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Aristophanes Myth
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{
"Archive Warning": "Major Character Death",
"Category": null,
"Characters": "Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus, Octavian, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, Agrippa, Caecilia Pomponia Attica",
"Fandom": null,
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Mature",
"author": "by etspes",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "2010-04-27",
"published": "2010-04-26T00:00:00",
"words": "10,817",
"Additional Tags": "Sex, Sexual Tension, Falling In Love, Ancient Rome, Politics, Angst",
"Relationship": "Octavian/Agrippa",
"Character": null,
"Relationships": null,
"Series": "Aristophanes' Myth",
"Collections": null,
"Fandoms": "Historical RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF",
"Archive Warnings": null,
"Categories": "F/M, M/M",
"Bookmarks": null,
"Chapters": null,
"Comments": null,
"Completed": null,
"Hits": null,
"Kudos": null,
"Published": null,
"Words": null,
"Updated": null
}
|
Aristophanes' Myth
The first time was at sixteen, over Aristophanes, which they weren't actually supposed to be reading; the tutor had designated it worthless for the education of young men. But as young men will, the two of them defied the tutor and set a small fire and sat, reading The Frogs aloud to each other. Agrippa's Greek was badly accented, not nearly as fluent as Octavius' own, or as Maecenas' would be later, but he was undeniably funny. Octavius was laughing at Agrippa's wildly exaggerated facial expressions, eyebrows wiggling and hands gesturing as he described the scene, instructing him to do this or that. Agrippa's expression faded long before Octavius' laughter did, and had he had any control over how he came to be in front of Octavius, thumbs tracing the boy's cheekbones, he would have remained safely on his side, reciting brakakakaxkoaxkoax instead of trying to become the Greek he was reading. But as it was he was on his knees in front of Octavius, the brawny one of the two professing his girlish desires, he was vulnerable, and asking long, slim, pale Octavius—Octavius! The little sickly one!—to raise him back up again. But instead Octavius stood and walked off, leaving Agrippa wondering what in the name of Pollux he had been thinking. It seemed to him that if he had kept a secret as long as he had, there was no reason he should not have been able to keep it longer. He sat there, on his knees, until they ached and went numb and the fire sputtered out, with his forehead in his hands.Octavius did not speak to Agrippa for a number of days, as was his custom for dealing with people who had upset him. Since Octavius was perfectly happy to throw himself into his books and ignore Agrippa entirely, this would have pleased the tutor to no end, had it not distracted Agrippa further. The separation didn't last all that long; Octavius had apparently decided to put it behind him, because seven nights after the first incident, they were reading Clouds by a fire, and Agrippa stayed on his own side of the fire, making faces and reciting terrible Greek as Octavius cackled and stage-directed, Agrippa happy to comply. The tutor was horrified by the state of them the next day; both were purple under their eyes, and Agrippa's tunic was a disaster (Octavius' in perfect order as always), but both of them were making an effort to pay attention again, so he could say nothing. It was as though, the tutor would observe to himself later, the two of them shared a certain amount of attention between the two of them, and if one was completely focused, the other was totally lost. They worked best, functioned best, in harmony. The second time didn't make any more sense and was only slightly less awkward. This time it was over the Symposium, which the tutor had decided it was necessary for them to read, and Octavius was nothing if not fond of philosophy. So rather than Lysistrata by the fire, two of them finally did something of which the tutor approved—for a while—and debated Plato's philosophy far into the night. Aristophanes did arise, and Octavius was scornful—what, he argued, would be the purpose of having a soul-mate of the same sex when nature demanded that men marry women? Agrippa listened uncomfortably and would possibly have retorted if he hadn't, taken suddenly by some capricious god, abruptly decided to make his point actively rather than argumentatively. The kissing itself was a shock, because Agrippa had not, before that moment, intended to do it, and Octavius undoubtedly did not expect it. So Agrippa's mouth moved uncertainly over Octavius', whose fingers fluttered like butterflies at his friend's cheeks, and when Agrippa had pulled away from him, completely inscrutable, Octavius stood and left once more.Agrippa would have stayed all night again, except that the tutor would surely have noticed, and there had been difficulty involving beatings the last time Agrippa hadn't paid enough attention. So he went to bed this time, determined to forget it and pass it off to too little water in his wine. The next morning, to his extreme relief, was normal.That night, Octavius kissed him back, all arguments about men versus women aside; there were hands and tongues and sighs, and they swore they would tell no one.They were successful at keeping the secret for several weeks primarily because neither of them knew how to behave. From that point, it was clearly impossible to go back to Frogs and fires, but neither was it something they could discuss, aside from their own personal pact. Certainly Atia would not have been proud to hear that her son was becoming pathetic, and Agrippa was not about to announce to his father his desire for his comes. So they danced around each other, touching furtively as though it had been an accident, jumping when their skin brushed, until Agrippa threw all caution to the wind and cornered Octavius in a wooded area.The smaller boy had scrapes on his back from the tree for a week afterward, and Agrippa's legs were not pleased for some time about the method he had chosen, and both of them blushed a dull red for days. In retrospect, Agrippa was surprised that nobody mentioned it—perhaps, Octavius suggested later, it was that nobody had noticed. Who would have expected that the two sixteen-year-olds would have been fucking each other against a tree after lessons in the middle of the day? After all, nobody saw anything they were not expecting to see. The dispatch to Apollonia came as a relief to both of them, because they did not consider that perhaps being under the noses of the Illyrian legions would be stricter than being under Atia's pointy one. But as it turned out, the soldiers took little notice of their sneaking, and nobody said a word if they noticed anything strange. The structure of the area had fallen apart after Alexander's death. The military was strong, but the organization wasn't enough that anybody bothered to pay attention. And so as time went on, they became bolder with each other, less insistent upon hiding, and Octavius became less resistant to his own needs. Agrippa had never been so grateful for their education, that he could whisper philosophy into his friend's ear and feel Octavius' slender limbs soften to his own sturdier ones. A month passed, and two, and three, and Agrippa was still often the one sneaking into Octavius' pallet, but he wasn't complaining, because Octavius was willingly making room for him. He exhausted his body during the day training, perfecting his agility, his reactions, his body, so that he could use it to please Octavius in the black of the night. It had become habit that Octavius would whisper in his ear, asking how he had the energy for such things after he fought so hard in the day. The answer, which Agrippa never actually gave him, was that the nights made him feel alive enough for the dawn.Everything turned over in the fourth month.Martius arrived, and the ides came and went uneventfully. Several days before the kalends of Aprilis, it was becoming warmer, flowers blooming, and the boys were discovering the miracle of Macedonian fruit when the message came that Octavius' Uncle Gaius had been stabbed and was dead. Suddenly the whole camp was in upheaval. Advice flew from all directions: Octavius was to go straight home. Octavius was to gather an army. Octavius was to make immediately for Macedonia. Octavius, Agrippa argued, was to seize the moment and march on Rome.Octavius was, actually, to curl up and cry.Agrippa was unsure how to deal with this; it was not as though Caesar had been present in Octavius' life all that long, or that recently, but he supposed the boy had respected the man, and Caesar was the only one who had expressed any faith in Octavius anyhow. So he rubbed his shuddering lover's back and ran his fingers through his hair and tried to whisper comfort, and in the end he gave up and simply held his friend. It was a long night, and Agrippa's arms ached by the time the sun rose, Octavius still tucked against him, face still streaky and red, but peaceful.In any case, Octavius decided to go home immediately, and everything turned over again. He found, upon his return, that he had been adopted by his uncle, that his name had changed, and everything started to go to hell from there. It was not so much that Agrippa fell out of the story so much as he was rerouted, as Octavius rerouted himself. He had suddenly plunged from being a boy in training to having to be a man in control of far too many factors. Agrippa swore to keep up.Octavius—now Octavian—made friends with Lepidus and Antony to avenge the death of his "father," tried to pacify Rome, and remarkably, was married a year later to Antony's step-daughter: by all accounts a full plate. Agrippa marched with Octavian and his new ally Antony up to Philippi to take care of Brutus and Cassius. And then there was no time. Octavian was gone to Gaul, leaving Agrippa in Rome to deal with Pompeius' pompous little son, which he did with all good haste. Octavian, back at Rome soon enough, was pleased with the development and tired of his wife, and Gaius Maecenas employed himself to arrange Octavian's second marriage. Agrippa's turn to leave for Gaul came when Octavian's daughter Julia was still in her infancy, little long after the marriage had begun. He said nothing when Octavian told him; instead he stood and accepted it and nodded his head, and Octavian kissed Agrippa's cheeks before he left, as was proper, and Agrippa fancied that each one had lasted longer, perhaps, than was strictly necessary.Gaul, as it turned out, was cold, and the tribesmen barbarians, although the grapes were good. The Aquitani put up a fight, but not enough of one to resist Agrippa's sheer skill and determination, and the missive that arrived in 716 was an enormous relief until he read its contents.
Gaius Caesar Marco suo,
Romam est statim rediendum consulatum acceptum inter annum DCCXV.
Te egeo.
Agrippa's blood ran cold reading the summons. He was twenty-five. The minimum age for holding the consulship was forty-three. And yet Octavian needed him.He read the slim scroll until it ran soft and crumpled beneath his fingers, and then he departed from Rome with such haste that the slaves assumed someone had died. And indeed had someone, he could not have left any faster. He arrived in Rome in record time, and, told by Octavian's doorman that the triumvir was too busy to see him, Agrippa returned to his own home to await further instruction. When, a week later, Octavian finally opened his door to his old friend, there were brief embraces, several glasses of wine and some victory stories recounted in great detail, and Agrippa watched the lines beginning to appear on Octavian's still-young face disappear as they creased into smiles. It had begun to feel like it had seven years prior—had it really been seven years? His old friend sat before him, laughing at his stories, reacting in the appropriate places. Perhaps things had just become so hectic, so overwhelming, so quickly that negligence had been a consequence and not a warning. Then Octavian leaned forward and explained his business.The recent dealings with Sextus Pompey—or Magnus Pius, as the nitwit called himself—had been a fiasco, and Octavian needed Agrippa in the consulship to oversee the next military dealings. He could not, Octavian professed, do it alone. Agrippa studied him for several long moments, and it did not appear that Octavian had even thought that Agrippa had hoped the other man might simply have wanted him back in Rome, to be near him once more. But as it was, the opportunity would be enough, and of course Octavian was right when he flat-out announced that Agrippa was the best at what he did. So Agrippa held out his hand and accepted, and Octavian clasped his palm between his own two, and he offered him a triumph for the work he had done in Gaul.It was a feat in itself that Agrippa stayed himself, controlled the immediate urge to wrench away—a triumph was of course something any Roman general would have giving his left foot to receive, but this one felt soiled somehow, and Agrippa stood."Of course not," he said. "This is not a good time for you. How uncouth a friend I would have to be to celebrate my own victories at the expense of your time when there are many other things more pressing than this? My time in Gaul is a gift to you, my friend." He watched Octavian's face soften, and when the time came for goodbyes, Agrippa took Octavian's slender jaw in his own broad hand and kissed him hard before he turned to walk out the door. He did not know if he shook with nerves or fury or some bittersweet sadness, but he suspected it was some combination of the three.He walked home. Messina fell to Agrippa that year, as did the next battle with Pompey the Puny in the following year, and the man still would not run with his tail between his legs. Agrippa was married just a year following that second battle, to Caecilia Attica, and not long after he left his marriage bed warm to set sail for Naulochus. This defeat of Sextus Pompey (persistent bastard) was decisive and final. The second attempt was Agrippa's alone, and Naulochus fell beneath his practiced hand; seventeen ships were his, and Pompey sank into Asia Minor for someone else to find. Agrippa liked sea battles; there was something about the sting of salt, the roar of men hauling spikes up the masts, the crashing of the waves, that felt particularly fitting. His throat would be raw from shouting and his eyes burning by the end, his body exhausted, and to stand over the battle as master of seas and men was a powerful thing. And though he treasured the beaked crown he received as reward—a rare prize, to say the least—he would have much preferred simply to go home. Instead there were two years abroad, little skirmishes, nothing to write home about, years that felt like wading from one incident to the next.It certainly was not that Agrippa resented being sent abroad, nor did he dislike being charged with the armies. There was a certain thrill in marching out to battle, and the four months' hard training through which he had forced himself in Apollonia was a boon to say the least. It had become force of habit, at this point. He ended problems and then skirted into the backwoods to clean up the messes. And he was, by all accounts, excellent at it. Octavian played politics, and Agrippa executed them—he was well aware that as clever as Octavian thought himself, Agrippa was the necessary mastermind. They worked as much in concert as they ever had; each was simply alone for his part now.He moved from place to place, and had he had more of an historian in him, the time would have been valuable for more than the conquests he made. But he went to his ever-moving tents weary, streaked with grime, with nothing to liven him from the beatings against his body. He stood at each battle site, triumphant, and he heard in the cries of his victorious men the praise of a single man at Rome, and he longed to go back. He did finally get his reward of time, for a while. Agrippa was elected aedile, and while he played the political game that was becoming so familiar to his friend, he saw much more of Octavian. His life was a different place: of games, of spectacles, of the bustle of the people at Rome. There were many evenings spent with Octavian and Maecenas (Jupiter knew where Octavian had found that hedonist, treaties notwithstanding), discussing the fate of the triumvirate now that Lepidus was gone. Maecenas, for his part, didn't seem particularly concerned with the spiralling mess into which Rome was plunging—rather, he would bring bits of poetry to read as the nights got more wine-soaked and Octavian got more fervent about his plans. Plots were hatched and lands conquered, lovers joined and cloven in the space of Octavian's bedchamber during that year, and Maecenas the joyful puppet-master of much. He delighted in the intrigue. Agrippa was not terribly taken by Maecenas—as Maecenas seemed put off by Agrippa's enthralment with the frenzied peril of his own lifestyle—but the benefit of the poof was that he also didn't seem bothered by Agrippa's enthralment with Octavian.Some nights Maecenas, frequenting some party filled with poets (and presumably other distractions as well), was unavailable, and these were the nights Octavian gave in. Every now and again, Agrippa did not return home, claiming inebriation, preferring to send a slave to inform Caecilia. One such night, Octavian—who seemed never to sleep, but rather to spend all his time on plans and aspirations—made a proclamation which Agrippa took much to heart.Leaning on his elbow, teetering over Agrippa, a childlike smile lighting up his face, Octavian described his vision for the city, his plans for Rome: to make it as great as it once had been. Antony would have to be dealt with, of course, but he had no doubt of his own and Agrippa's ability to ensure that, and then…then!, he insisted, then he would take the city of brick that Rome was now and make it a city of shining marble. It would be beautiful, he whispered, drawing plans on Agrippa's bare skin with the tip of his finger—there would be temples built, aqueducts repaired. A rotunda, Agrippa suggested, dedicated to all the gods? and Octavian grinned, believing.Thus Agrippa began to build. Gardens were laid for beauty, aqueducts for practicality, baths for a gathering place of the people. Octavian watched this with a smile in his eyes, and Agrippa's heart, though he had always yearned for the wildness of battle and the uncertainty of that life, was at peace.But a year is not so long, and when it came to a close, Octavian withdrew. The situation with Antony, who was in Greece, had come to a head. Octavian had read Antony's will to the people and turned Rome's ever-fickle face toward himself, and a conflict was broiling. There was no more of Maecenas' leisurely musing and Octavian's grand plans over wine. Indeed, Agrippa saw Octavian only once at any length outside of the haze of feverish planning. On that occasion, the sun had well set and Agrippa was slightly drunk when he reached his doorstep. He'd rolled nothing but canis and had had a little too much to drink to make up for it. As though there wasn't enough to do that he could indulge, but damn it, he wasn't a politician anymore, and the projects he'd started were going up just fine without his constant supervision. It was Saturn's day, and he was feeling moody. Rome could wait on him. Zeus knew Agrippa did enough of his own waiting.The door swung open more promptly than usual, and Agrippa was greeted with a great clamor of female voices and the pale face of his usually stolid doorslave. A young, fair slave skittered across the hallway, her head down, jogging the year-old Vipsania at her breast, making hushing noises to the screaming child. A deeper voice shouted from within the house, "By Castor and bloody Pollux, would you make that child shut up!" Agrippa watched the proceedings in silence."What is going on here?" he said finally, quietly, not bothering to look at the doorslave. The slave bowed his head."With all respect, master, the mistress has been in your bedroom for some time. She weeps, my lord." Agrippa's head snapped around."Why does she weep?" The doorslave wrung his hands."Sir, her father has lived." Agrippa swore. He was suddenly and uncomfortably sober. Quintus Atticus, Caecilia's father, had been ill for some time. He had become such unexpectedly, inexplicably, and while Agrippa made it a point to have care given to him, but Atticus fussed at having to be cared for. Caecilia, of course, would have nursed him had she been home, but her father insisted that her duty was to her husband and daughter, and he was correct. Cicero had been gone for a long while already, or Agrippa was certain that the round little man would have been at his friend's bedside unceasingly. Vah. Caecilia would be a mess.He strode past the doorslave, his half-undone sandals slapping at his calves, and he made to his wife with all haste. The slaves were all gone, and she sat on a low chair on her own, her hair destroyed, in a frizzy mass around her head. Her face was red and swollen, and his heart ached as he took her in."What happened?" His low voice sliced through the sobs and she answered without looking up."He hadn't eaten for five days." Agrippa paused."Intentionally?" He expected the answer. What a way for the man to die. He had been a philosopher to the last, then."Of course." Her voice was sharp. "Of all men, you expected my father to suffer longer than he had to? And without his Cicero." She shoved her hands into her hair, pulling at it as her voice cracked. Agrippa sank to his knees before her, but she shoved him away."Go away, Marcus." He couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, his hands fluttered at her elbows, his big, useless hands hovering at her cheeks, desperate for something to do, like pinned up butterflies, but he was useless on his knees before her. Finally, she rose above him, eerily calm. He stared, bleak, at the floor as Caecilia called for her ancillae, as the news worked its destruction through him—Atticus had been a good man, and a good father-in-law. But as she began to leave the room, leaning on her slave-girl's shoulder, Agrippa surged to his feet and bellowed. Caecilia would be destroyed by his loss, as she had been by Cicero's, but Pluto could burn if he was going to lose his wife over this."CAECILIA POMPONIA." She stopped but did not turn."Yes.""I am your husband." The rage poured through the discomfort and the helplessness, and he suddenly felt sick. "I am your husband, and you will be comforted by me." Her body, if possible, grew stiffer, and she turned slowly."Marcus, my father has lived. I will be comforted by those whom I wish to comfort me. I will consult you about his burial." Her eyes flickered to his feet and back up to his face. "You should go see your Gaius Caesar. He will most certainly wish to know of this development." There was no reason Octavian would wish to know; he had had little tie, if any, to Quintus Atticus. Indeed, Agrippa may have been his only one. Agrippa's hand flashed before he could stop it, wrapping bone-breakingly tight around Caecilia's upper arm. Her shoulders bowed forward with the force of it and she flinched, but her face showed nothing."Leave me, Marcus. Go to Caesar." And she would say nothing further, however he yelled or beseeched. Her hair hung limply in her face, and she simply stood in his grasp like a rag doll in flickering darkness. At the end of it, he pushed past her, and she sank against her slaves, trembling quietly—though with what emotion he did not know—and barely felt the chilly summer-night air bite into his skin as he fell out the door. He had not actually intended to end up at Octavian's door, and he was truly surprised to find himself rapping his knuckles raw on the rough material.A bleary-eyed Octavian swung his own door open, his eyebrows rising almost imperceptibly at Agrippa's presence. But he was Octavian, ever prepared, ever decorous, ever in control, and he stepped aside."Marcus.""Gaius. You should sell your doorslave." Agrippa fairly tripped over his own exhausted feet entering the villa, but he followed Octavian through to the triclinium, where several dining couches stood as though awaiting him. Agrippa fell onto one, and Octavian arranged himself on another across from him."Perhaps, but most guests arrive in the daylight hours. I imagine he was not expecting to be answering the door. What brings you here at this hour of the night?" His voice was almost formal, devoid of curiosity, as though it were a pleasantry, with no trace of accusation. Agrippa looked up, finally met Octavian's eyes, and Octavian must have read the desperation in his face, because he softed and came to sit on the other couch. His hand flickered over Agrippa's knee."Pomponia must be sick with worry over you. Marcus, you must tell me how I can help you. What have you lost?" The bile rose in Agrippa's throat as he realized his friend must have thought he'd lost at knucklebones or somesuch."Nothing she doesn't already know about," he said with forced numbness. Octavian sat back."I don't comprehend you." Agrippa dropped his forehead into his hands."Atticus is gone." Shock rose in Octavian's eyes."Pomponianus Atticus? Is Pomponia well?" The defeat was thick in Agrippa's response."You ask as though it matters, friend. She does not wish me there."There was a beat of silence before tentative hands on his shoulders."Marcus. I'm sorry. Do you…wish to yell?" Agrippa nearly laughed. Had it been an hour ago, yelling would have been all he wished to do, would have been all he could have done. He would have yelled until his throat was bleeding, until he yelled only sounds where words should have been. But now…now the gentle hands were pulling him in, and he was so damned exhausted, so tired, so sick, and he felt himself collapsing. It could not possibly hurt to rest his head. Those long hands felt so familiar, so good. And so slight Octavian's slender knee pillowed the great general through the first watches of the morning. His palms smoothed wide circles over the ridges of battle scars beneath the tunic, and he waited while Agrippa slept.Agrippa awoke to a familiar ache in his back, and for a moment he expected to open his eyes to a tent. But there was instead a plate of bread and grapes beside him and a dining couch beneath him, and he lay disoriented, his head pounding, for several moments before he recalled the humiliation of the previous night. He was on his feet in a matter of seconds, hardly noticing as the platter of grapes clanged on the floor, scattering fruit to be crushed beneath his feet. Octavian was not in the immediate vicinity, nor did he appear as a chastened-looking doorslave rushed to swing the door open for Agrippa's passage before Agrippa did it himself.Caecilia did not give Agrippa so much as a glance from red-rimmed eyes when he entered. At last, she offered a cordial, flat, "I trust you slept well." Agrippa yanked his sandals from his feet before he seated himself, waiting for a slave to provide the customarily light breakfast of the sort he had ignored as Octavian's guest. He did not answer the question, preferring not to admit that he had sought company in the place his mourning wife had suggested. Instead, he responded evenly,"It is my hope that you have sufficient company at Rome, Pomponia. I believe I will be abroad again soon."The incident was not mentioned again, either by Caecilia or by Octavian, and very soon, by his own request, Agrippa was wind-whipped at sea once more. Rome held no delight for him, empty of lovers and family. Caecilia moved bleakly around, the wisdom of his father-in-law unavailable, and Octavian so busy and harried that speaking to him was like trapping the wind. His marriage faded, his wife faded, and things began to end at home.And so, finding himself empty-handed at Rome, he instead gathered Methone, Corcyra and Patrae. He met with Octavian at Actium and the two sat for hours, long after any food had been cold. Octavian stood, gesturing at the sea. Antony, he argued, was a coward. The naval blockade was not enough to stop the man; he was going to break through and be free, and then where would Rome be?"Free of him?" Agrippa stretched out his legs, leaning against the back of the couch in Octavian's tent. Octavian's face reddened. They had not come this far to let the bastard slither back to the East with his Egyptian whore. Agrippa exhaled. They had to fight now, he said. Antony was weak; there was little he could do to stop Octavian's powerful forces.The fight raged through the night, Octavian lecturing Agrippa, Agrippa slamming his hand against the table and shouting at Octavian. The lighter ships could simply chase Antony's heavier ones down, and when Antony's own men saw what a coward, how unroman their leader had become, they would surrender at once; Octavian was still the idealistic fool he'd always been, and men who were desperate enough to come this far were not going to turn at a flash of cowardice. No, Octavian must strike just after the storm, when Antony had fewer boats and little morale. Then they would win, and the coward would be shown for the slave he all but was; Agrippa was taking too many risks with the army and did not comprehend the gravity of the situation; Octavian did not comprehend the army itself.In the morning they stood facing each other, tunics askew and hair and eyes wild, but Agrippa had won. On the fourth day before the nones of Septembris, the ships sailed. The raging had not been for nothing—Rome was indeed soon won from Antony, as had been predicted. Agrippa laid the victory at Octavian's feet with his compliments, his chest tight, not daring to hope that perhaps gratitude and pleasure might win him something greater than some fleeting ovation. After all, Octavian had only to be distressed that the Egyptian queen Cleopatra—she was not that beautiful, Agrippa mused; only her eyes held any interest, although they were quite brightly startling in her dark face—had deprived him of the opportunity to parade her through the streets of Rome. The rest was prettily laid out for him.For his dedication, Octavian rewarded Agrippa not, as Agrippa would have hoped, with his own affection, but with the hand of his niece, which the general could hardly refuse. He accepted with grace, his new wife as faceless to him as Caecilia had become at the end. He tore her from her mother's arms on an overcast day in June, and he demanded her forename, hardly listening as she called herself Marcia to his Marcus. He untied the knot of Hercules at her waist, and he went through the motions of marriage.It was empty for him, as Rome was empty for him. His wife was a warm body and little else. His friendships were no longer a question; the pleasant companionship that had once been so present was gone, and the triumphant vir (no longer one of three) hid either behind his door or his toga. Between Octavian's navigation of the now-treacherous waters of Roman loyalty and Agrippa's own incidents with Marcellus, the two moved farther and farther apart. Had he been able to bring himself to part from Octavian, he considered, perhaps he would not have had to do it so often.The hope had been to remain in the city, of course, fond memories of that year before the mess flitting through at distracted moments, and the two consulships that followed Actium seemed to point in that direction. But things had changed, and it was painful to remain. There had been, of course, a celebration of sorts over the terrifying sea battle near an inconsequential town in northern Greece, and Agrippa had been Octavian's guest of honour. The night ended—as nights do—and his expectation (hope, perhaps), had been to follow his friend drunkenly, laughing, to a bedroom, to relive the nights of their seamless youth. Octavian, however, had spent the aftermath of the evening chatting with politicians. He had been overjoyed by the idea that he could stay in the city, to be with his companion, and yet Octavian seemed to have lost all need for him but the practical. Even the dearest friend, he wrote to himself, can only stand so much.The consulships were flurries of politics, harried planning, and the final erection of the Pantheon he had promised what seemed like millenia before. It stood proud, and the marble gleamed cold in the sun. The dome curved toward the heavens, an eye in its crown for the shafts of Apollo, and to welcome the gods. The sculptors hammered uneasily under Agrippa's sharp eye, tracing out
M·AGRIPPA·L·F·COS·TERTIVM·FECIT
carefully immortalizing his name. He finished the year, arms folded, the city—once a rural little band of farmers afraid of its hill neighbors—behind him, becoming the city of marble Octavian had been determined to make for himself.The moment the fasces touched the ground, relieving him of the burdensome title, he was gone for Gaul. The place had not gotten less cold since he had last been there, nor the people any more civilized, and taxes were never an easy system to implement. Neither was setting up government for barbarians. Had they bothered to have some form of their own government, it might not have been a problem; at least they would have understood the concept. But with all these tribes running around, not even befriending one another, well, stability was at risk, and something needed to be done. There was nothing to be admired about those people.Still, the little uprisings were nothing, mere target practice, especially when Agrippa reminded the hooligans that he was putting in aqueducts and roads—those little niceties never failed to help. It was only a year, however, and then he left for Lesbos. For him, it was none too soon. It was explained to few at Rome, though rumours certainly flew. Many speculated that Octavian's newest wife had seeded jealousy in Agrippa's brother-in-law Marcellus over the influence Agrippa seemed to bear over the princeps. Agrippa did not bother correcting the notion that he had any influence at all anymore and instead occupied himself with ignoring the silence from Rome's highest by reading letters from his legate in Syria.The Parthians, as it turned out, were not partial to returning the standards they had taken from that glory-hungry pumpkin Crassus, nor did they seem inclined to be governed by anyone even slightly more intelligent. Parthians were a damned sneaky people, and Agrippa found himself up later and later at night, devising plans to subvert them and having them sent at all possible speed to the legate. The troops were restless, wondering what Octavian's—or rather, Augustus'—largest body of soldiers were doing improving their Greek and dipping their feet in Lesbian hot springs when they could have been putting down the pesky Parthians once and for all. Eventually, Agrippa ceased to mention all communication with Syria and instead put his men through the paces, knowing that even if he were to be gone, his troops would need to be prepared. There were plenty enough of little uprisings in Greece to be tended to, and the men exercised their exertions and frustrations on anyone idiotic enough to tempt them. The rest of the time, the exquisite, harsh mindlessness of the marching, the running, the building, was almost enough to keep Agrippa diverted. He went days without shaving. There were no letters from Gaius to Marcus for months. When one came, however, Agrippa recognised the spiky hand and knew what Octavian wanted even before he'd read why he was supposed to come home. Marcellus had died, which didn't bother Agrippa a great deal, but Octavian seemed to think it was excuse enough for Agrippa to return to Rome. He could not, the princeps wrote, do without Agrippa's expertise at home. He desired to have immediate acquaintance with his general.Agrippa stared blindly at the lettter. He worried the papyrus as he had before, much longer this time, although he knew that out of both duty and friendship he would be sailing for Rome within days. This time, the nerves sparked out of fear rather than pleasure, and he was on the verge of dreading seeing Octavian again. Of returning, of offering what was not wanted. Immediate acquaintance. So he steeled himself, and a slave packed for him, and they left for Rome four days later. He made a list, on the long and horrifically rocky trip to Italy (the slave was sick all but two of the days), of the many things he had accomplished since he and Octavian had been sent to Apollonia, and the list numbered many. He had honours never before bestowed; he had subdued peoples and been the saving hand of his homeland more than once, surveyed the empire and made its center more glorious in stature and in spread. When it came down to it, he supposed, there was no reason to either fear or hate Octavian, when there was nothing they could have expected from each other to begin with that they had not already given. Both men were married, both with children, and both with much to their names. By Jupiter, Agrippa had the empire in the palm of his hand, the beloved lieutenant of the first man at Rome. There was little else either one could ask. He would have been much more comfortable with the thing if he had managed to convince himself. This time, at least, would be slightly different, since Octavian had requested that Agrippa stay at his Palatine house with him. The house, Agrippa knew, was beautiful. The gardens were extensive, and there was a spectacular temple Octavian had had built after Actium. Something about a lightning bolt. If nothing else, if Agrippa were unable to sleep, he would have a number of ways to occupy himself until the dawn saw fit to grace him with her light. The journey between the port of Brundisium and Rome seemed much shorter this direction than it had going the other way, when Agrippa couldn't get out of Italy fast enough, and consequently over-thought every bump in the road. This time, dreading his friend, it seemed they had arrived at Rome in hours instead of days. Agrippa sent his weary slave home and, scruffily, proceeded to the Palatine himself. It was the middle of the night. Octavian welcomed him with open arms—quite literally. He opened the door himself and embraced Agrippa upon seeing the broader man filling out his doorframe. The princeps was as thin as ever, strong and willowy as a reed in wind, and just as elegant against Agrippa's own solid bulk. Agrippa did not allow himself to wonder how it was that Octavian had known he would appear that evening, but it was good, he grudgingly admitted to himself, to see his friend, despite everything. There was an almost immediate switch in his own demeanour; the moment the door opened, he let go of his fury. They were going to be friends this evening, boys from childhood, not a princeps and his staid general. "I have been remiss," Octavian announced, having apparently reached the same conclusion independently. "I have not written to you, nor have I indicated that I would welcome your correspondence. You must think I am a wretch." He stood aside to allow Agrippa in and demanded from a slave nearby that he bring a bowl of warm water so that his guest could wash. "It is good," he added softly, when the slave had gone, "to hold you in my eyes again. How was the journey?" As Agrippa talked, discussing the journey and the past year, what was going on in Greece, and the reports he'd received from the legions in Syria, mentioning in passing his wife, Octavian strode toward his bedroom, Agrippa following. "A glass of hot wine, I think, would be good this evening, don't you?" he said over his shoulder, and Agrippa, momentarily distracted from his report, indicated assent. "A good glass of wine is always welcome, you know that." It was in fact several glasses of wine later, when the room was warmer and both men much more at ease, that Octavian peered at his friend over the top of the cup balanced in his hand."Do you think about your marriage, friend?"Unkempt eyebrows climbed slowly up Agrippa's forehead."No. I live in it daily; there is little thought to give," he said warily. "Do you of yours?" Octavian steepled his fingers."Not the way you mean, I suppose. I've had two wives already. I have a wife now. I'm certainly not contemplating taking a fourth. But—"Agrippa was not in the mood for a philosophical conversation, and he interrupted."Unlike your names, eh? You've managed to acquire another one of those. Very clever of you recently. The people seem to love you." Octavian looked briefly surprised and then shook his head."Some of them do. It's good, isn't it? It has something of an air about it." His slender shoulders straightened just the slightest bit, even as he mocked himself. Agrippa smiled slightly."Augustus." He looked his companion up and down. "Doesn't really fit you, Gaius. It seems too grand. An Augustus would need to be…broader, I think. A bigger man than yourself." He gestured at himself. Octavian stared for a moment, and then blinked."A bigger man?" A real smile twisted Agrippa's wide mouth as he leaned forward, balancing his elbows and his cup on spread, easy knees."Indeed. Parvus puer." A sputtering laugh burst over from Octavian."Puer! As though we hadn't grown up together. Never forget, Marcus—you are a mastermind, but what would you do without me?" Agrippa contemplated his togate companion."It is not so much what I would do without you, Gaius, as what I would do with you."Octavian's deflation was visible, almost palpable. Agrippa watched, entertained, as the invective that the cogs of the princeps' brain had been churning was sucked up by the Muses as quickly as they had lent it to him. Then he seemed to collect himself, draw himself back up, rearrange the folds of his toga; the slightly haughty expression he always wore publicly now that he'd acquired his most recent cognomen dropped like a veil over his eyes. Agrippa waited patiently."Di immortales, Marcus, straighten your tunic. You look like a war-wearied disaster all crumpled like that. If you cannot wear a toga, at least look presentable.""I am in your bed-chamber, Gaius," Agrippa pointed out mildly, "and as you mentioned, I have known you since you were scrawny and pea-sized. You are hardly going to judge me." Besides, he was a war-wearied disaster. Lesbos had been relatively peaceful, but certainly not perfect, and it was not as though he hadn't been in battle after battle for the fifteen years leading up to that. And now, on his recall, he would be standing in front of troops once more. Octavian would have to become used to this dishevelment. But he stood and shook out the knee-length hem of the tunic so the thick purple lines raced down either side of his body instead of twisting, as the other man had noticed, across his thighs. Just then, the door creaked, and Agrippa spun, feet braced, toward the disruption. But it was merely a slave, and Octavian laughed heartily at Agrippa's disturbance. Lifting his chin, he called to the young, still smooth-jawed man,"More wine, and extra water in Agrippa's. He is becoming too drunk too quickly." The slave moved swiftly; Agrippa's eyes followed him across the room, and the amusement was evident in Octavian's voice when he said,"Do sit down, Marcus. The boy won't hurt you. The wine can only help." Reluctantly, not taking his attention from the silent slave across the room, he re-took his seat, tunic straight. Octavian gestured with his head."Take off your sandals. There is no need for formality here, as you said." Agrippa looked at him incredulously."And yet you sit here togatus, your sandals firmly on your feet, and you have just admonished me to rearrange my tunic for you. Make up your mind, Gaius; I cannot be everything." Octavian tilted his head."Is that so?" He did not argue, nor did he address Agrippa's dissatisfied complaint, but again gestured at the sandals, and Agrippa grunted and bent to slide them off. The slave moved to Agrippa's side with a fresh bowl of wine, efficiently removing the first, and doing the same for the princeps. Agrippa held his breath, waiting for Octavian to admonish the slave that he, Octavian, should be served first, but his friend did not seem to be paying a great deal of attention to either the wine or the slave. Rather, he was examining Agrippa intently as the general raised his bowl to his mouth, and said abruptly, "Caesaris, you will tell Britannicus to shave this man in the morning when he rises. It is of course too late now, but he looks scruffy, don't you think?" The slave, Caesaris, waited, clearly too well-trained to answer, and Octavian waved his hand dismissively."Go. Tell Britannicus."Agrippa, sprawled in his chair with his ankle now over his knee, raised an eyebrow at Octavian and passed his hand over the beginnings of a scruffy beard."Shave me, eh? You don't like the longer hair?" Octavian scoffed."Don't be ridiculous. The people of Rome will see you. If you come out looking like you're fresh from battle, what on Earth are they to think? That you are in mourning? You lost your civilization in Greece, my friend. Drink your wine." Agrippa grimaced."Far too much water.""You prefer it unmixed?""Certainly not. But stronger might be nice. It is a good wine, Gaius; you have become prudish since I saw you last. Has it been that long?" Octavian narrowed his eyes briefly in thought."Perhaps not. Perhaps that much has simply changed.""Oh?" Octavian inclined his head."Things are different at Rome nowadays, friend. There has been this mess with Murena, Apollo knows how that happened, and I have been ill, as you know—I was prepared to hand my ring over to you. It is time to think about these things. I am forty years old. The empire was in a sorry state when all this started, and if it lives, it is because of these things I have done. I am slowly bringing back the old customs, the togas. Rome has not been at war recently, and that—well, you remember the days of my father." He held up a hand when Agrippa looked as though he were about to interject. "Things are the way they are, Marcus. Julius was a good man, but he threw things into turmoil, and truly handing the state back over would result in disaster. It's time for me to think about how to keep it breathing. I have come too far to let it shudder and die now. If I have to be Rome's pater, so be it; I shall. And its children may hate me, or they may revere me, but at least they will be around to do it." Agrippa sat back."You have truly come into yourself, haven't you, Gaius?" He shook his head and chuckled. "I remember you hiding in your tent from battle. And look at you now." He waited for the icy fury to take over; Octavian had ever insisted that he hadn't been hiding, but Agrippa had been the one who had held his head as he vomited on the floor of his tent, shaking in a cold sweat, the one who had announced to the troops that Octavian was ill. But there was no fury. Octavian simply gazed at him."It is done what must be done." Agrippa nodded slowly."So it is. So it is." He regarded his old friend for a while longer and then said, "I have heard about this poem being written. Romans as masters of the Earth, eh? The race that wears the toga?" A smile played half-shamefacedly across Octavian's features."Yes, well, he is a spectacular poet, even if he has some…interesting things to say. The poets have been upset with me, it seems. Horatius Flaccus thinks he is particularly sneaky. He is not, of course, but let them say what they must. After all, if I tell them which words to use, they will be far less believable—and far angrier. And then we will have much more than Murena on our hands." Octavian stood, adjusting the complicated folds of his toga, and held out his hand."Come, kiss me, and then to bed with both of us, I believe. It is late, and you have travelled far recently." Agrippa rose to his feet as well and embraced Octavian, kissing each of his cheeks in turn, and Octavian held his friend close for a brief moment and then at arm's length."It has been too long," he said, his voice laced with regret. "But we shall make up for it, hm? You will be at Rome for a long time to come, I suspect. Maecenas will want to see you, I'm sure, tomorrow, and then there is much to do." The laugh that burst from Agrippa was half-bark."Yes, I'm sure Maecenas will want to see me tomorrow." He muttered under his breath. "Artsy ponce." Octavian arched a brow but said nothing, expertly manoeuvring Agrippa to the door instead."Mane, Marcus. I shall have the slaves bring you breakfast, and Britannicus will shave you. Good dreams and good sleep." Agrippa watched Octavian retreat into the dark of his room, certain the other man had not meant, or perhaps even noticed, his own pun. Reasonably, Agrippa's expectation was a heavy night's sleep, a good breakfast in the morning and an apparently much-needed shave, if he was to present himself to the people of Rome as the victorious general Octavian seemed to think they needed. He fell asleep quickly, grateful, without even allowing himself to be undressed by the slave who waited patiently at his door. This turned out to be a mistake: his expectation, or lack thereof, had been wrong.His expectation was not the interruption he got hours still before the first watch. Octavian was silent, devious as he ever had been, standing beside his bed as the moonlight poured through Agrippa's window and played off of Octavian's fair skin. He was stock still, his legs braced sturdily, his head tilted, as though he were bathing himself in Selene's pale glow, and Agrippa woke more from the odd feeling of being watched than from any noise Octavian had made. He managed to contain the alarmed jump with which he would normally have reacted, had it been any other man beside his bed, but he had got used to this once—though it had been a long time. So he did not at first let Octavian know that he had woken, aware that the other man would simply wait until Agrippa had realised he was not alone. Instead he observed: Octavian was not as young as he used to be, that was true. His skin was loose in places, and he was thinner than he should have been, as a result of his illness. But he stood proudly, and he was still as beautiful as he had been when he wept against Agrippa's bare chest the night he heard of Caesar's death. Agrippa rolled to face Octavian, and Octavian glanced down at him."Good evening, old friend," he whispered, and Agrippa shifted his body over to make room."Join me?" he murmured softly, as though inviting the princeps to an informal meal. Octavian's mouth quirked."Certainly." He sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over, and he was suddenly, immediately, pressed against the length of Agrippa's entire body, and Agrippa shuddered against him."It has been a long time." Octavian rested his head against Agrippa's shoulder, his slender fingers playing across Agrippa's back, ever the puppet-master."Some things do not change." He bit Agrippa's shoulder lightly, and the beast roared inside the general, something taking over that he had not felt for twenty years, freer of the political disaster to which he had committed himself by loving this man. Octavian was quite suddenly pinned, and his eyes were bright and amused beneath his eyelashes."You are going to have me, then? What would the people of Rome say," he mused, "if they knew their princeps was in the bed of their beloved general, and moreover, that he was beneath him?" Agrippa kissed the hollow of Octavian's throat, tracing light circles with his tongue, and then he muttered,"They would say that you are a lucky bastard is what they would say." Octavian's body shook with laughter, and Agrippa smiled against his skin."Oh, is that what they would say? Imagine. I have more power than any other man in this empire, and yet…" He raised his arms over his head, and Agrippa clasped his wrists, pinning them down. "And yet," he continued, "I am completely powerless with you. How ironic.""Not ironic at all. You are play-acting. This is as a philosophy book to you, my friend. You know how you always wanted Rome to work, and you are trying everything you ever read upon it. And because it is you, it is working. They look to you, certainly, but you would still hole up in your library with your Aristotle if you had a choice, wouldn't you?""There are few choices anymore, Marcus. The Fates have taken us where they will, and we must play to them now.""You had a choice tonight, Gaius, and you came to me. Forget about Rome for a moment." Octavian arched under Agrippa's studied ministrations."Yes." His voice faltered, broke, and he whispered, "yes."The room was silent briefly but for the harsh intake of breath when one man did something right, as the pair of them learned to fit together again. There was a rhythm, Agrippa remembered, that they had established when they were young. Sometimes, Octavian would kneel by his bed and wait, wait just as he had done tonight, for Agrippa to cotton to his presence, and then to quicken underneath his touch. Other nights, Agrippa would slip onto Octavian's pallet, and he would kiss his friend just below his ear, which never failed to wake him, and Octavian would respond immediately by touching Agrippa—his shoulder, his chest, his waist, tracing the lines of his muscles as both boys grew and filled out. Octavian had always had incredible hands, long and slim and dextrous, and he would—as he was doing now—run them up Agrippa's sides in long, slow lines to watch his body curve with the chills it brought, and it brought Octavian's body into sharp contact with his own as he arched. It had been a power struggle then, as it was now—a subtle one, as each of them fought with himself to give up his own control. Octavian had never been terribly good at it, and Agrippa found himself spending night after sleepless night trying to coax his lover's slim body into letting go, into enjoying what was being done to him, and yet the young man had always retained some semblance of the stoic control he so prized. Octavian's body had grown older, and he had clearly come to terms with himself and who he was intended to be, and he had been through three wives and multiple children already, but it had not allowed him to let go any better than he did when he was eighteen. And yet Agrippa still held his wrists tightly in his grasp, pinning his hands over his head, watching the young man he knew first and foremost as his own completion writhe beneath him, tilt his head back, the slight curl in his hair becoming wilder as his skin became slick both with arousal and with his attempts at resistance. Agrippa was fully awake now, completely intent on his task, and he let go of Octavian's wrists to slide down his body and kiss his belly, dipping his tongue into his navel, to blow lightly across the straining erection between his partner's legs, and to hear Octavian's voice crack as he begged. It was a strange kind of pleasure, a satisfaction of sorts, vindication, perhaps, and Agrippa refused to comply, rolling off and ceasing his attentions.Octavian opened foggy eyes, turning his head to look at Agrippa in surprise. "Why did you stop?" His voice sounded much younger than it had when he had demanded earlier that Agrippa rearrange his tunic. Agrippa folded his hands across his chest."I'm still wearing my tunic, Gaius." Octavian glanced over him in mild surprise."So you are. Take it off." Chuckling, Agrippa shook his head."You take it off." Octavian sat up."What's going on?" Agrippa heaved himself up as well, drawing his knees up to drape his forearms lightly across them."You're using me," he said simply. "You didn't even notice I was still dressed. You remember being carefree, being a young man, and I am a reminder. Livia knows where you are, of course. She's not a stupid woman. I wonder if she knows why." There was an ire rising in Octavian's eyes, and Agrippa watched him as he shoved it down."You have been away for a long time," Octavian said, controlling himself. "You do not understand how things are anymore. I shall forgive you for that. You are not a habit, Marcus, nor are you an escape. I came to you because you have been my lover in many ways, and you are dear to me. Do not undermine that." Sighing, Agrippa stretched out his legs and scrubbed his palms across his knees."I will not take you, Augustus." Octavian reeled back."Do not call me that." Agrippa looked at him intently."Why? That is how you came to me, is it not?" Octavian sputtered for a moment, and then Agrippa said softly,"But if you want me, I am yours." Octavian shut his mouth. "If you want me," Agrippa repeated. "I have always been yours, since we were boys, since we were first friends. Before I ever touched you, I was yours, and you have never been mine. I will not play that game anymore. You have never been one to hand over control; you were not when we were boys, and you certainly are not now. You may have me. But you will have to claim me. I won't chase after you. I will not fuck the princeps of Rome. I will be your lover. But that will have to be up to you. Gaius." Octavian sat through this short speech silent, incredulous, his hands twisting endlessly in the bow of his knees, but when this last crossed Agrippa's lips, he moved like Jupiter's own lightning. The tunic was very abruptly on the ground. His hands, his gorgeous hands, were on Agrippa's chest, pushing him backwards; he was moving astride Agrippa's hips, and suddenly they were both eighteen again instead of a forty-year-old battle-weary general with grey streaks through his hair from the harrowing uncertainty of his own life, instead of the forty-year-old head of the Roman empire, with lines creasing his forehead and his eyes from the frowning, concentrating on skirting the tripwires that laced his every step.They were eighteen as Octavian's mouth came down on Agrippa's, finally kissing him, as his tongue traced a sweet line across Agrippa's bottom lip, asking him for entrance; as the pads of his fingers outlined areolae, pinched them, as he drew his fingernails sharply across Agrippa's chest and felt him shudder. Agrippa's breath hitched, his hands scrabbling for purchase, pulling them closer as Octavian stretched out across him, covering his friend's body with his own."I have loved you," he whispered, and Octavian's forehead rested on Agrippa's chest briefly before he continued his ministrations, brushing his mouth over every battle wound from the past fifteen years which he could find to heal."I know. I have never doubted it."There was a small bowl of olive oil beneath the bed, which Agrippa had no doubt Octavian had requested be put there, in anticipation specifically of this, but he could not even find the wherewithal to chuckle until Octavian murmured against his thighs, "It's from Lesbos. They tell me it's the best." And then the laughter that burst from his chest started low and combined throatily with Octavian's own rising mirth, dark and full."It seemed appropriate at the time," Octavian gasped, and Agrippa quaked with laughter."I'm sure it did." Moments later, when Octavian dipped his hand into the oil and drew it across his own skin, then swiping his finger lightly under Agrippa's navel, settling himself between Agrippa's legs, the laughter was all but dead, breath short and laboured. And as they finally came together, as Octavian finally gave himself over to claiming his own as his own, Octavian murmured, "I would not be here without you." Agrippa curved his hands around his lover, pulling him closer, farther in, and murmured, "No, you wouldn't." Octavian snorted."You're very humble.""And you're inside me. Shut up." Octavian thrust against him, and Agrippa dug his fingers in."I'm telling you…" Octavian breathed deeply, felt the slide of Agrippa's erection against his belly, closed his eyes against the image, and started again. "I'm telling you that I have never…epol, oh, Venus, take me—" Agrippa was tracing the shell of Octavian's ear with his tongue, kissing his jaw, and Octavian yanked away, pinned Agrippa's hands as had been done to him, and held his face centimetres away from his lover's."I am telling you," he hissed, "that I have never taken you for granted." There was little after that but the sounds of coupling, the harsh whispers of arousal and the sharp reactions to pleasure.They would lie there together that night until the first watch, and Gaius would rise before Britannicus came with rolls and fruit and the razor for Marcus; they would not be found this way, and Augustus would return to his wife, dignified and assured. There would be little left of the boy who had awoken to make love with the only one who had always been there.He would think on this, as he watched his own daughter marrying Agrippa two short years later, that he had had three wives and two fathers and many children, and that all of them would walk away. He would think on this when he banished his daughter, at the deaths of each of the boys whom he had raised as an heir, as he laid Agrippa himself to rest eleven years later, and as Agrippa's son departed Rome, exiled, for Planasia. He would remember this thinking on Rome's decline, on the pain it must suffer as partners torture each other with inattention and infidelity.This would be the last time they would be together like this, and he would think on his three wives, his fathers, his daughter, his adopted children, his legions, and all he had lost, and he would recall the accusation Agrippa had cast: that Octavian himself had never needed Agrippa in the same way. And as he demanded that his own mausoleum be his lover's final resting place, he said goodbye. He stepped away from the house of stone and mortar which bore the only one Octavian had ever needed, and he left Gaius there with his friend in hopes that perhaps Agrippa's shade would know. He stepped away from the mausoleum, and it was on that day in 740 that he truly became Augustus, and he never looked back.
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1800
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Between a Waiter and a
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{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "Gen",
"Characters": "Arthur Dent, Ford Prefect, Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged",
"Fandom": "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "General Audiences",
"author": "by Enigel",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2007-12-25T00:00:00",
"words": "1,181",
"Additional Tags": "Yuletide",
"Relationship": "Arthur Dent & Ford Prefect",
"Character": null,
"Relationships": null,
"Series": null,
"Collections": "Yuletide 2007",
"Fandoms": null,
"Archive Warnings": null,
"Categories": null,
"Bookmarks": null,
"Chapters": null,
"Comments": null,
"Completed": null,
"Hits": null,
"Kudos": null,
"Published": null,
"Words": null,
"Updated": null
}
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Ford peered hastily through the menu, then passed it to Arthur, who had even less of an idea what the odd names might mean, and how much more dubious than the name would the food itself prove to be. Ford then consulted the drinks list with all the collected calm of a piranha dropped in a tank of goldfish, pointing to this and that until settling on something."Two of today's lunch special, and a big Jynan Tonix," he said with an anticipatory pleased sigh."I'll just have a tea, please," said Arthur."Tee?" inquired the waiter who'd been, in his turn, waiting for their decision with all the patience of a lurking spider, only less enthusiastic. "Would the kind sir detail this concept of 'tee'?"Arthur opened his mouth to provide details aplenty, but Ford's terrified expression gave him pause. It was a fatal pause, during which Ford's terrified mind set in motion Ford's alert body, and in conclusion of which Ford's determined hand clamped itself over Arthur's mouth."Hot water with edible leaves soaked in it," he shouted, covering Arthur's protests."Ah," the waiter nodded politely, though his expression said clearly that he found Arthur's choice not only bizarre, but repugnant and highly offensive, though his own class as a waiter would not allow him to express his distaste, but gave him the dignity to bear such offense unaffected.[1]Time passed. Artificial night in the restaurant came, then was replaced again by artificial noon. (It was a lunch and dinner only restaurant.)"I think whatever we're supposed to eat is putting up a hell of a struggle," said Arthur."Mhm," Ford mumbled. "Just wait till the Jynan Tonix gets here."More time passed.Arthur excused himself to shave. Ford nodded absently at him, his gaze lost in space. He looked like he was thinking deeply about something. In reality, he was trying hard to cling on to the last remains of the alcoholic daze of the day before. He felt he was returning to reality, and he didn't like it one bit.When their food finally arrived, together with the drinks, Ford blinked.After the customary inspection by Ford, checking that no parts of the meal were capable of autonomous motion, Arthur peeked through his fingers at the plate.It looked... normal. Arthur allowed himself to relax a fraction."Wow," he said after he'd devoured the contents. "I'm surprised to have to say this, Ford, but this may be the best cabbage soup I've ever had since all Earth kitchens were blown from the sky."Ford coughed."Er, that was your tea, Arthur.""Oh." Arthur's expression of delight dropped several notches. "Well, it was good anyway. It would be too much to hope that the soup will taste like tea, wouldn't it?""It might be better to settle for hoping it will taste the same," said Ford, "but I wouldn't bet the tiniest towel on it."The soup came remarkably fast after that - Arthur only had time to read the phonebook once. Before the waiter had time to move away from their table, Arthur heard a familiar whooshing noise.Before he could place it in "bad familiar" or "run away now!" familiar, he saw a white gleaming ship landing in the restaurant's fountain, and the unfortunately familiar shape of Wowbagger emerging from it.His stomach sank. Wowbagger was, of course, heading for them, and he was again caught off his guard. He couldn't think of one insulting thing to say to him - he'd exhausted them all in the time between.Wowbagger headed towards their waiter."StarlingtonFexXillalian?" asked Wowbagger, his tone loaded with as much sneer and contempt as Arthur remembered. It sounded better when he wasn't the target."Yes, that would be me. Sir has a reservation?""No," screeched Wowbagger, "sir has no reservations whatsoever to let you know that you're a pretentious jerk with no brains, and a disgusting slob!"The waiter's mouth pursed to a point and the air began vibrating with the waves of contempt and outrage he was broadcasting.Wowbagger was already climbing the ramp to his ship.Arthur felt a deep and intense feeling of gratification, until he realised the implications on his meal. He looked sadly at his plate, and his plate seemed to be looking back at him. (The impression was accented by the arrangement of various body parts on the plate.)"I'll never know if it tasted like tea now," said Arthur sadly."I think it's safe to assume it didn't," frowned Ford."Yes, but I'll never know.""I promise you it's for the better," said Ford. "Now let's go.""Um. Don't we have to," Arthur lowered his voice just in case, "pay?"Ford looked at him in surprise."Pay? With what? I never bring money to a restaurant, they might find it and take it away.""Find it? Who are..."Arthur didn't get to finish his question, because the answer came to grab them by the scruff of the neck.
"I really can't take you anywhere," Ford said when they were safely outside, sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the wall to keep their precarious balance."Me? ME?""They were never this bad when I used to go alone. I guess the waiter was really furious he couldn't guess us until the last moment.""He could have guessed us sooner if you'd told me you were planning on leaving without paying," said Arthur scathingly. "Spared us a heck of a post-prandial interview.""And miss the lunch itself?" asked Ford. "Are you serious?""You didn't even eat!""Ah, no one comes here for food," Ford said dreamily. "It's the Jynan Tonix, Arthur. No other place makes it quite like this one.""I hope it was worth your bruises."Ford grinned."What bruises? I only feel the Jynan running through my body. It's the whole point.""Good for you, then. I think I can feel your bruises too.""Ah," said Ford. "So you probably won't be interested then."Arthur waited for him to go on, but Ford didn't."Interested in what?""Well, I know this place. Kind of expensive. Same species of waiters."Arthur scowled."They have tea."Arthur sighed."How far?"Ford grinned.
[1] This is not an exaggeration. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about IXnellian waiters:
Trained for years in utmost strictness and highest secrecy, IXnellian waiters have the ability to broadcast low-level cerebral waves and project them with astonishing accuracy towards the psyches of the customers. They're also able to sense with unrivalled precision the net worth of each customer from a single glimpse at a dozen persons table, and intuit who's going to try and leave without paying.
An experienced waiter can serve up to ten tables at once, not by virtue of speed (which is a lowly expedient reserved for young untrained waiters), but by being capable to instill the customers with the sense that they should be grateful when such a rare and noble being finds the time to attend to their pathetic needs, and generally just wait, dammit.
|
5781
|
Road trip a trip on the
|
{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "F/M",
"Characters": "Daniel Jackson, Vala Mal Doran",
"Fandom": "Stargate SG-1",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Teen And Up Audiences",
"author": "by amaresu",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2009-08-07T00:00:00",
"words": "1,368",
"Additional Tags": null,
"Relationship": "Daniel Jackson/Vala Mal Doran",
"Character": null,
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Day One“Why can't I drive?”“Because I'm driving.”“What am I supposed to do then?”“Navigate. With the map.”“Navigate? That doesn't sound like nearly as much fun as driving. I could drive you know. I have a license.”“I'm sure you paid quite a bit of money for it too. Regardless, I've seen you drive and I'd rather not get pulled over.”“Are you saying I'm a bad driver? That's not very nice.”“You're a terrible driver. Don't pout. Just turn on some music.”“Can I drive later?”“No.”Day Two“I don't get it.”“Get what?”“You never eat this much junk food. That's the second pack of twizzlers you've had since we left the SGC.”“It's traditional. You go on a road trip and you eat junk food.”“Really? Sam didn't mention that when she was telling me about road trips.”“Sam told you about road trips?”“Yep. She said they were an important cultural activity.”“Cultural activity? She actually said that?”“Well, not in those exact words, but essentially.”“Why aren't you going on a road trip with her then?”“I wanted to go with you. I figured it would be a good bonding experience for us.”“Bonding experience.”“Oh look! Books on tape.”Day Three“There's only one bed.”“It's all they had.”“The parking lot isn't even half full they had to have other rooms available.”“Nope. Maybe everyone is just out for the evening. I'm sure they'll be back later.”“Fine. I'm going to get some sleep.”“But we just got here.”“And?”“You can't sleep yet. We need to figure out where we're going tomorrow.”“You don't know?”“Am I supposed to?”“This whole road trip was your idea.”“And?”“You don't have a final destination in mind?”“I'm supposed to have a final destination? I thought we just drove around for two weeks. Seemed to be the logical thing with something called a road trip. Two weeks of taking a trip on the road.”“Normally there's a plan on where to go. A place to end up.”“Well, eventually we'll end up back in Colorado Springs won't we? Daniel? I told you you couldn't go to sleep yet. Daniel?”Day Four“Let's eat there.”“Let's not.”“Why not? It looks quaint.”“It looks like food poisoning waiting to happen.”“Oh come on, I've seen the things you've eaten off world.”“Off world doesn't have food guidelines.”“Be that way. You can eat wherever you want, but I'm going to go there.”“Vala. Vala. Vala! Wait up.”Day Five“Food poisoning. I guess this is where I say I'm sorry?”“Uugh.”“I got you some ginger ale. The lady at the front desk said it would be good for your stomach.”“Uugh?”“These? Soda crackers which are also supposed to be good for your stomach.”“Uugh.”“I'll just leave you alone here then.”“Uugh.”Day Six“Look a lake!”“Oh, a lake.”“You know you don't have to be all sarcastic with me. I said I was sorry. It's not like I meant for you to get sick. From now on we'll only eat at those horrible chain restaurants.”“No, I know you didn't mean for that to happen. I'm just still not feeling all that great.”“So you're not going to continue to be snippy?”“I'm not being snippy.”“You are.”“I am?”“Yes. Now pull over. I want to go look at the lake.”“It's a lake. We've seen hundreds of them.”“But we haven't seen that one.”“Fine.”“Thank you.”“Your welcome.”“Wanna go for a swim?”“No.”“Daniel, it'll be fun.”“Why are you taking off your shirt?”“I can't very well go swimming in my clothes now can I?”“So, put on a bathing suit.”“I don't have one. Now are you coming or not?”“Not.”“Your loss then.”Day Seven“Don't look at me like that. I didn't make you get into the lake. And how was I supposed to know the sheriff would come by and be such a prude. You really can't blame me for this one.”“We're just lucky Jack posted bail for us.”“Why'd you call him anyways? Why not Mitchell or Sam?”“Jack's more likely to only mention this when it'll be really embarrassing instead of at every opportunity.”“Why in the world would this be embarrassing?”“We were arrested for public indecency.”“We were swimming. Without any clothing on admittedly, but we were just swimming.”“Thus the indecency part.”“Have I ever told you how weird your planet is?”“It's your planet too these days.”Day Eight“Why are we stopping?”“Fruit stand. I'm sick of twizzlers.”“I should hope so as you've been eating them none stop since we left. What's a fruit stand?”“It's a stand that sells fruit. Ow.”“I figured out that part. I meant why is it sitting out here in the middle of nowhere?”“Local farmers will sell their products by the side of the road. They must get enough traffic to make it worthwhile.”“Think there'll be any pineapple? I like pineapple.”“Considering we're currently in Missouri I doubt it.”“Not native to this part of the world?”“No.”Day Nine“Oh look, only one bed. Again.”“It was all they had left.”“It's amazing how when I get the rooms they always have at least a double and when you get the rooms there's only ever a single.”“Weird isn't it? It's not like we both won't fit.”“That's not the point.”“They have magic fingers. Teal'c was telling me about these. Give me some quarters.”Day Ten“County fair. That sounds fun.”“Could be. Could also be boring.”“Let's find out?”“Why not?”“Look Daniel I'm sorry. If I'd know how much you'd hate this I wouldn't have made you come. I just thought it would be something fun for the two of us to do together.”“No, Vala, it's not that. I'm having fun.”“Really? For some reason I'm having a hard time believing that.”“I'm sorry.”“Why are you turning?”“The fair's this way. Maybe they'll have a roller coaster or something.”“I saw something about those on the Discovery channel. They looked like fun.”“They are. Usually. I'm sorry I've been such an ass.”“You should be. I expect some sort of present to make up for it.”“I'll buy you some cotton candy.”“And win me a prize.”“What?”“It's traditional. I saw it on TV. You go to the fair and win your girlfriend a prize. I want one of those stuffed bears. A big one.”“Girlfriend?”“Yes.”“Do I get a say in this?”“At this point I really don't think you do.”“Okay.”“Okay?”“Okay.”“Okay.”Day Eleven“We should start to head back towards Colorado now.”“I suppose so.”“Or we could head back tomorrow.”“We could do that.”“Got any more quarters?”“Nope. We used the last of them.”“Only one thing to do then.”“That is?”“Move to the jacuzzi. It's huge.”“We have a jacuzzi here?”“In the bathroom.”Day Twelve“So, Colorado Springs.”“We should be there in about four hours. If we don't make any more stops.”“We could stop though. I mean we have a few days left of vacation time.”“We could do that.”“Or?”“Or?”“It sounds like there's an or there. The way you said that.”“Well, we could spend the last few days of our vacation at your place. A nice bed where the sheets don't have mysterious stains.”“Significantly decreased chance of food poisoning.”“Unless you didn't clean out your fridge before leaving.”“Which I did, so we'd have to stop at a grocery store.”“Or get take out.”“Take out could work.”Day Thirteen“We need to take a shower.”“I'd argue that, but you're right. We smell.”“Also the sheets need to be changed.”“At least the stains aren't mysterious.”“There is that.”Day Fourteen“Work tomorrow.”“I suppose I should pack up my stuff then. Take it back to my room and all.”“Or-”“Or?”“Or you could pack up your room.”“And take it back here?”“It's a thought.”“I like the way you think.”
|
35540
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In Memoriam
|
{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "Gen",
"Characters": "Ronon Dex, Rodney McKay, Richard Woolsey",
"Fandom": "Stargate Atlantis",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "General Audiences",
"author": "by Jadesfire2808 (Jadesfire)",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2009-12-22T00:00:00",
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|
Ronon remembers screaming. Remembers it from the very depths of his soul, not just because his throat hurts like hell. It feels like he bled out of every pore, even two days after Jennifer gave him the all-clear and took the straps from his wrists. She tells him that he didn't, that the pain-memory will fade. He knows she's lying. There are some things that he can never forget.Three days after she clears him to leave the Isolation Room and move to the Infirmary, he's still as weak as a child, barely able to stay awake long enough to eat the food that he's ravenous for. He eats and sleeps, eats and stares at the ceiling, thinking. Remembering.When the memories can't haunt his waking hours, they live in his dreams: specters of Wraith and humans, friends and enemies so bound up together that he comes awake with a gasp, trying to disentangle reality from the twist in his subconscious. Maybe it will always be there now, this wrongness, the taint of what he did forever dooming him to these nightmares.The others continue to visit him, bringing him food and things to occupy him. Sheppard offers the enormous book that he values so highly and a small computer game, neither of which are particularly wanted, but Ronon understands what's behind the gift and nods for Sheppard to put them on the nightstand. They will still be there when Teyla comes in, helping him with the bland food he's allowed now and just sitting as he dozes. She and Sheppard come and go, quiet and somber, just as he knows they did when he was-When he was unaware of them.Teyla's smile is gentle, her voice smooth where Sheppard's is rough and tired. Both of them look tired, really, more even than Ronon, who has slipped in and out of sleep more easily than they have for the past few days. Rodney doesn't look any more tired than normal, but then Ronon is used to seeing him after long nights in the lab, after missions that leave him exhausted and crises that wear him down to the bone. He hides it better than Sheppard does, his deep weariness, only showing it when he stops for long enough.He doesn't stop when he comes to see Ronon, the same restless energy that drives him through missions and dangers and disasters animates him whenever he visits the infirmary. There are times when his hands move so much that Ronon has to close his eyes, motion-sick. And always he talks, mostly of himself, of Jeannie, of the things he has done and all that he has yet to do. The chatter is constant, never expecting a response and never touching on anything close to Ronon.The sound is more soothing than anything Ronon has heard for weeks, and he sleeps easier while Rodney holds forth on his latest breakthrough that will win him the noble honor he seems to value so highly.He stirs from his latest doze when someone touches his hand, lifting it gently. It takes him time to stir at the movement, and so he hears Jennifer before he sees her."I think it's time to take these out." Her skin is warm and soft, her fingers deft against his although it still stings when she draws the needles from him. He must be getting better, that the light sting is just that, no more than a gentle prick. His skin no longer feels on fire and his muscles ache less now. It's not much, but it's a start.Jennifer bandages his hand slowly, and Ronon takes his time waking up fully. There is nothing to rush to consciousness for; everyone keeps telling him to rest and gather his strength, and it's good advice he lets himself take.Rodney's voice carries well, and it takes Ronon a moment to realize the other man is not by his bed. He blinks a little, trying to focus, seeing only Jennifer's smiling face."Hello, there. Decided to join us, have you?"He grunts a little, still half-straining to hear Rodney. Not put off, Jennifer finishes what she is doing, wrapping her hand over the carefully wound bandage."You're going to need to start eating properly, and drinking too. It's going to be a while before you can do much more, though.""Got it." The bed is raised up, just as it was when he fell asleep, and he looks round, seeing silhouettes in the doorway. One is instantly familiar, the other takes him a moment to recognize, and he isn't really sure until he hears the voice."…need to know.""You already have all you need to know." That isn't the voice Rodney uses when he's telling Ronon about his early attempts at building rocket ships. Stronger, harsher, it's the one he saves for when he's truly terrified or truly angry. He doesn't use it so much, not recently, anyway."There are proper procedures to these things.""That can't be followed when he's, let's see, strong enough to hold a pen?" Rodney's arms are straight down by his sides, fists clenched. His chin is lifted, aggressive, and the set of his shoulders tells Ronon that he's bracing himself for a fight. Ronon's seen it make angry locals back down and his scientists cower. Woolsey glances past him for a moment, then looks back."I suppose it can wait for a day or so." He's trying to make it sound like it's his decision, but he should know that Rodney won't let him get away with that."It can wait until he's ready and he wants to talk to you. If he wants to talk to you. You've already got Jennifer's reports, does the IOC really want to know more than that?"Woolsey doesn't say anything, just looks at Rodney for a long moment, then nods briskly, turns on his heel and leaves. There is an almost unsettling silence as Rodney watches him go, then his stiff posture relaxes into his normal half-slouch and he turns into the infirmary, hands stuffed into his pockets and his head tilted slightly, the way he does when he's thinking. He starts a little when he sees Ronon, mouth twisting into something between a smile and a grimace."You're awake," he says, eyes flickering to the doorway and back. "How you feeling today?"Shrugging doesn't make anything hurt too badly, and the gesture is automatic. "Tired.""Yes, well. I suppose it's going to be a while until you're- Oh, hey, that's good." He's pointing to Ronon's hand, now free of tubes and lightly bound in white.Ronon shrugs again. "I guess. There anything to eat?"That earns him a half-smile, this time without the awkwardness. "I'll go see."Rodney must have gone all the way down to the Mess himself, because he's gone a long time and he comes back carrying a tray that's loaded with what looks like enough food for three. Ronon's hungry, but probably not that hungry."It's not all for you," Rodney says defensively, setting it down on a table that he wheels closer to the bed. "But I wasn't sure if you wanted something hot or just a sandwich, and they had two types of pudding so I thought, you know, you could choose what you liked and I'd have the chocolate one."The snort isn't quite laughter, but it's the closest Ronon's come in a few days. Rodney always has the chocolate one, claiming that it's safer, less likely to have citrus in. Not that Ronon minds. The tray of food looks more daunting than appetizing right now, soup and meat and a sandwich crowded on there with the puddings, and a stack of what he thinks are crackers and cheese. They eat well in Atlantis, these days.He pulls the tray towards him as Rodney starts to talk."...weren't even allowed chocolate for something like a month. She used to get really obsessive about her weight from time to time and just throw everything out of the fridge except the lettuce. I actually used to look forward to lunch from the cafeteria at school, no matter how processed it was, just because it wasn't salad. Huh." He sits back, turning a fork thoughtfully. "You know, I'm still fond of MREs, airplane food, that kind of thing. Anything that comes in a package, really. Hadn't really thought about that before. It's weird, the things you don't realize you remember."Ronon remembers the food from Initial Training, remembers sharing it with Tyre and Ara, swapping biscuits and sweets and trying to steal Rakai's netan seeds when he wasn't looking. There's nothing that doesn't remind him of them, that hasn't reminded him of them from the day he started Running. It hurts, every time, and each fresh wave of pain is a reminder that he welcomes. Rodney talks easily and freely about his past, as though it is still a living part of him.Watching Rodney's hands move, sketching the outline of "the biggest pork joint, ever. I mean, the pig must have been the porcine equivalent of Godzilla" Ronon can't imagine what it's like, not to have every memory tinged with overwhelming grief. Now he has new pain to pile on the old, a layer of scars so thick that he finds it hard to remember what lies beneath them.The soup has tiny flecks in it, peppercorns perhaps, or some other kind of Earth spice. They're nothing like the sweet netan seeds, but the look is close enough that he puts the bowl back down, appetite suddenly gone."...because then she just had to reheat it." Shaking his head, Rodney frowns at the tray, then at Ronon. "I, er. I thought you were hungry."Lying back against the pillows, Ronon lets himself sink into them. "Yeah.""You know, if you don't want this, I can take it back to the Mess." There is a tinge of hurt in Rodney's voice, and Ronon cracks an eye open enough to glare at him. Rodney shifts on the high stool that are the only seats available in the Infirmary. "Or I could just leave it there for when you're ready. I might have the soup though, if you don't mind, because, you know, it'll go cold and it's not gazpacho. Not that you know what gazpacho is, of course."Ronon closes his eyes."It's a cold soup," Rodney goes on, his words occasionally interrupted by a gentle slurp. "Spanish, I think. Never been a fan of it myself. There's something wrong about cold soup, a bit like hot ice-cream. I remember Jeannie trying to make Baked Alaska when she was twelve. Terrible mess..."Drifting a little, Ronon remembers cooking hantil broth over a fire in the middle of a forest. The beans had swollen right up, until there was barely any liquid left and they'd had to cut the remains out of the pot with a knife. Tyre had never let him forget that one, although it had at least been edible.He knows that Tyre is dead. Sheppard told him that, before he'd even begun to come back to himself. It's been the one constant in his recovery.Tyre is dead. Ronon is alive. He can feel the softness of the sheets under his hands, the steady beat of his heart and the remaining ache in his limbs. He can hear Rodney's voice, steady and sure as he talks about family dinners and the difference between Pegasus and Milky Way food. These things tell him that he is alive, even though his soul feels dead.The Wraith took his life from him, but lying in Atlantis' Infirmary, with its dim lights and familiar smells and the constant stream of Rodney's words, he knows he will find it again here.Turning his head a fraction, he opens his eyes just enough to look at Rodney, still perched awkwardly on the chair and trying to eat a sandwich one-handed so he can gesture with the other."Although really it's no worse than the mess that Heidi in Biochem made when she tried to-" He breaks off, sensing Ronon's stare. "What?""Nothing." Ronon stretches a little, just to feel it burn. "Pass me the chocolate pudding?"There's a moment, the slightest pause when Rodney narrows his eyes and looks as though he's going to argue.Ronon glares.Rodney looks sheepish and peeved at the same time, but passes the pudding over, along with a spoon. Once he's got it balanced enough to eat, Ronon looks up again, expectantly."What happened in Biochem?" he asks, starting to eat.Surprised, Rodney blinks for a moment. Then he smiles, almost shyly, before his more usual sarcasm reasserts itself."Have you met Heidi? Not blonde, surprisingly, and whatever you do, don't mention pigtails to her. After the whole thing with the Lederhosen, she's kind of sensitive about it. Anyway, she convinced Zelenka to let her work on a pet project, because she knew that if she'd brought it to me, I would have shut it down right away. With very good reason, as it turned out. I doubt lab thirty-five will ever be the same again."It doesn't take long for Ronon to finish the too-sweet pudding, and Rodney takes the bowl and spoon back from him without missing a beat. The words wash over Ronon as he closes his eyes, grounding him in the present, in the friends that are here, the family he has found. There will be time enough for grief, to remember with sadness and joy. For now, he lets himself be lulled into sleep by the sound of Rodney's voice
|
93045
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Impression sunrise
|
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"Category": "Gen",
"Characters": "Illyria, Lucifer",
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"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Teen And Up Audiences",
"author": "by girlupnorth",
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"Your place is with the rest of your people: dead and turned to ash," the human tells her. Illyria senses his despair and anguish, ill-concealed by arrogance and self-righteousness. He is so weak; she could kill him without moving one finger. "Nobody lives who would remember you."How little does he know and how faulty his perceptions are.He has found one picture of her from the old days, a picture in which she is shown wielding weapons in her tentacles, and he believes it to have been her true –and only - form. She doesn't correct him.He is wrong in saying that nobody remembers her, too.The humans, it seems, have fallacious methods of measuring time. Bound to one timeline, they assume that this is the case with everyone. They fail to grasp that once, several paralleling timelines could exist, occasionally interweaving. They take for millions of years what has been but thousands. They look at the conflicting accounts of their world's creation, not considering for even a moment that they are all true, that Earth could have been created – and destroyed, and rebuilt anew – a thousand times over, and more.This knowledge has mostly been lost, but there are still beings out there who remember about all that and who remember her, if, sometimes, under a different name. Mostly, however, they live far outside this city, away from what seems the main playground of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart. Some have visited it, leaving still discernible traces. Another old god, who fought by her side against savage tribe from the West. A demon, one of the proper ones, who once wrought mayhem in the southern hemisphere. So many others, some who at her time were nothing, now apparently grown into power. She walks the city, gathering the bits and pieces.And then there is one more trail, burning the air despite being years old.She remembers him as an angel, still, back at the dawn of time; remembers his Fall, which tore the sky in half and shook the very fundaments of the world; remembers how he took to ruling the underworld, the first of many hells; remembers meeting him, and laying out schemes of world domination. It has been such a long time.Illyria rests her hand against the rough wall of the building, listening to the echoes of conversations long past.*An apocalypse reigns over the city. The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart rejoice, while Illyria grows wearier with every passing day. The shell, the body she wears, misses that human who took Illyria's powers away from her; it is easy to give in, to take the still-alive impulses of the shell for her own and begin to experience emotions.Illyria doesn't miss anything and anyone, but her own self.She has no conscience and no heart. She also lacks a purpose, aside from staying here and aiding those who were friendly with the shell. This is her only way of making her name remembered, now.The mist and clouds covering the sky only clear up in the hours before the sunrise, showing cold stars on the paling sky. Illyria doesn't know the constellations; they, too, have shifted . *Los Angeles has become a wasteland, but one crafted with far less taste than the unreal cities in Eliot's poem. The little demons' hold over the city seems uncertain and, if the reports are true, threatened by beings even lesser, vampires and humans.It is of no matter, really. He had but world enough and time to grow indifferent, to take to watch the things occurring around him with nothing but mild amusement, and Los Angeles never truly belonged to the most alluring cities of the world, not even when he lived there.However, there are only so many things that can be found a diversion nowadays and eventually he decides to pay a visit to LA.He has not expected to find Illyria there. The news of her alleged resurrection did reach him, but there was no confirmation: the world continued to exist and be run by humans.It is oddly disconcerting to see her that much changed. She, who once could make the seas boil and the lands tremble with her mere stare, whose powers almost equalled his, stands now constrained to a shell of a human body. She is cold and distant, and inertia, rather than passion, drives her actions now. When he catches her eye, it appears more hollow than the city around them.She does not talk a lot; she never did. "I found my armies turned to dust and my worshippers among humans," she says, and adds with a trace of anger: "And I found this world mad."There is some truth to her words, although that the world has always been mad is also true. It must be they that have changed, then.He accompanies Illyria as she prowls the city in this human form, looking for temporary diversions, demons to kill or scare off. Since she doesn't talk, he begins to, a little. It is rare enough to find someone who has not witnessed the ascension of the humankind to power, rarer still to find an entity who has never grown to loathe or fear him.It has been such a long time. *She listens to his talking with mild curiosity; already more that could be expected of her. Back in her days of glory, she never cared for anyone but herself.He talks about Hell, Earth, Heaven, the dynamics of power between the dimensions. He is as self-important and arrogant as he used to be, though some things have been changed about him."You do not wish to rule the world anymore," she says. From the top of the high-rise buildings it is possible to watch the sunrise, far away on the horizon, in the place which the apocalypse has not reached; they do so, one morning."There is no point," he replies.She can see his meaning. There used to be better players and bigger stakes in this game. It played out between gods; no mere demons dared to attempt to interfere. Overcoming them was a constant, uncertain struggle; and it was the struggle that made it all worthwhile.It would only be demeaning to fight for power with the small demonic overlords of this world. She slaughters them without any effort, then moves on to another kill.Soon he is bored, and tells her that he is going to leave."You should go too," he says. "Los Angeles is not all there is to this world. There are other places."Illyria slowly shakes her head, even before the shell responds, protesting."What is there to this world?" she asks. "What keeps you here?"He doesn't reply at once. Illyria looks away, to the sky.*There is no answer to her question that would not make him seem weak in her eyes. This world is neither better nor worse than the other ones, he wants to say; it has become comfortable over the centuries, like a well-fitted glove. It is nothing to be proud of."Old habits. The music. The sunsets, sometimes sunrises," he says, dismissively."Music."Illyria turns to him, a slight curiosity in her eyes, a certain brightness in her tone. All echoes of the shell, nothing more."I used to play the piano in a restaurant in this city," he says.She laughs, for the first and only time.*It is break of dawn again as she watches Lucifer walk away and then vanish in the distance. She ought to feel sad, the shell suggests. She does not.She walks the city alone, noticing the small signs suggesting that there is not much time left for this dimension. A change approaches; another reality to collide with this one, overwriting the hell of Los Angeles with a proper human version of the city. Or maybe, she thinks, for a moment a god-king again, a dimension in which she has returned in all her glory.Or maybe a dimension in which she has never been resurrected.Illyria looks to the sky and sees the morning star burning above the horizon.Whatever they say, she is not alone.
|
15737
|
Moving In
|
{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "F/M",
"Characters": "Beverly Crusher, Deanna Troi, William Riker",
"Fandom": "Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "General Audiences",
"author": "by Leyenn",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2009-11-18T00:00:00",
"words": "2,508",
"Additional Tags": "Past Tense, POV Deanna Troi, POV Third Person, POV Female Character, Moving, Canon Compliant, Past Relationship(s), Getting Back Together, Post-Movie: Star Trek Generations (1994), I refuse to disavow old fics just because they're old and I'm a better writer now",
"Relationship": "Deanna Troi/Will Riker",
"Character": null,
"Relationships": null,
"Series": null,
"Collections": null,
"Fandoms": null,
"Archive Warnings": null,
"Categories": null,
"Bookmarks": null,
"Chapters": null,
"Comments": null,
"Completed": null,
"Hits": null,
"Kudos": null,
"Published": null,
"Words": null,
"Updated": null
}
|
"I didn't realise you owned so much," Beverly Crusher grunted from behind the hefty crate of personal belongings she was carrying, struggling to fit between the doorframe of the new crew cabin without scraping the uniform from her arms.There was an indistinguishable sound from the side of the couch, where even more boxes were piled, followed by a long sigh. Deanna Troi emerged, shaking her head in desperation. "Neither did I. Is that all of it?""Thankfully." The doctor dropped her load onto the couch, making the thick cushions bounce. She looked around incredulously. "Where did all of this come from?"Troi pulled her dark hair back from her shoulders. "I have no idea. I'm sure half of it was never in my old quarters."Crusher grinned, pushing her way through the mess to reach the replicator. "I know I never saw it. Maybe you got a couple other people's crates along with yours." She tapped in the activation code on the new machine. "One ginger tea, hot." There was a whirr and the drink appeared in a clear mug. The doctor sipped it and shrugged. "Well, at least your replicator works."Troi smiled. "I'll have a hot chocolate, I think.""You'll get through a few before you finish unpacking," her friend teased as she handed over the tall glass. Troi gave a wry laugh."I'd better get started, then." She looked around; after a moment she shook her head helplessly. "But where do I start?""Pick a box, any box." Crusher shrugged, closed her eyes and pointed randomly. "Start there."Troi followed Crusher's finger and rolled her eyes. "You would pick the biggest pile first."Her friend smiled apologetically. "Just lucky I guess."The counselor took a deep breath and knelt down; as Crusher took a step she coughed, shook her head firmly and pointed to the couch. "If I have to do this, the least you can do is stay and watch."Crusher shrugged and sat down, taking a leisurely sip of her tea. "No problem. Beats opening my crates for a few hours."Troi scowled up at her: Crusher just grinned behind her mug."Call it the perks of the job. I'll just make sure you don't strain anything while you're unpacking.""Why, thank you.""Don't mention it." She tipped the mug back, finishing her tea as Troi began to empty the first box, hefting it onto the coffee table.Crusher blinked, spotting the contents of the crate below, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "What's that?" Curious, she put down her empty mug and lunged for the box, pulling it over in front of her. Two hologram projector cubes and a PADD landed on the floor, and she withdrew her prize. "Handwritten letters?"Troi looked up, caught off guard. She looked confused for a moment, then embarrassed at her friend's find, half managing a smile. "Yes.""On paper?""Yes." She took the bundle from her friend's hand. Crusher raised her eyebrows but shrugged, exploring the rest of the container."Beverly!""What? I offered to help you unpack."Troi scowled and sighed ruefully. "How about you go unpack over there?" She pointed to her desk, hidden beneath yet another huge pile of boxes. Crusher grinned mischievously."Aha. That means there's something interesting in here." She reached into the box again."Beverly!" Troi sounded somewhat desperate. The doctor ignored her and took out a small wooden box. It was ornately carved, and the lid wasn't closed properly: as Crusher set it down to finish emptying the box, the lid popped open. Troi reached out and grasped the box, pulling it towards her, and as she did so a slip of paper fluttered out. Crusher picked it up, intrigued, and unfolded it. Her eyebrows rose as she looked up at her friend."Love poetry?"Troi shrugged nonchalantly, but the discomfort in her eyes gave her away. Crusher, however, didn't see it, too busy reading the poem."To Deanna, love always, your imzadi." She looked up. "And what might that mean?"Troi shook her head and held out her hand. The poem was reluctantly put in her palm and she replaced it quickly in the box, locking it firmly shut. "It's in the past," she said absently, carrying the box to her desk. She opened one of the drawers and gently laid the box inside."There's a lot in the past, Deanna," Crusher said with a smile. "Some secret admirer? Wyatt Miller, perhaps?"Troi laughed. "No! Wyatt never wrote me any letters, let alone poetry. It's not important.""It's not?" Crusher watched with amusement as her friend reddened. She was about to pursue the matter further when the door chimed."Yes?" Troi turned to face the door, a smile coming to her face at the sight of the ship's first officer. "Hi, Will. Come in."She stepped aside to let him enter, and Riker eyed the room speculatively. "You're still not quite straight, I see."Troi smiled. "When have my quarters ever been completely tidy, Will?"He grinned. "Not as long as I've known you." He searched out a clear seat, nodding to Crusher. "Hi, Beverly.""Hi, Will." Her green eyes sparkled with good-natured mischief. "Say, you've known Deanna a while. You wouldn't know anyone who ever wrote her love poetry, would you?"Riker's eyebrows rose theatrically as he turned his head to regard Troi. She shrugged very slightly, trying to look unflustered. "She found some," she said in a small voice.A smile touched his eyes, and he never took his gaze from her as he answered. "Can't think of anyone. You don't remember who it might have been?" He gave her a pointedly inquisitive glance."No," she managed as he continued to watch her with that deep, blue gaze. "Can't remember anyone at all.""Oh well." Crusher shrugged. "I guess I'll just have to toss and turn over it for the entirety of the mission if you're not going to tell me."Troi tossed her a slight scowl. "Beverly, I really don't remember, okay?"The doctor held up both hands in surrender. "If you say so." There was a pause that made Troi distinctly worried; then her friend's green eyes lit with inspiration. "Maybe if you see what else is in that box, you'll remember who it was.""Beverly," Troi warned.Crusher raised her eyebrows. "What? Surely you don't want to forget someone who was sweet enough to write you poetry like that.""It's good?" Riker sounded intrigued. Troi coloured slightly, convinced Crusher would hear the pride of authorship in his voice.The doctor just smirked. "Pretty good, yeah. Whoever it was had a passion for archaic writing, too." She gestured to the pile Troi had moved protectively out of her grasp. "Handwritten letters.""Really?" To his credit, he managed to look curious rather than amused at the situation. He flashed Troi an inquisitively raised eyebrow. "Maybe they're signed, hmm?""Maybe." She looked a little apprehensive, but she didn't protest when he picked up the bundle and sat down on the couch. Trying to cover her discomfort, she began to dig through the nearest box, blindly emptying it without even noticing what she was piling onto the floor beside her. Riker continued to flick silently through the letters, and after a few minutes even Crusher seemed to give up and returned to helping. Troi relaxed somewhat at that, handing her friend a pile of PADDs to place on the desk. As Crusher stood up and crossed the room, Troi leaned over the box and separated the next pile, lifting them out-"'I don't know why I did what I did to you. It was probably the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life, and all I know now is that I want, I need you to forgive me. I love you, Deanna...'"She looked up slowly, knowing she would meet his gentle blue gaze. Slowly, she let her belongings fall back into the box and sank back onto her heels, looking up at him."I've never heard you read any of it," she said softly. "Not even the poem.""I'll read that for you, if you like." He seemed captivated by her eyes, unable look away. His voice was as quiet as her own, and neither of them even acknowledged the half-embarrassed, half-intrigued redhead at the side of the room."No. Read some more." She gestured to the letters in his hand. She moved gracefully, pushing boxes out of the way until she was sitting cross-legged in front of him. "Any of them. I don't mind."He flicked through the thick bundle; noticing one that had obviously been handled more than the rest, he drew it out. It was shorter than the rest, only a single page, but well-fingered. Troi blushed slightly as he started to read."'Dea,
It's been six weeks since I left Betazed, and I miss you like crazy. My transfer came through this morning - I leave for the USS Potemkin in a week. It's a smaller ship, and a step down for a while - second officer for a trial period, but in six months they'll be needing a first officer and I'm the likely candidate if I take this transfer. And after six months, I'm eligible to bring family aboard... which brings me neatly to what I wanted to say to you.
I don't have a lot of time to write this, and I don't want to dress up what I'm going to say, so I'll keep it short. I know I can't offer you as much as your life on Betazed, but I can love you above anything else, and it's the love that's important, isn't it? You always said so. I've learnt a lot from you, and I want to go on learning for as long as I can.
Deanna, will you-'""Will." She put her hand on his, her voice barely audible. "Don't read that."He looked up, his face a mixture of regret and understanding. "You have.""Not for a while," she admitted. He winced inwardly, nodding."Worf.""He's not coming on this mission, you know," Crusher put in suddenly. Troi looked up in surprise; she'd forgotten her friend, still standing awkwardly and somewhat hopefully near the door. Riker glared at her, only half-playfully."That was the single most unsubtle piece of matchmaking I've ever heard."The doctor coughed awkwardly. "That's my cue.""Glad you found it."She edged toward the door, which helpfully opened for her. "I'll be going, then. If you need me, I'll be in my quarters." A rueful grimace came to her face. "Unpacking."Despite herself, Troi couldn't help laughing at her friend's predicament. Riker just sighed."Well, that's gonna be around the ship before we even leave spacedock.""Will," she smiled and laid a hand on his arm. "I think Beverly has a little more discretion than that."He shrugged ruefully. "You're the psychologist." Troi looked up at him; after a moment of meeting his eyes she sighed."If we're lucky, we might reach warp one before it does."He raised his eyebrows with a sudden grin. "Innuendo, Deanna? From you?"She looked at him archly. "That's just your mind working overtime.""You'd know." He grinned at her expression. Troi let out a disgusted noise and shook her head."I give up. Drink?""Your replicator's working?" She nodded and he grinned. "Beats most of the ship. The whole Federation's been on war rations so long they've forgotten how we actually eat." He considered it for a moment. "Synthehol. It's been a long day." He sat down, gingerly moving aside another open container, trying not to drop any of the trinkets inside. "How much do you own, Deanna?"She laughed ruefully. "More than I did when I packed it."He looked around, surveying the room with a subtly raised eyebrow. "I can believe that."Troi smiled, looking around and gave a small shake of her head. She paused, calling up their selections from the replicator, taking the moment to draw on her curiosity and try... "Will?""Hmm?"She turned to him, handing over his drink, deceptively casual for the loaded question that emerged."Why did you never ask me again?"He shrugged, trying to cover the fact that he didn't really know the answer. "I - it wasn't the time. It was never the time. It'd been two years, and we were serving together for the first time..." He shrugged wryly, recognising their all-purpose excuse. "I'd changed. You'd changed." He smiled at her then, assuring her that that wasn't all a bad thing. "We changed. It wouldn't have..." he paused, avoiding the word 'worked'. It was too final, too harsh for them. It could have worked, whenever they wanted to try. "It wouldn't have been right to just ask. Putting the cart before the horse, as it were, given how long we were apart." He sighed and smiled ruefully, running a hand over his hair. "And then there was you and Worf-""She was right, you know."He stopped, looking at her in confusion. "I'm sorry?""Beverly." She took a step toward him. "Earlier." Her cool hand reached out for his larger one. "Worf." Fingers slid between his own. "He isn't here." Her palm pressed to his. "He's not coming on this mission."He managed a slightly flustered grin. "Well, being first officer, I think I'd know if he were.""Will," she murmured reprovingly. "We're getting off the subject."He grinned, raising his eyebrows. "And what would that be?""Worf.""He's not here. He's not going to be here.""Exactly.""Did you want me to do something about it?"She smiled playfully. "Not really."He grinned. "Well, okay.""Nothing to do with him, anyway.""Oh?" Her other hand slid up to his shoulder, behind his neck. "Mm. You haven't done that in a while.""A very long while," she breathed softly, a small smile beginning in her eyes. His grin widened in answer."Was there something you wanted me to help you with?"She smiled mischievously, brushing her lips over his. "I can think of a few things."He smiled back, turning his head to whisper in her ear. "Will I get dirty?"Troi laughed softly, nibbling lightly along his throat. "What makes you think you're so squeaky clean right now, Will Riker?"He shrugged and tilted his head down to her, catching her lips against his. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not usually all that untidy."Troi laughed, sliding her arms around his waist. "Unlike me."He raised an eyebrow. "Is that another innuendo I hear from you, Counselor?"Her only answer was a soft laugh over his cheek. Riker grinned at the sensation, his own voice breathing into her ear. "Am I going to be gone long?" She smiled, doing that to his neck again in a distinctly unhurried fashion."Oh, I wouldn't worry about that."He grinned. "Just so long as I don't have to unpack anything."Troi smiled teasingly and stepped back, pulling him toward the bedroom. "Just one thing."
|
89613
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Untitled
|
{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "Multi",
"Characters": "Lee Adama, Kara Thrace, Sam Anders",
"Fandom": "Battlestar Galactica (2003)",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Explicit",
"author": "by nothinbuttherain (beyondtherubicon)",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2010-05-24T00:00:00",
"words": "789",
"Additional Tags": "Comment Fic, Community: comment_fic, Threesome - F/M/M",
"Relationship": "Lee Adama/Kara Thrace/Sam Anders",
"Character": null,
"Relationships": null,
"Series": null,
"Collections": null,
"Fandoms": null,
"Archive Warnings": null,
"Categories": null,
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"Chapters": null,
"Comments": null,
"Completed": null,
"Hits": null,
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"Published": null,
"Words": null,
"Updated": null
}
|
There had been a fight with Lee. A big one. It was the kind of fight that started with them screaming at each other over something that had nothing to do with why they were actually angry. After they'd called each other a series of horrible names Kara decided to quit wasting her breath and walked away. Several hours and bottles later she'd sent an endless stream of near incoherent messages to her estranged husband. As crazed as she'd sounded it still didn't surprise her when Sam showed up and slid into her bunk.Sam tried for chivalry and explained he was only there to make sure she didn't choke on her own vomit. Whether that had actually been his intent or not would never be known because Kara wasted no time in stripping her clothes off and getting her hands all over him. He'd been called over for a frak and they both knew it. As her mouth sucked a persistent line across his neck and she bit down against the curve of his shoulder she felt his hands roam up her back and that's when Kara knew she'd won. They'd frakked while drunk a dozen times on New Caprica and the difference between Kara and her husband was that she saw no difference between this and that.They were in the very familiar position of Kara riding on top of Sam as vigorously as she could while the whole room spun around her when the curtain to her bunk was pushed aside. She fixed a death glare on the idiot who clearly hadn't realized she was preoccupied and that glare only deepened when a visibly intoxicated Lee stared down at her and Sam without making any move to leave or even stop staring."Coming or going?"It wasn't like she hadn't thought about this before but Kara wouldn't have believed she had actually asked that aloud if not for the fact that Sam and Lee were both frozen with shocked looks on their faces. The moment was broken by Lee's mouth meeting Kara's in a bruising, punishing kiss giving Kara her second victory. Kara knew that warming Sam up to the idea would take longer so she began to rock slowly down against him in the gentle rhythm that she knew he preferred. When Lee broke away to remove his clothes Kara leaned down to kiss her husband with lips that still burned from Lee's kisses. Their eyes met briefly and he gave the slightest nod. He was doing this for her and through the chaos and lust rushing through her it created a calming warmth. She'd never admit it but she kept calling him into her bed for those moments as much as the fraks.Any contemplation on the state of her marriage was stopped by a very naked Lee sliding in next to Sam and the breath being knocked out of her by the kiss they shared. It was done for her sake and as was always the case she loved them both for it far more than she had any desire to. Two pairs of hands reached up to drag her closer down to them and Kara went, claiming neither victory nor defeat.She woke up alone with a pounding headache and several trails of dried bodily fluid coating her torso. Through the pain behind her eyes Kara allowed herself a smile. It only faded when every move she made to wrap a towel around herself and get into the shower reminded her body that she'd drunk too much and frakked too hard only hours before. While her body protested her mind and heart felt uncharacteristically settled.An hour later she slid in next to Helo for their morning briefing and tried to ignore the way he was looking at her. As Tyrol gave some lecture on properly signing out equipment the first note was pushed into her hands.Have fun last night?Frak off.Saw you in the showers this morning.I'm telling your wife, Agathon.Kara heard him quietly snort but that didn't stop the piece of paper from once more making it's way over to her.There's some interesting rumors going around about you and two other people.Kara rolled her eyes because she'd been passed more mature notes when she was ten but Helo was the closest kind of thing she had to a best friend so after several moments of contemplation she wrote back.Had an itch to scratch. Then it itched some more so I scratched some more and it itched some more. Before I knew it there was semen everywhere.She heard the sounds of Helo choking back laughter and there were no more notes after that.
|
8979
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Wherever You Go
|
{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "M/M",
"Characters": "Geoffrey Chaucer, Wat Fowlehurst",
"Fandom": "A Knight's Tale",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Explicit",
"author": "by catwalksalone",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2009-11-14T00:00:00",
"words": "763",
"Additional Tags": "Plot What Plot",
"Relationship": "Geoffrey Chaucer/Wat Fowlehurst",
"Character": null,
"Relationships": null,
"Series": null,
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"Archive Warnings": null,
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"Completed": null,
"Hits": null,
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"Published": null,
"Words": null,
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}
|
Geoffrey follows the strange sounds, moving as silently as he can over the forest floor. He is the hunter and his words are his weapons, he hones them mercilessly as he pushes aside branches and steps over roots, twisted and gnarled with age.Wat is attempting to sing again. Geoffrey has heard him at it before, but only from a distance when Wat has been out away from camp, gathering firewood. He cannot hold a tune and his voice cracks on the high notes and Geoffrey has decided that it is time for their grand game. He will mock and Wat will fire up, hair leaping like flames from his scalp. If he is in luck, Wat will give chase and the predator will become the prey. Geoffrey knows why this game makes his blood thunder and his heart sing, he hopes Wat knows, too.Geoffrey hears something else and steps out into a clearing, stopping dead. It was splashing; Wat is bathing. If that fact in itself were not enough to take Geoffrey's speech away, then Wat's pale back, broad shoulders freckled by the sun, the round swell of his buttocks cresting the water would do it.The taunts he had practiced dissolve into blurs, like ink in the rain. He is struck dumb. Without thought, without decision, Geoffrey finds himself striding forward, pulling off his tunic and hopping out of his britches as he goes. He wades into the water.Wat turns, mouth open mid-song and stops, gaping. His hair, dark-red, is plastered to his head and he looks so very young. This is Geoffrey's chance to stop, to turn a quick phrase and make a joke, to dunk Wat in the water and dash away before Wat can take his first swing. He does not stop.Geoffrey closes on Wat in one swift stride, grasping his wet hair with one hand and shutting Wat's mouth with the other. Wat's fist comes up but Geoffrey shakes his head and kisses him. Wat's lips are cool and his skin is slippery and he shifts under Geoffrey's hands. He is not the water nymph Geoffrey has dreamt of in idle moments, but he will do. Iesu! He will more than do.Wat's hand drops onto Geoffrey's shoulder and his leg twines round the back of Geoffrey's, slides up it and pulls. Geoffrey buckles, hitting the water with a resounding slap. Wat follows him down and they tangle together as sound mutes and the world turns soft and green. Wat's hands find Geoffrey's face and he presses their lips together. Geoffrey cannot tell if he is giving Geoffrey breath and life or stealing it from him.They break the surface, gasping, and scramble for the bank, arms crooking around necks and waists, half-wrestling, half-supporting. They fall, Wat's chest flush against Geoffrey's side. Geoffrey looks up at him through eyelashes beaded with water. They blur Wat's edges, soften him even as he proves his hardness by pushing against Geoffrey's hip. It's a strange dichotomy and Geoffrey blinks until Wat's features sharpen again, until he can see the fiercely determined set of his chin, Wat's eyes grown dark with want.He tugs and their bodies slip-slide together, Wat's prick nudging his own, unwilling to be ignored. Chaucer quivers at the contact and cannot but help open his mouth to speak."Don't, Geoff," says Wat. "Not yet," and slides his fingers into Geoffrey's mouth as if to bear out his point. Obediently, Geoffrey closes around them and licks them with his silenced tongue. He does not know what he would have said anyway; his words are gone agley.Wat takes his mouth-dampened fingers and wraps them around Geoffrey's prick and his own both. He strokes up, harder than Geoffrey is used to, and Geoffrey stuffs a fist into his own mouth to prevent his crying out and alerting the others for all the wrong reasons. Wat sets a pace and a rhythm Geoffrey can count to, a dance of a different kind. He is helpless before it. Wat's breath is too loud in his ear, his hip too sharp against Geoffrey's scant flesh but none of this matters, and Geoffrey's hand steals over Wat's, joining them together.They slow for a moment, learning each other, then speed again, this is no time for lingering glances and heavy sighs. Geoffrey feels the pulsing along Wat's prick and can't help but follow him, biting down on his hand as he spends. Wat flops against him, useless. He'll move soon, Geoffrey knows, and Geoffrey will follow. He cannot do else.
|
45347
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SPN Fic Here in the dark
|
{
"Archive Warning": "Underage Sex",
"Category": "M/M",
"Characters": "Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester",
"Fandom": "Supernatural",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Mature",
"author": "by keysmash",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2010-01-05T00:00:00",
"words": "935",
"Additional Tags": null,
"Relationship": "Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester",
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It took Sam a long time to come back to himself, back to consciousness. He was tangled up in something, held down, too warm, and breathing too fast, and he got a few good jabs in with his elbows and knees before he made sense of the noise in the room."Sammy, Sammy, c'mon," someone was saying, and of course it was Dean. "Hey, you gotta wake up all the way, man, c'mon, Sam, hey, look at me, come on."Sam shook his head to try to clear it, and then blinked his eyes open. Dean lay with him, practically on top of him, and as Sam's vision adjusted to the darkness, he saw Dean's sheets tangled on the narrow strip of floor between their twin beds."Dean?" His voice sounded wrecked, thick, and Sam cleared his throat. His nose felt clogged and snotty but he didn't want to get up to blow it."There you go." Dean relaxed his grip on Sam's biceps and shifted to the side, next to Sam. He kept their legs tangled together through the blankets and let Sam press his face into his chest. Sam realized too late that his face was wet with tears, but he shuddered and stayed where he was. The dream was already slipping away from him but the sense of dread and panic stayed firmly behind. He always slept fine the first night after a hunt, when the adrenaline's aftermath left him ready to crash, but the second nights were rough."Time's it?" Sam asked.Dean shifted around to check his watch and groaned. "Almost four." Too late to have a satisfying amount of time left to sleep, too early to really justify getting up. Dean patted Sam's shoulder anyway and made to climb back over him, towards his own bed. "Get some shut eye, I've got first shift tomorrow and I'll have to drop you early at school if you want a ride."Sam tightened his hands in Dean's shirt, barely remembering when he'd fisted them there, and tugged. "Stay?"Dean sighed but let himself be tugged back to Sam. "You know we can't – not when Dad, he's still here, he might still be up.""He won't check." Sam knew no such thing, but he pressed his face towards Dean's anyway. He missed Dean's mouth and wound up rubbing their cheeks together, stubble-scratchy, and Dean laughed and let him. "I want – you should stay, alright?"He could almost hear Dean's resolve wavering, but he didn't feel any special satisfaction when Dean tugged at the sheets and wormed his way underneath. Sam knew how to protect himself in the dark but that didn't mean he wanted to, and sometimes he missed being young enough to excuse sleeping with Dean after nightmares."You're gonna regret it in the morning if you sleep all tensed up like this." Dean tugged Sam on his side, so their chests were flush against each other, and rubbed circles into Sam's back."Yeah, m'just." Sam shrugged and didn't finish. He tucked his head under Dean's chin and kept them close together.Dean kept up the slow strokes, up to Sam's shoulders but never dipping below his waist, until Sam calmed somewhat and let himself relax into the warmth. He rearranged their legs to slide one of his over Dean's hip and hook his foot into Dean's knee. He felt Dean shiver and smiled into his neck."You think we could…" Sam trailed off and rolled his hips into Dean's to finish the question. He hadn't been hard, not really – he'd been as soft as he ever got, this plastered to Dean – but Dean twitched against him, and Sam's cock filled easily in response."Sam," Dean said, in the voice that meant he wanted to sound exasperated when he wasn't at all, and slid his hand down the back of Sam's pajamas anyway. "We definitely can't do this with Dad here.""Obviously not with him," Sam said. While Dean was busy grimacing, Sam wriggled around until Dean's finger rubbed over his hole, then leaned up to suck at his lips. "C'mon, it'll help us sleep."Dean snorted but he untangled them and tipped his head towards the opposite wall. "Turn over." He felt under Sam's pillow, clinking his ring on Sam's knife before coming up with the lube. "If you're loud at all, I will end you."Sam nodded.It must have been cloudy, because almost no light came through their window. Sam closed his eyes tight against the darkness as Dean stripped them both and then worked him open, fast and wetter than Sam thought was actually necessary. This was familiar, Dean's chest against Sam's back, and Dean's arm pressed too-close between them, and Dean's toes stroking over Sam's shin. Sam knew about the dark when it felt like this, knew about all these good things in the night, and he kept his knee pulled high to his chest to make it easier for both of them.Dean thrust slowly into Sam's body, and he might have gotten Sam slick but he'd kept him tight at the same time. Sam gasped and had to focus all his attention on the stretch in his ass, on Dean huge behind him and inside him, on the smell of Dean all over both of them. Dean teased his fingers over Sam's cock, forgotten and leaking, but Sam pulled him away, and tugged his arm close over Sam's chest. Dean flexed with every thrust, pulling Sam close to his body while he filled him up, and Sam kept his eyes closed and held on.
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92569
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A Blank Slate Erased And
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{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "M/M",
"Characters": null,
"Fandom": "Baseball RPF",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Teen And Up Audiences",
"author": "by BridgetMcKennitt",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2010-06-06T00:00:00",
"words": "5,202",
"Additional Tags": "Character of Color, Amnesia, New York Yankees",
"Relationship": null,
"Character": null,
"Relationships": "Derek Jeter/Alex Rodriguez, Johnny Damon/Alex Rodriguez",
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"Archive Warnings": null,
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"Updated": null
}
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1.
It was the bottom of the fourth and Alex Rodriguez was up at bat. It was another Yankees versus the Red Sox game at Yankee Stadium and the score was tied 1 to 1. Josh Beckett gave a curt nod to Jason Varitek, the Red Sox captain and catcher, before throwing a fastball straight to Alex.
It should have hit Jason's glove high and tight, an easy strike two. Instead, as Josh watched in horror, his fastball slammed too high and careened into Alex's head, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
He ran towards Alex as well as hundreds of other people, or so it felt, each crowding around the Yankee. Jason pulled Josh away, trying to keep him from seeing Alex, but all Josh could focus on was the blood running down Alex's face and his still, still body.
"I killed him. I killed A-Rod."
2.
Derek paced a short path outside the emergency room, waiting to hear from a doctor or Joe Girardi or anyone who could tell him what was happening with Alex. He was the captain of the Yankees and he was supposed to protect his team from harm, but not even the great Derek Jeter could save someone from a fastball aimed to the head.
The rest of the team waited alongside him, though Derek stood apart from their clusters. He noted the glances towards him and the murmurs, but he ignored it. He had every right to be there, just like them. Just because they thought he hated Alex or the fact that he and Alex hadn't been on speaking terms since Alex had joined the Yankees didn't mean that he wanted to see Alex harmed. It wouldn't make any sense.
Alex dying on an emergency bed did not make sense.
Finally, hours after they arrived from the interrupted game when Derek's life flashed red, Joe pushed open the double doors and found Derek. "He's going to pull through. The doctors says he's fine."
Melky and Robbie held each other's hands, all wide smiles as they heard the news. Derek inclined his head. "Is he awake?"
"They gave him a drug to put him into some kind of sleep and they're keeping him overnight to make sure he remains stable." Joe rubbed his hand over his face. "As tragic as today was, you guys need to get some rest for tomorrow's game against the Red Sox. We have a series to finish." As the team began to protest, Joe raised his hand. "I'll bring him over to the club first thing tomorrow so you can see him."
It wasn't what Derek wanted, but he wasn't going to argue against the Skip. He took one last glance towards the double doors before leaving behind Jason Giambi.
3.
Joe followed through with his word and brought Alex to the clubhouse. He looked no worse for the wear, albeit with a large gauze patch on the side of his head. He greeted everyone who gave him a hug, and had on his big grin.
"Think of it this way, this proves I'm invincible."
Everyone laughed. "Only against the Red Sox," Johnny joked.
"Isn't that what matters?" More laughter.
Derek kept to the back of the club, watching Alex with a keen eye. The thought of losing Alex, even after all the bad blood between them, was almost too much to bear and he was fortunate that it was not the case. Alex was fine. He shook his head at his stubbornness. Holding a grudge against his friend was stupid in the face of mortality, no matter what Joe said about Alex not being close to death. For Derek, it was close enough.
He made his way through the throng and held out his hand to Alex. "Good to see you're all right, Alex."
Alex's grin didn't change, but his eyes showed a trace of confusion. Derek shrugged that off. Of course Alex would be confused. He hadn't been all that friendly with him lately. Alex took Derek's hand and shook it.
"Thanks. Hey, are you new or something? Haven't seen you around before."
Derek's eyes narrowed as those around them laughed. "Come on, A-Rod, you know Derek. He's our captain, remember?" said Jason.
Alex stare blankly at Jason before glancing back at Derek. "Uh, no. We don't have a captain, no one official anyway. What are you on, Jason?"
Derek pulled his hand out of Alex's grasp, his head spinning. What was going on? Kyle Farnsworth marched in, placing the back of his palm against Alex's head. "Funny joke, A-Rod, but no one believes you. Not remembering Derek is like not remembering Babe Ruth. It doesn't happen."
Alex smiled a little, confusion written on his face. "I know Babe Ruth, everyone knows Babe Ruth. But I don't know a Derek. There's no one on this team named that. Come on guys, stop pulling my leg. Bad enough I get knocked out by a ball."
He wasn't faking it and the seriousness of it hit the rest of the team.
Joe took Alex by the wrist, steering him out of the crowd. "This doesn't sound good. We're taking you back to the hospital and see what else you've forgotten."
As the rest of the team began to chat among themselves, Derek could only stare blankly at Alex's fading backside. Alex did not remember him.
4.
It was practice time and Robbie threw the ball to Derek. "Joe says Alex has selective amnesia and wants to put him on the DL. Alex doesn't want that though, says he remembers everything."
Derek threw the ball back to Robbie. "He doesn't remember me," he muttered.
"Yeah, Joe told Alex that, but Alex don't care. Says he still remembers how to bat and run and throw and who cares if he doesn't remember people. Joe says he'll take it under consideration." Robbie threw the ball. "Why do you think Alex only forgot you? He remembers Melky and me."
"I don't know. I'm not a doctor." Derek, in his anger, threw the ball exceptionally hard and it flew over Robbie's head.
"Hey!"
"Sorry," Derek said without meaning it.
"Moose thinks it's because Alex is trying to repress memories of you and Kyle agrees. Andy doesn't though and thinks it's just bad luck. Why would Alex try to do that?"
Derek wanted to slap the questions out of Robbie, but Robbie didn't deserve the treatment and Derek was too befuddled by the swirling emotions inside of him to do more than sigh. "Probably because we haven't been all that friendly with each other in years. He and I don't mix."
"But you guys have a history together. That's stronger than anything, like me and Melky."
Before Derek could respond, practice was over and Melky came bounding in and hugging Robbie, speaking in Spanish so fast that Derek had no chance of understanding. He walked away from the two, forgotten, wondering why Alex would forget about him.
5.
Alex reached for his towel and was about to head towards the showers when a hand pulled him back. He raised his eyebrow as Kyle's face came into view. "Yeah?"
"Let's talk." Short. Blunt. Pure Kyle Farnsworth. "Now."
"Okay, shoot."
"Stay away from Jeter."
Alex blinked. Kyle wasn't one for giving advice, or for that matter taking advice, but here he was giving advice to him. "Any reason for telling me this? I thought you didn't like me."
Kyle stepped back, shrugging a shoulder, without a care. "I don't, but I figure with your memories gone and all, there's nothing wrong with giving you a warning. Stay away from Jeter."
Alex stared at him blankly. "But why?"
"Let's just say you forgot him for a reason. He hates you and you don't want to mess with the captain."
Captain. Alex nearly forgot that this Derek Jeter person was the captain of the Yankees team and whatever he said, went in the clubhouse. He inclined his head. "Thanks, Kyle."
Kyle nodded and turned back, heading towards Mike and Andy. Alex held his towel a little tighter, glancing to where Derek was chatting with Jorge by his locker, before walking to the showers. Kyle was a smart guy. Not Stanford smart like Moose, but smart nevertheless. He wouldn't tell Alex a lie. Alex half wondered why Derek hated him so much, but it didn't matter. The history was firmly in place between them, even with Alex's loss of memory, and there was nothing he could do about it.
6.
Derek glanced at Alex as the third baseman goofed around with Robbie and Melky by their lockers. He could almost pretend that everything was normal, but it wasn't. If things were normal, then Alex would have also been glancing over at Derek. There were no such glances his way. In fact, Alex had not sought him out or looked his way since everyone found out about his amnesia.
It was irritating.
Derek watched Johnny come up behind Alex, wrapping his arms around him and lifting him off his feet. Alex laughed and struggled, but Johnny refused to let him go. Melky bounced around the two with Robbie following along. He knew it shouldn't hurt, but that didn't stop his heart from thumping to a painful beat.
He turned around to focus on grabbing his things from his locker and when he looked back, he saw the interested looks Alex shot towards Johnny during their playful exchange and the whispers they gave each other. Johnny patted Alex on his stomach and Derek scowled.
7.
Derek hadn't meant to follow Johnny and Alex from the stadium, but he was hungry and they were heading in the same direction as him. When Johnny parked his car, Derek parked his car a few spaces away and waited until they were in the restaurant before making his way inside.
Derek sat at a table in a darkened corner facing the two Yankees. It wasn't that he was spying on them, exactly. This was where the waitress decided to sit him and he did not want to make a ruckus by demanding another table.
So he sat with his untouched meal in front of him as he watched the two.
Alex laughed and took a swig of his beer. "You're lying. That never happened."
Johnny grinned and nudged Alex with his shoulder. "It's completely true, and you can call up Manny if you don't believe me."
"I will. Hey, thanks for coming out with me. I like seeing your friendly face."
"Likewise." Johnny reached for his beer, taking a sip. "We should do this more often."
"We should." Alex rested his elbow on the table as he shifted to face Johnny. "So why did you refuse my invitation at first?"
Johnny stared at his bottle for a few moments before answering. "I really shouldn't say. It's not important with all that's happened recently."
"Liar. Does it have something to do with the captain?"
"Something like that. Look, don't look towards me if you're searching for answers. All that was in that noggin of yours, or was anyway." Johnny tapped the side of Alex's head.
Alex leaned back, shutting his eyes. "I see. So I forgot. Maybe if it's as bad as you're insinuating, it is a good thing I don't remember."
"Think of this way, you have a chance to make happier memories. Lots of them." Alex felt the warm touch of Johnny's fingers running up and down his arm and he opened his eyes to see Johnny's smile.
"I like the sound of that." Alex returned the smile.
After a few more beers and two burgers apiece, Johnny tossed some cash on the table, and took Alex by the arm as they left the place.
Neither of them noticed Derek at his darkened table, ripping his napkin to shreds.
8.
Seeing Johnny with Alex day in and day out frustrated Derek and his teammates made it a point to stay away from him as to not draw his ire. While the team won games, Derek's individual stats slipped. Something needed to happen.
The Yankees won their game against the White Sox, 7-2, and they were ecstatic. Alex had hit two homers and had two RBIs under his belt. There wasn't anything wrong with his performance that was caused by the bump on his head which boded well for Alex to play every game for the rest of the season without worry.
While the rest of the clubhouse celebrated, Derek could only go through the motions. It was good to see Alex playing up to par on the field, but he did not like the feeling of having a complete stranger standing off to his right. One of the runs the White Sox managed to score was due to an error between the two of them.
It was a play they had run a hundred times and they were usually able to read each other, even during the seasons when they weren't talking. Derek did what he'd normally do and ran towards second base. He expected Alex to step in and grab the ball, tossing it to him, but Alex didn't. Alex didn't recall the play because Alex didn't have memory of practicing such a move with Derek in practices past.
Derek lingered until the reporters dispersed from the locker room before making his way to Alex's locker. He waited until Alex slipped on a shirt before greeting him.
"Hey, Alex. Great game tonight."
Alex looked up and smiled cautiously at Derek. "Hey, and thanks. You didn't do so bad yourself."
"Look, I came over to ask you something."
"Oh? Was it about that error in the fifth?"
Derek shook his head. He didn't care about the error. "No, nothing like that. I wanted to talk to you about Johnny."
Alex stiffened. "What about him?"
"I know you're...dating him."
"I see. Are you planning on telling Girardi?" Alex stared at Derek with a suspicious look on his face.
Realizing his mistake, Derek shook his head. "No, no. That's not what I meant. I don't think you should date him, is all."
Alex snorted and turned away, walking towards Johnny's locker. Derek couldn't help but watch helplessly.
9.
Derek was lifting weights in the weight room when Alex marched in with a stack of papers. His expression was tight as he stood before Derek and shook the papers at him.
"Alex?"
"I researched my, our, history on the internet and I came back with more questions than answers." He leaned forward until his face was an inch apart from Derek's. "I figure you'd be able to answer those questions."
Derek lowered his weight and nodded to Alex. "I can do that. What did you want to know?"
"What did we mean to each other?"
"We were lovers," he said in a straight forward manner. There was no point in hiding it. "We started out as friends with baseball in common and we became lovers. Our teammates speculated, but no one ever knew for certain."
"And we broke up." Alex's eyes narrowed. "So you're telling me to break up with Johnny because you're an asshole?"
"Don't be so dramatic. You don't fit with Johnny and you'll get hurt in the end."
Alex scoffed, almost sneering at Derek. "Like I did when I was with you, I assume? You have no business in what I do so back off."
"You're right, it is your business." Derek stood up and yanked Alex close by his arms. "And it's my business to make sure you don't get hurt. I was an idiot once and I refuse to be an idiot again."
Alex shrugged off Derek's hands. "Then don't be, Derek."
10.
Alex smiled at Johnny and gave him a kiss. Johnny wrapped his arms around Alex's neck and grinned. "You look happy. Any particular reason?"
"I'm with you. There's no better reason than that."
Johnny laughed and kissed Alex. "I love it when you're silly." He stepped back and picked up a Baltimore guide book. "So I was thinking that we should go out to dinner while we're in Baltimore. Maybe even take in some of the sights. What do you think?"
"That sounds great." Alex looked out of the hotel window, watching the people on the street. "Hey, Johnny, how well do you know the captain?"
"As well as anyone on the team, I suppose. Why do you ask? Has Derek been bothering you?"
"No...not really. What did Derek mean to me before I was hit by that fastball?"
For the first time since Alex knew him, Johnny looked uncomfortable. He raised his hand and rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced everywhere but the direction of Alex. "There were rumors of...things, but nothing confirmed. You guys were best friends before you came to the Yankees, but after this article you said something about Derek and he didn't like it. The two of you haven't been on friendly terms since. Why do you ask?"
Now it was Alex's turn to look uncomfortable. "No particular reason. I don't like having blanks in my mind and he's a mystery to me."
Johnny held Alex in his arms, kissing his cheek. "Derek's always been a bit of a mystery. Ignore him."
11.
Caramel arms wrapped around Johnny's waist from behind and light kisses trailed from his shoulder to his neck. Johnny smiled and tilted his head back to meet Alex's lips. Or at least, he would have if Alex didn't pull away.
"Alex?" Johnny turned around to see his lover staring at the ground.
"I don't think we should do this anymore."
"Excuse me?"
Alex gestured between the two of them. "This. Us. I can't do it anymore."
Johnny held Alex in his arms, trying to meet Alex's gaze. "Any particular reason?"
"I don't want to hurt Derek." Alex shrugged. "Did you know he and I used to be together?"
Johnny shook his head. "I didn't know that."
"I've hurt him, and he's hurt me. Not that I remember it, but I've read the old articles and interviews, and Derek's confirmed it."
"You plan on going back to him," Johnny said flatly. "You may not remember him, but I remember how he's treated you since you've joined the Yankees. Don't do it, Alex."
"You act like I'm going to jump into bed with him. It won't be like that. I barely know him. But I want to know him. That's all."
Johnny gave him a look. "That's never all with you, and you know that. But it's not like I can stop you." He sighed. "Friends?"
Alex nodded, running his fingers through Johnny's hair one last time. "Always."
12.
"So."
"So." Derek ran his palm down his face. "Sorry, this is awkward. For all intents and purposes, you're a stranger to me, but you're wearing a familiar face and it's throwing me off. Sorry," he repeated again.
"Don't worry, this is awkward for me too. I gave up Johnny for a stranger who isn't a stranger." Alex laughed, his laughter turning into frantic hiccups. Derek leaned forward and rubbed Alex's back, attempting to soothe him. It worked.
"It'll be okay. We'll take it slow. There's no need to rush anything. Slow is good." Derek knew he was babbling, but he didn't care. He didn't want to lose Alex, not after everything he went through recently.
"Slow is good," echoed Alex. "I only know you through those articles and that's not the real you."
"No, it's not. I'm not that boring." Derek knew his attempt at a joke was rather lame, but Alex still laughed just as he always did. Derek smiled. "You used to laugh at my lame jokes. See, not everything's changed."
13.
"I can't believe I told the media we used to have sleepovers. That's just not me." Alex shook his head as he spread his blanket over Derek's guest bed.
Derek smirked as he leaned against the doorway, watching Alex. The old Alex wasn't much for making his own bed, let alone anything domestic. "Maybe not the current you, but your old self used to say a lot of things without thinking. It's gotten you into trouble lots of times."
Alex turned to Derek, his expression solemn. "Like with you when I said in that magazine that you weren't a leader."
Derek's heart clenched. "Yeah, like that." He shook his head. "But that's behind us. We're back to taking things slow."
Alex grinned. "And we're back to having sleepovers again." He paused as a thought came to him. "Man, the media must be dumb if they didn't realize we were a couple with that comment."
"Erm, yeah." Derek didn't have the heart to tell Alex that the speculations with the media about the two of them began long before that comment and still continued on to this day.
14.
Derek grinned at Alex as he inserted his key into the door. "I bought this new 50" HDTV and you just have to see Transformers on it. The explosions look awesome."
"So you keep saying." Alex nudged Derek as they entered Derek's apartment. "Should I order pizza or Chinese food?"
"Whatever you're in the mood for." Derek fiddled with turning the television on and putting in the movie as Alex called out for food. He glanced back where Alex was and let a smile cross his face. It felt good to have the third baseman back in his life like the old days. This time around, he wouldn't let his pride lose him.
Alex plopped down on the couch, grinning as he patted the cushion next to him. Derek complied and allowed Alex to snake his hand between his own as he sat down. "I ordered Chinese if that's okay."
"It is." Derek stared at Alex's hand wrapped in his and brought it up to kiss Alex's palm. Alex looked at him in surprise, and for a brief moment Derek thought it was because he remembered that Derek never did things like that, but it's not recognition in Alex's eyes. He's just sentimental, and that's one thing the amnesia hasn't changed.
Alex leaned close, his shy smile on his face, and Derek sucked in a breath of air just as their lips meet. It's not their first kiss, that particular moment happened in the first series between the Mariners and the Yankees and Derek stayed over at Alex's place, but it may as well be because for Alex, it is.
There's hesitation on Alex's part, uncertainty of what Derek likes, but Derek doesn't care about that. It's Alex, they're kissing, and that's all that matters.
15.
The Yankees are in Detroit at Comerica Park and it's the top of the third inning, both teams scoreless. Justin Verlander is pitching to Melky Cabrera, the Yankees' center fielder. Mike Mussina watched Justin while Andy Pettitte watched Moose stare at Justin. In the visiting dugout, Alex got a drink of water from the cooler before sitting next to Derek on the bench. Their shoulders touch, their knees touch, and Johnny could see from the other side of the dugout the tips of Derek's fingers touching Alex's arm.
Johnny sighed and rested his arms on the fence, turning his gaze back to the game at hand. There was no doubt that the two were together and as much as Johnny wanted to protest the relationship, he could not deny their history. Alex may not remember Derek, but Derek remembered Alex and Johnny couldn't fight against his captain's will.
He glanced back to see Derek whisper into Alex's ear, watching Alex crack up and smacking his palm on Derek's thigh. It could have been Johnny's imagination, but it looked like they managed to sit even closer together than before.
Johnny had lost before he even began.
16.
A rare day off, two days even, and Derek decided to take Alex out for dinner. Someplace fancy, someplace that screamed Derek Jeter. Derek dressed as he normally did, sleek and stylish, while Alex attempted to do the same. No frosted tips, however. The new Alex wasn't as particular about his hair.
Derek tried not to think about how he had affected Alex's grooming throughout the years.
The waiter led them to their table, handing them menus. There was a glint of recognition in his eyes at the sight of the two Yankees, but he remained professional and left the table after a few exchange of words.
"I'm treating," said Derek as he smiled at Alex.
"I can pay, too, you know."
Derek gave him a look. "I'm trying to be subtle, but I see you're as thick now as you were when we first met." He leaned in and whispered. "We're on a date."
"Oh. Oh!" Alex's eyes lit up and he grinned. "By all means, pay for dinner."
"That's what I thought." Derek inclined his head and began looking at the menu.
Alex chuckled and did the same.
17.
Alex pushed Derek against the wall, smashing their lips together as his hands ran up and down Derek's chest. Derek moaned his approval as he slipped his tongue into Alex's mouth. He missed this. He missed the feel of Alex.
They managed to get to bed, stripping off their clothes as Derek crawled on top of Alex. "I'm going to fuck you," he growled, dipping his head to lick a path up Alex's smooth chest. "Fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk."
Alex lifted Derek's head up and kissed him hard. "Fuck me."
They both conveniently forgot their promises to themselves to take their relationship slow. That night, there was no slow. Only hard, fast, and mind blowing.
18.
Melky nudged Robbie in the side and pointed towards the outfield. Derek and Alex were jogging with each other and even from this distance, they could see the smiles on their faces.
"That's different," Robbie said, slipping into Spanish.
Melky nodded. "They're happy. I like seeing them smile. It's good for the team."
Robbie nudged Melky and gave him an exaggerated wink. "You think Derek and Alex are...like that?"
Melky's eyes widened and stared at the two. "But Derek didn't like Alex."
"Didn't, but Alex lost his memory so he doesn't remember a thing about him." Robbie nodded sagely. "They have history and Derek's taking advantage of it."
"We have to let the rest of the guys know!" Melky grabbed Robbie's hand and ran towards the dugout where the rest of the team were sitting. It didn't take long for the clubhouse to become aware of Derek and Alex's relationship.
19.
A season later found Derek, Alex, and the rest of the Yankees in Game 6 of the World Series against the surprisingly good San Diego Padres. The Padres had won the two games, but the Yankees won the last three games. If they could win one more, they would be the champions and the Yankees would have earned their 27th World Series. But first, they had to win.
Hideki was up at bat, the score tied at two each with Alex and Derek at first and second, respectively. One out. Bottom of the ninth inning. Derek took a few steps off second base, eyeing the pitcher. They needed to score to win it all, but even with one out, there was no certainty that they'd be able to do it. He learned that from Game 1.
The pitcher threw a curveball and Hideki slammed it hard. Derek's breath got caught in his throat as he ran for third, one eye watching the ball fly through the air. It was going, going...
"It's a homer!" Alex shouted from behind him and Derek's heart swelled. They won. They won.
As soon as Derek touched home base, he turned around and lifted Alex into his arms. Alex laughed and wrapped his legs around Derek's waist as he shouted something. The stadium was deafening and he couldn't hear Alex, but it didn't matter. He knew what Alex was thinking.
Derek let down Alex just as their dugout cleared, the team surrounding them, jumping them, shouting nonsensical things. Hideki touched home and they turned to him, shouting his name.
The Yankees won and Derek was drunk off the cheers. His eyes met Alex's and he yanked him in for a peck on the lips. Surrounded by the rest of the guys, the cameras wouldn't be able to pick it up, and even if they could, who cared? They were allowed to do anything.
"I love you," he shouted into Alex's ear, the words slipping out without realizing it.
Alex patted Derek's ass, his eyes alit with joy. "I love you too!"
Jorge overheard his cry and rolled his eyes, though the look was tempered by his grin. Derek embraced Alex once more and buried his face in Alex's shoulder.
20.
A week after the rings ceremony at the new Yankee Stadium found Derek and Alex leaning against the rail on the balcony of Derek's New York apartment. The sun was setting, casting light purples and oranges over the city, while Derek watched. He had never realized until he received his World Series ring how wound up he had been over the years. Now he had a fifth ring, one for each finger on his hand. But the most important ring was the one on Alex's hand.
He glanced at Alex, catching his eye. Alex grinned and flashed his left hand at Derek, his World Series ring encircling his ring finger like a wedding band. In a way, it was. Derek wore his latest World Series ring on his left ring finger as well. Alex used his hip to bump Derek lightly.
"Can you believe we won a World Series?"
Derek chuckled. "This is a bit old hat for me, Alex."
Alex rolled his eyes and bumped Derek again. "Yeah, but it's been awhile and this is the first one you've won with me." He paused. "Right? I didn't forget a World Series because of you, did I?"
"No, you didn't." Derek turned back to the sun set, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat.
Fortunately, Alex filled the silence. "Do you ever miss the old me?"
Derek cleared his throat, carefully wording his next sentences. "Sometimes I do, but I like this new Alex just the same. Better even, because you forgave me."
Alex smiled his shy smile and nodded. "I agree. It was a good thing I lost my memories because otherwise we would have never made it here." He placed his left hand on the small of Derek's back. "The old me was stupid to have let you go."
"No, it wasn't your fault. I was stupid for letting you go." Derek took Alex's hand in his and pressed a kiss onto his knuckles. He still couldn't say the words he wanted to say, the three words he shouted in the heat of a winning moment months ago.
All Derek could do was kiss Alex's knuckles one more time. "Watch the sun set with me."
Alex gave a peck on Derek's cheek, understanding the sentiment felt but not spoken. "Always."
|
64826
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the room with the view
|
{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "F/M",
"Characters": "Kara Zor-El, Bruce Wayne",
"Fandom": "DCU Animated",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "Explicit",
"author": "by Medie",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2010-02-22T00:00:00",
"words": "2,337",
"Additional Tags": null,
"Relationship": "Bruce Wayne/Kara Zor-El",
"Character": null,
"Relationships": null,
"Series": null,
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"Fandoms": null,
"Archive Warnings": null,
"Categories": null,
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"Published": null,
"Words": null,
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}
|
*Kara's entrance stole the show.Bruce took one look at her body in that fire engine red dress and choked on his drink. When had those happened?He watched mutely as she threaded her way through the casino, politely fending off admirers as she went. (And with that neckline there were a lot of them) Bruce grabbed another drink to help with the realization that he was ogling Clark's cousin like a teenaged boy who'd never seen breasts before.Clark was going to skin him alive and, with Superman, that was quite possibly going to be literal.*Bruce had seen Kara in that eyebrow-raising uniform of hers a thousand times and never blinked once. One red dress with a plunging neckline and his brain took a vacation somewhere x-rated. He had more control than this, he really did.She smiled at him as she neared and he fought a grin at the look of devilment in her eyes. It was too easy to play the charming rogue to her young ingénue and press a kiss into her palm, lingering longer than propriety allowed.Kara laughed and let him sweep her into his arms. There wasn't a man in the room who wouldn't kill to be where he was and Bruce might've just been a little smug about that. Moving to the music, he held her carefully and tried to remember control. The skin left bare by the back of her dress was a touch too warm beneath his hand, Kryptonian normal, and almost enough to distract him from the feel of her curves sliding against his body.Almost.Setting his jaw, he turned his face into the fall of her hair and closed his eyes. The move was a mistake as the scent of the golden locks made him groan and inwardly curse the perfection of the Kryptonian genome."Do you see them yet?" Kara asked sotto voce, her fingers lightly stroking over the short hairs at the back of his neck.For a moment, Bruce couldn't remember the reason they were in Monte Carlo then reason caught up to him. Harley, Ivy, and their multinational crime spree, victimizing high society events around the world. The Kasnian queen (and her jewels) were scheduled to make an appearance at the casino. It was the most logical of all the potential targets they'd studied so here they were, Kara and the slit in her dress making sure Bruce Wayne lived up to his reputation."No," he murmured and slid his hands down Kara's hips, telling himself it was all part of the show.She sucked in a breath, and pressed her face against his neck.He stifled a groan, willing his body to relax. It wasn't easily done. It was, however, quite possible this plan was too good, it was distracting the hell out of him along with everyone else.The music slowing, Kara snuggled closer and Bruce reasoned pressing a kiss into the silky soft skin of her shoulder was the most logical course of action. It was what Bruce Wayne was supposed to do with a beautiful blonde in his arms. But logic didn't have a damn thing to do with the shiver that ran through them both.His pulse hammering in his ears, Bruce forced himself to scan the crowd for familiar faces. "They'll be here," he insisted, assuring himself as much as Kara."Right," she agreed resolutely, pulling away. "Come on," she teased, grabbing his hand. "It's time for you to get me wildly drunk before taking advantage of me in the bushes.""There are no bushes," Bruce reminded, smiling despite himself."There's a potted plant," Kara insisted, pointing at one by the balcony door. "It counts!"*Laughing, Bruce took the flute of champagne from Kara's hand and made a show of her inebriation. "If I didn't know better," he murmured into her ear, "I'd think you were drunk Ms. Kent."She leaned into him, toying with his lapel. "I went to college," she reminded, her laughter real. "You'd be surprised what you can learn from sorority girls."Bruce didn't let himself think about that, sliding his fingers along the strap of her dress instead while considering how easily it would give beneath his hand. "No I wouldn't," he said, slying a grin at her.She lifted her chin and took one step back, the strap going tight against his finger in an obvious dare. "Prove it.""Careful what you wish for," he warned, voice dipping into Batman's familiar dark timbre. "I might give it to you."There was nothing of her cousin's farm boy ways in her when Kara took another step and the strap gave way. He was hard before he could stop it and her wicked smirk said she knew it. Damn x-ray vision."Well, if you don't," she hesitated and glanced meaningfully at the broken strap, "I just trashed my sluttiest dress for no good reason whatsoever and how unfair is that?"The look Kara gave him was blistering and Bruce's hands twitched with the urge to grab her. "You -- "She licked her lips and smiled coyly at him. "Me." Her smile turned into the sweet, innocent one he remembered. "So, Mr. Wayne, do I get it now?"The images of what he'd like to give her swarmed Bruce's brain and he was insanely grateful J'onn was nowhere in the vicinity. Clark wasn't the only one that was going to kill him and Kara had quite effectively seen to it that he didn't give a damn.*The cold night air tickled the back of Bruce's neck as he lifted Kara, pressing her against the brick wall. She laughed breathlessly, tugging him into a kiss that was all teeth and an insanely talented tongue."Where the hell did he stash you?" He panted into her mouth when they parted, his lung capacity woeful compared to hers.She laughed. "Kansas. Three years, I got very bored. Fortunately, it takes me maybe a minute to run to Vegas? Less if I'm headed for Atlantic City."Bruce chuckled, shaking his head. "Bad girl.""Kansas," Kara reminded, rocking her hips against him in a none-too-subtle reminder. "For three years.""That bastard," he teased, stealing another kiss while his hand worked between them. "How dare he?""Easy," she complained with a pout that he couldn't resist sucking on, earning a throaty moan in reward. "Didn't call, didn't write. I got bored.""And we can't have that," Bruce nudged her dress out of the way with his chin, baring the breasts that had been torturing him all night. She definitely wasn't the Supergirl he remembered, those - those he would have remembered. Even Batman wasn't single-minded enough to miss them.She moaned when his mouth slid over one, chasing after the nipple, and squirmed when he suckled it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Batman was making his disapproval known. They were supposed to be on a stakeout, not molesting Kara Zor-El on a balcony in the middle of the night.He released her breast long enough to look up. "You listening?"Kara looked at him fuzzily, her hair a mess of disheveled curls, and her lipstick smeared to oblivion. She couldn't look any less like Supergirl if she tried and he thought she'd never looked more amazing. "For?""Ivy and Harley."She gaped. "You're kidding?"Bruce shook his head. "No.""Oh for fuck's sake!" Kara stared at him in obvious disbelief for a long moment before turning her head, grumbling about obsession, therapy, and goddamn orgasms. Listening, he assumed, for any potential screaming unrelated to their activities and he tried not to chuckle. He had to wonder who had taught her to curse like that, certainly hadn't been Jonathan Kent which meant Clark? Not as big a boy scout as Lois Lane claimed him to be.Chuckling despite his best efforts, Bruce leaned in to kiss her neck, lips lazily wandering over the sweet-scented skin. Some day, they were going to spend a very leisurely day in bed and he was going to explore to his heart's content. A quick fuck on a balcony was not going to cut it.She groaned, "If you want me concentrating, that, is a bad idea, trust me.""Hmm, no," he shook his head, grinning into her skin. "It's a very good idea actually. You need to learn how to do that even when you're distracted.""Oh my god, you are not giving me a lecture about training now," she turned back to him, tugging him back so he could see her face. "Bruce, seriously?" He grinned when she looked annoyed. "Oh, who am I kidding? Of course you are, you're you.""Someone needs to tell you these things," he teased, fingering her breast and watching her eyes flick shut. "You said it yourself, Kansas. Three years.""Forget Ivy and Harley," she complained. "I'm going to kill you myself."He chuckled. "Okay.""You are such an insufferable bastard," Kara frowned.Bruce smirked and leaned into kiss her. "Yes," he agreed into her mouth, fingers migrating from her breast to between her legs. When she gasped, he pulled back and added, "Not that you're complaining, of course?"She rolled her eyes. "Shut up and fuck me." Her look was positively maddening when she added, "Before Ivy and Harley get here. You get me all hot and bothered and send me off to fight bad guys?" She winced elaborately, shaking her head. "That will not end well."He briefly pictured Harley's head in one zip code and her body in another. The Joker wouldn't like one bit and neither would Gordon when he dealt with the clown's rampage. "Can't have that now can we?""Hm, wouldn't be advisable, no," she squirmed again, body rubbing against his. Hard again, he thrust into her and they both sighed.Bruce's mouth returned to her breasts as he wrapped one arm about her waist, when their angle proved awkward, he backed out of her again. "C'mere," he said quickly, turning her toward the balcony.Apparently understanding his intention, Kara laughed and grabbed the iron railing as he pushed the dress out of his way, hand skimming over the perfectly-shaped ass bared by the action. When she wiggled impatiently, he grinned and brought his hand down hard. "Not enough of those as a child," he explained, hands seizing her hips and holding her still.She sighed, the railing buckling beneath her grip. "Well, don't let age stop you.""Later," he decided. "When we can enjoy it."Kara whimpered and he moved, turning the whimper into a gasp. "God," she muttered, one hand leaving the railing and moving between her legs. Bruce thrust in again, harder this time, and wished for x-ray vision of his own as he watched her arm move quickly."My kingdom for a mirror," he complained and she giggled."Later," she promised. "There's a nice one in my suite.""Bigger bed in mine."She snickered and he thought he heard her say something about a competitive streak but couldn't be sure. The blood rushing to his cock didn't leave a whole lot of room for thinking. "Harder," Kara demanded, breathless. "It's not like I can break.""No," he managed, "but I can.""Oh, but what a way to go." Kara's laughter stuttered when his hand joined hers, moving them both over her clit. Her next words were his name and a curse, her body clenching promisingly around him.He grunted his agreement, not trusting his voice as hers turned his name into a plea to the heavens, rising into a sharp cry at the end. Kara coming was one of the most amazing things he'd ever seen, her hair falling around her face as she lowered her head and sucked in ragged breaths.It felt even better than it looked and his body's rhythm failed him, seduced by the siren song of hers. When his orgasm passed, Bruce slumped over her for a moment and enjoyed being completely and totally wrung out."Even if he kills me," he muttered finally, "this was worth it."Kara laughed, voice husky. "If he kills you for this, I'm killing him."*Looking appropriately disheveled, they stumbled back into the ballroom together moments later. There wasn't a person in the room who didn't suspect what they'd been up to on the balcony and he saw no reason to hide it, all the more reason to flaunt it. Bruce saw men grinning and woman rolling their eyes in disgust as Kara turned her face toward him to hide her laughter."Think they're jealous?" She asked, still grinning."Damn straight," he took his time with the kiss, giving everyone in the room the show they were pretending they didn't want to see. "The gossip columns will be raging for weeks."Kara laughed. "Just as long as the front page belongs to Harley and Ivy.""It will," he promised, turning her attention to two women just inside the door. "Show time."They slipped out the side seconds before the room exploded into chaos. Nobody noticed that Bruce and his date disappeared in time for Batman and Supergirl to make their appearance.*"Did you notice?" Supergirl observed to Batman while they watched Ivy and Harley be escorted onto the flight home. "Queen Audrey didn't show."He looked down at her through the cowl, nodding slightly. "Her security might have received a tip about a potential security threat."She smiled quickly and turned her gaze back to the plane. "And here I thought it was because Wonder Woman took that vacation."Behind the cowl, Bruce's eyebrows rose. "Really?""Mmhmm," Supergirl nodded. "It's about time she took a vacation, she's been way too wound up lately and she's not the only one.""True," he agreed. "Do you think he'll notice?""Kansas." Supergirl reminded. "Three years."Batman turned away as the plane taxied off. "Point." It was fortunate, he suspected, that Bruce Wayne's hotel room was paid through the week.They were going to need it.
|
81997
|
Friends in Strange
|
{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "Gen",
"Characters": "Luna Lovegood, Bill Weasley",
"Fandom": "Harry Potter - Rowling",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "General Audiences",
"author": "by zephrene",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "2010-04-23",
"published": "2010-04-22T00:00:00",
"words": "3,031",
"Additional Tags": "Egypt, Mummies, Greater Wizarding World",
"Relationship": null,
"Character": null,
"Relationships": null,
"Series": null,
"Collections": null,
"Fandoms": null,
"Archive Warnings": null,
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}
|
Autumn 2007, The Valley of the Kings, EgyptLuna had the strangest feeling that she'd been here before. Perhaps in was simply the perspective - it wasn't every day that she got a close look at tomb paintings upside-down because her foot was caught in a fissure where a great chunk of the ceiling used to be. Was there a name for a tendency to fall through sudden holes, off high peaks, or into unexpected ravines? She was very glad she had decided against the voluminous robes and worn sensible, close-fitting garments.She examined the room as best she could in the single beam of sunlight pouring from the hole her body had made in the rock. It did not seem immediately threatening, so Luna used a combination cushioning and levitation charm to slow her fall and wrenched her ankle free. The room was not actually as tall as the tapering lotus pillars made it seem, and Luna's spell bounced her off the floor before she got it under control. She would have to remember to make a note on that effect in her Charm Journal for her report to Master Collins. Once she gained her feet, brushed herself off, and ascertained that her only injury was the bruise making itself felt inside her boot, she examined the paintings with more attention. They were not classic tomb paintings, but a sort of odd hybrid of late Ptolemaic figures with early moving portraits. Most of the art seemed somnolent, but a few heads turned to follow her movements as she left the circle of sunlight and moved deeper into the tomb. Once a hawk's head screeched something at her, but Luna did not understand Egyptian. "I'm sorry, could you try Latin, perhaps?" The hawk glared and turned back to profile. When Luna reached the extreme edge of available light, she stood at the end of a long corridor. "Lumos." The illumination at the end of her wand did very little to disperse the gloom, but it did have another affect."Rrrrrrrhhhhhhhuuurrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhh." The long, pained groan echoed up the corridor, and all of the paintings on the wall woke up and began frantically gesticulating at Luna. She didn't understand Egyptian in sign language any better than she understood it spoken, so their message was lost on her. She was distracted by the glint of metal in the border design of the corridor painting. It was a thread of gold, just coming free in places of the paint and plaster that held it to the wall. "You all must be under a localized muffling charm, then," she said, partly to the paintings and partly to herself, examining the thread. "Revelatomnes." A stream of greenish light shot out of the golden thread and into the palm of Luna's hand, where it settled into a vaguely pyramidal arrangement of heiroglyphics and thaumaturgical symbols. Luna had slightly more experience with archaic thaumaturgical terms than she did with ancient Egyptian, which is to say that she'd once seen a museum display of similar symbols. "Well, that wasn't at all helpful, was it?" Luna sighed and stuck her wand behind her ear, still lit, so that she could pull out her journal and a self-inking quill. Used to taking notes in odd and inconvenient moments, she quickly made a neat sketch of the spell diagram and dismissed it. "Rrrrrruuuuuuurrrrrrggggghhhh." The moaning noise was louder now, and accompanied by a soft sussuration, as of cloth dragging on the floor. Luna peered down the corridor, and took a few steps toward the noise. The paintings on the walls were jumping up and down now, and one cow-headed woman was apparently enacting the ending of Hamlet single-handed. Luna had no time for amateur theatricals, although she did applaud politely when the cow lady suffered a particularly nasty stab wound and bled out beautifully on the throne of Osiris.Now the sussurations of cloth were definitely accompanied by stumbling footsteps. "Who's there?" Luna called. She took her wand back into her hand, extinguished the Lumos, and pulled a candle from the pouch at her waist. A wandless spell lit the candle, which provided about the same illumination as the Lumos but left her free to hex if necessary. The painted pharoah on the wall across the way had definitely just made a vulgar gesture. "Really, is that any way to behave?" Luna asked him, flicking her glance to the wall for a split second, then back to the darkness of the corridor. "If you were a bit more polite, perhaps I could work on taking the muffling charm off your walls, did you think of that?" Just at the edge of her peripheral vision, the painted pharoah waved his arms angrily at her. She ignored him as a portion of shadow in the corridor abruptly took on substance and form. A human figure stumbled out of the darkness and stopped in the gray half-light just out of the candle's range, a figure swathed head to foot in fine linen strips that looked rather in rather good shape for being, in all likelihood, at least two thousand years old."Oh," Luna sighed. "You poor thing. And you probably don't speak Latin, either." She tried it out, just to be certain, as the mummy stared at her, its eyes also remarkably well-preserved, if dried to the point of looking like lumps of amber. "Do you understand me when I speak like this?" Just on the off chance, seeing as the tomb did seem to date to the Ptolomaic years, she added, "Or maybe better when I speak like this?" in Greek. The mummy came to life when she spoke the Latin, standing up straight and moaning piteously, then it lunged forward when she added the phrase in Greek. The noises it was making were hopelessly garbled, but it did not seem too eager to do the traditional mummy things, like trying to rip her limb from limb or eat her heart from her chest. Luna backed away, holding her hands up to keep the unfortunate creature at a distance. It understood enough of her gesture, and her incipient retreat, that it stopped in its tracks and slumped down on itself. Luna watched it for a moment and had the strangest feeling it was acting like an animal, trying to make itself less threatening by appearing small. "Slow down, now. I will ask you questions. If the answer is yes, nod your head. If the answer is no, lift your right hand. Do you understand?"The mummy nodded slowly, deliberately, with such exaggeration that its chin almost rested inside its bandaged ribcage."Very well." Luna tapped her wand against her chin. "Are you under a curse, that you know of?" Yes."Hmm. Do you know the counter-curse?"Yes."Is your inability to speak a part of the curse?"The mummy stared at her. After a moment, Luna realized that she had not left the mummy an option for I don't know. Nor for It's too complicated for a yes/no answer."Ok, wait. Let me think. Is there a magical, as opposed to physical, reason you cannot speak?"No."Can the physical problem be fixed without breaking the curse?"The mummy just looked at her again. Luna sighed. "Well, we don't know. Can I try a spell on you to see if we can help you speak properly?" If the mummy had not been firmly wrapped in linen, Luna was certain his head would have flown right off his neck, so vigorously did he nod. "Right then. Hold still, and no sneaky ripping out of hearts while I'm casting, agreed?" The mummy shrank back down into its helpless puppy mode and nodded more sedately. Luna stepped closer and held her wand ready. "Open your mouth," she instructed with a flick of the wand. The mummy obediently let its jaw hang open. The dessicated remains of its facial muscles held the bones tenuously together, and there were quite a few good-looking teeth still in the jaw. Luna gently placed the tip of wand just outside the mummy's mouth, concentrated, and whispered, "Linguavalesco."It was not a standard healing spell, nor was it the sort of spell that allowed a non-living item to speak. Rather, it was a charm Luna made up on the spot, to grow back muscle and flesh, hydrating and energizing the remains of tongue and palate. It did not make the mummy look any less a mummy, but within moments of the spell's completion, the creature was smacking newly-plump lips and running its tongue over its teeth. The hole in one cheek allowed the maneuver to be visible for far too long.Luna stepped back and lowered her wand to waist height, alert but not worried."Thank you," the mummy said in perfectly decent Latin, although its voice was hoarse and its breath whistled through too many holes. Luna relaxed. It was extremely rare that a creature with such decent manners turned into a bloodthirsty madman, at least without outside intervention like a full moon or a sudden dousing with holy water. "You're welcome. Now, how are you called? My name is Luna. Do you have any idea how long you have been down here?" The mummy picked up a trailing piece of linen and secured it more tightly around its arm. "You may call me Sefu. My other names have no meaning now. It has been, what, a thousand years?" Luna looked up at the walls. "If I am interpreting the walls correctly, more like two thousand. The world has changed many times."The mummy managed to look wistful. "Two thousand years? Two thousand years. I cannot imagine it. There has been nothing here but the walls and the rats since the last robber made off with my treasure." Luna gestured to the walls with her wand. "Do you know why this wall has been muffled?" The mummy, or Sefu as she supposed she must call him now, nodded. "To prevent them from warning any victims of my presence, of course. In the beginning, there were many. Some dropped here by soldiers to die, others came on their own seeking the treasure."Luna surmised that most of those victims had been killed to slake the thirst for vengeance most standard mummy curses came with. "Why are you not trying to steal my flesh, then?" The mummy looked down at its feet and mumbled something. "Speak up. And in a language I know, please." "I said," Sefu bit out with clacks of teeth and whistles of breath, "that I was bored. I don't know how long it has been since the last robber ran away, but it was a lonely time, even with the walls to talk to. I thought perhaps if I did not kill you, I might find a way out of here by following when you ran." Luna pondered the realities of a bored mummy in a modern Wizarding World. "Does your curse keep your flesh from falling completely apart, then?"Sefu nodded and held his arm out for her inspection. "It will not let me fall into dust. But I am overdue to do so. When the curse is gone, I will just shrivel into nothing."Luna looked him in the eye without blinking, which was easier considering he had no eyelids to blink with to remind her to. "Do you wish for that?" Sefu jumped away from her, scrambling into the twilight-zone of light at the edge of the candle's range. "No, no, I do not want to die yet. Anything but death." Luna shook her head. "Well, I'm not going to uncurse you, stop that. I don't think I could even if I knew how. That would take a professional curse-breaker." Sefu flinched. "Now, now," Luna said soothingly. "You don't want to die, you don't want to stay down here. What do you want?" Sefu leaned against the wall. The falcon-headed man in the painting behind him made a few choice gestures over the mummy's head, which Luna chose to ignore. She was getting very tired of the endless melodramatic pantomime from the walls."I want to read something besides these walls for once. I want to have my library again." Bells began to sound in Luna's head. Not alarm bells, thankfully, but chimes of excitement. "Could you be around human people without feeling the need to, you know, rend limbs and eat hearts?" she inquired carefully.Sefu crossed his arms. Luna thought he might have been trying to glare at her, but he didn't actually have the facial muscles to do so. "If I had books? I might manage to restrain myself." Luna switched to her horrible Greek. "And translating? Could you perhaps write, as well as read? Or dictate?" Sefu's Greek was much more elegant than his Latin. Luna would have liked hearing it from a throat that wasn't perforated like so much Swiss cheese. "Yes. Any of those. You have scribes to take my notes?"Luna coughed. "Something like that." For the next few minutes she interrogated Sefu on his skills, and found quite a few that could be applied outside the tomb."Sefu, I want to break you out of here. But in order to do so and make sure you don't disintegrate the minute we leave, I want to bring in a professional. May I call in my friend?" Sefu gave her that trying-to-glare look again, then slumped. "Very well."Luna walked a few paces down the corridor and turned so that Sefu could not see her wrist as she engaged her communications watch. Bill was just across the river in Luxor, and could be at the wadi she had been hiking in minutes. She gave him a very brief - the watch was not like a muggle telephone, after all - overview of her situation: new tomb, cursed mummy Sefu wishes peaceful occupation, require assistance to exit. hole in rock at 2km from hike start. And entered the apparition coordinates for the start of the path she had been walking. Bill was not happy with her. Sefu sat, legs splayed in a shallow V, against the muffled wall, playing an odd version of cat's cradle with a piece of thread pulled from a fraying bandage. The mummy had been steadfastly ignoring the low-voiced argument between Luna and Bill for at least fifteen minutes. Luna thought that should speak well for the mummy, and told Bill as much."Luna," Bill said with such exaggerated patience that Luna wanted to slap him, "a cursed mummy is not a creature who can just go work in a library." "Why not? Just because he keeps his organs in jars in a separate room is no reason to discriminate against him." Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's the danger to regular people's organs that concerns me, here." Luna tilted her head and waited for him to look at her once more. "Really, Sefu has already said that he is more interested in a useful occupation than in rending humans limb from limb. Isn't there some spell you could place on him to be sure he doesn't get too close to people if you're worried? Stick him in the archives with those ghosts who drip slime on visitors, they'll all get along like a house on fire." Bill groaned. "That's exactly what the librarians would be afraid of." "Sefu likes books! And he could translate! Perhaps you could set up a payment system for him that involved renewing the spells on his flesh, that way he wouldn't need to eat hearts or steal souls or whatever to regain his body." The wrinkle between Bill's brows deepened. Luna wondered why everyone had such difficulty absorbing such simple concepts. "How is this any different from employing a werewolf or a ghoul?" And that was when she got him, because of course it wasn't that different, and the curse-breaking field was full of werewolves and ghouls who had strict employment contracts ensuring that they were a danger to nothing and no one except the curses they broke. It was not hard, once Bill had accepted the basic premise, to make notes of basic contract provisions on a blank page in her journal. She tore the page out and walked over to Sefu. "Here is what will happen now, Sefu. We are going to be sure that you can leave the tomb safely, then we will take you to the Luxor Wizarding University. Things will be quite strange to you, I'm sure, but just keep an open mind and try not to go crazy until we get you to the library." Sefu's torn cheeks had just enough flesh from her spell to draw back his lips into a smille. Well, Luna hoped it was supposed to be a smile. "A library. I thank you, Moon maiden." Luna grinned, tucking her wand behind her ear once more. "Let's get you out of here." Years and years later, when it became more difficult to get out of bed and the winter cold ached deep in her bones and even her great-grandchildren could not keep her mind from the reunion waiting for her beyond the Veil, Luna received an ornate box decorated in Egyptian style from an anonymous owl. She smiled when she saw it, and once more when she read the scroll inside. Her youngest great-grandchild climbed up on the bed beside her and read over her shoulder and later Luna heard him ask his mother, "Is the long sweet sleep like in the fairy tale?" Luna did not listen for the answer her granddaughter gave; she was deep in memory, hearing once again the wheezing voice of a two-thousand-year-old librarian who could choose to live forever. Luna would not use the spell quite yet. Spring was coming soon, and somehow that long sweet sleep did not seem so appealing before she saw wildflowers blooming over the Devon hills one last time. When the time was right, she would know, and then she would let Sefu's last gift ease her into that long, sweet sleep and carry her peacefully over the threshold of death.
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His Destiny
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{
"Archive Warning": "No Archive Warnings Apply",
"Category": "Gen",
"Characters": null,
"Fandom": "Lost",
"Language": "English",
"Rating": "General Audiences",
"author": "by Settiai",
"chapters": "1/1",
"completed": "",
"published": "2004-10-13T00:00:00",
"words": "300",
"Additional Tags": "Episode Related, Episode: s01e04 Walkabout, Introspection, One Shot",
"Relationship": null,
"Character": "John Locke",
"Relationships": null,
"Series": null,
"Collections": null,
"Fandoms": null,
"Archive Warnings": null,
"Categories": null,
"Bookmarks": null,
"Chapters": null,
"Comments": null,
"Completed": null,
"Hits": null,
"Kudos": null,
"Published": null,
"Words": null,
"Updated": null
}
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When he tried to move his toes, it was a completely unconscious action. Even after four years of living as a cripple, his mind still refused to comprehend that he would never walk again. Morning after morning he woke up and attempted to force his legs into moving, and morning after morning he was rudely reminded that all of his attempts were entirely futile.Except this time, his foot moved.The world seemed to stand still for a moment, and the chaos around him disappeared. The smell of acrid smoke faded into the distance, and he felt himself go deaf to the panicked cries that surrounded him. He stared in shock as his limbs answered to his commands for the first time in years, and amazement rushed through his entire body as he hesitantly reached over and grabbed his shoe.He was more than careful as he pulled the shoe onto his foot, and he felt detached from the universe as he began realizing that this wasn't just another dream. This wasn't another fleeting fantasy, and it wasn't going to disappear with the break of day. This was more than that.It was a miracle.As he pulled himself to his feet, he felt a brief moment of fear rush through him. Even though his body was telling him that this was real, his mind didn't want to wrap itself around the fact. What if it really was a dream? Miracles didn't happen, not to people like him.Pain rushed through his legs as he placed his weight on them, and in that instant he believed. The world around him abruptly made its way back into his senses, but he didn't care. It didn't matter. What was happening, had happened, would happen... none of it mattered.This was his destiny.
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