry were not up to heavy meals. There were also many herbs in the garden, ingredients that could be used to concoct healing potions. Severus gathered camomile, mugwort, ginger, hellebore, and a moonstone he found on the ground. He wouldn't be able to prepare a Calming Potion or even an Invigoration Draft, but with those ingredients he could make up a potion that would be calming and invigorating at the same time. The cauldron Harry used at school was inside the trunk in Harry's bedroom, and Severus summoned it from the kitchen. Half an hour later, Severus levitated two trays, each with a bowl of broth, a plate of crackers and a mug of potion to Harry's bedroom. He helped Harry sit up and arrange himself comfortably, then set a tray on Harry's lap. He put his own tray on the dresser, cast a Pack spell to put all scattered things into the trunk, turned a chair to face Harry, sat on it and started to eat his broth. "I didn't know you could cook," Harry said. "It's tasty!" "I am not a Chef, but I can certainly cook. I don't have a house-elf working for me either. In Spinner's End, I mean." "You shouldn't be taking care of me. You need medical care too." "If I go back to St Mungo's, they will take me to Azkaban immediately." "I know. I reckon they only let me stay with you because I hinted I might, you know, watch over you while I was there. They were freaking scared of you and what you might do when you recovered consciousness. Blimey, you've survived a Killing Curse!" Severus himself couldn't understand how he had done it. But there was something else that Severus couldn't understand. "Why did you want to stay with me?" Harry swallowed the cracker he was munching. "When you were hit by Voldemort's Avada Kedavra and the phoenix was gone, I approached you. I noticed you were alive, but also that the Mark hadn't disappeared completely. I was intrigued. While you were in coma, I thought about everything that had happened and concluded that Hermione's theory about me being a horcrux must be right. Then I decided to stay in St Mungo's and talk to you. I hoped you would know more about it." Severus pondered. "I didn't know. I don't even know if he knew." "Could it have been involuntary?" "If he planned to create a horcrux with your death and Lily cast a spell to protect you, perhaps something has gone wrong and he hasn't even realised. But now he must know." Harry finished his broth, and Severus made him drink the potion. Severus also drank his. When they emptied their mugs, Severus cast a cleaning spell and a Banishing Charm to send the dishes back to the kitchen. Then Severus conjured another mattress, with sheets, blankets and pillow, beside Harry's, and lay down. "Perhaps we should call another member of the Order to try and remove the piece of the Dark Lord's soul from you. I am not at my best, and we may take several days to do it," said Severus, sleepily staring at Harry. "I don't want to call anyone else. You're the best. I know you are." "Stubborn and irritating as always," Severus grumbled, not without a bit of pride for the trust the young man put in him. ~*~*~ Chapter 4 - Exorcism Harry's memories of those days when they were going through the "exorcism", as they had started to call it, were very hazy. In the morning, Snape would bring him tea and toast. After they had tea, Snape would cast the removal spell. Harry always felt as if he had been suddenly thrown through the air: a chill and a sinking feeling in his stomach, and a sense of being blown to bits. The healing spells that followed felt like Snape was caressing his very soul. The weirdest thing of all was that Harry felt very close to Severus at those moments, and longed for them. Then Harry would lose consciousness and wake up in Severus's arms after one or more seizures, feeling supported, comforted, protected and... very confused. He was beginning to get used to waking up enveloped by Snape's body, smelling Snape's scent, hearing Snape's breath and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and that sensation was not unpleasant in the least. On the contrary; nothing had ever felt more right. Harry would stay in bed until midday, when Snape would bring him lunch. In the afternoon, Harry usually felt better and managed to get up and help Snape with the house chores. On the second day Snape spent in Harry's house, Snape transfigured his nose, eyebrows and hair to go out and buy groceries and ingredients for potions. Harry almost choked of laughter when he saw Snape with a snub nose and strawberry blonde hair. "You should do that in Hogwarts. This way no one would talk about your big nose or your greasy hair. Hm... On second though, it's still greasy..." Snape glared daggers at him. Harry could almost hear him saying "ten points from Gryffindor", and pitied his former teacher, now disarmed and helpless to the point of having to swallow his pride and accept Harry's money. Each day Snape's Mark became paler. Each day Harry felt closer to Snape. ~*~*~ At night, they each slept on their own mattress, side by side; Snape in a green nightshirt he had transfigured from one of Harry's t-shirts, and Harry in his pyjamas. On the third night, Harry had a dreadful nightmare. He dreamt Voldemort had come back and was killing Snape, not with a Killing Curse, but with repeated Cruciatus curses, and Harry couldn't do anything, because Voldemort had cast a Freezing Charm on him. He woke up with Snape shaking him. "Potter! It's just a dream." When Harry saw Snape, he grabbed his upper arm tightly. "You're alive." Snape stared at him, intrigued. "What have you been dreaming of, Potter?" "It was horrible, I don't want to tell you." Harry stayed silent for a few moments. "Er... do you have to call me Potter? You say it with so much hate." "It's out of habit." "You mean you don't hate me?" Snape made an impatient movement. "What do you think?" "That if you hated me, you wouldn't help me like this." "I have already told you; it is not for you that I am here." "Yeah. I'm not special or important. I know. But would you do the same, if you hated me?" "Stop it. I never hated you." "Oh, you were quite convincing, at Hogwarts." "I always knew I would have to go back and spy on the Dark Lord. I had to pretend to despise you." Snape sneered. "I daresay it wasn't a difficult task, though." "Git." "I had enough of your insults and your silly chatter. Now let me sleep." ~*~*~ When Harry awakened, Snape was still asleep, his face turned to him. Snape's expression was calm - at least calmer than usual. Harry remembered his nightmare, and his heart shrunk. Almost unconsciously, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of Snape's face. Yes, it was greasy. Snape washed it almost every day and it was still greasy. Harry squirmed closer to him, felt his warmth, smelled his scent, and let his hand rest on his hair. Snape wasn't handsome at all, but he was attractive in a mysterious way. And when Harry thought of everything Snape had done and was doing for him, he felt a deep gratitude and tenderness. And also a strong desire to touch him. Snape opened his eyes and Harry froze. Realising he had his hands on Snape's hair and probably a very stupid look in his face, Harry blushed. Snape frowned. Harry removed his hand. Snape narrowed his eyes at him, but none of them said anything, and Snape fell asleep again. What was happening with him? What did he want? For Snape to grab him, kiss him and declare his undying love for him? But Harry wasn't gay, or was he? And Ginny? Harry loved Ginny, didn't he? Harry was very, very confused. ~*~*~ On the afternoon of the fifth day, Harry was feeling much better. The Mark was now only a pale shadow on Snape's arm. They were having tea when an owl arrived bringing a message from McGonagall to Harry, saying everyone was concerned because he had disappeared, and urging him to return to Hogwarts and finish his studies. "She is absolutely right," Snape commented. "Classes are starting now. You still can go back and..." "Are you going to go back to Hogwarts?" Harry asked. "I? I have never contemplated the possibility of surviving this war. This hadn't changed: my future is the Dementor's kiss." "They don't use Dementors any more." "Then I will be executed, or imprisoned in Azkaban for life." "You won't be. You're a git, but I won't let 'em." Snape snorted. "Always thinking you have the world at your feet. How typical of you, Potter." Harry smiled. Snape's insults didn't bother him any more, because he knew they were part of his intrinsic snarkiness; there was no intention to hurt. "I killed the villain, didn't I? With your help, I admit." Harry gave a condescending smile. "You didn't answer the question, as always..." "Will I return to Hogwarts? After all that happened?" Snape flinched visibly. "No. I wouldn't want to live at Hogwarts with all those reminders. I wouldn't be able to live with the memories of Albus. It would be too terrible. I really... didn't expect to live." Harry put down his cup and placed his hand on Snape's, squeezing it slightly. Snape cast him a surprised look, and kept staring at him. Harry felt him probing his mind, and let him. He had never learned Occlumency, and Snape's probing didn't bother him. He wanted Snape to understand his feelings. Snape frowned, and a slight flush coloured his face. "Foolish Gryffindor," said Snape, turning his hand beneath Harry's and interlacing their fingers. "And you? What are you going to do with your life?" Snape was slowly tracing the back of Harry's hand with his fingertips. Harry needed all his control not to moan aloud. "I don't know. I want to help people, but I'm tired of fighting dark wizards." "You could learn to break dark spells and curses." "Like you do?" Their eyes met again, and there was a fire so intense sparkling in Snape's eyes that Harry had to avert his eyes, lest he would burn... But then he focused on Snape's lips, and he felt lost, because all he could think of was how they would feel against his. Snape's voice awakened him from his reverie. "When I rejoined the side of the Order, Albus taught me Occlumency, Legilimency and healing spells. He used to say I had... the phoenix gift." Snape squeezed Harry's hand gently. "I never managed to teach you anything, but if you are willing, I can teach you how to heal most dark spells." Harry could only nod. He had never felt anything like what he was feeling for Snape right now. He was speechless, and his heart pounded wildly. Snape stood up and started clearing the table, and Harry swallowed hard. ~*~*~ On that night, when Harry slipped beneath the blankets, Snape, who was lying in bed reading an academic journal on Potions he had bought the day before, set the journal down and turned to face Harry. Once again, the dark eyes probed him mercilessly, burning him so intensely that Harry had to close his eyes. Then Snape's lips brushed his gently, even hesitatingly. Harry put his hand on the back of Snape's neck to hold him there. For a long moment, their lips just touched, warm, soft, pliable, making Harry long for more. The initial surprise - Snape was kissing him! - gave place to arousal, and Harry parted his lips to let Snape's tongue slither inside. Almost hesitatingly, Harry's tongue slid into Snape's mouth, tasting it, exploring it, meeting Snape's tongue in a sensual dance and flicking teasing strokes against his teeth and soft palate. Eyes closed, Harry savoured the sensations spreading from his mouth to the rest of his body. He ran his hands down Snape's arms from the broad shoulders to the slim waist, tracing the firm muscles beneath the nightshirt. Harry didn't know where to focus - on Snape's hands roaming his body, on the soft lips pressed to his, or on the heat and pressure gathering in his groin. Harry moaned. Snape tore his lips from his and rolled a bit to the side. "Is this all right?" "Yes," Harry panted. Snape leant his head. Harry thought he was going to kiss him again, but the thin lips found his earlobe, and Harry whimpered. Snape flicked his tongue over the sensitive skin, then moved up around the curve of his ear, licking it thoroughly, sending tremors all through Harry's body. Snape blew gently in his ear, then slid his tongue down inside, mapping the ridges of skin. Harry couldn't swallow the moans evoked by the caresses. Snape pulled down the blankets and lay beside Harry, pulling him into another kiss. This time Harry felt arousal surge with an almost unbearable strength. More than that: he felt Snape's erection pressing against his. The realisation that he was exchanging caresses with another man hit him, but excitement overcame inhibition. It was too much; Harry didn't know how to handle all this. Snape tugged at the hem of his pyjama shirt, and Harry helped him to lift it up over his head. The glow of the single lamp they had left lit touched Harry's chest, allowing Harry to see the enraptured look on Snape's face. Harry had never found himself attractive, but that look convinced him that, at least at that moment, to Snape, he was the most attractive man in the world. Snape touched his chest almost reverently. Harry tugged at Snape's nightshirt and Snape got rid of it in no time. Harry had only a glimpse of Snape's well-defined chest before Snape was all over him, capturing his lips and delving into his mouth. Now their bare chests were touching skin-to-skin, and sensations magnified tenfold. Snape slowly licked the curve of Harry's neck and collarbone while his hands traced random patterns on Harry's back. Harry savoured Snape's caresses, whimpering and arching towards him. When Snape slid down the waistband of his pyjama pants and grabbed his buttocks with both hands, Harry kicked his pants down his legs and pressed his erection against Snape's thighs. Then Snape curled his fingers around Harry's cock, and Harry bit his lower lip not to moan in pleasure. "Do you like that?" Snape asked in a low and hoarse whisper. "Oh, God," Harry managed to say. Snape captured his lips again, deft hand sliding slowly down Harry's length. Harry slipped a hand inside Snape's briefs and found his cock fully hard, dripping pre-come; Harry wrapped his fingers around it and squeezed it, rubbing his thumb over its tip. Snape let out a needy whimper, thrusting his hips towards Harry's. Harry took out Snape's cock and they started to rub their cocks together. Snape hooked a leg over Harry's hip, grinding their bodies, crushing him, biting and sucking his nipples and pumping their cocks using their pre-come as lube. Snape stroked harder and harder until Harry's cock started to throb and his whole body twitched, spurting his seed over both their hands. Snape milked him until every last drop. When Harry came back to his senses, Snape was observing him, a half-smile on his lips. Harry closed his hand around Snape's cock again and devoted all his attention to it, pumping it rhythmically, pressing its tip with the thumb, rolling Snape's balls with the other hand. Snape's breath became faster and uneven as Harry's hand moved quicker and quicker up and down Snape's length and gently over the tip. Finally, Snape groaned and, thrusting against Harry's hand one last time, shuddered in climax, tilting his head back and arching his hips. Harry held him against his body and fell asleep listening to his heartbeat as it slowly returned to normal. ~*~*~ On the following day, Harry felt perfectly well after the "exorcism" session, except for a slight sleepiness. When Snape finished casting the healing spell and looked at his own arm, his face brightened. Seeing that the Mark had completely disappeared, they embraced each other in celebration. As on the previous night, they stroked each other and came in each other's hands. Sated and sleepier than ever, Harry fell asleep. When he woke up, he couldn't find Snape anywhere. ~*~*~ Trying not to panic and failing miserably, Harry Apparated to the Hog's Head. The tall, thin old man with long grey hair and a beard greeted him from behind the counter. "Harry! What evils bring you here?" "Snape has disappeared." "Haven't you read the extra edition of the Prophet?" Aberforth took a copy of the Prophet from a counter shelf and handed it to Harry. The headlines said "Dumbledore's Murderer Surrenders". "Oh, no. Why didn't he warn me?" Harry lifted his eyes to Aberforth. "Thanks, Aberforth, I'll have to go to the Ministry." "Wait a little," Aberforth grumbled. "I'll go with you."

That very first ... day, though of course it in no way resembled a day, after the flesh-and-blood SG-1 had disappeared, heading home, Jack had drawn an artificial, perfectly formed breath, and turned to Harlan where he stood before the stargate. "So.... What's your first project?" And Harlan had stumbled and stuttered in his delight at mapping one out for them. It involved some more of the dangerously rusted blow-off valves. When that was done, a whole lot of messy, dirty hours later, Carter dusted her hands and turned to Jack and said, "Didn't we sort of promise to bury the stargate, sir?" Jack just glared at her. ^^^^ Routine maintenance had been long deferred. There was a lot to do. They kept busy. The hardest part of being a robot, Jack found, at least at first, was expecting to sleep and not sleeping. He didn't even get drowsy. And that was just ... wrong. And then, of course, was the expecting to eat and not ever getting hungry. And the lack of other basic human functions, which he simply did not carry on any more. The thing was, he intellectually knew that he was a robot now. He even had mostly accepted that he was a robot. But he still felt human. He felt just like himself, and so the constant reminders that he was not were jarring. He missed his human weaknesses. In the rusty, dank labyrinth of rooms and corridors and warehouses that was now home for the four of them, there was nothing resembling a kitchen, or running water of any kind, or plumbing for bathing or drinking or flushing toilets. Nothing to accommodate those kinds of human needs. Because they didn't have them. Jack, in a way he concluded was very Daniel-like, especially missed the rituals that surrounded cooking and eating. He'd never thought much, before, about how they gave a rhythm to his day. How he used trips to the commissary for pie to stretch his legs or to break him through to a solution for a problem. He missed doing that. It was weird. They were all here, with plenty of work so far. They were underground, in a place very like the SGC. But he missed all the everyday rituals. So, in the absence of sleeping and eating and bathing and dressing, Jack clung to courtesy and formality. And to hard work. It's home now. It's not like prison, Jack thought, once, early on, walking a corridor just to see with his eyes where it went, though he knew perfectly well it was the access corridor for the air pumps on five. Don't start thinking like that. Don't even go there. ^^^^ Daniel spent ... a while ... exploring the computers. He knew, actually, how long it was that he spent. Exactly. Down to the second. But he didn't focus on the number. He simply told himself that it was ... a while. His shiny new robot mind could, of course, calculate days and weeks down to a millisecond without trying, even without his conscious decision to do so, but it seemed frightening to think about the time that was passing for them in terms of Earth days or weeks. Especially since they didn't sleep. So without a sleep cycle, he found it just too odd to note that he'd been working on a given project for 82 hours and some change. So, he rummaged around in Harlan's computer network, but he stopped trying to know the numbers that would quantify how much time was passing. He spent a vague while exploring the nodes for history, for maintenance, for design. He'd seat himself in one of the command chairs in a quiet location; usually level six, away from Harlan's main labs and the labs where they'd been created and their flesh-and-blood counterparts immobilized. He sat there on level six, in the strange eternal interior dusk, distant clanks and groans and pings of the old machinery for company, and scrolled through the computer databases, matching up what he'd been "bundled" with to what was in the collective memory of Harlan's doomed society of robots. The filtered air, the weight of dirt and rock above him, the subterranean smell of rust and damp, reminded him of the concrete bunker of the SGC. He found that oddly reassuring. The human, top layer of his programming was indeed very seamlessly integrated with the accumulated layered knowledge of Harlan's world, and he instantly recognized everything he read. But somehow he still felt it was important to go over these things in real time. To see things with his own eyes, the way he always had. And so he lost track of time, intentionally. And he studied. That was his medication, his therapy, his escape. Like always. After a few weeks, he started tuning in to the background chatter of the others. The radios they had been made with could be turned off entirely, but Daniel found it soothing to think with a backdrop of familiar voices. He found that Sam tended to talk to herself, even if she was working alone. And that Teal'c, left to his own devices, would hum. Sometimes one or the other of them would mute their broadcasts, but not often. He realized it was making him feel less lonely, and he realized that before he'd actually noticed the loneliness. But he kept working on the computers, studying, mostly alone. Jack didn't come around and give him any orders, and when the others needed help he gave it. But they all seemed to accept that he wanted to sit alone and study. Harlan didn't have to nag the four of them about helping him. Teal'c and Jack, as soon as they finished one task, would jog to wherever Harlan was, and ask for the next repair project. The deferred maintenance Altair needed was scary. Harlan had needed help for a long time; Daniel really couldn't blame him for seizing the opportunity to create some companions when he'd been presented with the chance. Harlan couldn't leave this place, and he wanted to live. Yet, without help, he had been doomed. Now he had hope again. He was downright giddy with delight, and he worked harder than any of them, despite his age and girth. Sam was drafted for maintenance and repair a bit more often than Daniel. At first, she spent a lot of time in the biology labs. The composition and function of the robot technology was by far the most advanced and fascinating thing this world contained. Sam was captivated by it. She would willingly drop whatever she was doing and help the others when asked, as Daniel always would, but she always gravitated back to those labs, which had once belonged to Hubbell himself. The robot system that the mysterious and long-dead scientist had created was elusively described and poorly documented. She was obsessed with learning how he'd managed to do it. Her experiments and reverse engineering were risky, elegant and logical, by turns, and sometimes all three at once. Sometimes she came to see Daniel when an anatomy experiment she'd run had gone awry. She'd show him how she'd marred or mauled herself, before getting Harlan to help her fix it. She and Daniel would have a good laugh over it, and then she'd go and get herself perfectly repaired again. Daniel had to admit that Sam, true scientist that she was, seemed to be coping better than any of them with her new life. Despite her immersion in the military world, at heart Sam was an experimental physicist. The puzzle of the robot bodies was something she could happily study until she mastered it, even if it took decades, Daniel was pretty sure. Mentally, Sam was doing great. But emotionally, Daniel suspected, she was doing what he was doing: Burying herself in ideas, in science, in concepts. One day, a day when Teal'c and Jack and Harlan were in a distant tunnel, repairing the roof, Sam had been silent for a while. When he took a break from his research, he drifted through the room where they'd first awakened, and he found her sitting there, staring at the ceiling, tugging gently at the hem of her black and silver shirt. When she heard him, she turned to acknowledge him, then turned away again. After a moment she said, "You know, I really miss Dad, and Mark, and the girls... And I miss Janet Fraiser. So much." Daniel sat down beside her on the slab and put his hand on her shoulder. She was warm and soft. Just like she should be, just as if she were flesh and blood and not silicone and alloy. "They're all going right on," Daniel said, matching her quiet tone. "That comforts me." "Yeah...They're not missing us. Because we're still there." She turned to him, and he held her calm, sad blue gaze for a moment, and then dropped his own. He patted her shoulder again, and got up and walked away, out into the damp rusty corridor. He was glad she didn't bring up Sha're. ^^^^ Once the urgent failures had been mostly patched in the geothermal systems, and once Jack and Teal'c and Daniel and Harlan had installed the automated maintenance controls that Carter designed with Harlan's help, Jack had a sense of closure. Of duty done. It was not a good feeling. There were other projects, other experiments to tackle, but he left Carter to take the lead on them if she wanted. If Harlan had an idea that needed to be planned and implemented. He backed off, and let Harlan deal with Carter, mostly. He always helped when asked, and he still kept fairly busy, but he took to wandering the corridors, and he took to climbing into the observation bubble at the far north end of the top level, and slowly cleaning a patch he could look through in order to glimpse the surface. While he did that, he thought about fishing. Places he'd fished. Before. The Minnesota lake, Lake Michigan, oceans. It took a long time to clean a spot on the inside of the small dome; the crystal surface was coated with decades of gunk that was harder to wash away than restaurant kitchen grease. Plus the static electricity and the chemical properties of the crystal made the dust and grime and gunk in the air bond to the dome's interior much, much better than any similar setup back on Earth. Jack didn't really want to know that, but he did. He understood the chemical bonding, the formulas, the whole shooting match. He could even discuss it with Carter, now, if he wanted to. But he didn't. Once he'd laboriously shined a spot to look through, there wasn't much to see. The planetary surface outside had an atmosphere. Sort of. And it was prone to sand storms that made the Abydos storms look like April showers. When the storms did clear, the surface was mostly red dust. It looked much like photos Jack had seen of the surface of Mars. Jack would stand there on tireless legs, on knees that never buckled, never twinged, and look out, and let his souped-up mind drift aimlessly, like an upended car spinning its wheels in the air. He wondered sometimes if this version of his mind would have been able to absorb the Ancient database, or if the lack of real human flesh would have made the download machine reject his body as it had rejected Teal'c's. Something else he'd never know. ^^^^ Sometimes, every 90 hours or so, Daniel would feel moved to go and lie down on his slab in that empty lab where he and the others had first awakened, feeling a little hysterically that he should be asleep. He would lie there with his eyes closed and think about meditating. His mind really wouldn't sink into that kind of tranquility. He had never been an expert at the practice, but he had tried it, and he knew what he was looking for when he did. And this mind wouldn't get close. It would dutifully slow down, but it would never really become still. He would lie there anyway. He thought sometimes about asking Teal'c how he was doing with his similar efforts. Daniel had seen a small room on the third level that Teal'c had draped in red. Sometimes Teal'c would sit there, assuming at least the outward aspect of kel'no'reem. Daniel understood the impulse. Daniel would lie still, eyes closed, and sometimes he would fantasize that Harlan could create people from thoughts, just as he had the ability to create people from flesh. He pretended that Harlan had the power to forge a living soul from his vivid mental template of pure yearning. He could build Sha're in his mind for Harlan, shape her from his own stored knowledge of their past, and animate her from his strength of purpose, from his drive to find her, save her. He pretended that Harlan could give him Sha're, and a new version of Skaara, as well. Surely his bitter regret and fierce clinging to his former self had that kind of power; that much potency to serve as a pattern, as his own living and transient flesh had had. Once, people had been created from breath and a bit of mud, right? Surely memory would work just as well. Then he would laugh bitterly and wipe his wet eyes -- how had Harlan made that work -- tears? -- and he would curl up and sit, and then set his feet on the cold floor and walk away. He would find a terminal, and start learning again, matching what he knew to what he saw. Digging deeper and deeper, metaphorically speaking, into the guts of the place, of the people of doomed Altair, of the place the Tau'ri eventually had named PX3-989. He was enough of a poet to like the name Altair better. Earth had come up with the same word, almost, to name a star in the Milky Way. It was a nice name. He was learning a lot. He was occupying his mind. It was the best he could do. ^^^^ Every now and then, Daniel had noticed, Jack would disappear for hours on end, and cut off his radio, then, eventually, reappear. Daniel didn't like to pry, as they were all having enough trouble adjusting, in their own way, but one day he cut off his own radio, and followed Jack. Jack wasn't going up to the dome or to the main computer console, where Harlan hung out when there wasn't a pressing problem. Sometimes Carter or Daniel would sit and chat with him there, and Teal'c would sit and listen. Daniel followed Jack to an area near the central stairway on five, and Daniel saw that Jack had cleared out a small closet, and somewhere, somehow, found, or made, some cushions and a lamp, and had lined himself a little nest. Jack turned, when he was twelve feet from the open door, and cleared his throat. He didn't quite glare at Daniel. "Do you mind?" he said, and he didn't sound gruff, only neutral and firm. "Sorry," Daniel said, and turned away. He missed his lab, he missed his apartment, he missed his artifacts and his books and his clothes. He missed his tent on Abydos at the oasis, and he missed Kasuf's house in the city. But none of that mattered now. ^^^^ Daniel couldn't stop thinking about Teal'c and his red draped refuge to try to hang on to his practice of kel'no'reem. He couldn't stop thinking about Jack, looking out that window. He leaned his chin in his hand. He never got tired of learning, but he'd come to the end of several major sections of database. He was a scholar by training, and to scholarship he had reverted. But it was time to stand up, and look around. Time to move. ^^^^ Daniel followed Jack's tuneless whistling and found him on the top level, looking out the little patch of window he'd cleared. Daniel said, "There you are! Come with me." Jack frowned, but without a word he turned and followed Daniel back down the stairs and along the featureless concrete corridors to the lower levels. When Daniel started jogging, then running, Jack matched his speed. It was easy now to accept that he could run like that. Daniel ran and Jack followed, a long way down. All the way down and across, to a big warehouse-like room on two. Jack knew without really trying to know that the room was a store room, and had once housed spare parts for the ventilation system, and that the parts that sat in here in giant packing cases had been slowly used up, and the cases recycled, and eventually Harlan and Wallace had created a replacement part that was simpler and more quickly replicatible, and this room had sat empty and unneeded for centuries. He winced as the encyclopedic thoughts faded. He really didn't think he could ever get used to thinking in centuries. Daniel had walked to the center of the big room, and turned and spread his arms. "What do you think?" Jack looked around. There was padding on the floor now. It looked like a boxing ring, without the ring. Daniel, without waiting for an answer, stepped over to the wall by the door and picked up some fabric from a pile. He began wrapping his hand in what looked like an Ace bandage. Then he picked up a second one and started wrapping the other hand. "I've been dying to try this, and now that we've got the groundwater problem solved on four and the ventilation maintenance mostly handled, we have time." Daniel was holding out some of the long stringy material for Jack, apparently assuming he was going to wrap his hands, as well. "You've got to be kidding," Jack said, looking at the puffy bulges over Daniel's knuckles, a poor imitation of boxing gloves. "Not at all. I've finally got the equipment, if you will, to hold up my end of a hand-to-hand encounter with you and maybe even with Teal'c. Now I need the skills, and you can teach me. You have no idea how much fun this is going to be." "For you, maybe." "Come on, Jack. Look at it this way. You can finally kick my ass without guilt." Daniel looked eager, like a puppy. Jack slowly started wrapping his knuckles, memories of learning to box, learning defense training, unspooling dutifully. "Well, since you put it that way...." It might be a way to not be bored. And it was a reminder that it was kind of nice to have knees again. Knees couldn't make up for not ever being able to eat praline pecan pie with maple sugar sauce again, but they were something. ^^^^ Daniel thought of the biology labs as Sam's now. Not Hubbell's. Harlan had even started calling them that -- Sam's labs. She mostly spent her time there, and so when Daniel went looking for her, that's where he looked. If she were off investigating something or fixing something, she would leave a note there with a stick drawing of herself as the signature. Teal'c was often with her. Daniel tended to spend time talking with Harlan when they weren't all working, but Jack, Daniel noticed, spent more time alone than any of them. Every 50 hours or so, they'd go to Daniel's gym and box, or spar, or practice hand to hand moves. Sometimes Sam joined them, but usually it was just the guys. ^^^^ A whole section of wiring on four had failed, one of the many mushroom factor projects that had resulted from the long-neglected groundwater leak in that part of the complex, and it took weeks for Teal'c and Jack to pull new wiring and connect everything when they finished patching up the emergencies and started working on overhauling individual major systems. Just rerouting all the essential functions around the short had taken Carter and Harlan two days, and now, Carter went around during the actual rewiring muttering to herself about new subroutines and failsafes and backup systems. Jack was spinning a piece of conduit like a cheerleader's baton, although it weighed 10.14 kilos, and waiting for Carter to tell him that the section she'd just run continuity tests on was okay and that they could move on to the next section. Teal'c was waiting patiently, his back against the big iron archway. "Why'd you agree to it, T?" Jack said, suddenly, not even aware he was about to ask. "Why did my counterpart agree to let Harlan begin again on a new robot, after the first one malfunctioned so severely?" "Yeah." Jack spun the conduit, around and around, switching hands, and then back the other direction. Like a yoyo, but better. Heavier. "I am unsure," Teal'c said. He paused. "I can only guess that the first Teal'c felt it appropriate that the team be complete." "Huh," Jack said. Teal'c looked thoughtful and he opened his mouth to add something, but then Carter spoke, telling them everything was all clear and could they move on the next junction box. Jack said, "Roger that," and slung the conduit over his shoulders and followed Teal'c into the dark. ^^^^ When a memory of Sha're occurred to Daniel, as often happened, he had a new mantra. He was kind of proud of how simple it was. He would think of Sha're, a stab of pain, and he would close his eyes and say firmly to himself, "Oh, that's for the other Daniel," and then redirect his thoughts. It even mostly worked. Mostly. ^^^^ Daniel sat, bent forward, with his forehead resting on the console next to the computer keyboard. It was an experiment. He'd sat there like that for a few minutes. Seventeen and a half minutes. But who's counting. Sometimes, in his old life, he would fall asleep at his desk and wake up like that. Usually with a cold mug of coffee at his elbow. He thought he missed coffee. But he couldn't be sure. He sat up carefully and rubbed his eyes, though they didn't really feel scratchy. He was pretty sure he missed coffee, but he didn't miss his glasses. At all. He got up, and started walking. Down the corridors, up the clattering stairs. He didn't try to move quietly. When he got to Jack's little room, the door was ajar. The light was off in there. Daniel walked closer and rapped on the jamb. "Hello," he said. "What," Jack answered, but he didn't get up. He was lying flat on his stomach on what looked for all the world like an Air Force regulation issue sleeping bag, his chin propped on his hands, staring into the corner. Daniel didn't answer. He slowly edged into the tiny room, knelt, then lay down on his side, close beside Jack. When Jack didn't move or speak, Daniel stretched his arm across Jack's spine, and pushed his face against the firm underside of Jack's arm, mashing his nose a little against the triceps muscle. He felt Jack exhale, slow and loud. Then they were quiet. ^^^^ Thirteen Altair days after the first time Daniel came to snuggle, he came to do the same thing a second time. Jack didn't really give a rat's ass that it was thirteen days, which would have been nineteen Earth days, and not twelve Altair days or eight Altair days, but it was, in fact not a couple of weeks or a few days but thirteen Altair days. But when Daniel showed up, Jack was glad to see him, and he did give a rat's ass about that. Jack was taking a break, just lying there, thinking. Mostly he was thinking about fishing. And he was also thinking about how it used to feel to walk a quiet perimeter on a starry cool night, a MP-5 cradled in his elbow like a bulky security blanket. He kind of bounced back and forth between the memories, toggling the scenes when other, unwanted memories tried to muscle in. He'd stuffed a pillow under his head and was on his side, facing away from the door. Daniel came strolling up, and he didn't even say a word this time before he barged in. He simply lay down and spooned up behind Jack and put his lips against Jack's neck. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. They lay there like that for a while. Jack felt Daniel breathing and Jack tried not to wonder why a breathing function had been deemed advisable for these bodies. He couldn't stop himself from doing the wondering, apparently, but he really didn't care. Jack heard a slight rustle, and felt Daniel shift, and then Daniel rested his open hand softly on Jack's ribs. His face was warm, and it felt good up against Jack's nape. ^^^^ Jack didn't try to count the intervals between the snuggle sessions with Daniel. But he stopped turning his radio off until he got into the room and lay down. Often, Daniel would appear at his room shortly after he did. One day they lay there in comfortable silence for a while. Then Daniel said, "Have you tried masturbating yet?" Jack raised his eyebrows, involuntarily, but didn't move otherwise. "Now that's a stupid question, isn't it?" Daniel let that pass, intent on his line of thought. "It's just interesting to me that we can't eat, or shit, or pee, or sweat, but we can cry and spit and have something that resembles an orgasm but without ejaculate." "Why, Doctor Jackson, what fascinating observations." Jack didn't want to discuss this. He didn't see the point. But hearing Daniel say those clinical words -- orgasm, ejaculate -- made his dick twitch. He mentally shook his head at himself. He was pathetic. Sexually deprived. Daniel was quiet again for a while. Jack could hear him thinking. "I guess our eyeballs and the insides of our mouths need some kind of lubrication or oil, if you will. I'll have to ask Sam if she's analyzed that liquid; is the spit the same as the tears? Or is it chemically different...." "You should definitely leave that to Carter. Why ask me about it anyway." "Because it's not Sam I'm using for a teddy bear." Daniel moved his arm further around Jack's middle and hugged him tighter. Now Jack could feel that Daniel was getting hard, and that made him start to get hard. "So this is your idea of foreplay?" Daniel outright laughed at that, and Jack felt strangely triumphant at pulling that surprised, glorious sound from Daniel. "From colonel to teddy bear. I feel so flattered." Daniel chuckled, his amusement tailing off into a comfortable silence. "So," Jack said. "Do you think about robot science when you jerk off?" "No, of course not," Daniel said, sounding genuinely surprised. "I think about you." "Oh," Jack said. ^^^^ "You know," Daniel said, wanting to speak although he still hadn't caught his breath, and his hands wouldn't quite close all the way. They were fumbling and weak, as his skeleton and nervous system had turned to jello, his skin to velvet, under Jack's hands, under Jack's mouth. "You know," he tried again, "there is one good thing about coming without coming." "No mess, no fuss." "Yeah," Daniel said, and he felt Jack's smile as Jack eased his chin up and nudged Daniel's cheekbone to line their mouths up. Jack kissed him again, deeply, intently. "Ungh," Daniel said, and he had to cut short the kiss to breathe some more. ^^^^ Daniel tended to get all clinical about what was really very simple. There was love, and there was sex, and there was comfort, and now Jack had all three in one convenient package. Daniel could keep his speculation about bodily fluids to himself, thank you very much. Comfort made Jack expansive, when it didn't make him maudlin. He tried to keep a tight rein on both. He'd always been an "actions speak louder than words" kind of guy, and so he would remain. But one time, after coming with his head mashed against Daniel's shoulder, the taste of Daniel's skin on his tongue, he waited until their breathing slowed. He said, "They took our lives, you know. Those were the lives that were really ours." Daniel didn't answer. He held Jack tighter, and pressed his cheek to Jack's and hid his eyes. He lay there, body to body with Jack, in silence, for a long time. Eventually they got up, and got dressed, and went about Harlan's business. ^^^^ "This was a really good idea, sir, thank you," Carter said, beaming at Jack across the square table. Teal'c was neatly sorting the poker chips into colors, and then stacking them into piles. Daniel was absently shuffling and reshuffling the deck. Jack was standing behind his chair, after stretching. It seemed like the thing to do when you'd been sitting for what might as well have been an all-night poker game. But he didn't really feel stiff. Which was good, when you thought about it. He tried not to. He leaned on the back of his chair and smiled at Carter. "Might as well keep testing your replicator machine with something we can get some fun out of." Carter's smile brightened. "You, you. You are still here? Sitting around? Eh!" Harlan paused in the door, then bustled through to the computer console in the center of the room, and did something to the monitors, and then bustled out again. Jack ignored him. Carter stretched her hands out in front of her, linking her fingers and pressing out with the palms, and glanced around at the three of them. "I think I'll take a walk and then go see what else I can create. Since the colors on the cards came through so well, I'm tempted to try for some paisley fabric. I'm pretty sick of this sweat suit." "It is functional, and no more drab than the team uniforms of the SGC," Teal'c said. "Yeah, but see, when I was off duty I did occasionally like to wear a dress. You know, change clothes just for the fun of it." "I see," Teal'c said. He finished stacking the chips and folded his hands. "This is a typical tradition of women on Earth." "Absolutely," Carter said, and smiled at him. Jack mused that despite the fact that poker wasn't the same without beer, he had had fun, and he wasn't going to quibble at anything Carter wanted to do with her fancy machinery at this point. Daniel snapped the cards and shuffled once more, looking down at his hands. "Did you tell Jack about your other idea?" Carter smiled, that secret, tiny smile. "Not yet." "And?" Jack said, still holding on the back of his chair and looking receptive. Carter took a deep breath and met his eyes. "I'm pretty sure I know how Harlan's former companions designed their portable batteries." "Didn't they just use them to walk off and, you know, die?" "Yes. They had no interest in a cell that would last longer than a few hours, and they had no interest in recharging them, or making them light enough to use for any extended period of time. But I think I've solved all those issues." "You have." "Yes. I'm pretty sure I have." "Batteries. Which would let us leave the tunnels here." "Yes." She and Jack stared at each other, and Daniel and Teal'c watched them, silent. Jack drawled, "Well, I guess we're going on a field trip, then. Aren't we." It was weird, Jack thought, his glance flitting from face to serious face, that no one knew exactly what to say to that. ^^^^ The surface was hot and arid. Just as Jack had imagined it would be, all those endless hours as he had looked out from the little smudged window he had cleaned. Carter had matched his preferred style of sunglasses perfectly, and then she had made some for Daniel and Teal'c and herself. She was getting to be quite the ace with the replication technology. Harlan had pretty much blown a gasket when he'd found out she'd been working on the portable batteries. But eventually he'd settled down. Daniel had speculated he was afraid they would commit suicide, or leave him forever. He'd absolutely refused to go with them on this little walkabout, and had refused the modifications Carter had offered that would allow her to place a new power supply in his chest, too. She had gone ahead and made one for him, but he wouldn't hear of having it installed. The day they went to the surface for the first time, he sulked and refused to watch them climb the stairs and muscle the hatch open. They had emerged from the iron tube one at a time, and then Jack trudged across the surface, almost dizzy with the experiencing of, after all this time, a horizon, a sky. It was a pleasant vertigo. After an hour or so, they found themselves at the top of a rise. The landscape was the same in all directions -- red sand, red dunes, red rubble-covered hills. Teal'c stood next to Jack. The sky was a dull orange. Today it was cloudless, but Jack knew well how the clouds would cover the sky, darkening high noon, storming for days. Other times the clouds would float pleasantly, like the popcorn cumulus at home. He'd always enjoyed watching the weather, and so he did on this world too. Today, he was sure, there was no danger of a storm. It felt strange to be using his own accumulated new knowledge, and not something given to him, factory installed, as it were, by Harlan. It felt … good. ^^^^ Jack was beautiful. He would snort, and distract Daniel with kisses or tickles when Daniel tried to tell him that, but he was. Lying in the yellow glow of the little lamp, running careful warm hands over Jack's skin, Daniel smiled his appreciation and didn't bother saying it any more. He was taking his time, this time, just feeling. The silky skin inside the point of Jack's hipbone. The cushiony belly, just about the only soft spot on his entire rangy body. The springy pubic hair. The way his warm, firm shaft filled Daniel's palm. The way the head was so much hotter than the rest of Jack's length. He didn't let his fingers linger there, tempting though it always was. Because there was more skin to cover. A firm thigh, the rise of Jack's kneecap, the sharp shinbone. His ankles, the round mysterious bones so close to the surface. The arches of his feet. Daniel lingered there, massaging the soles, making Jack grunt with pleasure and put his hands over his face. Then Daniel took his time smoothing his back way up Jack's body, easing past his genitals this time to trace his ribs, his sternum, his collar bones. Then Daniel planted his hands on either side of Jack's face and switched over to exploring with his lips. He kissed Jack's eyebrows, the delicate shells of his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. Jack went very still, even his restless hands. He lay there, eyes closed, feeling Daniel's mouth. Daniel smiled as he kissed. When he found Jack's mouth, Jack remained still for a bit, letting Daniel lick gently along his lips, then press his tongue to Jack's teeth and taste the corners of his mouth. But Jack couldn't stay still for long when Daniel kissed him. He kissed Daniel back, and they both smiled when their enthusiasm made silly teen-age smacking sounds, and they kept kissing -- gentle brief kisses, longer deeper ones. Jack gave up on lying there and letting Daniel pet him. His arms came around Daniel's back and they rolled, still kissing. Jack's weight on him was a warm embrace in and of itself. Jack kissed his neck, moving down along its length, but Daniel thought of something they hadn't done yet... a position he'd never tried. "Wait," he murmured, and he pulled on Jack's shoulders. Jack hesitated, and looked up, meeting his eyes. "Up," Daniel said, still murmuring. When Jack looked confused, Daniel said, "Over me. Kneel over me. So I can get you in my mouth, from here." Jack's eyes got deep and inward, and Daniel knew he'd hit a nerve in a good way. Slowly, holding his gaze, his eyes narrowing at the corner, Jack complied. He leaned on the wall, the ropy muscles standing out in his forearms, and spread his knees wide over Daniel's chest. He hitched forward until his erection was bobbing over Daniel's mouth. Daniel raised his head and opened his mouth and tasted, and then drew Jack's cock in, sucking and licking. He couldn't see Jack's face any more, which was a shame, but it was a nice trade off. He loved the way Jack's cock pressed against his tongue, loved the way he could cup Jack's ass from this angle. He moved, and pressed with his hands, encouraging Jack to move. Jack moaned, and rocked into him. Daniel squeezed his eyes shut. It tasted good, it was definitely Jack -- a scent he knew even here, even so changed. Their bodies were subtly different in some ways, radically different in others, but Jack still smelled like Jack. Jack panted and then moaned and then gently shook under Daniel's hands, under Daniel's mouth, as his climax escalated, peaked and slowly ebbed. Daniel held him in his mouth and waited until Jack's breath evened out, until his chest had stopped heaving and he was breathing gently again. He tried not to think about what he was missing; what taste he would never get, now. He tried not to mourn. Not here. Not now. Hey, I don't get coffee either, he said to himself, as he always did - one of his new mantras, his new rituals. Laughter was always the best medicine. Something else Jack had taught him. He waited, feeling skin, feeling warmth, loving how Jack filled his mouth. Jack moaned, a happy sound, and pulled gently away. Daniel licked his lips. Jack was moving down, slowly, clumsily, to lie sloppily on top of Daniel and press his face into Daniel's shoulder. Daniel held him tight and breathed him in. ^^^^ "That went well," Jack said, his voice muffled as he pulled one of the new black T shirts over his head and then tugged at the hem, settling it. Carter was putting away her leads and sensors and tests. The newest version of the portable batteries was everything she'd hoped it would be. Jack had never doubted it, but it was possible that she had. She observed, "We've got 48 hours at the outside. At that point we're really cutting it close." They gazes caught and held. She knew, and he knew, though neither of them had said it yet, that they were going to do it. Going to go out there. Going to resume their careers. From the first time they had used the new batteries to visit the surface, it had been on Jack's mind, and he knew without asking that it had been on hers. Jack said, "Funny how we still measure things in Earth days." He folded his hands over a knee, linking his fingers, and looked at a corner of the room, behind Carter. "Base code, huh." "Yeah." She smiled at him, and looked down, carefully coiling a power cord. The smile lingered at the corners of her mouth. "Carter," he began, but that seemed wrong. "Sam," he started, and then he stopped, because it was so extremely odd to call her by her first name. It went against every grain he had. She looked up, surprised, but she looked receptive. He paused, studying her face. He liked to think that she and Teal'c had fully crash tested these new bodies in the same way he and Daniel had. Sometimes their radios were silent at the same times, sometimes for a couple of hours. But that might just be wishful thinking. On the other hand, she'd never acted jealous. Or offended. Or anything really. But he hoped that they were finding something of what he'd found with Daniel. He wouldn't ask. She wouldn't volunteer. He studied her. She looked content. She'd made the best of things. As they all had. "You know," he started again, abandoning trying to use her name in some meaningful way, "there's no way to do mission proposals here, and there's no dialing protocol for what planet to try next." She smiled again. "I have a few ideas about that, sir. If you want to hear them." "Spill it," Jack said, and he grinned at her. She'd called him "sir," like she used to do back on Earth, before. When they had a routine. When they were saving the planet. He still, he had to admit, kinda liked it. He grinned a little wider. Sam grinned back. ^^^^ Another day of red dust and harsh sunlight. Getting familiar. The batteries were working well. They'd tested them to failure, now. They knew exactly what to expect. Jack turned to Teal'c. "I'd like to be out here for a sunset, or a sunrise." "We could build a campfire," Daniel said from a few feet away. Jack couldn't see his eyes, but his voice sounded pleased. Teal'c said, "Now that we are sure the batteries are functional, have you considered using our stargate?" Jack looked at him for a long moment. "I don't think that's entirely up to me, anymore, if you take my meaning, but, yes." He looked away again, staring at the horizon, and folded his arms. He could feel Carter's attention, Daniel's curiosity. "Now that you mention it; Yes, Teal'c. I have." finis