300 picarats an hour

OFF ficlet: Aspirin

bethfrish — Thu, 19 Mar 2015 18:52:47 GMT

When I first stumbled across this pairing I was like what what what how what, and then by the next day I was like yeah ok I can dig it. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Title: Aspirin
Fandom: OFF
Pairing: The Batter/Zacharie
Rating: PG

The wood is heavy and hard against the cracked skin of your palms. A skilled grip is all in the fingers. Just relax. Relax. This handle seems narrower than the last. A stickier finish to the ash. Zacharie stares at you from behind the counter with holes for eyes. "Give it a try," he offers.

"I wouldn't hold it like this." The one you have is grimy and black except for the part where your hands go. Your knuckles ache when you flex them. It's fine that they ache. "How much is it?"

—Does it make you feel better?— he asked suddenly, lighting up a Gauloises.

—What?—

—Your filthy money.— He sat up against the pillow and inhaled without looking at you. His hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead in dark, damp curls. —Merely a transaction.—

—Shut up.—

He laughed softly.

—I said shut up.—

—Go on home already, why don't you. Keeping secrets is built into the price. You don't have to worry.—

—Stop it.—

—I've got plenty of other business.—

—Stop it!—

He turned and looked at you, dirty tendrils crawling away from the end of his cigarette. His eyes were dark and hollow in the yellow light. —Tell me, then,— he sneered. —Does it make you feel better?—

—You don't understand!— you cried, grabbing his arm roughly from across the bed. You dug your fingers into the delicate bones of his wrist, feeling the surrender of muscle and the pulse that thumped against your skin. You held him there against you, until he looked at you with that fragile, impassive face, and your nostrils flinched at the acrid smell of smoke as you laughed, —I wish it did.—

He looked at you for a long time before pulling away. —Relax,— he said finally, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand. —I'm only kidding. I don't care what you do.—

—Please don't say that.—

He leaned in closer and pressed his mouth to your neck, kissing it lightly. —What do I care?—

"500 credits," Zacharie answers.

"That's a rip-off."

"Oh?"

You weigh the bat in your hands again before laying it on the counter. "What do you think?" The last one made your knuckles ache so badly.

"Heh," Zacharie chuckles with disinterest. "How irrelevant. I'm only a simple merchant."

You frown and tell him, "You're right." And you hand him the money as his gray, polluted laugh fades into the sky.

Ace Attorney fic: The Delicate Situation

bethfrish — Mon, 13 Oct 2014 06:26:24 GMT

I feel like a good chunk of my fanfiction exists because nobody writes about the weird things that I like, so I feel compelled (sometimes) to just do it myself. INTERNET, WHY DON'T YOU SHARE MY INTERESTS?

Anyway, I think we can all agree that Ray Shields desperately needs to stop talking to picture frames and go see a psychiatrist already.

Title: The Delicate Situation
Fandom: Ace Attorney
Pairing: Gregory Edgeworth/Raymond Shields
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I used Ray's unofficial fan translation name because I wasn't about to call him Shigaraki Tateyuki like some pretentious, Japanese-only Digimon ficcer circa 2001. (You Digimon fans know what I'm talking about.) This won't make any sense if you haven't played AAI2. It probably won't make any sense even if you have.

Sunlight fell across the sofa in pale streaks of blue, passing through the folds of the curtains and the soft, pink skin of Ray's eyelids. He blinked slowly against the light, then closed his eyes. A dull pain fluttered from his ear down to his shoulder, and beneath his cheek he felt the warm, unfamiliar contour of an armrest.

He lay there, unmoving, listening for the sound of footsteps, or running water, or the muted murmur of voices in another room, but beneath the wisps of his own shallow breathing everything was quiet. Rolling over, he pulled the blankets up to his chin and wondered at the time. There was enough light to make out the soft variations in the upholstery, faded and worn and scratched against the grain. Ray stared at the back of the sofa and curled up even tighter, until his bare knees brushed against the suede.

A voice spoke through the fickle haze of his half-sleep. It sounded like his name. Ray opened his eyes and turned over again to face the window.

"Raymond. Good morning."

Mr. Edgeworth stood on the area rug with his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, peering at Ray through polished lenses. His hair was limp and in his eyes.

"Morning," Ray told him. He sat up and folded his legs beneath the blankets. Near Mr. Edgeworth's slippered feet lay a pillow in a white case. He must have knocked it off the sofa in his sleep. Fold lines ran faintly across the top in a wide grid.

"I was about to take a shower," Mr. Edgeworth said.

"Oh," said Ray. "All right."

"You can too, of course. I mean take a shower. I won't be long."

Ray nodded.

"Well—maybe you want stop at home. Do you need to go home first?"

"No," Ray said. "That's all right." He looked down at the worn plaid of Mr. Edgeworth's slippers. "Except." It felt chilly now that he was sitting up. His own house was chilly in the morning too. "Except I don't have any extra clothes."

"Oh," said Mr. Edgeworth. "Right. Of course."

Ray leaned forward on his elbows and pulled the blankets back up to his chin. He'd slept in his shirt, but maybe it would be all right to wear. "It's okay," he said, shaking his head. "I'll go home after—" He stopped. "I can go home when—after it's over. I'd rather go to the courthouse with you. Now, I mean."

Mr. Edgeworth looked at him and nodded.

"I'll use the shower as soon as you're done," Ray said.

"You could probably wear something of mine."

"All right."

"I have a few shirts that are a little small on me. I think they'd fit you."

"All right," Ray said again.

Mr. Edgeworth brushed the hair from his eyes and gave him an afflicted smile.

"Thank you," Ray added. He waited for Mr. Edgeworth to say something else. When he didn't, Ray tipped his head slowly to one side. "I think I slept funny," he said.

"Oh," Mr. Edgeworth said. "Does it hurt?"

"A little. Not really."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"I would have—it's just if Miles had had a nightmare," Mr. Edgeworth began.

"Oh, I know."

"It's not often, but I wouldn't—you know."

"It's okay."

"I didn't think—" Mr. Edgeworth slid his hands back into his pockets.

"It's a decent couch," Ray told him. "8 out of 10, at least."

Mr. Edgeworth let out a small laugh. "All right. Well." He looked at Ray as he brushed his hair back with his fingers again. "All right," he repeated, and Ray folded his hands in his lap beneath the blankets as Mr. Edgeworth walked down the hall and disappeared.

The muted rush of running water began to roar quietly somewhere in the apartment. Ray sat back and blinked into the sunlight. He'd been over for dinner often enough, but anywhere he'd ever been had always seemed different in the morning. The bookcases along the wall appeared pale and dusty, their colored spines washed out by the sunshine. In the corner sat a music stand, a wooden chair, and a black case with a tiny brass lock. They belonged to Mr. Edgeworth's son.

A large chair in matching suede stood beside the sofa. Ray stared at the clothing draped over the armrest, chewing absent-mindedly at his lip. "Oh," he said suddenly. Crawling out from beneath the blankets, he went over and lifted up a pair of pants. They seemed all right to wear again.

It was funny. He couldn't remember laying them out like that, all neat and folded. He remembered the pillow though, the one still on the floor. Mr. Edgeworth had gone to the hall closet to get it, and the pillow case had smelled just like a closet. He remembered thinking it smelled that way, although he couldn't have said what made anything smell like something as imprecise as a closet.

After he put his pants on, Ray crouched down on his heels and gazed into the shadows beneath the sofa where he'd slept. There was nothing there except his socks and the arts section of the newspaper from three days ago. He folded up the paper and placed it on the end table, then checked under the sofa again, just to be sure.

When Mr. Edgeworth returned he was dressed in a suit, and his hair was combed back away from his eyes. "I laid a few shirts out on the bed in my room," he said.

"Thanks."

"Do you want any tea or coffee?"

"Tea, please."

"I'll have it ready for you," said Mr. Edgeworth. "Do you like eggs?"

Ray was pretty sure he'd eaten eggs in front of Mr. Edgeworth before, but it was easy enough to forget something like that. "Who doesn't like eggs?" he asked.

"Miles will only eat them scrambled," Mr. Edgeworth said. "The consistency of runny yolks seems to upset him."

Ray tilted his head. "I get that." His neck still bothered him a bit.

The dishes from last night's dinner were stacked at the edge of the table when he walked by, sticky with bits of rice and yellow, congealed grease. He and Mr. Edgeworth had stayed late at the office after court, reviewing the files they'd read a thousand times before, pulling page after page until they fell like dry, dead leaves to the floor.

"How do you stand a chance when the truth can be so easily manufactured?" Mr. Edgeworth had asked him coldly. "Sometimes I wonder if it even matters in the end."

It had made Ray sad to hear that. "I would never lie to you," he'd offered meekly, feeling childish and unhelpful, but Mr. Edgeworth had looked at him with that faraway smile and placed a warm, tired hand against his back.

"Let's go," he'd told him, and they'd picked up Mr. Edgeworth's son and ordered dinner.

Ray took the blue shirt from the bed and held it to his chest. It smelled the way the pillow had, like a stranger's things. He held one sleeve down over his own rumpled shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. The blue was nice, but maybe the brown would be better. It was a pleasant, warm shade of brown, like something Mr. Edgeworth would wear.

Ray took it into the bathroom with him and hung it on the door. Balanced on the edge of the sink was a clean, white towel. He looked around to see if there was a spare toothbrush as well, but only two stood erect in their little blue cup. Squeezing a glob of toothpaste onto his fingertip, he opened his mouth and ran it over and across his teeth, up and down and back and forth, stretching the corners of his lips with his knuckles. He spit into the sink and brought a handful of cold water to his face. The mirror was smudged with ghost-ripples of childish fingerprints. Ray blinked into the glass, studying his mouth as he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth.

The water rushed from the showerhead with a cold hiss. "Brrr," Ray murmured, pulling his shirt up and over his head. As he reached for the buckle of his belt he faltered, looking down as his fingers traced the small, smooth dip of a button. Behind him the shower sputtered noisily. He would have to wear his same socks again, he thought as he slid his pants down over his hips. Mr. Edgeworth probably had fresh socks he could wear, but he wouldn't bother him about that. Ray pulled back the shower curtain and stepped inside, shivering as the water fell warmly over his skin.

When he came back, Mr. Edgeworth and his son were already seated at the table. The dishes from the night before had been cleared away, and in their place were three small plates of scrambled eggs and toast, two teacups, and a glass of juice. Mr. Edgeworth motioned for him to sit down.

"Hello," Miles said politely.

"Morning," said Ray, taking the seat across from Mr. Edgeworth.

"May we eat now?" Miles asked his father.

"I think so," said Mr. Edgeworth as he adjusted his glasses. "Raymond?"

"Go for it," Ray said, and they began to eat. One side of the bread was nearly burnt, but the eggs were warm and fluffy and there was butter and strawberry jam in the kitchen, which Mr. Edgeworth had forgotten to put out. "Bet you're surprised to see me already," Ray joked with Miles.

"No." The boy swallowed a bite of egg and took a long drink of juice, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Papa told me it got to be too late and the trains stopped running."

"Oh, yeah."

"And that it's probably your last day. At the courthouse," Miles added. "Because the case is going to be over very soon."

"I think it is," Ray agreed.

"That's why I get to come along today. To watch."

"Oh yeah?" Ray asked.

"Yes." Miles nodded, then took a measured bite of toast.

"You can sit with Raymond in the gallery," Mr. Edgeworth said when he returned to the table. "If that's all right with him, of course. Did you want any butter or jam, Raymond?"

"Oh, um. Butter, please," Ray answered, carefully taking the dish from Mr. Edgeworth's palm. "And sure you can sit with me." He gave Miles a sideways glance. "Your dad sure asks dumb questions sometimes."

"Hopefully not in court," said Mr. Edgeworth. "Do you want any jam, Miles?"

"Maybe for my second piece."

"Okay."

"Strawberry," Ray observed. "The only way to go."

"I'm also partial to apricot," said Miles.

Ray had never tasted an apricot in his life, but he nodded in agreement. "Yes, I'm partial as well."

"I'd be content with a working toaster," said Mr. Edgeworth with a wry smile.

Miles chewed reflectively on his eggs. "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Will you win?"

"Win our case?"

Miles nodded. "I hope you do."

Mr. Edgeworth's smile thinned. "Well, you know, Miles. It's not quite that simple."

"Don't you think that man, Mr. Master, is telling the truth?"

"I'd like to," Mr. Edgeworth said at length. "What's more, I can't help him if he doesn't."

Miles frowned. "What do you mean?"

Across the table, Mr. Edgeworth looked down at his half-eaten eggs. "It's a delicate situation," he said finally, and his son nodded slowly and asked someone to please pass the jam.

There wasn't much time after breakfast before they had to leave for the courthouse. Ray sat by himself on the sofa, waiting as Mr. Edgeworth conversed inaudibly with Miles at the back of the apartment. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and spread his arms across the upholstery, up over the back of the sofa and down again, running his fingers along the rift behind the cushions. Suddenly his hand closed around something long and flat and firm.

Slowly, he extracted a belt from the crevice behind his back. There was a scar in the leather, just beside the final notch, where the buckle had left an imprint. He'd slept right on top of it, he thought. It had crawled in there just like a bug. He stood up and pushed the end through the first loop, pulling it slowly along his waist until the buckle knocked into the button on his pants.

"Shall we go?" asked Mr. Edgeworth when they returned. He put his coat on and carefully adjusted the lapels, then took his hat from the top of the rack.

Miles looked up at his father. "Can we still have a special dinner tonight?" he asked. "Even if you lose?"

"Of course," said Mr. Edgeworth, retrieving Ray's hat from the lower peg.

"Can Mr. Shields come as well?"

"Raymond?" Mr. Edgeworth circled the brim of the hat with his fingertips. "Well, yes," he said. "Yes, of course he can. If he'd like to."

"Oh," Ray hesitated. "I don't want to intrude or anything."

"Don't be silly."

"Oh. Well..."

Mr. Edgeworth smiled thinly. "You need to go home at some point, I suppose." He gave Ray his hat and slipped his hands into his pockets.

"I guess I should," Ray agreed.

"What if," Miles said gravely, "you go home and then come back."

"Miles," warned Mr. Edgeworth.

"I—could," Ray admitted. "I could do that." Looking down at the floor, he lifted his bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. Inside were papers pertaining to the case and his dirty, balled-up shirt. "All right," Ray said at last. "If you're sure."

Beside him, Mr. Edgeworth nodded. His hands were still obscured, pulling at the taut shadows of his pockets. The apartment was quiet now that everything was settled. They were all quiet. Ray let out a sudden laugh.

"After all," he said, smiling broadly as he held out his upturned palms. "What's a fancy dinner without Uncle Ray?" Then he stepped forward and went to open the door.

Out in the hall, Miles charged down the stairs ahead of them. Ray could hear the clatter of his shoes against the wood, soft and uneven as he rounded the corner of the landing, then clack clack clack as it gradually faded away. Ray adjusted his hat and went to follow, but Mr. Edgeworth just stood there at the top of the stairway, watching him.

Ray looked up. His chest felt odd and tight for some reason, like his lungs were too small for the rest of him. "What?" he said weakly.

But Mr. Edgeworth just looked back at him with that sickened smile and asked, "Are you all right?"

And for a second Ray wanted to laugh again, because he himself had asked that question the night before, standing over the dirty dishes long after dinner was over, and Mr. Edgeworth had let go of the plate and looked at him with those dark, sad eyes, and the back of his hand had been hot and his palm damp and cold with sweat, and Ray could see the stubble beginning to grow back along his jaw and over the lines of his mouth, they were so close, everything was so close, and finally Mr. Edgeworth had said, "I'm not sure," and it was just that there was always so much more to it than that, and Ray had wanted it so badly and for such a very, very long time.

But he was all right. Of course he was all right. Everything was all right. He laughed out loud.

Then he put his arms around Mr. Edgeworth's waist and pressed his cheek against his coat. It smelled pleasant and familiar and wonderful. He stayed that way for a long time, until he felt the weight of Mr. Edgeworth's arms around his shoulders. He was all right, he thought. He was all right. Everything would be all right.

Professor Layton fic: Monster

bethfrish — Sun, 18 Aug 2013 04:19:52 GMT

Ok so I played Layton Brothers: Mystery Room and I was like ALFENDI LAYTON, WHAT EVEN. His mere existence contradicts everything I ever wanted to believe about Hershel Layton, and yet I'm so enamored with his batshittery, I couldn't help but be inspired. (P.S. This is the first piece I've written entirely from scratch in almost THREE YEARS.)

This story essentially conveys my ultimate headcanon of the Layton/Luke relationship, with the added bonus of Layton's fucked up offspring.

(Alternately titled, Hershel Layton, Dad of the Century.)

(Also alternately titled, How to Alienate the Layton Fandom in 7500 Words or Less.)

Title: Monster
Fandom: Professor Layton
Pairing: Hershel Layton/Luke Triton
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence and underage implications that might make you raise you eyebrows. But no joke, serious graphic violence.

Please proceed to AO3, since LJ cannot handle my pretentious formatting.

Monster

Professor Latyon fic: Turn Around and Say Good Morning to the Night

bethfrish — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 22:49:11 GMT

Livejournaaaaal. D:

I fully realize that very few of you are still here and that even fewer (read: zero) will find this fic relevant to your interests, but seeing as I started this back in THE FALL OF 2010 and vowed ON LUKE TRITON'S SOUL to one day finish it, I feel that I owe it to myself to post it here amongst the ashes of a once glorious blog. (Wait, glorious?)

Many years ago, I played Professor Layton and the Unwound Future and it BLEW MY MIND. Mainly because, wow, what an unnecessarily elaborate scheme to, in the end, essentially just kill everybody. If you analyze the semantics of Future London at all, you will quickly realize that it makes no sense whatsoever. Like, why were all those people living there? Why were there hotels and restaurants? How were the townspeople not dying of vitamin deficiencies? But I loved that game and I loved crazy ol' Future London, so this is my 2.5 year attempt at giving Clive's psychoses some merit.

Title: Turn Around and Say Good Morning to the Night
Fandom: Professor Layton
Pairing: Clive/Family Goon
Rating: PG-13

You are the last child your mother ever carries, the youngest of nine sons and the cause of your father's eternal and unspoken grief. Her dying moments are lost to the agony of your birth, and those she leaves behind have little to offer but the brittle charity of their indifference. Hours after her passing, your father lifts you from the bed, pink and bloody as you cry at the shock of the world, and places you in the arms of your eight-year-old brother. "Give him a name," he says, and returns to the mines so that none of you will starve.

You grow up too skinny and too shy, wanting little and asking even less. There's a stuffed bear that sits in the window of the toy store near your school, smiling sadly at you with outstretched paws and lonesome button eyes. Every morning you race ahead and press your hands to the cold glass that stands between you, and every morning your eldest brother comes up beside you and grabs you by the arm, bruising your skin beneath the threadbare wool of your shirt as he pulls you along faster than you can walk.

You're too young to work in the mines when you leave school at the age of twelve, so you wash windows and shine shoes and deliver newspapers in the frigid hours of the morning, praying that your father never finds the Sunday edition of word games and puzzles hidden down the front of your coat. It's the only time you ever spend with your brothers. Counting down the hours till darkness, listening for the creak of broken hinges from your father's bedroom door. Your brothers crowd eagerly around the table as you read from your stolen pages, betting what little pocket change they have on the writing beneath your hands. You've never see them smile so much or laugh so easily; light and raw and just like yours, the same child born nine times over.

Your father puts bread on the table and a roof over your heads, but you learn soon enough that he can give you little else. You cry over the bear in the window until there's nothing left but the cruel indifference that welcomed you into this world, and you close your eyes to your over-crowded bedroom as you drift to sleep, deciding with tearless resignation that your life will remain unremarkable.

And you might have been right, except that at seventeen, you're offered a job.

The boy can't tell you everything—not about the work, not even where you'll be sent—but the pay is more than you've ever seen, and when you ask if there's work for your eight older brothers, he winks into the sunlight and says, "Of course."

Because of this, it falls on you to tell your father you're leaving. You will hurt him the least, your brothers say; you do not question why. The words are short and unrepentant, hanging like thorns in the space between you, but your father only folds his soot-stained hands in his lap and gazes past you at the wall. "Maybe now you'll have a future," he says dully, and you don't know whether to despise him or to cry.

When you wake up days later, it's to the endless gray of an unfamiliar ceiling. Your mouth tastes of copper and your pillow is too soft, and when you lift your arm you're wearing pajamas that don't belong to you.

"Rise and shine," comes a grunt from the foot of your bed. "The Boss is waiting downstairs, so get a move on!" Then the door slams shut and you think Bostro without knowing why.

You search the ceiling for answers, but when you rub your eyes all you can remember is the smell of dust and the speckled, rusted orange of broken clock parts. The pretty lilt of boyish laughter and the nagging suspicion that your tea had been drugged.

"I do hope you slept well," says the Boss, rising from the sofa when you enter the lobby of your flat. You recognize him from the clock shop—those bright, inconsolable eyes, gazing mournfully at you from the shadows of his top hat. "We administered a mild sedative to aid in the acclamation of your new surroundings," he says heavily. "Do let us know if you begin to feel ill. There may still be some adverse reactions of which we are not aware."

His smile is so pained that you don't ask him to elaborate. Instead you shake his hand and mumble, "We're thankful for the work."

"And we're truly pleased that you accepted our offer. A place within the Family is not something we take lightly here. You will soon come to know all that entails." Then he pulls his overcoat shut and tips his hat down over his eyes. "I sincerely apologize for the briefness of our meeting," he says distantly, "but Bostro will go through your duties with you over dinner—or breakfast, perhaps, in your case—"

"Ah, Dimitri," someone calls from the doorway. "I'm afraid that Bostro is a bit...indisposed at the moment."

The Boss turns sharply. "What do you mean indisposed? And what are you doing here?"

"You know," the boy says idly, "if we didn't rely so heavily on the revenue, I'd say the casino was a horrific idea. That's the third incident this week."

"I thought we agreed that you weren't to be seen with us," the Boss snaps, but you recognize the boy immediately. He's the reason you're here.

He leans against the door frame, caught in the pale light of some indeterminable evening. "Are you aware of the fact that the population has nearly doubled in the last month?" he asks calmly. "I thought you'd want your latest workforce to be fully briefed as soon as possible. I'll leave though, if you prefer. I was on my way home anyway."

The Boss looks at him, unsmiling. "Do as you wish," he says finally, then turns to you. "I should tell you now that Clive is not a public member of the Family, not precisely. He won't be associated with us under normal circumstances, but I suppose in Bostro's...sudden absence, we can make an exception."

"We've already attended to your brothers," Clive explains, studying you from the doorway with his hands in his pockets. "We would have seen to you as well, but I dare say you were knocked out cold."

"Was I?" you ask, ashamed. "I never sleep that long."

Clive regards you for a moment, eyes shining. "Perhaps your tea was oversteeped," he offers, then vanishes into the strange, graying gloom that betrays neither night nor day.

Your Bible and a photograph of your mother were all they had allowed you to bring from home. You find them later on a table in your room, placed neatly beside a pouch containing several hundred pounds.

"This dump was supposed to be finished months ago, but the construction team took too long on that blasted hotel," Bostro grunts, tossing the clothes from the tailor onto your bed. "Bloody depressing in here."

"I don't mind," you insist, bringing the coat up to your shoulders. The gray wool feels foreign beneath your fingertips, nothing like the rough, tattered clothing you had to fight for in the winter. You've never owned anything that didn't belong to your brothers first.

"Painters'll be here tomorrow so make yourself scarce." Bostro slides something roughly across the table. "Know how to use a gun?"

You shake your head.

"Nothing but the Boss' tranquilizers. Still, I'll beat your face in if I catch you using it on a civilian."

You stare at the weapon, gleaming dully in the yellow light of your room. "What's it for then?"

Bostro doesn't even look at you, just yanks the door open with too much force. "Keep it with you," he barks, and leaves you to dress.

You study your reflection with distrust, straightening the cuffs of your white silk shirt as he does the same. This boy doesn't look like he spends twelve hours a day in the mines. His hair is too clean and his clothes fit too well. He looks like someone who counts for something, someone whose life is worth more than yours. This boy isn't you, but you begin to wonder if maybe he could be.

A knock at the door interrupts your silent appraisal. Clive's contact with you is supposed to be minimal—you work for Bostro, who works for the Boss—but there he is in the doorway, carrying a white box between his arms.

"Well, well, well," Clive says with approval. "Don't you look sharp."

In the days since you've been here, you can't understand how someone like Clive ever came to work for Dimitri. How someone so spirited and alive could sell his youth so carelessly to the underground. Of course, you're nearly the same age. He might wonder the same of you.

You'd tell him, you think, if he asked.

"I brought you something," he says, setting the box at the foot of your bed. Nestled inside is a hat the same soft hue as your suit, made from warm, thick felt and an artisan's master craft. Clive places it on your head with the tips of his fingers.

"How do I look?" you asked with a strained laugh.

Clive studies you for a moment, pushing the brim back from your eyes. "Like your brothers," he says finally.

You shrug lightly. "We look like our father."

Earlier that day, you'd heard rumors of being stranded in the future—a selfish, manipulative ploy designed to ensure loyalty to Dimitri's cause. As your brothers argued across the table, you wondered idly what your future life was like. If you had a family, if you were happy. You wondered what had become of your eight brothers, and your father. You wondered if he'd ever learned to love you, or if you'd finally stopped caring that he didn't. You never asked if the rumors were true.

"Oh, and these," Clive says, reaching into his coat. He hands you a pair of dark glasses. "Rather silly, in my opinion, but it's all part of the Family image."

"Of course," you say, studying his reflection instead of yours. You feel lost behind the empty panes of tinted glass, but Clive just looks at you through the mirror and smiles, like he knows you're watching him.

The city lives and grows around the shadows you cast. Bostro scatters you throughout the streets and tells you to listen. Listen to the shop owners when they go outside for their cigarettes. Listen to the chef as he berates his son. Listen when people mention the Family, watching for the doubt in their eyes when they unlock their doors and remember a time when this was not their home.

The locals call you the Family Goons. Feeling the weight of the pistol at your side, you can hardly blame them, but the barrel is full of tranquilizers produced in Dimitri's lab, and Bostro's threat goes off in your ears every time your fingertips graze metal. Your sole priority is to keep those around you from questioning the life around them, even if you think that the Thames seems different from the one of your childhood, or that the air never feels exactly right.

You begin to learn the city by duty, its people by choice. The woman who owns the noodle shop brings you soup by the bowlful, first out of fear, and later out of fondness. Months ago, she confides, she'd received an anonymous grant of fifty thousand pounds, to be spent on the condition that she open her business ten years in the future. How and why were not part of the deal; she took the money and never looked back.

The girl at the book store cultivates your growing love of literature, selling you editions at a quarter of the price even though you tell her not to. She alludes, more than once, to an offer being made to her father just before they moved, but she is much better at changing the subject than you are at keeping it. You secretly wonder if she promised, as you did, to keep silent about her past.

"Do you ever miss your home?" you ask finally, deciding that the question is benign enough to answer truthfully. She takes David Copperfield from your arms and smooths the dust jacket over its spine. "This is my home," she says, and presses your money gently back into your hand.

The children recognize you by sight, singling you out from your brothers when they ask if you'll judge their makeshift games. They run through the streets as you watch from beneath the brim of your hat, laughing away their fear when you sneak a piece of candy into the winner's hand.

"Daddy's a physicist," one boy tells you between breathless rounds of skipping rope. "I heard him tell mummy that we traveled through time and that now we're stuck here." He makes a face, scuffing at the ground. "But that sounds like rubbish." When you ask him why, he just scratches his ear and shrugs. "Dunno," he says, and hands you the ends of his rope so that you can take your turn.

It isn't long before you begin to wonder if Dimitri's alter ego isn't purely for show, if he has any interest in this city beyond his own team of haunted, hollow-eyed scientists. It no longer worries you when he disappears for weeks at a time, lost to a world of endless research and failed experiments. What he hopes to accomplish through this farce of garish top hats and illogical time travel, you can only begin to comprehend, but his passion for the latter is devastating. Sometimes you find him alone on the bridge, staring out into the water with that faraway grief in his eyes. You don't think he ever sees you. He only pulls his own plain lab coat tighter around his body, gazing with inconsolable wonder at the steel horizon.

It's your own family you see the least of all. One at a time, your brothers come to take your place, nodding their wordless dismissal as they bury their hands in the pockets of your identical coats. Sometimes you have a riddle for them, thought up on your own because Clive's fictitious newspaper isn't like the one back home, but they no longer seem amused. Either they'd prefer those days remain forgotten, or they regret having left them behind; you save your puzzles for the children instead.

One night you find your eldest brother lingering outside your flat, smoking a cigarette beneath the dim yellow glow of the streetlamp. You wish him goodnight as you reach for your key, clearing your throat when he gives no response.

"Do you really think this is the future?" he asks suddenly, gazing up at the sky that never seems to rain. "I wonder where we are." It isn't meant to be a riddle, but he looks as if he expects you to answer.

Opening the door, you look down at your shoes against the mat. "Home, I guess," and he turns away without a word, releasing a thin plume of smoke out into the night.

One day you realize, as you finish getting dressed, that you don't remember how long you've been here. Your brothers attribute it to the endless and agonizing monotony of routine, but you find, to your surprise, that you do not despair what your life has become. Days in the mines were spent counting the hours until sundown, the weeks until you were paid. Every second was another point on the endless circle of your existence, and the only escape you knew for certain was that one day you would die.

These thoughts no longer trouble you as you stand on the corner of Flatstone Street, watching its residents come and go with your back to the wall. Most do not fear you as they do your brothers, and Bostro constantly rebukes you for failing to be a threat. You promise that this will change, but the young boys and girls only giggle at your efforts, deciding with childlike resolve that your menace is not genuine. The years have robbed London's summers of their heat, its winters of their bite, and somewhere too went your disappointment with the world, lost to a time you weren't there to witness.

Once a week you're assigned to the southern border of the Thames. It's a post usually given to the higher ranking members of the Family, but you alone are placed above your brothers for reasons you cannot fathom.

"Try the back alley for a change," one of them complains over bowls of noodles before your shifts begin. "I almost got bitten by a rat."

"I've never seen any rats," you tell him quietly. Your father would have slapped you for calling him a liar.

"Must be nice standing around," your brother says, "feeding the ducks." He pierces the broth with his chopsticks, in search of a bit of pork. "You're Clive's little favorite, aren't you."

You don't like the sound of his words, even if they're true. "He's nice to me, that's all."

"He isn't nice to anyone else," your brother says bitterly. "I don't like him."

The conviction of his words takes you by surprise. "Why not?"

"There's something he's not telling us," he says. "I don't like it, and I don't trust him."

"I do," you insist, but your brother just shakes his head.

"What are we doing here, exactly?"

"It's... It's better here. It's better than the mines," you tell him. "The people here—if you just talk to them—"

"We're being paid to scare people, and you're a fool if you think it's more than that."

"You're wrong," you say flatly.

"Am I? Clive brought us here without even telling us where we were going," he says darkly, leaning in over his soup. "I met a man who says he hasn't seen his wife or kids in over a year. A year! Can you believe that? When I asked him how he got here, he said he didn't know. I asked him about time machines. He looked at me like I was insane."

"We were asleep. We don't know what happened."

"Exactly," you brother says in a rough whisper. "Have you ever watched Clive? I mean, really taken a look at him? Even the Boss is afraid of him."

You scoff and stare at your bowl. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Watch him," your brother says. "See who's pulling the strings. The look in his eyes says he'd just as soon push you in the river as save you."

"That isn't true," you insist, but your brother cocks his head.

"Yeah? And how do you know?"

"He's my friend," you say finally.

Your brother sits back in his chair and gives you a cruel smile. "I'll bet he is."

"And just what does that mean?" you snap, but he just gives a haughty sort of laugh. "You didn't have to come here!" you tell him angrily. "No one forced you! Why don't you take your stupid questions to Clive and leave me alone!"

"Like where the bloody hell we are?" he fires back. "Maybe I will." Then he throws some coins on the table and scrapes his chair across the floor. "You never did listen when we told you to stop your dreaming."

When you see your brother later his nose is broken and his bottom lip is split. You say nothing about it, and there's too much of your father in him to admit what you will not ask.

You spend the rest of the day watching over Scarlet Street, just outside the Family's headquarters in the depths of Chinatown. It's no secret that the Towering Pagoda is purely for show, just another means of enforcing Dimitri's empty, effortless intimidation, but you find it breathtaking, even in its deceit. There's a kind of mournful splendor to Chinatown. An ageless, tarnished beauty, like oxidized silver.

Some of the children start a game just down the road, gathering players as the day wears on. Sometimes you wonder if they traveled here as you did, or if they were born in the years you never knew. They run as if they'll never tire, laugh as though the world were never cruel, hanging their endless cries of victory and disappointment in the sky as you watch from the shadows. When the ball stops at your feet, you pick it up and cup it in the palm of your hand, whistling innocently until a young girl pokes your arm and looks up at you with outstretched fingers and a shy smile.

Your brothers told you, long ago, that you had no right to miss something that was never yours. You were too afraid to disagree, but even as a child you knew that missing something was not the same as wanting it.

After the light has gone from the sky, the children from the streets, a figure emerges from the Towering Pagoda, wrapped in the folds of a long, dark coat. You naturally assume it's Dimitri, returning to the sleepless bright lights of his laboratory, but it isn't.

You know it's Clive just by the way he walks. Graceful and quick and deceptively careful, like the air itself can't know he's there.

"Hello," you say when he stops beside you. You're not supposed to speak in public, but there's no one there to catch you, and even if there were, Clive has never had much regard for Dimitri's rules.

"Lovely evening, isn't it?" he asks.

Peering over the dark rim of your glasses, you smile. "They're all lovely."

You stand together for a while, unwilling to break the stillness of the night, but when you look at Clive he's already watching you, eyes unreadable as he holds your gaze captive. Your brother's words flutter in your chest.

You hesitate. "Can I ask you something?"

Without warning, his expression grows dark. "More questions," he says viciously. "I thought the rest of you would learn by example."

"Wait, I—"

"Dimitri told me I was too ambitious," he mutters savagely, more to himself than to you. "This is what I get."

"Hold on, that's not—That's not what I—I don't know..."

Clive stares through the dark glass between you. "What then? What do you want to know?"

"I—" You falter, averting your eyes. "Why am I the only one who gets to patrol the Thames?"

Clive is silent for what seems like an eternity, and then he surprises you.

He laughs.

A sweet, pure laugh like the children at their games, rising up into the starless void of the sky. "What did you say?"

"I just—" You bite your lip. "I just wondered why none of my brothers ever stand watch by the Thames. It's only me."

Clive regards you for a second, then asks, "What do you think of the river?"

"Well, it's nice," you answer truthfully. "The water is nice. I suppose it's a little dirtier than I remember. But it's peaceful there. It's sort of beautiful, in a way."

And Clive leans in so close that his leg brushes against yours. "That's why," he says, and you're almost certain that the heat in your chest is something you never knew enough to miss.

Halfway through your second spring, one of your brothers meets a nurse from the clinic and asks for her hand in marriage. She's a shy, beautiful girl who tends to the city's children and takes meals rich in vitamin D to those with aches in their bones. Bostro opposes the union with malicious fury, and when your brother makes the mistake of asking where they might hold the ceremony, Bostro's only reply is an angry, pistol-shaped bruise on the side of his face.

"The world has only grown crueler," he says bitterly. "I'd go back if I could."

You knock on his door when your post ends, bringing warm soup and ice chips from the restaurant down the road, but you quickly find that you are not his only visitor.

Retrieving his cap from the window sill, Clive rises and gives you a cryptic smile; you don't think you've seen him in at least a month. "I'll see to it that the proper arrangements are made," he tells your brother, laying a reassuring hand against his shoulder. "After all, what kind of place would this be if we couldn't spend our lives with the ones we love?"

It isn't a very large wedding. Just you and your brothers and those acquaintances who remain unmoved by the Family's unshakeable presence. Even Bostro accepts the invitation, watching quietly from the back row as he crumples a blue handkerchief in his hand in a confounding display of emotion. Dimitri is unrecognizable and unnoticed in his plain suit, and Clive's attendance is an anomaly that no one dares to question. The Family knows enough to stay silent, and those who are strangers simply remain blind to their unease.

The ceremony is blessed by a Catholic priest and adorned with roses so vibrant in color you're sure they couldn't have taken root in this earth. When your brother asks about the flowers, or why he's never seen a Catholic church anywhere in the city, Clive only smiles distantly and shakes his head. "This is the first wedding I've ever been to," he says, and raises his glass to the sky.

You watch him from across the grass, caught up in the lilting melody of his laughter, studying the way his hair catches the light of the sunless afternoon. There's a fire in his eyes that died in Dimitri's so very long ago, a fury beneath his smile you find both radiant and terrifying.

The dead summer air carries the first notes of the quartet's waltz—another Family extravagance you're sure can't be local—and Clive catches your eye from across the flowered lawn. "There aren't enough women here," he says, taking your hand. "Dance with me."

You never learned how to waltz, but Clive places his hand against your back and guides you through the movements, chuckling softly when you step on his foot. You look away, embarrassed, laughing in protest as he draws you close and snatches your sunglasses from your eyes. "Take these off," he says, tossing them into the grass. "You don't need them right now." You can feel his breath against your cheek, and his hair smells of pollen and fresh air. Like the white, tender warmth of some faraway sun.

As the evening carries the party away, he takes you to a small clearing by the river, crowded with strange plants and dry, dead patches of earth. "Snapdragons," he says softly, crouching down beside a fragile, dazzling stalk of orange flowers. "An experiment in genetic engineering, of course. Otherwise they'd never grow."

You kneel down beside him, cupping the flowers in the palm of your hand. "They're still beautiful," you tell him.

Clive studies them carefully, brushing past your fingers as he tests their petals. "They are," he decides after a while, and you recognize the dizzying fervor in his eyes just before he kisses you.

His mouth tastes of raspberry tarts and the too-sweet bite of champagne, like the rich warmth of the earth as you grasp at blades of broken grass. You stare at him when he finally pulls away, listening to your heart thud in your ears. "Why did you do that?" you ask meekly.

"Because you're handsome when you're not dressed like one of Dimitri's hopeless inventions," he tells you. "And because you look at me like I've saved your life." His smile fades as he lays his fingers against your cheek. "You can't think that of me. I haven't, you know."

You shake your head. "I... I don't understand."

"One day you might," he says, and kisses you again.

The stems snaps beneath his knees, so fragile in their death, orange petals caught like confetti in the wool of his suit. "The flowers," you insist helplessly, but Clive only sits back and cradles a broken snapdragon in his hand.

"Man made what God could not. I wonder if they'll even die."

"They have to," you say, smoothing over the dirt where the broken stem protrudes. "Everything dies."

Clive lowers his eyes. "When I was a boy," he says, "my mother would let me pick the flowers that grew behind our flat. I thought that if I put them in a vase inside the house, they'd be protected and they'd live longer. 'How pretty,' she'd say, and we'd put them on the table where we ate. As soon as they started to wilt, I'd just go outside and bring in more. But one day I realized that they weren't meant to be picked. They didn't belong in a glass vase inside someone's house. It only made them wilt faster." He breaks another stem between his fingers and holds it out to you. "But it made me sad that no ever saw their beauty in that little dirt patch outside our flat."

You gently take the snapdragons from him. "Then maybe they were happier in your vase," you say quietly.

Clive rises from the ground and smiles wistfully. "Maybe," he says, but the flowers cannot voice what you believe to be true.

Weeks pass before you see Clive again, and when you do, it's with the warning that his name is Luke and that you are enemies.

You begin to suspect that certain higher ups in the Family know more than they're letting on, but Bostro won't tell you anything beyond your daily assignment, and when you dare to ask he strikes you across the cheek with the latest issue of Clive's paper. "You shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you!" he growls, pushing past you as you pick your hat up off the floor.

"Something's going on," your brother whispers. "Something bad." Then he heads for his post on Auckland Lane without another word.

Clive is rarely alone now. When you pass each other on the street, the only sign of recognition is the lingering shadow of a smile, a fleeting twitch at the corners of his mouth that no one catches but you. Your brothers regard his party with newfound distrust and growing resentment, but you know well enough that no charade is without its purpose.

His young companion appraises your city with watchful eyes and hushed words, fearless in his demand to let them pass. Clive is dressed to resemble the child, but you can tell in an instant that the boy will never fulfill the future that Clive would have him be.

It isn't until the last hour of a night shift on Midland Road that you finally see him alone, casting faint shadows beneath the needless glow of the streetlamps. He looks at you so strangely, it makes your chest tighten, like the look in your father's eyes when you told him you were leaving.

"What is it?" you ask, because there's nobody there to catch you.

Clive slips his hands into his pockets, gazing up at the pale, eerie shift into dawn. "In the end, there can only be one sun," he says finally. "Did you never miss it?"

You lean against the cool brick of the corner building. "What do you mean?" When he gives no answer, you take off your sunglasses and wipe them on your sleeve. "I can't even see you," you say with a small laugh, but Clive's expression remains impassive.

"I don't think you need those anymore," he says suddenly.

You run your fingers over the hinge, slightly cracked from when you fell asleep wearing them. "Why not?"

Clive peers at the sky again. "Even man's creations die," he says without emotion. "What would you say if I told you to leave?"

You stare at him as the knot in your chest grows tighter. "My shift is almost over."

"That's not what I mean," Clive says. He turns to face you, and there's a coldness to his words you've only heard one other time. "Surely you must have figured it out," he whispers. "Don't you even realize where you are?" He takes your hand and presses it against the wall. "I made this," he says with a small, miserable laugh. "I made all of this. It isn't real."

You shake your head, even as the words fail to surprise you. "Of course it is."

"It's not. It never was. The pet shop, the hotel... The restaurants, the bookstore... I created them. I forced them into this empty existence. They came because I told them to." He gives another broken laugh. "Nobody really lives here."

"That isn't true," you insist. "Lots of people live here. I live here." You blink away the sudden sting of a decade's worth of tears. "You live here," you plead. "It doesn't matter how it began. It's real now. It's real to me."

Clive lets go of your hand, studying you in the pallid light of his rising sun. "If you ever wanted to be saved, this is your chance. Please...go home."

You look past him into the street. "This is my home," you tell him, and the smile he gives you is all at once broken and beautiful.

"Then forgive me," he whispers, and kisses you gently on the cheek before turning and walking away.

It's the last time you ever see him. The last night you patrol Midland Road. The last time you fall into a perfect, dreamless sleep, curtains drawn against the morning's light.

You wake up hours later to the sound of someone pounding violently on your door. It's much too early for your next shift to begin, but the noise is so heavy it feels as though the room is shaking. You blink up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly as you will it to stop. It has to be one of your brothers—you're the only ones who live there—but by the time you open the door the hallway is empty, and you slowly realize that the floor is still shaking with some powerful, unseen force.

You take your time getting dressed, even as the faraway sirens fill the air with terror. People run past as you walk through the streets. Some are crying, some are trying to rescue things from their shops. You see your eight brothers, but they do not see you, and you take no measures to change this. A small boy waves to you fondly before being hustled along by his parents. You taught him how to play jacks one summer. You wave back.

Eventually you find yourself in Chinatown, staring at your reflection in the window of the empty toy store. You walk past the cracks beginning to form in the street and press your hands against the trembling glass. There's no one left to tell you you're making a mistake. In this moment, the city belongs to you.

"If you could change anything about your past," Clive had asked you once, "would you?"

You had thought for a second, then said, "When I was a child, there was a toy store near our house. We passed it every day on the way to school. All I ever wanted was the stuffed bear in the window. It was such a small thing to ask for... I never got to touch it. I never even got to go inside." You didn't look up at him. "What about you?"

"The past no longer belongs to us," Clive had said after a moment. "It is not ours to change." You looked at him then, at the fleeting ache in his eyes before it vanished. "It can only inspire the future. Those faraway losses and dreams... The future is all we have."

"It's stupid to want a stuffed bear," you had laughed quietly.

"No, it isn't," Clive had insisted, and gave you a toy store to prove you were wrong.

You refuse to cry as the ceiling falls away, as the plaster and dust and blood begin to sting your eyes. Dropping to your knees, you blindly grope your way towards the back of the store, crawling over cracks in the floor and the desolate jangle of toy fire engines. There's a small display of handmade dolls in the corner, softer still than the clouds you gave up years ago. Gasping for air, you pull a stuffed bear from the shelf with the very tips of your fingers before you're thrown against the wall. Then you raise your eyes to the crumbling sky, smiling into its fur as the world around you goes white.

Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew fic: So Fair a House

bethfrish — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 01:46:52 GMT

So here is a thing that I finally finished!

It took FOREVER, but is very, very dear to me. ;__;

Two years ago I wrote a Hardy Boys fic for yuletide called Our Red Sea, in which I mercilessly killed off Fenton Hardy as a cheap plot device. Joe was the star, but it was the beginning of a glorious new relationship with his endearingly dysfunctional family. Six months later I added Don't Tell Me You Love Me to the timeline, which detailed the reluctantly torrid love affair between Fenton Hardy and Carson Drew in 1930s New York, and which cemented my ENDLESS AND UNDYING LOVE for Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew fandom. (Or at least the fandom that I made up in my head.)

Reading these stories isn't required for this to make sense, but it is, technically, a joint sequel of sorts, so if you're nuts like me and think that Fenton and Carson (and their mystery-solving relations) are the GREATEST IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD, please feel free to read them first. :D

(Seriously, you don't have to.)

Anyway, uhhh you'll have to read this on AO3 because it is actually A PLAY(???) and there was a lot of crazy CSS coding involved that LJ would just devour.

Finally, if you've ever read the Hardy Boys books at any point in your life, then you too must wonder how Fenton managed to stay alive for as long as he did.

Bless your soul, Fenton Hardy. Bless your soul.

Title: So Fair a House
Fandom: The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew
Pairing: Fenton Hardy/Carson Drew
Raiting: PG-13

SO FAIR A HOUSE
A PLAY IN ONE ACT

Related Works
Our Red Sea (1955)
Don't Tell Me You Love Me (1935)
The Endless Beauty of the Deli Sandwich (1922)
Lâche pas la patate (1925)

*Horace Bolton hails from the Judy Bolton series, a less popular but equally amazing collection of early-twentieth-century children's mysteries.

Great Escape fic: The Other Side

bethfrish — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 21:27:17 GMT

Guess what time it is! It's yuletide reveal time!

This year my assigned fandom was The Great Escape, the 1963 film detailing the infamous escape of Allied soldiers from Stalag Luft III, a World War II German POW camp. During the summer between my junior and senior year of high school, my father made me watch what I believe to be every World War II film ever produced. I imagine it was for his own sense of nostalgia more than anything, but I developed a great deal of affection for the genre nevertheless. (Male-only companionship in times of war? Yes, I think I will have some of that.)

Having been a product of 1960s Hollywood, the film is not without its flaws (I learned this very quickly as I attempted to research the finer details of the real-life escape) but Steve McQueen's unnecessarily insistent motorcycle showboating doesn't hold a candle to all the wonderfully endearing characters and the heartbreaking beauty of their friendships. (Not that Steve McQueen doesn't look sexy on a motorcycle, but you know what I mean.)

destina asked for Danny/Willie (the all-important tunnelers) in her request, and as their relationship has made my heart leap since the tender age of sixteen, I was more than happy to comply.

Title: The Other Side
Fandom: The Great Escape
Pairing: Danny Velinski/Willie Dickes
Rating: PG-13

You can also read it here on AO3.

Danny knows he won't sleep the night before the escape. He closes his eyes and pulls the coarse wool of his blankets up against his chest, but he can still hear the hushed footsteps of the guards through the walls of their hut, can still see every nameless shadow splayed across the wood of the ceiling, stained like ink against the back of his eyelids.

It doesn't matter how many days it's been, he can still feel it when he swallows, that dry, gritty nightmare of sand and minerals and earth, choking the cry from his lungs as he fights for one more breath. Sometimes it seems like it's all he can remember anymore, the way the dust clings to his skin and lingers in the back of his throat. How when he inhales too sharply his mouth tastes of iron, like the bitter tang of cracked skin and blood.

"Danny?" comes a whisper from somewhere beneath him. "Are you awake?"

Danny opens his eyes. "Yes." He waits for the rustle of covers, knowing that it's only a matter of time before Willie pokes his head up over the edge of his bunk. "Why are you not asleep?" Danny asks.

Willie smiles earnestly at him through the darkness, propping his arms against the worn frame of the bed. "Think of it, Danny. After tomorrow night, we'll be free. Free from this place. Free from everything. I may not sleep at all tonight," he whispers feverishly.

Danny turns his face into his pillow, dark hair falling over his eyes. "I think I may not ever sleep again," he says distantly, and Willie's boyish smile fades.

"Hey," he whispers, laying his hand across Danny's arm. "We'll make it out all right. We will. I promise, Danny. You and me."

Willie's touch is warm against his skin, but Danny told himself long ago that not all promises are forever. He rolls onto his side and places his hand on Willie's shoulder. "We should be careful not to wake the others," he says, resting his fingers against the soft, worn threads of Willie's pajamas.

"Right," Willie says. He catches Danny's fingers in his and disappears beneath the shadows of his own bunk. "Goodnight, Danny," he whispers a few minutes later.

"Goodnight," Danny answers, wide awake as the guards outside continue their rounds, scattering the dirt beneath their feet as if it were nothing.

The sharp March air still feels like winter, but Griff didn't have the thread to spare for gloves, and Danny knows they should be thankful that it hasn't started to snow. He digs his knuckles into the lining of his pockets, staring out into the woods as Willie checks their compass.

"The Neisse is a straight shot due west," Willie explains. "We should be able to make it by sunrise. Then we just follow the Oder until we reach Stettin."

Danny smiles grimly. "I hope someone will lend us their boat, because I was never very good at swimming." Willie gives a soft laugh, but Danny only purses his lips and nods towards the forest. "We shouldn't stand here any longer," he says.

Four hours later, Willie pulls a map from his pocket and spreads it out beneath the light of Danny's carefully guarded match. "It shouldn't be long now. Another hour, maybe, if we keep at this pace. Are you hungry?"

Danny shakes his head. "I'm all right," he says, then peers at Willie in the darkness and adds, "And you?"

"Just cold," Willie laughs, brushing up beside him. "Roger picked a fine night, didn't he?"

"It will be warmer in the morning," Danny says, savoring the burst of heat when Willie takes his hand in his and draws the matchstick to his lips.

The rowboat is nothing short of heaven sent, and Danny takes the single set of oars in his hands before Willie can think to protest. "I'll row first," Danny tells him, steering in the direction of Willie's frozen fingertips. Stettin is a day away, even in the best conditions, and while the soft light of dawn is a welcome reprieve from the cold, it carries with it an entirely new set of dangers that neither wants to mention.

"Tell me when you're tired, Danny," Willie says from across the hull. "I'll take over."

The corner of Danny's mouth twitches. "I can row faster," he says gruffly, but Willie just smiles and pulls his coat tighter around his body, drawing his knees to his chest as he closes his eyes.

Danny loses track of the distance, loses track of the time, and the sun is only beginning to set when he looks up through the sweat in his hair and finds Willie crouched down on the balls of his feet. "You've been at it long enough," he insists. "When was the last time you slept?" Danny clenches his jaw and says nothing, but Willie resists the oars without even trying. "Your hands are bleeding," he says gently.

Danny looks down at the stained cuffs of his jacket. "I need an hour, no more," he insists, but Willie pulls the oars up on the side of the boat and shakes his head, finding his handkerchief in the pocket of his trousers before pressing it to Danny's calloused palms.

"Sleep," Willie tells him, taking his place at the bow. Danny pulls his cap down over his eyes and pretends to do as he says, because sleep won't come—not last night, not now—and all he can do is wait as the waning daylight robs the air of its warmth, listening to the river crash and fall as Willie's pale eyes reflect the rising lights from the shore.

They reach Stettin in the early hours of the morning, treading carefully through the open waters of the Oder because only a fool would think that the city isn't more Nazi than native this far into the war. "We just have to look like we belong," Danny mutters, trying to decide if it's safer to steer away from the chaos or into it.

"Over there, Danny." Willie motions carefully to his left. "If the name is anything to go by, that ship should be headed for Stockholm. What do you think?"

Danny glances over his shoulder, nodding silently. His arms are on fire and the dry wind burns worse than the sand, but he knows too well that they have to do this quickly or not at all.

Willie smiles weakly. "Good luck to us."

There's no one in sight when they set foot on deck, but both of them know that boarding the ship is the easy part. Willie stops beside a small hatch in the floor, crouching down to inspect the handle. "This must be the anchor locker," he says with hushed excitement. "I don't think we're going to find a more perfect—" He stops all at once, trying to hide the concern from his voice. "This is okay, isn't it? We could—"

Danny frowns. "It's fine." They descend the ladder and pull the hatch shut, stepping carefully between piles of netting and heavy coils of chain. "We even have a window," Danny says flatly, pointing to the sliver of light streaking in through the hawsehole.

"Luxurious," Willie agrees.

They push the netting up against the wall and crawl into the corner, pressed up beside one another in what little space remains. Willie digs into the pocket of his coat, retrieving the last of their sandwiches.

"Do you want to rats to join us?" Danny asks, but Willie just laughs and presses the torn bread into his hand.

"What do you think you'll do when we get back?" Willie asks after a while. They've been hiding for hours with no sign of departure, no sign of anything. Danny can feel the ache beginning to creep back into his knees.

"I don't know," he says.

Willie reaches down into the space between them and brushes his fingers against Danny's wrist. "Because—"

Danny grabs his hand and squeezes. "Be quiet." Willie looks at him questioningly, but doesn't let go.

The sound is unmistakable now. The cold echo of footsteps down the hatch. Clipped murmurs of German and Swedish coming from somewhere above deck. The ship must be getting ready to depart, but that isn't why Danny's heart is racing.

The netting falls away without warning. "Vad—"

Willie springs to his feet, waving his hands frantically. "Wait, please! British! We're British! Oh, Christ, do you speak English?"

The sailor stares at them for a moment, checking over his shoulder with a troubled expression. "Yes, I speak English," he says finally.

Willie heaves a great sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

"What are you doing here?" the sailor asks. "You should not be here."

"Please," Willie begs. "Please, we're only trying to get home."

"You are British?"

Danny remains silent, Willie nods. "Yes, British. Please, will you help us?"

The sailor studies them for a moment, then purses his lips. "The German police are above," he says. "But I will hide you if you promise to stay quiet. Yes?"

"Yes! Oh, yes!" Willie gasps with relief. "Thank you! You don't know—"

He puts his finger to his lips. "Please," he insists, not unkindly. "My name is Tomas. I will come see you after we depart, but you must not make any noise until the police have gone."

"Yes, of course." Willie slides down next to Danny, smiling gratefully as Tomas replaces their makeshift barricade. "Are you all right, Danny?" he whispers when it's quiet again.

Danny lifts his eyes. There were times, towards the end, when he couldn't take the tunnels anymore, when Willie would cradle his head in his arms and tell him that he was okay, that all of this was worth it if it meant they got to see the other side of that wire. And when Danny was the one who had to scrape through the rubble, one frantic tangle of arms and legs as he forced the dirt from Willie's mouth, Willie just looked up at him and grinned, blinking the dust from his eyelashes as he coughed and whispered, "Good thing you were there."

Danny exhales roughly. "If I had been here on my own," he says, "I think our friend would have sent me overboard."

Danny can feel Willie's laugh course through his body like a tremor, like it's Willie's voice in his throat, Willie's pulse in his veins. He can feel the weight of his sigh when he clutches Danny's hand in the space between their knees, threading their fingers together as he slowly drifts to sleep. It's too familiar to be too close, and he isn't sure what will happen when he has to let go.

They arrive in Stockholm late Monday morning, hungry and exhausted and so overcome with relief that Danny hardly has the words to speak. He survived the last two years clinging to the hope that freedom was within his grasp. He hadn't realized that he'd never allowed himself to finish the dream. Now that he's here, none of it seems real.

"I don't think I've ever been so grateful to set foot on land," Willie laughs, throwing an arm around Danny's tired shoulders. His clothes are smeared with dirt and his hair smells of the sea, but when he smiles his eyes betray them all, that bright, startling blue that rivals even the sky. "We made it, Danny. We're going home."

Danny leans against him, squinting into the sunlight. "I know," he says.

Tomas rejoins them once they're ashore. True to his word, he'd kept them out of sight while the police had concluded their inspection, listened to their story—the short version and bits of the long—leaning against the wall in bewildered silence until Willie had lacked the energy to continue. He'd even brought them food from the cabin, realizing all at once that they should have been half-starved.

"We will find the British consulate," he tells them after taking leave of his duties. "And then, if you can bear one more journey, you will please join me and my friends for dinner."

Danny feels like he's been awake forever. He tries to track the hours in his mind, sorting through the stream of his own punctured consciousness, but the last three days are an endless blur of blistered hands and swollen joints, of fleeting, absent sunsets and the crippling fear of being caught. He can't remember if he slept on the ship or not, but he nods and tells Tomas, "Thank you."

They wait in the office for hours, filling out papers and speaking with one consul after another, but when they finally emerge it's with fresh clothing and the first hotel room they've seen in years, and all Danny can think is that the place is far too clean for the likes of them.

Willie sits down tentatively on the edge the bed, running his hands over the flawless expanse of white. "I don't know if I'll be able to sleep here," he jokes. "This mattress is much too soft."

Danny lies down on his own bed on the other side of the room, folding his hands across his chest. "There's always the floor."

When he opens his eyes again, Willie is standing over him, water dripping onto his shoulders as he fastens the buttons on his shirt.

"Sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't know if you were asleep or not. I thought you might want a bath." He pauses. "You know, we don't have to go. Not if you don't want to."

Danny vaguely remembers the sound of running water, the warm haze of steam against his skin. "I wasn't asleep," he says. "We'll go."

Tomas takes them to a bar where his friends are already waiting; a sailor named Jan who's scheduled to leave for Helsinki in the morning, and Elsa, his neighbor, who smiles prettily at them as if she knows something they don't.

"Elsa makes hats," Tomas informs them with a playful smile. "Very stylish and overpriced."

She swats at his hand from across the table, shaking her head as she scolds him in Swedish. "Perhaps you will come see them later," she tells Danny, smiling as she lowers her glass. "Tomas is just bitter because his head is too big."

They dine on herring and potatoes and more beer than Danny's seen in two years. "Best to hold back," Tomas warns. "Give your body time to adjust." The first drink makes Danny's head spin.

Tomas tells them the latest news. Jan asks them timid, delicate questions about the camp. Elsa cuts into her fish and sighs, "They don't want to talk about that," calling for another beer when she sees that Willie's glass is empty. Danny hardly speaks at all, just stares through his ale and tells himself that this is what life is like outside the wire, this is what he wanted.

The night fades into a haze of endless, liquor-blurred hours. Walking to Elsa's smoke-filled apartment at half past midnight, sinking into the sofa with her cat curled up in his lap. Willie falls down beside him on the cushions, adjusting that hideous purple cloche as Elsa leans in behind them and laughs, elegantly plucking the cat hairs from the felt.

At some point Willie presses up against him on the sofa, resting one hand on his leg. "Do you want to leave?" he whispers. Danny can smell the alcohol on his breath.

He shakes his head, studying the grain in the floorboards as he runs his fingers through Bertie's copper fur. "Whatever you want," he says.

Elsa brings two bottles of wine out from the kitchen, forcing a glass into Danny's hands before he can decline. He slowly raises it to his lips, wondering if he'll ever be able to sleep through the night.

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again Elsa is leaning in close from behind the sofa. "Let's go to the other room," she says softly, trailing her fingers beneath the pressed collar of the British consulate's shirt. Tomas and Jan are passed out in their chairs, heads down on the table beside their wine, but Willie's still there next to him, hazy-eyed and flushed, his own shirt half undone.

Elsa laughs again. "Your friend can come too," she murmurs against his neck. "I'm not blind."

Danny freezes at her touch, pushing his way from the sofa as Bertie bounds away.

He staggers outside, breathing shallowly into the frigid bite of the wind. He can't take it; that putrid smell of lingering cigarettes and dyed, wet wool; overripe fruit and the sickly spice of earth he can never seem to shake. Willie gazing up at him through his eyelashes, incited by too many beers and that woman's grating laugh—

The front door creeks open and Willie slips through the entryway, Danny's jacket draped carefully over his arms. "Bloody cold," he says after a moment.

Danny doesn't meet his eyes. "Yes."

Willie hands him the coat, steady on his feet despite the liquor. "Let's get some sleep," he says.

Danny doesn't expect him to touch his shoulder and smile. That was before—a whole different lifetime—and all Willie does is nod and turn around, shoving his hands in his pockets as he slowly walks away.

The office of the British consulate rings their hotel in the morning, pale rays of sunlight seeping in through the curtains as Danny covers his eyes with his arm. He can tell who it is by the excitement in Willie's voice. By the way he inhales before replying, "Of course." There's a flight to Scotland that leaves the next afternoon, followed by a train that will take them the rest of the way to London. Willie replaces the receiver with an unsteady hand; Danny knows he's been awake for hours.

"This is it, then," Willie says. "We're going home."

Danny digs his palms into his eyes. It turns out that Willie was right about the mattress. Danny had spent the better part of the night turning restlessly beneath the covers, caught between half-conscious dreams and the urge to tear every starched white sheet from the bed. He knew well enough that Willie wasn't asleep either—he'd always been able to tell—but he'd only closed his eyes and waited for the morning to come, echoing the shallow, soundless breathing that betrayed them both.

"This is it," Danny agrees.

They breakfast on eggs and toast and freshly made Swedish coffee, sitting at a small café down the road from their hotel. Danny purses his lips when Willie adds three teaspoons of sugar to his cup.

"I thought you British only drank tea."

"Well," Willie says, smiling slightly as he tears the yolk of his egg. "They say that war changes you."

Tomas comes to see them again, dressed as he was when they first met. "Ah, I thought I had missed you," he sighs with relief, taking Willie's hand in his. "My ship is leaving once more for Stettin. I wanted to make sure I wished you luck, since you will surely be gone by the time I return."

"I don't think we can ever thank you enough," Willie tells him. "Truly, thank you."

Stettin feels like a lifetime ago, and Danny can't imagine ever having to go back. He doesn't think he'd make it out a second time. "Yes, thank you," he echoes, extending his hand.

Tomas smiles. "Did you enjoy last night?" he asks. "I hope the beer did not, ah, upset your digestion. I must also apologize for falling asleep before you left." He laughs. "I suppose I did not take my own advice."

Danny can feel Willie's eyes on him, that loaded silence that only he can hear. "Your friends were much better company than the Germans," Danny says with a wry smile. Tomas laughs, and Willie just steps forwards and thanks him again.

Danny hasn't been on a plane since that Fw 190 sent him spiraling towards the earth, wondering in those fragile, fleeting moments if his life was about to burn up around him. He lies across his bed, listening to the scratches of Willie's pen against the desk. "Who are you writing to?" he asks.

Willie pauses. "My sister. But you know, I suppose I might actually see her first. That's strange to think about, isn't it? Of course, I don't even know if she's safe. I could make it to London only to find that my family is gone. That they've left, fled—I don't know." Willie smiles unhappily. "We don't even know what we're going back to, do we?"

"Your family is safe, I'm sure," Danny says.

"And you?" Willie pauses. "What will you do?"

Danny turns onto his side. "I have sisters too," he says, "but it's been years... I wouldn't know where to write. I wonder who else made it out," he says before Willie can try to assuage his fears with well-intentioned lies. "Roger? Hilts? I... I don't have anywhere to go. If I made it out and they didn't..."

Willie's standing over him now, shaking his head. "Don't think like that, Danny. You can't—I promised we'd make it out, remember? You and me." He crouches down beside the bed and props his arm up on the frame, the way he used to at their bunk when neither of them could sleep. "I wouldn't have made it on my own."

"Of course you would have."

"No, not alone," he insists almost desperately. "I wouldn't have wanted to go at it alone. I... I don't know what I would have done if you weren't still there." Then he inhales sharply and leans in, brushing their lips together before Danny can think to reply.

The kiss is too hesitant, too shy, but it's the only part of the last four days that's made Danny feel anything but fear.

Willie pulls away without warning. "I—I'm sorry—" he says, panicked, but Danny catches his wrist.

"Willie..."

"I know you aren't...I mean..." Willie looks at him painfully, but Danny just shakes his head.

"Willie," he says slowly. "I never thought about what I would do if I actually made it out. I used to think that I'd go crazy down there, that maybe I already was." He gives a tired laugh. "But you're the only part of this whole stupid war that ever made any sense." And he pulls him close and kisses him until he's sure that Willie believes him.

They fall asleep together on Danny's bed, just like the days they spent lying across a bunk with half its slats missing. Listening to the guards crawling beneath their hut, sifting through the dirt and finding nothing. Reading a book together in the dull light of the afternoon because sometimes it was all they could do. Waiting for the signal that it was all right to dig, and hoping, in the silence between them, that freedom would desire nothing in return.

Nancy Drew/Laura Bow fic: Lâche pas la patate

bethfrish — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 21:14:29 GMT

Ahaha, why did this take me so long to write? D: Probably because it's nonsensical and OVERFLOWING WITH ANGST.

For those of you who aren't immaculate, the Laura Bow series is made up of two outstanding point-and-click adventures (released in 1989 and 1992, respectively) that feature probably the most unimportant, minor character father in the history of all unimportant, minor character fathers. He literally appears in the first game as a single flashback thought bubble in order to remind his daughter to please be careful and not get herself killed on her slutty friend's creepy uncle's sugar plantation. (It's a good game, I swear.) So all you really know about John Bow is that he's a middle-aged, widower father with a pretty daughter who enjoys solving mysteries.

HMMM. SOUNDS A LITTLE FAMILIAR.

Title: Lâche pas la patate
Fandoms: Nancy Drew, Laura Bow
Pairing: Carson Drew/John Bow
Rating: R

Because I love crossovers almost as much as I love unimportant, minor character [gay] fathers.

The telegram doesn't reach Carson until after he arrives at the hotel, one shy string of knocks against the door frame, pulsing in the pressure behind his eyes, and again where his glasses pinch the bridge of his nose. He opens the door, thanking the messenger with a brittle smile. "Unforeseen events. Symposium canceled," he reads out loud. The paper flutters to the floor. "Well," he says.

It's nearly midnight when he leaves the hotel, but Bourbon Street is all pretty lights and prettier men, and Carson buries his hands in his pockets and watches for the one who quirks his mouth and leers up at him from the painted steps.

"Anything I can do for you?" the boy asks when Carson stops in front of him, all long eyelashes and unforgiving smile.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two," he says. "Old enough."

Carson frowns. "You certainly don't look twenty-two."

The boy smirks and leans forward, resting one hand lightly against the inside of his thigh. "Then I suppose you'll be on your way."

Carson watches as he trails his fingers slowly up the inseam of his trousers. "Of course," Carson begins, "I'm frequently told that I don't look my age," and he flashes the stripe of green that's tucked artlessly against his palm.

Carson takes him back to his hotel, locking the door behind them as the boy begins to undress.

"How do you want it?" he asks Carson, sliding out of his underwear. "I mean do you like to fuck, or get fucked?"

Carson leans against the doorway, dizzy and fully clothed, watching the way the light curves around the muscles in his legs. He removes his glasses and sets them on the table. "Actually, I—" He looks away, almost shyly. "I'd really just like to touch you," he says, brushing the hair away from his eyes. "Would that be all right?"

The boy scratches behind his ear. "All right. Sure."

Carson crosses the room and studies him for a moment. For all his apparent youth, he has to lift his chin in order to meet his eyes. "Green," Carson observes, brushing their lips together awkwardly. "You don't see that very much."

He runs his hands down the bare skin of the boy's waist, pressing him against the wall before getting down on his knees. He can feel the boy's hands in his hair as he reaches up to stroke him, can feel the way he trembles when Carson moans softly and takes him in his mouth, struggling to breathe as he shoves his own hand desperately beneath the waistband of his trousers. It takes him by surprise when those fingers tighten in his hair, so tender in their urgency. He tugs his pants down around his thighs, squeezes his eyes shut and swallows.

"Here," Carson tells him after they've dressed, emptying half his wallet and leaving it on the table. He goes to lie on the bed, draping one arm over his eyes.

The boy's eyes go wide. "This is... Jesus." He takes the money, slipping it into his pocket. "Come and see me any time." He laughs prettily with a smile that Carson can't see, and Carson just opens his eyes against the coarse fabric of his shirt, blinking at nothing as the door clicks shut.

The first train to New York is at three o'clock the next afternoon. He sends word to his sister and checks his watch—it's hardly past nine—draws a bath and lies there against the marble, combing the soap through his hair until the water grows cold. He calls down for a glass of orange juice and throws his unworn clothing in next to the presentation he was meant to give on criminal law. The papers crinkle and bend as he snaps the suitcase shut.

Just before he checks out, a telegram arrives from one of the professors at Tulane, an old schoolmate of Carson's whose idea it was to invite him in the first place. Presumably an explanation, or maybe even an apology, but Carson just folds it up and drops it in the waste bin without reading it.

He arrives at the train station three hours early with a book whose pages he keeps forgetting to turn. There's clock above his head that chimes dutifully on the hour, but its warnings are in vain; when the train pulls away on the third and final bell, Carson is still gazing absently at his lap, five pages back from where he started because of the breeze.

He checks into the same hotel, following the bellhop down a foreign corridor whose air is stale with the lingering aroma of cigarettes. The room is just like his first one, only the bed is where the armoire should be and the doors are on the wrong walls. He doesn't remember the last time he ate, so he dines on his balcony on a rich soup of seafood and cream, staring out in the distance at the black and unsettling void of the Mississippi.

It's easy enough to find him a second time, lingering in the shadows of the doorway as he combs his fingers through the waves in his hair. "Hello again," says the boy, smiling viciously.

Carson jerks his chin. "Come on," he says sharply, but they've hardly turned the corner when the footsteps behind him go abruptly still.

"Hey, what is this?" Carson turns around just quickly enough to catch the angry glint in his eyes. "Go ahead, Bow, see if he paid me." The boy glares past Carson. "Filthy cops," he spits as he turns away, casting a hateful glance over his shoulder before taking off at a run.

"Funny thing is," says a voice from beside him, "this hasn't been my beat in years."

Carson looks over at the cop, sliding his hands into his pockets because he doesn't know what else to do. "He seemed to know you," he says finally.

"I've arrested him three times."

Carson clenches his teeth and waits to be questioned, or worse, taken in, but the man only smiles vaguely and steps closer. He's older than Carson, though not unattractive. Dignified and confident in his own handsome middle age. "Well," Carson offers after a moment. "Goodnight, then."

The man laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I could tell right away that you're not from around here, but that Yankee accent is the clincher. Vacationing with the wife?"

Carson smiles thinly. "No. No, I'm not married."

"Ah, well. I suppose you can't get into trouble that way. It's certainly easy enough around these parts," he says obscurely, "if that's what you're looking for."

Carson narrows his eyes. "I'd imagine."

"Of course," says the man, "sometimes that's exactly what you're looking for."

"Sometimes," Carson agrees.

"Forgive me," he says with more intensity than the words require. "Surely you have somewhere to be. I didn't mean to keep you."

Carson gives a dry laugh. "Actually," he says, "I should to be on a train to New York. But I'm starting to think that maybe I'd rather be here."

"New Orleans is a lovely city," the man says, and trails his fingers gently over Carson's wrist.

The man—John, he tells him lightly—takes him to a pretty house of blue and white, up a small set of stairs and into a darkened sitting room. "Make yourself at home," he says, disappearing down the hallway. Carson removes his hat and drifts along the wall, gazing at a row of photographs whose subjects have been lost to the dark.

When John returns he's wearing only his trousers and a thin shirt of cotton. "You must be dying in that coat," he laughs kindly, so Carson pulls the linen from his shoulders and drapes it over the back of the sofa, inhaling softly as one hand slides slowly around his waist. "Is it all right if I kiss you?" John asks.

Carson nods, letting John turn him around in his arms. He brushes Carson's hair away and whispers against his skin, kisses his jaw and undoes his clothing until he's lying breathless across the sofa. "Have you ever been with a man?" John asks softly as he kneels between his thighs.

Carson gazes at the ceiling, shaking his head. "No. No, not this way—never—" he gasps as John touches him, throwing his head back against the cushions. "God," he begs, digging his nails into the other man's back.

It's still dark when Carson wakes up, the damp morning air prickling at the sweat on his skin. He shivers and buries his face in the pillow, too aware of that heavy, unfamiliar warmth at his side.

When he opens his eyes again it's to the smell of freshly made coffee, deep and rich as it slowly pervades the room. He sits up, reaching for his glasses. He has no idea what time it is.

"Oh, good morning," John says from the doorway. He's already dressed.

Carson instinctively pulls the sheet up to his waist. "Good morning," he says.

"I'm afraid I have to work today," John tells him, leaning forward to adjust his tie in the bedroom mirror. He studies his own reflection for a moment. "A seasoned detective should probably have more sense than this," he says after a while, "but if you'd care to join me for dinner this evening—"

"I'd like that very much."

John looks surprised. "Of course, I didn't mean to presume..." He gives a small laugh. "I don't even know how long you're going to be in town."

"Does it matter?"

"No, I suppose not." He walks over to the edge of the bed and sits down. "You're welcome to stay here," he offers, resting his hand lightly beside Carson's knee. "If you'd like, of course. For the afternoon. For the night. It's only me here."

Carson looks at him closely in the dim light of the morning. There's an unnerving sincerity in his pale eyes. "Do you make a habit of inviting men you've just met into your house?" Carson asks.

"No," John says, and slowly pulls the sheet down off his hips. "Not generally."

Carson laughs as John begins to kiss him. "I could rob you blind," he murmurs against his throat.

John pushes him down against the bed. "Promise you won't," he says, and drops slowly to his knees.

It's hours before Carson gets up, even after the soft click of the front door announces that John is gone. He pulls the sheet up around his chest, breathing in the choking aroma of coffee as the sunlight stains the wall.

When Carson returns to his hotel there's a telegram from his sister waiting for him. He doesn't read it, just folds it up and sinks it into the depths of his pocket, then runs a bath and packs his suitcase yet again.

He stops twice before returning. Once for a sandwich and once at the telegraph office. Something came up, he scribbles across the form. May be awhile. He gives John's address to the clerk.

Sitting on the bus, he dimly realizes that he's going to run out of clothes, and maybe even money, but the lights of the French Quarter are alive and bright even in the mid-afternoon sun, and the tireless whir of banks and boutiques, of shoes stores and law offices, are a small but welcome comfort. He stares out the window and waits for the driver to announce his stop, watching the colors blur and vanish through the smears on the glass.

John cooks a lavish meal of oysters and greens and Trout Meuniere, brushing his lips against Carson's neck as he pulls his chair out from the table. "There's more wine in my cellar than I know what to do with," he says, prying the cork from a six-year-old white Bordeaux.

"So what happens to all that confiscated liquor?" Carson teases. "You divide it up and take it home?"

John shakes his head, laughing as he raises his glass to his lips. "That bathtub gin will burn a hole right through your chest. I thought you deserved the real thing."

"Hardly," Carson murmurs, cutting neatly into his fish.

They talk as they dine; John tells him that he's been with the New Orleans Police Department since he was twenty-two, and that he plans to retire within the year. Carson tells him that he works for the District Attorney's office, and that he can understand why he'd want to retire.

"You aren't in town for long, then," John says. "Surely they need you back in New York."

Carson toys with the stem of his glass. "They think I'm giving a presentation at Tulane for the weekend. They don't know that it's been canceled." He looks up, smiling faintly. "At least, I hope they don't."

"You know, my daughter goes to Tulane," John tells him. "Of course, she wouldn't hear of living at home. She said she wouldn't be able to study with her father peering over her shoulder all the time. I wish I saw her more often than I do," he admits, "but I suppose there are certain...advantages to her absence."

Carson swallows his fish. "I didn't know you had a daughter," he says finally.

"Her name is Laura. Here, just a moment." John disappears into the sitting room while Carson empties the last of the wine into his glass. "This was taken last summer," John says when he returns, lingering behind Carson's chair as he sets a small silver frame down on the tablecloth.

"She's very pretty."

John smiles wistfully. "She looks more and more like her mother."

"I didn't know you were married."

"I was." John lays his hand against Carson's shoulder, brushing his fingers lightly over the back of his neck. "Of course, I later discovered that being intimate with a woman never excited me half as much as being intimate with a man, but I cared for my wife very deeply. She died when Laura was two."

"I'm sorry," Carson says, turning away from the girl's forlorn gaze.

"Don't be sorry for what you can't control. We all survive somehow. And I still have a daughter who means the world to me."

Carson frowns, reaching up to caress the hand at shoulder. "Your trout is going to get cold," he warns, and places the tips of John's fingers against his lips.

John opens a second bottle of wine that disappears as quickly as the first, and Carson starts caressing his leg beneath the table, narrowing his eyes until John finally groans softly and sets his fork aside.

"Leave it," he murmurs when Carson reaches for his plate, moving behind him to slide one hand slowly around his waist.

Carson lays the porcelain down next to Laura's pretty frame, sitting forgotten at the edge of the table. She smiles mournfully up at him from behind the glass, but Carson only closes his eyes and turns away, following John down the darkened hallway as he reaches for the buttons on his shirt.

When Carson wakes up it's to the fitful rhythm of a fleeting summer storm, crashing against the window as warm hands glide gently over his skin. John kisses his shoulder and threads whispers through his hair, tangling their legs together beneath the soft cotton sheets.

"What are you going to tell them," Carson sighs as John's fingers dig into his hips, "when they want to know why you're late?"

Laughing softly, John kisses his neck and presses him down against the bed. "An odd concern, coming from you. I do enjoy the occasional day off, you know."

Carson's breath catches in his throat. "I'm glad," he says after a moment, and John just slides beneath the covers and gently spreads his knees apart.

They spend the entire morning in bed, making love in the relentless summer heat until John's hair is damp with sweat and Carson's voice is raw. The rain stopped falling hours ago, but Carson can still hear the water trickling softly from rafters, can still see the ripple of John's curtains when he presses his hands to his eyes, blinking away the patterns in the lace as his muscles begin to ache.

"I like New Orleans," Carson says absently as John places the sugar on the table.

"You've hardly seen New Orleans."

Carson brings the coffee to his lips, watching him over the rim of his cup. "Maybe I like what I've seen."

"What about your job?"

"There are jobs everywhere."

John gives him a thin smile, setting his teaspoon aside. "I won't deny that I enjoy your company, Carson. You're charming and well-educated and, frankly speaking, exceptionally attractive, but you can't expect me to believe that having an affair with a forty-five-year-old man is how you envisioned spending the rest of your life. How old are you, anyway? Thirty? You're closer to my daughter's age than to mine."

"What does it matter?"

"It doesn't, I suppose." Then he pauses. "Did you really come here to give a presentation on criminal law, or was that something you invented for my benefit?"

"I did," Carson insists. "It took me all night. The papers are still in a crumpled mess at the bottom of my suitcase. It was a very good presentation. Would you like to read it?"

John lowers his eyes. "No. No, I apologize," he says, brushing his fingers gently across Carson's wrist. "I have no real reason to doubt you. I just... You're so very young. I suppose I can't quite figure you out."

"One could say the same of you," Carson reminds him. "After all, you just made breakfast for a man you hardly know." He lowers his coffee. "Maybe there's nothing left for me in New York."

"I suppose that's your decision to make."

"It is," Carson agrees, and leaves the table to go take a bath.

When he comes back, John is sitting on the living room sofa, turning a small slip of paper over in the palm of his hand.

"What's that?" Carson asks, cleaning the lens of his glasses.

Expressionless, John hands him the card. "Telegram. It came while you were getting dressed."

Carson looks down at the note, and his blood curdles in his veins.

Nancy does nothing but cry day and night for her mother and father. She refuses to play. She refuses to eat. Such a loving child hardly deserves to be left with neither. Please come home. Eloise.

"Ah. It's from my sister," Carson says distantly. "I gave her your address. I hope you don't mind."

"And Nancy?"

Carson folds the telegram in half and says nothing, just stares vacantly at a blemish in the wood of the table.

"You told me you didn't have a family," John says.

Carson doesn't look at him. "That's not true. I told you I wasn't married."

"But you were. You were married." Carson can hear the anger rising in his voice, seeping into his words like slow-spreading poison. "You have a daughter."

"I do," Carson admits after a moment, wringing the telegram in his hands. "Her mother—my wife—she passed away in the spring. There was nothing the doctors could do. There was nothing anyone could do. Nancy is our only daughter. She's barely three."

"And does she mean so little to you? After what I told you—"

"You don't understand," Carson says, shaking his head.

"Oh no? What don't I understand?" John demands angrily. "How much it hurts to lose someone you love? The heartbreak that overwhelms you when you wake up and remember that she isn't there? My daughter—our daughter—she's all I have left. To think that you would abandon your only child—"

"But you don't understand," Carson insists desperately, cradling his head in his hands. "We aren't the same, not at all." He lets out a sigh that wracks his entire body. "Because I don't think I ever loved my wife, not like you—not like I should have. I married her because it was what I was supposed to do. I supported her. I even cared for her. But I never loved her. When she became sick... God, you don't know the resentment I felt. The guilt. That sickening sense of relief when it was finally over. And now I'm supposed to go home and be a father to our child? How?" he demands. "How can I possibly face my daughter when hearing her laugh only reminds me what a wretched excuse for a human being I am? How do I begin to care for her when, in three years, I'd never bothered to learn?"

John says nothing for a long time, then takes Carson's hand in his, pressing the rumpled telegram roughly against his palm. "That's just it," he says, not unkindly. "You learn," and all Carson can think is how he's seen that beautifully mournful smile before.

The four o'clock train to New York is already waiting when Carson arrives at the station. He lays his suitcase across the seat next to him, turning the key in the lock as the scenery begins to fall away. Beneath his shirts and trousers lies the mess of papers that had once been his presentation on criminal law. He puts them back in order, smoothing the pages over his lap before setting them aside. He refolds his clothing and places it at his feet, lays everything out across the floor until the suitcase is nearly empty.

At last he removes a small silver frame from the lining at the bottom, carefully wiping away the fingerprints from her smile; she had always been such a joyful child. When she laughs her eyes shine like the Mississippi's forever-fleeting sunrise. Like the bright, blurry lights of New Orleans, lingering in the night until they become one with the sky. They're the same piercing blue as her father's, caught in the edges of her mirrored frame as he looks away and begins to cry.

Nancy Drew/Brideshead Revisited/Professor Layton fic

bethfrish — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 08:33:40 GMT

I haven't posted fic in foreeeeeever D: D: D: so here's part of something that I scribbled out on a paper towel at work one day.

This is actually part of a bigger piece I had intended to write, entitled, "Five People That Carson Drew Never Slept With." (Because Carson Drew is a ho. In my head. Or in canon. I forget. Anyway.) It's a ridiculous crossover because I love ridiculous crossovers ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY ARE TIMELINE COMPLIANT, OH MAN. Canon timeline compliancy = huge boner for me.

(I think I stalled on this because I couldn't come up with five people that Carson never slept with, ho ho ho.)

Fandoms: Nancy Drew, Brideshead Revisited, Professor Layton (what what what)
Characters: Carson Drew, Anthony Blanche, Professor Layton
Rating: PG-13

Carson tipped the stem of his Brandy Alexander. "And just who are you gawking at?"

"I do believe that's Hershel Layton over there," said Anthony, narrowing his eyes at the doorway. "Yes. Yes, it is. Few other men can look so strikingly aloof while sporting that hat," he observed. "And though his name is Hershel, I'm told he's not a Jew. Oh, Professor!" he called. "You'll see, he's utterly delightful. I met him at a party thrown by the Gressenheller Puzzle Society. A Puzzle Society, of all things! I didn't know such travesty existed. If I recall, the head of the club had a penchant for ladies' undergarments. Isn't that top hat too much? I think I shall purchase one."

"How very nice to see you, Mr. Blanche," said Professor Layton as he approached their table.

"My dear, if you don't call me Anthony, I shall be greatly offended."

Layton smiled politely at Carson. "Then I suppose it's only fair that you call me Hershel. I take it you're no longer at Oxford?"

"Oh dear," Anthony complained into his drink. "Was I ever? But this is my friend, Carson Drew. Carson, Professor Hershel Layton."

"A pleasure," said Carson, taking his hand.

Without warning, Anthony rose from the table. "I think I see an old friend who owes me six pounds. Do sit down, Hershel," he insisted, gesturing towards the chair with his usual flourish.

Layton gave another polite smile. Carson waited for him to remove his hat, but his expectations were in vain.

"So, Mr. Drew—"

"Carson, please."

"Carson, then. It seems our mutual friend would like us to get to know each other," Layton chuckled.

"Indeed," said Carson.

"Do you enjoy puzzles?"

Carson stared at his glass, then at Layton. "I—I suppose so."

"Wonderful!" cheered Layton, looking positively delighted. "This one is worth 40 picarats. See if you can solve it."

"Picarats?" asked Carson.

Rounds at the Pub
40 Picarats

A teacher, a solicitor, and a lush all get together at the Blue Fairy for several rounds of Brandy Alexanders. The lush, having a great fondness for liquor, finishes his drink in eight minutes, while the solicitor sips at his for twelve. The teacher is content to nurse his brandy and simply enjoy the evening, but whenever his companions find that their glasses are empty at the exact same time, they order a full round for the table. Assuming that the heavier drinkers keep a steady pace and call for another Brandy Alexander as soon as the one in front of them is gone, how many drinks will have been ordered in three hours time?

Carson thought for a long moment, then furtively took a pencil from his jacket and scribbled across a bar napkin in his lap. For some reason he didn't want Professor Layton to know that he couldn't do math in his head. "Is it 47?"

Layton beamed. "Every puzzle has an answer! Very good indeed. You'll notice the teacher manages to avoid the final round."

Carson desperately wanted another Brandy Alexander, but he suddenly felt very self-conscious.

Layton leaned forward across the table. "Your turn, then."

"My turn?"

"For a puzzle."

"Oh," said Carson, scratching behind his ear. "All right. Yes, all right. I think I remember one."

"How many picarats is it worth?" asked Layton.

"Er...picarats?"

"Why, you can't just give a puzzle without a picarat value. Well, I suppose you could, but that would be quite improper in some circles."

Carson glanced across the room at Anthony, who did not appear to be collecting any money of any kind. "60?" he suggested.

"Wonderful," nodded Layton.

A Bride's Ransom
60 Picarats

In an attempt to marry off his maiden daughter, a man invites several suitors to his estate in the hopes that one of them will succeed in winning her heart. The girl is sitting on the terrace, working at her needlepoint, when a carriage arrives carrying a handsome young lord from a neighboring kingdom. "I have come to make you my bride," he tells her, producing a lavish bouquet of roses from behind his back. Before she can reply, a second carriage approaches, more ornate than the first, carrying a seventy-year-old man wearing a fine array of velvets and silks. "I have come to make you my bride," he declares, bringing forth a jewelry box that holds a fine necklace of sapphire and gold. Before she can accept the gift, a prince rides forth on a beautiful white stallion. "I have come to make you my bride," he announces, and simply offers his hand. The maiden glances up from her needlepoint with a thoroughly bored look. "Just tell me who has the biggest cock," she says impatiently. At this, the rich old man laughs. "That's easy," he says. So who has the biggest cock?

The lighting in the pub was not particularly flattering that evening, but even Carson could see that Layton had turned an unsightly shade of yellow.

"I think..." Layton began, straightening his hat even though it didn't need straightening. "...I think there are end of term papers that require my attention. It was very nice to meet you," he said stiffly, and disappeared from the table without ceremony.

A moment later, Anthony rejoined Carson with three Brandy Alexanders balanced precariously between his fingers. "I overheard your little riddle," he said, setting one of the glasses down in front of Carson and keeping the other two for himself. "I'm afraid you may have offended our dear friend, Professor Layton."

"It was a trick question, you see," said Carson. "The horse has the biggest cock."

"Never mind, my dear. I see now that Hershel wasn't right for you at all."

"Anthony," Carson said, slightly exasperated. "What on earth is a picarat?"

Anthony blinked, taking a prolonged sip from his cocktail. "I'm sure I don't know," he yawned. "Undoubtedly something Jewish."

Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew fic: Fenton Hardy's Distraction

bethfrish — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 02:20:35 GMT

A gift for immaculate for letting me invade her house for two weeks. :D ♥

We love closeted middle aged men.

Title: Fenton Hardy's Distraction
Fandom: The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew
Pairing: Fenton Hardy/Carson Drew
Rating: PG-13

Uhhh...this will probably make more sense if you've read The Missing Chums, but then, this is not really a legit fandom, so. \o/

Hardy Boys/Great Gatsby fic: The Endless Beauty of the Deli Sandwich

bethfrish — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 05:36:12 GMT

I don't know!

Title: The Endless Beauty of the Deli Sandwich
Fandom: The Hardy Boys/The Great Gatsby
Pairing: Fenton Hardy/Jay Gatsby
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Somehow this worked its way into my main Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew ficverse. Go compliant timelines!

I like to imagine that Carson Drew, being a widower and all, fucked a lot of guys before settling down with his one illicit true love, whereas Fenton just had several abortive encounters that only succeeded in backing him further into the closet. :(

The summer of 1922 would forever stand out in Fenton Hardy's mind as one of the most frustratingly unproductive seasons of his career. Though the summer of 1923 was even more frustrating and more unproductive for those sorry fellows who found themselves unhappily confronted with the same roster and the same desk as the year before—"This Prohibition baloney has simply got to go," Lieutenant King was heard to mumble in between sips of tepid coffee—Fenton had been transferred to homicide in the autumn of '22, and the investigation of murders was a slow, steady burn next to the hyperactive uselessness of prying off warehouse doors and pulling transports over on the side of the road.

Activity artificially swelled in the summer, but only in the sense that it was slightly easier to detect. The cooler months offered the concealment of winter coats and overburdened couriers, helpfully accompanied by the dull indifference of a dispassioned police force. Cops have nothing better to do in the heat than to stroll past a drug store with their burly forearms bared, or drive with the windows down, leering suspiciously at women with overlarge handbags and children riding too slowly on their bicycles.

Having yet to reach the age of twenty-seven, Fenton Hardy was still a moderately passionate police detective working in the unglamorous neighborhood of Central Brooklyn, but even he was beginning to lose his patience with the unreasonably surly grocer at Schlossberg's Finer Foods.

"Now, see here," Fenton demanded, placing one sweaty palm on the counter. It was a blisteringly hot day in early June, and his shirt was pressed damply between his back and his jacket like an inedible grilled cheese sandwich. "You're going to unlock that storage closet, or I'm going to tear the hinges right off. It's up to you."

The man surveyed him with disinterest. "There are only empty milk crates in there."

Ken Harding, Fenton's tree trunk of a partner, jabbed a finger at the lock for effect. "Just open the goddamn door," Harding snapped. He was a man of little patience who liked to say "goddamn" a lot, and not a day went by where Fenton didn't curse the 71st Precinct's obvious sense of humor in making them partners.

The grocer pinched the sweat from the bridge of his nose, gave a grunt of acquiescence, and went to fish the key out from a box beneath the register. It was only then that Fenton noticed the man leaning casually against the counter.

"Can I help you?" he asked, annoyed.

"Not at all," the man answered cheerfully. "I just wanted to pay for these eggs."

"You'll have to wait."

"Not a problem."

Fenton watched him suspiciously as Harding grabbed the key from the grocer and made for the closet. The man appeared to be only a bit older than himself, with neatly combed hair, a white flannel suit, and that bleached-out look in the eyes that one gets from too much exposure to the sun. He smiled at Fenton in a charming sort of way, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Goddamn it!" came Harding's muffled discovery. "Milk crates! Stacked to the ceiling!"

The grocer reappeared behind the counter, looking surly as ever. "Twenty cents," he instructed the man in white.

"Thanks, Lou," he said, tucking his purchase beneath his arm. "This heat is inexcusable," he muttered to Fenton with a confusing wink. "You must be dying. Anyway, good day to you, Detective—"

"Hardy. Fenton Hardy."

"Detective Hardy." He smiled. "Good day."

"Goddamn it!" Harding said again, coming up beside Fenton and placing a hot, clammy hand on his shoulder. "Either that was a bogus tip, or there's something very fishy going on around here."

Fenton only pursed his lips, and they retreated to the street where the sun had made an oven of their car.

Two weeks later, Fenton was enjoying a corned beef sandwich at the counter of Joe's Deli, a hole-in-the-wall dive that had somehow managed to lose itself on the corner of Nostrand and Empire, when the man who had purchased the eggs vaporously appeared in the chair next to his.

"Well hello, old sport!" he called jovially, sneaking in an order for pastrami on rye as Fenton stared at him around a mouthful of sandwich. He was wearing a suit of pale yellow and a powdery shirt with no tie. He looked like a day trip to the ocean.

"Oh, hello," said Fenton, swallowing.

"Do you remember? We met at the grocery store. Your partner returned from the storage room aglow with homicidal rage." He took a sip of water from the glass that was deposited in front of him. "Where is your partner today? I haven't taken his seat, have I?"

Fenton shook his head. "He's at the office, doing paperwork."

"Oh, good." The man smiled with relief. "I like to think that I'm in decent enough shape, but it's never wise to mess with that sort of fellow. I'm sorry, old sport!" he said abruptly, looking oddly grief-stricken. "I never introduced myself. Jay Gatsby." He extended his hand.

Fenton thought the name sounded familiar, but New York had a distinct habit of casting a thin veil of familiarity over even the most perfect of strangers. He discreetly wiped his hand on his napkin. "Nice to see you again," he said, returning the gesture. "How were your eggs?"

Gatsby stared at him blankly for a moment. "My eggs?" he wondered. "Oh, my eggs! Delicious, thanks for asking. It's Hardy, isn't it? I'm going to be terribly embarrassed if it isn't."

"No, that's right."

The waiter brought Gatsby a pastrami sandwich and a long, pale pickle spear. "Anything else?" he mumbled wearily at Fenton, accomplishing the impressive feat of both addressing and ignoring him.

"No, thank you. Just the check." He glanced sideways at Gatsby. "So...do you work around here?"

"Me? No."

"I see."

Gatsby crunched at his pickle. "Nobody makes pastrami like Joe," he mused, alluding to the purported namesake and possible, but unlikely, chef. "Some places, you know, they spice it all wrong. Too much paprika, not enough mustard seed. This is my favorite place."

Fenton smiled. "It's mine as well." He felt a strange pang of solidarity over this revelation, as if he and Gatsby were members of the same secret fraternity. The sole patron of Joe's Deli that afternoon besides themselves was a diminutive woman who looked to be about a hundred. Her head was bent so low over her soup that Fenton genuinely feared there might be a disaster involving her wig.

"Are you married, old sport?" Gatsby asked.

It was an abrupt question, but Fenton was feeling so nostalgic over their shared appreciation for cured meats that he answered without thinking about it. "Yes. In fact, we have a baby boy."

Gatsby studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then broke into a grin. "That's fantastic! That's really great!" he exclaimed, as if Fenton had just confided that a cancer-stricken relative was finally on the path to recovery.

"And you? Do you have a wife?"

"Who, me? No, old sport. I'm not married. Truthfully, I'm a bit surprised that you are. You don't seem—that is to say..." He picked off a bit of his crust and tossed it into his mouth. "...You're so young."

"Nonsense. I'm twenty-six."

"Goodness, you don't look it. All of twenty-three, I'd say. It's those tall-dark-and-handsome features. You can get away with anything."

"Ah...thank you," said Fenton. It was a rather universal compliment, but he averted his eyes and drank at length from his water.

"Say!" Gatsby exclaimed, clasping him on the shoulder when they were through eating. "I'm having a party this weekend. I'd be delighted if you came. West Egg village, you know the place? Just ask around. Jay Gatsby. Everyone knows where it is. Here, let me give you my address. You can bring your wife!" All of this he said with the dying burst of enthusiasm of a near-empty bottle of ketchup.

"Perhaps I will," Fenton agreed, accepting the slip of paper that Gatsby had unearthed from some interior pocket of his jacket.

"Splendid!" Gatsby flashed another smile of solar magnitude. "Well, I have to be going, but this was a fine luncheon. We should do it again. And to think, I was all set to eat alone. Please, let me pick up your tab."

Fenton tried to protest, but Gatsby waved his hand away and deposited three dollars on the counter. "I—Thank you," Fenton said reluctantly. "That's very kind of you. We hardly even know each other."

"Come to my house then, old sport, and we shall fix that."

Fenton could think of nothing to say, so he simply nodded and shook Gatsby's hand. Then he excused himself to the restroom in order to freshen up, and upon returning, found that Gatsby was gone. The waiter's eyes flickered dully at him from around his newspaper, and across the room, the tiny old lady dozed peacefully an inch above her soup.

To call where Gatsby lived a "house" would have done a grand disservice to the word. "That's what you call a house now?" people would wonder, surveying their own inadequate quarters with despair. The great, hulking structure was not a house, nor was it even a mansion. A castle, Fenton thought with dismay as he edged his car uneasily into Gatsby's vast driveway. A gloriously obscene castle that sat languidly upon the Long Island Sound, casting its night-lit decadence upon acres of grass and beach and Earth.

"Oh my!" exclaimed Laura Hardy, Fenton's wife, from the passenger seat of their sedan. "Are you certain we're allowed to be here?"

Fenton frowned, unsure of where to leave his car. "The man invited us."

"But are you absolutely sure? How is it, again, that you know him?"

It was an interesting question, the matter of knowing Gatsby. "Oh, darling, we met at the grocery store!" was much too glib, but in truth, they had done just that. Then they had met again at a deli—mutually, their favorite deli—and then, somehow, Gatsby had ended up buying him lunch. Fenton was overcome with a kind of strange, illogical fondness for the man, despite knowing so little about him. As it was, he was rather disinclined to mention any of this to his wife.

"He works in the city," Fenton concocted, turning off the car.

"Oh, do you think Frank will be okay?" Laura asked wearily, straightening her hat as they took in the sheer enormity of Gatsby's little shindig. Swirls of people amassed in every available space—in the garden, on the front steps, down at the beach where the sun was already beginning its vain descent into the water—then scattered like shards of broken glass, drifting and weaving and calling, "Hello! It's good to see you again!" to people whose names they will never remember.

"My sister will take fine care of him," Fenton assured her.

"Your sister looks at me like I can't tell my right hand from my left."

"Laura, darling, she looks at everyone like that."

It was nearly two hours before their elusive host, clad in a lavender suit and seeing to it that drinks were being fixed for a twenty-piece horn section, appeared suddenly in the distance like a rare species of flamboyantly dressed butterfly. He smiled at Fenton from across the garden and motioned to them with a grand wave.

"Glad you could come, old sport," he said pleasantly. "You see this man here?" At this, he motioned across the cocktail bar to squat gentleman with a trumpet tucked beneath one arm and a balloon of something amber in the other. "This is Mr. Hadley. He plays with the New York Philharmonic. He's second chair, but I say he should be principal. They don't know what they're doing over there." Hadley gave Fenton and his wife a queasy nod. "And this must be the lovely Mrs. Hardy," Gatsby continued, smiling broadly at each of them in turn.

"Yes, this is my wife, Laura. Laura, this is Jay Gatsby."

"You cradle robber, you. She looks about sixteen." Gatsby took her slender hand in his and kissed it. "I'm only kidding. It's a pleasure to meet you. Your husband's a real bull of a policeman. I've seen him work, and let me tell you, it's refreshing."

Fenton gaped at him. The only time Gatsby had ever seen him on the job was during an aborted raid at a grocer's counter and while enjoying the mundane pleasure of a corned beef sandwich. "You've got an awful lot of liquor here, Gatsby," Fenton blurted out.

"You see?" Gatsby whispered to Fenton's wife. "It's all legal, I assure you. My great uncle stockpiled the stuff in 1919. He's dead now. Guess who inherited the lot?" Gatsby clapped Fenton affectionately on the back. "Have a drink, old sport. I swear it's on the up and up," but Fenton only shook his head politely. Gatsby's hand was still on his back. "Ah! A partner in sobriety, then!" he cheered, leaning in slightly. Gatsby was called into the house then, and, giving his sincere word that he would rejoin them later, fluttered away towards the jaunty melody of some far away waltz.

It was not until the Hardys began searching for their car several hours later that Gatsby reappeared, materializing, it seemed, from thin air.

"Leaving already?" he asked.

"I had a simply lovely time!" slurred Laura, who had both arms draped drunkenly around her husband's neck as he lifted her off the ground. A small champagne flute had appeared in her hand at some point when his back was turned, which at progressive intervals seemed to magically refill itself. She was quite gone.

"Oh, I'm so glad. Is this your car, old sport? This one over here? I thought I saw you drive in."

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Together they eased Laura into the passenger seat, where she slumped happily against the window.

"Your sister will murder me!" came a muffled whoop from behind the glass.

Fenton looked stricken. "She's unused to liquor." Gatsby nodded. "Well," Fenton continued, raking his fingers through his hair. "Goodnight, Gatsby. You throw quite the party."

What passed over Gatsby's face was a singularly radiant smile that, like the sun, unwittingly stirred in its recipient the desire to both stare deeper and shy away. "And you are welcome any time. Bring the wife. Bring the sister—she sounds like a riot! Or come by yourself, I don't care," Gatsby added with a shrug.

"All right," Fenton agreed. He always felt terribly bland in the presence of Gatsby's uniquely confounding enthusiasm. He stuck out his hand. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, old sport," said Gatsby, clasping Fenton's hand between his. His pale eyes flashed in the darkness, reflecting the small explosion that had just erupted from somewhere on the beach. "Oops," he said, giving it a warm squeeze. "Better go see what blew up. Goodnight!"

"Goodnight," Fenton said to his retreating figure, and climbed into his car where his wife was passed out elegantly against the dashboard.

They spent more than a few summer evenings lost in the spectacular gaiety that was Gatsby's West Egg palace, where they mingled among the movie stars and the drunks, the middle-aged men from working class boroughs and the young, old-money couples who could have bought them all three times over. Others were simply there because they had seen the lights from some distant road and thought, in the sweltering heat, "Let's see what that is!" Fenton's wife cultivated a talent for getting steadily drunk and despising herself for it later, giggling at nothing as her husband admired the splendor with his hands in his pockets.

More often, however, he shared lunch with Gatsby at Joe's Deli on the corner of Nostrand and Empire, and in fact, frequented the place so often that his own partner warned him what would happen if he suggested even one more round of corned beef.

"Hardy, if you take me there again I swear, I'll make it so that you never want another goddamn sandwich for the rest of your life. I'm going to get a hot dog."

Coincidentally, Gatsby only seemed to be in the neighborhood when Fenton was by himself, which, in truth, suited him just fine. Harding and his noticeably limited vocabulary were not always to everyone's tastes.

"Now listen, old sport," Gatsby said one day from his usual spot at the counter. "I see you're all about the corned beef, and that's fine. I can appreciate a good corned beef sandwich. But for me, nothing does it like pastrami. It's got that smokiness, you see. That little something extra. Did you know it can take weeks to brine? Weeks!"

"I didn't know that."

"And let's not even talk about the spices." Gatsby stared thoughtfully at his plate. "It's a beautiful thing, this sandwich. So deceptively simple when it's sitting there in front of you, but oh, the hidden secrets of cured meats! You'd never guess. The first time I tried it, I said, 'What is this pink stuff?' and my friend looked at me told me that it was pastrami. 'Pastrami!' I said. 'How marvelous!' That first taste has always haunted me."

Fenton gazed, dumbstruck, at his own plate. "The rye is very good today," he offered.

"It is, old sport. It is. Very fresh. Tell the baker the bread is very fresh today!" he called over the counter.

The waiter lowered his newspaper halfway before appearing to decide that a verbal response was beyond his duties.

"So how's business, old sport?" Gatsby asked congenially. "Well, not business, exactly, but you know."

Fenton took a vindictive sip of coffee. "I guarantee you that someone, somewhere, right at this very moment, is doing something very illegal, but I'll be damned if we ever catch them. You know, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that they have false walls rigged to drop from the ceiling the second they hear us coming."

"That wouldn't surprise me either, old sport."

"Is that so?"

"Not a bit."

"Gatsby..." Fenton began slowly, folding his napkin in half, and then again in quarters. "Say you knew something was going on around here—knew for a fact—you'd...you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"It just—well, you seem very well-connected, and it's been very quiet around here. And quiet isn't good for our department. And, it's just...I thought—I mean, if anyone might—"

"Say no more." Gatsby clasped Fenton on the shoulder and winked at him almost obscenely. "For you, old sport, I'll keep one ear open."

Three days later, Fenton received a phone call at home regarding a certain grocer who was said to be selling rice wine under the guise of vinegar. "I hope I'm not leading you astray," Gatsby murmured into the receiver, "but I've been told that Lenny the grocer has been dressing particularly well as of late." Fenton left for the store without even saying goodbye to his wife, headed to the counter, and discreetly requested two bottles of their finest vinegar. "You know the stuff," he muttered, palming a neat fan of bills. Lenny tried to run for it before he even saw the badge, but Fenton had him and two boys, who had clearly not been hired to work the register, in handcuffs before Ken Harding could even find a place to leave his car.

The next morning he rang up Gatsby to thank him for the tip, but could only reach his loyal butler who politely informed him that Mr. Gatsby was not, at the present moment, available to talk on the phone.

The 71st Precinct did not have a prolific summer, even by a loose definition of the word, but Fenton's own success, at least, was due largely to Gatsby and his mysterious network of information. Fenton never questioned from where he gained this seemingly ubiquitous knowledge, but Gatsby was so sincere in his willingness to assist that Fenton found himself too overcome with appreciation to say anything but, "Thanks, Gatsby. Truly, thank you."

The peculiar thing about these raids was that they were never, not once, where Fenton expected them to be. Just as he'd convince himself that the ever-growing patronage of one particular establishment was worthy of closer inspection, Gatsby would telephone excitedly and contradict his notion completely. "You've got it wrong, old sport. It's the one across the way!"

One Friday afternoon Fenton decided, on a whim, to take the day off and go visit his friend at his home in West Egg village. It occurred to him, as he nosed his car into Gatsby's barren driveway, that he had never been there during the day before, and found the effect rather akin to the disconnect one feels when the lights come up after a film. It was very clean and very still, except for a number of men with crates who seemed to percolate through the garden at random intervals. He found Gatsby almost at once, loitering at the top of the stairs as though he'd been expecting Fenton's arrival for quite some time.

"Hello, old sport," he called, slipping his hands into the pockets of his white flannels.

"Hello, Gatsby," Fenton waved. "I thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing. I, ah—I brought sandwiches," he added, indicating a paper bag.

"Wonderful!" Gatsby gave Fenton a radiant smile as he joined him on the front steps. "You're much too kind. Shall we go inside, old sport? It very hot out today."

"It is," Fenton agreed. He looked over his shoulder, frowning. "Say, who are all those men in your yard?"

"Just my caterers." Gatsby placed a hand on his back, ushering him into the house.

"Ah. Of course," Fenton nodded. "I should have guessed. But there are so many crates. What's in them?"

"Oranges."

"Oranges! All of them?"

"And other fruits. Would you like some? The pineapples are flawless this season."

"No, thank you."

They stopped in the main hall, and Gatsby frowned suddenly. "You've not seen my house when it's like this. Empty, I mean. I'm afraid natural light does it no favors." He swept his finger over the nose of some contemptuous statue. "My goodness, so much dust. Over here's the library. I'm quite proud of it."

Fenton was admiring the high ceilings and dignified smell of leather when Gatsby's butler appeared in the doorway behind them, looking perturbed. "Mr. Gatsby, sir, they would like to know where you'd prefer they store the excess...the excess cantaloupe."

"How many times must I tell them that any surplus is to be kept in the second kitchen. Now if you please, I have company." He smiled apologetically at Fenton as the butler went away.

"Cantaloupe, too?"

"Oh, yes. Not nearly as exquisite as the pineapple, but you know, not everyone likes pineapple." Gatsby sat down heavily on the sofa as if the walk to the library had worn him out. "Forgive me, old sport. Would you like something to drink? I can have anything made for you. Anything at all. Just ask."

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

"All right, good. And how's the wife?"

Fenton joined Gatsby on the sofa, setting his bag of sandwiches down on a large table of English oak. "She's doing well. The baby keeps her busy—too busy, I'm afraid. She wishes we could accept your invitations more often."

"Never mind, old sport," Gatsby said, patting his knee. "She's a nice girl. And anyway—"

Gatsby's butler cleared his throat from the doorway once more. "Sir, Chicago is on the line for you."

"Not now, please," said Gatsby pleasantly.

"But, sir—"

"I said, not now."

The butler pursed his lips, glanced at Fenton, and left the room.

"Terribly sorry about that. I have an aunt who lives in Chicago. Her children all ignore her, so she sometimes telephones me for financial advice." He shook his head. "Inherited wealth is hardly a qualifier of insight. 'Just don't buy a boat,' I told her. Anyway, a thousand apologies for the interruption."

"No, it's quite all right." Fenton waited for Gatsby to continue his earlier train of thought, but there was only an endless stretch of contemplative silence. "Ah, what were you saying before?" he prompted.

"Before. Hmm. Oh, yes! I was about to say that I rather prefer our intimate little luncheons. Well, as intimate as two men can hope to be at a deli."

Fenton felt the sofa cushions shift. "You haven't got a girl, then?" he asked, glancing up.

Gatsby gave a peculiar laugh. "I'm afraid I have an unfortunate history with women. We can't all be so lucky as you, old sport."

Fenton reached out and grasped Gatsby's hand. "Oh, I've put my foot in my mouth. I'm sorry, Gatsby. I didn't mean to—Well, anyway, I'm not as lucky as all that."

"Oh, no?"

"No," said Fenton stiffly.

Gatsby squeezed the hand that was still lost somewhere in his lap. "But how can that be? You have a breathtaking wife and, though I've never seen him, what I'm convinced must be an equally beautiful child." He gave his hand another deliberate pump. Fenton could have sworn he even used his real name. "What more could you ask for?"

Fenton swallowed, studying a tall shelf of books that seemed to contain only varying shades burgundy, too far away to decipher. For all he knew, the spines were blank. He said nothing for a long moment, then with a single, shallow breath, leaned in and kissed Gatsby on the mouth.

How long it lasted, he could not say, only that when he opened his eyes his hands were tangled in the front of Gatsby's shirt, and his mouth tasted of pineapple he didn't remember eating.

Gatsby regarded him carefully. "Now listen, old sport—"

Fenton relinquished his shirt in a sudden panic. "Oh, god. I—I'm so sorry. I don't know—Oh, dear god." He sprang from the sofa, blinking rapidly as he ran his fingers through his hair. The telephone in the hall began to ring again.

"Never mind," said Gatsby, dismissing the matter with a flutter of his hand. "Between you and me, it was one of my better kisses." Then he added, rather seriously, "I won't tell if you won't."

Fenton met Gatsby's pale, anxious eyes. "I—I have to go. I actually think I'm supposed to be somewhere," he laughed despairingly, and fled from the house down the great cascade of steps, out into the sun-bleached driveway where several men were hastily cleaning up a grievous massacre of emerald-colored glass.

Fenton neither saw nor heard of Jay Gatsby until weeks later, when news of his death broke across the department like a rejuvenating summer storm. It seemed that some madman had come round and shot him in his swimming pool in the middle of the afternoon, convinced, in his grief, that Gatsby had killed his wife with his car. It was the story of the season. The North Shore division was busy for weeks.

Fenton sat at his desk that first morning, staring morosely at an article that bared an exceptionally tasteless headline. Out of the corner of his eye, his partner adjusted his holster and frowned.

"Gatsby!" grunted Harding, slapping the paper with the back of his hand. "Could never trace anything back to the scoundrel, and now he's dead! Did I tell you that the men we took in from Schlossberg's yesterday tried to pin it all on him? A lot of goddamn good it does if he's dead!"

"How do you know they're telling the truth?" Fenton said from between his teeth.

"Everyone knew it, Hardy. Jesus. Goddamn bootlegger."

Fenton stood up sharply, giving Harding a look of intense dislike. "Gatsby was not a bootlegger," he insisted angrily, knocking the paper from his desk as he walked away.

He informed the receptionist that he was going home for the afternoon, then got in his car and drove to the corner of Nostrand and Empire where he proceeded to order an entire pound of pastrami. Fruitlessly, he searched for the bored waiter, but his haughty indifference was conspicuously absent that day. The girl who took his money watched him curiously as tears rolled, uninhibited, down his cheeks, and the old woman in the corner, perhaps in an effort to indicate that she was still alive, lifted her head from her soup and shook it sadly. "Please thank Joe for me," Fenton told them gravely. Then he went home, locked the door, and quite successfully knocked up his wife.

Too bewildered by his unusual display of carnality to do little more than catch her breath, Laura stared at the ceiling as he smoked a cigarette, and wondered, but did not ask, why it was that his kisses tasted so devastatingly of salt.

Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew fic: Don't Tell Me You Love Me

bethfrish — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 22:08:30 GMT

I don't know which is more ridiculous, that this is the longest thing I've ever written (lol, it is not actually that long), or that there isn't any raunchy sex. :C

Enjoy the angst, boys, because it's back to porn drabbles after this!

Title: Don't Tell Me You Love Me
Fandom: The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew
Pairing: Fenton Hardy/Carson Drew
Rating: PG-13
Notes: According to oldschool canon, the Drews supposedly live in Illinois but, you know, those ridiculous Super Mysteries stomped all over that in a lame attempt to make their crossovers plausible, so what the hell, so can I! Also, this takes place in the same ficverse as Our Red Sea. Not that it matters, but you know. FYI.

This is for my chum, immaculate, because we are horribly self-indulgent and have completely appropriated these poor children's books for ourselves. (And if we were closeted gay men in the 1930s, she would totally be the Carson to my Fenton.)

The first time they meet is a five-day murder trial that the city of New York collectively declares to be just for show, a means to an end that anyone who reads the papers could have called in a heartbeat. While the crime itself is hardly worth the page it takes to run, the reporters know better; it's the names that sell, and the papers agree that the guilty verdict was decided the moment Fenton Hardy and Carson Drew were introduced.

Fenton hadn't planned on staying in the city after he finished testifying, but Carson pulls him aside during the recess and gives him a wholly unsympathetic look. "I do hope you intend to see this through, Mr. Hardy. It is your case, after all."

Fenton's fingers tighten around his briefcase. "I don't think the trial will last very long, do you?" he says after a moment.

"Oh, five days. A week, perhaps, if the defense actually comes up with something worth hearing. So far they haven't."

"Well, Mr. Drew," Fenton says dryly. "I certainly wouldn't want my absence to hinder your case."

Carson regards him for a moment, then begins to laugh. "Do call me Carson. And if the jury's out for more than ten minutes," he says, touching Fenton's shoulder, "I owe you a drink."

Carson Drew is arguably one of the more feared names in the state of New York, but Fenton's never actually seen him run a trial until now. The papers are right. The verdict was never up for debate. Fenton isn't needed there, they both know it, but he sticks around just the same, watching the proceedings from the gallery, meeting Carson for dinner at the end of the day. They split a bottle of wine. Trade stories and laugh at each other's long-forgotten failures. The alcohol makes his head swim, and he wonders how someone so ruthless in court could also be so effortlessly charming.

The final recess lasts only as long as the jurors take to vote, and when the verdict is read, Carson rises from his chair and flicks his briefcase shut with a snap. The man doesn't even smile. It isn't until Fenton is in the lobby, talking to a potential client, that he feels the sudden warmth of Carson's hand against his back. "That was only nine minutes," Carson says under his breath, "but I'll buy you a drink anyway."

That night Fenton goes down to the hotel bar and orders himself a gin martini. Straight up, no olives. It's his drink of choice when he's out of town, and one he usually enjoys alone, but it isn't long before Carson slips into the seat next to his, his own glass raised in the air.

"Cheers," Carson says, his voice smooth.

Fenton nods. "Cheers. And congratulations."

Carson tips his drink forward and clinks it delicately against the rim of Fenton's glass. "I don't lose very often," he replies, but when Fenton glances at him, there's a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Of course, I suspect the same is true of you."

"To be perfectly honest," Fenton says, "it's not very often that I have the time to devote to court trials. That sounds conceited, I suppose," he laughs, raising his glass to his lips.

"Not at all."

"I'm just so busy with other clients. I don't know where they come from."

Carson nods, raising a finger to signal the bartender. "I believe I owe you a drink," he recalls, pushing his own empty glass across the counter. "You certainly were invaluable to my trial, Fenton. And, if I may say so, much better company than the customary array of disgruntled New York City police." His pale eyes shine behind his glasses. "Two martinis. Extra dry, if you please. And none of that cheap stuff."

They drink for a while in silence. Carson's martini is infinitely better than his first, but then, he expected nothing less from the man. "I don't know if you know this," Fenton begins, warm from the buzz of the liquor, "but I was on the police force for almost fifteen years."

"Were you?" Carson asks with amusement. He turns in his seat, angling his body so that he can study Fenton more closely.

Fenton laughs, fidgeting with the stem of his glass. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," Carson says, peering at him over the top of his glasses. "I was just trying to picture the internationally-famous Fenton Hardy in a cadet's uniform."

Fenton regards him seriously. "Carson, I rid myself of those embarrassing memories long ago. Though I'm told that a photograph or two may still exist somewhere on the wall of the 71st Precinct."

Carson places a hand lightly on his arm and laughs. "What I wouldn't give to see that. Honestly though, Fenton," he says. "Your word is like gold in the courtroom. I wouldn't mind having you on my team more often."

"Oh, really. I think you're mistaking your talent for mine."

"Hmm, perhaps," Carson agrees. "But your word is, at the very least, fine-quality silver." He runs his finger along the edge of his glass, watching Fenton carefully. "Besides," he says, "I rather enjoy your company."

"And I yours," Fenton replies. Carson's hand is still on his arm, rubbing small circles into the fabric with his thumb. Fenton swallows. "It seems we have a lot in common," he says slowly.

Carson pushes his glass away absently. "Gin martinis, for instance," he observes with a smile. "But I was just thinking the same thing. Our jobs can be so tedious and, well—not solitary, exactly. But lonely. So when you actually meet someone who's as professional and intelligent as yourself," he continues, "it's only natural to want to see him again." He trails his fingers lightly down Fenton's sleeve. "You know, I have a very nice bottle of wine in my room. Why don't we see how it is?"

Fenton stares at his own drink as his pulse hammers in his ears. He doesn't know which he finds more unnerving, the way Carson is watching him, or the troubling realization that he wants very much to accept. "Thank you, but I—" He glances at Carson before looking away. "My train arrives rather early tomorrow. And I promised my wife I'd phone her before she went to sleep." He can hear the lies beneath his own words, too fast, too sharp, grating his ears like jagged metal. "But thank you for the offer."

Carson just smiles pleasantly. "Forgive me," he says. "It's been many years since I was married, my judgment is sometimes lacking. Perhaps another time." He slips several bills from his wallet, then gently touches Fenton's hand. "Thank you again for your assistance, Fenton. I hope you won't hesitate to contact me, should you ever change your mind." He stands before adding, "About working together, I mean." Then he turns and walks away, and all Fenton can think is how very warm his skin is.

The lobby is deserted by the time Fenton sits down at the telephone, eerily quiet and far too well-lit. He almost hesitates to call, given the hour, but Frank picks up on the second ring, so full of energy that Fenton actually has to double check the time.

"Hello, dad!" he says brightly. "Are you coming home soon?"

"Tomorrow. I should arrive by mid-afternoon."

"Mother didn't think you'd be back for at least a week! Does that mean you won? Oh, I knew you would! They say Mr. Drew is the best attorney in the entire state!" There's a brief pause, and Fenton can hear his other son chattering in the background. "Of course, I'm sure he couldn't have done it without your help," Frank adds.

"Certainly not," Fenton says. "Is your mother there?"

"Just a minute," says Frank. "I'll get her."

Joe hops on the phone the instant his brother leaves. "Hello, dad! Are you enjoying the city?"

"I'm afraid I haven't had much time to enjoy anything besides the courthouse and my hotel room."

"That's too bad," Joe mutters. "Do you think we can all take a day trip one of these weekends? My teacher said we should go see the Van Gogh exhibit. It begins next month. What do you think, dad? Can we?"

"All right, Joe. Sure. That sounds like a fine idea." Fenton can hear more noise in the background.

"Oh, dad. Frank says to tell you that mother is already asleep. Should we wake her up?"

Fenton shakes his head. "No. I just called to say that I'll be home tomorrow." He knows the boys will give her the message in the morning. "But if I may ask," he adds sternly, "why aren't the two of you in bed?"

Joe goes quiet for a moment. "That's an interesting question," he admits. "It's a good thing you're such a skilled detective."

"Goodnight, Joe," Fenton says.

"Mother will be glad you're home early. Should I tell her anything else?" Frank asks. Apparently he's regained possession of the phone.

Fenton runs his finger along the dial. "No, nothing. Just that my train gets in at twelve o'clock."

"All right, dad. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Frank."

Fenton returns to his hotel room and begins to undress. Shoes lined up neatly by the door, shirt on a hanger, pants draped perfectly over the back of a chair. He brushes his teeth and phones in a seven o'clock wake-up call to the front desk, then pulls back the bed sheets and turns off the light.

When he began going out of town on private cases, Laura told him she couldn't possibly be expected to sleep while he was away. "Frank and Joe will have to protect me," she'd half-joked, while his young sons had only gazed up at him with equal parts abandonment and childish awe. "I'll be back soon enough," he'd insisted playfully, then kissed his wife on the cheek and thought about how much better he always slept on those starched, white hotel sheets.

Now Fenton stares at the ceiling and prays for sleep that won't come. He shuts his eyes. Opens them again. He thinks about his train schedule. The trial. Whatever premium gin was used in that second martini. Carson Drew's ruthless ambition to win his case, and the way he smiled at Fenton the moment everyone else was gone.

Fenton peers at his watch in the dark, angling his wrist so it catches the light from the window. He pushes himself up and leans forward with his head in his hands. Several minutes pass before he finally climbs out of bed. Slowly, silently. Like there's someone else in the room he doesn't dare wake up. He takes his trousers off the chair, his shirt from the hanger.

It takes a good minute before he can find the courage to knock on the door.

Carson looks shocked for a moment when he sees Fenton standing there, then steps aside to let him in. "Did you decide to have that glass of wine after all?" he asks carefully.

Fenton eases the door shut behind him. "I hope the offer still stands," he says.

Carson just smiles, and slides one hand slowly around Fenton's waist.

"That was delicious, Laura." Fenton folds up his napkin and places it in the center of his plate.

"Mother makes the best mashed potatoes in all of Bayport," Joe beams. "Not even Chet's mother can make them that good. And Chet's mother actually knows how to cook."

Frank shoots Joe a look from across the table.

"What?" Joe says. "Chet's mother teaches baking to children on Sundays. That's all I meant."

"Joe," Fenton says patiently. "Why don't you show your mother your endless appreciation for her cooking by clearing the table?"

Joe scrunches up his nose, eyeing his own plate with marginal disdain. "All right."

"I'll help wash," Frank says as he pushes in his chair. He gives Joe the second in a series of annoyed looks before crossing into the kitchen.

"Your sister visited while you were out of town, you know," Laura says, gently handing her plate to her son. "She said I wasn't serving enough vegetables with supper."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I told her she would be hard-pressed to find something green that Joe doesn't find objectionable on some level, let alone two somethings."

Fenton smirks. Both his children have failed to take his plate to the kitchen. "He'll grow out of it. I didn't like vegetables either when I was that age. Did Gertrude spend the night?" he asks.

"Oh, yes. And she was very distressed to learn that her thirteen-year-old nephew was her greatest protection should someone break in while she was sleeping."

Fenton rolls his eyes. "Oh, good grief. She's nearly as tall as I am. I've no doubt that she can take care of the average burglar by herself."

His wife laughs delicately. "Are you meeting with a client tomorrow?" she asks.

"No. Not until Wednesday. I have quite a bit of paperwork to do."

"From your trial?"

Fenton smiles distantly. "Yes. That case was rather more involved than my usual fare."

"Oh, you never told me what Mr. Drew was like! You two were all the papers talked about," she says proudly, folding her hands in her lap. "Did you get on well?"

"Mr. Drew, yes. He's a good man," Fenton says, looking down at his napkin. "Incredibly talented at what he does, and quite intelligent. We had dinner a few times." Then he laughs. "I'm afraid his reputation for seeming ruthless at times is not undeserved, but he seemed to appreciate my input."

Laura beams. "How exciting! It certainly can't hurt to have a good acquaintance who's a lawyer."

"Indeed," Fenton says, still staring at his napkin. The telephone in the hall begins to ring.

"Oh, dad!" Joe calls after a minute, poking his head into the dining room. "Mr. Drew is on the phone for you! He knew who I was and everything!"

Fenton smiles thinly. "Yes, well. I might have mentioned you in passing. I think I asked him what to do about children who refuse to eat their vegetables."

Joe looks horrified. "Dad, no! How embarrassing!"

"I'll take the call in my study," Fenton says, pushing in his chair. "Please replace the receiver in the hall when I've picked up."

He shuts the door and sits down at his desk, taking a deep breath before he reaches for the phone. "You may hang up, Joe." He waits for the click on the other end before continuing. "Carson, you can't call my house like this. This is—my entire family just finished eating."

"Hello to you, too," Carson says calmly. "Did it occur to you that I might have some business to discuss?"

Fenton lets his breath out slowly, feeling both irritated and foolish. "Is that so?" he asks.

"Actually, I have a meeting with a client in the city tomorrow, but I was hoping you'd be available to join me for dinner afterwards."

"In the city."

"Yes. But if you have a prior engagement—"

"You're asking me to drive all the way to the city to meet you for dinner."

"Yes, I am."

Fenton glares at the stack of papers on his desk. He can picture Carson's face, all easy confidence and inviting smile. He tries not to think about it. "And what time would this be?"

"You'll dine with me, then?"

Fenton grimaces at the phrase. "I will meet you for dinner, yes."

Carson chuckles. "And here I thought you had clients lined up outside your door."

"Well, I had planned on catching up with my paperwork."

"I enjoyed last week," Carson says suddenly.

"Carson, for heaven's sake."

"You certainly have a talent for getting worked up over nothing," Carson says. "All I said was that I enjoyed last week. Did you not enjoy it?"

"I..." Fenton shuts his eyes. "I can't have you talking to my children like that. Do you understand? And certainly not to my wife."

"I had only—" Carson stops. "No, I apologize."

Fenton sighs, glancing at the door to his study. It's shut tight. "Of course I enjoyed last week," he says quickly. He wants so badly to say more, like how it's all he's thought about for the last four days, or how it's taken more willpower than he thought he had not to phone Carson himself, but all he says is, "You know I did."

"Fenton," Carson says, more quietly than usual. "I have a daughter of my own. I certainly didn't mean to intrude. There are rules for...for people like us. I wasn't thinking."

"Never mind," Fenton says. "It's...only a business call, after all."

"What else would it be?"

"Though I should warn you," Fenton adds carefully. "I usually don't take business calls after seven o'clock, and it's a bit unnatural for me to make exceptions."

"Duly noted," Carson says. "Meet me at five o'clock, then. 48th and Lexington."

"All right."

The line goes quiet, and Fenton suddenly realizes that he's waiting for Carson to say more. Wants him to say more. But Carson only laughs softly and murmurs, "Goodnight, Fenton," and the line goes dead before Fenton can even reply.

"I have to go into the city tomorrow," he tells his wife when he returns to the dining room. There's a lopsided plate of cookies sitting at the center of the table. Clearly his sons have already been there.

"Goodness, there's no rest for the weary, is there?" Laura says. "Shall I take you to the station in the morning?"

"No, it's only a dinner meeting. I think I'll drive."

She smiles up at him and pushes the plate in his direction. "I baked them this afternoon."

Fenton reaches out and takes a cookie. "I bet there's even the same number of chips in each one," he says, returning her smile. It tastes as good as it looks, so perfectly sweet it makes his teeth ache.

The drive to the city takes two hours in the best of traffic, but Fenton finds that for once he doesn't mind. Train rides are too quiet, too passive. Too much time left to choke on that stale compartment air and his own suffocating thoughts. The two hours he spends studying the road is almost enough to distract him from why he's there in the first place. He gazes at the cascade of taillights and watches for the exit out of the corner of his eye, wondering absently where all these people could possibly be going.

Carson is already waiting in front of the Hotel Lexington when he arrives, leaning against the stone and reading the paper like he's waiting for a bus.

"There you are," he says cheerfully when Fenton joins him. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd changed your mind. How are you?"

"I had to park," Fenton says, glancing behind him as he follows Carson inside.

"Please don't talk to me about driving. The pedestrians here seem to think they own the street. Then I spent an hour in the car this morning just to meet with some moronic family who wanted to sue for property that wasn't even theirs. The mother was particularly dreadful, as she had an irritating habit of only speaking to me through her husband. 'Yes, darling! Tell him about the trees we planted!' I should charge them double for wasting my time." Carson chuckles. "I'm sorry. I'm boring you. You should try the lamb chops here. They're sensational."

"Nonsense," Fenton says. "I mean about boring me. I'm sure the lamb chops are excellent."

The maître d' shows them to a small table in the corner, so secluded from the other guests that Fenton has to wonder if Carson didn't request it in advance. Carson orders a bottle of red wine that's simply exquisite, and when he raises his glass and murmurs, "Cheers," the look in his eyes is enough to make Fenton's pulse race.

They've only just ordered when a large hand lands unexpectedly on Carson's shoulder. "I hope I'm not intruding," the man says loudly, though Fenton can't imagine what else to call it.

Carson turns around. "Goodness, how are you, Sam?" he says. "Sam, this is my friend and colleague, Fenton Hardy. Fenton, Senator Samuel Wagner."

Fenton forces a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he says, shaking his hand.

"Fenton Hardy, of course! I recognize the name. You've been in the papers quite a bit lately."

"Only when it's a slow news day," Carson jokes, winking in Fenton's direction. "We were just about to discuss the latest wave of counterfeiting that's been hitting some of the smaller towns. They say the leader of the ring goes by Mark Shamley. Have you heard of him?"

Wagner strokes his chin with a decidedly blank look. "No. No, I don't believe I have."

"Phony Lincolns popping up everywhere. That's the rumor, anyway. Won't you join us? We've only just put in our order."

"Thank you, Carson," he says, drumming his fingers shamelessly against his stomach, "but you've caught me on my way out. Another time." He turns towards Fenton. "Very nice to meet you, Mr. Hardy."

"Likewise," Fenton says as pleasantly as possible.

"Good luck with that Shamley fellow."

"Thank you, Sam," Carson says, clasping his hand warmly. "Do say hello to Virginia for me."

"I certainly will. Try the lamb," he whispers conspiratorially to Fenton. "It's magnificent."

Fenton smirks. "So I've heard."

Carson leans across the table and pours himself another glass. "How in the world that oaf got himself elected is beyond me," he says derisively. "I apologize for inviting him to join us, though the face you made was well worth it. You should have seen it."

Fenton purses his lips.

"I knew he'd already eaten," Carson assures him. "There was sauce on his shirt." He regards Fenton from across the table, tilting his head. "You look thoroughly unnerved. What's wrong?"

"Is this a business meeting or not?" Fenton says testily.

"What do you want it to be?"

Fenton says nothing, just stares at his wine glass and thinks that maybe this was a mistake. This is already getting too risky, too complicated.

"Mark Shamley is the name of my milkman, so no, this isn't a business meeting," Carson clarifies. "I'm only a little sorry to say that I've developed quite a gift for pulling lies out of thin air. Don't let it disconcert you. It gets easier." Then he leans forward and slowly brushes his foot against Fenton's ankle. "I don't know what sort of cologne you're wearing, but you smell incredible. Ever since you got here, all I've wanted to do is get you undressed and figure out what on earth that maddening scent is."

Fenton's face flushes with embarrassment and anger and, irritatingly, lust. He tries not to look rattled. "Pine needles," he says flatly, but it's hard to keep a straight face when Carson bursts out laughing.

They enjoy the rest of their dinner without interruption, and when the bill has been paid, Carson carefully adjusts his glasses and asks, "What shall we do now?"

Fenton toys with the stem of his empty glass, his heart racing. "Did you have something in mind?" He doesn't mean to sound coy, but Carson clearly has more talent for this than he does. Fenton had asked his wife-to-be for a dance at a friend's wedding because he thought she was pretty. They were married a year later and that was that. But there's no party here, no dancing. Just Carson watching him from across the table with a look in his eyes that says, What is it you want?

"We could have a few drinks at the bar," Carson offers. "Or I believe there's a Van Gogh exhibit in town, though if we happen run into another senator, I'm not sure what we'll tell him."

"No," Fenton says quickly. No. Not the Van Gogh. Seeing it with Carson would be an almost greater betrayal to his family than the one he's already committing. "No, you're right." He forces a laugh. "True, I've investigated art smuggling rings before, but let's not push our luck."

Carson leans forward. "I've already told you what I want, Fenton," he says quietly. "If it's not the same thing you want, or if you're not sure, we can call it a night."

Fenton closes his eyes for a second, and all he can think about is Carson's foot brushing up against his ankle, Carson undressing him and touching every part of his body until his skin is stained with Fenton's cologne. He pulls out his wallet to leave the tip. "I'm just going to make a phone call," Fenton says deliberately. "I'll be in the lobby. If you happen to book a room while I'm there, I might be persuaded to stay."

Fenton's wife picks up just as Carson passes by and presses a slip of paper into Fenton's hand. 204. "Hello, darling, it's me," Fenton says. "Carson and I have quite a few things left to discuss, and if it gets to be too late I'll probably just find a hotel and return in the morning."

"You're away so much, Fenton," Laura says with concern, "but I suppose that's wise. Driving when you're tired can be dangerous, and I certainly wouldn't want anything to happen to you." The affection in her voice makes his chest hurt. "Say hello to Carson for me, won't you?"

"I will," Fenton lies.

"I love you, darling. See you tomorrow."

Fenton squeezes his eyes shut. "Yes, see you tomorrow. I love you, too."

He takes the elevator to the second floor and walks down the hall until he reaches 204. Carson opens the door on the first knock.

"That didn't take long," he whispers playfully, sliding his hands around Fenton's waist. He kisses his neck, his jaw. Works his fingers over the buttons of Fenton's shirt. "Does this mean you've decided to stay?"

Fenton grabs him by the shoulders and presses him up against the door. Carson always has to question the obvious. Always has to make Fenton state what he already knows. "Isn't that what you want?" Fenton asks, kissing him roughly on the mouth.

Carson moans as Fenton slides his hand between their bodies. "Of course," he breathes.

Fenton wakes up much too soon with a sore back and bruises on his knees and Carson's face buried in the crook of his neck. Turning his head, he blinks wearily at where the curtains are drawn tight, where the sunlight is already beginning to shine its warning through the gaps in the fabric.

The Hardys attend church every Sunday, seven o'clock Mass at the First Church of Bayport. ("The only church of Bayport," Joe likes to remind them.) Truth be told, Fenton's never gotten much gratification from sermons or rituals, but Laura came from a staunchly Catholic family, and anyway, it's good for business to be seen at Sunday Mass with his two well-dressed boys and a wife who's still pretty enough to make his colleagues jealous.

Fenton stares at his hymnal and mouths along with the words. Stand, sit, stand. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Joe fiddling with a small wooden puzzle. "Give that to me," he whispers harshly, holding out his hand.

Joe looks down at his lap and relinquishes the toy. "Don't make me see Father Westwood," he mumbles.

Fenton just slips it into his pocket and slides his hymnal over onto Joe's lap. He can't even remember the last time he took Confession. The thought of it makes his blood run cold.

After church they go to Mae's Restaurant, their regular Sunday breakfast spot where they never fail to order the same thing. Fenton gets an omlette, Laura has the buttermilk short stack, and Frank and Joe alternate between waffles and blueberry pancakes because they can never decide which is better. Today Joe goes for the waffle.

"Boys, I thought that after we go home and change we might do some shopping for your father's you-know-what," Laura says, pouring a modest amount of maple syrup over her pancakes.

"Not fair," Joe pouts. "Dad's birthday is next week, and then Frank's is two weeks later. I have to save twice the allowance."

"So do I," Laura teases.

"It's all the same in the end, Joe," Frank scoffs. "Maybe if you didn't spend all your money on those silly baseball cards, you'd have more of it left."

"They're not silly," Joe says defensively.

Frank punctures a blueberry with his fork and pops it into his mouth. "Gosh, you stare at them so much, that Lou Gehrig fellow is going to disintegrate completely."

Joe's cheeks redden. "Shut up."

"Stop it," Fenton snaps. "Both of you. If Joe wants to play with baseball cards, then let him. You fight over the silliest things."

"Sorry," Frank mumbles, but Joe just stares moodily at his waffle.

Laura takes a sip from her orange juice and forces a smile. "Well, where shall we go shopping?"

His wife takes the kids to Downtown Bayport, so Fenton finds himself with an empty house for the better part of the afternoon. He knows he should try and get some work done—there are invoices that need to be written, reports that need finishing—but he's restless and agitated, and the blank pages just stare back at him unhelpfully.

He takes off his suit and hangs it back up in the closet, puts on a pair of old trousers and his dressing gown and pours himself a glass of brandy. There's a worn leather chair in his study that's been his favorite place to read for as long as they've owned the house, but when he realizes he's been staring at the same paragraph for the last five minutes, he closes the book and tosses it onto the table.

He doesn't know what makes him pick up the phone, but before he knows it Carson's voice is on the other end and he's trying to come up with a reason for why he called.

"You seem perturbed," Carson says. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Fenton lies. "Not precisely. Everyone's out. I don't quite know what to do with myself."

"I have to say, I'm rather surprised you called, given our earlier discussion."

Fenton cringes. He's broken his own rule that easily. "I know. I—I'm sorry." He feels foolish.

"Luckily for me," Carson says calmly, "Nancy is out to lunch with her aunt."

Fenton suddenly realizes that Carson never mentions his daughter. He never phones home, never has to make arrangements to see that she's looked after. Either he's impossibly careless about keeping her away from his private life, or just the opposite.

"How do you do it, Carson?" he asks suddenly.

"Do what?"

"Keep...pretending."

"Fenton, darling, I put on an act for a living," Carson says, and Fenton doesn't know if he's more put off by the term of endearment, or by how much more experienced Carson is at feigning composure. "Men like us have three choices," he continues. "We can live the life that's expected of us, we can be true to who we are and accept the consequences, or we can try and do both. None of them are easy."

Fenton had married his first and only girlfriend, held her hand and kissed her because that's what husbands were supposed do. It never occurred to him that there might have been another choice, that he was supposed to feel more than he did when he went to bed with his wife. None of those things ever crossed his mind; he never let them.

"I'm lucky enough to have a daughter who means the world to me," Carson says. "But it's a comfort as well as a hindrance. I can't jeopardize the life she has."

"Of course. I know," Fenton says.

"I've no doubt that you do." Carson pauses. "And there's you."

Fenton smirks to himself. "What about me?" He means for it to sound self-deprecating, a humorless jab at his own expense, but when Carson speaks again, his voice is strangely quiet.

"Fenton," he says. "Surely you don't need to ask."

Fenton swallows. "We should probably end this call."

"Ah, I've crossed the line again," Carson says with a small, ironic laugh.

"...No," Fenton says. "You haven't."

"You know," Carson says wistfully, "some men in our position think that anything but the first choice isn't worth the risk, but I disagree. I believe that if you can draw even a thread of happiness from within that great tangle of lies—well, that alone is worth everything. But forgive me for turning philosophical on you," he says more cheerfully. "That's merely what I think. Enjoy your Sunday."

"And you," Fenton tells him, and he stares at the phone for a long time, even after they've hung up.

Laura and the boys get home an hour later, loaded with groceries and shopping bags that Joe tries to obscure behind his back. They have tuna for dinner and play a game of cribbage, Fenton and Joe against Laura and Frank. He reads a few chapters in his favorite chair, then joins his wife in bed, slowly undressing her beneath the covers. She kisses his neck and gasps his name, and he pushes into her and forces himself to do the same.

Fenton can see the birthday party coming from a mile away. It's in the way his wife keeps stashing things in the very back of the icebox. The way Frank grins whenever Fenton asks where they've hidden all those shopping bags. The way Joe keeps polishing his shoes, over and over and over again, until his fingertips are stained black.

Frank bursts into his study that afternoon, going on about the Woolworth's located thirty minutes outside of town. "Please, dad," he begs. "I need a new tennis racket for school, and they're the only ones who have the right one."

Fenton lowers his paper. "Is that so? I didn't know you were still playing tennis in November."

"Um, well..." Frank scratches his head. "We do. When the weather's nice."

"Oh, I see." Fenton winks at Joe, who's slyly joined his brother in the doorway. "I must say, though," Fenton adds, giving them a thorough once-over, "you're rather well-dressed for Woolworth's."

Knowing what he does, he assumes they need to be gone for at least an hour and a half. Surely there's food that needs to be put out, decorations that need hanging, friends and colleagues who need to be organized and introduced and turned into some semblance of a party. Fortunately, Frank's wandering shamelessly around the store like he can't remember where anything is, and Joe keeps asking a dozen questions a minute, about everything from stuffed bears to chewing gum to ladies' hats.

Nearly fifty minutes later, Frank picks up a tennis racket and nods like he's just chosen the winner of Bayport's annual dog show. "This is it, I think."

"You think so?" Fenton asks, raising an eyebrow. It's his birthday and here he is, buying his son a tennis racket.

"Yes. Yes, this is the one." Frank grins sheepishly. "Will you get it for me?"

"I thought you said you needed it for school."

"Well, yes," Frank says. "But it's still polite to ask."

"Dad?" Joe asks.

"What is it?"

"Can I get this airplane?"

Fenton glances down at the box in his son's hands.

"You put it together yourself," Joe explains. "The parts interlock."

Fenton hides his smile as he reaches for his wallet. "Why not?"

He's already guessed the reason behind their impromptu shopping trip, so he's not surprised when he comes home to find colored crepe paper suspended from the ceiling, and thirty of his friends huddled in his parlor.

"My goodness, Laura," he jokes loudly, putting his arm around her waist. "Who are all these people?"

Everyone laughs. His old partner from his police days, some friends from back in college. The Mortons, their neighbors. They all shake his hand and give him their best, and he smiles and laughs and kisses his wife on the cheek for getting them all together like this.

And then a single voice shatters it all.

"So how does it feel to be forty?"

Fenton doesn't have to turn around to know who's standing there. How could he have missed him when he first walked into the room? That distracting smile—how could he not have noticed?

"Splendid," Fenton answers stiffly.

"Oh, sweetheart," Laura beams, "I know what good friends the two of you have become, so I invited the Drews." She flutters her hand in Carson's direction before excusing herself to see to the refreshments.

The Drews. Plural. Fenton's gaze drops to the young girl at Carson's side. She's pretty and petite, with blond hair and a sophisticated emerald dress. She can't be any older than Frank.

"Nancy, this is Mr. Hardy," Carson says.

For some reason Fenton expects her to be shy, but she rocks back on her heels and smiles so hard her cheeks dimple. "Thank you for inviting me."

Fenton tries not to grimace. "You're very welcome," he says kindly. "That's a lovely dress you're wearing."

"Thank you," she says. She doesn't look at all like Carson. "Dad bought it especially for tonight." Except for the eyes. When she looks at Fenton, it unnerves him almost as much as that first night at the hotel bar.

"Did he?" Fenton asks, glancing at Carson sharply. "Well, it's lovely. But I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse me," he says politely, placing his hand briefly against Carson's back. "I must see if my wife needs help in the kitchen."

He successfully avoids both Carson and his daughter for the better part of the evening, but it's not difficult when most of the guests have already heard the name Carson Drew in some capacity, and the rest are easily drawn to his clever anecdotes and natural charm. Fenton watches him as he talks to some of his old colleagues from the New York Police Department, but the only thing he can actually hear is Lieutenant Hill's abrasive laugh, and Fenton has to turn away when he realizes that Carson is staring at him from across the room.

It isn't until Laura begins passing around the champagne flutes that Carson finally approaches him. "Fenton..." he says, but Nancy is still at his side, and Fenton can tell he doesn't quite know how to continue.

"Joe," Fenton says suddenly, motioning to his son. Joe looks up questioningly from a platter of cheese and crackers. "Why don't you take Nancy and play a game together?"

Joe gives her an appraising sort of look. "Do you like cards?" he asks.

Nancy grins. "Oh, yes! May I go play cards?" she asks her father.

"Of course you may." Carson watches as they disappear into the other room. "They're easy to please," he observes.

Fenton narrows his eyes. "Come with me." He leads Carson down the hall towards the back entrance to his house, stopping only when his wife appears with another bottle of champagne. "I thought I would show Carson how your vegetable garden is set up," he says pleasantly, sweeping a kiss across her cheek.

"Oh, but everything is dead!" she laughs.

"No matter," Fenton says. "He just wanted to get an idea of the arrangement."

"Nothing like fresh tomatoes," Carson says.

They slip out the back in silence, past the patio and through the tall grass of the Hardys' backyard. Fenton doesn't stop until they reach the far side of the shed, where Laura grows cucumbers and tomatoes and a whole assortment of other things he can't remember.

"This wasn't my idea, you know," Carson says sharply before Fenton even has the chance to speak. "You've been cross with me all evening, but do you think this is easy for me? She called me out of nowhere, Fenton, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to tell her?"

Fenton looks at him closely in the fading light. "Just be quiet," he says, then takes Carson's face in his hands and kisses him.

For once, Carson is speechless.

"That's all I've wanted to do since I saw you," Fenton breathes against his neck. "Every minute. It's all I could think about." He parts his lips and kisses him again, tangling his fingers in his hair as he presses him up against the wall of the shed.

"You're insane," Carson groans as Fenton runs his hand along the inside of his thigh. "Ahh... God, Fenton, we can't do this here."

Fenton squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. He doesn't think he's ever wanted someone as badly as he wants Carson now, but the man is right. This is too dangerous. "Damn it," he sighs, and presses a kiss against Carson's jaw. "God, I wish we were anywhere but here."

Fenton moves away and straightens his tie, Carson merely adjusts his glasses. He looks infinitely more composed than Fenton feels.

They're about to return to the house when Fenton feels Carson's hand on his wrist. "Wait," he says.

Fenton smiles wistfully. "Don't be a tease. It doesn't suit you."

"This is for you." Carson reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, red box. "I have only one request: Don't go lending them out," he says cryptically as he presses the gift into his hand. "Open it later, when the light is better."

Fenton gazes down at the box in surprise. He hadn't even expected Carson to be there, much less give him anything. "Carson, you didn't have to... Thank you," he says, placing it in his pocket.

Carson smiles distantly. "It would probably be in our best interest to rejoin the party."

Fenton thinks it probably would have been in their best interest to stay at the party in the first place, but then again, his own wife already knows they're out here. He clears his throat. "I hope you noted the location of the cucumbers," he says, motioning to an unassuming patch of earth. "For your garden."

"Thank you, I did," Carson says.

Fenton leads the way back to the house, lightly running his fingers over the velvet-smooth box in his pocket. And then he comes around the other side of the shed, and his blood runs cold.

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at Joe. "What are you doing outside?" he demands. "I thought I told you to play a game with Nancy."

A strange looks passes over Joe's face, and Fenton doesn't know if it's from the sudden shock of being yelled at, or something else entirely. He doesn't think he wants to know. "I—Nancy and I put my airplane together," he stammers. "I was going to get the ladder from the shed. We wanted to see if it would fly."

Fenton looks past Joe to where Carson's daughter is seated some distance away in the grass. She glances up at them curiously.

"It's too cold for you to be out here without a coat," Fenton snaps. All he can think about is how long they've been outside, how long Joe has been standing there. "Nancy is probably freezing. Go back inside at once."

Joe looks down at his feet and nods. "Yes, sir."

Fenton watches him cross the lawn and help Nancy up off the ground, toy airplane still tucked beneath one arm. She brushes the grass from her dress and laughs, taking the plane from Joe and sending it in an arc above his head.

Next to him, Carson places a hand lightly on his shoulder. "I'm sure they were only playing."

The back door bangs shut, and Fenton tries to tell himself that Carson is right. "You really do have a lovely daughter," he says after a moment. "It's rather a shame they can't become better friends."

"I suppose it is," Carson agrees.

They go back inside and Fenton's wife hands them each a plate of cake. Rich, dark chocolate with coconut shavings, a specialty of Mrs. Morton. Carson compliments the Hardys on their lovely home, the children go upstairs to play Rummy, and Fenton stays at his wife's side for the remainder of the night, gently resting his arm against the delicate curve of her waist.

"I'm sorry it's so early," Carson apologizes when they're the first to leave, "but Nancy and I have quite a long drive home."

"Thank you so much for coming, Carson," Fenton says, and he smiles and lets go of his wife's waist, wishing that he didn't have to give Carson the same trite handshake he'd offer any one of his guests.

Never mind counterfeiting and bank jobs, the real money maker of 1935 is the Museum of Modern Art's Vincent Van Gogh exhibit. The entire showroom is wall to wall people—families, tourists, exasperated art lovers—all vying for a spot in front of the famed masterpieces.

"Good grief," Frank exclaims, gaping at the crowd, and Fenton can't help but agree with the sentiment.

Even so, they do their best to weave through the masses, admiring the paintings for as long as they can before being swept away by another surge of people. There are some undeniably beautiful pieces, but Fenton is secretly relieved when Joe gives a satisfied smile and says, "Shall we go see the rest of the museum?"

Fenton's been treading carefully around his son ever since the party, waiting to see if he looks at him differently, studying his eyes for signs of betrayal. But he's beginning to think that Carson was right, that neither of their children had paid them any notice that night. Joe even went out again one afternoon to see if his plane would fly.

They wander into a showroom of French painters that Fenton is relieved to find mostly deserted. It's a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the main gallery, and after a family of five disappears into the next room, they find they have the collection completely to themselves. Franks starts going on to his mother about one of the artists, but Fenton is content to continue along the wall by himself, stopping to admire those pieces he finds particularly breathtaking.

He wanders into an adjoining room, where Joe is gazing thoughtfully at a Matisse. "Coming here was a fine idea," Fenton comments.

Joe's footsteps echo in the empty showroom. "I think so too. Can we have dinner in the city?" he asks.

"I don't see why not." He fully expects Joe to begin making restaurant suggestions, but there's only silence. "You're awfully quiet today," Fenton observes. "Have you gotten your brother anything for his birthday yet? It's next week, you know."

Joe wanders over to the next painting and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Boys don't give other boys gifts," he mumbles.

Fenton tries not to look taken aback. "Don't be silly," he laughs. "Of course you can give another boy a gift."

Joe just stares moodily at his shoes, and his reply is so soft that at first Fenton can't believe he heard right. Surely his own son, so sweet and so young, hasn't been exposed to that kind of hatred. But there's no mistaking the scorn in his voice, or the words: "Only if you're a faggot."

Fenton's so blinded by anger he can't even think straight, and he slaps Joe hard across the face. "I don't ever, ever want to hear that word from you again, do you understand?"

Joe cradles his cheek and looks up at his father in shock. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

"Do you understand?" Fenton demands.

Joe nods, unable to hold back the tears his eyes.

"Good," Fenton says, trying to keep his voice even. His hand is beginning to sting. "Here, stop crying," he says, pulling his handkerchief from out of his pocket. "People are going to stare."

After a moment, Joe sniffles and hands the cloth back to him. "Maybe we can go out for steak," he says quietly. His bright blue eyes are all puffy.

Fenton slips the handkerchief back into his pocket and returns his attention to the paintings. "All right," he says. "Sure."

They're so exhausted by the time they get home that Laura goes to bed early and Frank and Joe both retreat to opposite ends of the house. Fenton takes a book from his study and goes to the living room, where Frank is already sprawled out across the sofa.

"Did you have a good time in the city?" he asks, settling into an armchair.

Frank looks up from his book and grins. "Sure. We should go more often."

"I'm glad." Fenton flips through the pages until he finds his bookmark buried in the spine. "And I agree, we don't see the city nearly as often as we should." He closes the book again. "Where did your brother learn the word 'faggot'?"

Frank's eyes go impossibly wide. "Wh—what?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Frank carefully places his book to the side and sits up, looking distressed. "Dad, I don't... " He swallows. "School. From some of the boys at school. I mean...you know," he adds uselessly.

"I see." Fenton stares off into the distance. When he looks up, Frank is still watching him nervously. "You can go back to your book," he says.

He finds Joe up in his room, lying on his bed with a book of his own propped up on his chest. He watches him for a moment, flipping through the pages with an amused sort of smile.

"Any good?" Fenton asks from the doorway.

Joe doesn't look up, just nods. "I wish she would write more Miss Marple."

"Who's that one about, then?"

"Poirot," Joe replies. "They're mostly about Poirot. I like him too, but I think she should write more Miss Marple."

Fenton crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. He's not entirely sure what to say. "Put that down for a second, will you?"

Joe folds the dust jacket into the pages and sets it aside, then props himself up against the headboard. He looks thoroughly miserable.

"Just listen to me, all right?" Fenton says gently, staring at his cufflinks. "I don't care where you heard that word, or who said it, or who it was aimed at. It's an ugly word, and I don't ever want to hear you using it again."

Joe nods solemnly.

"Sometimes..." Fenton exhales roughly. He shouldn't be having this conversation. This isn't what fathers talk about with their sons.

"Sometimes what?" Joe asks suddenly, and Fenton can't bring himself to ignore the question.

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people can't help what they are. But that's their burden to bear, and it doesn't give anyone else the right to treat them poorly."

Joe stares at his lap. "Why is it a burden?" he asks quietly, and it's only then that Fenton realizes it was never his father for whom Joe was concerned.

Fenton's chest tightens. Surely his son is too young to know, he thinks dismally. Surely he doesn't deserve this fate. "Because, Joe," he says, struggling to keep his voice even. "That's not how men are supposed to be. But you don't need to worry," he promises. "You're going to get married, and have a family, and it's not something you ever need to worry about." He looks over at his son, and his heart breaks over how much he wants it to be the truth.

"All right," Joe says quietly, but even after Fenton kisses him on the head and leaves the room, all he can hear is his own mocking accusation, ringing in his ears like the clatter of Joe's footsteps in the empty showroom: You mean like you?

He opens the door to his bedroom and slips into the master bath, taking extra care not to wake his wife. Turning on the light, he stares into the mirror in disgust. This is a mess, he thinks desperately. What on earth led him to believe this could ever work? He's jeopardized his family, his career. Risked far too much to fall in love with someone he can never truly be with. It isn't worth it. It can't be worth it.

He leans over the sink, letting the water run cold as he splashes it over his face. "God," he sighs, and rubs at his eyes until his vision goes red. He takes off his tie and unbuttons his shirt, lingering over the cufflinks that lie at his wrists. Beautifully intricate knots of platinum, woven around a single lonely sapphire. They must have cost an exorbitant amount of money, but then, Carson has never been modest with his wallet. Fenton slips one from his shirt cuff, cradling it in his palm.

And then just as he's about to slide them into his pocket, he realizes why Carson had asked that he never lend them out. He'd completely failed to notice—maybe because he'd dressed too quickly, or because the extravagance of the gift had left him flustered. He runs his finger over the smooth underside of the jewelry, where an impossibly small string of letters adorns the metal.

Yours, C.

Turning the other one in his palm, he holds it under the light and laughs dismally.

You have three choices, Carson had told him once. Live the lie, endure the ruin, or accept the danger that comes with trying to have it all. But Fenton knows that it's a loss as much as a risk, and those lucky enough to find that balance ultimately lose the freedom to favor either side. This is the most that he and Carson will ever be. Discreet phone calls and secluded hotel rooms. Words on his cufflinks that no one can ever see. He'll go to church with his family, have dinner with his wife, play ball with his sons. To the rest of the world, Carson Drew will never be anything greater than a friend. But he reads the words in his palm, shining softly under the pale light of his bathroom mirror—It's always worth it, Fenton—and he can't believe how much he wants them to be true.

Fenton wakes up to the unkind chill of January and Carson's lips against his shoulder.

"Rise and shine, darling," Carson murmurs as Fenton rolls over in his arms. He reaches out from beneath the covers, laughing softly as he brushes the hair out of Fenton's eyes. "You warned me that I'd live to regret it if I let you oversleep," he says. "Don't make that face."

Fenton yawns. "I remember no such thing," he mumbles, then smiles languidly and snakes his hand down between Carson's legs. "Mmm, what time is it?"

"Oh, god..." Carson groans, trying to read his wristwatch from around Fenton's shoulder. "Nearly seven—god, Fenton..."

Fenton pulls him closer, kissing his neck as he touches him beneath the covers. "That's a shame," he breathes. "I suppose this will have to wait."

"When did you decide to start being a tease?" Carson complains when Fenton pulls away.

But Fenton only smiles to himself, glancing at his own watch. "I have to wash up and make a quick phone call. Shall we meet downstairs in forty-five minutes?"

Carson takes his glasses from the bedside table. "Make it thirty, won't you?" he says impatiently. "We might as well enjoy our breakfast." Then he slides his arm around Fenton's waist, draws him down and kisses him softly.

"All right," Fenton murmurs against his lips. "Thirty."

He gathers his things—clothes from the chair, shoes by the bed, briefcase on the desk—and returns to his own room two floors down. He showers and shaves, runs a comb through his hair and dresses in the suit that's hanging on the coat rack. The paperwork for this morning's meeting is still tucked away neatly in his briefcase, same as it was when he left home the evening before. He adjusts his tie in the mirror and gathers his overcoat, then quickly pulls back the covers from his still-made bed, sinking his fist into the pillow so that it looks slept on.

He goes down to the lobby and places a call home, keeping the promise he made to his wife.

"Oh, hello, sweetheart," Laura says fondly. "I'm afraid you just missed the boys. They've already left for school."

"At least they're punctual."

"Well, you know Frank. He prefers to be early if he can help it. I think Joe only avoids tardiness by virtue of the fact that they're headed to the same place." She laughs. "Have you arrived at your meeting already?"

"No," he says. "I'm still at the hotel. Though I have a bit of time, I thought I might have breakfast somewhere."

"I went to make scrambled eggs this morning and realized we were out eggs," she sighs. "Honestly, I'm so scattered when you're not here, I don't know how I ever manage. When does your trial begin?"

"We're meeting with the defense this morning," Fenton explains. "I imagine they're hoping to settle out of court."

"Do you think they'll succeed?"

Fenton smiles grimly. "Not likely. I'm afraid Carson isn't a particularly merciful negotiator."

"Goodness, but he seems so friendly."

"Well, he is," Fenton says. "Unless, of course, he's suing you." He checks his watch again, scanning the lobby out of the corner of his eye. Carson is lingering near the elevator, briefcase at his feet as he buttons up his coat. "But I'm afraid I have to go, Laura," Fenton says kindly. "Say hello to the boys for me, won't you?"

"Of course I will," she says, and her words are brimming with the same affection they've always held. She knows that this is his career, their livelihood. That he'd be home if he could. "When do you think you'll be back?"

"I'll call you as soon as I know," he says, watching Carson from across the room. Carson hardly meets his gaze, smiling vaguely before turning away to polish his glasses. "I love you, darling," Fenton says into the phone.

After he hangs up, he checks his watch again and gathers his things, puts his coat on and replaces his hat.

"Fancy seeing you here," Carson says affably when Fenton approaches him. Setting his briefcase down, he shakes Fenton's hand like they haven't seen each other in months. "Don't tell me this is where you're staying," he says with disbelief. "What a funny coincidence."

"Yes, it is," Fenton agrees as Carson slowly caresses the back of his hand with his thumb. His skin is always so warm. "Why don't you join me for breakfast," Fenton insists. "After all, we're on our way to the same place."

Carson lets go of his hand, smiling pleasantly. "Thank you, Fenton. I think I will."

Fenton tucks his scarf into his coat and picks up his briefcase. "Shall we go then?" he asks, and they leave the hotel together, walking side by side into the biting chill of the morning. Carson has to grab hold of his hat to keep it from blowing away, and all Fenton can think is how much he wishes they were still in bed together, tangled in the warmth of the covers as Carson breathes softly against his neck.

But passing through the crowded streets of the city, they're nothing more than colleagues. Two prominent members of New York society on their way to an important meeting. They go to breakfast and discuss the details of their case. Order eggs and toast and check their watches far too often. They act every bit the part of Fenton Hardy and Carson Drew, smiling mildly at their coffee as they inquire after the lives they can never really share.

Heavy Rain/Twin Peaks fic: While in Texas

bethfrish — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 07:15:42 GMT

AHAHAHAHA WHAT.

Title: While in Texas
Fandom: Heavy Rain/Twin Peaks
Pairing: Agent Norman Jayden/Agent Dale Cooper
Rating: PG-13.

Uhh, I wrote this really quickly when I should have been sleeping. D:

"I thoroughly apologize on behalf of the Bureau. They usually do their absolute best to provide us with air conditioning." Agent Cooper strolled over to the window of their muggy hotel room and pried it open with a grunt. "Texas," he muttered, shaking his head.

Agent Jayden sat down on the bed nearest to the door and slid off his shoes. "Yes," he agreed. He really wanted to reorganize his ARI files a bit before going to sleep.

Cooper neatly shucked off his jacket and draped it over the lone hanger in the closet. "So, Norman. What do you think of your first assignment?" he asked eagerly. Apparently being ankle deep in bodily fluids was no big thing. Jayden felt like he'd just been asked if Santa had brought him everything he'd wanted for Christmas.

"It's..." Jayden paused, fishing for the right word. "Challenging."

"It is, it is," Cooper agreed, nodding sagely as he joined Jayden on the edge his bed. He draped one arm around his shoulder in what Jayden took to be a gesture of encouragement. "But I love it. Diane," he added abruptly, pulling a tape recorder from somewhere in the vicinity of his shirt. "I hope you'll make me listen to this the next time my morale is in the gutter: I love my job. This hotel room may be hotter than that chili I made the mistake of eating at last year's state fair, but damn it. I love my job." He tucked away his recorder with a satisfied smile.

"So, what do you think of our suspect?" Jayden asked, fiddling with his glasses.

"Who? The janitor? Not our guy. Too old, too dependent. I'd say we're looking for a white male, mid-twenties maybe, definitely lives alone. These local cops wouldn't know a serial killer from a slab of goat cheese. Hey, they put you on the newest ARI test run, didn't they," Cooper said, finally taking his hand off Jayden's shoulder. "You know what we like to call ARI, don't you? Actually Radioactive Inside. Referring, of course, to the infamous second prototype. If you don't already know what happened with that one, I won't tell you."

Jayden decided that maybe he would wait until morning to go over his ARI notes.

"Hey, how about a drink," Cooper declared before disappearing into the bathroom. He came out with a bottle of scotch and two cheap, plastic hotel cups.

"Where did you get that?" Jayden asked.

"We're in El Paso!" Cooper replied, as if that were a perfectly satisfactory answer. "If you want ice there might be a machine somewhere in the hallway, but I can't guarantee it."

Jayden made himself more comfortable on the bed. "Neat is just fine."

Cooper slid his cup across the shared nightstand. "Norman, have I told you yet how charming I find your accent? You know, I had an aunt who moved to Boston. Absolutely hated it for the first four months. See, she'd lived in Chicago for most of her life, and when she went to Boston, she couldn't figure out how to navigate your crazy streets. I also like that you said 'neat'. No one ever uses 'neat' as a liquor instruction."

"Um, thank you," Jayden said.

"How do you like your coffee, Norman?" Cooper asked, taking a sip from his hotel cup.

"Black."

"Good, good. That's what I like to hear. Because I saw this coffee shop about a mile south on the way in, and I don't know about you, but I like to start my day with a quality cup of coffee. Diane," he continued, speaking into his tape recorder again. Jayden couldn't figure out where that thing kept coming from. "Let me tell you something. The best cup of coffee I ever had was in the middle of Nebraska. Now, I don't know how a state like Nebraska learned to brew something as magnificent as that cup of coffee, but on a scale of 1 to 10, I gave it a well-deserved 11.8. I'll let you know where El Paso stands in the rankings." He switched off the recorder, then switched it back on. "Unfortunately, I can't say much for their hotels."

Jayden glanced at the clock, swirling his empty cup in one hand. "Shit, I'm not even tired."

"Welcome to my life, Norman," Cooper beamed. "You get used to it. Here, let me pour you another one."

"I don't...normally drink on the job," Jayden laughed, slightly embarrassed. "But maybe it'll help me sleep."

"It's an exciting job, Norman. And I've already told you how much I love it." Cooper poured him a hefty shot before lying back down on his own bed. "I don't normally work with a partner, you know, but I think you show a lot of promise. If the ARI technology doesn't melt your brain." He chuckled when he saw Jayden's face. "Kidding. I hope, anyway. Well, we've got a long day in store for us tomorrow, but I think it's going to be a good one. Damn is it hot in here. Have you ever received a blowjob from another man, Norman?"

Jayden nearly tumbled off the bed. "What?"

"Blowjob. From another man. They say it's better than anything a woman could ever hope to accomplish."

Jayden started to asked who "they" referred to, but then thought better of it. "N—No, I haven't!" he sputtered.

"I see."

"Why? Do I...do I seem gay?" Jayden asked.

Cooper shrugged. "To be perfectly honest, a little bit. And I generally get a pretty good reading on these types of things."

"Are...are you?" Jayden asked.

Cooper shrugged again. "We're in El Paso," he said simply.

Agent Cooper gave the coffee the next morning a solid score of 7.3, while the blowjob he got from Agent Jayden beat his reigning first place by nearly six points.

The Worst Crossover Ever

bethfrish — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 09:16:36 GMT

I was bored so I decided to do a little "creative" exercise. (There should probably be quotation marks around the word "exercise" too.)

Here's how it went: I wrote down ten characters on ten slips of paper, shuffled them around and drew ten random combinations, then wrote ten hundred-word drabbles that...sort of have a plot, though that wasn't my intent. ~~SELF INDULGENCE~~ CREATIVE EXERCISE!

Characters
Kyle Hyde, NYPD Detective (Hotel Dusk)
Brian Bradley, NYPD Detective (Hotel Dusk)
Miles Edgeworth, LA Prosecutor (Ace Attorney)
Byrne Faraday, LA Prosecutor (Ace Attorney)
Shi-Long Lang, Interpol Agent (Ace Attorney)
Luke Triton, Solver of Puzzles and the Occasional Mystery (Professor Layton)
Inspector Gage, Scotland Yard Detective (Eagle Eye Mysteries in London)
Fenton Hardy, Retired NYPD Detective/Private Investigator (The Hardy Boys)
Joe Hardy, Private Investigator/Teenage Slut (The Hardy Boys)
Carson Drew, NY District Attorney* (Nancy Drew)

*It's totes canonfax that Carson used to be a DA so THAT'S WHAT HE IS HERE.

Also, Blodges wormed his way in here, I don't know. (See icon.)

Joe Hardy, Brian Bradley

Bradley said no to the wire right off the bat. "You're shitting me, right?" were his exact words, but with his partner tied up at the DA's office for the foreseeable future, and the big dogs insisting that, "Someone's going in there," he had no choice but to agree to the alternative.

"You sure you're okay with this?" he asked Joe, stretching another piece of tape across the kid's chest. "Because you've gotta get something we can use, otherwise this whole thing's a waste."

Bradley feigned temporary deafness when Joe replied, "Detective, infiltrating a sex party is never a waste."

Fenton Hardy, Byrne Faraday, Kyle Hyde

All Kyle knew about Fenton Hardy was that he was damn good at his job, and that Bradley often referred to him as "the world's biggest douchebag." So far, both were proving to be accurate.

It wasn't until Byrne Faraday, noted prosecutor of the East Coast, met with them regarding the transferal of some key evidence that Kyle realized Bradley's other frequent observation also held true:

"Fenton Hardy has a massive boner for prick lawyers."

Interestingly enough, Faraday paid little attention to him outside of professional necessity, though he winked at Kyle as he left and whispered, "Love the goatee."

Joe Hardy, Shi-Long Lang

"Look, kid. I know your dad is Mr. Big Shot Private Detective around here, and that he probably thought he was doing me a favor by sending his All-Star boy along, but this isn't child's play, all right? Why don't just let me do my thing while I'm in town? I'm sure my men can keep you entertained."

Joe took one look at Lang's entourage of testosterone and nodded enthusiastically.

"Uhh...you know what?" Lang said slowly, recalling the infamous wrath of Fenton Hardy. "Maybe it's better if you just come with me. Yeah, why don't you just come with me."

Kyle Hyde, Miles Edgeworth

"Nice ruffles," Kyle said, leaning back in his chair in the DA's office.

Next to him, Miles Edgeworth folded his arms. "You're not much for conversation, are you? There's no shame in taking pride in one's appearance," he said, squinting at Kyle's sloppily knotted tie in disgust. "I'd think that as a gay man, you would understand that."

"Excuse me?!" Kyle almost fell backwards out of his chair. "I'm not—Who told you I was gay??"

Edgeworth just laughed. "Oh please. Now where's your delightful DA, Mr. Drew? I have a plane to catch in an hour and a half."

Inspector Gage, Shi-Long Lang

Someone cleared his throat loudly. "I believe that's my desk you're sitting on."

"Oh, excuse me..." Lang glanced at the nameplate with indifference. "Blodges."

Detective Sergeant Blodges peered at him with utter distaste. "Hmm. Run out of women to fuck, Inspector Gage?"

"See here, now!" Lang erupted. "I'm with Interpol, and besides, Inspector Gage is hardly my—"

"Run along, Blodges," said Inspector Gage impatiently. "We're on an important case, nothing more, and we don't have time to listen to another one of your nonsensical rants about hepatitis C."

Even so, Blodges disinfected his desk the moment they left the office.

Carson Drew, Kyle Hyde

Kyle laid the contents of his bag across the DA's desk. "This is everything the prosecutors from California had transferred to us, this is the tape that the Hardy kid came back with—"

"Let's not tell Fenton about this one, shall we?" Carson said with a friendly chuckle, taking the cassette.

"Er, all right. And then this is everything you asked me to bring from the precinct. The zip ties weren't a problem, but, uh...you know, we're not really supposed to take the tasers for non-departmental use."

Carson did not elaborate on his request, and Kyle decided not to ask.

Miles Edgeworth, Inspector Gage

"Amazing," Edgeworth sighed. "Just...amazing."

"It was, wasn't it?"

"Oh, indeed. You certainly know what you're doing—the heat, and oh god, the taste."

"You liked that, didn't you?"

"Dear lord, how could I not? I've never had anything so extraordinary down my throat before."

"I can certainly give you more of that."

"AHEM."

Both Edgeworth and Inspector Gage turned to glare at DS Blodges.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Blodges. Don't you have work to do? Isn't there like, an art theft ring that needs your attention or something?" Inspector Gage shook his head. "Let's finish our tea elsewhere, Mr. Edgeworth."

Shi-Long Lang, Miles Edgeworth, Luke Triton

"Here, kid. I heard you like sliding puzzles," Lang said, fishing something out of his pocket. "But go up to the room and do it." He waved two fingers at the bartender as Luke trudged away, ignoring the boy's look of absolute hatred. "I can't believe these country bumpkins sent us a twelve-year-old boy as their liaison. Don't they have any real police?"

"Not everyone has access to such resources, Agent Lang."

"Yeah, I guess not. So what are your thoughts on sliding puzzles, Mr. Edgeworth?" Lang asked, spreading his legs a little. "Because I know a real good one."

Brian Bradley, Joe Hardy, Fenton Hardy

"Well, Officer Bradley, Joe tells me he really enjoyed working with you."

"Detective Bradley," Bradley mumbled into his coffee.

"I heard you did a little undercover work, son," Fenton continued, seemingly oblivious.

Joe stared at Bradley over his menu. "Sure did."

"Wonderful! Where did you go?"

"You know what?" Bradley interrupted, flagging over the waiter. "I think we're ready to order. I'll have the omelette. With tomatoes, cheese, and salami. How about you, Mr. Hardy? On me, of course."

Fenton glanced back and forth between Bradley and Joe for a moment, then proceeded to order the most expensive breakfast possible.

Fenton Hardy, Carson Drew

"Honestly, Carson, you have no sense of discretion," Fenton said irritably.

"Shut the door, please, darling."

"I mean, your office of all places," he continued, giving the door a forceful shove. "And don't call me 'darling' here, Jesus Christ."

"You're being ridiculous, Fenton. You're a well-known detective here to see the District Attorney. No one will think anything of it. We have police matters to attend to, after all."

"You mean we've already closed the case? So soon?"

"Hardly, my dear," Carson laughed. "Now put your hands behind your back," he said, and reached into his drawer for the taser.

I don't know, guys. There are too many cops and lawyers in my life.

P.S. THE LANG/EDGEWORTH/LUKE ONE IS MY ABSOLUTE FAVORITE.

Ace Attorney fic: The Last Job

bethfrish — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 05:45:34 GMT

I blame this:

Stupid sexy game still.

Title: The Last Job
Fandom: Ace Attorney
Pairing: Tyrell Badd/Calisto Yew/Byrne Faraday
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Pretty massive spoilers for the second half of Ace Attorney Investigations. Yay!

The court adjourns in a sea of heated whispers, men and women rising from their seats with cold indignation etched across their faces. Detective Badd watches from the gallery as Faraday collapses against the prosecutor's stand and buries his face in his hands, recognizing too well the grief over what should have been their victory. Faraday stays that way for a long time, and when he finally lifts his head, it's just him and Badd, all alone in the empty courtroom.

The victim's sister is in the lobby when they finally make their way out, sitting by herself on a bench in the corner of the room. Badd touches Faraday's shoulder in a way that says don't follow, and Faraday pretends to busy himself with his papers.

"Ms. Yew?" Badd says quietly, clearing his throat in order to fill her silence. "I just wanted to tell you how deeply sorry I am, and if there's anything I can ever do, anything you ever need..." He slips a card from his pocket, because it's the only meaningless comfort he has left to offer.

She rises after a moment and takes it from him, running her thumb over the neat, raised printing of his name. "Detective Tyrell Badd," she reads dully, then slaps him across the face so hard that the side of his lip splits open and begins to bleed. He can hear Faraday's gasp from the other side of the room, but Badd only nods grimly, pressing the card into her hand before he turns away.

Yew calls him the very next day and apologizes for her behavior, even though Badd tells her not to. "I was also hoping that you and Mr. Faraday might be free for lunch tomorrow. To talk," she adds, and Badd doesn't even have to think before answering, "Of course."

They plan their first job six weeks later—bank statements from a checking account that by all rights shouldn't exist—and it goes off without a hitch. When it's over, they lay the documents out across Badd's kitchen table, Yew crying tears of grief and triumph as they spread their hands over the papers like the three-limbed beast that now shares their name, one right next to the other.

Badd pulls strings around the precinct until the Yatagarasu file lands on his desk, a single unimpressive folder with a note taped to the front that reads, You can have it! Nobody in the department wants some vigilante nutjob bringing down his closure rate, but Badd just leans back in his chair and opens up the file, smiling inwardly at the empty space where the list of evidence should be.

Within a year, the file's grown to ten times its original size. Badd grumbles and curses under his breath as he hacks away at yet another front page article with a pair of scissors. "That sneaky son of a bitch," he complains to Faraday over the phone, and forces the paper onto the wall of his cubicle with a thumbtack.

By day, life goes on as usual. They dust for prints they know don't exist, investigate insiders who couldn't possibly have known about the thefts. When they pass Yew in the courthouse, there's hatred in her eyes and derision in her laugh, and only newcomers to the profession ever have to ask why. They run circles around the smuggling ring thanks to the self-professed Great Thief, but in the end it's not enough—it's never enough.

"They won't get away with what they did to your sister. We won't let them," Badd tells her days later when they're standing in the shadows of the Amano Group's accounting firm.

Yew pulls the mask down over her eyes. She cried at their first victory and never again. "No," she says, and takes each of their hands in hers.

It's not the thefts themselves that wear them down, but the time in between. Faraday's temper flares at the smallest provocation, worse than Badd's seen in the eight years he's known him. The police department starts putting increased pressure on them to close the case—any case—because Badd's 0-for-2 on this smuggling fiasco, and with no new leads, they figure he might as well call the game. Yew goes up against them in court and has neither the energy nor the passion to fight. They suffer collectively for the Yatagarasu's silence, but that secret alone is worth the wait.

Badd is boiling hot dogs in the Faradays' kitchen when Yew calls one night, unexpected but certainly not unwelcome.

"Well, this is convenient," she observes dryly when he answers. "You're not who I was expecting, but I suppose it makes no difference. Where's Faraday?"

"His trial ran long," Badd answers, poking at the hot dogs with a fork. "I'm watching his daughter."

Yew gives an amused little chuckle. "How very domestic of you."

"It's...not domestic."

"It is," she says. "But I won't tell. I guess I didn't realize how right Faraday was when he said the two of you were close. Interesting."

Badd frowns as he kills the burner. "What's interesting?"

"No, nothing," Yew assures him. "Do you cook too?"

"Hot dogs."

"Hot dogs?"

"Hot dogs. Kay—that's his daughter—Kay loves them. So that's what I make." Badd fiddles with the stovetop. It's not often that Yew contacts them by telephone, so when she does her conversations are usually more succinct. "What's going on?" he asks.

Suddenly the humor drains from her words, as it always does when they inevitably get down to business. "I confirmed that lead I'd mentioned the other day. I need to drop off the floor plans so Faraday can study them. I'll leave them by the door. Make sure he gets them."

"I will," Badd tells her. "He was counting on you to get your hands on a copy. I guess you didn't disappoint."

"Well," she says, that dry amusement back in her voice. "I've always said we make a great team. Do enjoy your hot dogs," she adds, and the line goes dead.

When Faraday gets back, they spend the rest of the night analyzing the data that Yew left behind. "Look," he says, touching Badd's shoulder as he points to the security codes scribbled on the back. "How does she do it?"

Badd studies the tiny pencil marks as Faraday continues to squeeze his shoulder. "I wish I knew," he says.

The rendezvous point is always Badd's place. Not the most prudent of spots, he realizes, but it's only a risk if something goes wrong, and the three of them see to it that "going wrong" is never an option.

Faraday pages through the doctored invoices with two gloved hands, reading them over and over again until Badd finally takes them from him. Sliding them into the unmarked envelope meant for the Sunday Press, he drops it on the table and peels off his gloves. Faraday does the same.

"Quite the gold mine. I say we celebrate," Yew announces, appearing with a bottle of wine that she dug out of Badd's front closet. "Where are your glasses?"

Badd frowns. "Collecting dust somewhere," he says blandly, but she disappears again and returns with three wine stems balanced delicately between her fingers. Badd waves her away. "None for me."

She smirks, placing the glasses on the table with a clink. "Suit yourself."

Faraday takes it upon himself to turn on the stereo, shrugging when Badd looks at him funny. "We're closing in on them, I can feel it," he breathes, taking the glass that Yew offers him. He looks uncharacteristically wild-eyed. They both do.

Faraday offers Yew his hand and they begin slow dancing around the living room. Badd stays on the couch, watching the way they glide gracelessly over his worn-out carpet, the way Faraday has one hand resting against the small of her back. Badd leaves to get some water from the kitchen, and when he comes back, he has to look twice before he realizes the two of them are kissing.

Faraday pulls away when he catches sight of Badd, looking guilty and flushed even in the dim light. Yew glances over her shoulder and gazes at Badd from beneath her eyelashes. "Come here," she tells him, running her fingers over the curve of Faraday's jaw. He crosses the room slowly, and Faraday's eyes never leave his.

Her kisses taste like wine and flowers and sweat, tiny dewdrops of adrenaline caught up in the threads of her sweater. She sighs against his mouth, placing his hand on her breasts as she slips her other arm around Faraday's neck. Her smile is apologetic when she pulls away and presses her lips against Faraday's ear. "We can share this too," she whispers, guiding his hand down between their bodies. Faraday licks his lips as she kisses his neck, then slowly brushes his fingers against the inside of Badd's thigh.

Badd closes his eyes and mutters, "Shit," head swimming with every insane desire he's ever tried to bury. When he opens them again, Yew is already across the room, smiling dangerously as she extends one black-gloved hand.

Less than a week passes before the Yatagarasu makes the papers again, and even though the company this time around is only loosely associated with their true target, they've begun to crave the hunt just as much as the prey, and the media is guaranteed to devour it no matter what the source.

"I'm beginning to think that you and Faraday just enjoy being humiliated," Yew sneers as she passes Badd in the courthouse.

He looks down at the playful curve of her mouth, then at the headline she's gripping by the corners of the paper. Yatagarasu: Three Step Advantage? Try Seventeen. "Cute," he mutters, glancing at the envelope in the article's photo. He can almost feel her hands on his shoulders, her lips on his neck as he sealed that very envelope just the night before. He remembers the way she undressed them both, how she drew Badd to the bed and waited for Faraday to follow.

It's how they celebrate now, the three of them. Victory tastes like Yew's skin and Faraday's mouth, like the salty-sweet tang of fear and exhilaration and lust. They learn each other's bodies the way they learn the secrets of those floor plans, every graze of skin in defiance of the fingerprints they can never leave behind.

Yew takes their hands and leads them down the hallway of Badd's apartment, leaning softly against his shoulder as he slides his key into the lock. She draws them down on either side of her, trailing kisses across Faraday's neck as Badd slides his hand between her legs. Faraday rubs up against him as he teases her, and Badd stretches out his fingers just to hear him gasp.

One night Yew whispers, "I just want to watch you," and she lies across the bed and gazes at Badd with the same intensity that she did when they first met. He can feel it beneath his skin as they undress, that strange, unreadable darkness that still manages to unnerve him. She lies at their side and watches as Faraday pushes Badd down and takes him in his mouth. Watches the way he spreads Faraday's legs apart like he's wanted to for years, touches him until they're left gasping every name but their own, one desperate string of byrnetyrellcalisto.

Badd shivers when her breath grazes the back of his neck, cool and silent against the fervor of Faraday's cries. "Make him come," she whispers, and Badd just curses and bites his lip and does everything she asks.

They bring their share of justice to the courtroom, but in the end they always return to the untouchable Cohdopian Embassy, that open wound that's still tender and raw even after all these years. Coachen is beyond the law now, they know that better than anyone, but the catalyst of his crime has proven to be just as elusive.

Badd finds an Embassy brochure on his desk when he returns from lunch one day, an ironic memento from his partner, who's suddenly decided that three years is too long to spend chasing pawns. They meet that same night, because even Badd has to admit that it's the only move they have left.

"Attempting to infiltrate the Embassy is going to be incredibly difficult," Yew warns them again and again. "The truth is, my connections there just aren't strong enough—"

"No," Faraday interrupts angrily, grabbing her wrists and pulling her so close that for a second she actually looks scared. "We need something decisive, Calisto. You have to find something we can use."

She looks at Badd over his shoulder, then smiles calmly as she takes Faraday's hand. "I'll see what I can do."

Yew gets them the floor plans, as she always does, and they spend three days helping Faraday analyze every hallway, every room, every escape route. "It's going to be on the fifth floor," Yew reminds him quietly, and Badd can't tell if it's fear or something else that's hiding between her words. "The risk we're taking is still enormous. I don't think more than one of us should go in."

"I'll do it," Faraday says without looking up, and they both know that it would be pointless to argue.

Two nights later they join hands one final time and watch as Faraday disappears into the shadows of the Cohdopian Embassy, counting the seconds until he returns with their prize.

They almost can't believe it when he pulls his mask off and falls to his knees in the grass, holding out the key in one gloved hand.

"We did it," Yew says in disbelief, reaching down slowly when he offers it to her. "This...this is everything we need." She turns it over in her hands, running her fingers over the delicate butterfly pattern that adorns the handle. "Here," she says suddenly, turning to Badd. "The last job is one the Yatagarasu can't do. You have your evidence. The rest is up to you and Faraday."

Badd studies her in the darkness. "We've always been in this together, you know that."

"Tyrell," she says, looking over at Faraday with an amused sort of smile. "We made quite the team, no one can ever deny that. But I can't help you anymore." She's silent for a moment. "You've always had each other though. And that's not something I'd take for granted, if I were you."

Badd just looks at her in confusion, trying ignore the knot of unease that's beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. "But I don't understand."

And to his surprise she begins to laugh. Troubled, unsettling laughter that tears through the silence like a knife. "You will," she says, and kisses him on the cheek before pressing their hard-earned prize painfully against his chest.

Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew fic (sort of)

bethfrish — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 19:21:01 GMT

I sent these to immaculate along with her scarf. They're a bit more on the gay side of things, though only by a small margin.

Fandom: The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew
Pairing: Fenton Hardy/Carson Drew

My scanner and I don't get along, so I had to photograph everything. Apologies for the shoddiness.

EEMiL fic: Ten Nights at the Ritz

bethfrish — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 08:59:29 GMT

I think I used all my SERIOUS BUSINESS fic-wrting ability on my yuletide story. All that's left now are shitty drabbles. D:

Title: Ten Nights at the Ritz That David Herrick Was Paid to Forget Happened
Fandom: Eagle Eye Mysteries in London, with gratuitous appearances by several Hardys and a Drew
Rating: NC-17 probably D:
Notes: I DON'T EVEN KNOW. WHY DO I WRITE THINGS THAT HAVE NO AUDIENCE? As per my usual drabble formula, each of these are exactly 100 words.

"Tell me, Inspector, did the Met have any idea where the monkeys were hidden, or were you merely acting on a hunch? And what of the allegations that two American children—"

"The Met has no comment on that," Inspector Gage interrupted, tapping his foot impatiently.

Miranda smirked as the elevator doors opened.

"After you, Ms. Eagle."

Once inside, he pinned her against the wall and hiked her skirt up. "You said this wasn't a real article," he teased, reaching between her legs. "What are you writing exactly?"

She shivered as she flipped the pad over.

Fuck me.

He smiled. "Smashing."

Emma shut the door behind them and quickly turned the lock. "You don't suppose those silly boys in the lobby recognized you? I'm still convinced that that bitch Gaye sold your number to every prepubescent boy in London."

"Oh, Emma," Amy laughed, fluffing her hair a bit. "I look disappointingly average without any makeup on."

"I disagree," Emma insisted, pulling a small device from her handbag. "Do you think they'll ever make phones with cameras in them?" she asked, turning the ringer off.

"One day, maybe." Amy winked as she undid her top button. "Until then, here's to snail mail."

"Jesus, Carson, you can't just show up like this," Fenton hissed in his ear. "I'm on a case, for fuck's sake. People know who I am."

Carson spread his legs wider, moaning softly as he stroked his own cock. "And how is that a surprise? People know you everywhere, Fenton. Oh god."

"And that is why—fuck, how are you always so tight? And that is why," Fenton gasped, digging his fingers into the other man's hips, "no one can know you're here."

"Mmmm, a little late for that, darling," Carson groaned, and came all over the Ritz's 1000-count sheets.

"Robyn, hello!"

Robyn glanced awkwardly around the banquet hall. He'd only come because he'd been in the neighborhood and Percy had mentioned something about free food, but now that the man was making a beeline for him through the crowd, he was beginning to regret his decision.

"How do you like the display?" Percy beamed, placing a too-friendly hand on Robyn's back. "Buckleigh actually let me handle the entire thing. Oh! Let me fix you a drink!"

"Uhh..."

Percy returned almost immediately with a suspiciously cloudy glass of punch, which was the last thing Robyn remembered for quite a while.

"Do the best you can," the shift manager told her, but when Mrs. Plum opened the door to Suite 400, she was thoroughly taken aback.

"Heavens! They've trashed the place!" She peered through the doorway in horror, surveying the disaster that the anonymous guest—the book simply read "Macavity, Paid in Full"—had left in his wake. "I think I deserve a raise for this."

It wasn't until she began scrubbing the bathroom floor that she noticed the envelope bearing her name, wedged neatly behind the toilet.

Ten thousand pounds—she counted it twice. "...Well, that'll do too," she decided.

Inspector Gage looked up from his drink. "A bit young for detectives, aren't you?"

"Bet we've solved more cases than you—"

"Joe! Don't be rude."

Joe grinned. "Only kidding. Our father's out of the city for the night," he said suddenly, pushing his own glass of Coke away. "I'm sure there's a lot you could show us. About sleuthing, that is."

Inspector Gage coughed. "...Both of you?"

Frank narrowed his eyes, wrapping his lips suggestively around the straw of Joe's Coke. "We do everything together, Inspector. Especially sleuthing."

"Well then," Inspector Gage said, and finished his gin in one swallow.

MEMO TO ALL STAFF—PLEASE CIRCULATE

Mr. Alfred Frescura is not to use the facilities unless he is a registered guest at the Ritz. Please exercise discretion when attending to this situation, but there have been some incidents in the recent past that cannot be overlooked, as they have cost the Ritz a great deal of money in plumbing bills. If Mr. Frescura is not a registered guest at the time, please direct him to the public bathrooms located across the street. Any employee found in violation of this notice will be dealt with accordingly. Thank you for your cooperation.

"Listen Eddie, I wouldn't be talking to you if I didn't think you could pull it off."

"Mr. Wingo, is this even legal?"

"Look, kid. Never mind the legal mumbo-jumbo. It's extra cash in your pocket. Take it or leave it."

Eddie glanced at the bedside clock. It'd be at least an hour before his roommate returned. "All right," he said after a moment. "Throw in another hundred and I'll even let you blow me." He smirked. "You know you want to."

"For god's sake, Eddie."

Eddie sauntered over to where Guy was sitting on the bed. "Call me Abe."

"How many times must I tell you, Pomeroy," Lady Edna sighed, plunging her fork into her baked potato. "Julia is just my housekeeper. Nothing more."

Pomeroy fumbled around for a bit until he managed to top off his wine. "Oh, Edna," he chuckled, waving his hand sloppily. "Nobody here cares if you're a lesbian. For heaven's sake, Sir Toby is still the biggest queer at the table."

All eyes turned to Sir Toby as he choked on his lamb.

"See here—the man is clearly drunk!" he managed after a moment, but Lord Pomeroy was already corroborating the information, first-hand.

"Of course, ma'am. Have a lovely evening." Replacing the cradle in the receiver, David Herrick glanced over to where Inspector Gage had been loitering for the last forty-five minutes. "Inspector," he called.

Inspector Gage walked over to the front desk, looking impatient.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Eagle won't be joining you tonight."

"...I see," he grunted. "Thank you."

"Oh, Inspector," David called again. "I'm off in two minutes, if you'd care for a drink at the bar. On me, of course."

A slow smile crept across Inspector Gage's face. "Bring it up to my room. I'm sure you know the number."

Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew drabble

bethfrish — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 06:13:17 GMT

What is this I don't even--

A hundred-word drabble for immaculate, who poisoned my brain with this awfulness*.

D:

Fenton Hardy brushed the rain from his hair and yanked the grimy motel curtains shut. "Listen," he said, watching Carson delicately untie his shoelaces. "I think we need to cool it for a while. My wife is beginning to wonder why I never seem to get paid for any of these 'client meetings.'"

Carson stood, gently placing his glasses on the bedside table. "Tell me to my face that I don't give the best damn head in the entire continental United States. I'll cut you a check if you'd like."

Fenton groaned as Carson knelt between his legs. Goddamn lawyers.

*awfulness = my life is now complete

EEMiL fic: The Curious Conversation

bethfrish — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 19:05:45 GMT

I also wrote a small Yuletide Treat for immaculate in the form of Eagle Eye Mysteries in London fic. (Erin and I had a very Inspector Gage Christmas this year.)

Uhh, basically this will not make sense to anyone.

Title: The Curious Conversation
Fandom: Eagle Eye Mysteries in London
Pairing: Inspector Gage/Percy Tribb
Rating: PG-13

"Honey?"

Inspector Gage waved the jar away, bringing his teacup to his lips. "No."

From across the table, Percy Tribb gave him an unnerving smile and reached for the milk. "Black. How very masculine of you."

The Inspector made a face like he had just been invited to one of the Cheswicks' infamous swinger parties. "Mr. Tribb," he began calmly, leaning forward with his hands clasped in front of him. "Please state your purpose in asking me to meet you here. This is our third cup of tea and, bizarrely, the twelfth time you've asked me if I'd like honey, and I'm beginning to wonder if your only goal isn't simply to waste my holiday."

"Are you really on holiday?" Percy asked with characteristically overblown surprise. "Oh, but of course. I should have guessed. You're not wearing that delightful pink and purple tie of yours. It makes such a statement, tucked away beneath that Yard-issue trench coat."

Inspector Gage glanced down at his tie-less shirt with vague concern.

"What does a man such as yourself do on holiday?" Percy continued, licking the residue from his spoon.

"I fish."

"Fish, did you say?"

"Yes, I fish."

"Good gracious. I never had you pegged for the fishing type. I thought rugby, perhaps. Have you ever—"

"Mr. Tribb," Inspector Gage interrupted, reaching purposefully for his wallet. "If you have nothing relevant to say to me, then I'll be on my way."

Percy smiled grimly. "Oh all right, Inspector. Goodness, don't they teach you boys patience over at Scotland Yard? I hear that kind of thing can come in handy." He pulled out a thin manila envelope from somewhere beneath the table and laid it carefully next to the tea service.

"What is this regarding?" Inspector Gage asked, wondering what an office drone from the British Museum could possibly have stumbled upon.

Percy added more water to his teacup, daintily nudging the envelope forward with his index finger. "I think you'll find its contents relevant to your interests."

Inspector Gage regarded him with suspicion, wishing he had indeed worn his pink and purple crime-solving tie today. Taking the envelope from the table, he turned it over and gave the tab a quick flick.

Percy chuckled at his face. It reminded him of the time Mr. Frescura had been rightfully accused of clogging up the office toilet. "Mrs. Eagle is surprisingly flexible, isn't she?"

"Who—Where did you get these?" Inspector Gage hissed, shuffling through the stack of photos with growing horror.

Percy tittered with amusement. "Does that really matter? I must say, Inspector, you photograph beautifully from behind."

Inspector Gage dropped the stack face-down on the table and narrowed his eyes. Much like the way Mr. Frescura had done when Percy presented him with the invoice from the plumber. "What is it you want, Tribb?"

"Please," Percy insisted, rubbing up against him under the table with one sock-clad foot. "Call me Percy."

Inspector Gage glanced down at the foot in his lap, wondering when exactly Percy had taken the time to remove his shoes. After a long moment he cleared his throat. "Finish your tea, Tribb. And I better not see any bloody photographers, because it'll mean a lot of paperwork for me tomorrow when they find your bloated carcass floating along the Thames."

Hardy Boys fic: Our Red Sea

bethfrish — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 18:58:00 GMT

Hay haaaay, it's yuletide reveal time! :D

Surprising ABSOLUTELY NOBODY, I wrote Hardy Boys fic this year.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Hardy Boys series, here's a quick crash course: (COME ON, REEEAAAD IT.) Frank, age 18, and Joe, age 17, are brothers who live in Bayport, a quiet yet oddly crime-ridden city somewhere in upstate(?) New York. Their father, Fenton Hardy, was a SUPER AWESOME detective who was, apparently, too super awesome to waste his talents on the NYPD, so he retired and began taking cases as a private detective. Despite this, he appears to be largely incompetent, and half the time his sons end up solving the cases for him. Sometimes he even gets kidnapped. Most of the original mysteries are about smugglers, counterfeiters, or general thievery. Since these books were originally written in the 20s, 30s, etc., Frank and Joe are squeaky-clean, all-American boys who respect their parents and are overly polite and play football at school. Also, they have a chubby friend named Chet who is the butt of many fat jokes.

CONGRATULATIONS. YOU NOW KNOW EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE HARDY BOYS.

Title: Our Red Sea
Fandom: The Hardy Boys
Rating: PG-13
Notes: In my head, this kinda-sorta takes place in the fifties. Or some comparable decade where cellphones do not yet exist. Thank you so much to nightwalker for wanting to know what kind of men Frank and Joe grew up to be, and to all the lovely people over at AO3 who have left such kind and wonderful comments. Particularly the person who said, I love how they're so real here and lastly, yes, it feels right that Joe turns out to be gay. Because that basically made my life.

The morning of Fenton Hardy's funeral is warm and beautiful, one of those strangely summer-like days that worm their way into November before the air grows thin and the frost infects the earth. Nearly two hundred people have come to pay their respects to the fallen detective. Relatives, colleagues, friends. Foreign diplomats who happened to be in town. The sun beats down on the backs of their necks and they silently bow their heads to the grass.

Joe stands in a small, uneven ring with his mother and Frank, shaking hands and accepting condolences from people he doesn't know. His father's sister hovers stoically in the background, looking, for all her years, like she plans to outlive them all.

Ezra Collig is there, long since retired. He says nothing, only presses his lips into a thin line and clasps Joe roughly on the shoulder. Chet hugs them fondly, reminding Mrs. Hardy that he'll take care of dinner for the rest of the week. Even Joe's ex-wife arrives, unattended. She takes Joe's hands in hers and all he can smell is the vanilla of her perfume. Later he asks his mother, "Why on earth did you invite her?" and Laura Hardy just wrings her hands and answers, "She knew him too."

Frank gives a speech that Joe stops listening to halfway through; he's heard it twice already, once at his mother's house and once in the car—it hasn't changed. Instead he studies the way the grass pokes up between his shoes, so unnaturally green.

The mortician had hidden the fine spray of cuts that fell delicately across Fenton Hardy's hairline, erased the long, angry gash that ran along his left cheek and over his jaw. No one could see the bruises on his collarbone, or beneath his eyes, or notice the way his arm didn't lay right because it was broken. Joe had heard from his aunt on more than one occasion that a good mortician could perform miracles. But chemicals and makeup and thread were worthless in his book. Flimsy magicians' tricks. They won't bring his father back.

After the funeral the tightest circle of family and friends convene at the Hardy house for coffee and cookies and bittersweet anecdotes. Joe sits on his mother's sofa with a cup in his lap, picking absently at the flowered upholstery. He remembers spilling a glass of punch all over the cushions when he was seven, begging Frank, please don't tell. He doesn't know how his mother ever got the stain out, but after twenty-five years, the sofa still looks like new.

One of his dad's friends from the FBI clinks his spoon against the rim of his teacup and rises to make a toast. Joe holds his coffee to his lips and watches the spectacle, listens as the man goes on about remembrance and tragedy and justice.

Justice, Joe thinks with disgust. There was a time when that word might have meant something. He sets his cup down on the end table and stands up without a word.

He slips away upstairs and opens the door to what used to be his bedroom, what his mother now uses for her quilting projects. There's still a twin bed in the corner, covered in one of her finished designs. Joe goes over to it and lies down, scrunching up his legs when his feet knock up against wall.

When he opens his eyes some time later, Frank is sitting on the bed beside him.

"I think we should keep the office closed for at least another day," Frank says, loosening his tie with one hand. "The Daniels case is at a standstill anyway. People will understand."

Joe rolls over to face the wall. "Do whatever you want," he says distantly. "I quit."

"You—you what?"

Joe can feel Frank tugging at his shoulder, trying to get him to roll over. "I quit," he repeats.

"What do you mean you quit? You can't quit. Your name's on the building, for god's sake."

"No, the Hardy name is on the building," Joe corrects him. "I can't do this anymore, Frank. These people with their problems—I can't. You'll be fine."

Frank doesn't say anything for a long time, then finally, "Have it your way."

The bed sighs as Frank's weight disappears, and Joe shuts his eyes, running his fingers along his mother's tiny, immaculate stitching.

Joe picks up a pack of cigarettes from the gas station and smokes five of them on the drive back to Manhattan. The disappointing truth is that they've never done much for him. "You must not have a very addictive personality," Callie had told him back when they were nineteen. The girl had smoked enough for three people, he figured she would know. He leaves the rest of the pack on a stone ledge just outside his apartment. Someone will take them.

Frank had suggested he stay in Bayport for the night. Take it easy at least until tomorrow, but Joe had only shaken his head, ticking off the number of houseguests on both hands. "There's no room," he'd insisted, and went to kiss his mother goodbye.

The phone interrupts the silence of his morning, ringing brightly on the nightstand by his head. He lets it go for nearly a minute, blinking wearily up at the ceiling before reaching out from beneath the covers.

"Yes?" he mumbles. It feels like someone set his lungs on fire.

"Joe?"

Joe rubs at his face, pressing his thumbs into his eyes until bright green spots appear. "Honestly Frank, who else would it be?"

The voice on the other end clucks its tongue. "I suppose that's none of my business. It didn't sound like you at first."

"Frank," Joe says impatiently. "What do you want? Is mom okay?"

"She's doing all right, I think," Frank says. "You really should have stayed another day. It would have meant a lot to her."

"Like there aren't enough people in that house."

"That's not the point."

Joe sighs. "Why'd you call, Frank?" He can hear the buzz of houseguests in the background. There's no doubt in his mind that his mother's cooking breakfast for every last one of them.

"You didn't mean what you said, did you?" Frank asks him seriously. "Yesterday. About leaving the business. Look, I understand if you need some time away. A vacation maybe, or—"

"No." Joe takes a deep breath. It makes his chest burn. "No, look. I just...I can't do that kind of work anymore."

"But why? I don't understand."

"I just can't. There's no point."

"I don't understand though," Frank insists. "Explain it to me so that I understand."

Joe sighs impatiently. "It doesn't matter. I can't explain it to you."

"You're not even trying! How can I help you if you won't even—"

"Maybe I don't want your help, okay?" Joe interrupts. "Just—I'm not coming back."

"Christ, Joe!" Frank snaps, and Joe can hear him straining to keep the anger out of his voice. It makes him feel vindicated. "Why are you acting like this? You want to walk out? Fine. You want me to take every last case that comes through that door by myself? Fine. Don't think that I won't."

"Good for you," Joe says dully, then adds, "Give everyone my love," and hangs up the phone.

It rings again ten minutes later, but Joe doesn't answer it. It rings and rings and rings, infiltrating his dreams as he drifts back to sleep, an unfamiliar school bell on some endless day of his childhood.

No matter how much he wants to, he can't bring himself to unhook the phone. He's afraid that maybe his mother will call, or his aunt. That they'll wonder what it means when they can't get through. That they'll worry. But it's never them. Never. It's Frank every time, and he already knows what Frank's going to say.

So he starts forcing himself out of the apartment, just so he doesn't have to deal with that incessant ringing, so he can say he wasn't around and have it be the truth. Five hour lunches, aimless walks around the city. Anything that'll get him away from that phone. Away from 64th Street, where the mirrored sign for Hardy Investigations gleams prominently in the sunlight.

He drives out to a bar in Queens, small and unassuming, but not exactly the kind of place a guy walks into on accident. Not the kind of place he'd take his friends.

"Campari and soda," he says when he sits down, propping one elbow up on the counter.

The bartender smiles coyly, gracefully dealing out a couple of cocktail napkins before pulling a bottle from the shelf. "You here all by yourself? A baby face like yours?"

Joe snorts at the empty flattery. "On the run."

"Is that so?" The bartender gives him a once-over, then sets his drink down with that sweet, musical clink of ice. "Better be careful then. Pretty blue eyes like those are hard to miss."

Joe lifts the corner of his mouth slightly. "I'll bet."

It's a cruel, bitter drink, even with the soda. He tips the glass gently in his hand, watching the ice drift absently across a sea of red. It burns on the way down, like memories being torn from his chest. The taste of who he went to bed with first time he drank it. The bottle he shared with Frank after they solved that kidnapping. The look in his wife's eyes the morning she confronted him at the breakfast table. It seems I've married a homosexual, she'd observed blandly, and all he could taste was that singular, bitter sweetness from the night before, wondering how in the world she knew. Of course, she'd always been a smart girl. It was one of the reasons he'd married her.

Joe doesn't look up when someone takes the seat next to his, just signals to the bartender to bring him another round. It tastes even stronger than the first.

"Hope I'm not intruding."

Joe turns his head, drumming his fingers lightly on the bar top. He smirks—college student most likely, with scruffy brown hair and eyelashes his own mother would kill for. It's not often he gets approached by the younger ones. He supposes he should take it as a compliment.

The boy cocks his head to the side. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Just started this one," Joe says, giving his ice another swirl.

"I'm in no hurry. Are you?"

They talk for a while, superficial garbage mostly, but after four or five drinks the quality of the conversation is the last thing on Joe's mind. The kid's got a great smile and an easy laugh, and when Joe leans forward and whispers breathlessly against his neck, the boy just nods slowly and brushes his hand over the front of Joe's pants.

Joe takes him back to his apartment. Not something he'd normally do, but it's late and they're drunk, and he'd probably drop to his knees right there in the elevator if the ride weren't so short. He punches the button for the seventeenth floor, trying to remember where he put his keys.

The kid presses him up against the paneled wall and spreads Joe's legs apart with his knee. "Hey," he says suddenly, studying Joe's face with amusement. "Anyone ever tell you you look just like one of those famous detectives? You know, the two brothers. I forget their names."

The elevator gives a jolt as it starts its ascent, and Joe's fingers tighten around his keys. He shakes his head. "Sorry," he laughs, pushing his hips forward. "Don't think I know who you're talking about."

The elevator dings fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and the boy's mouth still tastes of Campari.

The Friday crossword in the Times has always been a matter of pride for Joe. Stealing a glance at the clock, he laughs derisively at the mesh of empty spaces. Twenty minutes and he's nowhere near finished.

Just as he's filling in the bottom left-hand corner, the phone begins to ring.

"Damn it." Joe throws his pen down on the table and puts his head in his hands. "Damn it, damn it, damn it." He tugs the phone over to where he's sitting and sighs. "Hello?"

"Didn't expect you to actually pick up. Granted, ten rings is a bit longer than what's considered polite."

Joe takes a drink from a mug of tepid coffee. "You always were persistent."

"You used to be too, if I recall," Frank says dryly. "The Mortons invited us out to dinner last night. I called, but you didn't answer."

"I was out."

"You're out a lot," Frank observes with vague amusement, then continues before Joe can say anything. "We met up outside the city. This new place—Antonio's, I think it was called."

"Original." Joe takes another drink of coffee. It tastes terrible.

"I had the linguine pescatore. You know, lots of seafood mixed in there. Clams and scallops, and this white wine sauce that was pretty good. We should take mom there one day. There were a few other things on the menu I'd really like to—"

"Frank," Joe cuts in as he sets his cup back down on the table. He almost wants to laugh. "Did you really call to tell me about the pasta you had for dinner?"

Frank huffs. "Can't a guy call up his brother for a chat? It's not like I've seen you lately."

"I told you, I've been—"

"Busy, right," Frank finishes for him. "With what, I don't know. It obviously wasn't stopping by to see mom, because I've been there every other day and I'm pretty sure there's been no sign of you. And you couldn't have been checking out the new lead on the Daniels case, because the files are in the office and I know you haven't been there in over a week."

"Jesus Christ, Frank," Joe says, bringing his arm down so violently that he knocks his coffee all over the table. "Shit. I mean, how many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"No, Joe," Frank says angrily. "The bigger question is when are you going to grow up and realize that you can't hide from the world for the rest of your life. Acting like a child isn't going to change the fact that dad is gone."

"Just shut up, Frank."

"No," his brother fires back at him. "What's wrong with you? You think you're the only one affected by this? That you're the only one who feels sad? Why don't you open your eyes and realize that you're not the only person in this family."

Joe trails his fingers aimlessly through the pool of coffee. It seems like so much more than he had in the cup. "I'm hanging up now."

"Don't you dare, I'm not finished yet!" Frank yells. "I don't understand how you can act this way. Why you're just giving up. You think that's what dad would have wanted? For you to curl up in a ball and shut everyone out? For you to quit the business? Dad spent his whole career trying to bring justice to people who couldn't do it by themselves, and now you're saying you don't want any part of that? What happened to your sense of justice, Joe?"

The coffee runs over Joe's half-finished crossword, wilting the corners and blurring the ink. "Where was the justice in the way dad died, Frank?" Joe asks coldly. "Well? He didn't die on the job, or saving someone's life. He had a heart attack. A goddamn heart attack. He plowed into the guardrail on Interstate 87 going sixty-five miles an hour, and any life that might have been left in him shattered right along with the windshield. I mean, of all the pointless ways to die! And there's nothing anyone—not the doctor, not any of us—could have done about it. Don't talk to me about justice, Frank. Where was the justice in that?"

"God, Joe, you're missing the point."

Joe shakes his head. "I'm hanging up now." And he does.

When the phone rings again twenty minutes later, he still hasn't moved from the table, empty cup lying on its side at his elbow. "Damn it, Frank!" he snaps, snatching the phone from its cradle. "I'm through talking about—"

"Joe?"

He grimaces at the sound of his mother's voice. "Sorry, I thought..."

"It's okay," she says.

Joe leans his head against his hand. "How are you?" he asks, more kindly. "Sorry I haven't been by."

"I know you're busy," she says. "Your aunt is still here, so it's hard to be lonely." She laughs lightly, a fragile, musical sigh. "I just called to tell you that Frank will be in Connecticut for the weekend, following a lead."

All Joe can think to say is, "Oh."

"He asked me to tell you that if you wanted to get anything from your office, he won't be there tomorrow or Sunday."

"Oh," Joe repeats. "Well, thanks. Um, maybe I'll drive up to Bayport on Sunday. We can have dinner."

"That'd be nice," his mother says.

"Okay."

He holds his breath in the heavy silence, waiting for the rest of it. But when she speaks again, it's only to say, "Take care of yourself, Joe."

He goes back to bed after that, shutting the blinds and pulling the covers up over his head. He doesn't wake up again until it's already dark, and the air is heavy with the stale aroma of coffee.

It's been nearly four years since they moved to the city. Not that business hadn't prospered back in Bayport—on the contrary. A man like Fenton Hardy had attracted enough clients to occupy an entire precinct. But they'd needed something bigger, something grander. Something of their own.

Surprisingly, it was Joe who'd found the office. He'd driven into the city one afternoon when Frank was out of town, accompanying their father on some urgent business out in Nevada. Frank had protested when he returned and saw the lease papers sitting in his office with one signature already scrawled across the bottom. "Is this truly necessary?" he'd asked, spreading them out across their father's old desk. "Dad never needed any of this."

"Maybe not," Joe had agreed, placing his hands on the back of Frank's chair. "But this is ours now. We need it."

Frank had worried that their father wouldn't like the idea of moving the business out of Bayport, that he would see it as an insult to the reputation he himself had built. But there he'd been one afternoon when they were painting, dragging a couple of the old office chairs in behind him.

"Good grief, where did you park, dad?" Frank had asked with some alarm, quickly climbing down from the ladder.

Their father had only chuckled. "I thought you could use these in the lobby. At least for now."

Now Joe slams his car door and pulls his collar up against the wind. He walks the four blocks to the office with his head down, watching the sidewalk pass beneath his feet. All of a sudden it feels like November.

They share the space with an accounting firm, so the front entrance isn't locked. He stops at the door, peering at his own reflection in the glass. Hardy Investigations cuts across his face in pristine black lettering, like jagged shadows on his skin. This is where he'd been when Chet had called from their mother's house. Chet had known even before he did, he realizes. His mother had called Chet, not them. Chet was closer, Chet was easier. Chet had been there, and Joe had been sitting at his desk eating his lunch. Ham and cheese on rye. Not enough mustard. That's all he can remember.

Joe walks down the hallway to their first-floor suite, feeling almost like a trespasser without his regular suit and tie. Nothing about it feels right. The quiet, the emptiness. It isn't until he slides his key into the lock that he realizes there's already someone in the waiting area.

A young woman, in her early twenties maybe, clutching the arms of one of Fenton Hardy's old chairs. Her eyes widen when Joe opens the door, glancing up at him with a gentle sort of anxiety.

"Oh," he says quickly, reaching around behind him to shut the door. "Um, pardon me, won't you?"

She smiles kindly. "Of course," she says, but the quiver in her voice betrays her.

Joe walks past his own office, moving silently through the hallway to the only door with any lights on. He stops, leaning his head against the frame. Frank doesn't even notice he's there.

He watches his brother, sitting there at his desk with his head cradled in his arms. It makes him want to disappear. Sink into the floor, or crawl back out into the cold and pretend he was never there. But his body won't cooperate, his feet won't move, and all he can do is lean in the doorway and ask, "What are you doing here?"

Frank jerks his head up off the desk, looking startled. "Oh," he says distantly. "I forgot to lock the door after me. Had a walk-in." He blinks against the harsh office light, and Joe pretends not to notice how red his eyes are.

"I thought you were going to Connecticut."

Frank gives a splintered sort of laugh. "Sorry to disappoint you," he says, and his voice sounds just as hollow. "I didn't go."

Joe folds his arms and looks down at his sleeves, studying the way the wool has gone smooth at the cuffs. There's something gnawing at the pit of his stomach, a cold sort of dread that begins to wash over him from the inside out. "Why?" he asks quietly, and Frank just looks up at him like a man who's slowly drowning.

"God, Joe," he whispers, pressing his hands to his eyes. "I can't do this by myself."

Joe swallows, shoving his hands deep inside his pockets. "I—I'm sorry," he says roughly, and he's gone before his brother can even react. Before he can slump forward on his desk and cry fuck you, Joe into his hands.

He goes back to the lobby where the girl is still waiting in restless silence, smoothing the tiny crescents in the armrests where her fingernails have dented the leather. He sits down next to her, trying to remember how this part goes.

"Are you Mr. Hardy?" she asks, studying his face carefully.

He leans over and takes her hand. "Sure am," he says, and she smiles warmly at him with lips the color of Campari. Like the smears on the dashboard that he wishes he could unsee. Like the juice he spilled across the flowers of his mother's sofa when he was a boy, crying out of guilt and love because it was Frank who'd taken the blame.

Hotel Dusk/Hardy Boys fic: The Way It Goes

bethfrish — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 07:51:44 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY immaculate! <3

I done wrote you a story. :D

Title: The Way It Goes
Fandoms: Hotel Dusk/The Hardy Boys
Pairing: Kyle Hyde/Joe Hardy
Rating: PG-13

This is like the opposite of what I intended to write, but, uh...I hope you like it anyway. :O

(FYI, this could alternately be titled, "Fenton Hardy is a Giant Douche.")

You hadn't even made detective when Fenton Hardy gave the shocking announcement that he was retiring from the force. He walked away from it all—the badge, the honor, the whole shebang—just to move to some Podunk little town in upstate New York. Said he wanted to be a private investigator, like all of a sudden the NYPD wasn't good enough to be on the receiving end of his talents. Said he didn't want his boys to grow up in the city. Rookie or not, even you'd known that Fenton Hardy had his head too far up his own ass to worry about who bought which set of reasons. The whole precinct had a party in his honor, you chipped in five dollars for a gift you don't think you ever saw, and everyone tried to act like it wasn't his closure rate you were going to miss most of all.

You really didn't think you'd ever see Mr. Big Shot again, except one day you look up from your desk and there he is, grinning down at you with his arms folded across his chest.

"Officer Bradley. How long has it been?" he asks good-naturedly, sticking his hand out at you.

You stand up to reciprocate. "Detective Bradley, actually," you sort of joke, even though you're wearing a suit and the nameplate on your desk clearly indicates your rank. He chuckles apologetically. "So... How's business?" you ask slowly, wondering what the hell he's doing here.

Before he can answer, your partner comes up behind you and drops a pile of folders on your desk. "These bastards—Oh," he says abruptly, suddenly noticing that you're otherwise engaged. "Uh, hello."

Fenton offers his hand. "I don't believe we know each other. Fenton Hardy."

"Oh, right. Thought you looked familiar." Your partner clears his throat awkwardly. "Kyle Hyde."

"Pleased to meet you, Detective Hyde," Fenton smiles, and motions for his boys to come over.

The last time you saw his kids was when they were about ten years old, and the only reason you even remember their names is because they pop up in the paper so damn much. Frank looks just like his father now, dark-haired and handsome in that generic, Hollywood sort of way. He shakes your hand kindly and tells you he remembers you.

Joe says hello too, and then turns to Kyle. He looks so much unlike his brother, you have to wonder if Mrs. Hardy wasn't getting friendly with the milkman while her husband was out on the job. Joe's grown up to favor the "pretty" end of the spectrum, all blue eyes and full lips, and when Kyle introduces himself, his smile's a lot different from the one he gave you.

Ask any cop around and he'll tell you that the last thing you need is some PI sticking his nose in the middle of your routine, but Fenton Hardy's a different story. Fenton Hardy can waltz right in and hold up three day's worth of paperwork. Snap his fingers and all of a sudden he's the one in charge. "The Hardys have the full cooperation of our department," the Chief informs everyone before stepping out for lunch. "We will do our best to assist them in any way we can."

Fenton shoots the breeze with you for what seems like forever, so you're caught off guard when he finally gets to his point. "I have to drive to Albany with Frank to check up on something," he explains obscurely, "but I was hoping you could take Joe with you tonight and visit some of these addresses here."

You look at him like he's lost his mind, like his vision must be going bad, because how else could anyone miss the tower of reports taking up ample real estate on your desk? I'm pretty sure these were dug out of storage for you, dipshit, you want to tell him, but then you feel Kyle's hand on your back.

"Detective Bradley's got a lot to do here," he says, and you make a mental note to buy him lunch. "I'll go with Joe."

It takes you the entire evening to work through the mess on your desk, and when the phone rings at two o'clock in the morning, you seriously begin to contemplate wrapping the cord around your neck and just ending it right there.

"Bradley," you grumble into the receiver, glancing around to realize that you're the only one in the damn office. Nice to see the night shift pulling its weight.

"Hey, it's me. I'm glad you're still there."

You twirl the cord around your finger, swallowing a yawn. "Always a pleasure, Hyde. What's up? And where the fuck are you? It's two in the morning."

"Hey, listen," Kyle says, his voice strangely low. "Anyone asks, the kid and I came down to the precinct at ten and helped you with your...whatever they've got you doing."

"What?" you ask, squinting at nothing in particular. "What the hell are you talking about? Where are you?"

"We were at the station from ten on, okay?"

"Yeah, all right. Fine," you agree. "Did you take Joe back to his hotel or is he still with you?"

The other end goes so quiet that for a second you're afraid you're going to have to call for backup. "He's here," Kyle says after a moment, and you chew your lip when he makes you promise again.

The next morning all three Hardys come in looking significantly worse for wear. You hardly catch a glimpse of Joe, but the other two approach you as you're digging your morning donut out of its bag. Fifteen cents at the bakery down the street. A luxury for a lowly detective like you.

"These should help," you tell Fenton, handing him a stack of papers. "Long night?"

He clasps Frank on the shoulder. "And how," he says loudly. "You try driving to Albany and back. Joe doesn't seem to have gotten much sleep either," he adds, motioning to where Joe's seated next to Kyle at his desk.

He turns away too quickly, but you've already confirmed everything you need to know, noticed everything that Fenton Hardy hasn't. Like how Joe keeps touching Kyle's arm in a way that's far too familiar, or how pink and bruised his lips look, or how Kyle keeps glancing meaningfully in your direction, even as Joe leans in close enough for their shoulders to touch.

You cough slightly. "Yes, well. He and Detective Hyde were here late last night, helping me with all this paperwork," you say. "Couldn't have finished it without them."

"Good to hear," Fenton says with a smile, and leaves to busy himself with more pressing matters.

Frank stays where he is, leaning idly against your desk as he watches his brother go over to the coffee maker with two paper cups. "You know," he says coldly, "in a lot of ways, I'm a much better detective than my father is."

You look up from your report, shaking your head as you fill the silence with empty laughter. "Sometimes that's the way it goes," you tell him, and lean over to offer him a piece of your fifteen-cent donut.

Professor Layton fic: Five Things That Never Happened to Luke Triton

bethfrish — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 06:15:28 GMT

Uh, I don't know what this is.

Title: Five Things That Never Happened to Luke Triton (or Maybe They Did)
Fandom: Professor Layton (plus The Hardy Boys, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter, Hotel Dusk)
Pairing: Luke/the known universe
Rating: R
Warnings: There's some funny business with Layton in the first section, but it's brief and very PG-13.

THESE TIMELINES ARE ALL CANON. (No, really...they are.)

Northumberland, England. 1922.

When Luke awakes, he's curled up in the back of Professor Layton's automobile, blue, moonlit darkness pouring in through the windows. The seat is far too narrow to lay across, even for a boy of twelve. His knees ache.

Slowly he becomes aware of the fingers threaded through his hair, softly brushing the strands away from his face. It's a gentle motion, tender in its carelessness. Luke stirs, lifting his cheek from his teacher's leg. "Professor?"

Layton pulls away too quickly. "I—I apologize, Luke," he says, and his words sound brittle. "I know it's cold. I'd never have brought you along if I'd known the inn was closed."

Luke sits up, pulling the spare blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I don't mind," he says, and gazes out at the night. "What time is it?"

Layton takes his watch from his coat pocket and cradles it in his hands. "Nearly six o'clock. Please, Luke, go back to sleep." He sighs hopelessly. "Oh, what am I saying? This is hardly suitable for either one of us. I should have found an inn in another town."

"There is no other town," Luke points out with a small laugh. "Professor." He reaches out from beneath the tattered edge of Layton's woven blanket and touches his hand. "It...it felt nice when you were stroking my hair like that," he says softly, pressing his fingertips into the palm of Layton's hand. "You can keep doing that, if you like."

Layton tenses, closing his eyes as the boy burns circles into his skin. "You should go back to sleep," Layton tells him, but Luke only leans closer, sighing when Layton finally brings his fingers to his cheek.

"Luke..." Layton warns, even as he brushes the boy's overgrown bangs away from his eyes. Luke's hair is like liquid. Careless, boyish locks that slip too easily through the fan of his fingers, and when Luke turns in the cradle of his hand and smiles, Layton can plainly see what it is he really wants.

It's an artless kiss, hesitant in the way of all boys who have never done it before. Layton holds his breath in his chest as Luke presses up against him, soft honey locks still threaded through his fingers. Luke brings his hand around between them, sliding it shyly over Layton's knee. "Can I...?" Luke whispers against his mouth, but Layton only flinches and pins him by the wrist.

"Luke..." he manages, releasing him as he turns away.

Luke touches the sleeve of his coat, tugs on it helplessly. "What's wrong?" he asks, and his own voice sounds small and frightened in his ears.

Layton looks down at the ground, then shakes his head. "I'm driving to another town. You can't be expected to sleep like this." He shakes free of Luke's grasp. "I...I apologize," he whispers, and opens the door to the car.

Luke remains silent the entire way there, just stares out the window as they bump and jostle down the uneven gravel road, watching the stones pale in the light as the sun begins to rise.

Bayport, New York. 1927.

"You're quite good at math, aren't you?" Joe asks him as they cross the second-floor landing to his room. "You always get the best grades in the class. I'm starting to think they must teach it better overseas."

Luke sets his school bag on the bed and sits down on the floor, cross-legged. "Well," he laughs. "You could say my education growing up was a bit...different." He surveys the room. Various models—cars, ships, planes—line the shelves, with one wall taken up almost entirely by a large poster of the New York railway system. "Thank you again for inviting me over," Luke says gratefully. "It's always difficult making friends so late in the school year."

Joe plops down next to him on the floor and smiles. "Oh, but I like you! It must be downright awful, having to start over in a new city all the time. Frank and I've lived in Bayport our whole lives," he boasts. "It may not seem like a particularly interesting town, but you'd be surprised."

"What do you mean?" Luke asks.

"Well," Joe begins, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Our father is a private detective, and he often lets Frank and I work on cases that he doesn't have time for. We've had some doozies, I'll tell you that much."

"Oh, that's right," Luke nods. "You told me your father was a detective. It must be exciting."

Joe beams. "Oh, it is! Why, just the other day Frank and I deciphered these old carvings that Iola found—"

"Who's Iola?"

"Oh, well." A slow blush begins to creep across Joe's cheeks. "She's our friend, Chet Morton's little sister. She's...er, also my girl, in a way."

The corner of Luke's mouth quirks up into a tiny smile. "She's your girlfriend, you mean?"

"Sort of."

Luke pokes him in the ribs, suddenly interested. "What do you mean 'sort of'? Haven't you...you know, done anything?"

Joe looks perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Joe." Luke sighs. "I guess that's my answer."

"Sorry." Joe gives an embarrassed laughed. "We've only ever kissed on the cheek. I—I wouldn't know about any of that other stuff."

Luke smirks. "You mean like having your cock sucked?"

Joe's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "N—no," he stammers, turning red. "I've never—have you?"

Luke shrugs. "Sure. But can I tell you something?" he asks, leaning closer, and Joe nods. "It's better when a guy does it."

Joe stares intently at his train poster for an entire minute before saying anything. Then, "Is that really true?"

"Girls don't do it the right way," Luke explains with another shrug, and takes Joe's hand. Then he slowly draws his fingers to his lips. "It feels really good... Can I show you?"

Joe opens his mouth, but no words come out. He nods.

Luke pushes him down right there on the floor and tugs his pants down past his hips.

He gets him to come in under thirty seconds.

Joe gazes up at the ceiling, struggling to catch his breath. "That was... You're good at that."

"Thanks," Luke replies. He grins, cat-like, as Joe fumbles to refasten his pants. "You can try it on me next time, if you want."

Joe hardly has time to wrap his head around the suggestion when the bedroom door creaks open.

"I knocked but nobody—Oh, hello." Frank stalls in the doorway.

"Oh, hey Frank," Joe says quickly. "This is—"

"Luke, isn't it?"

Luke wipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "That's right. We met at Callie's house, I believe."

"Oh! You know Callie?" Joe asks excitedly. "She Frank's girlfriend!"

"I remember," Luke says mildly. "Callie's a sweet girl. She was one of the first friends I made when I moved here." Then he gives Frank a look that can only be classified as indecent. "The three of us should get together again some time. Did you enjoy yourself?"

Frank clears his throat awkwardly. "I did."

"Or the three of us." Luke twirls his finger lazily in the air to indicate Joe's inclusion. "Now that I'm friendly with the both of you."

"Luke's a whiz at math," Joe blurts out, and Frank just regards them from the doorway, chewing on his lip.

Chicago, Illinois. 1933.

The crowds never begin to dwindle until long after the sun sets, after the outdoor spotlights split the night and bury the stars. Couples linger in the shadows, holding hands and smoking their cigarettes. Fathers carry their exhausted children back to their cars, back to the railway station, clutching their balloons and their souvenirs in their tiny fists.

Luke stands just outside the Hall of Science and hitches his bag up over his shoulder. Next to him a group of tourists are huddled in a circle, attempting to navigate a folded map soiled with rips and remnants of greasy finger food.

"Excuse me, sir? Would you happen to have the time?"

Luke turns around. A young couple is standing behind him, languidly arm in arm. "Certainly," he replies, consulting his watch. "It's twenty past nine."

The man smiles politely. "Thank you, good sir. I say, it's nice to see a fellow countryman. Are you enjoying the fair?"

"I am, thank you. In fact, I just gave a lecture this afternoon."

"Oooh, on what?" the girl asks dreamily, her peculiarly large eyes going even wider.

"Transcendental numbers. Cantor and the like." Their expressions betray not a hint of understanding. "Er, mathematics," Luke clarifies.

The girl scrunches up her nose. "Oh, I don't care for mathematics at all. Makes my head feel funny."

"Aha, don't mind her," the man interjects, adding quietly, "She's not terribly bright. I'm William, by the way. And this is—"

"Drusilla," she finishes sweetly.

"Aha...er, Drusilla," he repeats, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Pleased to meet you," Luke says, offering his hand to the lady. "I'm Luke Triton."

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Luke." William hesitates. "I know we just met, but would you fancy a drink? Being a fellow countryman and all."

Luke fiddles idly with the strap of his shoulder bag. "Why not?" he agrees.

They cross the fairgrounds together, past the splendor of Soldier Field and the Shedd Aquarium, into the true streets of the city that by comparison seem devoid of life. Luke doesn't react when Drusilla drifts beside him and takes his arm, crooning, "Lovely night," against his ear. It isn't until he senses the weight of William's hand against his back, steady and cold, that he reaches into his pocket and palms the sliver of wood.

"The way you two go about it," Luke remarks calmly, "you must think I've never seen a vampire before."

"Oh, Spike," Drusilla sighs mournfully, still against Luke's ear. "He's caught us, he has. You know they taste better when they don't put up a fight."

Spike freezes, grabbing Luke by the wrist and holding him to the spot. "Makes no difference to me," he snarls, and those unmistakable features begin to overtake his face.

Luke flicks the stake into his fist, sliding it up against Spike's chest before he has time to react. "Now, listen," Luke says darkly, applying only the slightest pressure. "I can kill you both right here—and believe me, I can—or you can listen to my proposition."

Spike boggles at him. "What are you on about, mate? We're vampires. We don't do propositions. Kill him, Dru."

Drusilla, for her part, pets longingly at Luke's shoulder. "Oh, but he is pretty. Such a pretty, pretty pet. Tell us your proposition, pretty one."

"Dru!"

Luke twists the stake into Spike's shirt, increasing the pressure as much as he dares. "Get me high," he breathes, and his words are like the quick burn of venom. "I've done it before, but they say it's even better with two points of contact. Two sets of teeth buried in your skin, bleeding you out as your heart races and your head spins. Do it for me and I'll make it worth your while."

Spike laughs cruelly. "Are—are you serious, mate? I thought you were Mr. Smart Mathematics Guy. What makes you think we won't just keep drinking and kill you?"

"Because," Luke murmurs, slipping the wood flat against Spike's chest and dragging it down until his fingers graze his waistband. "I can't make it worth your while if you kill me."

Spike looks down at Luke's hand, running his tongue over his fangs. "...Dru?"

"How often do we get to enjoy the World's Fair, love?" she asks, and slides her pale hand over Luke's.

"Well then," Spike concedes, his features softening. "You have yourself a deal," and suddenly it's Luke who has the eyes of a monster.

???, Scotland. 1943.

It's nearly seven o'clock when a knock sounds at his door. Presumptuously late for a student, but then, Luke has always been notoriously generous with his time. He sets his quill down, propping his elbows up on the desk. "Yes, come in."

"Professor Triton?" A tall, dark-haired boy lingers in the doorway.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle, do take a seat." Luke rises to meet him, motioning to one of the bright blue chairs in the corner. "What can I do for you?"

Riddle thanks him and sits down, declining politely when Luke offers him a cup of tea. "I'm afraid I'm having a little trouble with your Arithmancy assignment," he explains with some concern. "The numbers just aren't coming out right. I thought, perhaps, you might explain it again?"

Luke crosses his legs, taking a long sip of tea. "And which part is giving you the trouble?"

"Well, you see, I've gotten to the section where you're required to pinpoint the subject's three fears, and I'm afraid my numbers just aren't making any sense."

"You are using the Social Number, aren't you? Consonants only, remember."

Riddle's eyes widen in dismay. "The Social Number," he repeats, shaking his head as if he's blanked on his own name. "How could I forget that?"

Luke smiles passively over his cup. "It happens to the best of us."

Retrieving a quill from somewhere in his robes, Riddle slides it across the table. "I wonder though, Professor Triton, if you wouldn't mind showing me a quick example. Just so I know I've got it."

Luke eyes the quill, then gently places his cup on its saucer and returns to his desk. He regards the boy for a moment, still seated in that flamboyantly cerulean upholstery. "Mr. Riddle," he says calmly. "Do you really expect me to believe that the brightest student in all of Hogwarts is suddenly confounded by one of the most elementary aspects of Arithmancy. Tell me why you're really here."

Something flickers across the boy's face—embarrassment perhaps, or maybe just irritation—and he stands up. "If you must know, Professor," he says uneasily. "I—I seem to I have a bit of a crush on you."

Luke rolls up a stray sheet of parchment from his desk—third-year exam scores—and snorts. "Do you now?"

"Don't laugh at me!" Riddle demands, suddenly so close that Luke can see his own reflection in those startlingly dark eyes. "You're quite young for a teacher," Riddle continues, voice like spider's silk. "What can I say? I find you rather attractive."

Even at this range, Luke can feel the boy's breath against his cheek, but he steps even closer. "Well then, Mr. Riddle," he says, reaching up to cup his chin. "If I were to kiss you, I'd imagine you wouldn't protest."

Riddle doesn't move, doesn't blink, just stands there as Luke trails a finger across his bottom lip.

"You are also rather attractive, as I'm sure you're well aware," Luke whispers, tilting his head until their foreheads meet. "I suppose I wouldn't mind kissing you."

And then he does. Riddle's lip are soft and moist, and when he pushes his tongue into Luke's mouth, he tastes like the sweet, acidic burn of citrus fruit. Luke bites at his lip and pulls away, and Riddle's eyes are filled with sudden loathing.

Luke smiles bitterly. "You take your bluffs to the extreme, don't you, Mr. Riddle? I'm impressed. That must have been quite difficult for you," he says, and his laugh is like poison. "What was in that quill anyway?"

"I... You filthy, disgusting Muggle!" Riddle hisses, aiming his wand at Luke's chest.

"I see. I'm a Muggle now? Why just a moment ago—"

Riddle seethes. "You—You repulse me! I know what you are! How you arrived at this job is completely beyond me, but you don't belong here. You and your kind don't belong anywhere."

Luke flicks the wand away with disinterest. "What I am, or am not, is none of your concern. I'm here a personal favor to the Headmaster, and here I will remain. Now then," Luke says brightly, sitting back down at his desk. "I suggest you take your quill and your newfound Arithmancy knowledge and run along to complete your assignment. I'm told it's due tomorrow."

Riddle buries his wand in his robes and swipes furiously at his mouth. "I'll see that you pay for this," he hisses, but Luke doesn't look up from his work until the boy is already gone.

Pasadena, California. 1952.

"Six fucking wheels on this thing, shit."

Luke puts a gloved finger to his mouth, resetting his earpiece against the steel. They've been here ten minutes, and already his knees are beginning to ache.

Just a couple more clicks and he'll have it on his end, that delicate beat of metal on metal that means they're one step closer to finishing this job, one step closer to being able to breathe again. Luke scribbles something onto a sheet of paper, crouches down low on the floor and charts out the dots. "Got it," he mutters, pitching the earpiece. "Only three on this one. I'll have it in a second." He twirls the dial artfully between his fingers, right-left-right. Again, until the lock slides apart with a clank. "Got it."

"How much?"

"Smaller bills. Maybe ten grand." He pitches them into the bag. "If you'd stop talking, we'd get to the bulk of it."

Hyde sits back on his heels. "Do you know who you're talking to, Triton? You're good all right, just like Joey said you'd be, but the only reason you're here is because I needed four hands to disarm the door and I only got two of 'em." He gives Luke a self-assured sort of grin. "I'd say you could just take your cut and go, but we only brought one car."

Luke approaches the other safe, eyeing Hyde's chart from over his shoulder. "To be honest, I'm not particularly interested in my cut. You can keep it."

Hyde jerks his head around, staring at him like anyone with half a brain would. "Whaddya mean you're not interested? Crazy son of a bitch. Why the hell are you even working this job?"

Luke shrugs, studying the dial. "Just a hobby, I suppose."

Hyde blinks at him in disbelief. "Hell, that's a new one." Then to Luke's surprise, he laughs. "You want at this one, don't you? Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. You know what, Triton? I like you. Go ahead and do the honors." He shakes his head, but Luke can tell without even looking that he's got a grin on his face. "Left off at 28."

"You're not too bad yourself," Luke says evenly, giving him a small wink. "But your handwriting is atrocious."

"You got a lot of nerve, Triton," Hyde says, but he's doesn't sound that angry. "First you come in here because you like puzzles or some bullshit, and then you got the balls to go and insult my work. I thought you English types were supposed to have manners."

Luke just tells him to shut up, and slowly coaxes the dial to the left.

"So why don't you want the money?" Hyde asks, ignoring the reprimand. "No family?"

Luke shakes his head, biting his lip in concentration. "There it is," he mumbles and jots something down on Hyde's notes. Luke glances back at him, leaning there against the wall with his arms crossed. "Didn't think a guy like you would have a family."

Hyde stands up a little straighter. "Got a son, actually. Just turned six."

"Spitting image of his father?"

"Oh yeah. Like twins."

Luke grins, rubbing at his knees. "Better get something to keep those girls away."'

"Heh, don't I know it." Hyde ruffles his hair a bit. "His name's Kyle. He's... He's a good kid, real smart." He stays quiet for a moment, watching Luke work the dial like it's all he was born to do. "Gonna do everything I can to make sure he never ends up a lousy thief like his old man," he mutters, and Luke plots another dot on his graph. "Jesus, I can't imagine what you were like as a kid," Hyde laughs. "Probably stayed up in your room all night doing math problems."

Luke smiles wearily. "Only sometimes."

It's another twenty minutes before Luke gets the final permutation right, but six digits is no easy feat, and Hyde knows from experience that better men have taken longer.

"Boy." Hyde whistles, surveying the contents. "Nicer than I thought."

Luke tosses him a bag. "It's all yours."

When they finish loading up the loot, Luke goes over to the big safe and gives the dial a spin. "For good luck," he jokes, but when he turns around Hyde's blocking his way.

"You sure you don't want any of this cash, Triton?" Hyde asks, studying him carefully. "'Cause it don't feel right, you walking out of here with nothing."

"I told you, I have no use for the money," Luke says, but Hyde places a gloved hand against his chest.

"Then maybe," Hyde begins, sliding his hand up over Luke's shoulder, kneading the muscle slowly with his fingers. "Maybe there's something else you want. Something I could give you instead."

Luke doesn't answer.

"Come on," Hyde says, reaching up to stroke his hair. "You gonna stand here and tell me you're not a queer?"

"That would be pointless, no doubt."

Hyde laughs, leaning forward to press his lips against Luke's neck. "There's a motel we could go to," he murmurs, snaking a hand between their legs. "We'll ditch the cash at the drop-off. It's not far."

"Hyde." Luke catches his wrist, holding it against his thigh. "I've been thinking about what you'd be like in bed since we got here," he breathes across his cheek. "But you should go. Go home to your kid."

Hyde's still stroking the short, soft hairs at the base of his neck. "Jesus, Triton, what's it matter to you?"

Luke leans his head back against the cold steel, and he really doesn't know how to answer.

Professor Layton fic: Flight of the Bluebirds

bethfrish — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 05:46:11 GMT

OH MAN. This was the most crazy irritating thing I've ever written. I somehow got it into my head that drabbles would be easier to write than full scenes, but THEY WERE NOT. Also, there was more to this, more correspondence snippets interwoven between the narrative. I cut them out because they ended up slaughtering the atmosphere and anyway, why on earth would Luke and Professor Layton write in hundred-word paragraphs? :O (Actually, that's something they probably would do.) The missing letter segments did add some mildly relevant flirtatious subtext that I hated to get rid of, but they just weren't working for me.

I got blocked pretty badly on some of these. There was many a sentence that ended with AND THEN THEY DID A PUZZLE.

These are what I like to call "anal-retentive drabbles", so they're each one hundred words exactly. For no reason, really.

Title: Flight of the Bluebirds
Fandom: Professor Layton
Pairing: Layton/Luke (of age)
Rating: R
Notes: I went with the canonical(?) fact that Luke is 13 at the end of the third game, which makes him about 18 here. In any case, beware of sex of a somewhat sketchy nature.

P.S. I secretly enjoy fanfic in which everybody ends up miserable, so I apologize if this breaks your heart. Or your brain. Or your face(?)

ENJOY. :D

Oh Professor, how overjoyed I am to be returning to London. It's rather like coming home again, isn't it? I've missed it terribly—as I've missed you, though I suspect you must already know that. We take for granted, don't we, those aspects of our lives we assume will last forever. I hope you don't find me too considerably changed when you see me. I've tried to remain the gentleman you always taught me to be.

Thank you for always writing, even after so long. I look forward to our reunion more than you could possibly know.

Until then,
Luke

Layton tucks the letter into a slot in his desk, filthy with dust and years of quiet neglect. Ages have passed since Flora married, so delicate and beautiful and completely in love, and longer still since Luke's ship left him at the docks of the Atlantic, the cool sea air stinging his cheeks.

Layton launders the spare bedroom and clears his texts from the table, bundles up the rest of Luke's letters—nearly five years' worth—and puts them back in their drawer. Luke has written one for every month he's been away, and Layton has never missed a reply.

Waiting quietly at the end of the platform, Layton recognizes him the moment he steps off the train. He's grown, he thinks. Taller, lankier, cap pulled down too far over his sandy hair, but still Luke. Luke, who had never wanted to leave London behind, who had wept uncontrollably in his arms all those years ago.

"Oh, Professor Layton!" rings out across the station, and there he is. Layton can feel the warm breath of his hello, he's standing so close.

Luke studies him for a long moment. Then he averts his eyes and steps away, merely extending his hand.

"I see your favorite automobile is still in good working order," Luke observes over the aged roar of the motor, splaying his fingers out over the upholstery. His accent has become diluted with harsh American syllables, a strange, foreign hybrid that befits neither country. "You haven't changed either, Professor."

Layton smiles thinly and harrumphs.

"Honest, you haven't," Luke insists. He had always been a stubborn child, constantly arguing points that were never up for discussion, but there's a depth to his voice now, a low, musical lilt of self-assurance that Layton can no longer contradict.

"Well," Layton concedes. "Thank you."

They dine in, close and cozy around the worn oak table of Luke's childhood. Layton wonders if he recognizes it, cleared of its ever-present clutter. Luke presses his fingertips into the scratched grain of the wood, runs them carefully over the shining, white china; flawless, like it's never been used.

"I don't remember you being much of a cook, Professor," Luke calls over the buzz of last-minute preparations.

"Ah...well." Layton laughs meekly from the doorway, gripping a platter with both hands. "I suppose we've both grown then," he offers, and moves to set the bird down on the table.

It surprises Layton when Luke declines a second glass of wine. He had assumed a boy so clearly on the precipice of adulthood would welcome the opportunity to drink freely, but Luke only thanks him politely and shakes his head.

"Are you disappointed, Professor, that I intend to study law?" Luke asks with the self-conscious concern of a traitor. He drinks too thoughtfully; the single glass has already stained his lips.

"Of course not," Layton assures him. "Law is a fine profession," and he watches as Luke smiles mildly over his glass, pink and smudged where his mouth has been.

They sit together on the sofa, drinking idly from Layton's old teacups—the ones with the bluebirds that Luke had always admired. Layton tells him a puzzle for old time's sake, and Luke hardly has to think about it, just declares, "Seventeen," with a modest smile.

"You're too old for these," Layton reflects, and Luke goes to refill their cups.

He returns empty-handed and sits down so close that their knees brush together. "Tell me a different one then," Luke says evenly, placing his hand on Layton's wrist.

Layton looks at him carefully, mouth dry. "As you wish," he says.

Luke tastes of honey and lemon, of some too-sweet spice and the slow, awkward kisses of Layton's past. He bites the back of his hand and gazes at Layton through long, brown eyelashes; too eager, too shy.

Luke cries when he comes, burying his face in his arm, and it's then that Layton knows—should have known all along.

"Oh, Luke," Layton whispers frantically into his hair as his blood turns to ice. "Luke, we shouldn't have... Not with me."

Luke smiles up at him, trembling, but his eyes are wet, and the salt on his lips betrays them both.

Layton stands over the sink, letting the cold water drip from his face and onto his chest. The chill pricks his skin as it dries, but he doesn't feel it. Just rubs the water out of his eyes.

He goes to the table and sits down, holding an abandoned teacup lightly in his hands. The faded birds glide mournfully between his fingertips.

Staring into the cold dregs of amber, he tries not to hear the soft, anguished sobs coming from the other room. They remind him too much of that sweet child, crying at the docks all those years ago.

Hotel Dusk fic: This Is How We Get Things Done

bethfrish — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 08:43:19 GMT

I've decided I'm going to try to produce at least one piece of writing per month. THIS IS MY GOAL. So I whipped this up for all my Hotel Dusk peeps. All two of them. To the rest of you...sorry, private party. You may join by playing Hotel Dusk.

Ahaha, so basically I can no longer write anything in past tense. 8( This is pretty much garbage.

Title: This Is How We Get Things Done
Fandom: Hotel Dusk
Pairing: Hyde/Bradley-ish
Rating: PG-13 for really gratuitous swearing
Notes: My pre-game Kyle is a fucking lamer.

Hyde got back in the car and dropped the bag on the dashboard.

"Big Mac. No onions," he grunted, then stripped off his gloves and rubbed his hands together. "Holy fucking hell, is it cold out."

"Not much better in here," Bradley reassured him. "You got fries right?" he asked, reaching for the bag.

"Doyle, fucking Irish bastard. I can't believe he put us on surveillance. What the fuck does he think I am? Some rookie detective, afraid to flash his gun? How many years have I been on the force again? Remind me."

Bradley popped the lid on his Big Mac. "Just eat your sandwich, sunshine. Before it freezes."

Hyde grabbed the bag and pulled out a cheeseburger. "Goddamn it," he said, staring at the greasy pile of fries at the bottom. "I forgot to get ketchup."

Bradley reached into his coat for a cigarette. "Like I'd let you squirt ketchup all over my car anyway." He flicked his lighter and pressed the filter to his lips, peering out the window at the darkened apartment across the street. Lifeless, moldy brick stared back at him. Three hours and a not a peep.

"This is ridiculous," Hyde said between mouthfuls of cheeseburger. "There's no way in hell anyone's gonna show here. I mean, they already know we're onto them thanks to Anderson and his dumb shit of a partner." Bradley leaned over and offered Hyde his cigarette. "Thanks," Hyde muttered, taking it between his fingers. "But don't you just love it? They blow the cover, and we're the ones parked outside in this fucking ice cube tray."

"If I have to listen to you complain all night," Bradley said, jamming his hands back into his gloves, "you're gonna end up undercover out on the corner."

Hyde just grinned and stuffed his hand into the bag for some fries. "What a partner."

Bradley tensed his jaw, pulling his hat further down on his head. "You do know I'm sending you out again to get me some fresh coffee, right? Because I'm sure as hell not setting foot outside this car."

Hyde gave him the finger.

"Asshole," Bradley laughed. "All right, I get it. It's the goddamn South Pole out there."

"So you are human after all. I was starting to wonder." Hyde hunched over and folded his arms into his chest. "Can you turn the heat on again?"

"We're supposed to be undercover here," Bradley said flatly, but turned the key in the ignition anyway.

Hyde brought his hands up to the vents as the engine kicked and sputtered. "I'm beginning to think that nobody actually lives on this block." Outside, the road gleamed icy black beneath the tired glow of the streetlamps, while the building across the street remained ominously deserted. "Though, and correct me if I'm wrong here," Hyde continued after a moment, "this is nowhere near as bad as the time we had to wait around all afternoon in the ninety-five degree heat."

Bradley turned the knob to full blast, floor rattling beneath them. "Jesus Christ, that was awful."

"But we got him," Hyde said proudly, putting his face against the blower. "We kicked that son of a bitch's door down and he didn't know where the hell we even came from. The look on his face when you cuffed him."

"Probably had more to do with the fact that I smelled like a locker room." Bradley grudgingly turned the key to kill the engine. "Or how about the time I sat in the parking lot of that bar for two and a half hours, listening to you get drunk off your ass. That's the last time they let your sorry self carry a wire."

"Well what did you want me to order? Some fruity, fairy drink with a cherry in the straw?" Hyde leaned back in his seat, savoring the warmth while it was still there. "We busted that deal too."

"No thanks to you."

"Yeah well." Hyde squinted out the window at their too-quiet target. "I found out early on that I'm not good at that kind of stuff. I got 'cop' written all over me. You, on the other hand."

"Me, on the other hand," Bradley echoed.

Hyde crumpled up the McDonald's bag and dropped it somewhere by his feet. "When do you get moved to the Nile case?"

Bradley gave a sort of half-sigh, breath coming out in a tiny puff of condensation. "As soon as this one wraps up."

Hyde shook his head. "I can't believe they actually want to send someone undercover," he said heatedly. "They've got to be fucking nuts. And you're nuts for going along with it."

"What the hell was I supposed to tell them? No?" Bradley asked, rubbing at the fog on the window with his elbow. "We're steaming up the windows in here, and not in the fun way."

Hyde craned his neck as a taxi rolled by. "I don't know what you should have told them." Then he turned to look at Bradley. "Hey, where'd the coffee go?"

Bradley groped around by his feet until he came up with a blue thermos. "Here."

Hyde unscrewed the lid and took a drink, swishing it around his mouth for a second before he swallowed. He made a face. "God that's awful. Tastes like lukewarm dirt." He tossed the thermos back onto the floor, shooing it away with his foot. Then he leaned back in his seat, running a gloved hand over the familiar upholstery. "You're going to miss being partners with me, you know," he said. "It might be a while before we get another chance to sit out here and freeze our nuts off."

"Then I guess it's kind of nice we got this assignment tonight."

Hyde laughed. "Shit. Only a sadistic son of a bitch—" Suddenly his smile vanished. "No way. You didn't."

Bradley rubbed casually at the window. "What?"

"Bradley. You did. You volunteered us for this bullshit stakeout."

"And what would you say if I did?"

Hyde snorted. "What would I say? I'd say you're a fucking asshole, that's what I'd say. It's five fucking degrees out here."

"Duly noted," Bradley replied calmly. "But let's not forget how you smashed up seven hundred dollars worth of equipment in that bar fight. This could just be one of Doyle's friendly reminders."

"Jesus, that was like two years ago. He would remember that, the bastard," Hyde grumbled. "That thing was a clunky piece of shit anyway. Hey!" He sat straight up in his seat, eyes trained on the building across the street. "Wait, no. Never mind. Just a couple of kids. Who the hell lets their kids run around at one o'clock in the morning?"

Bradley braced his hands on the steering wheel, even though they weren't going anywhere anytime soon. "I can keep watch for a couple of hours if you want to catch some sleep. I've got a feeling we're in for a long one."

Hyde opened the glove compartment and reached for his cigarettes. "And let you hog all the coffee?" He fumbled with the pack, trying to shake one into his hand. "Damn gloves," he muttered, tearing the right one off with his teeth. He patted the front of his coat absently. "I don't know where my lighter went."

Bradley took off his own gloves and pulled his lighter from his pocket. "Here's to you, partner," he said, flipping it open, but Hyde caught his hand and pressed the metal into his palm.

"Don't you forget it," he warned, and when Bradley flicked away the cigarette from between his lips, Hyde just laughed, low and quiet, and leaned in.

Hotel Dusk/Ace Attorney fic: Someone Like Me

bethfrish — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 08:34:09 GMT

All right, so I wrote some serious crack. I don't even know if I should post this to the Hotel Dusk comm. It's a little crazy.

Title: Someone Like Me
Fandoms: Hotel Dusk/Ace Attorney
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some blink-and-you'll-miss-it gayness. (Kyle Hyde makes a cameo.)
Notes: Knowledge of both Hotel Dusk and Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney (first game only) is required. All right, so the timelines are a little off for this to actually work, but they're close and I say that's good enough.

After Gant was arrested, they took him to a solitary holding cell where he stayed until the date of his trial. He declined the right to an attorney, pleading guilty to two counts of murder, one count of forgery, and a whole wide world of other charges. He was convicted immediately, sentenced to ninety years with no chance of parole.

He put up no resistance as they escorted him to his cell, just smiled calmly and said, "Sometimes there's no other way to fight what's out there. You try for a while, following the rules, but then you begin to realize there's only so much you can do. I cleaned up this town, you know I did."

They unlocked the door to his cell, then removed his shackles and left him to his solitude.

"You'll see," he said, clapping his hands together in the cold, empty silence. "You needed someone like me."

*

When Jeff turned himself in to the police, he made his one and only call to his father, trembling as he clutched the phone in his hands.

"I don't have time to deal with you right now," was the reply. "You can stay there overnight."

Jeff spent the next seventeen hours sitting on a hard wooden bench with six other men, memorizing the back of his hands. He didn't sleep, didn't move. The next morning an officer came in and called his name, making a note on his clipboard as he led him down the hall.

"You got too nice a face to be in here, kid," he said, shaking his head. "I ever see you again, it better be in a uniform."

He was left in the custody of his father, who signed the papers impatiently and declared, "I've decided not to press charges. But don't think this will go unpunished."

When they arrived back home, Jeff stood frozen in the entryway, waiting to be screamed at or beaten or sent away, but his father just took the money and the pistol and disappeared into his study, and eventually Jeff went up to his bedroom and slammed the door in disgust.

*

"But what if they're not innocent?" Jeff asked his father in a quiet voice.

"I'm a defense attorney. It's my job to defend them. Everyone has the right to a fair trial."

"But poppa," Jeff insisted. "What if you know they're guilty."

His father looked up from his desk impatiently. "I defend people," he repeated. "It's my job, and I'm damn good at it. Now go upstairs. I have work to do," he said, and didn't look up again.

*

The first time Jeff held a gun was when he was twelve. His father's gun, brand new in its fancy wooden box. He came into the study looking for an eraser and saw it lying there on the desk. Of course his father came in while he was holding it. He didn't have it poised to shoot or anything, just had it sitting there, delicately, in the palms of his hands.

"You like that, Jeff?" his father asked. "That's poppa's new friend. She keeps poppa safe."

Jeff fumbled it back into the box and looked down at his socks. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to—I was just looking for a pencil eraser."

His father crossed the room and picked up the box. "Would you like to shoot it?" he asked.

He took Jeff out to the backyard and placed the gun in his hands. "Hold it just like that," he instructed. "Squeeze, don't pull."

Jeff stretched his arms out in front of him and rubbed at the cold steel with his fingertips. "I—I don't want to."

"Don't be stupid. You're not shooting anybody. Just aim into the bushes."

"I don't want to," Jeff repeated, his arms still outstretched. "It's... It's stupid, shooting at nothing."

His father sighed sharply and took a step towards him. "I guess you can't after all," he snapped, taking the gun from Jeff's hands. "Oh, and from now on, you are never to come into my office without asking. Is that clear?"

Jeff nodded, staring coldly at the bushes until he heard the back door slam shut.

*

There was a time when his father would take anyone's case. Long before they moved into the new house, before they transferred Jeff into a private school and bought their third car. His father worked from an office in a small building downtown, dreaming of the day when his name would be added to the sign.

When the clients started coming to their house instead of the office, no one seemed to mind. Because private clients meant big money, and everyone loved the money, Jeff included.

As he got older, he tried not to think about where that money was coming from. Instead he thought about his father's near-perfect win record, or the trip to Cancun the family would be taking in the summer.

*

Jeff was twenty-one when he left home. He withdrew all the money from his savings account over the course of four months, leaving a little under a thousand dollars so that the bank wouldn't get suspicious. Then he tucked the cash into a roll of socks and moved into a hotel. He hardly took anything with him, just a week's worth of clothing and a couple of books that he really liked. Nobody was around to hear him leave, and he knew his father wouldn't come looking for him.

The hotel he stayed at was cheap and dirty, and the sheets made his limbs itch deep beneath his skin. Outside his room was a view of the swimming pool, so gritty and polluted that you couldn't see the bottom, even in the shallow end. It was never used for swimming.

Jeff would watch the drug deals go down from his second floor window, little more than shadows on the stained, cracked concrete, but he knew what was going on. He watched them from his bed with the lights off, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

One night he put on his bathing suit and sat down by the pool, dangling his feet in the murky water as he gazed at the row of broken patio furniture. He sat there for two hours, until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" the voice hissed in his ear. "Beat it."

Jeff turned his head slowly, catching another shadow out of the corner of his eye. "I was just going for a swim," he said after a moment, quietly. "Care to join me?" Then he smiled over his shoulder, thin-lipped and smug, and dove into the water.

*

"But poppa!" Jeff insisted.

"How many times must I remind you that this is none of your concern?" his father interrupted angrily. "Do not bring it up again."

"But poppa, you don't need their business! They're bad people, they're—"

"I said don't bring it up again!"

Jeff's face broke, then went blank. "I have homework to do," he said quietly, and turned away.

*

Jeff liked going to this one bar, just on the outskirts of L.A. It was a quiet sort of place, the kind where everyone minded their own business and left him alone. He liked it that way, just sitting there, listening to everything go on around him.

One night, someone sat down beside him and let out a mighty laugh. "Well if it isn't Jeff Angel."

Jeff looked up from his glass of vodka and grimaced. "Don't call me that. You know that's not my name." It was that salesman, of all people. The one from two years ago. He still looked about the same. Maybe a few more lines around the eyes, but the same old four-dollar haircut, same half-assed shave. "Hyde, wasn't it?"

Hyde flagged over the bartender and ordered a bourbon. "Mr. Hyde. Respect your elders, kid."

"I'm not a kid," Jeff cut in sharply. "That selfish brat you met back then doesn't exist anymore."

"Different kind of brat then," Hyde remarked. "Whatever. So what the hell are you doing in here? Daddy turn your bedroom into a casino?"

Jeff stirred the ice cubes in his vodka. "For your information, Hyde, I got out of there. Couldn't stand to be in the same house with him anymore," he said darkly.

Hyde seemed to soften a little. "Some people never change, huh. Sorry to hear that."

"I've changed," Jeff insisted. "I've been thinking about becoming a cop."

Hyde laughed. "Is that so?" Then he smiled, almost warmly. "Well that's great. And I mean that. Hey," he said, motioning to the bartender. "Another round for the kid."

"I said stop calling me that," Jeff snapped, taking a drink of his vodka. "I'm not a child."

"Oh, you're not, huh?" Hyde asked.

"No, I'm not," Jeff said, eyes sparkling in the dim light. Then he leaned forward and kissed Hyde on the mouth.

Hyde shoved him away roughly and laughed. "See kid?" he said, plucking Jeff's hand from his thigh. "You haven't changed at all. You still think you can get whatever you want."

Jeff stared back at him, eyes narrowed. The corner of his mouth lifted up into a little smile.

"But you know what?" Hyde added after a second. "That just might work for you."

*

"I hate you," Jeff hissed, standing in the doorway. "I hate everything about you."

His father crossed the room, raised his hand, and slapped him across the face, hard. "How dare you speak to me that way, you ungrateful little shit. Who do you think gave you this lifestyle?" he yelled. "Who do you think worked hard every day of his life so that you could have it easy?"

"I don't care!" Jeff spat, ignoring the sting burning his cheek. "You lawyers, you disgust me. Rapists, drug dealers, murderers, you don't care! You'll defend them all as long as they can pay!"

"Do you know how stupid you sound, speaking of things you couldn't possibly under—"

"Oh, I understand," Jeff interrupted. "Completely. But you'll see. One day we'll be free of people like you. Free of you and all the scum you defend. I'll see to it myself if I have to." Then he turned and walked away.

"Your ignorance is astounding," his father called after him. "Let me know how you do it."

*

There was only one thing Jeff needed to do before he joined the Police Academy, and that was change his name. He didn't want the other cadets to know him, didn't want his superiors to read his papers and think, that attorney's son. He needed a clean start.

So he filed his petition and stood before the judge, smiling graciously when the change was approved. After careful deliberation, he'd finally decided on his mother's maiden name: Gant. Quiet and unassuming, plain though not entirely common.

But in the end, he couldn't give up what his father had passed down to him, the family name that would always remind him just whose son he was. Because forgetting the name Larry Damon would be forgetting everything that Jeff despised in the world, everything he vowed to change. He needed those feelings, burning inside him, never relenting. So he took the name as his own and left Jeff Damon behind, that defeated child clutching at his father's gun.

On his first day in the LAPD, he stood eagerly in front of his sergeant, straight and tall in his newly pressed uniform, awaiting his assignment.

"Damon Gant," the officer read out loud, glancing down at his roster. "Looks like this is your first day. You must be excited."

"Yes, sir," he answered promptly. "Cleaning up this city is something I feel very passionate about."

"Is that so?" the officer said with a chuckle. "Well that's just fantastic. The LAPD could use someone like you."

"Thank you, sir," Gant replied, a slow smile beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. "I promise you I will do what I can."

Hotel Dusk fic: Caesar's Wife

bethfrish — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 00:51:31 GMT

You should play all Hotel Dusk. Just watch the trailer. Does it not look incredibly ~~gay~~ awesome?

I write soooo slowly.

Title: Caesar's Wife
Fandom: Hotel Dusk
Pairing: Kyle Hyde/Brian Bradley
Rating: NC-17 for slightly graphic sex
Notes: Pre-game.

BONUS MATERIAL: Barney Miller episode no. 45. Original air date: December 23, 1976.

Only two things have ever kept Kyle Hyde from his sleep. One is the piercing buzz of his shabby, second-hand alarm clock, bleating frantically at his head as he fumbles to shut it off. The second is less obvious.

It isn't the angry impatience of the city traffic, or the birds that nest in the gutters during the summer months. It isn't his upstairs neighbors who coax horrifying sounds from the ancient, uneven floorboards as they pace from bedroom to bathroom and back again. It isn't even the slam of his own front door when his lover lets himself in after returning from work at five in the morning.

No. It's Bradley's goddamn cigarettes.

Fancy, overpriced shit that he has to ash into a water glass on the nightstand because Hyde hid his ashtrays away in a kitchen cabinet after quitting the foul habit himself. One whiff of that smoke and it busts up his dreams like someone squashed the butt out in his face.

Hyde squints blearily at his trusty alarm clock. 6:04 am. The damn thing's not even set. Why would it be? It's his day off.

"What the fuck, Bradley," he rasps, rolling over into a low-hanging snake of smoke.

Bradley glances down at him from where he's leaning against the headboard. "Sorry. Didn't think you were awake." He takes another two drags before pitching it into his water glass. The glow dies with a hiss.

Propping his head up on one hand, Hyde narrows his eyes in disapproval. He doesn't like to be a princess about his indoor smoking policies, but that heady smell of tobacco still drives him nuts, even now. He figures it's his place. He's entitled.

"What are you doing sitting there in the dark like a creep?" he grumbles. "I thought you didn't have to go in today."

Bradley stares passively into the glass as the water slowly turns to muck. "I have to take care of a few things," he shrugs. "I should be able to swing by later."

"Later, huh?" Hyde chews on his lip, thinking. "Hey, what do you say to a little Chinese for dinner? I've had a craving for some Kung Pao chicken that only Lucky Chung's can satisfy."

Bradley lets out a small laugh as he hunches away from the headboard. "Yeah, all right." He gazes absently at Hyde's cheap plastic blinds, where some sort of dawn is trying to get the jump on the day. The sunlight never quite seems to be able to penetrate the room, no matter the hour.

"Hey." Hyde touches his arm, slowly trailing his fingers down to where Bradley has the covers bunched up over his lap. "You went and ruined my sleep with your creepy staring-into-space shit." He looks serious, slipping his hand beneath the blankets to graze the bare skin of Bradley's thigh. "And now I'm awake."

Bradley smiles lightly, easing back down into bed. "What a crock," he mutters, but Hyde only leans in closer and grins against Bradley's neck, snagging the waistband of his underwear with his forefinger. "Fucking liar," Bradley mumbles. "As if you can smell anything when you're asleep."

Hyde doesn't reply, just presses his palm against Bradley's dick, kissing his jaw as he works the elastic down with his other hand. He runs his thumb over the head of his cock, nudging his legs apart with his knee until he feels a hand at his wrist. "Let me," Bradley whispers against his mouth, and moves to straddle Hyde around the hips.

Hyde groans as Bradley tugs his shorts down and takes him in his mouth. Shuts his eyes and tangles his fingers roughly in Bradley's hair, muttering curses at the ceiling as his breath catches in his throat. Bradley leans forward, running his tongue over the hollow of his hip and back down across his thigh, making Hyde gasp and writhe and shudder like he's about to lose it.

"Come on..." Bradley hisses, and Hyde's fingers tighten in his hair as Bradley wraps his lips around the head of his cock.

"Ah, fuck," Hyde groans as he comes in Bradley's mouth, raking his hands across his cheap cotton sheets. "Shit..." He blinks slowly for a few moments, breathing heavily as he runs his hand over Bradley's shoulder. "Come here," he says hoarsely, drawing Bradley up against him.

Hyde kisses him on the mouth, running his hands down his back, but Bradley tenses as his eyes pass over the clock. "Actually..." Bradley begins, but Hyde keeps kissing him, slowly, deeply, and Bradley has to push lightly against his chest in order to get his attention. "Actually," Bradley says again, distracted. "I have to get outta here."

At first Hyde laughs. "What?" he asks incredulously, lifting his head to watch as Bradley climbs off of him. "Are you serious? It's...what the hell, 6:35? You got a seven o'clock appointment somewhere? Some other guy gets his dick sucked at seven?"

Bradley shakes his head, stepping onto the floor. "I told you. I have things to do."

"Yeah, but, now? Right this instant?" Hyde's smile fades as he watches Bradley pull his shirt off the chair, followed by his pants.

"I have to go. I'm sorry." Bradley swiftly crosses the room, in search of his keys.

"They're on the dresser," Hyde says flatly. Once Bradley's fully dressed he adds, "Is this about the case again?"

"No," Bradley answers, bending over to tie his shoes.

"Then why the hell are you acting so weird all of a sudden?"

"Look, I really have to go," Bradley insists as he rifles through his wallet. "I'm sorry." Shoving it in his pocket, he steps over to where Hyde's still sitting on the bed and kisses him on the cheek. "I'll see you later, okay?

"Right."

Hyde falls back on the bed again as Bradley's footsteps disappear down the hall. The door slams shut. 6:41 am. It's still mostly dark out.

Rolling over, he stretches his arm across the mattress and stares at the wall until he falls back asleep. Bradley's side of the bed is still warm.

It's nearly one o'clock when Hyde finally forces himself to get up. He yawns and pulls on a sweatshirt, that groggy, over-tired yawn of someone who's stayed in bed for far too long. Somehow the sun didn't quite make it out today. Peeking through the blinds, he grimaces at the dull, anemic sky, now overcast with the threat of snow.

He yawns again and pads down the hall to the kitchen, taking Bradley's cloudy glass of water with him. "Disgusting," he mutters, overturning its contents into the garbage.

He leans against the sink for a second, trying to wake up, then goes over to the fridge and takes stock. Not a whole lot to work with. Some leftover pizza, a couple of eggs, a carton of milk of indeterminate age. He roots around in the crisper for a block of cheddar. Giving it an appraising once-over, he shrugs and sets it on the counter next to the eggs. "Breakfast of kings," Hyde mumbles as he slices up some cheese and throws it in a skillet with the eggs.

If Bradley were here he'd frown and fold his arms and say, "Why the hell don't you ever have any food?" Though somehow he'd still manage to cook up a decent breakfast.

But Bradley rushed out of here at the crack of dawn, so Hyde can only stand there and prod at his scrambled eggs with a spatula. When they start to look halfway edible, he kills the burner and dumps them on a plate.

Hyde never eats at the kitchen table on account of it being a perpetual disaster. Covered with case files or reports, or cassette tapes stacked across the edge. Back when he and Bradley used to get assigned to the same cases, they would sit at that table until the sun came up again, cross-referencing files and listening to the same tape fourteen times in a row. They'd sit there when they didn't have to. When they were supposed to be sleeping, or taking the evening off to go clear their heads. They'd fall asleep with the lights on and the take-out going stale on the counter.

And then Bradley started spending the night for entirely different reasons, and it wasn't with his head down on Hyde's kitchen table.

He still remembers when it changed between them. They'd been in the narco division back then, partners all of six months. A bunch of the guys had gone down to the bar one night. Dragged them along. He still remembers the table they sat at. Round one in the corner, Scaletti on his left, Bradley on his right. They kept ordering pitchers of the house beer, watered-down shit that tasted like it was brewed in someone's bathtub. Bradley drank it politely like it was a fine brandy. Hyde had taken two sips and switched to scotch.

He remembers the rickety stools that rocked forward every time you reached for your glass. The puddles of beer on the table that he kept sticking his elbow in. The story Mason insisted on sharing about the tail he bagged the other night, yelling across the table and starting over four times because he'd lost his train of thought. He remembers Bradley sitting there quietly, drinking his beer, and how he kept lighting all of Hyde's cigarettes for him, brushing his hand as he pulled away.

He remembers the dismay he'd felt at being attracted to his partner, that night and so many before, and how he'd vowed never to act on it. And then after his fourth drink he'd felt Bradley's knee brush up against his under the table. At first he'd thought he just needed some room, so he'd looked up sharply and inched his chair to the side. But Bradley had brought his glass to his lips and did it again, pressing meaningfully up against his leg as he reached across the table for Hyde's smokes.

They'd left together at the end of the night, abandoning Hyde's car in the parking lot with the excuse that he was too drunk to drive. Hyde had a hard-on like some stupid fifteen-year-old kid, just from Bradley touching him under the table for the last forty-five minutes. They tore out of the parking lot like the place was on fire, and when Bradley stopped at the first light, he'd leaned over and pressed his mouth up against Hyde's, sliding his hand between his legs. He'd tasted like cigarettes and chewing gum.

The ride back to Hyde's place was longer than hell, and by the time they slammed the car into park, Hyde had his fist around Bradley's dick and his pants down past his knees. "Let's go upstairs," Bradley had groaned, pushing Hyde's hand away. They didn't even make it to the bedroom, just fell against the couch and sucked each other off before passing out.

Hyde had woken up the next morning naked and sore, heart racing as he searched for his pants. But Bradley had just walked calmly out of the kitchen in his socks and underwear, like he'd lived there his whole life. "I'm making you an omelette," he'd informed him. "Even though there was jack shit in your kitchen."

After that they'd stumbled into the bedroom and stayed there until the chief decided he was going to keep on calling until someone answered the goddamn phone. When Hyde got out of the shower, Bradley was still there, going over the Hicksford file at his kitchen table.

That was back when he and Bradley still worked on cases together, when they were still actually partners. Before Bradley started taking special assignments that he doesn't want to talk about, not even with Hyde.

Nile, Bradley had said all those months ago. Undercover work for some big-time crime ring. It was just Bradley on this one, but he didn't seem to mind. Sure, he still accompanies Hyde on occasion, and it's not like they don't wake up to each other every other morning, but something's different now, something's changed. Bradley keeps his casework at his own place, and he hasn't made omelettes in ages.

Hyde forks up the remainder of his eggs and chews blandly. He doesn't know why he makes them scrambled. They're always cold by the time he gets to the last bite.

He keeps waiting for his mother to call. Two days until Christmas and she still hasn't phoned with her annual dose of festive cheer.

Hyde's thirty years old and hasn't been back for Christmas since the winter of '69, but that call's something he can always count on, true to tradition as anything. "Fine, Kyle," she'll say, same as the year before. "Break your mama's heart." She's the only one who ever calls him Kyle. Even Bradley, after all these years, never calls him anything but Hyde.

The funny thing about Christmas is that she knows very well they're not getting together. Before she even picks up the phone, she knows. She waits until two days before to call because she knows her son hasn't requested any vacation time, just like he knows that his mother hasn't taken any time off from her job either. He thinks it'd be a riot to just show up one year and surprise her. Ring the doorbell and be standing there with a side of potato salad or something. "Jesus, Kyle," she'd probably say, "I didn't cook enough food for you."

When he'd first told her he was going to become a cop, she'd put on a whole production. "What if you get shot?" she'd demanded over the phone. "Worse, what if you become crooked? What am I supposed to tell my friends when your department is in all the papers for taking bribes? Caesar's wife must be above suspicion, as they say."

"Ma, don't be ridiculous," he'd groaned. "And what the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you keep your head above ground. Or I'll have to live with it."

He'd just laughed. "Well don't you have a high opinion of yourself. All right, how about if I ever get up to anything shady, I'll spare you the suffering and sever all family ties. I'll even send over some schmuck to pose for photos, so you can replace all the albums you've got of me." She'd agreed.

They don't really talk about his job, him and his mom. He figures that maybe she really is worried, afraid of the dangers that come with pissing off criminals for a living. Maybe it's easier not to ask what kind of case he's been assigned to.

She'd sent him a card when he made detective. He still has it somewhere, buried in his dresser. But other than that, she doesn't bring it up. She just knows that he's got a job to do. Knows that he won't be around for Christmas. The guilt trip's only for show.

Hyde's rooting around for the Chinese menu when the phone finally rings.

"Hello?" he says, flipping up the corners of a stack of papers.

"You get outta bed all on your own?"

Hyde smirks. "Who says I'm not still in bed?"

"That wouldn't surprise me either. You're a hard one to wake up. Usually," the voice adds.

"Hey," Hyde says, finding the menu stuck to the side of his fridge beneath a bunch of old memos. "You gonna be back soon? I thought I'd order us some dinner."

Bradley sort of clears his throat on the other end. "Actually, I'm gonna be later than expected. The... I've got some things I still need to take care of."

Hyde shifts the phone onto his shoulder. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Nothing major," Bradley reassures him. "Just a few things that can't be left until later."

"Am I allowed to know what these 'things' are, or is that top secret information?"

Bradley's silent for a second, then says, "It's nothing big."

"Nile?" Hyde asks, leaning forward on the kitchen counter. "Is something going down?"

"Look, I can't really talk right now. I'll see you later tonight, okay?"

"Fine," Hyde snaps. When Bradley doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to talk. He's learned lately to just let it go. He's about to say goodbye when something pops into his head. "Hey, I meant to ask you before," he says, trying not to sound pissy. "Did Mila make it to your aunt's okay?"

"What, Mila? Oh, yeah. Yeah, she... She got there on Monday. Yeah, she said he enjoyed the train. Never been on one before."

"That's good," Hyde says.

"Yeah. Right now it's... It's safer for her over there," Bradley says. "I'd hate to—" he falters. "I'd hate to have anything happen to her because of me."

"Well aren't you a ball of sunshine. Christ, Bradley, lighten up," Hyde tells him. "Nothing's going to happen to her. She's in Boston now, and anyway, you're not that important. Trust me."

"Listen, I have to go," Bradley repeats stiffly. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, all right. Later." Hyde hangs up the phone and presses his fingers to his temples. He stares down at the Chinese menu for a minute, then picks up the phone and dials his mom's number.

Keep it up, her card had said. It's under a pile of old sweatshirts in the top drawer of his dresser. He still looks at it every once in a while.

Lucky Chung's makes the best Kung Pao chicken in the entire city. Some people like to claim that it's Ho Fong's who makes the superior dish, but Hyde thinks those people don't know what the hell they're talking about. Ho Fong's doesn't use nearly enough peppers, and Hyde's of the opinion that if the roof of your mouth isn't singed off by the time you're done eating, the cook hasn't done his job.

Bradley, Hyde is sorry to say, has no taste when it comes to Chinese food. He likes his chicken floating in that sweet and sour slop. "Chicken ain't supposed to give you cavities," Hyde tells him, but Bradley just flashes that perfect, charming smile at him and digs in.

Sprawled on the couch, Hyde opens of his carton of Kung Pao chicken and turns on Barney Miller. It's a Christmas episode, go figure. Yemana just dragged some ungodly tree into the squad room and Barney's staring at him like the thing's on fire. He likes Barney Miller, which is weird because he never thought he'd want to sit through a show about more New York cops.

He reaches around behind his head and grabs his beer off the end table. Bradley's purchase, that end table. Hyde wouldn't be caught dead shopping for such a dainty piece of furniture. As it happens, a lot of things in the apartment are because of Bradley. The coffee maker. The coaster set. That little rug that fits around the bottom of the toilet. Stupid stuff that Hyde doesn't give enough of a shit about to buy himself, but that just appeared one day, piece by piece, without him noticing.

They've been together a while now, him and Bradley. They've had time to learn each other's habits, each other's quirks. Like how Hyde can't sleep without any covers on, even when it's ninety degrees and the fan's just wasting electricity blowing hot air in through the window. Or how Bradley always turns the volume on the TV about ten notches too high, which still isn't loud enough for him, but he believes in compromise. They know how to piss each other off. How to drive each other wild. Hyde knows that Bradley throws a fit whenever he trims his hair over the bathroom sink, just like Bradley knows that Hyde gets hard just from kissing, even after all these years.

Bradley's got a key to his apartment and everything. Hyde sort of thinks that he wouldn't mind moving in together, the two of them. They could get a bigger place, someplace closer to work maybe. Hell, he'd even let Bradley decorate. But the thing is, Bradley never talks about it like that, never mentions it.

Part of it's that he's got a kid sister who stays with him. Not that Mila's much of a kid anymore. She could easily live on her own; it's not like she doesn't already. But even then, Bradley only ever keeps a few shirts over at Hyde's place. He still stops off at home to change, sometimes to eat. To sleep too, if they're on opposite shifts. They drive separate cars to work, even when they're leaving from the same place.

It's not like Hyde can find anything wrong between the two of them, not anything tangible. It's just a feeling, this slow burn. Something prickling at the inside of his chest that grows hotter when he lets himself think too much. It's only gotten worse since Bradley got sucked into this undercover gig. He's been trailing Nile for a while now, and Hyde's noticed the changes. Bradley used to keep him in the know, sharing whatever he'd managed to dig up. And then, little by little, he stopped, changed the subject whenever Hyde asked. And all of a sudden everything's different. He goes longer without staying over. Runs with a different crowd down at the precinct. Bradley's in a private meeting with the chief while Hyde's doing the paperwork on a bunch of two-bit liquor store hold-ups.

They haven't exactly gone public with everything that's going on between them, but lately Bradley doesn't even want to grab lunch together. They used to hit up the pizza joint around the corner from the office. Papa Giovanni's, best slice in town. But now Bradley grabs his coat and says he's gotta go, and Hyde just sits there at his desk, counting out change for the vending machine.

They would go out for dinner after work. Classy joints, even. The kind where you have to wear a tie. They'd come back to his place and listen to interviews on Bradley's cassette player, taking notes and chain smoking until they ran out of cigarettes. Then they'd move to the bedroom and screw like a couple of horny teenagers, and when the alarm went off the next morning Bradley would be there next to him, pressing slow, hot kisses against his neck.

They used to spend their days off together. Now Hyde's sitting alone on his couch, eating Chinese out of the carton and watching Fish dress up as Santa Claus.

Sometimes Hyde wonders if Bradley isn't just losing interest. That maybe they only got on so well because they were partners, so far caught up in their work that the passion overflowed somehow. Maybe now that their partnership's going down the drain, the rest is going to follow.

Hyde finishes his beer and pushes himself off the couch with a groan. The Kung Pao was too much to handle. Closing up the box, he sticks it in the fridge next to the carton of sweet and sour chicken, neat and unopened. He thinks they look kind of sad there, all alone on the empty shelf of his fridge.

Hyde's already gone to bed when he hears the faint click of the front door. That creak in the floorboards by the entryway, then the soft rustle of a coat being draped over the chair in the kitchen. The fridge opens, squeaking at the hinge. Closes again. Hyde turns and looks at the clock. 2:13 am. He stares at the ceiling, waiting.

Footsteps sound down the hall, and then Bradley's standing in the doorway.

"Hey. You awake?"

Hyde can smell the smoke on him from there. "There's chicken in the fridge," he says. "You eat anything?"

Bradley walks into the room and starts to unbutton his shirt. "I noticed," he says. "Might've had a bite already."

Hyde grunts. "Pig."

Bradley folds his shirt up and sets it on the chair in the corner, then does the same with his pants. Hyde rolls over onto his side as Bradley gets into bed next to him.

"What'd you do all day?" Bradley asks.

Hyde smirks. "Built a church out of mud and twigs and love. You should check it out on your way to work. I did a mighty fine job." Bradley snorts. "See you had quite the busy day yourself," Hyde continues.

"Yeah, well." Bradley presses his knuckles into his eyes and rubs at them. "I had more to do than I expected, I guess. And then I stopped back at home before I came here. Had to take care of some things first."

Hyde watches him carefully for a second, then says, "You know, I was thinking. You could move in here. Actually move in, I mean, not just a couple of shirts in my closet. We could even get a bigger place, maybe." He looks off to the side. "Or, whenever. But, you know, you wouldn't have to always stop off at your place all the time, coming in completely beat."

Bradley laughs vaguely. "That'll have them talking for sure. I can just hear the guys down at the precinct: 'Those faggots, Bradley and Hyde, I heard they're shacking up now.' Like they don't talk enough as it is."

Hyde sits up sharply, wincing, like he's been slapped. "Is that what this is about?" he demands. "Is that why you've been acting like this lately? Huh?"

Bradley sits up next to him and puts his hand on Hyde's arm. "Whoa, hey, I didn't—"

"No, Bradley," Hyde interrupts. "Is that it? Huh? You don't want any of your friends at work to call you a fucking faggot. I get it."

"Hyde, that's not it!" Bradley grabs him by the wrists, shakes them desperately. "I'm sorry, I—I didn't mean that."

Hyde wrenches himself free. "No? You haven't had enough of me? Your stupid faggot boyfriend isn't going to hold back your career?"

"What? Why would you—why would you even... That's not it! Not at all!"

"No?" Hyde says darkly. "Then what is it?"

Hyde sits there in silence, waiting for an answer. Bradley stares helplessly back at him, hair falling into his eyes.

"I—I love you, Kyle," Bradley finally says, his voice raw. "You have to know that, right?" He takes Hyde's limp hand in his, kneading the palm with his fingers. "I love you so much, I—I don't even know what to do with myself."

Hyde looks at him for a long moment, sitting there in his bed, grasping at his fingers with so much sadness in his eyes. Then he pulls Bradley against his chest. "Hey," he says. "I know."

They fall asleep tangled in each other's arms, Hyde's face buried in the crook of Bradley's neck. Normally they can't sleep all on top of each other like that, but somehow they do, huddled up on the far end of the bed. Hyde rolls away in the night, but his arm stays curled around Bradley's shoulders, like protection.

It's back to work tomorrow. The alarm's all set for 9:15.

So of course, Hyde doesn't wake up when Bradley gets out of bed before the sun rises. Doesn't hear him getting dressed in the dark, or collecting his stuff from the top of Hyde's dresser. He doesn't feel Bradley kiss him softly on the forehead, or whisper into his hair. And he doesn't hear Bradley slide his apartment key off the ring and drop it into the ashtray that Hyde keeps hidden in his kitchen cabinet. Doesn't see Bradley's face, pale and broken, as he takes his coat from the chair, opens the door, and leaves.