If there is a way to find you, I will find you—

Forkichisama: The Dark Knight

2009-12-23T10:48:13Z

Time, Time, Time

The trouble with clocks is this: time is mostly irrelevant.

They have short-term applications, sure. Those poor bastards have got half an hour until the building blows. You've got ten minutes until I remove your eyes with a fork. And so forth. But mostly, clocks are useless and time is irrelevant. There is no perfect, measurable hour at which to bring down destruction. Chaos simply exists.

In here, though, they're obsessed with clocks. The first thing I asked them to do was take that one over there off the wall, but apparently all rooms—rooms, as if this place were a four-star hotel—have them by mandate. It's my right to know when the nurse is bringing some nice jingly pills in a little plastic cup. What if I don't want to know? What if I'd rather be surprised? I'm not really a think-ahead kind of guy. Well.

It's worth seeing her keel over, pills rolling helter-skelter, what I've done to the clock.

For sheerpoetry: Hamlet

2009-12-22T12:45:20Z

Forever and Never Again

Horatio wonders if his absence at court will even be noted, what with his unlikely charge so lately deceased. When the news had reached his ears, he'd feared for his own life: had he not been commanded to mind her? Amidst the chaos of mourning, he'd been forgotten; it was much the same as the circumstances under which he had arrived nearly unnoticed. Upon the delivery of Hamlet's unexpected missive, he'd departed straightaway for the docks. He knew where his prince lay in waiting.

Hamlet sleeps now, cleaner and better fed than when Horatio had found him some hours earlier. Mutely, he'd watched Hamlet undress before the fire. His ribs cut stark, clawed arcs through the pale cask of his chest, and Horatio could not remember his hipbones having ever been so sharp. He'd reached out, then, just to touch him. Steady him. Nothing more. But Hamlet had all but pulled them both headfirst into the steaming tub, and somewhere between one kiss and the next they'd huddled low in the water, boneless and clinging, until finally it cooled and drove them straight into bed. The food had come later. Hamlet had tried to rise, but Horatio wouldn't hear of it.

And so he sleeps now, again. At least, Horatio thinks, there is rest for his sweet prince.

For gragerty & veranillo: Everything Is Illuminated

2009-12-18T00:39:29Z

PREFACE: veranillo, I know that when I prompted you to expand on your request, beyond just wanting Alex/Jonathan, that you suggested perhaps one planning a surprise birthday party for the other. However, I confess that I tried writing this about three times and it repeatedly turned out so dull that I trashed it each time in frustration. gragerty was the only other person to request an EII drabble, and her request was for Little Igor finding out about Alex and Jonathan. I can do much, much more in this vein, and so I hope you'll both forgive me for writing one drabble for the pair of you. I try to do this as rarely as possible; in the past, I've only done it when I realize that quantity will not be better than quality. Trust me on this one.

Everything You Never Wanted to Know

In that moment, all Jonathan can think about is the blank, disbelieving look on the boy's face. Breaking it to his own kid brother had been pretty simple: Josh had actually seemed rather impressed, and maybe even secretly proud, that somebody in his family was gay. Bisexual. Whatever. Parsing out what they were to everybody else made Jonathan's head hurt. At least to each other they could just be themselves.

Igor clears his throat and focuses on the far corner of the room, somewhere over Alex's shoulder. Alex shifts next to Jonathan, giving off that unmistakable I-want-to-vanish-now vibe. Jonathan wants nothing more than to hold him.

"This is why, I believe," he says in halting English that is, nonetheless, far cleaner than Alex's was when Jonathan had first met him, "Mother is crying some nights when she speaks of you to the woman from next door. I come into the kitchen to get water, but they do not let me hear. But when I leave again, Jonathan, I hear your name as well."

Oh fucking hell, Jonathan thinks, but instead, he nods mutely.

"She has never told me this," Alex says, his accent unexpectedly thick. He's lived in America for two years now, and those two years have not been easy. He'd hardly been there a month when 9/11 hit, and they were staring down the barrel of potential visa-renewal problems if he didn't find a placement by the time his program was finished. And on that, the clock was ticking at an uncomfortable pace.

"She does not wish to upset you," Igor says, making hard eye contact with Alex. "She likes to know you are happy. But she is very worried about this kind of thing."

"I'm sorry," Jonathan interjects, no longer able to hold back, "but what does she mean by this kind of thing? It's not like I'm keeping him here as my sex slave."

At Alex's sharp intake of breath, he instantly regrets having said it. But goddamn, what the fuck? This isn't some bad porno flick they've stumbled into. This is life.

"In Ukraine, you can die for this," Igor points out. "It is very dangerous."

Alex closes his eyes, nods solemnly. "I'm sorry that she continues to be so concerned. Please understand, though, that this is America. They are more enlightened here."

"Are the ones who beat people to death enlightened?" asks Igor, point-blank. For being in his early teens, he's impressively streetwise and reads a lot on the internet.

"No," Jonathan says. "They're assholes."

At that, unexpectedly, Igor cracks a smile.

"Yes, I think so, too. So are the ones in Ukraine."

"The east coast is safest," Alex reassures him, his eyes brightening with this thin, tenuous thread of hope. "That's where we are right now. Nobody so far has insulted me for my questionable taste in romantic partners," he adds, grinning wryly, and takes hold of Jonathan's hand. He squeezes so hard that their knuckles go white.

Igor nods, his eyes drifting slowly to the floor. The smile hasn't quite left his lips, but the shadow of fear has crept in again, ever so slightly. "Mother will not be able to make you come home to have a wedding. In fact, you cannot marry at all."

"Hey, we're working on that," Jonathan reassures him, reaching out to muss the kid's hair. "Maybe in a few years she'll be able to come here and see us have one."

Igor looks up and makes a face. "But how is that possible?"

"This is America," Alex says, as if it's the answer to everything.

"I tell Mother that having you here is a great honor," Igor tells him. "I also tell her that we are very lucky that you and Jonathan make visits. It means you do not forget."

"Forget what?" Jonathan asks. "That we're family? No way are we gonna forget that."

"No," Alex says, turning to him, and it's the first time he's noticed the faintest trace of tears in Alex's eyes. "It means we do not forget that this was not easy."

No shit, Sherlock, Jonathan wants to mutter, anything to lighten the mood, but what he does then is lean over and plant a brief kiss on Alex's lips, right in front of Iggy, because if the kid is going to come to their wedding or civil partnership ceremony or whatever someday, he had sure as fuck better get used to it.

"Ew," Igor says, but there's laughter in his voice.

Jonathan can't help but join in, and Alex isn't far behind him.

Yuletide story: complete!

2009-12-15T01:56:43Z

Dear Spell-Check,

Motherfucker ≠ mother-of-pearl.

Just FYI.

Happy Christmas,
Adrienne

ETA: Or should I have phrased that as Mother-of-pearl ≠ motherfucker? ANYWAY...

Stolen from innocentsmith:

2009-12-11T10:01:03Z

My irisbleufic brings
all the boys to the yard
and they're like
it's better than yours.

Which song was this lyric from?

I've done my best to update the Mystical Floating Directory (TM), but if you find I've forgotten a story or two, please let me know. My record updates have been shoddy this autumn and winter at best! News blurb also updated.

I have to say, this is pretty damned funny.

2009-12-07T10:21:32Z

Usually, I hate having a hangover. But the story behind this one is ace.

As most of you know, I'm something of a wine enthusiast. I've tasted some expensive, infamous, and unusual stuff in my time, usually by pure luck. Champagne, however, is a different animal; I haven't had it quite as often, largely because I don't usually care for the taste of it. That said, I find cava pretty tolerable; a friend bought me a very nice bottle of it several years ago, and I really enjoyed it.

Here's where the Good Omens geekery kicks in: until yesterday, I had never had the chance to try Moët & Chandon (you know, the Queen song reference to it that makes him wonder who Moey and Chandon are - which, by the way, if he'd wondered that out loud and Aziraphale had been in the passenger seat, I'm convinced he'd have got a crack across the back of the head). This is mostly because it never retails for less than about £30 a bottle, no matter what shop you're in.

Anyway, at a gathering of friends and acquaintances at the University of Leeds yesterday (at which I finally met amchau), some bewilderingly kind soul had brought not one, but four bottles of the stuff. Wide eyed, I dug in, and by the end of it all I'm pretty sure I consumed about 3/4 of a bottle myself, if not a bottle. Now, straight up, the stuff isn't totally brilliant, but it's not the worst bubbly I've ever tasted, either. I started mixing it with some cherry-berry juice that somebody had brought along, though, and that was just what it needed.

Now Aziraphale will hit me for having drunk it adulterated from a plastic cup.

ETA: It would seem I have four beautiful snowflakes on my profile page, courtesy of mushroom18, nomelon, tartary_lamb, and cydienne. Thank you!

I just don't have my shit together right now.

2009-12-01T13:40:43Z

These Ph.D. edits are kicking my ass, I've had the same sinus and chest infection for about six weeks (which seems to fluctuate between mild and moderate depending on its whims), and I'm neck-deep in the editing process on my poetry collection (i.e. just when I think I've sent back the final version, my brilliant editor has some other amazing suggestion that I totally agree to enact). Also, I've been teaching.

I haven't even started my Yuletide story. By now, I'd have finished it.

EPIC FAIL, self. Just epic.

Yuletide Stuff Various & Sundry

2009-11-15T21:47:49Z

Dear Yuletide Writer,

This is old by now, but customary: I trust you. Also, have fun!

Love,
Adrienne

*

Well, hell: the one year I decide to be daring and offer to write in 21 different fandoms, many of which I've never had a crack at before, I'm assigned a fandom that fits me like an old, familiar, comfortable pair of jeans. It figures!

(Granted, that could be one of at least ten fandoms, so I'm giving away nothing.)

New Fic, New Fandom: My Own Private Idaho

2009-11-05T19:31:42Z

Title: Down to None
Fandom: My Own Private Idaho
Pairing: Mike Waters/Scott Favor
Rating: NC-17
Notes: As per usual, I'm late to the party, but pretty determined to set things right.
Summary: It's not where you go; it's how you get there. And how much it costs.

$500

"Now," says the woman, taking a slow drag on her cigarette, "do it."

Mike pauses halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. She's middle-aged, dishy, and sitting on a chair the whole way across the room from them, fully dressed. She's wearing sunglasses, her legs are crossed, and there's a look of disdainful expectation on her face. It reminds him of one of his gradeschool teachers watching a school play rehearsal. His hands start to shake. No no no, he thinks. Not now.

"With all due respect, ma'am," Mike says, "do what?"

Scott's hands are suddenly on his shoulders, applying pressure in such a way that his heart begins to stutter. "She picked up two of us, right?" Scott breathes in his ear, nuzzling just below it. "You know, do it. Just us. She gets off on this sort of thing."

"Oh," Mike breathes, quickly disguising it as a sigh of pleasure. Which, actually, it is.

He's known Scott for about two years now, and this is the first time they've done a gig together. Scott's regulars aren't Mike's regulars, although it looks as if that's about to change. "How long's she been coming to you?" he asks under his breath, turning to face Scott. His friend's expression is serious and curiously tender. It scares Mike a little to know it's just an act. Scott is beautiful, exotic. His mother was half Paiute.

At least he can remember his mother.

"About a year," Scott says, taking Mike's face in both hands, and kisses him.

Mike is amazed he's made it this far. Normally, he'd have checked out by now, but there's something about the sound of Scott's voice that keeps him grounded, anchored. Maybe that's good to know. They could work together more often. Mike would make more money if he could just manage to stay awake more than half the time. Scott has already promised him three hundred of today's—

Abruptly, he can't think of anything but the kiss, because Scott's tongue has slipped past his teeth and oh, God, for how long has he wondered what this would feel like? Scott's fingers have finished off his shirt buttons and pushed the garment down to his wrists, each caress electric. Across the room, their patron shifts and clears her throat.

Still shaking, Mike's hands take on a life of their own. He unbuckles Scott's belt and fumbles at the button on his expensive trousers, finally feeling the zipper give way at the impatient push of his thumb. Bare chest to bare chest, he can feel Scott's breath start to quicken as he lets his hand delve deeper, unashamed, to find Scott already hard beneath his black silk shorts. Why would a rich boy do shit like this just for kicks?

"Easy," Scott murmurs between kisses, but his voice sounds unsteady, and that's all Mike needs. He breaks away just long enough to push Scott's trousers down and off his hips. From here on out, his time is probably short, but he'll be damned if he isn't going to make the most of it. He lets his head drop to Scott's shoulder, breathing shallowly. He presses himself against his friend, silently pleading.

"Undress him, too," says the woman, sharply. "Yes, Scotty-boy. You."

For a second, Mike wonders if he's beginning to black out—those are the only circumstances under which Scott normally picks him up and carries him. Several seconds later, he's deposited on his back on the plush bedspread, and Scott is removing his jeans and boxers with graceful, singleminded intensity.

Mike's mind reels, humming with fear and arousal. "What should we—"

"Just go with it," says Scott, and quiets him with another kiss.

Scott's naked body is perfect. Even though Mike can't see it, he can feel every inch of skin searing against his own as if it had always belonged there, as if they'd once been torn asunder, each touch an echo of the wound. Mike buries his nose in the hollow of Scott's collarbone, ashamed that he is about to receive such a kingly gift. Scott smells of spices and sage smoke, some far-away trade road winding endlessly on—

"Stay with me," Scott whispers. "She's digging it! Stay with me, please."

I'll never leave you, Mike thinks, flipping Scott onto his back in a burst of adrenaline that he knows will probably mean his undoing. He groans with the glory of it, of this, of drawing Scott's flawless thighs up to cradle his hips as he rocks them together with fierce abandon. Scott's breath in his ear is frantic, shocked, as if he hadn't been expecting to come so soon. Never never never never ever.

Mike's orgasm hits him full force, an implosion of terrified joy. And then stillness.

He wakes at the foot of a familiar statue with four hundred dollars in his pocket.

$375

"I take a little...winding up before I join in, if you know what I mean," says the man with a twist of his hand. He's sitting at the foot of the plain motel bed, eyeing them both up and down. "This lady I know, she says you two are hot stuff. Said it looked pretty damn real. You boys think you've got two rounds in you?"

Mike frowns. "Two—"

"Of course," Scott says. He slides an arm around Mike's waist, drawing him close. "This guy's going to expect a little more than we gave his friend last time," he murmurs in Mike's ear before licking the lobe. "Have you been stretched recently?"

"No," Mike croaks, latching onto the sound of Scott's voice. Hold on hold on hold on—

"Okay," Scott says, sliding one hand up Mike's shirt. "I'll go easy."

It's a good thing they're already lying down. Otherwise, Mike might have collapsed at the mere thought of what is about to happen. Or, at least, what he hopes is about to happen. He might not make it through that, either. Scott is looming over him now, parting his unbuttoned shirt, bending low. His look is more predatory than reverent, but both emotions are somehow intermingled in the set of his jaw. He kisses from Mike's throat to his navel, pinning his wrists gently at his sides.

"Take it easy," Scott says, nuzzling Mike's erection. "You'll last longer."

The john will think it means one thing, but Mike knows it really means another.

He almost doesn't make it through the blowjob—in either sense. About halfway through, Scott starts talking again, soft, soothing nonsense, and that brings the hovering attack down to a manageable level. Meanwhile, the swipe of Scott's tongue and the brush of the pads of his fingers are nearly too much. Scott eases off just in time, leaving a kiss at the tip of Mike's cock. Why would he even bother?

"Fuck him," says the john, panting—and, by the sound of it, jerking off. "Holy hell. Fuck. Mikey begs pretty, don't he? Pretty Mikey." Mike feels a hand brush his ankle.

"Don't touch him," Scott replies, subtly defensive. "I mean," he says, lightening his voice, "he's really hypersensitive. If you jump in now, he might...well."

"Gotcha," says the john, and tosses him something.

Scott strokes Mike's cock with one hand and pops open what must be a bottle of lube with the other. "I'm sorry," he says against Mike's mouth, working a few cool, slick fingers into him. Mike knows it ought to make him shiver, but heat blooms in his chest and pools downward. Sorry? he thinks deliriously. What have you got to be sorry for?

Scott's breath hitches as he thrusts into Mike, and the dimly lit room goes dark.

Mike regains consciousness in the middle of a blinding climax. He's drenched in sweat and his fingers are tangled in Scott's warrior-brave hair. If only he'd let it grow longer. Scott is moaning something against Mike's neck, guttural and unintelligible. It feels amazing, like nothing Mike has ever imagined. Everything blanks.

They're under a tree now, with damp, fire-bright leaves raining down around them. Mike's head is in Scott's lap. He feels sore in too many places to count. As always, Scott looks concerned, but not like a mother or a brother would be.

"How much?" Mike asks. I think maybe I love you.

Scott presses something that feels like folded bills into his hand. He doesn't count it.

$250

"He's dirty," sniffs the old queen, folding his arms primly across his chest. "Just look at that skin. Mr. Waters, be a good chap and bathe him. An appropriate job for you."

"Yes, sir," Mike says, turning off the taps. Scott is up to his chin in bubbles in the old claw-footed bathtub, looking vaguely ridiculous. Cleaning situations are fairly low stress. Mike is used to them. He's glad this guy doesn't make him wear a weird costume. In fact, he's naked. Scott is naked. They're all naked.

"Start with his face," the old queen instructs. "He spends too much time in the sun."

"Actually, he's just...like that," Mike says lamely, taking the sponge to Scott's forehead. His hair is wet and slicked back, allowing Mike a clear view of his features. Scott's expression is inscrutable today, as if there are a number of elements to this particular encounter he's not sure about. But he'll never let it show. He's too professional. Mike scrubs Scott's cheeks and his chin, followed by his nose.

"Good," coos the old queen, approvingly, still standing in the doorway with his arms folded and his cock half-hard. "Now, get in the tub with Mr. Favor and get to work on his chest. Dreadful, what those tanning beds will do."

"Why do you tell them your real name?" Mike asks, settling astride Scott's lap. The water buoys them up, comfortably hot. It's a huge tub. He starts scrubbing Scott's collarbone. They're both hard. Mike tilts his hips forward a little, letting their erections brush, safely hidden from sight. Scott shivers under him, but says nothing.

"Why do you tell them yours?" Scott counters, shrugging.

"It doesn't matter if I do," Mike tells him. "I'm a nobody. But you're somebody."

"Everybody in town knows," says Scott, simply. "And nobody cares."

Mike nods, using his hands instead of the sponge to wash Scott's chest. He's come to relish any chance he gets to touch Scott's skin, memorizing it pore by pore. He doesn't know how long this game will last. It's been another year since the odd woman and the jerking-off john, and in that time, they've done two or three other group gigs. Mike doesn't like having to share Scott with anyone, he's come to realize. Gigs like this one, where it's just the two of them being watched, he's come to cherish.

The old queen takes a few steps closer to the tub, frowning at them.

"Kiss him, Mr. Favor. He's doing you one."

Sink us now, God, if you exist, Mike thinks, letting his eyes drift shut, lost in the press of Scott's lips—chaste at first, and then open and seemingly wanting. Let us drown.

It's enough that he's already coming, shaking and whimpering in Scott's embrace.

"Tsk," scolds the old queen. "Dirty again! You'll have to draw new water."

Mike's out like a light, then, lost in bliss.

Later on, when he wakes dry and wrapped in a bathrobe, Scott is already gone. The old queen brings him tea and cookies and asks him questions about where he grew up and what he likes to do in his free time. It's kind of nice.

"Snort coke, mostly," says Mike. And follow Scott Favor wherever he goes.

The old queen looks pleased. "I've got some, if you like."

$175

The prank was incredible. Stellar, in fact. Scott has so much brilliant mischief in him that Mike is sure they'll never run out of shit to do. Seeing those punks turn tail was piss-funny, but Bob Pigeon shrieking and running for his fucking life? Classic. Mike snorts the remainder of the line, but not before offering it to Scott.

"You could've done something else with your share of the money," he says.

Mike shrugs and brushes off the tip of his nose. "You said to buy what I needed."

"I'm not sure you need this," Scott says. When he's not spouting pseudo-Shakespearean nonsense, he can get a little bit preachy. "What about a new coat?"

"You told me I could have your old one."

"Oh."

They sit in silence for a while, watching a few nighttime joggers pass by. Portland is a strange, decaying city—nothing like the windswept, tumbleweed-ridden Idaho of Mike's nightmares. Nothing compares to it, his empty stretch of highway with a face.

Except maybe Scott. For Scott's favor, he'd give up that wretched place.

"I'd like to find my mom," Mike says. "Sometime. Maybe soon."

Scott tilts his head. "But she left when you were little."

"I know somebody who might be able to point us in the right direction."

"Sure, why not. My mom was from Idaho, too."

"You never mentioned that," says Mike, delighted, although it made sense.

Scott nodded. "She fell right off the reservation and into my dad's arms."

"She died?"

"Yeah," Scott says, his eyes distant. "She died."

$120

"That's lousy," Mike sighs, sprawling on the bed. "For the fuck and the bike?"

"No, it's one-twenty for the fuck," says Scott, pulling a second wad of cash out of his pocket. "Hans gave me three hundred for the bike. This is for Italy."

"I'm out of coke," Mike says.

"Well, we're not getting any till Rome," Scott replies, stuffing the money back in his pocket. "We'll get busted going through airline security if we try to take some with us. But I'm worried about you, Mikey. You've been doing a lot lately."

"It keeps me awake," says Mike, truthfully. "I don't conk out as much when I'm on it."

Scott considers this. "True, you don't. There must be a better way, though."

"I can't afford a doctor," Mike says, stretching as he rolls onto his back. He'd give anything for Scott to look at him right now the way he'd looked at him last night.

As if reading Mike's thoughts, Scott flops down beside him, grinning.

"If we make it back from Italy in one piece, I'll take you to a doctor."

"I love you," Mike says, because he does. Even more than the night he risked saying it under the stars and Scott let him fall asleep in his arms. He hadn't dreamed at all.

Scott smiles and shakes his head. "I don't know, Mikey. I just don't know."

Mike smiles back, because don't know is better than can't.

$50

The Italian gentleman pays him in dollars, which is unexpected. He'd been hoping for something like the old queen in Portland, maybe a nice cup of cappuccino and incomprehensible sympathy, but the gentleman seems to be in a hurry to get rid of him. Maybe he's waiting on another appointment. Or for his wife.

Mike is out for nearly all of the flight home. Scott had left him enough for airfare, but he'd turned a few tricks in order to make some sightseeing money. He'd gone to Florence for a few days, because Carmella had told him that his mother had loved it there. Lacking a camera, he'd bought a few postcards. He'd wanted to send one to Carmella to thank her for her kindness, to let her know he'd made it there. The thought of Scott seeing the postcard had been too much, though.

Portland is just the way Mike left it—drunk on broken dreams. Bill Pigeon's funeral is a sobering affair. Across the cemetary green, Mike can see pain in Scott's eyes, and even loss. Carmella doesn't see Mike, or perhaps she's determined not to. Mike thinks of his mother and wonders if she's even still alive. Maybe Jack has heard from her. He spends that night with the old queen and his tea and cookies, refuses payment.

It's in the attempt to reach his brother's place that he ends up stranded on the road—his road—with a duffel bag and no money to his name. Cars don't pass by often, but pass they do. And should he chance to fall asleep or die before he wakes—

Free

—somewhere warm and bright, wrapped in what feels like silk. He blinks.

"I drove around the city for two hours looking for you in all the usual spots," Scott says somberly, lying on the pillow beside him. They aren't touching, but they're close enough to breathe each other's air and bump knees. "When I didn't find you, I figured you'd probably decided to hitchhike back to Jack's place in Idaho." He takes an unsteady breath, as if the confession pains him. "There you were. Waiting."

"Yeah," Mike says, rolling away from him. "Waiting to get run over." As glad as he is to see Scott, he's still pretty mad at him. "Where's Carmella?"

"She got homesick," Scott says, placing a hand on Mike's arm. "And I got sick of her."

"I was hoping you'd say she got deported."

"In another five months, she would have been."

Mike allows himself to be pulled back so that they're facing each other again.

"Wait," he says. "You didn't marry her?"

"No," Mike replies, confused. "Why on earth would I have done that?"

"You said you were falling in love."

"I said I thought I was falling in love."

"There's a difference?" Mike retorts, noticing that Scott hasn't let go of him.

"I was falling in love," Scott admits, his fingers tightening. "And I thought I could talk myself out of it. Have Carmella fuck me out of it. Straighten myself out."

"You are pretty sick," Mike tells him, glaring.

"Maybe I've decided I'd rather stay sick."

"I suppose you think I'm sick, too."

"There is that," Scott says, brushing Mike's hair back from his forehead. For the first time, Mike realizes that it's damp. Scott must have given him a bath. "Narcolepsy is serious business. I've done some research. A good specialist lives in Seattle."

Mike squints at him. "So, you're taking me to Seattle?"

Scott nods, letting his hand drift down to Mike's cheek. "If you'll let me."

I'll never leave you. Never never never never ever.

"I broke a promise," Mike says, edging closer. "I wasn't going to leave you."

"I left you and betrayed you," Scott answers, swallowing thickly. "That's worse."

"We'll get there," Mike says, finally snuggling up to him. Scott's hair is as long as he's ever seen it, slightly unkempt and almost to his shoulders. Mike twines his fingers in it and breathes deeply. Spice and sage. Right off the reservation and into his arms.

"Mikey, I—"

"Just sleep," Mike says, drawing back from the kiss. And they do.

Ph.D.?

2009-11-05T00:40:36Z

Accomplished.

Yuletide Sign-Ups?

Ditto. Made 3 requests and, in celebration, offered to write in 21 different fandoms.

My neck and right shoulder...

2009-11-03T20:33:06Z

...are mostly over being b0rked. ~~Is this where I confess to it sort of being, um, a sex-related injury~~?

However, given that tomorrow must be devoted to actually finishing my final Ph.D. chapter (almost there, I swear), I'm not likely to fill that fourth GO Kink Meme prompt I've been promising people until, well, after tomorrow. Stay tuned!

Previously Unfilled GO Kink Meme Prompt, Take 3

2009-10-28T15:15:28Z

[The previous two prompts I've filled are here and here.]

Prompt: Aziraphale has very soft manicured hands, and Crowley can do weird things with his tongue. So, I bet in sex they've specialised such that Crowley gives better oral sex while Aziraphale does it better by hand. My prompt, therefore, is Aziraphale/Crowley giving Crowley/Aziraphale the opposite of what they're good at (Aziraphale going down on Crowley; Crowley using his hands on Aziraphale). That's quite a mouthful. Or handful. You know, depending...

Scenarios, Exchanges

1.

It's not that Crowley finds Aziraphale lacking in bed. No, far from it: Crowley knows for certain that could lie there naked merely listening to the sound of the angel's voice beside him, or above him, or directly in his ear, and he'd come apart sooner than later. Or, if not come apart, end up in a frightful hurry to get on with things.

It's just that Aziraphale is very good at, well, what he's doing right now.

If it had ever occurred to Crowley to dwell on sex at length before the whole, er, thing that happened last year...happened, he wouldn't have guessed he'd have a particular preference for manual stimulation. Far from it. He'd hardly ever touched himself, let alone hazarded a guess at what someone else touching him would feel like.

At what Aziraphale touching him would feel like. And the answer? Was heaven.

It's not so much the sum total of the experience as it is the scattered, intense stretches of particular actions that Crowley knows will crop up later in his absent-minded daydreaming. It's the way Aziraphale circles feather-light caresses just under the head of his cock with the sensitive pad of his thumb. Crowley blushes to think it even as he's writhing under the assault. It's also the way Aziraphale takes hold of his full length: fingertips first, then a slow, sensuous slide into a full-handed gasp. And then he twists. And squeezes, thumb still circling. Just enough. And says—

"So close, my dear..."

And it's over, just like that. Yes. It's that. Heaven.

2.

One thing for certain: there's no way—not in Heaven, in Hell, or on Earth—that what Crowley is doing to him at this very moment could possibly be wicked.

Or, if it is wicked, then it's in the best sense of the word. Crowley doesn't beat around the bush, as they say—from day one, it was clear he liked tasting things. The side of Aziraphale's neck. His lower lip. The hollow under his tongue. The space behind his ear, the delicate ligature of lobe to the base of his skull. The crooks of his elbows, the pulse-points at his wrists. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. Crowley's only respnse is a low hiss of satisfaction as he moves lower—belly, thighs—and lower.

The first flick of his tongue is cool, too snake-like to be human and so beautifully unfair, before it instantly transforms, mid-lick, into something velvety and hot. Substantial, more familiar. It's one of the few reminders Crowley will permit them: he is, after all, an angel with a difference. A gloriously serpentine difference.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes, threading his fingers through Crowley's tousled hair. "There. That's very good, just—astonishing. I, ah, think—"

"Ssso noted," Crowley manages, and a split second later, his mouth is full.

3.

"Ow!" Crowley yelped, instantly chagrined. "A bit less with the teeth, maybe..."

Aziraphale nipped the inside of Crowley's other thigh more gently, apologetically. He licked the spot he'd bitten slightly too hard, and the sting faded instantly.

"Ah," Crowley sighed as the angel swallowed him whole. "Better."

This, at least, Aziraphale seemed to have got a good handle on. Given they both had a remarkable lack of a gag reflex—unless they had to be conscious of it in order to seem human, like with breathing—the situation lent well to rather...thorough sucking off, there was really no other way of putting it. Crowley groaned and thrust up into Aziraphale's mouth, one hand twisted in the pillowcase and the other in the chaotic waves of Aziraphale's hair. He was nearly—

"Ack!"

"Sorry! Oh, my dear, I'm sorry—"

"What you were doing before," Crowley panted. "Do that."

"Mmm," murmured Aziraphale, and complied.

It would take them a little while, maybe, but they'd get there.

4.

Heaven and earth, was there anything of an intimate nature that Crowley didn't take to like a duck to water? Aziraphale couldn't concentrate enough to offer encouragement, let alone understand why Crowley sounded so anxious. Simply astonishing. The delicate grasp and slide of his fingers was—

"Is this all right? Aziraphale? Look, you've got to give me some idea—"

Awkawardly, Aziraphale leaned up and caught his mouth in a crushing kiss.

Crowley rocked back with a dazed blink, his grip faltering a bit on account of the fact that his fingers had begun to tremble. Aziraphale covered Crowley's hand with his own and quickened the pace, watching Crowley's expression with delirious fascination. Watching the way his eyes snapped shut and opened again with agonizing slowness, startling yellow gimlets hazy with desire and disbelief, as if in a waking dream. Did he not understand, did he truly not? With a low hiss, Crowley redoubled his efforts.

"You are everything," Aziraphale whispered. "My world entire. Everything."

The rest spun out in a dizzying blur: the abrupt rocking-together of their bodies, unavoidable; the low growl in Crowley's throat as they kissed, inescapable; the soft prick of what might or might not have been fangs at Aziraphale's lower lip, ever changeable. And they were coming, they were as one. They were—

"Everything?" Crowley panted, peeling himself away, eyes fire-bright. "Angel—"

"Serpent," murmured Aziraphale, fondly. "Lie still with me a while."

And he did.

Previously Unfilled GO Kink Meme Prompt, Take 2

2009-10-28T12:45:19Z

Prompt: Aziraphale/Crowley, Decorations (could be decorations for a special occasion, or things like jewelry or tattoos). This one's fantastically open-ended...

Didn't See That Coming

"I beg your pardon?" Crowley said, his slender fingers frozen on the rim of his sunglasses. "I mean, are you serious? I'll be half blind. Well. Partly blind."

"I said," Aziraphale murmured, firmly moving his hand away, "leave them on."

Crowley's jaw worked soundlessly a few times before snapping shut, defeated. The resulting sulk made it clear that Aziraphale was going to have to work for whatever it was he wanted: Crowley went passive and pliant in his arms as they kissed, leaving his jacket halfway down his arms and shirt partially unbuttoned. In truth, Aziraphale had to admit that the situation was downright alluring. He left a kiss on Crowley's cheek and moved to stand behind him, neatly yanking the jacket off of him and draping it over the arm of a nearby chair. A very expensive chair. Crowley's taste was so impeccable it hurt. The amazing thing was, he just looked at it as surrounding himself with stuff he liked. And stuff he liked just happened to be expensive.

"Shoes, please," Aziraphale said, lightly tapping Crowley's booted heels with his toe as he set about finishing off Crowley's shirt buttons. Delightful, how nicely Crowley took orders even when he was feeling contrary. As Aziraphale pinched both his nipples lightly, Crowley took a shaky breath and his snakeskin footwear vanished with a barely audible whoosh. Aziraphale rewarded him with a gentle bite to the side of his neck.

"Why are you so good at this?" Crowley muttered, shivering as his shirt joined his jacket. "And why won't you let me take my sunglasses off? They're annoying."

"Because I know you too well," Aziraphale replied, neatly popping the button on Crowley's trousers and dipping his hands without hesitation to fondle him through the inevitable silk shorts. Hard already. Goodness, but he was excitable when the tone turned unfamiliar. Aziraphale made a mental note that he ought to try it more often.

"Lucky me," Crowley groaned, knees buckling. His knuckles were white on Aziraphale's wrists, but his thumbs had an agenda of their own, circling over the stutter of Aziraphale's pulse-points. "Is this your idea of a game, then?"

"No, as a matter of fact," said Aziraphale, vanishing Crowley's trousers with a snap of his fingers. "It's my idea of driving you wild, thank you very much. Bed?"

"Bed," agreed Crowley, struggling out of his shorts as he wobbled his way there.

Aziraphale gave him a bit of a tap on the backside for good measure and followed.

Previously Unfilled GO Kink Meme Prompt, Take 1

2009-10-28T01:30:45Z

Prompt: Aziraphale/Crowley sex to Queen, preferably in a place where Queen songs could not possibly be playing, just to make Crowley's life more miserable. To whoever made that request, I must say, it is sheer GENIUS.

Bad Neighbors

It was perfect, really. They were drunk, in Aziraphale's bedroom (or what passed for Aziraphale's bedroom), and there was a decided dearth of dust. It was all downstairs in the bookshop, locked up safe and sound. Crowley, now in the process of getting naked, had seen to that. It was all part of the perfection...plot...thing. His fingers were beginning to have difficulty with the buttons of his shirt, quite possibly because Aziraphale wouldn't stop kissing him. Yesss. Quite perfect.

"My dear, if you'd just leth—just let me—"

"Nono," Crowley mumbled, batting the angel's hands away. "'M good. After all, this is a striff—um, strip—um, thing, look, and if you're not going to let me do it right—"

Aziraphale leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at Crowley appreciatively, if rather hazily. He shifted under Crowley so that their hips tilted closer together. Bugger. If the bloody buttons didn't co-operate soon—oh, sod it. Crowley tore the rest, struggled out of the garment less than gracefully, and tossed it across the room. Or at least that had been his intent. The shirt didn't make it any farther than the foot of the mattress. Crowley flushed with embarrassment, but Aziraphale's eyes went just a bit wider.

"Well, what did you expect? Exotic dancing? I'm somewhat out of prac—umph."

Right, time to shut it. He was suddenly naked, strip-tease thwarted, and Aziraphale was naked under him and oh God, since when did the sound of ripping thread turn the angel on this much? He'd have to remember that, maybe try it with his trousers next time for a lark—

—OOH, YOU TAKE MY BREATH AWAY

Crowley very nearly recoiled from the sudden reverberation of sound, which seemed to be coming from the other side of the wall. Aziraphale jumped, more in reaction to Crowley's sudden twitch than to the music. He smoothed both hands down the length of Crowley's back, pulling him back in for a kiss.

"No, wait," Crowley said, bracing both palms against Aziraphale's shoulders. "Do you have any idea—?"

LOOK INTO MY EYES, AND YOU'LL SEE I'M THE ONLY ONE

"It's...loud music?" Aziraphale ventured, looking bewildered and a little crushed.

"It's not just any loud music," Crowley muttered. "Surely you recognize—"

YOU'VE CAPTURED MY LOVE, STOLEN MY HEART, CHANGED MY LIFE

"Yes," Aziraphale murmured, stroking Crowley's cheek fondly.

"No!" Crowley shouted. He reached over Aziraphale's shoulder and hammered on the wall. "This is sick! Perverted! Wrong!" He punctuated each word with a fresh blow.

Aziraphale sputtered. "But—"

EVERY TIME YOU MAKE A MOVE YOU DESTROY MY MIND

"You're destroying my mind!" Crowley shrieked. "THIS IS DRIVING MUSIC!"

"My dear, if you'd just calm down—"

AND THE WAY YOU TOUCH, I LOSE CONTROL AND SHIVER DEEP INSIDE

"OhGodmakeitstop," Crowley whimpered against Aziraphale's shoulder.

YOU TAKE MY BREATH—

The air quivered for a moment and was still. Aziraphale sighed.

"Was it really so dreadful? The song seemed appropriate."

"Queen is never appropriate at a time like this," Crowley informed him, annoyed to discover that he was sober. "How on earth did it find me, anyway?"

Aziraphale was too busy kissing Crowley's neck to respond, so he shrugged.

"I mean, we're in your flat," Crowley insisted. "By all logic, it's impossible. This is a space in which Queen does not hap—ummm."

He'd just save the argument for another day. Preferably when they had more booze.

...okay, so.

2009-10-27T21:16:57Z

I just saw My Own Private Idaho.

Yes, for the first time ever.

And yes, I do want to fix it.

Ladies and gents, this is my jaw on the floor.

2009-10-20T16:28:34Z

And the answer is yes, I most definitely know about it. Several kind souls informed me this morning. I spent about 45 minutes hyperventilating and didn't get much work done, at which point I threw up my hands and decided it's probably not a bad thing.

Thanks where thanks are due for that rec!

A friendly PSA, in spite of my Autumn Hiatus:

2009-10-14T00:04:16Z

Yuletide noms are open, baby.

My avatar_contest entry for this week:

2009-09-29T10:19:49Z

Over the next handful of weeks, I've decided I'm going to follow up the sections in All Roads Lead to Ba Sing Se with drabbles and such tailored to fit whatever the theme and word-count happen to be. I want to see a bit more of each of the scenarios I came up with. It's been a while since I permitted myself something lighthearted.

Subtle

"Here's what she's done with your old bedroom," Ursa said, slowly opening the door.

For a few seconds, Zuko just stood on the threshold, blinking. The moth-eaten silk curtains had been replaced with new ones, dyed ten times as brightly as before. They were all drawn back to let the light spill in, held in place by still more silk sashes. She must have spent half the fortune he'd allotted her already, what with the way her room had been decked out. The chandelier alone must have been thousands.

"It's too bright in here," Zuko said, testing the new carpets under his feet. "And the floor's too...squishy. Where did she get these? Did Mai send them from Ba Sing Se?"

"Yes," said Azula, suddenly behind him. "She did." Her voice dripped venom masked as kindness. "Stay a while, brother. Kya's off at bending school, isn't she? Why not send for your beautiful queen? The bed's big enough for two."

Zuko turned to face her, concealing his clenched fists in his voluminous sleeves. Ten years, ten years since her defeat, and still she could get a rise out of him.

"I'll tell Mai you like the carpets," said Ty Lee, bounding over to the bed with Azula in tow. The two women collapsed in a tangle of long hair and longer limbs, laughing.

Ursa's hands lit on Zuko's shoulders: feather-light, yet comforting.

It's been a while since I participated in a weekly challenges community...

2009-09-29T09:18:50Z

...so avatar_contest seems as good a place as any. I entered All Roads Lead to Ba Sing Se in last week's (romance). Voting is currently open on last week's offerings, if anyone wants to participate. I won't say "Vote for me!" I'll say, go vote for the one you think is best. There are four entries, and I enjoyed most of them!

In the meantime, the word-count for this week's challenge (revenge) is 300, so I suppose I had better think up something before we leave for the States tomorrow...

New Hot Fuzz Fic: "It Takes All Kinds" - Ensemble - R

2009-09-24T10:22:35Z

Title: It Takes All Kinds
Fandom: Hot Fuzz
Characters/Pairing: Various, Nicholas/Danny
Rating: R (mostly for language)
Notes: mushroom18 wanted to know what the rest of Sandford thinks. I promised a snippet. This is more like a collection of snippets all strung together. There are a few voices missing, like Walker and the Turners, but I'm about to leave for a long weekend in Stratford-Upon-Avon and my brain's quickly shutting down. I hope I've included a varied enough sampling! I tried to push a bit outside of Sandford, even.
Summary: Perception is half the battle.

Frank

They came to visit every few months or so, like clockwork. Not so often that Frank couldn't control his rage, but just often enough to serve as a reminder of how spectacularly he had failed his wife. Given how much Danny resembled her, there was nothing like looking at his son to remind him of that. It didn't help that bloody Nicholas Angel was always with him. Hovering. Protective. Close.

It took Frank a year to fully work out what was going on. To be certain.

This time, Danny and Nicholas turned up about a week after the anniversary of everything going to hell. Perhaps they'd intended the timing as some kind of goodwill gesture, but all it managed to do was make Frank more irritable than usual. He didn't need reminding on so many fronts at once. Especially given the fact they were sitting on the other side of the glass eating chocolate cake. He didn't think he'd be able to bring himself to touch his slice. Why did the guards permit such nonsense?

"Not hungry, Dad?" asked Danny, finally. He'd set down his fork, leaving about a third of his own slice uneaten. "Auntie Jackie made it special. Says even murderers need cake now and again." His hands vanished beneath the ledge, doubtless fidgeting.

Nicholas hadn't finished his cake, either—in fact, he'd left about half. The slight shift in his posture came much sooner than Frank would have expected, and it wasn't even subtle. Danny seemed to relax a little, stealing a quick, grateful sidelong glance.

"How are you feeling otherwise, Frank?" Nicholas asked, as if to change the subject.

Frank wasn't about to let him.

"How long's this been going on, then?" he asked Danny, pointedly.

"Sorry?" said Danny, genuinely confused. He'd got his obliviousness from Irene, too.

Nicholas's eyes narrowed. Still infuriatingly sharp, that one.

"Long enough," he said. "It's none of your concern."

"Isn't it?" Frank parried. "My own son's...entanglements?"

Danny went a bit pale. He shifted in his seat, as if he wanted to scoot away from both of them, but something about the grim set of Nicholas's mouth told Frank that he was making it pretty much impossible for Danny to go anywhere. He had strong hands for a small bloke. They looked at each other for a few seconds, various silent questions and apologies passing back and forth, before facing Frank with renewed resolve.

"Maybe I was just waiting for the right time to tell you," said Danny, defiantly.

"When was that going to be?" Frank asked, unable to keep the disgust out of his voice. "Ten years from now? Fifteen? Twenty? If I even last that long. I suppose you'd have counted on the news finishing me off."

"Now, that's unfair of—" Nicholas began, but Frank silenced him with a look.

"Just because I can't see your hands doesn't mean I don't know where they are."

Danny raised his arm, pulling Nicholas's along with it, proving that they were, in fact, holding hands. "This bothers you, does it? Good thing you aren't free to pop in at the cottage around teatime. I doubt you'd like what goes on then. And later."

Frank closed his eyes and breathed deeply. There would be trouble if he didn't remain calm. He turned his gaze back on Nicholas and smiled as benevolently as he could.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," he said. "Both of you."

Danny cringed and covered his eyes with his free hand. "Dad!"

Nicholas was glaring at him, white-faced and silent. It was then Frank realized that every last detail he'd heard about the Kalashnikov incident was probably true.

Doris

There were a few pairs of raised eyebrows around the station when word finally got around about Danny moving out of his flat and into Nicholas's cottage. Nobody said anything, though: single blokes pooled resources all the time, didn't they? Danny's old place probably held bad memories for him, what with how his dad had picked it out for its nearness to home, and Nicholas probably had more space than he knew what to do with, the garden excepting. He'd charge Danny sensible rent.

The dinner invitation came as a surprise. Danny said he felt like he hadn't properly talked to her in ages, given he was so much busier now on the job, and wouldn't she like to be a guinea pig for Nicholas's new vegetarian curry recipe?

This time, Doris had to admit that her eyebrows were the ones hitting the ceiling.

"I'd love to," she said, even though a curry wasn't really a curry without meat.

"Cor," Danny said, grinning. "Come around eight."

"Shall I bring anything?" Doris asked. She hated to show up without a six-pack.

"Wine," Danny said. "I think something white."

Doris spent the rest of the day in a state of shock. Danny didn't like wine.

As she'd been expecting, Nicholas kept an immaculate house. However, there were enough touches of Danny strewn about that it was clear he lived there, too. Several stacks of DVDs perched precariously on top of the telly, and a video game console with complicated-looking controllers sprawled inelegantly at the foot of it. It was fairly amusing to be sat on the sofa by Nicholas and told he didn't need any help in the kitchen, and then watch him furtively pick up a few stray pieces of Danny's clothing on his way back out. Danny came back down the stairs, having just changed out of his uniform, and sat down beside Doris. She handed him one of the two glasses of wine from the coffee table. He wrinkled his nose at it, but took a sip all the same.

"Mind telling me what's going on 'ere?" Doris asked, taking a fortifying gulp.

Danny shrugged. "I figured you knew. And, well, if you didn't, you ought to now."

Doris nodded, finishing off her glass in one swallow.

"It's always the good ones," she muttered darkly.

Danny just patted her on the back. "He's a bloody amazing cook."

"He would be," she conceded, grinning. "Good on you, Danny. Good on you."

Jeanine

"You're joking," she said. For a split second, she thought maybe covering the receiver might be a good idea, but the laughter didn't come. She was too stunned.

"No, I'm not," Nicholas said. "You've repeatedly insisted that I don't know how."

"I suppose so," said Jeanine, finally, after a few more seconds of silence. "Well, that's...unexpected, but I can't really say I'm all that surprised."

"What do you mean? Look, you said you were calling to find out what happened to my keys, not rake me over the coals for something you shouldn't have an opinion about."

Jeanine bit her lip. "Not entirely true. I wanted to make sure you were all right. It was all over the news, you know. Even here in London. Rather terrifying."

"That was over a year ago," Nicholas said. "Did you have to think it over for a while?"

"You could say that," Jeanine admitted. "Part of me thought you'd had it coming."

"I almost lost him," said Nicholas, quietly. "Just when we'd thought it was over."

Jeanine stared at her floor, which was not as immaculate as it had once been.

"I'd heard," she said. "I mean—I'd heard one of your officers almost—I didn't know."

"Neither did I," said Nicholas. "Until then."

"A right fine prophet I turned out to be," Jeanine said, offering a tentative smile. She hoped that it came across in her voice, although she'd never been good at that.

"Yeah," Nicholas said. He, at least, was smiling. She could tell.

Tony

"Dad?" asked Tony, Jr. "What are benders?"

Tony slid his reading glasses down the bridge of his nose just slightly, setting aside the sudoku puzzle he'd been working on. This was going to take some careful handling.

"Now, son," he said, "where'd you hear that?"

"At school. Just some kids. You know, calling each other names and such."

"Well, now," said Tony, thoughtfully. "Generally speaking, a bender's when you've had one too many pints down the pub and feel out of sorts for a few days."

Tony, Jr. frowned. "Then why didn't they just call each other drunks?"

"Good point, son," said Tony, frowning more deeply. "Can you give me the context?"

"Jim Sower called Aaron Aaronson and his mates fuckin' benders. Sorry for the swear."

"That's all right," Tony said. "I asked you for the context. Just don't let your mum hear you say that. Right. Well, that's a bit more complicated."

"How?"

"Right," Tony sighed. "Benders is a not-nice term for blokes who like other blokes."

"Like?" asked Tony, Jr. "You mean who are friends with other blokes?"

"No," Tony said. "I mean like as in...like. The way you like Anna Treacher."

"Oh," said Tony, Jr., brightly. "You mean like Inspector Angel and Sergeant Butterman."

"No," Tony said. "Yes. No—er, wait, maybe! Yes. I mean..."

The Andys

"So it's true, then," said Wainwright, thoughtfully lighting his cigarette.

"What is?" asked Cartwright, leaning forward. Wainwright lit his cigarette for him.

"Nicholarse and Dannykins," Wainwright replied.

"What about 'em?" Cartwright took a confused puff.

Wainwright rolled his eyes. "They're actually benders."

"Actually, I don't think so," said Cartwright.

"You ain't been listenin' to Doris, have you?"

"'Course I have," said Cartwright. "But that ain't what she said."

"Is so."

"Is not. She's said they're together."

"Yeah." Wainwright shrugged. "Benders."

Cartwright hit him. "It's not funny anymore, though."

Wainwright snorted. "Why, since now we're friends and all that horse-shit?"

"No," said Cartwright. "Since it's true. And the guidelines state—"

"Not you, too!"

Cartwright took a sullen drag on his cigarette. "We should be happy for 'em, is all."

"Well, of course I'm happy for 'em, you twat. Just don't expect me to send a card."

Avatar Fic: "All Roads Lead to Ba Sing Se" - Ensemble Cast - PG13

2009-09-21T01:33:18Z

Title: All Roads Lead to Ba Sing Se
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble Cast, Various
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Set roughly 10 years after canon. That's all you need to know! Well, the other thing you may need to know is that I'm utterly unconvinced by more than half of the pairings as they stand at the end of the series, which accounts for the version of how-things-turn-out-in-the-long-run that you see here. I've only just seen the whole series for the first time, and I haven't yet delved formally into the lay of the fandom.
Summary: Six places, seven romances, and a kaleidoscope of familiar faces.

Ba Sing Se

It had all gone to hell, of course.

If there had been anything Zuko hadn't yet worked out, it had been how to keep promises. And if there had been anything that Mai hadn't yet worked out, it had been the signs that Zuko hadn't really been as interested as he'd claimed to be. That had been nine and a half years ago, almost to the day. Not that she was counting.

Numbly, Zuko had asked her what he could possibly do to make amends.

"I want out of here," Mai had said. "I'd like to see the world. On your tab. Make me an ambassador, a diplomat—I don't care. Anywhere is better than this rat trap." She'd been seventeen and bitter. Well. More bitter than had been usual.

"You'd be well suited," Zuko had said, nodding. "You're more patient than most of the others I've sent, and if anybody gives you grief, you'll pin them to the nearest wall." He may have become Fire Lord, but he hadn't dropped the sarcasm. He never would.

She'd turned on him and left without so much as a salute. With Azula, such insolence would have been unthinkable. For the first time in years, she'd been unable to hold back a smile. Upon returning home, she'd found a royal emissary waiting with her official commission and more gold than she could shake a stick at.

Safe travels, the brief postscript had read. Love, Z.

It had taken her two years to reach the great Earth Kingdom capital, which had fared much better than Omashu, damage-wise. What little rebuilding had been needed was nearly complete, and she'd been pleasantly surprised to discover that the rumors were true: Kuei had returned from his self-imposed, wandering exile and resumed the throne. She'd never had anything particularly against him, although the bear had been a sore trial. She'd been chagrined to receive a heroine's reception.

"Any friend of Fire Lord Zuko is a friend of mine," the Earth King had said. "Welcome!" At twenty-seven, Kuei hadn't lost any of his stupid, endearing naïve charm—but he'd gained a somber sort of gravity that was strangely...pleasing.

He doesn't remember me, she'd thought, bowing low. So much the better.

"You must tell me about your travels," he'd said. "I've recently returned from my own! How long will you stay?" He'd leaned forward a little, toying with his jade beads as if he no longer knew what to do with them. The spectacles had looked as silly as ever.

"Where's the bear?" Mai had blurted, unable to stop. "I mean—a while, Your Majesty."

Kuei had clapped for a servant, delighted. "Bosco has company. Bring him here!"

The King hadn't remembered her, but Bosco clearly had. In time, she would grow accustomed to the sticky, affectionate licking. Then, she'd been mortified.

Mai opened her eyes, let out her breath, and took aim. The dagger hit its mark with a thunk. Even after all these years, she'd stayed in practice—although the servants had given her odd looks when she'd ordered a target in the shape of a platypus bear for the balcony. As she'd predicted, the difference was sufficient. Kuei hadn't taken offense. And that mad-scientist father-and-son team at the University, Teo and Whatsisbucket, had taken devilish pleasure in designing it.

"Lost in thought, my love?" said a low voice behind her. It had improved with age.

Mai caught a few errant wisps of hair and swept them back, shaking out her long silk sleeves. She turned and set her mouth in a grim, satisfied line of pleasure. He'd grown into the spectacles, and he no longer fiddled with his beads. The short, neatly clipped beard balanced his youthful, too-open face. At thirty-four, he was a prize.

"I was thinking," she said, tucking her last remaining dagger into her belt as she strode to meet him, "that it's about time I let Fire Lord Zuko know that I quit."

When Kuei smiled at her, she could see the sunshine at which she once cringed.

"Notice that's six years overdue is better than none at all."

"Indeed," said the Earth Queen, and grinned at him.

The Fire Capital

"Your daughter is safe in Omashu, my Lady," June said, crisply delivering the customary salute. The former bounty hunter's tattoos had grown faded down the years, and the corners of her mouth had hardened into kind, handsome lines. "She wishes for me to inform you and His Lordship that she misses you already."

Katara inclined her head and clasped the bodyguard's hands in thanks. "Is there any other news?" she asked. "I trust that our friends are well?"

"The King's as mad as ever. Losing his marbles, if you ask me. He's training up some strapping lad from out in the provinces, name of Haru, seeing as he's got no heir—say, don't you know him? As for that little scamp, my goodness, she's grown, and I'm not talking about your Kya, either. I still can't help but think of her as a tomboy of twelve. She's as big as a war balloon and should burst any day now!"

Oh, Toph, thought Katara. "She's well, then? No complications?"

"Tough as a badger mole," June replied, folding her arms. "This may be her first, but I bet she'll have an easier time of it than you did." She saluted again. "My Lady."

"Oh, stop it," Katara said fondly. "You can drop in for a casual chat any time you like, you know. Kya's only been gone a week, and I'm bored out of my skull already. There are no trade deals for me to co-sign or public ceremonies for me to oversee."

"I can fix that," Zuko said, striding into the corridor. "June! Where's Kya?"

The bodyguard smirked. "In Omashu, safe and sound. The brat misses you."

Katara tweaked his hairpiece. "About fixing my boredom?" The truth of it was, she couldn't be more glad that their daughter was gone for a while. They'd only just gotten rid of Sokka and his family, who were on their way north for yet another visit.

"I'm out of here," said June, taking her leave with a salute. "You two behave."

"I don't know why we let her go," Zuko said, frowning. "She gets homesick."

Katara touched his cheek. "She misses Toph. And everyone."

"Yeah," Zuko murmured. "So do I. She'll send our regards." He slid both arms around her, one hand snaking up surreptitiously to set a playful spark loose at her nape. The royal upsweep had been a compromise, but she'd stubbornly kept her braids.

"I'm still bored," Katara reminded him. This time, the hairpiece came out.

Ember Island

Most days, when she wasn't writing, Azula sat in the shade and watched the sea.

She'd spent three years in the hospital, during which time she'd almost made a full recovery, but had collapsed again at the two-year mark when she'd learned of her father's death by his own hand. Zuko had given him a state funeral with full honors. In an almost-lucid moment, She'd refused the invitation to attend.

Their mother, newly welcomed home and likely the cause of his suicide, had gone.

The summer house was beautiful, restored to exactly the way she'd remembered it. This is my gift to you, Zuko had said to her upon her release. And my curse. As if having the Avatar take away her bending hadn't been bad enough.

When she'd arrived on the sandswept front porch, her mother had been standing in the doorway, an eerie silhouette, flanked by Li and Lo. She'd even been glad to see those old bats, strange though it had seemed. She was home.

The nightmares had lasted a good many months, fever-dreams laced with lightning and flame from which she was certain she'd never escape. Each time she'd awakened thrashing and screaming, her mother had been there to mop her brow with cool water and offer her a cup of Uncle's infuriating, specially blended jasmine-gunpowder tea sent all the way from his fancy-schmancy place in Ba Sing Se.

Azula hated Ba Sing Se, and she hated Uncle even more. The tea wasn't so bad.

"You should write him a letter," Ursa had suggested the next morning over breakfast.

"No, Mother," she'd muttered. But she'd written the letter anyway.

By the end of the week, Azula had written an entire sheaf of letters. Letters to her fucking Uncle, letters to Fire-Bore Zuzu, letters to Her Royal Sulkiness. She'd wondered how the Earth King hadn't died of sheer irony. Letters to Father, which she'd left rolled on his grave. Letters to Ty Lee on Kyoshi Island, which she'd actually sent.

Come back, she'd written. I'm sorry. This place is a prison without you.

And, one day out of the blue, she came.

Ty Lee was still wearing the somber green robes, but her face was free of the horrible, garish paint. She was pale and thin, insofar as it was possible for her to be any thinner. Azula sat forward, her heart clenched. She hadn't thought—

"You didn't think I'd come," said Ty Lee, simply.

"No, I didn't," Azula admitted, rising. "But you're here."

Ty Lee's kiss held no questions, and Azula's demanded no answers.

The North Pole

"Those Kyoshi folk," Kanna chided. "They don't feed you well enough!"

"Gran Gran!" Sokka prosted, throwing a pious arm about Suki's shoulders. "We're eating just fine! And! And," Sokka continued, jabbing a finger at the old woman, "the kids are getting a taste of both worlds. They love my take on your stewed sea prunes."

"I slice up a mean sashimi platter," volunteered Suki, helpfully.

Kanna's suspicious look softened. "Fish, thank heavens! Scrawny as they are, though, they could use some whale-blubber stew."

Sokka's arm tightened around Suki to the point where it hurt, grinning his face off—which in this case meant that he detested whale-blubber stew and knew they were in for a whole month of it. Suki dreaded the prospect.

"Anything but that," Pakku grumbled, setting aside the bone figure he'd been carving. "When Hakoda returns, he'll have a bucketful of shellfish." He plucked Miri up from where she'd been sitting beside him, bouncing the four year-old on one knee. "I know they're your favorite," he added, giving her a smack on the cheek. Miri giggled.

"I don't like shellfish," said Zei, stubbornly. "They taste funny."

Kanna leaned closer to Suki. "Is he your picky eater?"

"Yes," replied Suki, with a weary sigh. "And you can let go of me any time now!"

She shrugged Sokka off easily, satisfied with the winded oof-sound he made as his tailbone hit the furs beneath their feet. There wasn't much you could do to soften a floor made of ice. This wasn't their first visit, but Suki always found the first few days disorienting. She could tell that Kanna shared her sentiment, though. It must have been painful for the remaining handful of Southern Water Tribe members to relocate north, but it had been a matter of survival. United, the Tribe's numbers had grown.

"So," Pakku asked Miri. "What do they say about twins in Kyoshi?"

Miri stole a glance at her brother. "We're bad luck," she whispered.

"Hmph," Kanna said. "Here, you're the best of fortune."

"Miri might be a Waterbender," Sokka said, lowering his voice. "Or an Earthbender. We're not sure yet. It depends on the day. Katara's hoping for water, of course."

"I want to be a Waterbender!" Zei announced. "And an Earthbender."

"He takes after his father," Suki sighed, and Kanna winked at her.

Omashu

Toph shifted on her stool, planting her feet more firmly in the dust. The two airborne figures whirled past her in a rush, one revolving sphere shakier and less certain than the other. She'd gotten better at seeing people who weren't touching the ground.

"Nice one, Twinkletoes!" she shouted, applauding with all her strength.

"Thanks!" Aang replied from the far end of the training yard.

"I wasn't talking to you!" Toph called back, grinning in Kya's direction.

She'd learned over time that some people liked a bit of acknowledgment, particularly children. She was fond of her best friend's daughter, and fiercely protective. At six, Kya had a decent amount of her mother's strength and entirely too much of her father's neurotic tendency to overthink. Little wonder, too: she'd overheard her parents' argument over whether or not Energybending was an appropriate procedure on someone so young, and, provided it took, whether or not they should let Aang train her as an Airbender. Fire would have been less socially risky, given her heritage.

Kya had been almost five at the time, and just brave enough to put her foot down.

The baby kicked. Toph slapped her stomach.

"Or you," she told it. With any luck, the pipsqueak wouldn't be a bender. Less to worry about. She had it on good authority that she'd been nothing but trouble.

"Auntie Toph," said Kya, approaching timidly with one hand outstretched. "Can I feel?"

"Sure, but the little twerp's gone back to sleep," she said, guiding Kya's hand to her belly. "Hey!" she called. "Deadbeat dad! You might want to get over here."

"Oh, no," said Aang, his arrival heralded by a sudden cloud of dust. "Is it—?"

"No, stupid," Toph replied, grinning up at him. "It likes you better than it likes me."

"Can't we say she or he?" Aang asked, his hand joining Kya's. The baby kicked again, stronger this time, and judging by the way Kya's arm tensed, her eyes were wide.

"No," said Toph, yawning. "Because we've really got no idea."

"I think it's a boy," Kya said. "You're very big. This way," she added, indicating the protrusion of Toph's stomach horizontally. "Mom says that means a boy. She says I carried small and tight, which usually means a girl. And I was."

"Are you training Airbenders or midwives?" Toph asked, smirking. "What do the other kids say? Good thing they're on holiday break while this is likely to be going down."

She sensed now that her husband was rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

"They're taking bets," Aang admitted. "I think I have a headache."

"Let me know where the odds are," Toph said. "I want a piece of the action!"

Epilogue: The Jasmine Dragon

The tea house is closed on Saturdays. No exceptions.

Like clockwork, Saturday is Mail Day. In Ba Sing Sei, the post is delivered six out of seven days, but Zuko times his letters such that Iroh gets only one per week. Azula's letters come perhaps twice a month, and it's clear she's working on clearing a backlog that she hasn't had the nerve to send for at least a year. Iroh doesn't mind. He's simply grateful that her mind seems to be back in working order, and that she can no longer fry innocent people alive. He sends packets of the house blend fortnightly.

Saturday, as the staff's only day off, is also Picnic Day (weather permitting).

Under the ancient elm on the outskirts of the city, two shrines are now permanent. Next to Lu Ten's, Smellerbee and Longshot have erected one in honor of their fallen comrade, Jet. When Iroh had first seen the boy's likeness, he'd felt a pang of recognition. He'd been the young man from the ferry—and, later still, the young man to openly accuse Iroh and Zuko of being Fire Nation.

Well, Iroh thinks, holding the incense while Smellerbee lights it. He was right.

When the pair of refugees had turned up on his doorstep looking for work, it hadn't even crossed his mind to ask how they had survived the war. That they had survived was enough. Smellerbee is an excellent hand at brewing. Longshot's sweet rice-cakes are now the talk of the town, and he has been working on a ginger cake recipe that, in several trials, has proved delightful. Iroh suspects his gut will return.

Iroh will never press them to elaborate. Longshot rarely speaks, but when he does, it's in the measured tones of a young man who knows who he is, who he loves, and what is worth living for. Smellerbee sometimes shares memories of their happier days with the Freedom Fighters, although she's hesitant to even mention combat. Iroh can tell she's seen a lot of it. More than anything, they tell their story when they are silent: in the looks that pass between them when they think no one is watching.

They sit together in the quiet shade and remember.

—Continue: Subtle—

Yes, I'm getting distracted by random TV series again.

2009-09-17T08:24:40Z

Has anyone here seen Avatar: The Last Airbender? I've watched the first two seasons, and hopefully I'll be knocking off the third at the weekend. The screenwriting is amazing; I think that this is the closest I've ever come to having something like anime hold my interest. I've also been thinking about some of the subtext. More later.

Black Books findings, a final list:

2009-09-09T16:34:32Z

The Cable Guys

Creative Therapy

Closed for Business

*

I especially recommend the third one. The Bernard-POV is ace.

emerald_embers, my darling...

2009-09-09T11:57:06Z

...whatever shall I write you?

*grinning like a loon at the eyeliner*

Because that really, really is the perfect finishing touch. You should have seen, my eyes probably popped out of their sockets when, as I opened the envelope, it kind of exploded onto my couch in a shower of chocolate gold coins. It was pretty perfectly timed! Also, my mouth is full of rum truffle. You win at life.

ST: IV = viewed!

2009-09-04T20:51:29Z

All I want to know is, how many pilots do you reckon Sulu had to seduce to get his hands on that helicopter? And, wow, the K/S was turned up pretty much to full volume. I'm thrilled that all the cetologist seemed to want was some 23rd-century science. Good to see an ambitious career woman, for once!

(That scene with Kirk and Spock clinging to each other in the water as the whales were released was pretty priceless; I can't even tell who was dragging who in, by the end of it. Likewise the scene with Sarek at the end. So much love!)