Evening Flights of Fancy

[Musketeers] FIC: Carry Me Far

evening_bat — Fri, 26 Sep 2014 01:52:01 GMT

Title: Carry Me Far
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~8000
Warnings: Some violence and injuries, not much more than found in canon
Summary: Athos was injured, imprisoned, and waiting for the worst, but it seemed that help was not as impossibly far away as he'd thought. (AU)

Notes: The initial idea for this story came from a conversation with lynndyre, who was also kind enough to let me ramble endlessly about it until I found a workable variation. The impetus to write the story was provided by the all4onebigbang challenge. And seryan was gracious enough to provide a rush job beta at my frantic request to ensure that the story (mostly) made enough sense to post. Remaining errors & issues are entirely my fault. Thanks to all for making this story a thing that actually exists!

Carry Me Far

Eyes open or closed, the darkness was so deep as to make no difference. Athos felt it better to keep them closed in any case and spare himself the illusory press of the walls of his cell. He lay where he’d been dropped on the dirty straw piled in the corner. There was no comfort to be had in this place, and no reason to stir his injuries with any undue attempts at movement. Even the draw of a deep breath set his myriad cuts and bruises to complaining. Then again, that was perhaps a small mercy. The stench of the moldy straw hardly encouraged one to breathe too deeply.

Fresh air was a painfully rare commodity down here, a fact which hadn’t been lost on his captors. They’d laughed as they’d slammed the door for the first time. “Not so above it all now, are you, airkin?”

God help him, he wasn’t, shut away in the dark with the rasp of every breath echoing back to him from the too-close walls. The only thing keeping him halfway in his right mind was the spiteful refusal to give them the satisfaction of breaking him.

He didn’t know how long it had since Maillard’s betrayal had left him an unwilling guest of de Beaulieu’s dubious hospitality. The pattern of his days – interminable hours in the claustrophobic darkness of his windowless cell, interrupted by beatings at the hands of de Beaulieu’s hired thugs – made it difficult to track the passage of time. He suspected it was far shorter a time than the ages it felt; he was still alive, after all. Not that he expected to persist in that state for much longer.

The rasp of a lock turning didn’t inspire any improvement in his outlook, though a small part of Athos wondered at the lack of noise. Previous visitors had always announced themselves with a veritable cacophony of heavy footsteps and cruel laughter, voices echoing through the dank cellar long before the door to his prison swung open. By comparison, the men who’d just slunk into his prison had entered in near silence and even more surprisingly, appeared in no great hurry to announce themselves with a new flurry of blows.

Something approaching curiosity prompted Athos to open his eyes, squinting against even the dim light that shone red against his eyelids. He flinched despite himself when the first sight to cross his blurry vision was a shadow kneeling beside him. His breath caught and he ground his teeth against the pain that jolted through him at the involuntary motion, momentarily losing track of the man who’d startled him.

“Easy now,” he heard as his senses steadied again. “We’re here to help.”

Here to help? Athos slid his gaze from the shadowy figure at his side to the big man holding the lantern, lingering near the door.

“Make it quick – we don’t have much time,” he warned, low-voiced and worried.

“He’s right,” the one next to Athos said. “You’re one of Treville’s, aren’t you? We’re...well, call us agents of his. We’ve come to get you out and send you home.”

Athos wasn’t sure he believed them, but their actions seemed too elaborate to be a trick of his captors. And it wasn’t as if his situation had much room to worsen, was it? He had nothing to lose by trusting their word, and he’d risk far more than his dignity for a chance to be free of this place. “That would be appreciated.”

The shadow beside him hissed in sympathy at the hoarseness of his reply but moved straight on to the business of escape. “Good. Can you stand?”

Athos hadn’t thought so, but he managed with a judicious amount of help. Despite the support, his vision clouded over for an alarming few seconds when he tried to get his feet under him, but he blinked himself back to awareness to find himself propped between his rescuers as they shuffled slowly out of his cell.

“All right there?” The question came from the lantern-holder and held shades of the same concern displayed by his companion.

“I will be,” Athos forced between clenched teeth. Walking hurt like nothing else he’d ever felt, but he had little choice and staying would lead to worse.

He let them lead him through the quiet corridors, grimly clinging to their shoulders as he stumbled along between them. The darkness and silence of the house suggested it was night, a fact he was able to confirm when they finally slipped out a servants’ door into a messy alleyway. Athos tipped his head back as far as he could and sucked in a deep breath of chilly air heedless of the complaints of his injuries. The pain was of small consequence compared to the relief at being out of his cell and able to see open sky over his head.

Attention fixed above him, he was only dimly aware of a whispered exchange taking place around him before his weight was carefully transferred to the larger of his rescuers as the other slipped away back into the house. He bit down on a groan as the movement jostled his assortment of cuts and bruises.

“Where’s he gone?” he asked, trying to blink the sparks out of the corners of his eyes.

“To make sure the house gets locked up safe behind us.”

“A good idea,” Athos agreed vaguely.

“Well, best to be sure that – oh. Oh no. Come on, don’t do this now. You’ve made it this far – just stay –”

But his vision was fogging over again, and this time there was no shaking it off. Athos felt the arm around his shoulders tighten even as his knees buckled, but he didn’t remember hitting the ground.

When next he woke, Athos found his circumstances much improved. He was lying in an actual bed, next to an open window through which came a most welcome breeze. Equally welcome was the discovery that he was clean, the filth of his imprisonment washed away, and his wounds had been tended. It still hurt to move, but it no longer felt like to kill him. He laboriously pushed himself up on to one elbow to better survey the room, oddly surprised to find it empty. For a moment he considered climbing out of the bed and making his own way back to Paris but found himself stymied by his current unclothed state. He hardly missed the dirty rags he’d been wearing (all save for his pauldron and his sword, oh, those he missed) but wandering the streets of Bordeaux in naught but a sheet didn’t strike him as a successful means of avoiding notice.

Ah, well. Athos let himself slide back into the sheets with a sigh. Quite aside from his lack of clothing and any other resource, the mysterious pair from last night had kept true to their word so far. There was no pressing need to separate himself from their company just yet.

He’d no sooner decided to stay when the doorknob turned, and Athos got his first good look at the men who’d liberated him. Both were dark of hair and eye. One was of a height with him, perhaps a bit taller, and wore shades of dusty brown, from his long leather coat to the hat perched at a rakish angle on his head. The second was both taller and broader. He wore black, liberally and lavishly embellished against the plain colour, with a large, equally decorative hat. Both were armed, and moved with the trained confidence of competent fighters, and something in Athos’ chest loosened when they both brightened with pleased smiles at the sight of him.

“Well, hello then! Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” asked the one in brown, examining his bandages with a critical eye as he approached, a long, slim bundle tucked under one arm.

“Much improved,” Athos answered, dipping his head in a grateful nod. “You have my thanks. And my apologies,” he added to the one in black, now closing the door behind himself. “I would rather have not made an extra burden of myself.”

The one in black shrugged off his words. “I saw what they’d done to you. Most wouldn’t have made it out of that cell. You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“Though you do look rather better now,” was his companion’s satisfied assessment as he pulled a chair away from the table tucked into the corner of the room and took a seat. “Time for more pleasant business, then. I’m Aramis, and this is Porthos. Might we know the name of the musketeer we’ve had the pleasure of rescuing?”

“Athos,” he said briefly. “You said you’re Treville’s agents?”

Treville had mentioned allies in Bordeaux before Athos’ departure. He’d instructed Athos to call at a local church and leave a message in the event that their mission went sour. Somehow Athos wasn’t surprised that the men who’d earned his captain’s trust hadn’t been content to wait for a call to arms.

Aramis nodded approvingly. “You remember that. Good. And yes, we’ve had cause to help Captain Treville in the past, when he was passing through.”

“He left a lasting impression so these days we do him the occasional good turn when the opportunity presents itself,” Porthos added.

“And you presented an irresistible opportunity,” Aramis finished smoothly. “We’re making arrangements to get you out of the city, but in the meantime, how did you end up in de Beaulieu’s tender care?”

“We were betrayed.” Athos swallowed a surge of fury at the memory. “One of the regiment assigned to the city, Maillard. He arranged a meeting with de Beaulieu so that we might deliver the sealed letters we’d carried from the capital. But we walked into a conference between our host and a Spanish spy. Bad timing all around. And that’s when Maillard put a knife into Luc’s back, shot Philippe, and turned me over to de Beaulieu’s guards.”

His outrage was catching, it seemed. Aramis had straightened in his chair, and Porthos had visibly tensed where he leaned against the wall.

“Maillard, you say?” Porthos asked, deceptively casual.

“I believe we know the man,” Aramis said, lips curled into a sharp-edged smile. “His reputation is...unsavory. Surprising for a musketeer but evidently deserved.”

“Feel free to take him as another opportunity,” Athos suggested, hands curled into tight fists on the sheets. Maillard had never been a favourite in the ranks, but they’d still called him brother. His treason and very personal betrayal of their oaths rankled. The King’s justice would certainly order Maillard put to death if brought to trial, seeing as he’d killed two musketeers and conspired in espionage. But Athos would rest easier the sooner Maillard was dead. He was in no shape to be hunting the man himself, but however unofficial their capacity, he thought that Aramis and Porthos would make fitting executioners.

“We’d take de Beaulieu’s guards as another if we could.” Anger was plain in Porthos’ voice.

Aramis nodded agreement. “Even if we were inclined to let the beatings pass – which we are most certainly not – shutting you up in the basement was indefensibly cruel. No decent man would confine an airkin so.”

Porthos was earthkin; that was obvious at a glance. One couldn’t ask for a steadier, more grounded presence. Aramis was harder to identify, more shifting sand than solid stone, but Athos guessed he was earthkin as well. There was a slick polish to him, and a distinct impression that here was a man who enjoyed the physical. Besides, it was evident that they were brothers, blood-relation or no.

Athos fought not to react to the sudden, visceral memory of his lightless, airless prison, averting his eyes from their silent sympathy. Even the most grounded of earthkin knew that airkin suffered when shut away from the sky. He drew a steady, slow breath and turned his face towards the window for a long moment. “I doubt that that lot is overly burdened with decent men.”

“Clearly not.”

Athos exhaled, a long relieved sigh. He’d survived far worse than the bruises and shallow cuts, however numerous, but that damned cell had nearly smothered him. “How did you find me?”

Porthos snorted. “De Beaulieu’s men don’t have any more discretion than decency. Word got back to us that they were bragging in their favourite tavern about getting the best of one of the King’s Musketeers. Aramis bribed one of the house staff to let us in so we could get you out.”

“It turns out that de Beaulieu isn’t much kinder to his staff than to his unexpected guests. She was tremendously helpful.” Aramis reached down to the bundle he’d carried into the room, placing it on the edge of Athos’ bed. “Speaking of, I believe this is yours.”

Athos reached out with an unsteady hand and picked the knot loose. He swallowed hard when the cloth fell open, and he immediately recognized the familiar lines of his blade.

“My thanks a thousand times over, gentlemen,” he said, voice gone hoarse again. He’d walked away from his family, from Anne, but he’d never willingly been parted from his sword.

Aramis just smiled at him, something akin to understanding softening the expression. “Clothes can be replaced, but we thought you’d appreciate this returned to you.”

“Very much so,” he agreed, tracing a careful finger down its length before wrapping it up again. He looked to each of them, unable to hide the depth of his gratitude.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the display of sentiment, and resumed a more business-like air. “You said you were making arrangements for my departure?”

His recently buoyed hopes foundered somewhat when they exchanged a speaking glance. Clearly they weren’t expecting him to like this part of their explanation.

“It’ll be a least a few days before you go anywhere,” Aramis said. “There’s a friendly crew sailing out of Bordeaux at the end of the week. They’ve agreed to take you aboard.”

“The end of the week?” In truth, Athos wasn’t entirely certain what day it was, but that seemed too long to wait. De Beaulieu couldn’t be happy that his prisoner had escaped. “Why wait?”

“Aside from the fact that you’ve been beaten and starved half to death?” Porthos promptly retorted. “It’ll be that at least long before you’re fit to travel. And Aramis tells me that more than a few of those slices are showing signs of infection.”

“I’m fine – they were barely more than scratches.” Still, Athos couldn’t quite stop the reflexive glance down at the thankfully clean bandages wrapped around his arms.

“You will be fine,” Aramis agreed. “Provided you take the chance to rest and recover for a few days before we put you on that ship. Besides, we wanted to be sure we’d found a trustworthy captain.”

“There’s no need to wait that long,” Athos persisted, stubbornly blinking unwontedly heavy eyelids.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Porthos sighed and turned to Aramis. “I think he’s actually worse than you are.”

“Hey now!”

Porthos just rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll open this argument again when you can get out of that bed by yourself and stay awake longer than ten minutes at a stretch, all right?”

Athos had intended to protest that point, but he fell asleep before he could marshal his argument.

The next two days passed in much the same manner, with Athos sleeping far more than he felt was necessary while Porthos and Aramis came and went about their business. He suspected they were trying to keep an eye on him – there were times when one of them was present while clearly worrying after the other – but any protests fell on deaf ears. Though he’d already be on his way if given a choice, Athos was privately grateful for their insistence. He was recovering but slowly, and he still found himself needing their help. It made him surly, but they weathered his temper with good grace.

In addition to his role in liberating him and finding a safe place for him to recover, Aramis also proved to be the one who’d tended to his injuries. He continued to do so as they readied for Athos’ departure, cheerfully declaring him on the mend as the week progressed. He had a delicate touch for a man trained to fight, and Athos was soldier enough to recognize and appreciate competent doctoring when it was being worked on him.

The days had passed with so little trouble or sign of concern from Aramis and Porthos, that it came as a nasty shock when the door to Aramis’ room slammed open, and an angry young man stormed in.

“Aramis! What have you been up – you’re not Aramis,” he realized, stopping short and blinking at Athos in confusion.

So clearly firekin that he practically cast sparks, Athos identified automatically, even as he reached for his sword, still bundled into its cloth under the bed. The boy’s hand had fallen to the hilt of his own weapon, as he visibly reoriented himself. Fortunately they were interrupted before either of them could do something regrettable.

“Well spotted, d’Artagnan. There may be hope for you yet,” Aramis said as he breezed into the room behind him, shoving the boy further into the room as he shut the door firmly behind him. “Now would you be so kind as to lower your voice before you announce it to all and sundry?”

“Sorry.” The apology came apparently by rote, as d’Artagnan was still eyeing Athos warily. “But I’ve been looking for you for days.”

“We’ve been busy –”

“And I’m not the only one.”

“Damn.” Aramis shook his head, abruptly abandoning whatever story he’d been planning on feeding the boy. “Who else?”

“Almost everyone, as far as I can tell.” D’Artagnan’s dark eyes were worried as they watched Aramis pace up and down the length of the room. “Your names are everywhere, and people are talking about money changing hands now. Whatever you’ve done, it’s made someone very angry.”

“And how do you come into things?” Aramis stilled, attention focused wholly on d’Artagnan’s answer.

“A couple of Gaspard’s thugs were asking after you. They thought I’d be willing to pass on what I knew.” His shoulders lifted in a flippant shrug, and his grin turned faintly smug. “They were wrong.”

“Are you all – “

“I’m fine.” D’Artagnan impatiently waved off Aramis’ concern. “But you’re in trouble. A lot of trouble. Let me help.”

“Damn,” Aramis repeated softly, tossing his hat to the side and tugging his fingers through his hair as he thought. “Okay, you want to help?”

“Of course!”

“Don’t go home tonight.” Aramis gestured sharply to cut off d’Artagnan’s objection. “Get yourself a room somewhere, stay with one of the girls you’ve been flirting with, just don’t go back to where you’ve been staying. Be at Porthos’ favourite bakery first thing tomorrow – one of us will meet you there.”

“Don’t go home? Aramis, what you have you gotten yourselves into?” He shot a quick look over at Athos, obviously drawing a few conclusions of his own, before turning back to Aramis in earnest appeal. “And I said I wanted to help, not hide.”

“You will be, d’Artagnan,” Aramis promised, clapping him on the shoulder. “But for now we need you someplace safe for the night so you’ll be free to act tomorrow.”

“But I –”

Aramis leaned in close to d’Artagnan’s ear. “Please. Do this and you won’t just be helping us, you’ll be helping the King’s own Musketeers.”

D’Artagnan drew back in surprise, then looked at Athos again, eyes going wide as he looked back and forth between them. “I – yes! Okay, yes,” he agreed hastily, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hurried out of the room.

Athos shot a glance over at Aramis, eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.

Aramis sighed, mouth quirking in a wry smile. “His father was a Musketeer. He’s had his head filled with stories since he was old enough to listen. He’s desperate to join the regiment, but the family farm isn’t doing well, so he fetched up here to try and raise the money he needed.”

“He seems...enthusiastic.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Aramis’ sigh was equal parts frustration and fondness. “But he’s got a good heart, and he’s fantastic with a sword. If he lives long enough, he’ll be a great addition to the ranks.”

“We can always use good men,” Athos said, quietly wondering about Aramis himself. He and Porthos spoke of Treville with personal fondness, and he trusted them to aid musketeers in distress. They acted nearly as part of the regiment themselves and yet had no apparent interest in claiming a proper place in it. Oh yes, Athos would have questions for his captain when he returned to Paris.

Aramis broke into his musing. “Will you be all right on your own for a bit? I need to go find Porthos. This changes things.”

Athos waved him off. “Go, I’ll be fine. I’m strong enough to hold my own, if need be.” A few days of rest and decent food had made all the difference in the world.

Aramis gave him a quick once-over before nodding then slipped out the door.

Neither Aramis nor Porthos appeared again until the next morning. He lifted his head at a quiet knock on the door, relieved to see them returned safely. Both of them looked tired as they quietly closed the door behind them – tired and more worried than he’d seen them yet.

“D’Artagnan?” he asked immediately.

“We sent him on ahead,” Porthos answered through a yawn as Aramis wandered over to take a seat at the edge of Athos’ bed, rubbing his eyes. “Called in a favour with a captain I know. He’s got a fast ship, leaving port today. D’Artagnan’s on board now – we told him to get to Paris as soon as possible with a message for Treville.”

“Really.” Surely d’Artagnan didn’t know enough to be a useful messenger in this case. Not unless they’d told him far more than Athos thought they had.

“We needed him out of town,” Aramis conceded. “It seems that people have connected him with us, which would have put him in a rather unpleasant situation.”

“And you?” If they were in enough danger to need to get their friend out of the city, it didn’t bode well for their own chances.

They exchanged another long look, some argument passing between them that Athos couldn’t read. Porthos scowled but appeared to give in under Aramis’ stubborn stare, shoulders bowing in as he turned away.

“As for us, it seems you’ll have company on your journey,” Aramis said, determination vanishing under a thick layer of cheer.

Athos considered that for a moment. The pair of them were good company, and he was surprisingly comfortable with them, but still... “Oh good. I grow tired of being the only invalid.”

The comment won him a pair of rueful grins, and a reluctant snicker. Earthkin did not travel well by sea.

“Well, this will be interesting,” Aramis declared as he allowed himself to fall over backwards onto the bed.

Athos resisted the urge to kick at him as the man’s weight settled across his feet. “When do we leave?”

“Three days from now,” Porthos sighed, dropping heavily into a chair and rubbing his hands over his face. “Just three more days.”

“The captain of the ship is a friend of my family’s,” Aramis said to the ceiling before Athos could question why they continued to wait. “It’s why we went to him in the first place. We can trust him to keep his mouth shut when people try to bribe answers out of him, and he’ll make sure his crew does the same.”

Sound reasons. “Three days, then.”

The remaining time passed agonizingly slowly for Athos, while Porthos clearly felt the seconds slipping through his fingers. Aramis came to despair of both of them within hours and quickly abandoned the room for more pleasant places to catch his rest. He continued to make himself scarce until the night before their departure, when the muffled sounds of a conversation drifted through the wall behind Athos’ bed, Aramis’ and Porthos’ voices carrying from the room Porthos had taken earlier in the week. Athos suspected they’d begun speaking circumspectly but forgot caution as they grew agitated.

“Yes, you’re being ridiculous!” was the first thing he heard, Porthos’ frustration carrying as clearly as his words. “We don’t have to do this!”

“You’d prefer we sit around and wait for de Bealieu’s objections to our interference to catch up with us?” came Aramis’ tart response.

“I’d prefer that we go with the option that doesn’t involve boarding a boat and sailing all the way up the coast of France!”

“Ah, Porthos, I’m sorry. Are you going to be all right? We can find another –“

“Don’t be stupid, I’ll be fine. It won’t be much fun, but I can handle it. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“You needn’t be.”

“Of course I do! You don’t have enough sense to do it yourself. You know what they say about leaving –“

“And I don’t care. The consequences aren’t set in stone, and I refuse to let de Beaulieu chase me – chase us – into the woods like animals.”

There was a gusty sigh. “You’re set on this, aren’t you?”

“You’d have to hit me over the head and tie me to the saddle to keep me from boarding that ship tomorrow.”

“Don’t tempt me!”

But there was laughter trailing those words, and their voices quieted afterwards, leaving Athos to wonder about what he’d heard until he fell asleep.

Aramis was waiting for them in the boarding house’s common room the next morning, and he and Porthos carried on as if they’d never had a disagreement in their lives. Athos looked back and forth between them but could see nothing more than determination on their faces. He’d trusted them to know what they were about so far, he reasoned, and they had yet to lead him false.

They slipped out as the sun was rising, dressed as nondescriptly as they could manage between them, and made their way through the still-quiet streets. Athos was content to follow their lead, far less familiar with the city than were they, and rather preoccupied with working out the stiffness of his muscles. He was well on the way to recovery, but it had been too long since he could move freely, and he was dismayed at the lingering weakness. A quick glance to his side showed he wasn’t the only one struggling; Porthos was looking distinctly sallow, and they hadn’t yet caught sight of the water. Aramis had forged on ahead and was refusing to look at either of them. Athos gritted his teeth, forced himself to pick up his pace, and fervently hoped for good weather.

The captain welcomed them aboard like long lost relatives, catching Aramis in a crushing embrace before ushering them hastily belowdecks. He eyed Athos up and down before apparently finding him acceptable, then turned his attention to the other two.

“Are you certain you want to do this? You know it won’t be a pleasant journey.”

“We know.” Porthos was already looking ill.

Aramis just nodded, setting his jaw. “Staying is just as risky as going.”

The captain sighed heavily. “On your heads be it. Stay here until I send someone down to fetch you. I’ll get us out to open water as soon as I can. Bucket’s over there if you need it before then.”

None of them did, but it was a near thing. Porthos had been swallowing rather desperately for long minutes before a crew member tapped on the door to the small cabin in which they were waiting. Porthos nearly knocked the poor man over in his frantic rush for the deck. Aramis hadn’t yet taken sick, but he’d been acting nearly addled since they’d set sail. Athos caught him by the chin, turning his face so that their eyes met and sighed when Aramis simply blinked at him in vague bemusement. The tables had turned, it seemed, leaving Athos the only functional man between them.

“An interesting trip, indeed,” he murmured as he nodded thanks at the crewman, took Aramis by the elbow and headed for the deck to check on Porthos.

As expected, they found Porthos hanging miserably over the railing, coughing and spluttering as he emptied his unsettled stomach over the side.

The sight seemed to revive Aramis somewhat, and he gently tugged his arm free of Athos’ guiding grip to make his way over to Porthos. Athos was surprised to see that Aramis had already adopted a sailor’s rolling gait; clearly this wasn’t his first time on a boat. The previous experience must be the reason he’d been spared the worst of the illness plaguing Porthos. Odd that – given Porthos’ concern the previous evening, Athos had expected Aramis to be more adversely affected.

“All right, you should be fine for the next little while,” Aramis was saying to Porthos as he clung to the rail, carefully patting him on the back. “Let’s find you some water. And I’ve brought a bottle of that tonic your landlady swears by, that ought to help.”

Porthos groaned unhappily but allowed himself to be shepherded to a makeshift seat on a coil of rope.

Athos turned away to hide a smile he couldn’t contain, letting Aramis’ fussing and Porthos’ grumbling fade into comfortable background noise. He turned his face into the breeze and closed his eyes against the glare of the sun off the waves, allowing the knowledge that he was free, and safe, and going home sink in, easing muscles held too long braced for a new blow.

The remainder of the journey passed with surprising ease. Porthos eventually became sufficiently acclimated to sea travel that he was no longer in danger of ejecting vital organs at every lurch of the ship, though he never quite picked up the knack of keeping down a decent meal. Athos spent as much time as he could on the deck, happy to feel the endless push and pull of the wind. Aramis wandered between them, claiming a companionable space at Porthos’ side at the railing or beside Athos at the prow. But for all that the trip was unexpectedly pleasant, Athos’ nerves still tightened with a thrill of anticipation when Nantes loomed large on the horizon. One step closer to Paris and justice for his fallen brothers.

“What now?” Aramis asked quietly as he and Porthos took up positions to either side of Athos.

“I check in with the local garrison,” Athos answered, eyes still straining towards shore. “Whatever comes next, I’ll require resources to replace what I lost to Maillard and de Beaulieu.”

“We,” Porthos corrected, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. “We will need resources. You aren’t rid of us just yet.”

“It would be a waste to come so far without seeing this through to the end,” Aramis added lightly.

Athos barely hesitated before he shrugged acceptance. “If you wish.” In truth, their continued company would be welcome, moreso than he’d easily admit. If they were determined to accompany him further, he wouldn’t argue against it.

There was no need to hide belowdecks this time, so the three of them stayed at the rail, safely out of the path of the bustling crew, as the ship sailed into Nantes. Porthos scrambled ashore the instant the gangplank was laid, transparently relieved to have solid ground under his feet. Athos followed more sedately, though he didn’t waste any time disembarking either. In contrast, Aramis lingered at the top of the plank, apparently exchanging farewells with the ship’s captain. Their conversation continued far beyond what Athos felt was warranted, family friend or no, but he wondered at the look that Porthos was directing at the pair. He couldn’t possibly be worried that Aramis might abandon them now. Athos had met them only days ago, and even he knew that was an impossibility.

The shout of his name in a familiar voice cut across his wandering thoughts, immediately demanding his full attention. He was astonished to see Captain Treville crossing the pier towards him, accompanied by two full squads of musketeers. He straightened to attention as Treville approached, eyes narrowing when a pair of musketeers shoved Maillard to the front of their ranks, one last push sending him sprawling to the rough wood at their feet. Treville waved off the formality, and Athos gratefully relaxed out of the rigid stance that had strained his still-healing injuries. From Treville’s sharp glance, he hadn’t missed the rough hitch in what should have been an easy movement.

“Athos. Good to see you. Particularly given recent reports out of Bordeaux.” Treville paced over to him, looking him up and down.

Athos inclined his head, making no effort to hide his condition from Treville’s scrutiny.

“This one practically broke and ran at the mere mention of your name. Do you think you could shed some light on the reason why?” Treville flicked a glance at Maillard, watching without expression as one of the other musketeers landed a kick in Maillard’s ribs. Maillard flinched and glared, but there was fear cracking through his defiance. A reasonable response, Athos supposed, when one was surrounded by angry musketeers. Especially when those musketeers had good cause to feel that you’d betrayed them.

“I owe Luc and Philippe nothing less than an exhaustively thorough report on Maillard’s actions in Bordeaux.” Athos stared down at the man, hands clenching as he struggled to leash in the urge to draw on him. “His reasons for wishing to avoid attending this reunion should be quite evident.” That they would also explain why Athos had returned late and alone went without saying.

With the men safely at his back, Treville allowed Athos to see the twist of grief pass across his face before the expression chilled into icy rage. He gestured sharply, and a pair of musketeers broke ranks to drag Maillard to his feet again. “See him well secured, gentlemen. We’ll take him before the king to see justice done.”

Athos watched them tighten their grips on Maillard, grimly satisfied at the hopeless fear on the man’s face. He deserved far worse, but at least he’d have the length of their journey to dread his inevitable execution.

A rush of motion at the edge of his vision had Athos turning his head to see d’Artagnan emerge from the rear of the group of musketeers and practically pounce on Porthos. Porthos immediately brightened at the sight of him, clapping d’Artagnan on the shoulder as he returned d’Artagnan’s enthusiastic welcome. Athos found some of his anger dissipating at the display, a smile tugging at his mouth as he turned back to the captain. Treville met his grin with one of his own, apparently similarly cheered by the sight.

“Interesting company in which you return to us,” he said, lifting a hand in greeting to Porthos. He raised an eyebrow when Aramis finally made his way down the gangplank but included him in the gesture without hesitation. “I hadn’t thought to see those two venture this far north. They’re rather far from home.”

“Unexpected, I’m sure, but I trust not unwelcome?” Of this, Athos was certain. These two were far more than agents whose loyalty Treville had bought.

“Not in the least,” came the prompt confirmation. “I’d have had them in Paris years ago if either of them had been willing to make the trip. And the boy they sent will make a fine musketeer with a bit of seasoning – ah, damn it all.”

The abrupt change in tone startled Athos, but not so much as the worried furrow of Treville’s brow alarmed him. He shot a hasty glance over to edge of the pier, breath catching at the open fear on Porthos’ face as he steadied Aramis, who’d paled to a terrifying shade of grey. Athos barely waited for Treville’s curt, “Go,” before he was in motion, hurrying over to them with as much haste as he could manage.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded as he reached them, catching Aramis’ shoulder in a bracing grip. On Aramis’ other side, d’Artagnan echoed his concern, and Porthos cupped one wan cheek in his free hand, breathing a steady stream of low, vehement encouragement as Aramis swayed. “Aramis! Are you all right?”

Aramis turned his head, the movement slow and full of effort, and Athos hissed a curse when Aramis’ unfocused eyes looked straight through him. His lips moved soundlessly, no breath behind the words he was trying to shape.

“What’s wrong?” Athos asked again, and the clutch of his hand on Aramis’ shoulder tightened to the point where it must have hurt.

But for all that the man looked halfway to a corpse, Porthos was the only one prepared for the moment when Aramis’ knees buckled.

“No, no, no,” he muttered as he caught Aramis firmly around the waist, lowering him gently to the ground. He propped Aramis against his own chest, patting carefully at his face. “Come on, Aramis! You made it this far!”

D’Artagnan had dropped to his knees beside them, hovering anxiously as he exchanged helpless looks with Athos. “Porthos – what –”

Porthos shook his head without lifting his eyes from Aramis’ slack face. “He’s waterkin.”

“He’s what?” Oh, but that made a terrible kind of sense…

“But he came here! On a boat! And we’re right next to a river!” d’Artagnan protested, worry transmuting to fear as he looked from Aramis to the water nearby and back.

“That wouldn’t matter if it isn’t his river,” Athos said, voice flat. Of course Aramis had reminded him of drifting sand, especially standing next to Porthos. Porthos had lent him solidity, but in retrospect, the shift of the tides was obvious. How had Athos missed it? “Bound to the Garonne, I take it?”

Porthos nodded miserably, expression crumpling when Aramis remained unresponsive. “It’s why we stayed there so long. He couldn’t go, and I wouldn’t leave without him.”

It was one of life’s little jokes that the most fluid element restricted its kin most tightly. Firekin flourished wherever fuel could be found to sustain them. Earthkin could travel anywhere there was ground beneath their feet. Airkin moved as freely as the clouds in the skies. But waterkin suffered away from their element, and land-dwelling waterkin were typically riverbound. It was generally accepted wisdom that one didn’t separate a waterkin from his source, not if one hoped to keep that waterkin alive.

“Why didn’t he say something?” Athos asked, the question reduced to a harsh whisper.

Porthos’ answering smile was sad. “People always have trouble figuring him out, and he’s not above using it to his advantage. We thought you figured him for probably earthkin. If he’d let on otherwise, you’d never have agreed to let us do this.”

“Of course not!” Athos might have privately entertained the notion that it might be pleasant to keep these two at his side a while longer, but he’d never have traded Aramis’ life for the idle thought. “What was he thinking?”

“Oh trust me, there wasn’t much thinking involved. He never was one for listening to common sense, and he hated being limited to the course of the river. And of course he’d heard all the stories about waterkin who left their sources and adapted to new lands.” Porthos dragged his sleeve over his eyes, tightening his grip around Aramis’ shoulders. “The idiot was convinced they were true. And determined to find a way to try it.”

Athos twisted his mouth into a humourless smile. “And then I come along and give him a perfect excuse to be foolish.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive Aramis for that. Athos had already had more than enough regrets of his own without having Aramis’ death laid at his feet.

Porthos grimaced an apology at him. “He’d have found a reason. I’ve been trying to talk him out of this for years.”

Athos stared down at Aramis, limp and faded in Porthos’ arms, and found little comfort in the rationalization.

“For a while there, I thought he might even manage it.” Porthos smiled down at Aramis, and something in Athos’ much-battered heart cracked at his evident grief. “But I suppose he’s got enough sea-faring cousins that the ocean just...kept him afloat until now.”

“So what do we do for him?” d’Artagnan asked, traces of hope still lingering in his expectant expression.

“We take him in and return some of the hospitality these two were kind enough to extend to Athos,” Treville answered from behind him.

Porthos looked up at the sound of his voice, surprise momentarily brightening his face. “Captain Treville! I–”

“It’s the least we owe you. And less than I owe either of you,” Treville interrupted firmly. “Even if you weren’t trying to outrun the consequences of helping my men, I promised you’d both have a place if you ever came to me.”

Porthos stared mutely at him for a long second before drawing a shaky breath and nodding grateful acceptance. Athos and d’Artagnan moved to help him to his feet, taking some of Aramis’ weight until Porthos was upright again.

“Can we keep him with one of us in the saddle? Or shall we send someone to arrange for a cart?” Athos asked before Porthos got the idea that the burden was his alone to shoulder.

“I’d rather keep him with me – with us,” Porthos said, drawing one of Aramis’ arms over his shoulder as d’Artagnan ducked under the other so they could carry him between them.

“Then stay with us he shall,” Athos promised, striding over to the squad commanders to inquire after mounts.

The trip back to Paris seemed longer than usual, undoubtedly due to the anxious attention they paid to every slow, even breath. Since Aramis stubbornly refused to wake, they couldn’t help but watch him for any sign of stirring. (And dreaded any sign of the slow, inevitable fade that they all half-expected but refused to admit aloud.) But despite the weight of his companions’ stares Aramis remained unconscious for the entire journey, oblivious to the muttered sympathy of the accompanying squads of musketeers.

“If he survives, I’m going to kill him when he wakes up for doing this to me,” Porthos swore one night after a large swallow from the bottle of wine he and Athos had been passing back and forth between them.

“I’ll help,” Athos offered. Aramis wasn’t likely to live through this, and they both knew it. But in the unlikely event that he did, it would be best to act immediately to prevent a repeat display of thoughtless self-sacrifice.

Porthos actually cracked a smile at that, saluting Athos with the bottle before taking another swallow.

The nights were the worst. Porthos expended as much time and energy as a man could spare on seeing to Aramis’ well-being, seeing him settled safely and comfortably each night before tending to the minimum of his own needs. He sat endless hours at Aramis’ bedside, carefully bathing the dust of the road from his face. Athos did his best not to listen to the words that spilled from his lips as he tended to Aramis; far too many had the sound of confession rather than comfort. D’Artagnan was eager to help, fetching and carrying endless cups of tea and soup, wine and stew for the rest of them, and preparing heated rocks to tuck into Aramis’ blankets. There was little tenderness in Athos, but he occasionally stepped in to bully Porthos off to sleep with the promise that he’d sit watch on Aramis while he was gone. And if some of those long, dark evenings passed with Aramis’ hand caught in his own while Athos breathed promises and encouragement over his skin, well, neither one of them was telling anyone about it.

They established something of a routine after they reached the capital. Athos had duties he could no longer ignore, and d’Artagnan was in training to join the regiment. The boy had every bit as much promise as Aramis had indicated, and Athos looked forward to their sparring sessions. Porthos made a few appearances at roll calls but spent most of his time with Aramis with Treville’s blessing. Athos and d’Artagnan visited as best they could, for Porthos’ sake as much as Aramis. Someone had to see that they didn’t lose both of them, after all. Porthos would have a place in the musketeers at the end of Aramis’ illness, Treville had told Athos, and Athos hoped it would give the man something to focus on when it was all over. And for all that life went on, it felt as though they were all holding their breath and waiting.

The afternoon that Athos walked in and found Aramis’ sickroom empty, it felt as though someone had punched that long-held breath straight out of him. He lurched to a halt in the doorway, one hand clenching to white-knuckled tightness on the frame. The sheets were a tangled mess, dragged halfway onto the floor, and Porthos’ chair lay on its side next to the wall.

Damn, damn, damn. Athos shut his eyes against the sting of futile tears, leaning the side of his head against the rough wood of the doorframe for a long moment to steady himself. He’d known this was coming, but it was no help in cushioning the blow. Strange, though. He thought he could hear laughter echoing down the halls. He permitted himself one more deep breath before pushing himself upright and venturing forth to investigate.

It didn’t take long for him to find Porthos, similarly slumped in a nearby doorway. His shoulders shook, and he’d covered his face with one hand. The shouts of laughter from the courtyard outside must be nothing short of cruelty to him at the moment. Athos swallowed hard and walked towards him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Athos wasn’t surprised to see tears rolling down his face when he dropped his hand, but the wide, beaming smile was unexpected. “Porthos?”

“Can we please go inside now?” someone shouted before Porthos could draw breath to explain, and Athos leaned forward to look past him into the courtyard.

The rain was the first thing he noticed, a steady, drenching downpour that had soaked everything in sight. Poor d’Artagnan was out in the middle of it, unhappily swiping his wet hair out of his eyes as he shivered dramatically. Athos had little sympathy to spare for the boy – all of his attention focused instead on the man next to him. It was Aramis, standing on his own two feet, arms spread wide and face tipped up to the sky. He’d been out there long enough to get thoroughly drenched; water was dripping from his hair, from the clinging fabric of his shirt. He was smiling, sweetly and brightly enough to rival any summer sunshine, and Athos once again found himself blinking against tears.

“Not that I’m not glad to see you’re all right, Aramis, but come on. Can we at least get out of the rain?”

Aramis hummed acknowledgement of d’Artagnan’s complaints but made no move towards the shelter of the garrison. “Rain’s water too. Every bit as sweet here as at home.”

D’Artagnan flung up his hands in frustration, abandoning Aramis to the weather as he headed for the doorway in which Porthos and Athos still lingered. They shuffled aside to make room for him, staring out into the rain as Aramis lifted his hands to the sky, laughter bubbling out of him. Athos couldn’t look away, shoulder to shoulder with Porthos and d’Artagnan, as they watched Aramis acquaint himself with a new flavour of water.

“Shall we give him a few moments, gentlemen?” Athos asked, looking from Porthos to d’Artagnan and back. “Then we can drag him back inside and ensure that he agrees to forego any such dramatics in the future.”

D’Artagnan laughed and agreed, still trying to wring some of the water out of his sleeves. Porthos just nodded, still overcome, and Athos clapped him on the shoulder as they watched in companionable silence. Until today, Athos would never had said he was overly fond of grey weather, not after countless rainy patrols, endless hours being chafed by wet clothes, inevitably futile attempts to stay dry while on campaign. But now the scatter of raindrops would always remind him of relief and of Aramis, sleek and happy and unbelievably, miraculously alive. With that image in mind, Athos thought he might yet learn to love the rain.

FIN

End Notes: Title from Lights’ River. It seemed appropriate. :)

Dear Prime Time Player...

evening_bat — Thu, 01 May 2014 22:28:54 GMT

Thanks for tackling the challenge of writing me a story. I look forward to reading it! :D

I'm going to go ahead and ramble for a bit about story elements and character tidbits that I like and those that I'd rather avoid. I hope they will help you refine your ideas rather than making you feel limited.

Blanket DO NOT WANT elements:

No major character death, non-con, or heartbreaking endings, please. I'm also not a fan of mpreg or alpha/beta/omega dynamics.

Blanket YES PLEASE elements:

I enjoy plot and character interaction, and I love seeing characters be intelligent and capable. I am a huge fan of h/c. Also, while I don't want people to die and stay dead, presumed character death is A-OK.

Fandom 1: The Musketeers
Character: Aramis

I am fond of all of our heroes, but Aramis is my hands-down favourite. I'd love to see something with him in an important role, though I'd certainly welcome the presence of the other three musketeers. (Or two, if you fancy trying your hand at something set pre-series, a time about which I am very curious.) Gen is lovely, but I'm also a slash fan. Athos/Aramis and OT3 are my preferred pairings. I'd love to see something that shows us why these guys were called the Inseparables. The Musketeers are a quintessential example of swashbucklers, and anything that puts that on display would be awesome. I'd prefer if the story wasn't too focused heavily on the canon romances but totally understand if you want to include some elements.

Fandom 3: Final Fantasy XII
Character: Balthier

I've played a number of RPGs, including a handful of the FF series, but FFXII is one of the very few I've played to completion. I even played through all the optional content. (Except for the fishing game because to hell with that.) I loved the world, and the politics, and the grand adventure. But of all of the party characters, Balthier stood out the most. Tell me a story about him, please? Any story. How and why did he leave Archades? How'd he meet Fran, and why did she stick with him? What in-game adventures didn't we see on-screen? How'd he and Fran survive the crash of the Bahamut? What's he doing over in FFT? Seriously, I'd really love to read anything about him. (Like I said, I like them smart and capable, and he's both.) I adored the partnership between him and Fran, so I'd be happy to see her included in the story. The rest of the party is welcome, though aside from the sky pirates, Basch was the character I liked the most. I'm really not a fan of Balthier/Ashe, so if you could avoid that pairing, it would be much appreciated.

Fandom 3: Highlander
Character: Methos

Okay, I'll be honest - I kept watching Highlander for Methos. He's absolutely fascinating, and despite his protests of being "just a guy" I always wondered what kind of man manages to survive for 5000 years. For someone who seemed so innocuous, I've always thought he had the capacity to be profoundly dangerous. I'd welcome pretty much anything about him, although I'd prefer something set close to the series' present-day rather than entirely historical. I loved watching Methos swan about the 20th century proving his adaptability. His interactions with Joe were always a highlight and more about how those two work together and play off of each other would be amazing. I don't object to slash, and I don't hate Duncan so feel free to let the title character play along. And if you have a way of explaining why Methos was so taken with Duncan (besides the fact that he looks very good shirtless) that would be awesome, because I never was able to figure that part out. XD

Thanks again, Mystery Author! I can't wait to read whatever you write. :)

[Musketeers] FIC: No Such Thing

evening_bat — Sat, 15 Mar 2014 21:51:36 GMT

Title: No Such Thing
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: G
Word Count: ~800
Warnings: Crack. Animal Transformation.
Summary: When he'd joined the musketeers, Athos had been prepared for danger. He hadn't been prepared for this.

Notes: The lovely Lynndyre and I have been trading squee and fic plotting for The Musketeers, tremendous fun in and of itself. But then she went and said this: "You called him grumpy cat Athos, and now all I can see is this round fluffy greyish brown ball of grump, with a short fat tail and little furry moustache/beard, and his ears perpetually sideways at the world. XD (Porthos is a huge chocolatey ragdoll cross, able to out-strut basically anything and also to occupy the entirety of a given surface, and Aramis a brown tabby with a long-haired tail, like a plume. Aramis can make the puss-in-boots face.)" My reaction can best be summed up by, "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED." She supplied the (wonderful!) embedded art. You have been warned. :D

No Such Thing

"There is no such thing as 'just a cat'." ~ Robert A. Heinlein

“This. This is why magic is forbidden by the Church.” Athos’ ears flattened back along the curve of his skull, stubby tail lashing irritably behind him.

“Since when do you care about Church doctrine?” Aramis asked, winding himself happily around every convenient furniture leg.

“Since when are you so unconcerned with the practice of witchcraft?”

Both of them glanced up at Porthos’ bland, “Since it could be worse,” but all they could see of him was tufts of dark fur spilling over the edges of the chair upon which he sprawled.

Fine for them to say. Porthos was still a hulking brute, and Aramis hadn’t lost a bit of his usual grace, even if the vain idiot enchanted himself every time he caught sight of his ridiculous plume of a tail. Athos had avoided any extensive self-examination but he knew he was small. And scruffy. And a cat.

“I feel as though you two are failing to accord this situation an appropriate level of gravity.”

“I feel as though you’re failing to cope with the situation because cats don’t drink wine,” said Porthos, peering down at them from the chair.

“To be fair, it’s not that cats don’t drink wine so much as cats can’t pour wine,” Aramis offered, going momentarily still before he sprang from the floor to the top of the table in an effortless leap. “Let me see if d’Artagnan has a bottle handy. If I knock it over, perhaps you can lap it up?”

It was likely for the best that both of them had opted for higher ground. If either of them had been within reach of his han - paws - then Athos would have boxed his ears until he was hearing cathedral bells.

“Best hurry with the wine, Aramis. He’s looking grumpier by the second.”

Fortunately, the door slammed open and spared Athos from having to formulate a response.

“Finally!”

“Took him long enough.”

D’Artagnan, already wide-eyed and flustered, nearly tripped over his own feet at the sight of them.

“Oh hello. What are you doing in here? How did you even get in here?” he asked, blinking inanely at what must have seemed to be an invasion of felines.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos tried, rising to his feet. “Can you-”

“Never mind,” d’Artagnan spoke over him. “You can’t be in here. Constance will kill me herself if she thinks I’m keeping strays.”

Aramis bristled at that. “Strays? We’re not strays! Do I look like a stray to you?”

“Aramis,” sighed Athos, giving up and slouching back into an untidy heap on the stone floor. “Priorities, please.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Porthos reassured him, batting a lazy paw at the tail tip that swished past.

“Please be quiet,” d’Artagnan begged, waving his hands in a hasty plea to silence Aramis’ indignant yowl. “Please. I’ve got trouble enough at the moment, the last thing I need is to be thrown out.”

He scooped a startled Aramis right off of the table and tucked him into the crook of his arm, stroking him soothingly. It had the no-doubt intended effect of hushing him, as Aramis was almost immediately reduced to limp, purring bliss.

“Farm boy has good hands,” he managed between rumbles.

“I’m going to tell him you said so after we’re back to ourselves,” Porthos promised gleefully.

Athos interrupted before they could get to the inevitable jokes about making Aramis purr. “If we could return to the problem at hand?” he said loudly, lifting and stretching a paw in illustration.

D’Artagnan startled a bit, before grinning down at Aramis, still slack and happy in his arms. “Okay, enough apologies for you.”

He walked over to the window and propped it open with one hand, lifting Aramis to the windowsill. “Time for you to go.”

Aramis looked from d’Artagnan to the open window and back, before settling to a definitive seat on the sill.

“Oh, come on! Off with you. All of you,” he added, looking over his shoulder at Porthos on the chair and Athos on the floor. “My friends are missing. I don’t have time to be indulging you.”

“And you said he’d be able to help us,” Porthos grumbled.

“I said he was our best chance at getting help,” Athos corrected, scowling up at d’Artagnan. “Since he was right there when it happened.”

“It’s strange, though,” d’Artagnan muttered, oblivious to their conversation. “You truly do put me in mind of…” His brow furrowed in thought as he stared down at Athos.

The unlikely truth appeared to hit him a moment later, and his eyes widened in shock as he gaped at him. “Athos?”

It was small consolation that Aramis laughed so hard that he knocked himself clear to the floor but Athos enjoyed the petty satisfaction.

FIN

Do yourselves a favour and go check out the rest of Lynndyre's awesome art over here. It's brillant! :D (Fic snippets are pending.)

[Musketeers] FIC: Intercession

evening_bat — Thu, 13 Mar 2014 20:30:33 GMT

Title: Intercession
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1000
Warnings: None
Summary: Aramis didn't need to be a priest to have faith - in fact, he had enough to share.

Intercession

In Porthos’ first year with the Musketeers, influenza swept through Paris. Though he’d been fortunate in years past, his improved circumstances were no protection against illness. It came on suddenly, leaving him wracked with chills and sapped of all his strength. He lost a day to feverish sleep, waking to croak a warning when there came a knock at his door - his newest sword-brother, Aramis, come to investigate his absence.

Strange, how much smaller and colder the room felt after Aramis called an acknowledgement through the door, when the sound of his footsteps faded away. Porthos curled tighter into his blankets, every muscle an aching misery, and tried not to think about nights pressed close to warm bodies in the squalor he’d left at the first opportunity.

The sound of the door creaking open startled him back to wakefulness, and he watched in confusion as Aramis awkwardly pushed the door closed, arms laden with bundles and blankets and bowls. Aramis cheerfully ignored all of Porthos’ questions, busying himself with stoking the fire and setting tea to steep. He paid not a whit of attention to Porthos’ protests, simply tossed an extra blanket on the bed, badgered Porthos out of his sweat-stained shirt and spread a foul-smelling ointment across his chest. Before Porthos quite understood what had happened, he’d been helped back into bed and warm tea had been pressed into his hand, easing the burn of his raw throat.

Aramis further did him the great favour of politely pretending not to notice the wetness in Porthos’ eyes and the ragged hitch to his breath at the small kindnesses.

Porthos never would remember much of the next few days, the memories irretrievably blurred by fever. What he never forgot was that he was never alone, and the ordeal of his illness was much eased by the touch of caring hands smoothing the sweat from his skin and the steady sound of a voice at his side though the worst of it all.

(Prayer had never been a refuge for Porthos, but now there was comfort in hearing the words from the man who had first made them mean something more than empty preaching.)

**

“Thought you left the Church,” Athos rasped.

Seated at his bedside, Aramis looked up at the unexpected interruption, smiling when he saw Athos awake and watching him. “I did. That doesn’t mean I turned my back on God.”

“And what has God done for any of us lately?” Athos’ condescension lacked its usual force, badly undermined by weakness of his voice.

Even the best swordsman could be felled by chance, and Athos’ luck had run out when a patch of rain-saturated earth turned to liquid under his heel. His desperate counter had knocked his opponent’s blade away before it could pierce his chest but he’d been too far off balance to block the man’s main gauche.

Aramis’ smile broadened, erasing some of the strain from his expression. “You’re still alive, aren’t you? That’s all I’m asking for right now.”

Athos snorted and closed his eyes, colour fading even further from his cheeks as the effort of speaking exhausted him. “Don’t waste your breath.”

“Prayers that you might keep breathing will never be a waste,” Aramis told him, curling one hand lightly around Athos’ limp, chilled fingers and the other around his crucifix.

(Much later, Athos would explain that of course he hadn’t died, he’d barely been able to sleep with all of the noise Aramis was making.)

**

Aramis found him at the Bonacieux home the day after they’d secured Athos’ release, packing his things. “Taking a trip?”

D’Artagnan nodded, swallowing hard. “I have to carry word to my mother.”

“Among other things.” The sympathy in Aramis’ eyes made it impossible to look at him. “Will you be back?”

“Back?” D’Artagnan nearly fumbled the shirt he was trying to fold into his bag. “I - I suppose I hadn’t thought it through.”

“You’d be welcome,” Aramis assured him. “Any one of us would sponsor you into the Musketeers, though I expect Treville will make you work for it regardless. A commission requires a minimum of proven experience, which you haven’t got yet.”

D’Artagnan sat down on the edge of the bed, waving an invitation to Aramis. “You know, I think I’d like that.”

Aramis grinned at him as he sat. “Good. I’ll tell the others. Unless you’d like to stop in?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I have to get started on my way.” And he’d never forgive himself if he broke down crying in front of them.

Aramis gave him a long look, idly spinning his hat. “Your father. He must have been a good man.”

Pride be damned, both the implied compliment and respect left D’Artagnan’s eyes stinging. “The best,” he managed through a throat that felt entirely too tight.

Aramis leaned forward and laid one hand on the hand d’Artagnan had clenched into a tight fist on his thigh. “Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

(For all the entertainment Aramis would go on to find at d’Artagnan’s expense, neither of them ever spoke again of the occasion he spent murmuring a litany of sympathy as d’Artagnan lost the struggle against his tears.)

**

He’d been able to slip away in the pomp of the Duke’s departure, escaping to his rooms to dodge his fellow musketeers’ curiosity. He should have known that his retreat wouldn’t spare him their attention.

Porthos arrived first, walking straight into his rooms and remaining utterly deaf to all of Aramis’ half-hearted protests. At least he’d brought wine. D’Artagnan was next, appearing in the doorway as they opened a fresh bottle. He sat down at the table, and silently poured himself a glass. Aramis was half-expecting Athos as well, but somehow it was still a surprise when the man slid into the chair at his right.

Athos cleared his throat, long after they’d finished the wine, and the silence had grown thick and heavy. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get us started. We’ve all forgotten the words.”

(His memory flowed as smoothly as ever but Aramis’ voice broke over the words and he clung tightly to the hands that held his as he bent his head in prayer for his friends, those now lost and those without whom he would be lost.)

FIN

Another response to the DW kinkmeme. :)

[Musketeers] FIC: Unsteady is the Ground

evening_bat — Sun, 09 Mar 2014 02:49:22 GMT

Title: Unsteady is the Ground
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3200
Warnings: No worse than canon
Summary: Five times someone fainted.
Notes: Written in response to a prompt over at the kink meme over on Dreamwidth. Because the new series over on BBC has me swooning over swashbucklers again.

Unsteady is the Ground

ONE

It had taken Porthos years to work his way out of the gutter in which he’d grown up, to earn himself a place in the musketeers. He generally considered it time and effort well spent, but some occasions left him wondering why he’d bothered to set foot outside of the Court of Miracles. Standing at attention in full uniform for hours under the broiling midday sun while visiting nobility traded barbed words with the king somehow didn’t seem like all that much of an improvement. The Court had had its own share of heat and flies, but at least there, he’d never been this bored.

It sometimes seemed that the company had been better at the Court as well. Porthos slid a glance to his left to where Athos stood, as indifferent as always. Opinion was split on whether the man had ice water or cheap wine running through his veins, but as little as the heat affected him Porthos was beginning to weigh his bets towards the former. Why Treville seemed to think they’d work well together Porthos had never figured out, but at least the captain had done him the favour of assigning Aramis to Athos as well. Even more newly arrived to the musketeers than Porthos, Aramis was as outgoing as Athos was withdrawn and made for a hell of an entertaining companion. Porthos was confident that between the two of them, they’d either wear down Athos’ reserve or break the man’s mind.

It was almost a shame that Aramis was standing at Porthos’ right shoulder; that little smirk of his was enough to drive a saint to madness, and Athos was no saint. Knowing Aramis, he was busy entertaining himself with more pleasant memories of heat and stickiness. You couldn’t discipline a man for smiling on parade, but watching Athos find an excuse to try would have at least been some entertainment.

A thump and clatter drew everyone’s attention to the row of the cardinal’s guards lining the walkway beside the carriage. Apparently one of their number had found the parade conditions unendurable and had simply wilted, toppling over in a dead faint as his stupefied fellows blinked down at him. A murmur rustled through the gathered nobility, ladies hiding amusement behind hands lifted in affected concern while gentlemen alternately offered excuses and mockery. Porthos smothered a smile of his own, willing to bet that the hectic flush on the cardinal’s cheeks had nothing to do with the smothering heat as he ordered his man taken away.

“Well, I suppose that’s one way to enliven the proceedings.” Athos’ comment was barely audible and dry as dust.

Porthos swallowed a snort of laughter and shot a disbelieving look at Athos, who gave him a minute but unapologetic shrug in return. Well, well, well. Perhaps not so lost a cause as Porthos had thought, then. At his right, Aramis had finally assumed an appropriately sober air but his eyes were bright and his shoulders trembled with suppressed hilarity.

Fortunately for them all, a welcome breeze finally began to stir the heavy air, rustling their cloaks and covering a multitude of sins as the assembled musketeers stood proud and watched the scrambling ruin of the Red Guards’ formation.

TWO

Athos eased open the door to the sickroom, hoping to avoid disturbing its occupant. He swore bitterly when a quick look around the sparsely furnished room told him that his caution had been unnecessary. The covers were flung back on the empty bed, and Aramis was gone. Again.

“Don’t tell me,” Porthos grumbled from behind him.

Athos didn’t bother to confirm the obvious; Porthos was already muttering a few choice words of his own as he shouldered past Athos into the deserted room.

“You go that way.” Athos pointed down the corridor, pausing only long enough to drop a roll of bandages on the utilitarian table in the corner. “I’ll take this one. We’ll meet in the courtyard. He can’t have gotten far.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it.” Porthos’ smile held little humour as he laid a tray of food down on the table. “He’s not even supposed to be awake, forget out for an evening stroll.”

“All the more reason to retrieve him before he finds his way into any more trouble.” Aramis had seen quite enough trouble already in recent days, and he wasn’t clear of it yet.

Aramis had survived the attack at Savoy - and Athos would not let himself dwell on the unlikeliness of that small miracle, nor think too long on the man’s still-fragile health - but he’d been days in the woods, suffering from the cold and his barely-treated wounds. He was ailing still, disoriented and feverish more days than not, just well enough to provide a challenge to his keepers. It would be far easier to see him back to health if the fool would consent to take - or accept - sufficient care to regain some semblance of strength. Sleeping the night through instead of dragging himself from his sickbed to wander the halls would, in fact, have been a fine place to start.

All the same, Athos wasn’t terribly surprised to find that Aramis had indeed defied all common sense and reasonable predictions by making his way as far as the courtyard. Nor to see that the man hadn’t done anything as sensible as put on a coat before venturing out into the winter night. Porthos was going to have kittens if he saw him standing there in his shirtsleeves, face tipped up to watch the falling snow.

“Aramis,” Athos called softly as he approached, wary of startling him. It didn’t do to surprise a man with Aramis’ reflexes; him being half out of his head just made it more dangerous.

Aramis started at the sound, swivelling his head to see who’d called for him. His brow furrowed in confusion, eyes sweeping side to side as he visibly struggled to recollect himself.

“Athos.” His name on Aramis’ lips was an exhalation of pure relief. The way that he relaxed into Athos’ steadying grip on his shoulders was terrifying; no one should have such trust that Athos, of all people, would help him. Athos steeled himself and set his feet as Aramis pressed closer, leaning into his chest with a weary sigh.

Unworthy of such faith Athos might be, but for tonight, he’d let them both pretend otherwise.

“Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” he said.

Aramis muttered an incoherent protest into his neck, but he was sagging more heavily against Athos with every passing second. Athos just sighed and looped an arm around his waist as his knees buckled.

Porthos stormed into the courtyard as the last of Aramis’ strength drained away, cursing in mingled relief and frustration as he hurried to Athos’ side to take a share of Aramis’ weight. It proved to be more difficult a task than anticipated. For a man performing a very convincing imitation of an unconscious invalid, Aramis had an unshakable grip on each of their coats and could not be convinced to let go. They were eventually able to sling him awkwardly between them and stumbled their way back. He became more compliant in the warmth of his room, allowing himself to be peeled away and bundled back into his bed.

“I’ve had about enough of this,” Porthos said, scowling as they watched Aramis settle into an uneasy sleep.

Athos nodded agreement, not mistaking for a moment that Porthos’ complaint had anything to do with the work of getting Aramis healthy again.

“I'll speak to Treville,” he promised. Aramis did better with one or both of them near; the captain could be made to understand.

He'd been meaning to have a conversation with Treville in any case. They all did better together than apart. He would make certain their captain remembered that, when next the time came to assign their duties.

THREE

The day’s fighting was done, and Porthos didn’t know where Athos and Aramis were. He struggled against the hands that held him down, ignoring both the spluttered curses over his head and the wetness trickling away from the tearing pain in his side. They weren’t important. The only thing that mattered now was that battle was over and he didn’t know where his brothers were. He was gathering himself for another effort when a much-missed voice cut through the buzzing in his ears.

“God above, Porthos! Stop thrashing around before you hurt someone worse than you already are!”

“Aramis,” he choked out, blindly reaching for him.

Porthos forced his eyes open as a familiar hand clasped his, squinting against the brightness of the sky to force the blurry face leaning over him into clarity. Aramis was as much of a mess as Porthos had ever seen him - uniform dirty and scuffed, while his hair hung sweaty and tangled in his face - but he seemed fine otherwise, and he was moving easily as he knelt beside Porthos.

“Athos?” Porthos demanded, reluctantly obeying the press of Aramis’ hand on his shoulder and lying still.

“Is doing far better than you.” The response was delivered with only a fraction of Aramis’ attention, he being obviously more occupied with assessing Porthos’ condition.

Pain and lightheadedness aside, it was a relief to see Aramis' concern lighten as his expression warmed into something true. If Aramis could smile like that, then Porthos was going to be all right.

“He’ll be along any moment now, I imagine,” Aramis continued. “We’ve been looking for you. In the meantime, maybe we could do something about this rather impressive hole in your side?”

“You?” Porthos hoped so. Aramis was a thousand times gentler in his ministrations than whoever had been jabbing at Porthos' wound before his arrival.

“Of course,” Aramis answered matter-of-factly, but he gently squeezed the hand he still held. “I know how fond you are of my needlework.”

“You’ll want to be careful with that one,” an indistinct shape standing at Porthos’ other side advised. “He fought all our attempts to help.”

“Leave him to us. We’ve devised a means of ensuring his cooperation.”

Porthos slitted his eyes open again to verify the evidence of his ears. Good. Athos was here, looking as disordered as Aramis but equally hale.

“You’re just in time,” Aramis said cheerfully, and Porthos closed his eyes again, the sound of their voices growing ever more distant. Now that he’d seen them both safe, Porthos could let himself be taken care of.

The last thing he heard was Athos’ cool amusement: “It seems you might not need my help preparing the patient after all.”

FOUR

Athos was mildly surprised when Aramis and Porthos brought the boy with them as they made their way to the tavern after his narrowly-avoided execution, regardless of the early hour. He’d been impressive enough with a sword when they’d fought yesterday; he must have done something during the course of their efforts to free him to earn Aramis and Porthos’ approval. Athos would have to remember to ask for details tomorrow, since it seemed they were in no hurry to send the boy on his way back to Gascony. Today, his plans involved communion with nothing other than a wine bottle.

Aramis and Porthos knew better than to interfere when Athos walked past them to the bar, made no effort to stop him from settling alone at a small table by the fireplace. He had enough consideration to stay within their line of sight but that was the limit of his thoughtfulness. He was dimly grateful that Aramis had kept the boy from completing any of his attempts to speak with Athos, knowing that he was beyond civil conversation at the moment. He knew they’d heard his gratitude for their timely intervention earlier today, and he trusted they’d forgive his need to get thoroughly, unrepentantly drunk. Surely, any man would be understandably shaken by his brush with execution.

Aramis was the first to depart, some hours later, no doubt on his way to continue his ill-advised affair with the Cardinal’s mistress. Athos nodded an acknowledgement as Aramis bid him farewell, tipping his hat and flashing him a smile as he made his way to the exit. Behind him, Porthos had apparently decided to continue the boy’s education by way of teaching him about the risks of gambling. Athos hoped he’d cheat with a bit more finesse this time. If the boy caught him at it, he was likely to challenge him to another duel and start yesterday morning’s mess all over again.

Athos scowled and eyed the level of wine left in his latest bottle. If he were sober enough to be entertaining such thoughts, then clearly he hadn’t yet had enough to drink. He caught his glass in a tight grip and set about remedying the problem.

By the time that Porthos was leaning over him, shaking his shoulder, Athos had passed the point of seeing straight. Clear thought had mercifully become a thing of hours and bottles past. Porthos’ voice was mere muffled noise in his ear; the familiar hands that levered him upright were nothing more than an irritating inconvenience he couldn’t muster the strength to protest. Well, if Porthos were so damn determined to see him elsewhere, he could do the work of carrying him there. It was a well-worn routine by now, anyhow.

Athos had many secrets, most of them so closely guarded that he never spoke of them, even to those he most trusted. Aramis and Porthos had no idea who he’d been or why he’d left, and Athos never volunteered the information. His family, his failures, they had no part of his life as a musketeer. By contrast, the secrets he’d acquired since accepting his commission from Treville had all been shared, part of a camaraderie upon which he’d come to profoundly depend. All except his newest secret, his latest shame, the reason that he’d abandoned his companions for the comfort of the bottle.

Aramis and Porthos tolerated so much from him, but even they had limits. Aramis had kept the boy from pestering him, and Porthos had stayed behind to get him safely home, but neither of them could ever know why he’d set about drinking with such determination. They’d gone to such lengths to save his life, they would never understand the sharp dismay that had gone through Athos at the reprieve. He didn’t struggle as Porthos dragged him through the streets and into his room, eventually dropping him heavily onto his bed. Athos welcomed the stillness of the pillow under his spinning head, gratefully letting the alcohol drag him down into darkness. With any luck, the morning’s hangover would eclipse the sick disappointment he’d felt at realizing he’d have to keep living with all of his regrets.

FIVE

“You could help, you know,” d’Artagnan said through gritted teeth.

“But you have the matter so well in hand!” Aramis said, the polite praise in no way masking the amusement he was enjoying at d’Artagnan’s expense.

Porthos wasn’t even bothering with the pretense, laughing outright as d’Artagnan awkwardly embraced his armful of swooning middle-aged noblewoman. The boy was practically lost in a flurry of embroidery and petticoats.

A couple of servants were fluttering anxiously around d’Artagnan, cooing over their “poor mistress”, but Porthos was sure he wasn’t imagining the smiles tugging at the corner of their mouths. And he was certain that the cheeky one with the blonde curls didn’t really need to be patting so carefully at d’Artagnan’s backside, but his stammering and blushing was entertaining enough to excuse the liberty. Probably one of the few joys of the poor girl’s job.

“You ruffian!” a voice suddenly demanded. “What are you doing to my wife?!”

Almost dropping her, if Porthos was any judge of the sudden laxness of d’Artagnan’s shoulders, followed by a hasty grab as the lady threatened to slither out of his arms altogether.

“Your pardon, sir,” Athos interjected smoothly, breaking his silence as the angry nobleman sputtered and reached for his sword. “Our young friend was merely rendering aid to your lady wife after she was accosted by thieves. She was quite overcome by the experience.”

The offended husband paused, taking in the sight of three musketeers standing in support of the “ruffian”, as his wife’s servants quickly chimed confirmation of Athos’ assertion.

“I see,” he finally conceded. “Then I thank you for your efforts, young man.”

“It was nothing, sir,” d’Artagnan managed as the ladies surrounding him abruptly stopped hovering helplessly and neatly tipped their mistress out of his arms and into their own, hastening to their master’s side with their burden. “It was only what any gentleman would do.”

“Still, accept this gesture of my gratitude,” the nobleman insisted, tossing a purse over to him before taking charge of his colourful entourage and bustling away.

Well now, that was a grateful gesture indeed. The man must be feeling guilty for his accusation; the purse had clinked promisingly as d’Artagnan caught it.

Athos pointedly raised an eyebrow as d’Artagnan stood in the middle of the street, blinking in confusion. “Let that be a lesson in the risks of interfering.”

D’Artagnan nodded fervently. “Next time I just let the thief get away with his prize.”

Good. Regardless of the subsequent trouble, that had been one of the most beautiful lifts Porthos had ever seen; the thief had deserved to get away. “Not as if they couldn’t spare it.”

“At least you earned a pretty little profit for your spot of heroism,” Aramis consoled him, wrapping an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders as they resumed their progress across town.

“True.” D’Artagnan brightened, flush finally fading as the embarrassment subsided.

Athos rolled his eyes as Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look full of wicked anticipation. D’Artagnan clearly thought the worst of his trouble was over, which was awfully short-sighted of him. Porthos was glad they’d been on the way to d’Artagnan’s lodgings, otherwise he’d have had to find an excuse to follow him home. He didn’t want to miss Mme. Bonacieux’s reaction to her lodger walking in smelling of expensive perfume, holding a brocaded purse full of coin.

+ ONE time everyone stayed on their feet

Athos was looking for his next opponent, even as the corpse of his last fell at his feet. He found none. D’Artagnan was pushing a body off of his sword a few paces away. Porthos was chuckling somewhere behind them, dusting his hands off with unmistakable satisfaction. The crack of musket fire brought all of their heads around to see Aramis lowering his weapon as his shot knocked the last of their attackers out of his saddle, ending his attempt to flee.

“Well, that was a pleasant enough diversion,” he remarked as he strolled back to them.

It could easily have been a deadly diversion, were they men of any lesser skill. Athos kicked at the body in front of him, idly examining the familiar face as it lolled towards him. If Richelieu were trying to act with subtlety, he’d be better off not sending his own guardsmen after them.

“It would appear that the Cardinal is determined to see we don’t reach our destination,” he told the others, sheathing his sword.

“He won’t succeed,” d’Artagnan swore with all the faith and fervour of the very young.

Porthos clapped a companionable hand to his shoulder. “Course he won’t.”

Aramis contented himself with a nod of agreement, though he laid a hand over his heart (or the gold crucifix tucked safely under his coat) in silent promise.

“Then we’d best be moving,” Athos said. “Time and tide will wait for no man or mission. Get on your horses and we’ll be on our way.”

FIN

As expected, the series is neither faithful to the novels nor historically accurate but I am enjoying it nonetheless. :)

[SPN] FIC: The Highest Vision of the Soul

evening_bat — Sat, 21 Sep 2013 17:31:50 GMT

Title: The Highest Vision of the Soul
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: hinted Dean/Gabriel
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 8000
Warnings: Canon character death, lots of swearing, mention of adult situations
Summary: Dean was no stranger to regrets, but he'd never expected to have this much trouble accepting the death of an irreverent, absentee archangel. Then again, it’d be a lot easier if he didn’t keep tripping over reminders of Gabriel all the freaking time. Or if he could stop dreaming about him.

Notes: Written for the 2013 Round of the Debriel Minibang over at debriel_mini. Infinite thanks to seryan for listening to me work out the plot and doing beta duty and also to weekendship for the incredible accompanying artwork. Go check out the art masterpost HERE and tell weekendship how amazing it is.

The Highest Vision of the Soul

Waking up in his car was nothing new for Dean. Hell, there’d been a time when he slept in the car more often than anywhere else. Even nowadays, napping behind the wheel in a hotel parking lot wasn’t all that unusual, depending on how badly he and Sam had been grating on each others’ nerves the previous night. But waking up in this hotel parking lot... Dean squinted at the blue glow streaming through the windshield and swore, hand clenching tightly on the wheel. He remembered the shine of that blue sign on wet pavement, and they’d put it as far behind them as possible before stopping.

So much for being awake. Even if the place hadn’t been enough of a clue, the archangel in the back seat would have been a dead ― ha ― giveaway.

“I approve of your taste in entertainment,” Gabriel said, casually examining a familiar DVD case.

Dean snorted. “Don’t get too smug. We didn’t get past the first five minutes.”

“We?” Gabriel’s eyes widened in mock-surprise, and he fanned himself with the plastic case. “Kinky! You know, for all the rumours about you two, I didn’t actually expect the whole ‘family that works together, jerks togethe―’”

“Not like that!” Dean reached an arm over the seat to grab the DVD out of Gabriel’s hands. “Shit, and you call us kinky. Sam nearly broke the computer, he slammed it shut so hard at the sight of you ‘lying down’.”

Gabriel shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. “That’s one of your many, many problems, Winchester. No appreciation for art.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve got this other problem,” Dean said, holding a hand up to the level of his nose. “About this high, big mouth, awful sense of humour, maybe you’ve seen him around?”

Dean wouldn’t be seeing him again, not outside of his fucked up dreams. Not after Gabriel had gone and gotten himself killed at Dean’s insistence.

Dean scowled and slouched deeper into his seat, refusing to squirm at the uncomfortable twist of guilt in his gut. “The fuck were you doing listening to me, anyway?”

There was a soft huff of laughter from behind him. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time. In retrospect, not my smartest idea ever.”

“Not really, no. I was expecting something that ended in a little less death.”

“Can’t win them all, Dean.” The seat creaked as Gabriel moved, and the back of Dean’s seat dipped as Gabriel hooked an elbow over it and propped his chin on his wrist. “Still, not a bad way to go out, I guess.”

Dean let his head roll to the side and found himself staring almost directly into Gabriel’s eyes, surprisingly bright in the dimness. “Nah, not a bad way to go. Better than most.”

Dean didn’t know where angels went when they died, but wherever it was, he hoped Gabriel really was smiling like that over saving the Winchesters’ asses.

* * *

And then, somehow, the world didn’t end.

Dean didn’t know how; he never could remember what had happened at the cemetery that day. It hurt every time he tried, a tight, hot ache that made his brain feel scorched. That didn’t keep him from prodding his reluctant memory until the day Cas found him sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table, holding a cold beer to his temple.

“I don’t understand why you persist in doing this to yourself,” Cas said, frowning as he plucked the bottle out of Dean’s hand.

Dean let it go; it wasn’t doing a damn thing to help, anyway. “Because I still don’t know what the fuck happened.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with chilled fingers.

A quiet hiss at his shoulder told him that Cas had twisted the top off of the bottle, and he blindly waved a hand until he felt the cold press of glass against his palm.

“Isn’t what didn’t happen more important?” Cas asked as Dean took a long drink from the bottle.

Dean shook his head. He’d never been able to make sense of the broken flashes he remembered of that afternoon. Bursts of overpowering light and sound that wouldn’t resolve in his head, smears of colour he couldn’t name, noise like struck crystal and tearing metal. He didn’t know what any of it meant.

“Yeah, maybe if I had any idea what was going to happen next.”

All he knew was that one minute, Michael and Lucifer had been squaring off in their respective Winchester meat suits and the next minute, it was apparently all over. Sam was alone in his skin. Cas was an angel again. Bobby was alive. Dean...well, Dean kind of felt like he’d been electrocuted again, but he was still breathing and the world wasn’t ending. There hadn’t been anyone else in sight.

There wasn’t any way of knowing if it was really over. If Heaven and Hell had actually hashed out the End of Days, shouldn’t there be some sort of sign? Something more than just an empty graveyard and a quiet so oppressive that Dean could have practically heard his own heartbeat?

“Dean,” Cas said and damn it, Dean was conditioned to shut up and listen when Cas put that kind of weight behind the sound of his name. “I can’t tell you what happened when Michael confronted Lucifer. The words I’d need explain it to you don’t exist. But what matters most is this: You and Sam ― you succeeded. The forces of Heaven and Hell have withdrawn. Humanity is spared.”

Cas had been promising him variations on that since the day Dean had piled the three of them into the car and hauled ass out of that cemetery. Dean was just having a little trouble believing it.

“So what? That’s it? Everything we tried, and all we needed to do was ― what? Just show up? Two men and three angels walk into a cemetery and Armageddon is over?”

Fuck. Saving the world as the punchline to the worst “three men walk into a bar” joke Dean had ever heard.

“Three men and two angels walked into that cemetery,” Cas corrected. “And against all odds and common sense...yes. That’s all you needed to do.”

Dean held that steady blue stare for a long few seconds, letting Cas’ calm certainty seep into him. Dean had never been one for blind faith but trusting Cas...that, he knew how to do.

“Well, fuck me,” he finally said. “If we saved the world, why I am sitting here drinking alone?”

“My question exactly.”

“We should be celebrating!” Dean tipped his head back and drained his beer, abandoning the empty bottle on the table as he stood. “Come on, I know where Bobby hides the good stuff. He and Sam still down in the panic room?”

“As of fifteen minutes ago, yes,” Cas answered, automatically wrapping an arm around the four glasses Dean shoved at his chest.

“So we’ll take the party to them,” Dean said, slinging an arm around Cas’ shoulders and steering him out of the kitchen. “We saved the world, Cas! That deserves a real drink!”

Screw angelic gravity. Dean figured that Cas’ failure to shake him off and mild, “Perhaps a bit of festivity is called for,” meant that he agreed.

* * *

So it turned out that stopping the Apocalypse played its own kind of hell on a guy’s nerves. At first, Dean had been grateful for the break. Heaven and Hell had been sent back to their respective corners and left a nice lull in supernatural activity in their wake. It let Dean drag Sam and Bobby back to safety before collapsing into his own bed for a solid fourteen hours of sleep ― and he was the lucky one. Bobby wasn’t doing too badly but Sam was a mess.

They’d known playing meatsuit to Lucifer wasn’t going to be any fun. Prominently featured in the parade of nightmare images that had been playing through Dean’s head since Sam had proposed his crazy idea was the memory of Raphael’s host sitting in his hospital room, blasted into empty-eyed vacancy. Sam seemed to have come through Lucifer’s possession reasonably intact ― a fact for which Dean was beyond grateful ― but it’d be weeks before he was really over it. Cas had been surprised that Sam wasn’t dead or a drooling vegetable, but after checking him out had told Dean that he was sure Sam would be okay, though it would take some time to recover. That was fine by Dean; he’d wait however long it took for Sam to get his head back together. Even if the waiting was driving him just a little bit crazy.

Dean had never been the type to enjoy sitting around. And okay, the waiting might be kind of getting to him, a little. Who could blame him? He’d spent the last year plus careening from one catastrophe to the next, with the whole world hanging on the line. A man had the right to be a bit twitchy under those circumstances. But it was okay; Dean was fine. He was handling it.

Except his attempts to keep from pressuring Sam by asking Bobby about his progress might have backfired.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Bobby, caught in the act of retrieving dinner for Sam, glared fiercely at Dean and pointed at the kitchen table. “Sit your ass down, boy. We need to have us a little talk.”

Dean ducked his head as he sank to an obedient seat at the table. “Aw, Bobby. A little talk is all I was trying to ―”

“Shut up,” Bobby ordered as he slumped into the chair across from Dean. “I never said you were going to get to talk.”

Well, shit. Looked like Dean had pushed Bobby’s patience as far as it would go and then some. He slouched into his seat and waited for the grumbling to start.

“A couple of guys I know got in touch yesterday, told me about a town a day or two west of here with a little cat problem.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at the unexpected venture into storytelling. “So? Tell them to call Animal Control.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Ah, there was the more familiar growl. “Pretty sure you got a badge for the Department of Fish and Game in that last batch we got made up for you boys.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Dean stared at him in disbelief. “Don’t you think there are more important things to be worrying about right now than some nosy mountain lion?”

“What kind of mountain lion do you know that tears apart bee yards and knocks over telephone poles for fun?” Bobby asked pointedly.

“Bee yards and telephone poles?” Dean repeated as he reflexively ran through his mental checklist of monsters. “Fuck, a splinter cat? Really? I didn’t think there were any of those left!”

Bobby shrugged and gestured vaguely westwards. “At least one. Better go take a look while you still can.”

“Think I’ll give that a pass.” Dean shrugged in turn. “Gone this long without, right?”

“Let me rephrase that.” Bobby sighed and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Get out of here. Go shoot the damn cat. Work some of this nervous energy out of your system before I have to shoot you.”

“I can’t, Bobby. Sam ―”

“Sam isn’t going anywhere,” Bobby interrupted. “Not yet. I can keep an eye on him for you. We’ll be all right. No reason you can’t head out and take care of someone else’s problem in the meantime. You’re not doing anyone any favours by hanging around driving us all nuts. Take the angel with you if you want some company.”

Okay, fine. Dean still didn’t like leaving Sam but he could take a hint. Also, he wasn’t entirely sure Bobby wouldn’t actually shoot him. He braved a few more minutes of conversation to get the details from Bobby about this job he’d found to keep Dean occupied and then headed off to inventory his gear.

A few days later, he had to admit that Bobby had been right. Getting out had done him good. Dean hadn’t exactly invited Cas along but he hadn’t complained when Cas decided to drop in either. (Tracking down supernatural critters turned out to be a hell of a lot easier when you had an angel scouting for you.) Twice-daily phone calls assured him that Sam was still doing okay. And Dean really had missed this. Nursing a drink at the bar while shamelessly eavesdropping on the locals’ conversations, Dean was riding the high of a successful hunt and feeling a lot more comfortable in his skin.

“Maybe Jenkins’ luck will turn around now?” a uniformed deputy was saying as Dean shook off his moment of introspection and tuned back into the conversation at the table beside him. “I mean, it’s not like much more can go wrong for the guy, right?”

Dean’s attention sharpened at the mention of that name. Jenkins was the beekeeper whose hives had been destroyed by the splinter cat. Dean hadn’t caught wind of any other supernatural threats around, so what the hell else was causing problems for Jenkins?

“Jesus, Tom, I hope not.” His partner sighed and knocked back the last of his beer. “He’s getting behind in payments again, and I’m not looking forward to that repossession.”

Tom laughed and slapped the table. “That’s just ‘cause you’re scared of bees!”

“You’re damned right it is! But I’m telling you now, the Sheriff can go deliver that order by his damn self.”

Unfortunately for Dean’s freshly roused curiosity, from there the deputies’ conversation veered into bitching about their boss, but not for nothing had Dean buddied up to the barflies last night. Sure enough, all it took was a few beers on Dean’s tab and an idle question to get his newest friends falling over themselves to tell Dean about what happened to their last mayor.

“― they found him up at that no-tell motel at the south end of town. You must’ve seen it when you drove in.” Bert leaned in, lowering his voice to a wobbly slur.

Dean nodded encouragingly and suppressed his grin. He’d seen it all right, a pink monstrosity of a motel, liberally accented with cheap gold paint and fake bees the size of footballs. He’d actually stopped the car to take pictures for Sam. Even with the shitholes they’d stayed in over the years, Dean figured he’d need photographic evidence of this place. No way would Sam believe it if Dean claimed he’d seen a pink-and-gold motel called The Honey Trap and not gotten pictures.

Bert’s barstool buddy was quick to chime in. “Well, everyone knew he was running around on his wife with any woman that would have him.”

“Or any tourist dumb enough to fall for his lines.”

“Yeah. So no one was surprised that he was there, y’know? But he was dead. They never did find the woman he was with, but they figured she couldn’t have done it. Too weird, y’know?”

“Weird?” Dean asked, keeping his tone casually interested.

Burt nodded so enthusiastically he nearly knocked himself off of his stool. “See, the report said that it was some kind of allergic reaction, but Molly’s one of the maids at the Trap, and she saw him before the Sheriff’s boys carried him out, and she says he was covered in honey. They dripped it halfway across the parking lot!”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t Dean’s kind of weird after all. “All right, that’s kind of kinky but I don’t know that I’d call it ―”

“No!” Bert’s buddy interrupted. “See, we all thought it must be some kind of sex game gone wrong, maybe he choked on the honey or something. But Lou heard the doc talking to the Sheriff, and he said that he practically drowned in it! He had as much honey inside as out. And there isn’t any man who’d sit through that, no matter how hot the woman was, right?”

“Turned near the whole town off of honey for months. Jenkins nearly lost the business. Now this trouble with the crazy cougar. But at least he gets insurance this time.”

Yeah, lucky Jenkins. Not so lucky mayor. Looked like Dean wasn’t quite finished with this job after all.

Long practice made it easy enough to manufacture the expected reactions to their unusual story, and another round of drinks made for a quick topic change. Once their attention was focused back on their glasses, Dean slipped out for a bit more investigation.

“He deserved it, you know,” Gabriel told him later that evening, perched on the edge of Dean’s bed and toying with the keychain Dean had lifted from the motel earlier. It was, appropriately enough, an obnoxiously cheerful cartoon bee. The bright plastic rattled in Gabriel’s hand as he flipped the key around.

“So the story goes,” Dean agreed. According to rumour, not only had the mayor been doing anything with a pulse, he hadn’t been above smacking his wife around on occasion. “Though I think this might be taking ‘just desserts’ a bit far.”

“Oh, come on! A name like that? How was I supposed to resist?” Gabriel’s grin was far too self-satisfied.

Dean snorted ― and abruptly found himself blinking blearily at the wall. He sat up and scanned the empty room, goosebumps prickling his skin as the sheets fell away. Seeing the keychain resting on the table gave him a turn for a long second until he remembered that he really had swiped it earlier that night when he’d done a bit of snooping at the motel, to give Sam a taste of what he’d been missing.

Gabriel had been his first guess when he learned a bit more about the mayor’s death. That signature style was pretty hard to mistake. He hadn’t been expecting his subconscious to serve him up a version of Gabriel coming to claim responsibility for it, though.

Better that than most of the other shit he dreamed about, Dean finally decided, settling back down onto the mattress. The clock said it was only 3:47, so he had time to catch a few more hours of sleep before starting the drive back to Bobby’s. If he had any more dreams that night, Dean hoped they’d be as entertaining as this last one.

* * *

"Really, Dean? We don't have enough money to fill the tank of the car and you blow half our cash on this?"

"Just doing our part to support small-town economy."

Sam was unimpressed. "It's not a stimulus package ― it's a pile of candy."

Dean pointed to the bag on the table with a showy flourish. "But it's handmade candy. Only the finest of natural ingredients and everything."

Sam scowled at him. "It's nougat."

From the disgust in his voice, you'd think it was a steaming pile of horseshit.

"And toffee. And some caramel stuff," Dean reminded him, snagging a few pieces out of the bag. He peeled off the wrappers and shoved them into his mouth, enjoying the way Sam grimaced at his bulging cheeks.

"I am going to point and laugh before I give you the Heimlich," Sam promised.

Dean made sure his answering grin bared as many toffee-covered teeth as possible.

Sam's expression twisted with ostentatious revulsion. "Real mature. You don't even like toffee," he bitched as he stomped away.

True enough, and Dean was glad that having his mouth full of the stuff kept him from having to answer. Unlike Sam, who complained for hours about how it stuck to his teeth, Dean just figured the sticky shit was more effort than it was worth. Give him a Snickers any day.

"Vendor was very convincing," he managed indistinctly.

"Yeah, I'm sure it was her salesmanship that got your attention and nothing to do with how well her shirt showed off her breasts."

Dean swallowed a glob of toffee, narrowly avoiding Sam's dire predictions of choking. "Woman really knew how to showcase her goods," he agreed.

Let Sam think what he liked; it had been one of those rare times that Dean had had no trouble keeping his eyes on a woman's face. The way her mouth had worked at a sample of her wares inevitably led a man to imagining those lips wrapped around something else entirely. And if he'd paid a bit too much attention to the almost-familiar colour of her hair (just a shade or two lighter than the caramel she was selling) and kept thinking that her eyes were too dark a brown, well... Dean had spent the last couple of years keeping a suspicious eye out for people who had too sweet a tooth.

Having Gabriel on the brain again probably explained the dream Dean had that night, too. What with his addiction to candy, he’d have been quick to stuff his face with Dean’s purchases. He would have loved that sticky sweet crap. Dean grinned up at the dark ceiling of their room after he woke up that morning, wondering if those "finest of natural ingredients" really would have been enough to glue even an archangel's teeth together.

* * *

After that mess with the siren and the umpteen love potions and lust spells Dean had seen go wrong over the years, the succubus came as a surprise. For one thing, he’d figured that her true form wouldn’t be as sexy as the beautiful woman smiling at him over her drink ― he hadn’t expected it to be sexier. Last night she'd briefly dropped the human act to make a point, and Dean had to admit that he’d have had trouble denying her anything short of putting a gun to Sam’s head. Luckily for them, this succubus wasn’t the type to dine and dash. Dean didn’t usually like meeting smart monsters but he’d make an exception for this one; any friendly sex demon with enough brains to open up a high class strip club to guarantee herself a non-lethal, self-sustaining buffet had Dean’s approval.

He saluted her with his drink before taking another careful ― and thorough, very very thorough ― survey of the club. Another advantage of her strategy: The view was fantastic.

“Do you really need to head off right away? You’d be welcome here tonight ― drinks and favours on the house.”

He turned his head back to the woman sharing his table, eyes lingering appreciatively on the waitress as she glided past, before shaking his head. “Yeah. Thanks for the offer, but it’s time we hit the road.”

They had a line on a haunting two states over, and Sam had already bailed, babbling some excuse about last minute supplies before fleeing for the safety of the car.

“That’s a shame,” she sighed, and it took some effort for Dean to drag his mind out of the wash of hormones that her voice triggered.

“Hey, you wanna watch it with the sex voice? I thought we had a truce, lady.” His hand tightened on his drink, anchoring himself with the slick chill of the glass beneath his fingers.

“Oh, we do. I just thought I’d give you a reason to reconsider your answer. You can’t tell me that staying another night doesn’t appeal to you, after all.” Her lips curled into a (highly distracting) knowing smile, and she flicked her eyes pointedly to the pair of girls on stage ― the ones Dean kept looking at, despite himself.

They were well worth looking at, it had to be said. One blonde, one brunette, both gorgeous. One barely dressed in scraps of gauzy white, the other in criss-crossed strips of rich red leather. “Gentlemen, let us season your evening with a bit of Sugar and Spice!” the announcer had exclaimed when they’d strutted into view, and Dean had been captivated. What he wasn’t going to mention was that every time he looked at them, Dean remembered another pair of girls in scraps of lingerie, a blonde and a brunette, who tried to win him over before beating him to a pulp as a mad not-janitor laughed in the background.

“Can’t blame a guy for looking,” he said, suiting actions to words.

“I prefer touching,” the succubus replied. “And I really do think you deserve some reward for being so...open-minded about my little arrangement.”

Sam would kill him if he let her charm him into anything, Dean hastily reminded himself as the open invitation in her voice sent a bolt of lust shivering right down his spine. And Cas would give him that look before frying the succubus for snacking on him.

“Or maybe you’re looking for something else?” she asked in someone else’s voice. Someone Dean had never expected to hear again.

A surge of anger finally washed the haze of want out of his mind, but Dean forced himself not to turn around. “Not interested. And stay the fuck out of my head.” He’d known she could be what any man wanted, but he hadn’t expected her to pluck that part of the image out of his mind.

She sighed again, this time in regret, and the table shifted under his hand as she pushed her chair back and stood up.

“Too bad,” she said as she circled into his view. She stopped in front of him, threading one hand into his hair as she tilted his head back. “I think a night with you would have been worth risking your brother’s temper. And even that angel of yours.”

Dean let her her kiss him ― hell, Dean thoroughly enjoyed her kissing him ― before she let him go and vanished into the crowd of men filling up the place.

Whatever dreams he had that night, they were clearly the fault of whatever mojo the succubus had worked on him, and he put them out of his head as quickly as he could.

* * *

They’d only meant to stop for gas, but it only took a few seconds to realize that this little town had some big-time problems. The streets were mostly empty. Only a few people were out, scurrying from door to door, darting nervous glances over their hunched shoulders. They practically flinched when the Winchesters drove past them on the street. Sam and Dean exchanged glances full of silent warning as Dean pulled up at the gas station: Be ready for anything. Something’s rotten in this town.

Sam climbed out of the car when Dean did, wordlessly making his way to the small gas bar attached to the station. Dean stayed by the pumps, keeping watch as the tank filled. He had the car idling and ready to go by the time Sam emerged. The grim twist to Sam’s mouth told Dean that he wasn’t going to like what Sam had learned.

“Witches,” Sam said shortly as he folded himself into his seat and slammed the door behind him. “Drive.”

Dean swore and pulled out of the station as Sam reported what he’d learned. It wasn’t much but it was still pretty conclusive. Goddamn, but Dean hated witches.

They cruised down the town’s main strip, tossing out potential starting points for the hunt when Dean caught sight of a familiar face.

“Awesome,” he said as he braked to a sharp stop, parking hastily at the side of the road. “We might get to play second string on this one for a change.”

“Dean? What’s going on?” Sam asked, confused by the abrupt change of direction. “Why are we - hey, is that Chris?”

“Sure is,” Dean replied, getting out of the car and leading the way across the street.

Chris had started hunting for much the same reasons their father had, though he’d lost both wife and son in his introduction to the supernatural. Dean had worked with him a few times over the years and knew just how deadly the son of a bitch could be. If he was already on the witches’ trail, the problem was well in hand.

Chris watched their approach with a thin-lipped smile, offering a terse, “Boys,” by way of greeting.

The grey-haired man at his side was friendlier, grinning widely as they walked up. “You must be the Winchesters. Good to meet you.”

“We must,” Dean agreed, nodding acknowledgement. “Been a while, Chris. Figured we ought to come say ‘Hi,’ when I noticed you over there. Thought maybe you could tell us if there’s anything here worth sticking around for?”

He wasn’t entirely surprised when Chris shook his head firmly. “Nothing at all. You two might as well be on your way.”

“You sure?” Sam asked. “We’re not on a tight schedule and I bet this place gets livelier at night.”

“I think Grey and I are about all this town can handle,” Chris answered, jerking a thumb at the guy beside him. “You may as well get a few more hours of driving in before dark.”

Dean and Sam shrugged at each other and conceded. They had other places to be and trying to help where they weren’t wanted would cause more problems than it would solve. Dean really fucking hated dealing with witches, anyhow. They wished Chris and his partner good luck and headed out. Dean didn’t give it much more thought until the pleasantly boring dream he’d been having that night took an odd turn.

“You know, I don’t like witches either,” Grey announced as he wandered over to claim the empty half of Dean’s park bench. “But that’s not the only thing we have in common.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean stretched an arm across the back of the bench and propped his chin against his fist. His dreams were still full of weird shit these days, but it was better than hell flashbacks. “So what else is there?”

“We have a mutual friend,” Grey answered. “Or had, I suppose.”

“Had?” Suddenly this dream was looking a lot less innocuous.

“The little idiot went and got himself killed.” Grey sounded equal parts sad, fond, and annoyed.

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that,” Dean said. Too many people he’d known fit that description.

That was when he noticed the feather that Grey was twirling between two fingers ― a single flight feather, nearly as long as Dean’s forearm, shining a dozen shades of gold. The damn thing was nearly glowing.

Dean’s head snapped up to find Grey staring at him intently, eyes gone nearly as gold as the feather he was holding.

“Y’see, Winchester, that’s one of the other things you have I have in common ― a habit of befriending wayward angels.”

Wayward angels? There were only a couple of angels with which Dean had been anything approaching friendly, and only one of those two had spent any significant time dirtside before meeting him. Only one of them was dead now because he'd chosen to act on their side.

He swallowed to ease his suddenly dry throat. Any friend of Gabriel’s was probably very, very dangerous. “So what's your connection?”

Grey just shrugged and grinned again, flashing teeth. “Someone had to teach him how to be a trickster.”

A trickster. A trickster with shaggy grey hair, gold eyes and a smile full of sharp-looking teeth. ...Wonderful. Because there weren’t enough deity-level mythological figures taking an interest in Dean’s life already.

“So what do you want with me?” Dean challenged.

“Not a thing,” Coyote answered cheerfully. “In fact, I’m here to give you something.”

“Give me something.” Because that didn’t have the potential to end horribly or anything.

“Don’t look so worried! I’m giving it to you, but it’s not for you,” Coyote said and held out the feather.

Dean eyed it suspiciously and made no move to touch it. “What is it? And what am I supposed to do with it?”

Coyote nodded approvingly. “Excellent questions. To answer: A long time ago, Gabriel-then-Loki gifted me with a tiny piece of his former divinity ― his Grace, I think you’d call it.”

Dean sucked in a sharp breath.

“Even playing pagan, he had plenty to spare. He called it a token of gratitude. I called it the biggest favour-in-waiting I’d ever seen. But I’ve had little need for miracles, so here it remains. And I think our friend could really use one right about now, don’t you?”

“You’re holding on to that kind of power and you’d give it up? For him? Why?” Most of the creatures Dean had met would have killed to get their hands on what Coyote was offering to give away.

“Whatever else he was, Gabriel made an excellent trickster.” Coyote shrugged. “Why should I hold on to this little piece of him when the world is much more interesting with him in it?”

“Awfully generous of you but I don’t know what good you think it’ll do him. Gabriel’s dead,” Dean pointed out.

“Oh, Lucifer certainly gave it a good try,” Coyote said. “But tricksters aren’t easy to kill. And archangels even less so. Gabriel’s not quite beyond saving yet. You should know.”

“Me? How should I know?”

Coyote flashed that alarming grin again and leaned forward to tap the tip of the feather against Dean’s nose. “Come on. You didn’t really think you’ve been just dreaming all of this time, did you?”

When Dean sneezed himself awake, the feather was lying on the pillow next to his face, gleaming in the dim light of their hotel room.

* * *

Sam was entirely to blame for the exhibition of spirit photography. Dean would have been perfectly happy to point and mock in passing, but Sam got it into his head that they should attend the show. He thought they should investigate whether or not the pictures were real. Dean could have cared less if the photographer was a charlatan ― or worse, a True Believer ― but Sam eventually talked him into it. The ad promised free food and an open bar, and Sam was quick to remind him that such shows always drew a crowd of gullible young women along with the devout fanatics and the equally hardcore skeptics.

It turned out to be an interesting evening in the end. Dean had seen ― hell, Dean had taken ― better pictures of spirit phenomena, but he’d grant that the person who took these pictures was a skilled photographer. Even the fake ones looked good. Add some tasty food, decent booze and a small flock of girls hanging on Dean’s every word...well, he’d spent far worse nights.

The real showstopper of the evening was a picture the photographer had snapped in a church. Even Sam and Dean had been impressed by that one. Taken on its own merits, it was a beautiful picture ― light streaming through a stained glass window, casting a robed figure into silhouette. But something ― some trick of the light, of the dust, of Photoshop ― had brushed ripples of brightness into the air above the priest knelt in prayer. Sam and Dean knew better and even they half-believed the artist’s claim that she’d photographed an angel.

Dean’s subconscious took the gallery imagery and ran with it, presenting him with an endless array of picture-lined halls the next time he fell asleep. Very few of the pictures were as pretty as what he’d seen hanging at the exhibition, but then again, very little of Dean’s life could be described as ‘pretty’. He was wandering from frame to frame, wondering at the dream reasoning that had selected these snapshots from his memory, when he heard another set of footsteps echoing from the room he’d just exited. Dean went still and waited.

“Our wings don’t really look like that,” Gabriel’s voice commented a minute later.

About time he showed up! Dean had been trying to trigger a Gabriel dream ever since his little chat with Coyote, but even mostly dead, Gabriel was the same perverse bastard he’d always been. It’d been weeks without so much as a flicker. In the meantime, Dean had tucked the feather away almost as soon as he’d found it, unsure what to say to Sam about the whole situation.

So, I had a visit from Coyote last night. The trickster, not the scavenger. Yeah, he popped in for a little dreamwalk. Said that Gabriel’s not completely dead, by the way, and he thinks I can resurrect him with this nifty feather. Because I’ve been dreaming about him for months - oh, didn’t I mention that?

Yeah, not a conversation Dean saw himself having with his brother. Sam had some very firm opinions where Gabriel was concerned, and that was an argument Dean would just as soon avoid.

He shook his head and ambled back the way he’d come, walking into the previous room to see Gabriel staring pensively up at the picture from the exhibition, the priest silhouetted against stained glass and surrounded by a tracery of light.

“So what do they look like?” Dean asked as he crossed the room to stand at Gabriel’s side. The closest he’d come to seeing an angel’s wings were the shadows Cas had cast for show that first time in the barn.

Gabriel considered the question, eyes losing focus as he thought. “Folded sunlight,” he finally said. “When I flew, they sounded like a song...I used to know the sound. But I can’t remember it now.”

Dean had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Hum a few bars,” he suggested hoarsely. “Maybe it’ll come back to you.”

Gabriel snorted a quick laugh but stayed quiet, shoulders bowing inwards as a lost look crept across his face.

...And right then is when Dean stopped caring about how this resurrection thing was supposed to work or if he should even try. He reached into his jacket without thinking, fingers closing on the soft warmth of the feather he knew he’d find there.

Gabriel’s eyes went wide as Dean pulled it out of his pocket. “What is - how did you get that?”

“Gift from a friend of yours,” Dean answered, holding it out to him. “I think you owe him two now.”

If Gabriel had an answer to that, Dean didn’t hear it because as soon as Gabriel’s fingers touched the feather, the world exploded.

* * *

Dean woke up in literally blinding agony. It felt like someone had set his brain on fire. He curled around the hurt as best he could, clutching desperately at the sides of his head to hold it together. He could barely breathe around the pain knifing through his skull.

His frantic gasping must have woken Sam ― Dean could feel the terrified grip of familiar hands on his shoulders. He couldn’t answer Sam’s panicked questions, though. He could barely hear them. Fortunately for them both, Sam had the bright idea to call Cas for help. Those blue eyes were the first thing Dean had seen clearly since waking, and even better was the gentle tap on his forehead that sent him tumbling into welcome darkness.

It took over a day for Dean’s vision to clear. It took almost three for the headache to fade. Sam was kind enough to wait until Dean was feeling better before he started yelling, backed up by Cas’ silent censure. Dean let them tear him a new one; he knew he’d be furious if Sam had pulled something this boneheaded.

“So what happened?” Sam asked after he’d shouted himself out. “I mean, did it work?”

“I don’t know,” Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his still-tender eyes. “It’s not like they handed me the how-to manual or anything. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. If Gabriel’s back, it should be pretty obvious, right?”

Nothing about Gabriel had ever been simple, why should this be any different?

* * *

Dean made sure to leave a note for Sam before he slipped out of their motel room. Sam would freak if Dean disappeared on him, but Dean was going to start climbing the walls if he stared at the ceiling for one more minute. Let Sam catch up on his sleep. Dean would take a drive to clear his head before trying again for his own rest. It was a nice night for that, at least. Dean rolled his window down and enjoyed the flow of the night breeze over his heated cheeks.

When a voice suddenly said, “Don’t turn around,” from the backseat, Dean almost drove into the ditch. He started to shoot a reflexive glance at the rearview mirror as he steered the car straight again, but he froze at a sharp command from behind him.

“Don’t look back!”

This time Dean recognized the voice.

“Gabriel? What the fuck are you doing in my backseat? And where the hell have you been?” It took some effort to keep his eyes focused forward, especially with the awareness of just how vulnerable he was prickling across the back of his neck.

“I’d be giving directions, if you’d shut up for a second, Dean. And give a guy a break, would you? This isn’t as easy as it looks. Or not-looks, as the case may be. Take the next left.”

“So why can’t I look back?” Dean asked as he let Gabriel direct them deeper into the flat countryside.

There was a long, hesitant pause before: “Belief is a funny thing. Powerful as all get out but really, really fragile. Let’s just say that now’s not the time to be doubting, okay?”

Dean's hands tightened on the wheel as he struggled against the nearly overwhelming urge to look behind him and see what was there. The thought of what might not be there kept him facing forward. “Fair enough, Eurydice.”

Gabriel’s laugh was as bright as Dean remembered it. “I’ve heard you sing in the shower, Dean. You’re no Orpheus.”

“Fuck you, I sound fantastic.” And Dean would totally have popped in a tape to prove it if it wouldn’t have drowned out Gabriel’s directions.

About ten minutes later, surrounded by wheat fields in the middle of nowhere, Gabriel said, “Okay, pull over here. We have to go the rest of the way on foot.”

“Just tell me we’re not where I think we are,” Dean requested as he obediently directed the car to the side of the rough dirt road. Wheat fields were a dime a dozen out here, but there was one particular field Dean had been careful to avoid since he and Sam got here.

“No can do!” Gabriel answered gleefully.

“Come on, my life’s not weird enough already?” Dean complained as he climbed out of the car, careful not to look behind him. “Besides, you did the alien joke already.”

“Who says this is one of mine?”

“Bullshit, it’s not. Who else would make a crop circle and spike it with the kind of ongoing weirdness that keeps the yahoos coming back for more research year after year?” Actual scientific research teams sent out to measure the difference in seed growth rate? For real? It fucking better be the result of Gabriel’s work and not just some dumbasses with boards, some rope and too much time on their hands.

“Okay, so I might have tweaked things a little bit. But can you blame me? If they’re going to make such a spectacle by investigating, who am I to deny them?”

There were days when Dean wondered just how many of the world’s mysteries could be explained by Gabriel’s attempts to entertain himself. If he thought he stood a snowball’s chance of getting a straight answer, he’d have asked about it.

“Do I need anything?” he asked instead, wondering about the small collection of items he’d stuffed into a nondescript sack in the trunk. A DVD, a gaudy keychain, some candy wrappers, a matchbook, a glossy pamphlet ― just a handful of things Dean had picked up along the way and hadn’t quite had the heart to throw out. At the time, he’d had the vague notion that someone ought to remember Gabriel and what he’d done. In retrospect, he was starting to wonder if they didn’t have some other significance.

“Just your fine self,” Gabriel answered lightly.

Dean snorted as he set off into the field, stalks rasping against his legs. “I’m already doing what you want. You don’t need to sweet talk me into cooperating.”

The sounds of his own passage covered up any noise that might be made by someone following in his tracks, and his skin was crawling with nervous tension. Going out into the middle of nowhere alone and leaving his back open to something that might be Gabriel was another one of those stunts he’d have killed Sam for pulling. Seeing a break in the stalks ahead was a relief. Maybe they were finally getting close to whatever it was Gabriel had brought them out here to find.

“So now what?” Dean asked as he took a step out onto the flattened grain.

“You know how I mentioned the power of belief before?”

“Yeah.”

“You weren’t the only one I was talking about.”

“What are you doing in there?” someone shouted before Dean could demand more details.

Dean nearly tripped over his own feet as a woman in coveralls came hurtling out of the darkness and flapped her arms at him.

“Get out of there! You’re going to ruin all of our results!”

“If you could just get out of the circle, please, sir,” requested another person in coveralls, laying a hand on the excitable woman’s shoulder.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Dean promised as he hastily backed away.

“How did you even get in here?” demanded the woman. “The whole area is cordoned off!”

“Not the whole area,” Dean protested, pointing back the way he’d come. “I, uh, got lost. So I pulled off the road and started walking. Figured I’d hit a farmhouse eventually.”

A sudden burst of laughter at his side startled him and he automatically looked over...just as an arm wrapped itself around his waist.

“Don’t even try for an excuse ― you’re an embarrassingly bad liar,” Gabriel scolded as he tucked himself into Dean’s side, positively beaming when Dean just gaped down at him.

“Sorry about this,” he added to the researchers still staring at them. “He’s just such a big fan of work like yours. Can’t keep him away from a circle when he hears about it. We just had to stop and check in on this one while we were in the area.” He squeezed Dean until he stammered something that hopefully sounded more like embarrassed agreement than total astonishment.

“I can understand your interest but this is not the place or time,” the first researcher scolded. “We’ll be publishing our results later this year, you can learn all about it then.”

Dean nodded and pasted an expectant expression on his face, but they could keep their fucking crop circle. Dean had far more pressing questions he wanted answered. Like what the fuck had just happened here?

“Oh, sure! Sorry about the trouble,” Gabriel apologized and the hell of it was, if you didn’t know better, you’d believe the little bastard actually meant that.

“Yeah, we’ll just...be on our way,” Dean added, looping his arm around Gabriel’s neck and tugging him away.

Walking one in front of the other would have made it easier to weave through the stalks but Dean left his arm draped over Gabriel’s shoulders as he steered them back towards the car. Dean didn’t have a hope of hanging on to Gabriel if the guy had had even a fraction of his power restored to him, but Dean didn’t want him feeling entirely free to fuck off without explaining things either. Gabriel didn’t seem to mind the contact. In fact, he wasn’t in any hurry to reclaim his arm either, keeping a solid, warm grip around Dean’s waist.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Dean shook his head and pinned Gabriel with a sidelong stare. “Belief is a funny thing?”

“Funny but effective!” Gabriel replied, tilting his head back against Dean’s arm to grin up at him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He was. He really was. Dean still didn’t know how Gabriel had pulled it off, but he thought that maybe this was the kind of miracle he could believe in.

* * *

“The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn, the bird waits in the egg, and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities.” ~ James Allen

(FIN)

[SPN] FIC: A Minute I Let My Guard Down (Foothill #2)

evening_bat — Sat, 02 Mar 2013 03:07:58 GMT

Title: A Minute I Let My Guard Down
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gabriel/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 2200
Warnings: If you’re here, you’re probably already aware of the blasphemy thing.
Summary: Sam finds out about them by accident.
Notes: Part of the Crawl To Your Foothill series. Titles from The Tea Party’s The Messenger.

A Minute I Let My Guard Down

It wasn’t that Dean was hiding his thing with Gabe, really. It was more that they didn’t have a thing. Sometimes Gabe just showed up when Dean was alone and they ended up in bed, that was all. (Or sometimes in the car, or the shower, or up against a wall. Dean was still holding on to his veto of motel carpets unless the room was something Gabe had snapped into existence.) Kind of the angelic equivalent of a booty call. Not that Dean was complaining ― a thousand years of running with the pagans hadn’t been wasted on Gabe. Dean was having some of the best sex of his life.

Definitely the best method of angel acclimatization Dean had experienced yet.

Prolonged exposure had to be why Dean didn’t so much as flinch when the far side of his bed sank under a new weight, late one night. He and Sam had been lying on their respective beds, staring blankly at the sci-fi cheesefest playing on the room’s ancient tv as they wound down from a night of dodging ghosts in the local cemetery.

“Hey there, boys.”

Sam muttered something vaguely welcoming, shooting Gabe a narrow-eyed glance before returning his attention to the screen.

“Oooo! Fine choice for the evening’s entertainment!” Gabe commented approvingly, stretching out comfortably as he apparently settled down for the duration.

Dean rolled his eyes ― of course Gabe enjoyed bad sci-fi, why was he even surprised? ― and grunted a greeting before adding, “Price of admission is munchies.”

A snap of the fingers later and both Dean and Sam were holding bucket-sized bags of movie theatre popcorn, hot enough that it was practically steaming. Dean wasted no time in cramming a handful into his mouth, mumbling appreciative thanks. The stuff was dripping with butter and salt, just the way it should be.

“And beer?” he added hopefully, after swallowing the first perfect mouthful.

“No pleasing some people,” Gabe sighed dramatically but a six-pack of chilled bottles obligingly appeared on the nightstand between the beds.

Sam snagged a couple of bottles, twisting the top off of one before passing it to Dean. Dean grinned thanks and tapped the necks of their bottles together.

“Okay, you can stay,” Dean announced magnanimously.

“Oh, can I?” Gabe snarked, then stole some of Dean’s popcorn.

Dean was distracted enough by the fact that Gabe was pulling caramel corn out of a bag of otherwise buttered popcorn that it took him far too long to realize that the theft hadn’t stopped at a handful.

“Hey!” he complained, tilting the bag away from Gabe’s reaching hand. “Get your own! Hell, make your own! You made this bag!”

“Oh, come on,” Gabe wheedled, stretching an arm across Dean’s chest in search of popcorn. “Everyone knows food tastes better if it’s someone else’s!”

“But you made - oh, fuck it,” Dean surrendered with a sigh, propping the bag against his hip within easy reach. “Knock yourself out.”

He absolutely did not smile at the contented noise Gabe made as he crunched away at another handful of stolen sweetness.

“Doesn’t taste any better in your lungs,” he said absently as Sam choked on a swig of beer, erupting into a fit of violent coughing. “Might as well not waste it by trying.”

“Would’ve thought he was old enough to feed himself, these days,” Gabe commented, eyeing the shade of near-purple Sam was turning.

Dean shrugged. “Eh, you know. Some people don’t learn so fast. You know, mature more slowly than others.”

“Always been a special snowflake, then?”

Dean didn’t bother trying to hide his grin when Sam squeezed an indignant splutter between gasping coughs.

“Neither one of you have got any room to talk about maturity,” he finally wheezed.

“What do you mean? I’m the picture of a responsible adult,” Dean lied shamelessly, thumping Gabe on the shoulder when he snickered his opinion of that comment.

“Only if Dali’s the one who painted the picture,” Sam shot back.

Dean had to give Sam credit ― from incoherent choking to bitchy retorts in under a minute, pretty impressive.

“Though I gotta admit, I’m sort of wondering what other common ground you two are finding these days.” Sam added thoughtfully, eyes flickering between Dean and Gabe.

“He has good taste in beer?” Dean offered, lifting up his bottle in illustration.

Sam made a face at him, rolling his eyes in that way that condemned Dean’s intelligence even as it demanded he stop playing dumb.

Dean scowled at him, wondering what the hell had gotten Sam’s boxers into a twist this time.

Sam just gestured at him, raising his eyebrows in pointed inquiry.

...Which was about when Dean realized that Gabe had practically crawled all over him during their earlier popcorn squabble and hadn’t bothered to move away after claiming his spoils. And if the fact that Gabe was now treating Dean’s stomach as a pillow hadn’t earned Sam’s suspicion, the casual arm Dean had slung over Gabe’s shoulder sure as hell would.

Well, shit. This was going to be fun to explain. Dean considered lying for a moment ― it wasn’t like Sam had caught him with his pants down ― but no, that wasn’t a workable option. Even without considering Gabe and his deep, sincere love of fucking with people, there was no easy lie that would explain Dean’s automatic acceptance of Gabe’s invasion of his personal space.

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Whatever he and Gabe got up to, they weren’t doing anything wrong, exactly. Problem was, there was a mess of unresolved grudges between Sam and Gabe, and it kept them at nothing more comfortable than an uneasy truce. Right or wrong, Sam figuring out that Dean was fucking around with Gabe left Dean feeling like he should be apologizing to somebody.

The outraged expression on Sam’s face wasn’t helping with that. “Really, Dean? You and him?”

“Okay, so maybe we ―” he started before a sharp jab to his abdomen cut his words off in a pained grunt. He shot a glare down at Gabe, who’d twisted around to watch their conversation. “Jesus, your chin is pointy and will you please get it the hell out of my spleen?”

Gabe did him the favour of shifting his head so that Dean was no longer in imminent danger of losing internal organs before he aimed a mocking smile at Sam. “You just figuring this out now? And I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“Hey!” Dean protested reflexively.

“Don’t worry,” Gabe reassured him, absently patting his stomach. “You’re still the pretty one.”

That was even worse. “I am not pretty!”

“Okay, fine. You can be the hot one.” This time, there was nothing absent about the way Gabe touched him.

“Better,” Dean judged, catching Gabe’s wandering hand and deciding to ignore the almost indulgent shade to his answering smirk.

On the upside, it looked like Sam was having trouble deciding exactly how to react. Dean smothered a grin at the way Sam’s expression contorted back and forth between how could you do this? and I am about to laugh my ass off. To Dean’s relief, he eventually went with the latter, indignation finally collapsing into resigned amusement.

“So I suppose this explains the improvement in your mood, the last couple of months?” Sam asked dryly, eyes on their linked hands. “Should have guessed you had something going on.”

“Probably should have,” Dean agreed unrepentantly. Sam was the one who’d been giving Dean funny looks for not being depressed enough, and growing up in cramped motel rooms meant that Sam was all too familiar with Dean’s preferred method of cheering himself up.

“Surprised at you, though,” Sam continued, directing the comment at Gabe, who raised a curious eyebrow.

“Oh yeah?”

Okay, and that? That mild little inquiry? Was a red fucking alert. Dean couldn’t help but tense up as he looked between Sam’s edged smile and the hard brightness of Gabe’s eyes.

“Come on, you guys,” he tried, not wanting to get caught in the middle if Gabe decided to take offense. “Can’t we just ―”

“Yeah,” Sam answered, speaking over Dean’s vain attempt at peacemaking. “I mean, you show up for a visit with your boyfriend and this is the best you can do?”

There was a beat of startled silence, punctuated by tinny roaring from the tv speakers.

“Wait, wait, wait! Who said anything about boyfriends?” Dean demanded even as Gabe sat up and announced, “You know, you’re absolutely right!”

Ah, shit, Dean thought as he took in Gabe’s raised hand and gleeful grin. Sam just had to open his big mouth.

Gabe snapped his fingers, and suddenly they were in a movie theatre. One of the classic ones instead of some soulless multiplex, Dean was pleased to note, all red velvet drapery and gold moulding, and it looked like they had it to themselves. Dean was the centre of their little row of three, with Sam on his left and Gabe to his right. The crappy movie they’d been watching on tv was now playing on the big screen and looking all the worse for it. At this size, you could practically see the zippers on the rubber monster costume, and Dean couldn’t contain a snort of amusement. There was even a fresh bag of popcorn in his lap and a cold beer in the cupholder at his left hand.

All things considered, nowhere near the worst place Gabe had ever sent him.

“This’s more like it,” Sam commented approvingly, and Dean flipped him off with his near hand.

He and Gabe weren’t dating, for fuck’s sake. And even if they were, Dean could vet his own boyfriends, thank you very fucking much.

“Shut up,” he commanded, punching Sam in the shoulder. “Just be quiet and watch the damn movie.”

“Oh hell no,” Sam returned sharply, already gathering himself to stand.

All of this and Sam was still pitching a hissy fit? Jesus, and here Dean had been hoping that he’d avoided a temper tantrum of offended feelings. Frustrated, he frowned over at Sam in the flickering light. “The hell is the problem now?”

“The problem is that I’m not going to hang around while you two trade hickeys and handjobs,” Sam told him as he hauled himself out of his seat.

Funny, how that had sounded less like a complaint and more like a suggestion. Dean narrowed his eyes and spotted a furtive grin tugging at the corners of Sam’s mouth as he scowled down at them.

“I can’t stop you from acting like horny teenagers, but I’m not going to sit here and watch,” he declared in apparent disgust.

But they’d never been good at communicating in straight lines and Dean caught the underlying message loud and clear. Translated from Winchester-speak: Go for it. You’ve got my blessing. Have fun.

“Well, well, well. Aren’t you are just full of good ideas today, Sam?” Gabe laughed, warm and wicked, far too close to Dean’s ear for comfort. Dean tamped down a shiver and refused to look over at him, not yet. Gabe laughed at them all the time but Dean had a conditioned reaction to hearing Gabe laugh like that. At least the uncertain light ought to hide the flush prickling over his skin.

There was genuine confusion in the shake of Sam’s head as he turned away ― fair enough, since it didn’t make all that much sense to Dean, some days ― but no anger driving his steps as he sidled out of the row.

“Just try to change the room back sometime tonight, would you?” he called over his shoulder, loping down the aisle towards the brightly-lit exit sign at the front of the room.

“No promises, Sammy!” Dean couldn’t resist shouting back. “This looks like it might turn out to be one hell of a show!”

“Ugh! Dean!” Sam yelled at him, hitting the door with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “Why do you always have to ―” he managed before the slam of the door cut off the stream of his aggrieved muttering.

Dean snickered and turned to Gabe, always ready to share a smirk at Sam’s expense. Gabe ambushed him with a kiss instead, not that Dean was complaining.

No, Dean thought as he let Gabe pull him in, angling his head obligingly as Gabe licked his way into his mouth. Not complaining at all.

“Guess your brother’s not the only one with good ideas today,” Gabe said as he let Dean up for air.

“Shut up about Sam, already,” Dean groaned as Gabe bit lightly at his throat. “Get to the part where we live down to all of those expectations of his.”

Gabe hummed enthusiastic agreement and tugged at Dean, tightening the grip he had on the back of Dean’s head. Dean slouched obediently in his seat, tipping his chin up and letting Gabe’s other hand tug his knees wider apart.

“Definitely the hot one,” Gabe murmured appreciatively as clever fingers worked open Dean’s jeans.

Dean was pretty sure that tonight was going to leave him with a new set of inappropriate reactions to cheesy monster movies. He was equally sure, hips rocking up into the hot clasp of Gabe’s hand wrapped around his dick, that it’d be entirely worth it.

Fin

The Masterpost for the Crawl To Your Foothill series.

[SPN] FIC: Not Expecting To Collide (Foothill #1)

evening_bat — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 21:40:43 GMT

Title: Not Expecting To Collide
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Dean/Gabriel
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 2800
Warnings: Slash? Check. Blasphemy? Check. Good sense? Uh...must have missed that one.
Summary: Dean has a problem. Gabriel’s willing to lend a hand. (Or two.)
Notes: First in the Crawl To Your Foothill series. Titles from The Tea Party’s The Messenger.

Not Expecting To Collide

“Early night tonight?”

There was no restraining a startled jump in response to the unexpected voice in his hotel room, but Dean counted it a victory that he managed to avoid tipping himself or his beer off the bed. Turning away from the television, he glared across the room at the smirking archangel lounging on the bed next to his.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he grumbled. So much for a quiet night.

Gabriel might have recently upgraded himself from pain in the ass enemy to pain in the ass ally but he wasn’t exactly comfortable company. They were starting to get used to his habit of appearing at random, not that they had a choice in the matter. It wasn’t as if they could actually do anything about him. Dean just counted it lucky that Gabriel’s change of heart extended to (mostly) reining in his tricks around them these days.

“Wondering the same thing about you, actually,” Gabriel answered blithely, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on one hand as he stared at Dean. “The night is young, the beer is cheap, the women are hot, and Dean Winchester’s sulking in his motel room. What’s up with that?”

“I am not sulking.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gabriel apologized with exaggerated sincerity. “Dean Winchester’s holed up in his motel room watching unspeakably awful late night television. That better?”

Dean held the glare for a moment longer before allowing himself to flop backwards onto the pillow. “Okay, I think I’d rather be sulking,” he admitted to the ceiling.

There was a snort to his left, then Gabriel’s face leaned into view.

“So?” he prompted. “What are you doing in here when there’s fun to be had out there?”

“Not in the mood.” Dean took a half-hearted swipe at the archangel looming over him, unsurprised when his hand sailed through abruptly empty air as the foot of his bed sank under a new weight.

“Not in the mood?” Gabriel repeated. “You? Since when? Even Sam managed to get himself picked up tonight!”

“I know!” Dean lifted his head to share a disbelieving look with Gabriel, animosity momentarily forgotten in a moment of incredulous accord. Occasionally, Dean thought maybe he should worry about the fact that the only person he knew that seemed to share his sense of humour was a trickster archangel. (Mostly, he just appreciated the company.) “Any other circumstances and I’d be making jokes about the end of the world.”

“But that’d be in bad taste, even for me,” Gabriel agreed, almost regretfully. “And to be fair, she was smoking.”

“True, that.”

“So how’s it come to pass that your nearly monastic little brother’s out getting his rocks off while you’re sitting in here stewing in your own juices?” Gabriel persisted.

“Dude! That’s gross!” Dean protested with a grimace. “And hey, not even I can get lucky all the time. We all have off nights.”

Gabriel hummed skeptically. “If your idea of an off night is a hot blonde practically opening your fly with her teeth right there at the bar, Dean, I really want to see what you consider hitting the jackpot. I should probably take notes.”

It took a couple of seconds for the implication of that statement to sink in. “Fucking creeper angels!” Dean cursed, sitting up to level another glare at Gabriel. “We’re in the middle of the goddamn Apocalypse and you can’t find anything better to do than spy on me and Sam?”

Gabriel shrugged, unconcerned. Dean scowled down at the foot of his bed, where Gabriel had resumed his careless sprawl. He allowed himself a self-indulgent moment of imagining booting Gabriel’s smug ass right off the mattress before giving it up as a catastrophically bad idea. Even discounting what Gabriel might do to him in retribution, they couldn’t afford to piss off their most powerful ally. No matter how much he deserved a good, swift kick.

“Yeah, well,” Dean finally said, leaning up against the headboard. Figured that Gabriel would drop in for a conversation Dean didn’t want to have and actually have the attention span to stick around to see it through. “She wasn’t my type.”

“So you’ve raised your standards, then?” Gabriel scoffed. “Gorgeous and willing doesn’t do it for you anymore?”

Dean forced himself to shrug off the question. “Maybe I’m just not that into blondes these days.”

“To each their own, I guess,” Gabriel said dubiously, giving Dean a look of mingled pity and disbelief.

Dean just grunted, and let Gabriel read what he liked into the non-reply.

“Too bad my baby brother hasn’t figured out what his cock is for, yet,” Gabriel continued idly. “I’m sure he could help you out with that.”

Hard as he tried, Dean couldn’t -- could not -- completely suppress his reaction to that not-so-casual comment. And by Gabriel’s suddenly intent expression, he hadn’t missed it, either. Hell, he’d probably set Dean up for that one.

Goddamn it, he swore mentally as Gabriel sat up and pinned Dean with a bright-eyed stare.

“So,” Gabriel drawled, a sharp smirk curving his lips. “You prefer brunettes these days? Or maybe you’ve developed a taste for blue eyes? Or trenchcoats?”

“You shut the fuck up,” Dean muttered. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, no, Dean,” Gabriel laughed and Jesus Christ Dean wanted to punch him. “You’re the one that doesn’t get what’s going on here. I understand just fine.”

“Understand what?” Dean bluffed. “Just because I didn’t let some chick blow me in the bathroom doesn’t mean --”

“Doesn’t mean that you aren’t ass over teakettle for your guardian angel?” Gabriel cut in, and the sure knowledge in his eyes strangled Dean’s half-assed denials in his throat.

Well, shit. There went any hope of lying his way out of the fact that he’d somehow been stupid enough to go and fall for Cas, of all people. At least Gabriel didn’t look angry about it. Dean didn’t think he’d survive Gabriel’s version of the overprotective older brother routine.

“Doesn’t matter if I am,” Dean finally answered. “There’s nothing he can do about it and nothing I’d ask him to do about it.”

“Huh,” Gabriel said thoughtfully, leaning back as he considered Dean’s response. “Okay, you get points for having the balls to admit it. More or less. And the brains not to push the issue.”

Dean shrugged. “Like you said, my standards are gorgeous and willing.”

And Cas, as much as Dean wished otherwise, was only one of the two. Sure, Dean could probably talk him into giving that vessel of his a trial run. Cas had already proven that he’d do some truly ridiculous shit if Dean asked. But there were some lines Dean wasn’t willing to cross, and sometimes acquiescence wasn’t the same thing as consent.

“Blonde in the bar was both,” Gabriel pointed out.

“Yeah, well.” Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Like I said, I wasn’t in the mood.”

And hadn’t that been a kick in the ass when Dean realized it. If he’d known that developing feelings for Cas would interfere with the casual sex Dean had been enjoying most of his life, he’d have worked harder at avoiding that little epiphany.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow and whistled, low and surprised. “Man, you do have it bad.”

“Shut up,” Dean ordered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know.”

Gabriel shook his head. “You two are absolutely disgusting, you know that?”

“I know,” Dean grumbled, aiming for annoyed instead of embarrassed. “Wait -- ‘you two’?”

“Well, yeah. Castiel’s every bit as gone on you as you are on him. He adores you. It’s honestly kind of sickening,” Gabriel complained.

“Uh, sorry about that?” Dean managed, trying to hide the warmth that Gabriel’s declaration had kindled in his chest.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “If you were really sorry, you would stop that. Keep this up and you’ll put me into sugar shock.”

“If it’s so revolting, you could always just go away,” Dean suggested hopefully.

“Nice try,” Gabriel said. “But we’re not talking about my feelings here.”

“Oh hell, no. My dick hasn’t actually fallen off in the last twelve hours or so, thanks,” Dean announced briskly. “So if you just came here to hang out and play Dr. Phil, you can consider it done and please fuck off now.”

Gabriel’s smug little smile widened into something sharper. “Glad to hear everything’s still in working order, ‘cause I wasn’t thinking of playing that kind of doctor.”

This time, Dean did drop his beer, but he was too busy gaping at Gabriel to pay attention as the bottle emptied its contents onto the cheap carpet.

“Hope you didn’t pay a deposit for this rat hole,” Gabriel remarked as he peered over the edge of the bed.

“What?” Dean asked faintly.

“I’m pretty sure questionable puddles or stains mean you lose your --”

“Not that!” Dean snapped. “What you said before!”

“Oh, that.” Gabriel returned his attention to Dean, smile quirking at what had to be an utterly gobsmacked expression. “I thought I was being clear enough. What part did you need explained?”

“The part where you’re coming on to me!”

Gabriel shrugged. “You’ve lost your taste for one night stands with strangers and sometimes I get tired of making my own fun. Seems like we could help each other out.”

“Help each other out,” Dean repeated flatly.

Gabriel nodded and fuck but he’d not-quite-moved somehow and the minute shift of his position had left him on display. Dean swallowed hard and tried to muster a glare at the manipulative little shit, but Gabriel just grinned unrepentantly at him. Dean had always had a weakness for wicked smiles like that, all heated appreciation and open invitation.

Gabriel wasn’t human, Dean reminded himself a bit desperately, and the poor bastard he was wearing wasn’t the kind of guy Dean would normally give a second look. And he was an asshole, with a vicious sense of humour, too -- important not to forget that part.

“What the hell game are you playing now, Gabriel?” Dean demanded, voice coming out rougher than he would have liked.

“Honest offer,” Gabriel told him, straightening slightly out of his calculated slouch to catch Dean’s eyes with his own and hold the look in apparent sincerity. “No tricks, no traps, no strings.”

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So -- what? You just want to help me take care of this case of blue balls out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Nothing altruistic about this,” Gabriel assured him, smile spreading slow and satisfied across his face when Dean failed to protest the light grip of the hand that reached out and wrapped around his ankle.

“Oh yeah?” Not Dean’s best comeback ever but he was busy not-reacting to the ticklish brush of fingers stroking beneath the cuff of his jeans.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Fishing for compliments?”

“Fishing for an explanation. You still haven’t said anything about why the sudden interest.”

“Stubbornness is not always a virtue, you know,” Gabriel complained, flinging his free hand up in exasperation. “It makes it annoyingly hard to do anything nice for you.”

“I don’t trust nice things,” Dean answered without thinking. Nice had never been Gabriel’s style, anyway.

“You wouldn’t,” Gabriel sighed dramatically.

When Gabriel’s hand slipped away from his leg and the bed dipped sharply under his movement, Dean was relieved. Really. Hopefully, Gabriel had finally satisfied whatever impulse had driven him to come pester Dean in the first place. Dean returned his attention to the tv, not bothering to watch him leave.

He supposed that meant he had no one to blame but himself when he was caught off guard by the shove that flattened him against the headboard as a warm, heavy weight settled across his thighs.

“Look, Dean,” Gabriel said as he straddled his lap. “I’m not sure what your problem is here. Castiel loves you right down to the tiniest bits of your admittedly interesting soul but he’s got no understanding of fleshly matters and he knows it. He could care less if you bang every perky bartender from here to Canada -- they make you smile, and they don’t touch that torch you’re carrying for him.”

“Fine. I can go ahead and fuck my way across the country guilt-free. But are you sure he won’t have an issue with you taking a number? You’re not exactly a perky bartender,” Dean pointed out, squeezing the angular hips on which his hands had reflexively settled.

“Who do you think told me where to find you? Besides, I could be,” Gabriel told him, tipping a sly smile his way before reality shivered around him and Dean found his lap full of curvy, smiling brunette.

Dean remembered her. She’d been a bartender, all right, in a town with a poltergeist problem. Sam and Dean had ostensibly stopped in for a drink, though they were actually more interested in the gossip and the pool tables in the back. Her name was Alex, he thought, and she’d been well worth looking at. (Even if it was the blueness of her eyes that had kept him glancing back at her.) He’d still put her off when her flirting took on a too-interested edge. Damn, but Gabriel did know how to pick them.

And yeah, Gabriel had great taste but Dean wasn’t going there.

Dean slid a hand up her back and gripped a handful of her long, sleek hair. “Cut that out,” he said firmly. “You want to make a case for us getting it on? Fine. Convince me yourself.”

“You sure?” she asked, looking at him through her eyelashes as she traced her fingers across his chest.

“Absolutely,” he told her, catching her hand in a tight grip. “Change back.”

She pursed her lips in an unfairly attractive pout before her shoulders lifted in a resigned shrug.

“Gotta say, I’m kind of surprised at you, Dean,” Gabriel said as her face rippled and resumed its more familiar lines. “Would have figured you for more adventurous than this.”

“I get plenty of adventure already, thanks,” Dean retorted dryly. “Show me that the reality’s worth it before you try and sell me on the fantasy.”

“You want the reality, huh?” Gabriel checked with a grimace. “Never been my favourite game to play.”

“You were the one who said you were tired of making your own fun,” Dean reminded him.

“And whose fault is that?” Gabriel demanded, poking a finger into Dean’s chest. “I was doing just fine until you chuckleheads came along.”

Dean snorted. “Sorry for making you give a shit,” he apologized insincerely.

“You should be,” Gabriel insisted sullenly. “I was a whole lot happier when I didn’t care any more.”

“Yeah? And how was that working out for you?” Dean snapped.

Gabriel might have been living the high life as a Trickster, but Dean knew a few things about wringing every last bit of cheap enjoyment out of life because you knew it wasn’t going to last much longer and that the end wasn’t going to be pretty.

Oh. Oh. Well, shit. He’d always known he and Gabriel had too much in common to be good for either of them.

...Which, Dean suddenly realized, didn’t mean that they couldn’t be good together.

“Huh,” he said, tightening the grip of his hand which had somehow settled on the back of Gabriel’s neck when he’d ditched the long hair.

Gabriel arched shamelessly into the contact, and Dean’s mouth went dry.

As far as angel-related epiphanies went, Dean had had worse. At least this one promised some pretty spectacular sex.

Dean licked his lips and had to admit that it was kind of gratifying to see Gabriel’s eyes follow the movement with interest. “So I’m starting to rethink your suggestion of a helping hand,” he admitted.

“Oh yeah?” Gabriel asked, sliding impossibly closer to breathe the question against Dean’s lips.

Dean answered by catching Gabriel’s mouth with his.

“Finally!” Gabriel muttered between kisses, and Dean could practically taste the smugness of his smile. “He gets it!”

And okay, no. Good idea or not, Dean wasn’t just going to lay back and let Gabriel get his gloat on.

Clamping one hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and the other at his hip, Dean surged forward and twisted, reversing their positions and pinning Gabriel to the mattress beneath him. Gabriel allowed himself to be manhandled, grinning up at Dean in open delight.

“Oh, I’ll show you who’s going to get it,” Dean promised, lowering his head to trail his lips across the sharp line of Gabriel’s jaw.

Gabriel laughed (breathless appreciation sounded good on him, Dean noted absently) and tilted his head back encouragingly.

“Bring it on,” he challenged, spread out under Dean like an invitation. “I can take anything you can dish out.”

After that, there was nothing left but to make Gabriel prove it. Which he did. At great length. To their mutual satisfaction.

The next day, Sam was so baffled by Dean’s excessive cheer that he forgot to be cranky about tromping through the beer spilled all over the motel carpet.

Fin

The Masterpost for the Crawl To Your Foothill series.

[Thor/SPN] FIC: Building Bridges

evening_bat — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 19:16:23 GMT

Title: Building Bridges
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 3500
Warnings: Nothing worse than would be found in either canon.
Summary: Thor’s search for his brother leads him to a meeting with a new brother-in-arms.
Notes: Goes AU after the Thor movie and early S5, respectively.

Building Bridges

The battle was going poorly for the beleaguered human warrior when Thor arrived on the field. Rumours of attacks by monstrous creatures had drawn him back to Midgard on his quest for Loki, vanished into the void between realms after their father’s denouncement of his actions. But yet again, it seemed that whispers of dark magic had led him astray; there was no sign of his brother in either the vicious beasts or the human around whom they circled. Well, then. At least the scene presented a deserving target for Thor’s frustration.

Thor dove into the fight with abandon, Mjolnir whirling at his side and electricity crackling in his wake. He tore into the midst of the foul creatures and sent them scattering, leaving the human to stumble to safety. Thor paid sufficient attention to be sure he’d cleared the strike zone of both hammer and lightning before he allowed his focus to narrow to dispatching the monsters. It was the work of only moments for the last of them to fall.

When the last of the creatures’ reflexive twitches had eased into final stillness, Thor glanced over at the human whose life he’d intervened to save. He’d pressed his back to a tree but seemed uninjured, barring the rapid blinking of his eyes, no doubt dazzled by the lightning Thor had summoned.

“Are you well, fellow warrior?” Thor inquired, granting the human the honour of the title due to the fearless stand he’d made against an overwhelming number of stronger foes.

He seemed startled to be thus addressed, eyebrows raising before he squinted at his rescuer. Thor noted the steadiness of his hands with approval, as well as the ready ease with which he held his firearm. Prepared but not dangerously paranoid, then. Very impressive.

“I’m good,” he finally answered. “And hey, thanks for the save. That was quite the show.”

Thor inclined his head proudly.

“But I gotta ask, dude,” he continued, eyes narrowing further as he examined Thor more closely. “What’s with the metal suit? And the hammer? And the flying? ...What did you say your name was again?”

“I had not yet granted you my name,” Thor corrected, “but I give it freely now. I am Thor Odinson and you are welcome ‘for the save’.”

“Thor,” the human repeated flatly. “As in, Thunder God Thor?”

“The same,” Thor assured him wryly. New Mexico had taught him better than to assume the stories associated with his name were still respected on Midgard, even with the recent battle as evidence for his existence. But the human surprised him.

“Of course you are,” he sighed, tucking his firearm under his leather jacket. “Now we’ve got Viking gods running around the place?”

“You believe me?” Thor asked, startled.

The human grinned. “You aren’t even the strangest thing I’ve seen this week,” he replied. “And the name’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Well met, Dean Winchester.”

“Uh, right. Well met to you too,” Dean said. “So what’s a thunder god doing hanging around these parts? Other than frying those fugly bastards?”

“That isn’t reason enough?” Thor answered lightly. “Though it was indeed these creatures I sought. I had hoped they might lead me to my brother, who has gone missing and whose hand can most often be spotted in magical goings-on.”

“You’re looking for your brother?” Dean’s expression softened into something akin to sympathy.

“I am,” Thor confirmed, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. “Loki is lost and I wish to find him.”

“Loki, huh? Well, who else were you expecting?” Dean muttered under his breath before he raised his voice. “So what happened?”

“We wronged each other. And though the first offense may have been mine, Loki struck the harshest blow.” The admission was painful -- both that he’d failed his brother so badly and that Loki had lashed out so fiercely in return. “Before I could set things to rights between us, he was gone. Fallen from the Bifrost and vanished between worlds.”

“Fallen from the what now?” Dean asked.

“The Bifrost. The Rainbow Bridge that connects Asgard to the other realms,” Thor explained shortly, tightening his grip on Mjolnir in a futile effort to override the sensation of Loki’s hand slipping from his.

“So -- what?” Dean scoffed. “You just let him fall?”

“Let him?” Thor bristled at the scorn in his voice. “I did no such thing! I did everything I could to stop him!”

“Like hell you did!” Dean shot back. “If you did such a great job, then where is he?”

“Have a care, Dean Winchester,” Thor warned, anger in his voice echoed by a rumbling overhead. “You speak of matters beyond your understanding.”

Dean snorted, completely unintimidated. “What’s there to understand? I don’t know how you fucked up or what he did to you. But I do know that if your brother falls off of some bisexual bridge, you jump off after him! You don’t just let him go!”

Rage whited out Thor’s vision and swept away the last of his restraint.

“I tried!” he roared. “My father held me fast to the bridge. And yes, I tried to break free. So hard that I wore the bruises of his grip for weeks!”

And none of it -- none of it -- was a comfort against the memory of the utter desolation on Loki’s face as he let go.

“Do not presume to tell me I did not do enough,” he whispered hoarsely. “I would tear the worlds apart to see him safe again.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, then Dean smirked. “Good. That’s more like it.”

His approval was oddly warming and Thor smiled wanly but the sound of shouting prevented him from finding a response.

“Dean! Dean! Where are you?”

Dean’s expression widened into a full grin.

“Over here, Sam!” he shouted over his shoulder. “My brother the troublemaker -- and my personal pain in the ass,” he added by way of explanation.

Ah. That went a ways towards explaining his earlier outburst.

Curious now, Thor turned his attention to the sound of someone approaching the line of trees behind them.

“Where the hell have you been?” Sam demanded as he emerged into view, gun clenched in a white-knuckled hand. “You were supposed to be -- whoa!”

His eyes went wide at the broken and scorched corpses littered around them and flicked assessingly over Thor before he focused on Dean, examining him with concern.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks to the big guy over here,” Dean assured him breezily, slapping a familiar hand against Thor’s shoulder. “You out here alone?”

“No,” Sam replied distractedly, kicking lightly at the nearest body. “Weird. These things don’t look anything like the descriptions in the lore. And he’s back at the car. He freaked out a bit when the weather went nuts.”

“He’s responsible for that, too,” Dean said, jerking a thumb back at Thor as he moved forward to catch Sam by the elbow and tow him back the way he came. “You mind if we move this little chat? We’re taking care of a stray these days and leaving him alone for too long isn’t a good idea.”

“A stray?” Thor inquired, following them agreeably.

“Yeah. Poor bastard was at ground zero for something nasty,” Dean explained. “He got a bit, uh, scrambled. We’re taking him to a friend, see if he can help him out. Sam, stop staring. Guy showed up out of the blue -- literally -- to save my ass and wasn’t even a dick about it. He gets a paranoia pass.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Because we have such luck with trusting miraculous rescues?” he sniped.

“Better than the other kind,” Dean retorted smoothly but Thor didn’t miss the tightening of his shoulders.

Sam’s expression darkened for a moment before he sighed in apparent regret. “Yeah, true enough,” he conceded quietly.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Let’s just get back to the car. No offense, dude, but this isn’t a story I feel like telling twice.”

“I would imagine that it becomes no easier with repetition,” Thor agreed cheerfully, unable to follow the undercurrents of their conversation and unwilling to risk disturbing them further.

“Not so much, no,” Dean said as they stepped out of the trees.

There was a sleek black vehicle waiting at the edge of the forest, gleamingly discordant with its sylvan surroundings. A lean figure was perched on its nose, face tipped up to the sky.

“Another victory for the forces of free will?” he asked without taking his eyes from the slow-moving swirl of clouds overhead.

If Thor had had any breath left to lose, the light question would have knocked it out of him. But he’d faltered the instant he’d seen the man leaning back on his hands as he stared up and out at the heavens. He’d know that profile anywhere.

“Loki.” The whisper slipped past his lips unbidden but its effect was electric.

“No way!” Dean breathed even as Sam cut in with a sharp, “What did you say?”

Thor ignored them, distantly grateful that Dean intervened and dragged Sam back and out of the way. His focus had narrowed to Loki, gone totally, terribly still.

Thor checked his reflexive surge forward when a miniscule flinch cracked Loki’s frozen stillness. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to rush to his brother’s side and reassure himself that Loki was here and alive but even without moving, Loki had drawn back into himself and was braced tightly, as if for a blow.

“Loki,” Thor repeated, unable to keep the rawness out of his voice. Never before had he missed Loki’s knowledge and deft understanding of people as he did now. Delicacy had never numbered amongst Thor’s gifts; his hands had always been more suited to battle and rough affection. He’d always had Loki to aid him navigate situations that called for a more refined touch.

How like Loki to present him with an impossible challenge, Thor thought as he stared helplessly at the visible edge of a too-familiar closed off expression. That the only person who might help him span the divide and reach his brother was Loki himself would no doubt amuse him, were he in a position to laugh about it.

“Loki, please,” he finally said softly.

Thor didn’t have a sufficient command of words to persuade his brother to speak with him. He’d never followed the subtleties that Loki manipulated so effortlessly and recent events had forced him to recognize that perhaps he knew his brother far less than he’d assumed. No, Thor would not win Loki over with words. But Thor loved him still and he trusted -- hoped -- that despite Loki’s recent flirtation with madness, he would still hear and respond to the naked appeal Thor had just made.

His heart leapt at Loki’s quiet sigh and the infinitesimal slump of his shoulders. Thor held his tongue as Loki slowly straightened where he sat, carefully shifting his seat on the polished metal. He was alarmed at how gingerly Loki moved, holding himself as one who had been grievously hurt and had yet to recover. It left him swallowing a lurch of concern at the memory of Dean’s offhand explanation that their stray had been “scrambled” by some unpleasant encounter. That his journey through the void hadn’t killed Loki outright was a joyful surprise; Thor expected that thinking he might have survived it without injury was a naive hope.

He took the opportunity offered by Loki’s shuffling to examine him, alert to any sign of what his brother might have suffered before encountering the Winchesters. He was attired in clothing similar to that which the Winchesters wore, reminiscent of what Jane had lent to him after his own fall. To Thor’s immense relief, Loki appeared whole, but he was thin and paler than Thor had ever seen him. Worse, he seemed diminished, fragile in a way that could not be explained by the wariness in his expression as he cautiously lifted his eyes to Thor’s.

“Hello, Thor,” he offered at last. “Come to take me back to Asgard, then? Or are you to carry out my sentence where you found me?”

“What? No!” Thor protested, even as the Winchesters inserted themselves back into the conversation.

“Wait - what?” Dean demanded, planting himself between Thor and Loki.

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” Sam asked crossly, even as he followed his brother’s lead and positioned himself in front of Loki.

“You all right?” Dean checked with Loki, who shrugged.

“That remains to be seen.”

“Seriously,” complained Sam. “Would really like to be tossed a clue, here.”

“Because no one said anything about passing sentence!” Dean continued.

“I certainly didn’t say anything of the sort,” Thor commented dryly, folding his arms across his chest.

That brought everyone up short, leaving them all trading glances in a suspicious, awkward silence, before Loki’s frigid calm gave way to rusty chuckles.

“I don’t know what’s more absurd,” he managed, “you standing there like a scolded puppy or these two thinking they have any hope of stopping you.”

“Hey!” Dean replied, stung.

“Though your concern is appreciated, of course,” Loki added smoothly, favouring them with a sweet smile.

“Oh, I should have seen through you weeks ago,” Dean commented appreciatively. “Loki, huh?”

Loki dipped his head in silent acknowledgement, quirking a grin at Sam’s wide-eyed stare and whispered curse.

“I thought you said your name was Lukas?” Dean prompted, affectionately accusing.

“When I first met you, you were carrying false government ID and you introduced yourself as Agent Hagar,” Loki pointed out.

“Touche,” Dean conceded easily. “Though I think ‘secretly a Norse God,’ trumps ‘secretly a badass hunter’.”

“You say ‘badass hunter’, I say ‘suicidally reckless’--”

“Anyway,” Dean interrupted hastily, “for what it’s worth, I think you ought to give the big guy a chance.”

Loki’s skepticism was evident but Dean shook his head.

“I mean it,” he insisted gently, laying a careful hand on Loki’s narrow shoulder. “We talked a bit before and he said he was here looking for you. Seemed pretty sincere about wanting to make sure you were okay.”

That Loki seemed surprised at this assertion left Thor’s chest feeling constricted and he was grateful for the momentary respite offered by Dean cheerfully bullying Sam away from the conversation.

“We’ll go make sure there’s no more of those whatever the hell they were hanging around!” he called as he hustled his brother back into the trees. “You two play nice! And don’t hurt my baby!”

“Really, Dean?” Sam grumbled, tugging at his arm, securely in Dean’s grasp. “They’re Norse gods with communication issues and you’re worried about the car?”

“Well, how else are we going to get back to town? I’m not in the mood to walk thirty miles of dirt road. Are you? Besides, I thought you wanted to know what was going on?”

“Well, yeah. But --”

“Okay, so you know how the weather went kind of psycho a while back?” Dean stared, blithely talking over Sam’s protests as they vanished from sight.

Good men, these Winchesters. Thor owed them a debt for the care they’d taken with Loki.

Loki, the brother he’d failed. His brother, who’d extracted his own vengeance in blood and fire and ice before leaving Thor bereft. Loki, who was watching him now with carefully affected caution. Thor had always known that Loki ran deeper than any of his artless surface displays but he’d often failed to see past them. Even now, with so many of Loki’s defenses stripped away, and the painful memory of that last, earnest battle between them, it was a struggle to read the emotion that flickered behind his pale eyes. Thor remembered Loki’s face on the Bifrost, twisted in rage and grief and spite. He sought traces of them now, searching as deeply as he could see.

But Loki just looked tired. Tired and resigned and lost. And for a split second, as his eyes darted away from Thor’s, ashamed.

Thor spared a moment to wonder if he was being manipulated -- Loki was more than capable of it, he knew that -- but decided that it didn’t matter. For all the injuries they had done each other, there could be no recovery from that if there was no trust between them. Getting his brother back, Thor decided, was worth leaving himself vulnerable. He’d never been averse to taking risks, this would hardly be the time to start.

Besides, Thor wanted a word with whomever had brought his brother to this point. Loki had been hurt -- Loki was hurting still -- and that was unacceptable. Loki had been hurt enough.

“What happened to you?” Thor asked, voice low and rough with the effort of suppressing the need to do something.

Loki breathed out a sigh. “The void is perhaps somewhat less empty than its name would imply,” was all he said.

Thor’s imagination balked at the question of what manner of creature might inhabit the emptiness between worlds, but from the haunted abstraction their memory called to Loki’s face, Thor knew they could be nothing but unpleasant.

“And after?” Thor prompted softly. “The Winchesters said that you ran afoul of ‘something nasty’ here and were dealt further injury.”

Loki chuckled in answer, the sound darkly amused. “Midgard has its own spectrum of powers, and they are readying for war,” he explained. “I had the misfortune of catching their attention when I...arrived. Both parties were quick to impress upon me the importance of choosing the correct side.”

The skies above had darkened during Loki’s carefully neutral recitation, and Thor forced himself to breathe past the growing anger triggered by those uninflected words. He did not dare guess at the means by which these beings might have attempted to convince his brother to join them, not when Loki still bore the signs of their attention in addition to the mark the void had left on him.

“Are you all -- no, that’s a foolish question I’ve the eyes to answer myself. Will you be all right?”

“I am recovering,” Loki allowed, straightening where he sat, tipping his chin up to meet Thor’s eyes again. It had ever been Loki’s way to use displays of weakness as strength in disguise, and Thor was relieved to find him unchanged in this. “Given time, there will be no lasting effects.”

“This is most welcome news,” Thor said, the words a meagre expression of the joy singing through his heart. He had finally found Loki, safe and reasonably sound. Very little else could have been this welcome.

“I expect you are amongst the very few that would say so,” Loki returned evenly. “I doubt few in Asgard would welcome my return, save if you have indeed come to fetch me home for proper judgement.”

“I would do no such thing,” Thor declared, lifting one hand and wrapping it carefully around the back of Loki’s neck. Loki shivered under his touch but didn’t protest the contact. “Not even if Father himself ordered it.”

“No?” Loki inquired, tilting his head carefully within Thor’s grip. “Even after your recent lessons in obedience?”

“It may have been my disobedience that earned his ire but Father sought to teach me wisdom, not servility. And that he had cause to punish me proves that yours were not the only mistakes made in this matter, Loki. I would not see you suffer further for the errors of others,” Thor told him.

Loki’s breath hitched at Thor’s words and he swallowed hard. “I see you have changed. Perhaps Fa - Odin’s lessons took root.”

“We’ve both changed, Loki,” Thor said sadly. “But maybe such changes were necessary, at least in part. We could not stay children forever.”

Loki nodded slowly, eyes searching Thor’s face.

“I have seen many things since the Bifrost,” he said finally. “Both out amidst the stars and here on what I had, until recently, thought just a backwards ball of mud. Things both beautiful and terrible, capable of breaking a mind or inspiring a heart.”

Thor blinked wetness out of his eyes and tightened his grip, anchoring Loki here.

“But I find,” Loki continued, reaching up to clasp a hand around Thor’s wrist, “despite all that has passed between us and everything I have experienced since then... I find that it is good to see you, brother.”

Beyond words, Thor wrapped his free arm around Loki and drew him tight against his chest. Loki sagged against him, one arm wrapping with desperate strength around Thor’s waist. Thor simply cradled him close, pressing a fiercely protective kiss to the crown of his brother’s head. Much remained unspoken between them, and Thor suspected matters with the Winchesters were not yet concluded, but those questions could wait. The princes of Asgard were reunited and had been granted another chance to make things right, a chance that Thor was determined would not go to waste.

Their enemies would do well to enjoy the respite.

Fin

Notes: Thanks to the lovely ladies over at Word Wars who encouraged and enabled this self-indulgent bit of crossover madness. :)

To anyone who's wondering where I've been...

evening_bat — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 12:41:29 GMT

I popped in to Word Wars very briefly last week to say hi and relate a tale of woe before disappearing. (In a nutshell, I fell down the stairs last week, sprained my left knee & ankle. Not at all pleasant but much less serious than it could have been.) It's kept me away from my computer in the evenings, since sitting at a computer desk is most definitively not on the list of tolerated activities. Made worse by the fact that I have little choice but to do so all day long. Which sucks. I have started snagging my dad's laptop in the evenings for surfing purposes but haven't yet figured out how to set myself up to type reasonably competently on it. (I am, however, taking advantage of slow times in class & random fits of inspiration at home to pick out bits of fic as I can.)

So! Long story short, though I miss WW and the other lovely people of my acquaintance on the internet, I will likely continue to be generally absent for the next week or two at a minimum.

[TW] FIC: Walking Too Far Ahead

evening_bat — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 14:16:57 GMT

Title: Walking Too Far Ahead
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: None (yet)
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~ 1600
Warnings: Nope!
Summary: Derek had always hated the smell of cigarettes.

Walking Too Far Ahead

When Stiles finally showed up for the meeting that night, he was even more jittery than usual and reeked of cigarette smoke. Derek couldn’t help the reflexive curl of his lip; he’d always hated the smell of cigarettes, even before smoke had become irrevocably associated with death.

“You’re late,” Derek said flatly, folding his arms across his chest as Stiles hustled into the room. “And you stink. Where’ve you been?”

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m offending your delicate sensibilities,” Stiles shot back, flinging his hands wide in exaggerated apology.

Derek’s eyes narrowed as the sweep of Stiles’ arms brought another familiar scent to his nose, the tang of blood suddenly sharply obvious under the smoke.

“Stiles!” Scott was on his feet in the same instant, bounding across the room. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles assured him, allowing Scott’s anxious once-over with better grace than Derek had expected. “Just had a close call earlier.”

“What kind of close call?” Isaac asked, having followed Scott at a more sedate pace. “You smell like blood,” he added, almost accusingly.

“Some asshole driving like a maniac in town,” Stiles replied with a dismissive shrug. “He jumped the curb, almost ran me over.”

“He what?” Scott demanded, tugging Stiles closer for another examination.

“He was speeding around and lost control of the car or something, I don’t know,” Stiles answered, flailing uselessly against Scott’s manhandling. “Stop that! I’m fine. Some guy on the sidewalk knocked me out of the way. Smelled like an ashtray but he had great reflexes.”

“So why do you smell like raw meat?” Derek put in as he took a few steps forward and caught Stiles’ wrist in his hand. There was a suspiciously damp patch on the underside of Stiles’ sleeve.

“Dude, gross!” Stiles protested with a spectacular grimace. “Could we not ever use that comparison again?”

“So much for fine,” Scott interrupted, plucking Stiles’ wrist out of Derek’s hand and scowling at his stained sleeve. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, because some guy knocked me over to keep me from getting hit by a car,” Stiles explained impatiently. “I’m scraped to hell but it beats being dead, so I’ll take it.”

“Better than being flattened,” Scott agreed. “You still keep a first aid kit in the Jeep?”

“Like my dad would let me drive around without it? Oh, come on. Really?” Stiles complained as Scott towed him out of the house.

“Yeah, really,” Scott insisted when Stiles dug his heels in at the edge of the porch. “Let me -- I -- I can fix this.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles conceded after a brief, charged pause. “But don’t get too enthusiastic about playing doctor, okay? Save it for Allison.”

Scott snorted laughter and dragged a now-smirking Stiles down the steps.

Derek huffed an impatient sigh and turned his back on their little drama, retreating deeper into the house.

“You know, Derek’s right about one thing,” Scott commented lightly as they walked away. “You do kind of stink.”

“Blame the guy that pulled me out of the way!” Stiles protested. “Or y’know, don’t. Because of the life saving and all. But yeah, he must be the worst chain smoker in the history of ever. I could probably track him by scent.”

Derek grimaced despite himself.

“I think Stiles keeps a change of clothes in the Jeep, too?” Isaac offered from the doorway, nose wrinkling in sympathy.

“Good. Get him to change while he’s out there,” Derek ordered, relieved when Isaac trotted obediently after them.

He didn’t bother to listen in on their conversation so he didn’t know why Stiles was scowling so fiercely when they trooped back in but he didn’t really care. It was enough that Stiles returned smelling of antiseptic and gym clothes instead of blood and smoke.

* * *

A few days later, familiar voices prompted Derek to duck between the storefront of the coffee shop and the neighbouring bookstore before he could be spotted. He preferred to avoid the volleys of snark that Stiles would undoubtedly launch at him if he caught Derek doing anything as prosaic as wandering through town in broad daylight.

“You’ve got to help me!” Scott was begging shamelessly as they walked right past him. “I am going to fail that Chem midterm and Allison can’t help me study and my mom will kill me if I don’t pass this test.”

“Am I supposed to be helping you with the Chemistry or with Allison?” Stiles asked without looking up from his phone.

“Stiles!” Scott whined. “With Chemistry!”

“You’re buying my coffee,” Stiles said firmly, finally stuffing his phone into a pocket.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Of course, whatever you want. Just make this freaking stuff make sense!”

“I’m not a miracle worker but I’ll see what I can - hey! It’s that guy!” Stiles suddenly exclaimed.

“What guy?” Scott demanded, head snapping around.

Derek saw Scott’s nose wrinkle just as the stink of cigarette smoke his hit nose.

“Hey!” Stiles called, hurrying forward. “I wanted to thank you for the other day!”

The guy that had just stepped out of the coffee shop stiffened before turning to face Stiles but he smiled easily enough.

“No worries, kid,” he said. “Wasn’t just going to stand there and let him hit you.”

Derek reflexively assessed the guy as he and Stiles exchanged small talk. Derek was no believer in coincidences, not anymore. Good Samaritans made him nervous. This one didn’t seem to be looking to trade on Stiles’ gratitude but Derek took note of his appearance and what little he could make out of his scent through the haze of smoke. The guy seemed pretty unremarkable though: tall, close-cropped dark hair, dark eyes, in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Sturdy workboots, jeans and an olive jacket that would blend into any crowd.

Scott wasn’t even trying to hide the once-over he was giving the guy, or the suspicion in his narrowed eyes. Derek couldn’t blame him for that last bit -- there was something about this man that sent prickles up his spine. He didn’t seem to be a threat but Derek knew dangerous when he saw it. Guy wasn’t a wolf but he sure as hell wasn’t harmless, either.

“I was going to offer to buy your coffee but you’re still sort of one step ahead of me,” Stiles was saying, gesturing at the cup in the smoky guy’s hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” the smoky guy chuckled. “I’ll be sticking around for a bit anyway. You might get another chance.”

It didn’t take werewolf senses to read the curiosity that brightened Stiles’ expression but he restrained himself to a mild, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Back in town to settle some...family problems.” He scrubbed a hand over his short hair, mouth twisting into a frown.

Derek shoved down an unwelcome surge of memory. He knew that feeling from the inside out.

Scott and Stiles exchanged looks, unconsciously shuffling closer together as they turned identical sympathetic expressions on the smoky guy.

“They’re the worst kind,” Stiles commented with a wince.

“Yeah,” Scott sighed agreement, suspicion momentarily forgotten. “Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” His answering smile was superficially wry but there was something familiar in its underlying bleakness. But whatever personal tragedy was lurking in those “family problems”, the guy snapped himself out of it pretty quickly.

“I’ll take a raincheck on the coffee,” he added, waving an offhanded goodbye as he turned and walked away. “See you ‘round, I guess.”

“So I’ll guess owe him one?” Stiles muttered to the guy’s retreating back as he shook off Scott’s insistent tug at his arm. “Dude, what?”

“There is something weird about that guy!” Scott declared in a loud whisper.

“Says the werewolf,” Stiles retorted but there was fondness in the roll of his eyes. “Wait, he’s not a werewolf, is he?”

“No, he’s not but seriously!” Scott persisted as Stiles flung an arm around his neck and dragged him into the coffee shop. “There’s something really strange about him!”

“Okay, okay. Tell me all about it while we wait. I’m definitely going to need caffeine if you’re going to throw any more weirdness at me today.”

Derek didn’t bother to track them further into the store, letting the sound of their voices blend into the buzz of conversation from inside the shop. He headed out into the street to put a safer distance between them while they were occupied with their coffee. Derek didn’t think Scott would have much luck articulating what was bothering him about the guy with the smoky smell, no matter how good Stiles usually was at guessing what his best friend meant. Whatever it was they were picking up on, it was frustratingly elusive, some subtle signal that triggered their instincts all the wrong ways.

Maybe not even all the wrong ways, Derek amended as he glanced down the street from his new vantage point. But there was something about him that put Derek on alert.

The guy hadn’t gone far. Just a few blocks down, where he’d stopped in the middle of the street and was staring up at the sheriff’s office with an unreadable expression on his face. For a second, the breath caught in Derek’s chest as he stared at him -- what was it about this guy? -- but then his shoulders lifted and dropped in a soundless laugh and the moment passed. Then he was just another guy, and Derek had bigger concerns. He’d worry about Stiles’ mystery rescuer if or when he proved himself a threat.

Given this town, it’d probably happen sooner rather than later.

Fin

Written a while ago but never posted. Found it while going through WIP folders, figured I might as well put it up. (Theoretically, there is more to this story but this one does stand alone.)

[SPN] FIC: Faithful

evening_bat — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 00:41:31 GMT

Title: Faithful
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: R (for language)
Word Count: ~ 2700
Warnings: Children being threatened
Summary: Sometimes, the trouble wasn't of the shrunken angels' making.
Notes: So earlier this week, I encountered the Ask SPN BB!verse for the first time. And fell in love. It's adorable and hilarious and highly, highly recommended. (And this coming from someone who doesn't read kidfic and prefers her angels powered-up!) Also, this fic won't make sense if you don't know the basic premise. The blog owner welcomes contributions so I wrote this as a thank you. :)

Faithful

At first, though Dean hadn’t been thrilled at abruptly finding himself and Sam responsible for three miniaturized members of the Heavenly Host, he hadn’t been worried. Kids were kids, right? And Dean had practically raised Sam, he was an old hand at taking care of kids. Most of the time, he even liked children. Though not even in his most fanciful daydreams of Life Beyond Hunting had he ever pictured himself stuck with a feathery brood of baby angels.

Cas was by far the easiest deal with. Dean liked adult Cas so liking baby Cas was a no-brainer. He was surprisingly unchanged as a kid: quiet, intense and prone to staring. A whole lot weepier and clingier than usual, sure, but Dean didn’t mind that so much. Cas was a well-behaved dream compared to his more rambunctious siblings, and indulging the little guy in the occasional bout of cuddling wasn’t that bad. (Though Dean would insist otherwise to Sam, of course.) The hardest thing to accept about the whole thing was the mental whiplash of seeing adult Cas’ Very Serious Look on baby Cas’ chubby little face.

Balthazar was a little trickier. He and Sam hadn’t known the guy that well before he popped in to help Cas and got himself shrunk. He’d seemed pretty decent for an angel, which was to say that he was an arrogant dick but not a murderous arrogant dick. He and Cas had seemed like a mismatched pair to be friends, but what the hell did Dean know? Cas trusted him so that was good enough for Dean. Bobby was a little less sanguine about Balthazar, but that was less about him being an unknown quantity and more about the fact that Bobby couldn’t hide his booze well enough to keep it away from the determined little alcoholic. Dean wouldn’t have thought a such a small kid could have scaled Bobby’s shelves like that, even one with wings.

Granted, their biggest troublemaker was the final member of their terrible trio. Little kid or not, Gabriel was still a disproportionately large pain in the ass. At first, they’d hoped that having been reduced to a toddler with his powers limited to candy summoning would have imposed some kind of restrictions on Gabriel’s ability to wreak havoc. They’d been wrong. If he wasn’t the one stuck cleaning up half the little bastard’s messes, Dean would almost be impressed.

Thank fuck for Disney movies. At least they had some way of keeping the kiddy angels occupied for a few hours here and there to concentrate on research. (Or napping. Or a good, stiff drink.) Unfortunately, this afternoon it looked like they weren’t even going to get that much of a break. Dean found himself roused out of a research coma by the sound of a car pulling up in front of Bobby’s house.

“You expecting anyone?” he checked. Singer Salvage was a pretty well known stop on the hunter network, after all.

Bobby scowled. “No. And sure as hell not anyone that’s got an open invitation.”

Sam was already on his feet, heading for the living room. Dean stuck his head into the room as the kids raised a chorus of protests, subsiding quickly at Sam’s hasty gesture. Say what you would about baby angels, but they caught on damn quick when something was up, Dean thought gratefully. Gabriel and Balthazar allowed Sam to scoop them up without protest as Dean went for Cas, plucking him off the couch and dropping him on Sam’s shoulders. Dean jerked his head in the direction of the stairs and then followed the sound of Bobby’s voice to the front door.

“-- Bob Blake and Mac Lewis, out of Georgia,” the man in the lead was saying. “Rufus says you’re the best source of lore north of Texas.”

Bobby’s snort was eloquently unimpressed. “Rufus ever tell you it’s polite to call first?”

Lewis pulled off his baseball cap and scratched his head. “Got a hot lead on a hunt,” he explained shortly. “Didn’t think you’d mind letting etiquette slip this once if it meant saving a few lives.”

“And just whose lives are you so interested in saving?” Dean asked, not liking the eager smile that spread over the men’s faces when their heads swung around and they caught sight of him.

Somehow, the guns they were suddenly brandishing didn’t come as much of a surprise.

“We’re looking to spare yours, if you cooperate,” Lewis told them.

“Don’t even think about it,” Blake warned Bobby, whose movement towards his own weapon apparently hadn’t gone unnoticed. “I can put a hole in your boy here before you can draw.”

“And who’s going to keep me from shooting you?” came Sam’s voice from somewhere behind Lewis and Blake.

The dismay on their faces was priceless, and Dean didn’t even bother trying to restrain his smirk. Sam had made even better time sneaking out the back than Dean had expected.

“Oh, stop grinning, you idiot,” Bobby grumped. “This is ridiculous.”

It kind of was, Dean had to admit. “All the more reason to smile, Bobby,” he retorted cheerfully.

The levity seemed to remind Blake of his resolve and his aim steadied. “You can’t get us both, Winchester. Not before I put one in your brother.”

These assholes knew who they were? Oh, Dean was not liking this.

“We heard you guys were holed up here with Singer,” Lewis put in, flicking his eyes between them. “Word has it that you got your hands on something big and came running back to him for help. And there are some pretty crazy stories going around about what happened the last time you two were involved in something big.”

Somehow Dean didn’t think that explaining that they’d fixed that little apocalypse mess they’d started would go over well with these two.

“Oh yeah? Who are you getting your information from?” he asked instead. Most of the hunters who were in a position to know what had happened were friends who knew better than to talk about it or dead. “‘Cause if you’ve been listening to the other side, I’ve got to remind you -- demons lie.”

“Funny you should assume we’ve been talking to demons, Winchester,” Blake sneered. “They had some interesting things to say about you and your habit of not staying dead.”

Goddamnit. Dean forced himself to relax and give the guy a skeptical stare. “You miss the part about the lying?”

“Tell you what. You give us what we want and we won’t put it to the test, all right?”

Before Dean could ask what they wanted, there was a loud thump from upstairs.

God fucking damn it.

Blake and Lewis went on high alert, guns raised in active threat.

“All right - you up there! You get down here right now or I start shooting!” Lewis shouted.

Don’t you dare, you little - Cas, if that was you, I hope your brothers are sitting on you! Dean thought, glaring fiercely at Blake instead of staring at the ceiling.

“First bullet’s going into Dean, here!” Lewis threatened.

“Don’t listen to him! You stay where you are!” Dean yelled, sighing explosively at the sound of feet pattering down the stairs towards them. Cas never had known when to stay out of Dean’s messes -- his current toddler status being a prime example.

There was a scowl on that absurdly cute face when Cas peered around the doorway. “Why are these men threatening you?” he demanded.

“Because they’re assholes,” Dean answered with a shrug.

“It’s a kid!” Blake muttered to Lewis. “I never heard anything about Winchester having a kid!”

“Nothing saying it’s his kid. Look at the - holy shit!” Lewis yelped as Cas stepped out into the hallway, dark wings fluttering in agitation.

Blake turned a furious (terrified) look on Dean. “What the hell is going on here, Winchester?” he asked, punctuating the demand with jabs of his gun.

“Oh, how cute,” Balthazar drawled as he wandered into view. “They think we’re from hell.”

Gabriel snickered as he followed his brothers into the room. “Not the sharpest knives in the block, are they?” He spread his wings in illustration, feathers catching the light as he stepped through a conveniently placed sunbeam.

Flashy little bastard, Dean thought in reluctant admiration. Gabriel’s sense of showmanship hadn’t been diminished by the curse in the least.

From the start, Dean had wondered at the difference in their angels’ wings. He’d never managed to get a straight answer on the issue of colour and he’d been unwilling to ask about the variation in sizes. So Gabriel’s wings were larger than his brothers, with a fuller, more impressive span. No big deal -- Dean just put it down to him being an archangel. If the muted gold of his wings seemed to gleam a little more brightly than seemed natural, well. What else about this situation was natural?

There was nothing subtle about the shine of his wings now. They nearly glowed in the sunlight as he stretched them wide before folding them against his back.

“Hell,” he snorted derisively as he dodged past Dean’s reflexive grab and walked right up to Blake and Lewis. “As if.”

As enthralled as the two men might have been at the tiny winged kid staring fearlessly up at them, they were quick to react when Dean moved to take advantage of their distraction.

“Don’t move,” Lewis said automatically.

Dean held up his hands in surrender, swearing a mental blue streak. He could hear floorboards creaking as Sam shifted restlessly on the porch.

“Look, he’s just a kid,” Sam started.

“Just a kid?” Lewis repeated incredulous. “How many kids you know have wings, Winchester?”

“They’re about to have one less,” Blake announced, making a grab for Gabriel’s arm. “You’re coming with us.”

“What? No!” Gabriel protested, hopping backwards.

“I said, you’re coming with us,” Blake said flatly, shifting his aim to the other two angel kids hovering anxiously nearby.

If looks could kill, Blake would be a smoldering heap of ashes at this point, Dean was sure. Even Bobby was glaring death at the man. The only thing keeping Dean in place were the mental calculations that assured him that there was no way he could throw himself in front of the kids before that gun could go off. They knew the angels were still made of sturdy stuff -- Gabriel and Balthazar had scared the hell out of all of them in the first week by picking a fight at the top of the stairs and knocking themselves down the whole flight in a squalling mass of limbs, only to walk away with nothing worse than bruises -- but that didn’t mean Dean was happy to see a gun pointed at Cas.

“I don’t know about this,” Lewis was saying uneasily. “They’re kids...”

“Shut up, you know what they said about these guys.”

Lewis shook his head but apparently conceded the point. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go.”

Gabriel frowned but threw a considering look over his shoulder at Balthazar and Cas before allowing himself to be dragged into range.

“Gabriel! No!” Castiel protested as Lewis wrapped his free arm around Gabriel’s waist and hoisted him right off the ground.

“Put him down!” Balthazar added his voice to Castiel’s alarm.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Gabriel said, twisting around in Lewis’ grip to wink at his brothers. “I got this.”

Dean narrowed his eyes as Blake and Lewis backed away from the door. He’d seen that look on Gabriel’s face all too often before -- he was up to something.

Dean managed to nab Castiel as he darted past, a burst of swearing indicating that Bobby had snagged Balthazar en route. Angels secured, Dean led the way to the door, blinking hastily as they walked out into the daylight. Sam nodded tense acknowledgement as they joined him on the porch, eyes firmly on the hunters edging their way back to their car. Gabriel, heretofore suspiciously cooperative, began to squirm fretfully.

“Don’t start acting up now,” Blake warned him, but the gun aimed at the porch didn’t waver.

“I’ve changed my mind!” Gabriel yelled, suddenly the very picture of a kid on the edge of a tantrum. “I don’t want to go with you!”

Lewis tightened his grip, eyes widening in dismay. “Hey, now. Stop that.”

“No!” Gabriel shouted, pushing at Lewis’ shoulder with one hand as he leaned back as far as he could, sucking in a huge gulp of air.

Dean winced, bracing himself for the outraged shriek that was sure to follow.

Gabriel whistled instead.

Dean clapped his hands over his ears, hunching his shoulders in a futile attempt to block the sound tearing its way through his head. He was distantly aware of the Sam and Bobby reacting similarly, could see Blake and Lewis flinching violently at the noise. He couldn’t blame them; The only time he’d ever heard anything like this was the day he’d dug his way out of a shallow grave.

“What the fuck was that?” he heard Blake demanding when his ears finally stopped ringing.

“I told you,” Gabriel answered petulantly. “I don’t want to go with you.”

“Scream like a banshee all you want,” Blake snarled. “I’ll just stuff a --”

A low, furious growl rumbled out from somewhere behind the piles of scrap littering Bobby’s yard. Lewis spun one way and Blake turned the other as two dark, compact shapes prowled into view, sure-footedly navigating a path through the junk.

Behind him, Bobby’s breath caught at the sight of his dogs, gone since the Winchesters had first led Meg to Bobby’s door.

“The car!” Lewis was urging frantically, backpedalling away from the dogs’ aggressive lope. “Get to the car!”

Blake fumbled his weapon as he changed direction, trying to draw a bead and scrabble for the door handle at the same time. Lewis had lost his grip on Gabriel, whose small face had lost all hints of childishness, when the well-placed sweep of a wing had clipped his jaw. He abandoned the kid where he fell, turning his back and diving for the car. Sam and Dean had already bounded down the steps, and they reached the intruders about the same time as the dogs did. Probably a good thing, Dean noted internally, since for all the fierceness of their snapping jaws, the dogs cast no shadow.

The dust had settled by the time that Blake and Lewis had been satisfactorily restrained, so Dean took his time assessing the situation.

The dogs had made their way over to Bobby, who was down on one knee and rubbing a hand over their not-quite-substantial heads. “Good dogs,” he was praising gruffly, and Dean wasn’t going to be the one who pointed out how wet his eyes were.

Balthazar and Cas had hurried over to Gabriel, who was picking himself up off the ground.

“Nicely done,” Balthazar commented approvingly as Cas helped Gabriel dust himself off.

Gabriel lifted a shoulder in a minute shrug. “I like dogs,” he said.

Dean frowned, not liking how thin his voice sounded. “You all right over there?” he called.

Instead of the sarcastic brush-off that Dean had half-expected, Gabriel just wilted.

Alarm spiked through Dean as Gabriel crumpled back to the ground, but he was immediately reassured by the exasperated look that Balthazar and Cas exchanged before they crouched down next to him.

“Always with the dramatics,” Dean sighed as he walked over to collect the kids, carefully not looking at the way Bobby’s empty hand clenched into a fist as the dogs evaporated under his touch.

Gabriel slept for nearly three days solid after his little display. Cas and Balthazar still didn’t seem all that worried, so Dean figured that meant Gabriel was going to be just fine. That trick with Bobby’s dogs had been one hell of an exertion for the little guy, after all. Sure enough, a few days after Blake and Lewis’ visit, Dean woke up in an extra warm bed. Finding himself in the centre of a nesting mass of baby angels almost made up for the discovery of the spray of rainbow candies stuck in his hair.

He huffed a laugh as he stared ruefully at his reflection and decided Gabriel had earned himself a freebie. Christ knew the little bastard would be crawling on his last nerve before long. Let the first prank be a relief, he decided. And if he stopped to give Gabriel’s hair an affectionate scruffle before he got on with removing his new ornaments, and if Gabriel turned his face into the blankets to hide a smile, well. There was no one else awake to see.

Fin

Is AO3 worth it?

evening_bat — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 05:03:50 GMT

I think I asked a variation on this already BUT. If there's anyone on my f-list who believes that a) I simply must have an account there and b) has an invitation lying around, please get in touch?

At the urging of one of my STBB collaborators, I applied for an invitation over three months ago. I was supposed to get it in late December but never did. Finally checked at the site tonight and it says that they can't find a record of my e-mail or application or something? And now there's almost three times as many people waiting for an invite.

...So yeah. If my option is a six-month wait, I think I might give it a miss.

EDIT: kayim is a wonderful, generous person and I now have an account! <3

[TF] FIC: The Tyranny of Petty Things

evening_bat — Sat, 12 Jan 2013 00:26:27 GMT

Title: The Tyranny of Petty Things
Author: evening_bat
Fandom: Transformers: G1
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~ 1700
Summary: Being part of a combiner team means never being alone.
Notes: Written for the December 2012 Anniversary Challenge over on gestalt_love. Rather than write 500+ words for a single prompt, I wrote 150-200 words for about ten of the prompts.

The Tyranny of Petty Things

“I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Vacation

It started as a joke, a forgivably lighthearted way of defying the constant warfare of their lives. Where will we go, the Aerialbots asked themselves, on our next day off? It was idle speculation, of course -- the Autobot-Decepticon conflict didn’t take days off -- but it helped pass the time on quiet patrols and long flights. Earth was a big planet and they hadn’t explored any of it beyond what had passed under their wings while on duty. Of course, they agreed in this as well as they agreed on anything else, which was to say, not at all. Every discussion invariably degenerated into passionate arguing about which destination was the best. The current chief contenders were Japan (land of the best and craziest cartoons, according to Air Raid), playing tag amongst the icebergs of the Arctic (Fireflight was inexplicably fascinated with the sights of the far north), and making their way through the spread of history and cultures of Europe (normally quiet Skydive would rhapsodize for hours if they let him). They hadn’t yet managed to come to an agreement but Silverbolt was compiling a list and promised himself that one day, he’d make sure his team got to see the places they were fighting for.

Empty

It was a perfect night for flying. No crisis impelling them forward, no urgent recall to base. Just the Aerialbots, the glittering stars overhead and the fluffy cloudscape below. Skydive knew he was broadcasting contentment but he didn’t mind. Quiet happiness echoed back to him through the team link and he was feeling just sentimental enough to be pleased at the thought of his wingmates either sharing his good humour or enjoying it. It couldn’t last, of course. Silverbolt’s nerves were starting to jangle and Slingshot was already grumbling something just below auditory range. Skydive had already had to herd Fireflight back into formation twice. They all knew it was just a matter of time until Air Raid started buzzing the tops of the clouds, to see them tear themselves apart and twist into new shapes in the wind of his passage. But short-lived or not, nights like this were the closest thing to peace that Skydive had ever known and he’d enjoy it as long as it lasted.

Necessary Distractions

The Aerialbots were a handful to manage, to put it mildly. Most ‘bots wouldn’t have thanked Optimus for assigning them the task of commanding that team but Silverbolt handled it with more grace than most expected of him and the Autobots were happy to leave it to him. Let him try to keep his wildly disparate teammates in line. Silverbolt would be the first to admit that the four of them could be a challenge, for all that he loved his wingmates with a gestalt leader’s fierce devotion. What he kept to himself was the fact that he needed his team every bit as much as they needed him. Keeping them alive and in the air gave him no chance to dwell on his own fears. Who had time to doubt himself when he was busy keeping Slingshot’s mouth from starting another war, making sure Skydive didn’t forget what outside air felt like, watching for obstacles in Fireflight’s path and preventing Air Raid from getting himself killed in the name of a good joke?

Dance Party

After hours of intermittent humming from Fireflight while en route back to the Ark, Silverbolt finally gave in and asked him what that music was. A song Jazz had played for him earlier, Fireflight answered cheerfully, and he’d had it stuck in his processor since he’d heard it. The trouble began when Slingshot grumbled at him to knock it off with the noise and Air Raid promptly started singing across their comms as loudly as he could. Silverbolt, preoccupied with mediating the shouting/singing match, didn’t take notice of how uncharacteristically unevenly Skydive was flying until Fireflight delightedly asked Skydive to show him how to dance too. Immediately distracted from the argument, Air Raid added his demand to know how Skydive had pulled off that wing wiggle to Fireflight’s shameless pleading. Silverbolt told them to stop being ridiculous but none of them were listening -- even Slingshot was starting to mutter that none of them would know maneuverability if it flew up their afterburners. When they flew back into range of the Ark’s sensors later that afternoon, the ‘bot on monitor duty contacted them to ask if their erratic flight paths meant that they were in need of assistance. All he received in response was a burst of five-toned laughter.

Lost

Fireflight got lost a lot. Everyone knew it, and most weren’t quiet in their joking about it. His teammates’ teasing was the loudest of all but Fireflight didn’t mind; it was also the fondest. He heard the other Autobots asking what was wrong with him, why couldn’t he just go from Point A to Point B without hitting Points C-Z en route? Even Ratchet sometimes paid a little bit too much attention to his internal guidance systems. Fireflight could never find the words to make them understand. Silverbolt insisted he didn’t have to explain, that being different didn’t mean he was defective, and that helped. But it was Air Raid that put it best. His brother found him perched on the mountain outside one afternoon and tugged him to his feet, then out into the wind. The rest of them were stupid if they didn’t understand that Fireflight hadn’t been made to fly in straight lines, Air Raid laughed across the comm as they chased each other across the sky. It was his job to see the stuff that other ‘bots missed and who cared if he did his job a little too well?

Lasers

The thing that drove Air Raid nuts about the Autobots is that most of them were so fragging serious all the time. Sure, war was no joke. But what was the harm in having a little fun with it? (Or even better - a lot of fun!) But for every ‘bot that appreciated a good laugh now and then, there were a dozen who got on Air Raid’s case for being careless or reckless or foolish. And really, that’s what Air Raid had Silverbolt for. (Biggest killjoy this side of Cybertron, his team leader.) It wasn’t that Air Raid didn’t understand that fighting the Decepticons was a matter of life and death -- he wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t get why everyone seemed so convinced that he had to be somber in order to survive. Trading mid-air shots with Starscream wasn’t going to get any easier just because Air Raid stopped laughing whenever Starscream screeched at him. Let the Autobots disapprove as much as they liked, Air Raid decided, he wasn’t going to die without having enjoyed life first.

Feelings Are Dumb

Slingshot hated everything. And everyone. All of it -- all of them. Fragging Decepticons who couldn’t hit the broad side of a waste shuttle and their all crowing about one lucky hit. The Autobot groundpounders were even worse, snarking about how all it took was one little missile to knock him out of the sky. Then there the rest of the Aerialbots, who just shrugged off the insults like the scorn didn’t matter. So great to know that they had his back! And now here came stupid Fireflight, walking right through his brush-offs to wrap himself around Slingshot and telling him how those jokes didn’t matter, because they all knew better. And oh look, the rest of the team had followed him, leaving Slingshot smothered under a cluster of limbs and wings that refused to let him go, no matter how hard he squirmed or complained. But more than anything else, Slingshot hated how the ridiculous cuddling actually made him feel better.

Loyalty

The Aerialbots’ presence was an undeniable tactical advantage but that didn’t mean that the Autobots were entirely comfortable with the team of jets. Part of it was the natural separation between ground and aerial troops, exacerbated by millions of years of conditioning that insisted anything that flew was an enemy. The Aerialbots’ early, naive fascination with Starscream and his Seekers hadn’t helped ease that old prejudice. The Autobots’ faith wasn’t bolstered by the Aerialbots’ overt quirkiness, either: Silverbolt got nervous in the air, Slingshot was a temperamental braggart, Fireflight had trouble flying in a straight line, Air Raid was enthusiastically reckless and Skydive would rather read than fly. But for all his army’s grumbling, Optimus trusted Silverbolt and his team. He’d ordered their creation, helped build their frames with his own hands. It was at his command that the freshly-sparked Aerialbots had woken to find themselves embroiled in a war. The least Optimus owed them was the freedom to make their own choices and faith enough to trust they’d make the right ones.

Team Leader

Silverbolt had always been the leader of the Aerialbots. Despite Slingshot’s early rebelliousness and Air Raid’s occasional complaints about how boring he was, there was no question about who commanded the team. Optimus might have made it official but Silverbolt had always been as central to his wingmates as he was to Superion. Silverbolt kept Slingshot’s attitude from getting him killed, reminded Skydive that there was more to life than his datafiles, watched and corrected Fireflight’s midair meandering, and reined in the worst of Air Raid’s recklessness. As far as the rest of the Autobots were concerned, Silverbolt was the only reason the rest of the Aerialbots were halfway functional. What everyone tended to forget was that Silverbolt’s team was as protective of him as he was of them. That was fine by the Aerialbots; delivering reminders was so much more satisfying when the targets never saw it coming.

Shared Space

Silverbolt’s immediate reaction to Prowl’s appearance at the door to the Aerialbots’ quarters was a hastily concealed sigh as he wondered what his wingmates had done this time. Prowl’s wry shake of the head told him that he hadn’t hidden his resignation well enough but it turned out that he hadn’t needed to worry. For once, Prowl wasn’t there to call anyone out on any infringement of the rules. Ongoing excavation efforts had opened up new living spaces in the Ark, he explained, and Optimus wondered if the Aerialbots wouldn’t like to move into proper quarters. Silverbolt considered the option for a moment, glancing over the hastily converted cargo bay that had been assigned to them upon their unexpected arrival. His optics lingered briefly on his team, clustered around their cobbled-together entertainment system and cheering over a terrible movie involving an improbable amount of car crashes. He was smiling when he turned back to thank Prowl and assure him that they were just fine where they were.

Fin

Notes: I’ve been away from my beloved Aerialbots for far too long!

[FMA] FIC: Knowledge In Pursuit (Courage So Rare #1)

evening_bat — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 00:09:23 GMT

Title: Knowledge In Pursuit
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: G
Word Count: ~ 2200
Warnings: none
Summary: The military’s newest State Alchemist is a genius. And a prodigy. And a brat.
Notes: First in the Courage So Rare series.

Knowledge In Pursuit

“What we want is to see the child in pursuit of knowledge, and not knowledge in pursuit of the child.” ~ George Bernard Shaw

When Colonel Hughes sailed into the Investigations Office that morning, he was full of effusive cheer, bestowing beaming smiles and bright greetings to everyone as he made his way into his office. His staff knew better than to accept his upbeat demeanour without question, however, and there were no few suspicious glances darted at his back as he meandered his way through the outer office. Their misgivings were confirmed when he brought himself up short before entering his office with the air of someone who’d abruptly remembered something.

“We’re receiving guests today so everyone be on your best behaviour!” he instructed, rapping his knuckles on the edge of Roy’s desk. “Especially you, Major Mustang. The Promise Life Alchemist will be making her rounds today with her newest recruit.”

Well, that explained the angry glitter of Hughes’ eyes behind his glasses. Maes’ daughter was only a few months old and he had strong opinions about kids these days. Reinhold’s latest prodigy had been a sore spot since word of him had crossed Hughes’ desk. Not that Roy was terribly impressed with what he’d heard, either.

“Of course, Colonel,” he replied aloud, drawing himself up out of his casual slouch into a properly respectful posture. “We’d never embarrass you by being at anything less than our best.”

That won him an amused snort and an easing of the sharp edges of Hughes’ smile. “I have complete faith in you all,” Hughes assured him dryly.

As he should. Roy would be the last person who’d willingly cause trouble for Maes. Not after everything the man had done for him over the years. Not even if it meant playing nice with Reinhold’s upstart of a protege.

Hughes’ warning had come not a moment too soon; footsteps in the hallway announced that their guests were here. The sound prompted a flurry of motion as the Investigations personnel hastily put the finishing touches on their appearance of a typical, hard-working military office. By the time the first knock sounded on their outer door, everyone was deeply immersed in their paperwork against a backdrop of Fuery’s quiet conversation with some distant operative.

“Miss Reinhold!” Hughes greeted as Falman ushered them in, “Welcome to Investigations. What can we do for you this morning?”

The Promise Life Alchemist favoured Hughes with a sweet smile and shook her head. “Don’t put yourselves out on our behalf,” she replied, putting her hand on the shoulder of the boy standing next to her. “I’m just giving Edward here the grand tour.”

Lucky Edward, treated to the niceties that so many other alchemists had been denied, Roy reflected cynically. Perhaps that’s what came of being Denise Reinhold’s latest “discovery”. The Promise Life Alchemist had the Fuhrer’s ear (opinion was sharply divided as to whether his regard was for her expertise in biological alchemy or for how she looked in her decidedly non-regulation suits) and any alchemist she sponsored was assured prominence and preferential treatment.

Being drafted into the military and pressed into service for the Ishval conflict hadn’t featured anywhere in Roy’s plans but he’d made the best of it. His alchemy had quickly distinguished him, and he’d easily made a reputation for himself, thankfully gathering enough influence to eventually collect Riza Hawkeye back to his side after he’d discovered his teacher’s daughter working as a sniper near the front lines. Being assigned to Hughes’ squad had proven just the advantage they’d all needed; they’d kept each other alive and won enough acclaim that they’d secured positions for themselves and their people after the dust of the war settled. That they’d finally found people worthy of trust in each other and the small group of subordinates they’d gathered, they kept to themselves. Roy and Maes had new plans now and taking care of their own was no small part of that.

But for all that Roy was far less of a glory hound than was generally believed, it had been all too easy to resent the much-touted Edward Elric. Roy may not have intended to pursue State Certification but there was a twisted sort of pride to having earned the military’s respect. To see it being handed over to a precocious child was grating. Edward was a genius, raved the rumours, even at the tender age of just twelve! Strong and determined enough to bear the strain of two automail limbs, despite his youth and the infamous pain associated with the prosthetics. Reinhold had openly claimed that he was one of the most gifted alchemists she’d ever seen and by all accounts he’d lived up to her words with the impressive means by which he’d gained his Certification just last week. Roy hadn’t been sure what to make of the stories making the rounds of Central after Edward’s test -- some of what was being said seemed outright impossible. Regardless of how he’d done it, the boy had earned his watch and his name.

None of that, however disconcerting, was what currently had Roy struggling to keep his expression calm and unruffled. Central had been alive with whispers of Reinhold’s new discovery for weeks now. The rumour mill had exploded after Edward’s Certification tests, half-hysterical claims that he could transmute without an array snaking their way through the network of alchemists stationed at HQ. But for all the stories circulating about him, for all the fuss being made over his youth, no one had mentioned the fact that the newly-titled Fullmetal Alchemist was such a tiny child.

He was striking, to be sure -- Roy had never seen the like of the boy’s eyes before -- but still just a child. He wore red like a challenge and the stubborn set of his mouth fairly shouted belligerence but nothing could disguise the childish contours of that face. Roy couldn’t quite stop the clench of sympathy that caught in his chest at the sight of him. Whatever kind of genius he was, twelve was far too young to be selling himself to the military, no matter what prize Reinhold had dangled before him.

Then again, Reinhold had never been known for having a terribly firm grasp on the finer points of morality versus practicality, Roy privately acknowledged as he stood to meet the newcomer. Probably another reason why she was one of the Fuhrer’s favourites. The boy was barely chest-high on her - what had she been thinking?

“Ah, yes,” Hughes acknowledged easily, and only someone who knew him as well as Roy did could have spotted the way that his pleasant smile had hardened at Reinhold’s proprietary clasp of Edward’s shoulder. “You’d be Edward Elric, then? Our new Fullmetal Alchemist?”

“Yeah, that’d be me,” Edward answered, chin tipping upward.

Something in Hughes’ expression softened at the obvious challenge Edward was levelling at him, and his smile warmed into something genuine. “I’m Colonel Maes Hughes, of Investigations. Nice to meet you, Edward.”

The pleasantry seemed to catch Edward off guard, unusual gold eyes widening at Hughes’ words. His initial hostility faltered as he shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, flicking his eyes to the side as he mumbled something that might have passed for a civil greeting.

“Let me introduce you to my team,” Hughes began, sweeping a hand wide to indicate the rest of his staff.

“Actually, Colonel, we’re a bit pressed for time today,” Reinhold interrupted. “We’ll have to make time later for Edward to properly meet everyone.”

Reinhold was good, Roy privately acknowledged. But for the faint gleam in her eyes as she glanced over at Roy, you’d think she was actually apologizing for dismissing the majority of the people in the room.

“I was hoping to see that he gets a chance to meet his colleagues,” Reinhold continued, which was Roy’s cue to emerge from behind his desk to be presented.

To give Edward credit where credit was due, he seemed every bit as sharp as the stories had described. The arrays on Roy’s gloves had immediately caught his attention and Roy had seen the quick dart of his eyes as Edward checked for the watch at Roy’s belt. From the lopsided twist to his frown, Roy thought he might have even caught Reinhold’s subtle insult. That was a bit of a surprise; Roy would have thought that someone in Edward’s position would be inclined to believe in the superiority of alchemy and its practitioners. Well, well, well. Perhaps he wasn’t the pampered prodigy Roy had suspected.

Keeping his expression clear with the ease of long practice, Roy stepped forward and held out a hand. “I’m Major Roy Mustang. Hello, Edward.”

“The Flame Alchemist,” Reinhold added helpfully.

Edward ignored both of them and made no move to take Roy’s extended hand, though he did lean a bit closer to inspect the lines stitched on Roy’s glove. When he finally looked up, there was an openly insolent sneer on his face and Roy heaved a mental sigh. Apparently, he’d hoped too soon when he thought there might be something to this boy.

“I think I get why they call you the Flame Alchemist,” Edward said.

“Oh?” Roy prompted mildly, preparing to accept some slight to his array design, some criticism of his capabilities, or something similar in the vein of overconfident youth the world around. “And why do you think that is?”

“From what I can see, you’re full of nothing but hot air,” Edward shot back with a smirk.

Roy froze for a moment, fingers twitching as he fought the urge to swat the puffed-up little brat. The smothered snicker clearly audible in the startled silence of the office did nothing to improve his temper. The last of his sympathy for Elric evaporated, along with any lingering desire to practice politics. Hastily recovering his composure, he pulled on a smug smile of his own.

“I’m sure it must seem like that from your perspective,” he asserted smoothly, looking down his nose. “Perhaps when you’ve grown up a bit, you’ll be able to better appreciate how an adult works.”

He was delighted to see Elric flush crimson with outrage. “WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULDN’T SEE OVER YOUR BOOTS?” he howled.

“Edward,” Reinhold snapped, breaking her own sweet-faced facade to glare at her spluttering protege.

Roy hadn’t expected her admonishment to have any effect -- quite frankly, he’d been looking forward to more fireworks -- but Elric surprised him by subsiding under Reinhold’s forbidding stare, however sullenly.

She put her arm back around him, visibly tightening her grip on his left shoulder as she gave Roy and Hughes a tight smile. “You’ll have to excuse him. Edward is young and the last few weeks have been overwhelming.”

A squeeze of her hand prompted Elric to mutter something vaguely conciliatory.

“And now we have to be off,” Reinhold said as she steered Elric out of the office. “Thank you for your time, Colonel, Major!”

As they passed through the doorway, Reinhold bent her head to whisper into Elric’s ear. Her voice was too low to be overheard but from the rigid set of Elric’s shoulders, Roy didn’t imagine her words were kind.

Hughes clapped his hands together as the door closed behind Reinhold and Elric. “Well!” he said brightly. “That was exciting.”

“Exciting isn’t the word I’d have chosen,” Roy retorted, temper still simmering. He wished Reinhold luck with Elric; from what he’d seen, they deserved each other. As far as Roy was concerned, no amount of alchemical genius was worth that attitude.

“It certainly shouldn’t have been exciting,” Hughes agreed. “In fact, I seem recall someone making promises about his best behaviour?” He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin as he squinted theatrically. “Now, who was that?”

“My behaviour was entirely appropriate to the situation,” Roy asserted. “That was a calculated response to a verbal assault.”

There was another strangled laugh from behind him and a sharp sideways glance caught Havoc hastily ducking behind a stack of paperwork. Roy would remember that, the next time one of Havoc’s girlfriends started flirting with him.

“So, it was a tactical temper tantrum?” Hughes suggested guilelessly.

Roy resisted the urge to scowl at him. “Nothing of the sort,” he insisted. “It was returning discourtesy for discourtesy. Call it fighting fire with fire.”

“Hot air feeds fire,” Hawkeye remarked blandly from her desk, without looking up from the forms she was busy completing.

“Not you too, Second Lieutenant?” Roy asked mournfully.

“Prove me wrong by attending to your work. Sir,” she responded evenly.

Well, at least no one was laughing at him this time, Roy reasoned as he slunk back to his desk. They were too busy pretending to be hard at work. Having the most intimidating lieutenant in the service as your second was occasionally useful. Even Hughes had purposefully retreated into his office, though not before Roy caught the unhappy quirk of his lips as he looked back at the door through which Reinhold and Elric had departed.

Let Hughes worry about the brat if he wanted, Roy decided as he took his seat again. Fatherhood had clearly rotted the man’s brain if Hughes thought Elric was worth the time or trouble. Roy had more pressing concerns, including a pile of papers that really should have been signed yesterday and about which Hawkeye was going to be very irritated. That was as many problems as a man needed. Too young for military life or not, Elric wasn’t Roy’s concern. In fact, Roy would be just as happy if he never had to contend with the obnoxious little hellion ever again.

Good luck and good riddance, Edward Elric, Roy silently wished him as he resolutely focused on the forms spread across his desk. And may it be a long time until we meet again.

Fin

The Masterpost for the Courage So Rare series.

[FMA] FIC: Courage So Rare series (Masterpost)

evening_bat — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 23:55:34 GMT

Courage So Rare

Amazing cover graphic made by seryan.

It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world and moral courage so rare. ~ Mark Twain

An AU of the 2003 series, including some elements from Brotherhood.

(1) Knowledge In Pursuit: The military’s newest State Alchemist was a genius. And a prodigy. And a brat.

(2) Even To Live: All in all, Roy thought he’d rather face rogue chimera than accept help from the specialist Central had sent.

(3) What Is Demanded of Genius: When half of Central HQ went up in flames late one night, the military focused on the obvious suspect.

(4) Pleases the Eyes Only: Elric’s temper had gotten him into trouble again. Getting him out of it would require a bit of creativity on Roy’s part.

(5) The Outcome of Despair: Roy had been so busy wanting to strangle the kid that he’d forgotten that they all had reasons for accepting the military’s leash.

(6) The Worst Cowardice: Maes had always had a knack for making Roy confront uncomfortable truths.

(7) Build Your Wings: Plotting high treason was a delicate game; Edward was a dangerously unpredictable complication.

(8) More Important Than Fear: Edward’s knowledge of alchemy was encyclopedic, but his grasp of tactics was far less so.

(9) Passing Contentment: There was no array to repair the pieces of a shattered life.

(NB: Stories without active links are forthcoming.)

Comments and feedback welcome! Thanks for reading.

[FMA] FIC: Liveware Problem

evening_bat — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 14:57:48 GMT

Title: Liveware Problem
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: Rish? (Entirely for Ed's foul mouth.)
Word Count: ~ 1400
Warnings: none
Summary: We seem to be experiencing a PEBKAC error.
Notes: So I used to work in a reception/tech support type role... And when akainagi mentioned she was having a crappy day at work, it reminded me of this cracky bit of self-indulgence. Hope it brightens someone’s day and uh, please to not be taking this at all seriously.

Liveware Problem

Everyone jumped when the door to their suite slammed open without warning. Jean, whose misfortune it was to occupy the desk closest to the door, started so violently that he almost tipped himself out of his chair. Kain yelped as coffee from the cup Jean had been cradling sloshed over the edge of his desk. Heymans just rolled his eyes and blew ashes off of his paperwork when Jean’s flailing knocked his not-so-carefully hidden ashtray flying. Riza just passed Kain a wad of tissues and turned a calm stare on the person glowering at them from the doorway.

“Someone called about a computer problem?” Ed growled into the chaos his entry had caused.

“We did,” Riza confirmed. “Please come this way.”

Ed snorted, tossing his ponytail over his shoulder as he stomped into the office. “Oh great. Don’t tell me that he managed to screw up his machine again?”

“He has,” Riza replied, quirking an infinitesimal, sympathetic smile at Ed’s eloquent sigh.

“I thought Al was the one that answered the phone?” Jean asked as Ed blew past his desk, blotting futilely at his dress shirt with a few tissues he’d snitched from Kain.

“He did,” Ed answered grumpily. “But the Records branch called just after you guys and Al’s the only one who can figure out their stupid system.”

Given Ed’s reputation for being able to fix anything short of a smoking ruin, it was far likelier that Al was the only one who had the patience to deal with Records’ antiquated system. Not that anyone was going to argue with the notoriously cranky tech genius.

“So lucky me,” Ed was saying as he reached their manager’s office and pushed the door open, “I get to come up and see what the hell you’ve done this time.”

“Ah, Edward,” came Roy’s voice. “Always wonderful to see you.”

“Shove it, Roy,” Ed snapped. “I’d be a whole lot happier if I didn’t have to see you so damn often. Who the fuck kills their computer twice in three days? This week alone?”

No one flinched when Ed kicked the door shut behind him; they were too busy trying to hear what he was saying. You couldn’t pay for a better show than Ed and Roy at odds.

“I believe you all have work of your own to do?” Riza pointedly reminded her too-curious colleagues.

“Aw, c’mon!” Jean protested. “We’re going to miss --”

“I think you’d best concern yourself with your own affairs,” she interrupted, pointing to his desk. “Unless you’d prefer to explain to Edward why your keyboard took a coffee bath?”

“Shit!” Jean exclaimed, hastily swiping at the spreading puddle. Kain and Vato hastened to help, while Heymans snickered and pointed to areas at particular risk.

Satisfied that their attention had been sufficiently redirected, Riza returned to her desk. There would be more than enough work to make up without letting the office fall further behind.

On the other side of the door, Ed glared at Roy. “So? What is it now?”

Roy pushed himself away from his desk, both hands held up in surrender. “I don’t know. It’s not working.”

“Not working?” Ed repeated scathingly. “Gee, thanks. That clears it right up. You think you could be a bit more specific?”

Roy’s smile widened as Ed’s scowl deepened with frustration. “I’m not sure what happened. One minute everything was working just fine, the next minute it was all dead,” he offered, waving a hand at the pile of inert electronics on his desk.

“Did you try --” Ed began.

“And yes, I did try restarting it,” Roy cut him off smartly. “It won’t start.”

“It won’t start? At all?” Ed blinked at that, then shook himself. “Well, if anyone could fry a computer just by looking at it, it’s you.”

“I’m hardly that bad,” Roy protested mildly.

“Ha!” Ed scoffed. “Then why do I end up in your office more often than everyone else’s put together?”

“I couldn’t say,” Roy said. “Bad connections?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Out of the way,” Ed ordered.

Roy obediently rolled his chair further away from the desk, watching patiently as Ed tried turning his computer back on with no success.

“Okay, fine, you bastard,” Ed sighed, apparently addressing the computer. “Make me work for a better look, why don’t you?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Roy murmured (carefully under his breath) as Ed crawled under the desk.

The Elrics were good enough at their jobs that management tended to look the other way over minor things like dress code violations, especially since Al, at least, generally wore jeans that were more denim than hole. This afternoon, however, Ed was wearing a gloriously frayed pair, which his position under Roy’s desk was displaying to wonderful effect. Really, Roy couldn’t be blamed for appreciating such a sight if it presented itself, could he?

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Roy! Half of these cables are unplugged!” Ed shouted in disgust.

“Are they?” Roy answered absently, eyes on the enticing curve of Ed’s ass as he squirmed around. “I can’t think of how that might have happened.”

There was a dangerous silence from under the desk.

"If you're staring at my ass, I am going to stab you with your own pen," Ed told him flatly.

“Now, Edward,” Roy protested, hastily redirecting his eyes to a handful of papers he swiped from his desk. "Would I do something like that?"

"YES."

"In my own office?" There was a trick to projecting injured innocence. Roy had mastered it years ago.

"ESPECIALLY in your own office," Ed shot back venomously.

“What have I ever done to deserve the low opinion of me you have?” Roy asked mournfully, grinning safely out of Ed’s sight.

“Playing footsie with your computer cables sure as shit isn’t helping!” Ed informed him as he emerged from under the desk, intriguingly flushed from his efforts. He jabbed the power button and sent Roy a viciously pleased grin when the computer chimed in response, start up sequence proceeding without a hitch. “Save it for your dates next time, would you?”

He headed for the door as he was speaking but the lack of response surprised him and he twisted mid-step, surprising a look of consideration on Roy’s face.

As soon as Roy caught Ed looking, he wiped the expression off of his face and replaced it with a bland smile. “I’ll keep the advice in mind. Thank you for fixing my computer.”

“S’my job, isn’t it?” Ed said, shrugging uncomfortably as he darted a suspicious glance at Roy.

“So it is,” Roy acknowledged, smile broadening into something more genuine.

“Yeah, well,” Ed muttered, edging towards the door. “Try not to need anything else for the next little while.”

Roy let him go without further comment, merely raising an eyebrow when Riza stepped into the gap Ed had left.

“A last minute cancellation of a teleconference is no excuse to waste IT’s time,” she informed him. “Edward has more important things to do than entertain you.”

“What are you suggesting, Riza? I’m just hopeless with computers,” Roy answered airily, though his smirk told an entirely different story.

“I’m suggesting you ask him out, Roy,” Riza replied, ignoring his astonishment and reflexive protest. “I have it on good authority that he’d say yes.”

“Eventually,” Roy managed dryly. “After he stopped swearing at me, maybe.”

“Probably,” she agreed as she withdrew to the outer office. “But he would say yes.”

Roy wasn’t left to wonder about Riza’s “good authority” for long.

Just get on with things and ask my brother out, read the e-mail from Al that landed in Roy’s inbox a few minutes later. I’m getting tired of hearing him complain that you kill more computers than we do houseplants. You take him out somewhere that serves good food, I’ll make sure he wears those leather pants you keep hearing about. Everybody wins.

Roy stared thoughtfully at the message for a long moment before deciding against asking Al if tomorrow was too soon. But he was due a coffee break about now and there was no reason not to stop by the IT office on his way back. A coffee was the least he owed Ed, after all. And now he had even more incentive to stay on Al’s good side.

He carefully did not notice the money changing hands as he swept out of the office

Fin

Note: For those of you who’ve been lucky enough to avoid working in tech support, PEBKAC = Problem Exists Between Keyboard And Chair. Otherwise known as User Error. :)

[FMA] FIC: As If It Were Impossible

evening_bat — Sun, 02 Dec 2012 23:26:21 GMT

Title: As If It Were Impossible
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-ish
Word Count: ~ 3100
Warnings: mention of Ishval and violent imagery
Summary: It had seemed like a great idea at the time. Roy really should have expected things to go awry.
Notes: Pre-series, no particular canon.

Thanks to seryan for looking this over while I was writing it! Remaining issues are entirely my fault.

Thanks also to akainagi for helping me remember how much I love this series! (And not so coincidentally, reminding me that I had projects-in-progress that I could finish up.)

As If It Were Impossible

"Believe and act as if it were impossible to fail." ~ Charles Kettering

"Right, Hughes. Thanks for the warning," Roy said into the phone, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"Not a problem," Hughes replied blithely. "I figured you'd appreciate some advance notice. Just wish I'd heard about it earlier. You won't have much time to scheme anything."

"Don't worry, it'll be fine," Roy assured his friend. "I'll make sure to get them out of the way before anything happens."

"Of course you will," Hughes agreed complacently, and Roy scowled at how easily Hughes read him, even over the phone.

"And I should go get started on that," Roy announced. "Right now."

"What? But I haven't had a chance to tell you about Alicia's success in the kitchen!" Hughes protested. "Gracia taught her how to make cookies this weekend and I tell you Roy, you've never tasted anything so sweet!"

"Sorry, Maes. Got to go," Roy interrupted loudly. "Haven't got much time to waste!" He quickly hung up the phone, cutting off the faint sounds of Hughes' babbling.

The best excuses were the ones that were true, Roy mused as he rested his chin thoughtfully in the palm of one hand. Hughes had given them as much warning as he could -- and thank God for that -- but Roy didn't have much time to act. Shaking his head, he rose from his desk with a faint sigh and walked out into the main office.

Oh good, he thought as he opened the door, the Elrics were already here. That was one less problem with which to contend. Roy allowed himself a moment to take stock of the surprisingly quiet goings-on outside his office. Ed was leaning against Havoc's desk, chatting amiably with Roy's staff. Al was crouched down, happily petting Black Hayate. It was almost a shame to interrupt such a pleasant scene but the military waited for no man. Or boy, as the case may be.

"Ah, Fullmetal," Roy greeted him with a smirk. "You're here. Excellent."

Ed had glanced up at the sound of his title but his customary scowl quickly faded into suspicion.

"Yeah?" he acknowledged cautiously. "What do you want?"

"There's something I want you to look into," he began smoothly.

"What?" Ed squawked indignantly. "But I just got back from an assignment!"

"How convenient that I have a new one for you, then," Roy told him, falling naturally into the pleased superiority that served him so well in his dealings with Ed. "There are worrisome rumours coming out of Terring. Some trouble with a local militia. It's close enough that you can get started today - Havoc will drive you out."

There was an angry flush already suffusing Ed's cheeks and he glared hotly at Roy.

"We were supposed to be getting leave. You said we'd have some time off. You know we've got research to do," Ed said through gritted teeth, half a breath away from a childish accusation of You promised!

Much as he'd normally enjoy teasing Ed into a fit of temper, now was not the time and Roy let his expression ice over with disdain.

"I am your commander, Fullmetal," he said coldly. "Since it seems to have slipped your mind - again - let me remind you: you are in the military. Your job is to do as you are told. And I am telling you to go investigate the rumours in Terring."

Ed stared at him, speechless with outrage. There was an unusually betrayed edge to his glare and Roy felt a twinge of regret. He wasn't usually this heavy-handed with Ed. Besides, the protest was nothing less than the truth. Roy had as good as promised Ed a break between assignments and Fullmetal had certainly earned it. Even Al was managing to give him a wounded stare, inflexibility of the armour notwithstanding.

Roy simply raised an eyebrow in pointed inquiry.

"Fine, then," Ed spat, whirling around and stomping out of the office.

Al clambered hastily to his feet, making the usual round of apologies and polite farewells as he followed his brother. Roy didn't think he imagined the faint stiffness in Al's manner as he addressed him but that was to be expected.

When the door closed behind the brothers, the others in the room turned as one to fasten their eyes on Roy. They were all fond of the Elrics, never mind the difficulty of Ed's temper, and no one liked seeing the boy deliberately hurt.

"General Sterling is on his way to East HQ as we speak," Roy said by way of explanation for his actions, voice carefully uninflected. "A surprise inspection tour. I'm told he was especially looking forward to conversing with the Fullmetal Alchemist."

There was a moment of appalled silence. They'd all heard of Sterling.

"Sterling and the boss in the same room?" Havoc shook his head. "There's no way that'd end well. Guess I'd better get down to the motor pool, then," he announced, pushing his chair away from the desk.

There was a brief shuffle of paper as Havoc happily redistributed his share of the work, cheerfulness not the least bit dented by the irritable glares of his coworkers as he sailed out of the office.

"General Sterling's adherence to protocol is well known," Falman observed as Havoc departed.

Breda snorted under his breath. "He's a stickler for the rules, you mean," he muttered. "I'll just bet he's looking forward to talking to the Fullmetal Alchemist."

"Such a shame that Fullmetal couldn't be here to meet him," Roy agreed solemnly. "But one can't be too careful about signs of civil unrest."

Not the most inspired of reasons, to be sure, with the constant stream of whispers of militia action and rebel movements from the small towns scattered in the areas surrounding Central. Fortunately, they often sounded credibly threatening and Roy would have no trouble justifying why he'd sent Ed out to ascertain the truth.

Hawkeye's quelling look silenced them all. "You all have more important things to do than gossiping about absent colleagues," she said firmly.

That was true enough, Roy thought as he headed back to his desk. A day or two wasn't much but it would be plenty of time to patch together a solid cover story for Ed's absence. Fuery was already retuning his radio, notepad at the ready. From the snatches Roy caught of Breda and Falman's quiet conversation, Breda was cobbling together another one of the falsified reports he was so good at. Hawkeye supervised everyone as calmly as always, approval apparent as she overlooked their failure to get any of their assigned work done.

Roy smiled to himself as he set his pen to his own stack of papers. Fiercely independent as he was, Ed had never realized how much support he had in Roy's office. Presuming he and his staff were able to manage the situation as effectively as Roy hoped, Ed would go a while longer without knowing.

* * * * *

When the phone rang nearly a week later, Roy's desk was swimming in paperwork. A general's visit was a surefire way to generate even more useless forms than usual to be completed in triplicate. Sterling, not pleased to have missed his chance at the Fullmetal Alchemist, had demanded copies of Ed's reports -- and Roy's reports on Ed's reports -- on top of the usual documentation, adding to Roy's typical workload. Hawkeye had gathered the papers as efficiently as ever but even her direst looks didn't make them any more entertaining to fill out. Roy was in the process of attempting to locate three difference references in the sea of paper drifting across his desk when the phone shrilled for attention. He scooped up the handset and wedged it between his shoulder and his ear as he tugged carefully at a mostly-buried file.

"Mustang," he said automatically. Right, that was the file successfully retrieved. Now where the hell was his letter opener?

"Hey, Colonel Bastard."

No need to wonder who that was, Roy thought with a wry grin. "Good afternoon, Fullmetal. So nice to hear from you."

"Yeah, yeah," Ed grumbled. "We took care of your militia problem."

You what? Roy nearly blurted. Those rumours about the militias hadn't been true. They never were. "Have you now?" he stalled.

Ed snorted in his ear. "Yeah, we did. It was a pain in the ass, too," he complained.

"Militia forces tend not to be concerned with the convenience of soldiers," Roy chided in his best superior tone, trusting Ed's quick temper to blind him to any signs that he'd caught Roy off-guard.

Ed had been assigned to Roy's command for years. Events like this really ought to have lost their power to surprise Roy by now, he reflected as he half-listened to the familiar sound of Ed's ranting. Still, common sense and logical expectations were no match for the sheer chaos that dogged Ed's footsteps. Roy had honestly thought he was sending the Elrics out to chase baseless rumours. How did the boy do it?

Ed finally wound down, fit of anger fading into a disgruntled huff. "So are you going to send someone to get us or should we start asking around for a ride?" he demanded.

"I'll send someone for you," Roy informed him magnanimously. He could afford to be generous. Ed had done well and Roy did owe him for the cancelled days of leave. Havoc hated paperwork every bit as much as Roy did so he wouldn't mind a chance to escape the office, even if it meant a few hours of driving.

"So kind of you," Ed replied sarcastically. "You'd better send some kind of transport for the militia guys, too. There was about thirty-five of them. They're buried in the field outside of town for now but I don't think you want to just leave them there."

"They're where?"

"In the field outside of town," Ed repeated impatiently. "Shit, that's Al - he's looking for me. Gotta go, Colonel. See you later." A sharp click and then there was nothing but the humming of the empty line.

Roy stared numbly at the phone, barely remembering to hang it up properly. He couldn't have understood that correctly. In none of Roy's carefully constructed plans did the idea of Ed killing over thirty men make any sense. Then again, he'd seen Ed fight. When the ground itself was a weapon... A sudden vivid image painted itself behind his eyes, a forest of upthrust stone spears and the damage they would do to human flesh. Roy swallowed hard and rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth; the smell of blood and the sound of breaking bones was far too easy to call to mind.

But this wasn't Ishval and Ed wasn't him. Roy took a deep breath and willed the nausea away as his brain ticked over and started working again. He must have misunderstood Ed's words -- this was Edward and his refusal to kill was renowned. He had enough faith in Ed, Roy decided, to believe in the boy's morality until he had a chance to assess the situation in person.

* * * * *

The ride to Terring was a silent one. Hawkeye and the others had been just as startled as Roy by the announcement that the Elrics had caught the nonexistent militia soldiers and Havoc had leaped at the chance to see it all firsthand. He must have caught some of Roy's mood when he met him down by the motor pool, however, since he restrained his evident curiosity. Busying himself with his ever-present cigarette instead, Havoc considerately left Roy to ponder in peace. Roy appreciated the gesture, even if it didn't make the trip any easier on his nerves.

Evening was falling by the time they reached their destination, headlights sweeping the rough roads as they turned onto the rural street that led to Terring. Deciding that propriety could wait, Roy had eschewed the back seat when they left Central and he was grateful for it now, leaning slightly forward as he strained to see through the gathering darkness. "In the field outside of town," Ed had said and Roy was alert for any sign of the brothers. He didn't have to look very hard. The houses of Terring were barely in sight when the car's headlights picked up the gleam of armour and a bright splash of red standing in a field of torn earth studded with dozens of pale blobs.

"What the hell?" Havoc choked out, voice strangled with barely suppressed laughter.

Roy didn't blame him. For once, he didn't bother to hide his own amusement.

Ed had told Roy that the men were buried in the field but it would have been more appropriate to say that they'd been planted. They looked like some bizarre crop of cabbages.

"I don't know," he admitted, as Havoc braked and the car settled to a stop. "But I'm looking forward to finding out. You go direct the convoy," he ordered as Havoc turned off the motor.

"Will do, Colonel," Havoc replied cheerfully, eyeing the heads poking out of the dirt. "This ought to be one hell of a story," he chortled to himself as he slid out of the car, slamming the door shut as he trotted off.

"Of that, I have no doubt," Roy murmured to himself as he opened the door.

"Oi! About time you showed up! I called in hours ago!" came a welcome shout as he stepped out of the vehicle.

He turned his head and spotted Ed sauntering over to the car, Al clanking along behind him.

"And it takes hours to get here, Fullmetal," Roy replied, employing the imperturbable tone that never failed to drive Ed mad. "Especially when one has to arrange a convoy on a moment's notice," he added with a careless wave at the trucks pulling up to a halt in the rough earth, men spilling out of them.

"Least you're good for something," Ed muttered under his breath, yelping when Al jabbed a metal finger into his back.

"Be nice, brother!" he hissed.

"Yeah, yeah," Ed grumbled, rubbing absently at the offended area. "Thanks for the backup," he added grudgingly.

Roy was spared from answering when Havoc ambled back, having finished his conversation with the convoy leaders.

"Damn, boss!" Havoc exclaimed as he caught sight of Ed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing much," Ed shrugged. "Mud's just dirt and water," he explained.

Havoc considered the heads poking up out of the churned-up earth with a low whistle. "Nothing much? Not sure I wanna see you exert yourself then."

"For the likes of these guys?" Ed actually sounded a bit insulted. "We barely had to break a sweat!"

"When we found the group of them training with their rifles, we had to find a way to stop them in a hurry," Al put in. "Brother's idea worked like a charm!"

The image of the two boys facing down an armed and violent militia nearly made Roy break into a sweat. Al might be a suit of armour but Ed was all too vulnerable to gunfire, despite his bulletproof attitude. This could have ended much, much worse than it had. Danger to Ed aside, if it had been Roy or any other State Alchemist on the field, Roy had no doubt that the aspiring militia men would be suffering far worse than a few hours buried in mud. The image of broken bodies speared on spikes of earth flashed through his mind again and Roy spared a moment to be fiercely glad that Ed was a soldier in name only.

"We can put the field back the way we found it," Al was hastily reassuring them.

"Before you do that, what do you propose to do with your prisoners?" Roy inquired, raising an eyebrow at Ed.

"No problem. We can transmute them back out, now that we've got somewhere to put them," Ed replied offhandedly, ambling over to the nearest of the trapped men, Al at his heels.

Roy followed, too curious to remain aloof. Havoc fell in behind him as he trailed after the brothers. Without breaking stride, Roy gestured sharply at the men milling around the transport trucks, a team of them hurrying over in response to his summons. Once assured they were on their way, Roy turned his full attention to the Elrics again. The man they were approaching made a feeble attempt at defiance as they came close but the fear in his wide eyes gave him away.

Ed gave his captive an absent sneer as he looked over his shoulder at Roy. We ready? that expression wanted to know and Roy nodded, waving at him to go ahead.

Ed's smirk was positively fiendish as he dropped to one knee, ignoring the way the man in front of him tried to lean away. With a quick glance over at Al, Ed clapped his hands and pressed them to the ground, which immediately turned slick and loosened around the man's neck. Before he could take advantage of his new freedom, Al had plunged a hand into the muck and was hauling him out by the collar. The man kicked and flailed but Al's grip was implacable and he'd efficiently plucked the weapon out of his hand as he cleared the dirt. Within seconds, the prisoner was standing between two of the soldiers Roy had brought with him, handcuffed, miserable and thickly covered in mud.

"Not bad," Roy allowed, giving the Elrics an approving nod.

Ed shrugged but Roy caught the pleased curve of the smile he didn't quite hide.

"It was nothing, Colonel," Al added modestly.

Roy shook his head. Only for the Elrics would something like this be nothing out of the ordinary.

"So we'll just go and --" Ed started, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the still-buried men behind him.

Roy nodded and waved them away. "The sooner you finish here, the sooner we can get back to civilization," he ordered, wondering if any of the city's restaurants would be open by the time they returned. He hadn't had time to eat before leaving and Ed always appreciated a good meal.

"So we only have to do this, what, thirty-four more times?" he heard Ed ask as they walked away.

"Thirty-eight," Al corrected.

"Thirty-eight? You mean there were thirty-nine of these idiots?" Ed's voice was incredulous.

Roy shook his head in resigned amusement. Some things never changed, Ed's dramatics apparently among them. And while he'd never admit it aloud, Roy preferred it that way. Watching the brothers routinely defy the impossible was entertaining as hell, despite the paperwork -- and never failed to remind Roy of why his own impossible task would always be worth pursuing. In the meantime, there was the enjoyment of Ed's creatively non-lethal solutions and the promise of a fine meal in better company waiting back at home.

Mountains had been moved by less than the antics of these brothers, Roy thought as he clasped his arms behind his back and strolled after the Elrics. Surely one little revolution would be easy in comparison.

Fin

Comments and feedback welcome! Thanks for reading.

[ST XI] FIC: In Three Words (4/4)

evening_bat — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:31:02 GMT

See Masterpost for story notes and warnings.

In Three Words - Part 4

Unlike last time, they were set upon almost immediately after stepping out into the corridor. A small part of Jim’s mind wondered if the increased number of monsters was significant of something; the rest of him was too occupied with staying alive. The first creature they encountered was another specimen of the many-eyed thing that had killed N’Choa and Harris and Jim was unpleasantly surprised to learn that the fuckers were fast and fond of pouncing. Bones’ intervention kept it from getting to him with its claws or fireballs but it had been a near thing for a few terrifying seconds. Jim eventually landed a few clear shots and had the satisfaction of seeing it crash to the decking and flare brightly before vanishing.

The candle heads were also out in force but they were easy to dispatch.

“Good cube fodder,” Bones declared with a small, vicious grin as he swept a high-powered phaser bolt across a trio of them.

And cube fodder was a great thing because Bones had been right about it. It was wickedly powerful. Not to mention awfully damned impressive when fully deployed. Jim had looked over at the cube after Bones’ comment and had happened to catch the wash of cool green light that spilled briefly across its ornamental face, his first indication of its state of readiness. A steady golden glow kindled in a few of the carvings on its surface.

Jim startled slightly when it spoke again, eagerly urging them to Use us! as it waited at the ready.

Bones’ grin faded back into tense readiness and Jim watched in fascination as he reached over his shoulder. He stopped short of touching the cube but when he lowered his hand the cube followed, hovering an inch or two above his open palm. Bones tucked his phaser under his arm as he prowled ahead, cube floating before him. It didn’t take long to find something to use it on.

A bright light flared to life as they walked into a terminal room at a bend in the corridor. Jim jerked away from the swirl of gathering power, eyes narrowing against the sudden brightness. The yellow pillar of sizzling energy coalesced into a tall, gaunt humanoid with dead white skin, hands crackling with the remnants of the fire that had birthed it. It roared at them and Jim hastily dove away from the ball of plasma it flung his way. Bones ducked another blast but straightened quickly and launched the cube at it with a flick of his hand.

The cube’s flight was swift and deadly. The instant it sped away from Bones, an impossible array of blades emerged into being and whirred into motion. Almost too fast to see, the fist-sized cube had unfolded into a spinning cluster of sharp edges that hissed through the air and ripped the monster to smoking shreds.

“Holy shit, Bones!” Jim said as the cube appeared out of the dissipating cloud, blades already tucked away into its typical, innocuous configuration as it sailed back to them and resumed its waiting position at Bones’ shoulder. “Don’t suppose there are any more like that lying around?”

Bones shook his head, almost cracking a smile. “Sorry, Jim. I think this is a one of a kind sort of thing.”

Yeah, probably. If the ancient Martians had had a few more of these, they might still be around.

Judicious use of the single cube they had allowed Jim and Bones to work their way through over half of the distance they needed to travel before they ran into a dead end. Something had collapsed the ceiling of the corridor they were walking through, piled debris now obstructing their route. After a swift debate about how to proceed, they decided to backtrack to the nearest cross corridor. Bones was strong enough to clear a path but neither of them liked the idea of being trapped like that. Detouring around the obstacle would be quicker and leave them both free to act.

“Which way?” Jim asked as they stood between the two doorways.

According to Bones, the left-hand option was the shorter of the two but there were things moving somewhere down that hallway. Even from where he stood, Jim could hear the shrill chittering, undercut by high, thin wails.

Bones grimaced and Jim wondered if he recognized the noise. “This one wouldn’t be my first choice,” he said flatly.

The doorway on the right was silent and a quick sweep of their lights didn’t turn up anything alarming.

“Door #2 it is, then,” Jim muttered as he trailed in after Bones, out in front as usual.

They passed through two sections of corridor without incident before everything went wrong. Jim had just cleared the door to the final leg of the detour when something dropped out of the shadows above and knocked him to the floor. The thing rode his shoulders to the ground, nearly driving Jim’s face into the grating before he could react. He tried to throw it off but it pinned his arms to his sides with thin, hard limbs. He managed a strangled yell as something tore into his shoulder. Something scuttled up to his side, an indistinct, jerky movement at the edge of his peripheral vision, and there was a vicious jab of pain as something buried itself in the back of his thigh. And another in the other leg. He sort of lost track of things after that.

“Jim!” Bones was shouting desperately. “Jim!”

There was the sound of phaser fire, scattering the things surrounding him in a flurry of screeching as the one perched on his back shuddered. It was wrenched off of him seconds later and a hand closed around his arm and dragged him to his feet. Jim tried to help as best he could but the onus was on Bones to keep them both moving, since Jim was having trouble remembering the finer points of how to walk. He sort of greyed out while Bones was manhandling him along, coming to with a sharp gasp and a low groan as his back hit a wall, sending pain lancing through him.

“Jim? Oh Jesus, oh God. Jim, do not do this to me. Jesus fucking Christ,” Bones was begging.

Jim’s legs buckled under him and he sagged in Bones’ grip, sliding helplessly to the floor. “Sorry, Bones,” he slurred.

“Don’t be sorry, you stubborn little shit. Be alive,” Bones snapped.

Jim blinked slowly at him. He could barely feel Bones’ frantic attempts at treatment and dimly recognized that the spreading numbness was not a good sign.

“Sorry, Bones,” he found the strength to repeat. “You’ve got to —”

“Shut up,” Bones ordered brusquely.

“But —”

“No buts,” Bones cut him off. “You sit there and you keep breathing and you do what I tell you.”

And before Jim could protest, Bones shoved the cube in his hands and toggled the door open. Jim’s vision had gone too blurry to make out what exactly came pouring into the room but it had way too many legs. He flinched away from the flash of Bones’ phaser, fading eyesight overwhelmed by the brightness.

Use us! the cube whispered in his head.

“You heard it, Jim.” Bones was back and kneeling at his side, pressing Jim’s hand to the cube. “Use it. Now!”

Jim forced his eyes open again, letting his head roll to the side. He shoved weakly at Bones’ shoulder. He didn’t need a good look to know that the things with the legs were still coming. “Get out — go!”

“Use it!” Bones demanded fiercely, refusing to leave.

Jim didn't know how to ‘use it’ but he'd be damned if he was going to be the reason Bones died down here.

Help him, he pleaded silently. Stop them!

His hand was suddenly empty and Jim heard the reassuring metallic clatter of the cube’s extended blades, followed by multiple squeals as it tore into the approaching monsters. He slumped in relief, sinking closer to unconsciousness with every ragged gasp when a surge of energy jolted him. His eyes snapped open and he automatically looked to Bones, crouched anxiously beside him.

“Jim?” he checked worriedly.

“I —” Jim said, jumping slightly as another burst of energy flooded his body. “I think I’m okay?”

Against all reason, he actually was. The pain of his injuries was subsiding into faint aches and even those were disappearing as another pulse of energy warmed him from the inside out. The numbness was thankfully receding under a tide of healthy sensation and his vision sharpened with every steady breath.

“I’m not sure how,” he added as he finished taking stock of his condition, “but I’m okay.”

“Oh thank Christ,” Bones breathed, laying a shaking hand on Jim’s shoulder and squeezing almost painfully tight.

“Do you know how?” Jim persisted. “I mean, you’re the best doctor I know but...”

“Can’t take the credit for that,” Bones answered, voice rough. “Thank that thing.”

He pointed at the cube, hovering complacently over Jim’s upturned fingertips.

“How did it...?” Jim murmured.

Bones sat back on his heels. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “When I first picked it up, it said something about ‘passing on the lifeforce of those we slay.’ I think it’s been helping all along. Even with my advantages, I shouldn’t have survived the trip in to get it.”

So it had saved both of their lives, even without considering its deadliness in combat. Jim wondered how one went about thanking a sentient alien artifact. Patting it seemed a bit condescending and he was just going to blame the urge to hug it on residual shock. Which he should really be making an effort to shake off now, he reminded himself sharply.

“Just keeps getting more and more useful,” Jim remarked, bracing himself against the wall as he gingerly stood up. “Can we keep it when we’re done?”

“Let’s worry about getting out of here before we tackle the question of what we want to bring back with us, huh?” Bones asked dryly, catching Jim’s arm to steady him.

“Fine, fine. Ready when you are.”

It wasn’t much further, Bones assured him as they got back to it. That was a good thing, Jim knew, but he wasn’t thrilled by the way that the temperature was increasing as they progressed. The thought that they were walking into something worse than they were trying to outrun wasn’t comforting. So Jim had hoped he was imagining things. The air wasn’t really getting hotter. And the ambient light wasn’t really taking on a sooty orange tinge. And surely that smell was all in his head.

…Jim used to be much better at lying to himself than this.

He risked a glance over at Bones and his stomach sank at the tight, strained expression on Bones’ face. Definitely not all in his head, then.

“Too far to go back now,” Jim said after he caught Bones looking back over his shoulder for the third time in a few minutes. “Only way out is through.”

It wasn’t anything less than the truth and enough motivation to keep them moving deeper into the disturbingly changed complex. The shaft they were aiming for sat over one of the excavation sites Olduvai had been built to disguise. The excavation itself was heavily fortified but dotted with exit points that would get them to a place they could yell for help. At least, that had been the plan. When they got their first look at what had become of the dig site, instead of hopes of rescue, Jim found himself thinking of frying pans and fire.

The heat was overwhelming, scorching air stinging Jim’s skin and lungs. Wavering orange light added to the effect, fiery flickers twisting at the edges of his vision. The network of catwalks and stairways Bones had been hoping to climb to safety were still there but looked oddly warped, courtesy of the uncertain light. The entire ground floor of the complex had vanished, swallowed up in an immense hole. Jim couldn’t get a good look at what was inside; it hurt his eyes to look at it directly. Besides, the massive monster standing next to the hole was pretty attention-grabbing.

“What the hell is that?” Jim hissed, peering at the thing from the dubious cover of the doorway.

“I don’t know!” Bones answered, voice wavering between frustration and fear. “This place never runs out of new shit to throw at me!”

We are the only way to destroy the enemy's mightiest warrior, the cube chimed abruptly. Destroying evil gives us life, and makes us stronger. Unleash us when you hear our call.

Jim had nearly jumped out of his skin at the cube’s unexpected interjection and now he traded uneasy glances with an equally startled Bones.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Bones demanded in an undertone, scowling at the cube.

“I don’t know but I’m not in any hurry to jump out and test our phasers’ efficacy against that thing!” Jim pointed out.

They snuck another look at the behemoth lumbering around the edge of the pit. It was easily three times their height, an unholy mishmash of bulging muscle and gleaming metal. The floor under their feet trembled with the force of its steps. It wouldn’t surprise Jim to see the thing shake off their phaser bolts as if they were fireflies. He was willing to bet that they wouldn’t have as much luck surviving whatever the thing shot out of the cannon posing as its right arm.

They’d just have to make sure they didn’t get hit, then.

“Okay, so how are we doing this?” he asked.

“Don’t suppose you’d agree to do the smart thing and get out of here while I take care of that fucker?” Bones ventured.

Jim swallowed his reflexive objection to that idea and forced himself to think about it. Not his preferred choice, needless to say, but Bones’ suggestion had merit. They only had one cube, after all. But Jim had four signal boosters.

“On one condition,” he finally said, fishing out the equipment he needed and starting on a hasty rewiring job.

“Really?” The surprise in Bones’ voice would have been comical on any other day. “I mean, what condition?”

“You take this with you,” Jim instructed, pointing at the boosters he was hooking into a single unit. Even if the Enterprise couldn’t find Bones on her own, Jim could tell them what frequency to look for. Or call out line of sight coordinates for a blind transport, if all else failed. “And you don’t bitch when the Enterprise pulls out in the middle of your heroics.”

“Done,” Bones accepted immediately. “So long as you hurry up about it,” he added, looking over his shoulder.

Jim resisted the urge to check out what had prompted that shattering roar and kept working. It couldn’t be anything worth wasting the time. It only took him a few minutes to finish and he held out the linked boosters for Bones to take.

“You aren’t allowed to die down here either,” he said seriously as Bones tucked the signal device into his uniform. “You hear me, Bones?”

“I hear you,” Bones told him, clasping a hand at the base of Jim’s neck and shaking him lightly. “You just remember to follow your own damn orders.”

Jim thumped a fist into Bones’ chest, unwilling to risk anything more demonstrative. “See you on the other side, old man,” he promised steadily.

Walking away from Bones was one of the hardest things Jim had ever done but he did it because it was their only chance. He stayed focused on the catwalks under his feet, alert for any lurking danger. There was every reason to suspect there’d be some sort of threat, given the number of monsters crawling out of the hole at the bottom of the shaft. They were undoubtedly the targets of the phaser fire Jim could hear as he climbed, Bones’ attempts to charge the cube and turn it loose on ‘the enemy’s greatest warrior.’ It didn’t take long and Jim smiled thinly as the sound of whirring blades echoed up to him, followed by a roar that shook the metal under him.

It left his ears ringing so badly that he barely heard the most wonderful noise in the universe until his communicator chirped again. He nearly tore it out of his pocket in his haste.

“Enterprise, this is Kirk!” he shouted. “Enterprise, do you read?”

“We read you, Captain,” Spock’s voice answered calmly.

“It is goddamn good to hear that, Spock,” Jim replied fervently. “Can you get us out of here?”

“We have a partial lock on your position,” Spock told him, “but are unable to locate any other crew members. Who else is with you?”

“Bones,” Jim started but his reply was drowned out by another bellow from below as the cube took another shot at the giant guarding the hole.

“Just Bones,” he continued as soon as the noise subsided. “Scan for the boosters you sent with us,” he ordered. “Bones is carrying three of them. They’re patched together.”

“We are doing so,” Spock assured him and Jim could have kissed the Vulcan practicality that kept Spock from asking useless questions about what the hell that sound had been.

“Make it quick, Spock!” Jim couldn’t help but urge. He knew they were working as fast as they could but still... “We need out of here as soon as it can be managed.”

He glanced over the edge of the walkway to the battle below, relieved to see phaser bolts continuing to lance out from a concealed position against the wall. The cube flickered into view a moment later, blades at full extension and shot out towards the monstrosity in the centre of the room. Jim’s eyes went wide as it buried itself in the centre of that horned head, knocking the giant back into the hole. A low rumble followed, leaving Jim to clutch frantically at the railing as the entire place shuddered around him. He swore when a sudden blast of heat and light caught him in the face, raising one arm to shield his eyes. There was molten rock welling up in the pit now, spilling over the edge and pouring slowly into the bottom of the shaft.

“Bones!” he yelled, desperately searching for any sign of him. “Jesus — Get out of there!”

“We have you, Captain!” Spock announced suddenly. “Energizing now.”

Jim had never been so happy to feel a transporter tugging at him. Not ever.

“Bones?” he demanded immediately upon rematerialization, infinitely relieved by the dry comment at his back.

“Right here, Jim.”

And he was. Exhausted and filthy but there.

The hell with captainly decorum, Jim decided, then flung an arm around Bones’ neck, clutching him even more tightly as Bones slid a bracing arm around his waist.

“We are never letting that happen again,” Jim promised quietly. Bones’ breath caught in his throat and he squeezed Jim tightly for a second before he stepped away.

“There’s no place like home!” Jim announced brightly to Spock, standing at the transporter panel and as unruffled as ever by his captain’s exuberant displays. “Thanks for the save, Spock.”

Spock inclined his head. “It is good to have you back.”

“I’ve got one more task for you, though,” Jim said.

Spock raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

“That facility needs to be destroyed,” Jim said flatly. “Completely. Can you make it happen?”

“Certainly, Captain,” Spock told him without hesitation. “Should this be accomplished immediately?”

“Yes,” Bones and Jim answered in unison.

“Then I shall return to the Bridge and see that it is done,” Spock told them.

Jim forced Bones to detour long enough to get the worst of the soot and blood off of them before he joined him in a headlong rush to the Bridge. Spock was standing next to the command chair when they arrived, clearly waiting for them. He stepped aside with a solemn nod as Jim approached, returning to his station as Bones assumed his usual position at Jim’s shoulder.

“Are we ready to do this, gentlemen?” Jim asked.

“Yes, Captain,” Spock answered.

The PADD lying on the arm of Jim’s chair lit up and he gave it a brief glance, noting the calculations and damage projections.

“Excellent,” Jim said. “Mr. Sulu. Fire at will.”

Jim watched the displays, viciously satisfied to see the reports of Olduvai crumbling under his ship’s weapons.

“Captain,” Uhura said almost immediately. “We’re receiving several inquiries and orders to desist.”

Jim waited a few seconds to give the order. Just to make sure there was nothing left.

“I apologize, Captain,” Spock offered in a monotone. “Evidently, I neglected to inform the proper authorities of the actions we would be taking. I take complete blame for the oversight.”

Jim waved that away. “It’s been a pretty rough day for all of us, Spock. We’ll get it smoothed over.” He’d always been a big believer in the notion that it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

Uhura looked up from her station, interrupting the stream of apologies she’d been sending. “Admiral Whitlock for you, sir. Urgent and requiring an immediate response.”

“I’ll bet,” Bones snorted softly, eyes still glued to the data scrolling across the main screens.

“Put it through to my ready room, Lieutenant,” Jim instructed as he rose.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when Bones fell into step beside him but he held his tongue until they exited the Bridge.

“You don’t have to be here for this,” Jim tried as the door slid shut behind them.

“Yeah, Jim. I do,” Bones insisted and Jim shrugged.

Bones was a big boy. If he wanted to come be yelled at by an admiral, who was Jim to stop him? Besides, Jim could to admit to himself that he’d much rather have Bones close to hand at the moment. Disaster and repeated near deaths had left him willing to indulge in a bit of clinginess.

Jim settled into his chair and turned on his terminal, flicking a glance back at Bones, at military attention at his shoulder.

“Hello, Admiral. What can I-”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Kirk?” she shouted. “Destroying the facility we sent you to investigate? Firing on Mars?! Have you lost your mind?”

“I can explain, Admiral,” Jim said calmly.

“It better be a good one,” she warned angrily. “Or I’ll have your commission for this!”

“The destruction of Olduvai was necessary,” he started, stalling for time to think about how to spin his report. He hoped Bones had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and follow Jim’s lead.

“Perhaps I can help to explain the situation,” Spock announced as he strode into the ready room unannounced.

Jim almost raised an eyebrow of his own but signalled Spock to go ahead.

Spock tapped some information onto his PADD before setting it down on Jim’s desk and assuming a stance at Jim’s other shoulder.

“As you can see from the data which I have just sent you, the anomalous energy and seismic phenomena that were manifesting at the former UAC outpost presented an immediate threat to the other colonies on Mars. That threat needed to be addressed promptly and with sufficient force to nullify it. The Captain’s solution was a drastic one but the timeframe was very limited,” Spock explained.

Jim was extremely grateful for his misspent youth right then. If he hadn’t spent so much time in and out of gambling games, his poker face never would have held up throughout Spock’s little speech. Not to mention the mountains of very convincing evidence Spock had produced to support it.

“Sorry if we scared anyone,” Jim interjected, allowing his usual informality to reassert itself. “Like Spock said, we didn’t have much time to act.”

Whitlock had calmed somewhat, paging through the data on her side of the connection. “We’ll take a look through this,” she conceded grudgingly. “But Command isn’t thrilled with your dramatics, Kirk.”

She continued on in that vein for a few minutes, Jim nodding dutifully in all the right places. It took some effort to maintain the careful balance of repentance and confidence that typically carried him through the admiralty’s lectures. The smugness with which he usually consoled himself was markedly absent today, leaving just a desperate gratitude that he and Bones were alive and safe on the ship.

Whitlock seemed to take a closer look at him as she wound down and sighed heavily at whatever she saw. “The report says you lost ten people down there?”

Jim nodded somberly. “We did, Admiral.”

She rubbed a hand over her mouth and sighed again. “We’ll take a look through this,” she repeated, raising the PADD. “Go get cleaned up in the meantime, Captain. You look like hell."

Silence fell in the ready room after Whitlock signed off, broken when Bones slid the PADD over the desk towards him and glanced quickly through the information Spock had prepared.

“‘Presented an immediate threat to the other colonies on Mars,’ huh?” he asked as he scrolled.

“Did it not?” Spock replied, an almost challenging quirk to his raised eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” Jim admitted. “But how did you know that?”

Spock was the only being Jim had ever met who could shrug so impassively. “Despite your emotional natures, neither of you is inclined towards exaggeration in circumstances such as these. Your appearances and demeanors upon returning to the ship suggested significant distress. If your assessment of the situation indicated the need for decisive action, it is my responsibility to aid you in carrying it out.”

“...You couldn’t just say that you trust us and you’d take our word for it?” Bones retorted but the thin veneer of annoyance wasn’t fooling anyone.

Spock’s brow furrowed in disapproval. “I have come to understand the emotional natures of other species,” he countered. “I see no need to partake in them.”

“We’d be lost without you and your logic, Spock,” Jim allowed, not bothering to hide his grin.

“Logic would dictate that you undergo a thorough medical examination, Captain,” Spock promptly replied.

“For once, we agree,” Bones put in.

“From bickering to ganging up on me in under ten seconds,” Jim complained as he stood up. “That’s got to be a record.”

He let them usher him down to Sickbay with nothing more than token complaints, however. He balked only when Bones brushed off his staff’s attempts to check on him.

“Be sure to jab him with as many hyposprays as you can!” Jim called helpfully as Chapel led Bones to another biobed. “You won’t get many chances!”

Chapel’s cheerful “Yes, Captain,” overlaid Bones’ “Shut up, Jim!” and Jim snickered as the medical staff set to work.

No one found anything wrong with either one of them that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure and they were sent off with instructions to do just that. Jim wasn’t terribly surprised when Bones silently followed him to his room, slipping in behind him and stalking around the room. Jim poured himself a drink — after today, he definitely deserved one — and splashed some into a glass for Bones as an afterthought.

“So. Down there. What the hell was that?” he asked as he handed off the glass.

Bones shook his head. “Fucked if I know,” he answered honestly. “Out of control experiments? Extradimensional aliens? Demons? Pick one. I don’t really care what they were. We got out — that’s good enough for me.”

Jim nodded tightly. “Not going to argue with that. At least we made good and goddamned sure that no one else will be getting back in.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Bones muttered and proceeded to do so.

Jim nursed his own drink, waiting for the inevitable explosion. It wasn’t long in coming.

“I just don’t get what the hell you were thinking, going down there!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jim replied breezily. “Maybe something like, ‘Holy fuck, Bones is stuck in his worst nightmare and probably getting killed down there right now’?”

Bones made a sharp, frustrated gesture. “You said you’d stay here!”

“No, I said I wouldn’t go down with you,” Jim corrected. “I didn’t say anything about leaving you to die.”

“You should have!” Bones shouted, slamming his drink down on the table and pacing angrily.

“Oh like hell I should have!” Jim shot back. “Like I could have!”

“Why the fuck not?” Bones demanded.

“Jesus, Bones. You know why.”

“No, Jim. I don’t! Why would you ever think that going into Olduvai was a good idea?”

“You know why!” Jim repeated.

Bones crossed his arms and glared.

“Don’t make me say it, you stubborn asshole,” Jim complained.

Bones’ temper faltered for the first time since he’d flared up. “Jim, I — you can’t.”

“Too late,” Jim told him brightly. “I already do. Have done for years.”

He sighed at the helpless look Bones gave him and put his own glass down before crossing the room to stand in front of him.

“This isn’t a surprise, old man,” he said gently. “Or it shouldn’t be. And don’t you dare try to convince me it’s one-sided.”

“Never pretended otherwise,” Bones conceded, shoulders slumping as his posture loosened.

“You never did,” Jim agreed, edging a bit further into his personal space. It had been a revelation to Jim and was probably the only reason he’d made it out here in the first place. “Did I ever mention that I’m goddamn glad I met you?”

“Likewise,” Bones answered, burying the reply in Jim’s shoulder.

Jim wrapped his arms around him and hung on. This time, neither one of them was in a hurry to let go.

Things didn’t really change much between them after Olduvai. Except that Jim’s tendency to occasionally crawl into Bones’ bed became something more like regular habit. And often involved a lot more than sleeping. All changes for the good, as far as Jim was concerned. If he was going to be next thing to married to his best friend, he figured that he ought to be enjoying all of the benefits.

The crew seemed more amused than anything by the unspoken shift in their relationship, even on nights when Bones had overestimated even his prodigious stamina and been kicked out of Sickbay by his own staff. Jim had shown up in response to their off-the-record complaints to pick him up and escort him back to his room. He’d kept Bones awake long enough to stuff some food into him, then dragged him off to bed where Bones had promptly collapsed into a deep sleep on his shoulder. Jim chuckled at the role reversal and let him sleep, enjoying the warmth of Bones’ solid weight against his side.

He lifted one hand into the air above his face, barely able to make out the fingers he wriggled against the dimness of the ceiling. Just a pale blur in the shadows, really.

Aside from Bones, there wasn’t much certainty in Jim’s life. Futures in the fleet weren’t fixed. Jim wouldn’t mind staying on this ride as long as it lasted but he knew it wouldn’t last forever. There were dangers to consider. Not to mention promotions, retirements, new friends, old enemies and the list went on. But for now? Jim had the best crew in the universe, the best ship in the fleet, Bones napping on his chest and a few years left on their tour of duty. Time to enjoy himself, yet.

He considered his hand again. His fingers moved smoothly, painlessly. Normally that wouldn’t be cause for contemplation but earlier today, a minor mishap in Engineering had left him bruised and scratched. He’d shrugged it off and redirected Scotty’s attention to the mess in his engine room. By the time he’d remembered to clean it off, the thin lines of blood had washed away and revealed unblemished skin underneath. Jim had stared down at himself for a long, uncomprehending moment. He’d tightened his hand into a fist when he remembered a chorus of voices pouring into his mind, a promise of aid and the warm pulses of energy that had saved his life. And maybe more?

The journey was the destination, Jim’d been told. He liked the idea and his life had been one hell of a ride so far. He let his hand drop and shifted onto his side, drawing Bones into his arms. The sleepy snuffle of his breath into Jim’s ear made him smile and tuck his free hand under Bones’ shirt, wanting skin under his palm. Jim didn’t know if he had five years left or fifty or five hundred but he was looking forward to finding out.

Fin

Back to Part 3

Back to the Masterpost

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

[ST XI] FIC: In Three Words (3/4)

evening_bat — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:27:49 GMT

See Masterpost for story notes and warnings.

In Three Words - Part 3

They rematerialized in a dim room, a large one from the echoes their own shuffling movements threw back at them. The air was warm and musty, heavy with the stillness of centuries. Lights snapped on as the security team fanned out, taking stock of their surroundings. Jim swept his own light across the room, finding little beyond cracked walls and dark equipment. The place was awash in personal detritus; fragile leaves of paper, empty cups, a pair of antique eye glasses, a collection of unfamiliar items surrounded by even less familiar machinery.

Olduvai had been a research facility. If Jim had to guess, he’d say this room had been some kind of laboratory. To his surprise, a few of the light panels were flickering faintly. The initial survey teams must have carried in and installed some power cells. The overall effect wasn’t reassuring, despite the lightening of the oppressive darkness.

“Ensign?” he prompted.

N’Choa lifted his head from the tricorder readings. “Conditions are safe, Captain. But the interference continues to affect our equipment.”

Jim bit down on a sigh of relief. There was a taste of something unpleasant on the air and it had worried him. “Good. Do what you can to get us a reading on the layout of this place. And let me know as soon as you find any clue as to where our people might be.”

The rest of the team had finished securing the room and arrayed themselves in defensible positions as a pair of them examined the door. The mechanisms were intact, they told Jim. Getting out shouldn’t be difficult. He stepped back and let them work, conversing quietly with the security lieutenant about how to proceed. When the door locks finally gave way, the team was ready to go.

The lab had been creepy enough, abandoned and in disarray, but the corridors were much worse. Power trickled only fitfully through the hallway systems, touching off unreliable fits of brightness. The team moved carefully through the shifting darkness but their shadows moved with them and it set all their nerves on edge. The shifting of loose debris on the walkways under their feet didn’t help, necessitating that they watch their footing as well as the empty spaces yawning to either side as corridors branched off into nothing. The walls reflected more noise than light, confusing their ears with the multiplied sound of their own passage.

N’Choa broke the tense silence to say, “I’m getting some really strange energy readings,” just as Jim noticed the hallway brightening with a weird orange light. From the way their shadows stretched jaggedly in front of them on the increasingly-visible walls, the source of the light was somewhere behind them. The foremost pair held their position as everyone else turned around for a better look. The mouth of the cross-corridor they’d passed about fifteen feet back was illuminated by a warm orange glow. It continued to brighten as they watched.

“What the hell is that?” someone muttered as something drifted slowly into view.

Jim was wondering that himself, squinting at the mysterious object. It was pale, round, and apparently floating under its own power, hovering about six feet above the floor. And it appeared to be on fire. Jim’s hands automatically tightened on his phaser rifle as the burning...thing bobbed further into the hallway, slowly rotating in place.

“Oh my fucking God,” Jim heard someone else say as the object’s lazy spin revealed that it had a face.

It was a head. A bald, disembodied head, hanging in midair. And it was on fire.

“I think this is the part where we try talking to it,” Jim forced himself to say, keeping his voice steady. Freaky as it looked, a flaming, misshapen lump of waxy flesh wouldn’t be the strangest sentient lifeform the universe had to offer.

And the candle head did react to the sound of his voice. Unfortunately, its reaction consisted of dropping its jaw unnaturally wide and screeching before it launched itself at them in an alarming burst of speed.

“On second thought, forget talking!” Jim shouted, raising his weapon. The security officers beat him to it, phaser bolts lancing out and staggering the thing’s approach. It absorbed a couple of strikes before vanishing with a grating hiss and a quickly-fading bloom of flame.

Unfortunately, it had friends. Four more candle heads drifted into the hallway. They reacted far more quickly than the first one had, almost immediately orienting themselves and speeding into the skirmish. To everyone’s relief, they were as easily dispatched.

Jim frantically tried to blink away the afterimages, squinting through the vivid washes of colour overlaid on his view of the newly-darkened hallway. He was starting to get a real appreciation for why Bones had been so adamant about not coming back to this place. When they got out of here, he thought he might take up Bones’ cause of getting Olduvai wiped off of the planet.

“Everyone all right?” he checked, reassured by the prompt chorus of affirmations. “Right. Then what say we get a move on so we can get out of here?”

Bones hadn’t offered too many details about Olduvai’s layout. Simple observation was enough to learn that most of the complex was subterranean, exacerbating their problems with scanning through the interference from the ship. In hindsight, Jim wished he’d asked a few more pointed questions. Like how damn big was the place? And where might one go to find wayward survey teams?

...Although the sound of yelling and phaser fire might be a clue.

The team went on alert, hands on weapons and eyes scanning the gloom for some sign of what was happening. Jim shook his head in frustration as he swept the corridor. The echoes were too disorienting to trust.

“Where’s that coming from?” Jim demanded of N’Choa, already studying his tricorder readings.

“I think — That way!” he said, pointing.

They followed his direction as quickly as they dared. As much as they wanted to find their missing crewmates, leaving themselves exposed to anything else that might blunder in from a cross corridor wasn’t an option. Stumbling out of the cramped hallway onto a raised walkway circling the top of another large, dimly-lit laboratory was something of a relief; at least now they could see the weirdness coming. Even better, it gave Jim a clear view of Ensign Heynor advancing cautiously into the room from one of the floor-level doorways.

“Clear!” she called over her shoulder.

Oh thank fuck. Jim clamped down on an incoherent rush of relief when Bones backed into the room from the corridor behind her, weapon trained on the shadowy doorway from which he’d emerged. Both of them were the worse for wear and they were four men short but Bones was there. Four condolence letters wouldn’t be any fun to write but at least Jim wouldn’t be writing them alone.

Bones stopped to fiddle with the control panel beside the entryway, shoulders relaxing slightly as the door slammed shut. He joined Heynor, saying something Jim couldn’t make out, and they moved further into the room. It only took Bones a couple of seconds to spot Jim and the others clustered on the upper level walkway and he reflexively raised his weapon, snapping a warning to Heynor. Even at this distance, Jim could see the surprise on Bones’ upturned face as he recognized them.

“Goddamnit! What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted up at them.

“You were late!” Jim called back with a grin, too pleased to see Bones to be properly contrite. “What did I tell you about that?”

Jim hadn’t known that Bones could curse like that. He’d have to remember some of those phrases.

“You about ready to get out of here?” he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Our ride’s waiting.”

Bones’ response was lost under a deep, coughing roar. The opposite corner of the room, previously obscured by shadow, abruptly lit up as a fireball streaked towards Jim and his security team. They scattered as best they could, hampered by the limited space of the walkway. Jim felt hands on his shoulders, shoving him towards the safety of the stairway leading to the floor. He flung himself down the first flight, one hand catching the railing as the other steadied the officers hurtling after him.

N’Choa and Kallings had ducked back into the corridor for cover. Hexen and Parsons never got the chance to move before the fireball slammed into them.

“Shoot the son of a bitch!” Bones was shouting at Heynor, suiting action to words as he opened fire.

The flash of the phaser bolts showed a bulbous red shape, reflected off of rows of teeth and horns as it glided closer. This thing was no floating head; the round mass of its body looked to be nearly five feet across. Jim scrambled down the stairs, Harris and Lawlor at his heels, as the red thing’s mouth gaped open and it spat another fireball at them. Bones and Heynor kept firing as Jim and the others clattered to the bottom of the stairs, raising their own weapons. The thing shuddered under their combined fire, eventually disappearing in a burst of flame similar to the one that had consumed the candle head-things that had attacked them in the hallway.

There was no point in asking if everyone was okay, Jim realized, staring at the too-still, blackened bodies he could see lying on the grate of the walkway over their heads. He hadn’t been hurt and it seemed as if Harris and Lawlor had also escaped without injury.

“Bones?” he asked, turning to examine him and Heynor. They looked even more battered up close, uniforms torn and liberally splattered with blood and other gore. Jim was still ridiculously glad to see him.

Bones shook his head. “We’re okay,” he dismissed. “The others...are gone.”

Jim hissed a frustrated breath. He’d been expecting that but having it confirmed didn’t make him a happy captain. “I’m starting to see why you’re holding a grudge against this place.”

“That would be why I wanted you to stay away from it,” Bones retorted, the lines of strain on his face deepening as he scowled. “Which we are going to have words about after we get out of this hellhole. You said something about a ride?”

Jim nodded. “We’ve got to get a level or two higher but Spock’ll beam us out as soon as we get past the worst of the interference. Lawlor, Harris. Check out the integrity of the stairs.”

They’d taken at least a couple of direct hits from the red thing’s fireballs and Jim wasn’t inclined to take chances with the architecture. There were enough things trying to kill them in here already.

Stepping away from the flimsy cover the stairs had provided, he craned his head to check on the remaining pair of his team. They’d survived the thing’s attack, he was glad to see. N’Choa was peering over the railing at them and Kallings was picking his way across to see if there was anything to be done for Hexen and Parsons. The slow shake of his head, barely visible at this angle, was no real surprise.

That was six down, and yeah, Jim was really sympathizing with Bones’ hate-on for this place.

“You two keep an eye on things from there until we figure out a safe way to get back up to you,” Jim called, waiting until N’Choa and Kallings acknowledged his order before turning his attention to the investigation of the stairs. Lawlor was making his way up, pausing to test the solidity here and there. So far, so good, it seemed.

“Did you hear something?” he heard Kallings ask.

“The creepy head-things didn’t make that noise before,” N’Choa replied dubiously as they moved closer to the doorway, weapons at the ready.

They all heard the loud crackling and a rising, nerve-shredding hum. There was something lighting up the hall from which they’d entered, something that flared a bright orange-yellow.

“Oh God,” Heynor whispered and from the corner of his eyes, Jim saw her go ashen under the livid scrapes on her face.

“Fuck, no,” Bones spat, raising his voice to bellow at them. “Get out of there!”

Above them, something shrieked as N’Choa and Kallings opened fire. Lawlor cursed and ran up the remainder of the steps, Harris at his heels despite the way the stairs shuddered under their footsteps. When Jim moved to follow them, he found Bones’ arm blocking his way.

“Let me go,” he demanded, “I have to help —”

“You have to live,” Bones interrupted. “And you won’t do that if you go up there.”

He closed a hand in an implacable grip on Jim’s arm, dragging him away from the struggle above. “Get that door open!” he ordered Heynor, pointing at a sealed portal ten feet to the left of them.

“We can’t just leave them!” Jim protested, tugging against Bones’ grip.

Bones didn’t bother arguing. The bodies that came crashing through the upper railing to land almost at their feet pretty much said it all. Kallings was badly burned, groaning and stirring weakly but Lawlor had been torn open from neck to groin. Jim’s stomach lurched at the gaping wound and he hastily looked away from the slick ruin of internal organs. He forced himself to focus on the fact that Kallings was still alive but unlikely to remain that way if they didn’t help him, and soon.

A body crashed heavily to the grating over their heads and Jim reflexively hunched his shoulders as he dashed the few steps required to kneel hastily at Kallings’s side. Bones followed, muttering a steady stream of curses as he hastily assessed Kallings’ condition. From his strained frown, Jim didn’t think much of Kallings’ chances. N’Choa screamed overhead and Jim swallowed hard when the shrill sound broke off with a gurgle.

A heavy footstep rattled the walkway above them. Jim automatically looked up and shuddered at the sight of the tall, scaly creature leering down at them. Its grey-white skin was pulled taut across its bulging forehead and a multitude of eyes flickered open and shut as it spotted them. Its screech shocked Jim into action and he scrambled to his feet.

“Jim, move!” Bones shouted as the thing lifted one oversized hand, yellow energy crackling around its fingers. “Heynor, get the damn door!”

“It’s open!”

Scooping up Kallings as he rose, Bones shoved Jim ahead of him as they ran for the door. Heynor hovered anxiously in the entryway, jabbing frantically at the panel as they dove through. The door jerked to a close just ahead of the fireball that slammed into the floor outside of it, cutting off the grey creature’s frustrated shriek.

“What is it with these things and fire?” Jim demanded shakily as he leaned against the wall, panting. If the question had an ever so slightly hysterical tinge, he thought that was perfectly understandable, what with eight dead crewmen and a sudden preponderance of monsters popping up out of nowhere to try and set them on fire.

“Who the fuck knows?” Bones answered, busy propping Kallings up as he rummaged through his own pockets. Jim was almost surprised to see him come up holding a hypospray. Kallings was conscious now though in obvious pain, sucking in air in short, whimpering gasps. Bones shot Jim a sideways look, his expression almost guilty as he thumbed the settings on his hypospray.

“Don’t worry, Kallings,” Bones soothed as he set the hypospray against an uninjured patch of skin on Kallings’ neck. “We learned some pretty neat tricks back in the Marines. This’ll fix you right up.”

The lines of pain eased almost immediately from Kallings’ expression and he straightened up, cautiously at first but more confidently as he caught his balance. “That’s great, Doc! Thanks!”

Jim returned his relieved smile, careful not to react to the way the burned skin of Kallings’ cheek split as his expression changed. His heart turned over when Bones refused to meet his eyes, occupying himself with tucking the hypospray away. A neat trick, indeed.

“So where to now, Bones?” he prompted, kindly ignoring Bones’ slight start at his even tone. “You know this place best.”

“That way,” Bones said, gesturing ahead after a moment’s hesitation. “We found one of the salvagers’ setups when we were scouting earlier. It’s our best bet for a safe place to regroup.”

Jim nodded thoughtfully. “How long?” he asked, deliberately flicking his eyes over at Kallings before raising his eyebrows.

The hesitation lasted a bit longer this time. “Not long,” Bones finally said. “It’s not far.”

“Let’s get a move on, then,” Jim instructed. “Keep your eyes open, everyone.”

He fell into step beside Bones as they set out, nudging him with his shoulder. Bones glanced over and Jim flashed him a quick, sympathetic grimace. “Only thing you could do, Bones,” he muttered under his breath.

Bones shuddered and blinked hard before tipping his head in acknowledgement, then resolutely focused his attention back to their surroundings.

Jim followed suit, turning his thoughts away from the potential combinations of nerve-deadeners and stimulants that would keep a dying soldier on his feet. A killer cocktail and the only mercy Bones could afford to dispense at the moment. Goddamn this place and what it was forcing Bones to do. At least their luck was kind enough to hold out, seeing them through to Bones’ proposed refuge without anything more disturbing than a few more candle heads.

Funny how quickly your standards can change, Jim mused as he shot another one out of the air. Unnatural and unsettling creatures weren’t enough to cause alarm any more. Now they had to be unnatural, unsettling and outright deadly. The candle heads were still a bit disturbing but they didn’t stack up against the other monsters this place had to offer.

The salvagers’ camp was tucked into a small, reassuringly well-lit room branching off one of the main corridors. Jim figured it for an old supply depot, which Bones confirmed when he asked. The salvagers had managed some impressive work for the limited time they’d had. Jim saw that he’d guessed right on the power cells; there was a small cluster of them set up and patched into an open systems panel. They’d even gotten to work on the complex’s database, it seemed. Archeology wasn’t Jim’s specialty but he recognized a data retrieval system when he saw one spread out over a cracked-open ancient computer.

There was no sign of the salvagers themselves, beyond a spray of dried blood against one wall. They’d left their equipment behind but no clue about where they’d gone. Given what he’d already seen today, Jim didn’t think there’d be anything left of them to find by now. Bones ushered them into the room, set Heynor to keep watch and saw Kallings patched up and settled on a patch of cleared space before drawing Jim aside.

“The room is secure,” he began in an undertone. “Keeping watch is just giving something Heynor to do. With the door shut, this place is as safe as it gets here. Kallings will start going downhill soon but there isn’t much I can do for him. I’m thinking our best bet is the power cells there. You’re the genius — you think you can rig up some way of jacking that signal booster?”

“I can sure as hell try,” Jim told him, a few tricks already coming to mind. “And what are you going to be doing while I save our asses?”

“Giving you the chance to pull off another miracle,” Bones answered gently.

Jim was confused for a split second but it was half a breath too long.

“Shit!” he blurted in appalled enlightenment, making a grab for Bones. “Don’t you dare!”

“Sorry, Jim,” Bones apologized, slipping away from Jim’s desperate swipe. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

If I can, he meant but Jim was helpless to stop him from ducking out and triggering the door to close behind him.

Goddamnit, Bones! Jim raged internally. When they got out of this place, Jim was so not the only one in line for a lecture about charging off into trouble. In the meantime, Jim still had other people depending on him. He forced himself to take a deep breath and arrange his expression into something less furious (and terrified) before he turned around to face Heynor and Kallings.

“Okay!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Bones is buying us some time. Heynor, you make sure nothing nasty gets through that door. Kallings, you get some rest. You can relieve Heynor in a couple of hours. I have got a date with a sweet-looking power cell.”

If nothing else, sorting through the cobbled-together computer systems was challenging enough to provide an absorbing distraction. Under any other circumstances, Jim would have been all over the chance to poke through some of the ancient history that had created Bones. The data thus far recovered by the salvage team was incomplete and corrupted but there were intriguing hints of the crazy experiments Bones had mentioned — and if Starfleet hadn’t had its eyes on this data prize when it insisted on sending teams in after their lost personnel, Jim would eat the power cell that was currently refusing to cooperate with his patching attempts. From the spotty records on the recovery system, the salvagers had managed to fire off just enough information to rouse Starfleet’s curiosity. Though granted, assessing a threat to Earth’s neighbouring planet was a legitimate concern. And the critters swarming in Olduvai were definitely a legitimate threat.

Jim had been struggling with the power cells for a couple of hours when Heynor caught his attention.

“Captain?” she called softly, tipping her chin at Kallings when Jim looked up inquisitively.

Kallings, whose chin had dropped to his too-still chest and whose already weak colour had faded to waxy white.

“Damn,” Jim said quietly. That was nine men down now and Jim was going to enjoy ordering this place blown to dust. “I guess this means you’ll be taking second watch after all, Heynor.”

“Yessir,” she murmured, tightening her hands on her weapon.

Jim returned his attention to the recalcitrant power cell but he wasn’t at work long before he saw movement in his peripheral vision. Or thought he had. When he jerked his head up, everything seemed all right. He considered the far side of the room for a long few seconds but nothing jumped out at him, metaphorically or otherwise.

“Is everything all right, Captain?” Heynor asked uncertainly.

“I thought,” Jim started before shaking his head firmly. “Never mind, Ensign.”

Except that it happened again, almost as soon as he tried to get back to the computer. Heynor noticed something this time too, frowning as she followed his line of sight.

“I think it’s just Kallings, sir,” she offered, walking over to him and crouching to check his pulse. “He’s not quite —”

Her voice choked off as Kallings’ arm swept up and his hand latched itself around her throat.

“What the - Kallings!” Jim snapped. “Stand down!”

He couldn’t see what was going on, view blocked by Heynor’s back as she clawed ineffectively at the hand squeezing the breath out of her. She fumbled for her phaser but he clumsily batted it out of her hands, the movement swinging them around and Heynor out of Jim’s line of sight.

“Holy fuck!”

Jim couldn’t restrain the expletive. Kallings was dead. He had to be. His skin was a mottled grey and his eyes were filmed over. His movements were jerky and uncoordinated. But his corpse was moving.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is going on?” Jim muttered frantically, scrabbling for his own phaser, hands clumsy with shock.

Kallings might not have been graceful but apparently he was strong. He wrenched violently at Heynor’s throat, shaking her like a toy. She shuddered and went limp in his grasp.

“No!” Jim shouted in useless denial, closing his hands on his phaser.

Kallings moaned incoherently and flung Heynor to one side, fumbling to his feet.

Jim raised his weapon and fired, relieved to see the corpse stagger and fall. Terrifyingly, it kept moving so he spared a second to reset the power levels on his phaser and fired again. Dead flesh vaporized under the higher power setting and that was enough to put Kallings down again — for good this time, Jim hoped. He watched in paranoid alertness until his hands nearly cramped on the barrel of his phaser but Kallings never twitched and he finally breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

Until he remembered Heynor and pinned her crumpled body with a suspicious stare. One corpse had already gotten up and tried to kill them, what’s to say that this one wouldn’t do the same? He slowly got to his feet and picked his way across the cluttered room, carefully skirting Kallings’ sprawled limbs. He halted at a calculated distance, staring down at Heynor in indecision.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered and raised his phaser again. This place was too goddamn dangerous and Jim couldn’t risk leaving another threat at his back.

When it was done, he walked numbly back to the computer and sank into his seat. He slung his phaser across his lap and let himself shake for a few minutes. Ten crewmen down, Bones missing, and himself stuck in this abandoned camp trying to kludge together a means of rescue. Jim figured he was entitled to a minor breakdown.

Olduvai apparently did not agree.

Jim startled out of his chair, reflexively bringing his weapon to bear as something banged hollowly against the door to his refuge. He steeled himself and waited to see if the thing on the other side would batter its way through. Jim was so primed for violence that he nearly shot Bones when the door reluctantly gave way, sliding open to allow him to stagger inside. He blinked owlishly at the weapon aimed at his face, brow furrowing in muzzy confusion. Then his knees buckled, dumping him to the floor face first in a ragged heap.

Jim darted forward, barely remembering to shut the door behind Bones before he flung himself to the floor beside him.

“Bones? Bones! Oh my God, Bones,” Jim muttered desperately under his breath. His hands fluttered uncertainly as he looked for a safe place to touch; Bones was a mess.

He’d been torn and bloodied before. He was even moreso now and badly scorched, to boot. The reek of smoke hung thickly on the air and the rasp of his breath was so alarming that Jim gave up on being careful and pressed a trembling hand to his throat. He’d seen Bones shake off a spear through the lungs, for Christ’s sake. The kind of catastrophic injury it would take to drop him...didn’t bear imagining.

“Jesus fuck, Bones!” Jim sighed explosively when he felt a strong heartbeat under his fingers. “Do not scare me like that!”

Bones grumbled something incomprehensible and twitched under Jim’s hand, eyes clearing as he blinked himself awake.

“Ow,” he said distinctly.

Jim spluttered a laugh, grabbing Bones’ shoulder to help him as he struggled to sit upright.

“If you fell on that, I can see why it hurt,” he remarked, eyeing the object Bones had clenched in his right hand. Jim had been a bit too busy freaking out to notice it earlier. Landing on an object with that many pointy edges couldn’t have been comfortable. “What is it?”

Bones’ knuckles whitened briefly. “A fighting chance.”

Jim tilted his head and squinted at the oddly-shaped brown and gold cube. “So not just a funny-looking paperweight?”

“Never mind that for now,” Bones dismissed, wobbling to his feet. He spotted the bodies before Jim could find the words to warn him. His mouth tightened into a thin line and Jim was oddly comforted to see him look briefly sick as his eyes took in the mottled grey of Kallings’ skin. “I take it things didn’t go well while I was gone? Are you okay? Did you have any luck with the communicators?”

“No, yes and not really,” Jim answered succinctly. What was left of Kallings and Heynor was its own explanation of how well things had not gone but he was alive and he’d count that as a win.

“Shit,” Bones muttered tiredly, walking to the far side of the room and sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. “Suppose you having Spock on the line and waiting to beam us out was a bit much to hope for.”

“Fuck all else has gone according to plan in this place,” Jim agreed as he slumped down next to him. “And speaking of plans, what the hell did you think you were doing, running off like that?”

At least Bones had the grace to look guilty about it. “I — sorry about that. But last time I was here — the last time something like this happened — there was a focal point for it. According to Sam, those things were coming from the labs working on the teleportation experiments. I thought maybe if I could get there, I could shut off whatever the hell is causing all of this.”

Save the lecture about how pissed you are about getting ditched for later, Jim reminded himself. It actually hadn’t been that bad a plan.

“Did it work?” he asked aloud. “Hard to tell from in here.”

“No,” Bones admitted on an exhausted sigh. “The place is still crawling with whatever the fuck those things are. All I managed was — shit, I’m not sure. I think maybe I fell down whatever damn hole they’re crawling out of.”

Wow. Jim hadn’t thought he had any fresh surges of terror left in him. He reached out without thinking, wrapping a hand around Bones’ wrist and squeezing hard.

Bones glanced up at the desperate grip, expression softening at whatever he read on Jim’s face. “I climbed back out,” he added. “And I found this.”

Jim leaned forward to get a closer look at the ornamented cube that Bones held up. It didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen before: an irregular cube with a dull metallic sheen, ornamented with carvings and inlaid golden swirls and cylinders. One of its corners was a vaguely humanoid face sculpted in that same gold-coloured material. “What is it?” he repeated.

“You remember that ancient civilization I mentioned?” Bones asked.

It took Jim a second — the conversation felt days away, instead of just hours — but he nodded.

“I think they left us a present,” Bones said and let go of the cube.

Jim’s eyes went wide when it remained suspended in midair, hovering steadily in front of them. “Okay, that’s pretty neat. What else does it do?”

“It’s a weapon,” Bones answered. “A powerful one. Goes through those bastards like a laser scalpel. At a guess, we’re not the first ones to have a monster problem on Mars.”

“How do you figure that?” Jim asked, extending a curious finger to poke the cube.

“It told me so,” Bones replied as Jim’s finger brushed the surface and a voice of layered chimes whispered into his ear.

We are many. We are one. We are the Praelanthor.
Free us from our eternal prison, and we will help you.
Vanquish our enemies and we grow stronger.
Listen for our call, and then free us, to smite down the evil.

Jim jerked his hand back, staring at the cube in alarmed fascination.

“So," he managed, swallowing dryly. "It, uh, talks.”

“I noticed that, myself,” Bones said blandly.

Jim shot him a glare, mouth twitching into a reluctant grin. “Asshole,” he said, elbowing Bones in the side.

“Takes one,” Bones retorted, nudging him in return.

God, Jim was glad to have Bones back. Sitting there shoulder-to-shoulder as they considered the alien artifact serenely floating between them, Jim felt better than he had since Whitlock’s call. Creepy talking cube and all.

Jim rubbed his hand absently against his thigh as he looked at the weirdest thing he'd encountered in a day full of unnerving encounters. The cube was unaffected by his scrutiny but Jim remembered the undeniable awareness he'd sensed when it had whispered promises into his mind. Whatever else the artifact was, it was no mindless tool. On the other hand, it hadn't tried to kill them yet, unlike pretty much everything else Jim had run into here. And Bones trusted it, like he trusted nothing else about this place.

Jim took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh. The cube made as much sense as anything else did in Olduvai and Jim wouldn't throw away any advantage he could get his hands on. No matter how inexplicable it was.

“It says it’ll help us,” he finally said.

“We need all the help we can get,” Bones pointed out.

“That’s for damn sure,” Jim conceded. There really weren’t many options open to them. “We going to make a run for it?”

“Yeah,” Bones sighed unhappily. “It won’t be easy but it’s our best bet.”

“Well, I hope you remember the way out,” Jim told him. “I didn’t exactly get the grand tour.”

Bones smiled humourlessly. “I’ve been trying to forget Olduvai for over 200 years. Don’t worry about my memory.”

He pushed himself to his feet, then held out a hand to help Jim.

“Any idea how your new toy works?” Jim asked as he scrambled up.

The cube had moved as they did, smoothly taking up a position at Bones’ shoulder.

“Yeah, a bit,” Bones said. “It say anything to you about vanquishing enemies to make it stronger?”

Jim nodded.

“That’s about it. You kill things to charge it up. When enough of those bastards die, it’s ready to use.”

“Convenient,” Jim commented. Another good reason to shoot anything that popped out at them.

They took a few minutes to survey their remaining equipment. Once they left, retreating to this flimsy sanctuary wouldn’t be an option.

“Okay, so here’s the deal with the communicators,” Jim said as they prepared to set off. “Even with the power cells, I couldn’t punch a signal through to the Enterprise but I did manage to supercharge the signal boosters. If we can get beyond the worst of the interference, we should be able to yell loud enough that they’ll hear us.”

Bones nodded thoughtfully, grabbing a nearby PADD and stylus. “We’re in one of the lower sections, off of the secondary excavation sites,” he explained, sketching a rough image as he spoke. “If we head out and up, this hallway will link up with one of the major shafts and that should give us a pretty straight shot at getting out of here.”

“Mm-hm,” Jim acknowledged, watching him trace the pathway on the PADD.

“If anything happens to me, you should keep going this way,” Bones started, falling silent as Jim splayed a hand across his over the screen.

“If anything happens to you, I’m as good as dead,” he said simply.

“Damn it, Jim!” Bones scowled at him, clearly wanting to argue but they both knew Jim was right.

“So are we good to go now?” Jim asked with faux-cheer.

Bones stared at him for a long few seconds, then reached out and dragged him into a tight, hard hug. “If you die down here, I will never forgive you, you stupid son of a bitch,” he swore fiercely, then shoved Jim away and stalked to the door.

Jim swallowed hard and resettled his equipment to buy him a few seconds to do the same with his composure.

“Well?” Bones prompted impatiently. “You coming?”

“Lead the way,” Jim replied brightly.

Back to Part 2

On to Part 4

Back to the Masterpost

[ST XI] FIC: In Three Words (2/4)

evening_bat — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:24:41 GMT

See Masterpost for story notes and warnings.

In Three Words - Part 2

Of course, being a captain was a bigger deal than Jim had really understood before Nero’s destructive rampage. Proving himself was one thing but throwing his crew’s lives away because he refused to accept defeat was another thing entirely. And being captain of the flagship brought the pressure to bear all the more sharply. They were as much symbol as starship, with the Fleet’s golden boy at their head. Fortunately, his crew was more than awesome enough to live up to everyone’s expectations and Jim would be the captain they deserved.

Naturally, Bones was a big part of his success. He’d seen Jim at his best, his worst and every shade in between and was never shy about pointing out what state Jim was in at any given time. And he was still there, a steady presence that Jim didn’t want to imagine doing without. Even these days, with his crew coalescing into the tightly loyal, smooth-working unit that was the envy of the Fleet, with even Uhura thawing towards him as he and Spock settled into a surprisingly effective command team, Bones was the foundation. The crew depended on Jim, Jim depended on Bones.

It probably said something that Jim could actually think that and not immediately launch into prickly rebellion. There had been a time when he’d have sabotaged any hint that he might not be entirely self-sufficient. Apparently somewhere along the line, Jim’s abandonment issues had stopped ruling his interpersonal relationships. Maybe this was what growing up was like? Too bad the idea occurred to him in the midst of an evening on shore leave, when his alcohol-loosened tongue was echoing even his idlest thoughts.

“You?” Bones scoffed. “Grown up?”

“See, that’s why you’re the one, Bones,” Jim slurred happily, reaching out to clumsily pat Bones’ arm. “Everyone’s got to have someone, old man. And you’re it.”

“If you mean that I’m the one that’ll be pouring your drunk ass into bed again, then yeah, I’m it,” Bones told him, fond despite the exasperated roll of his eyes.

“Exactly!” Jim agreed with the gravitas of the extremely inebriated. Bones was always there; he’d made Jim come to count on it.

Which was what made the situation on Yoanndriy that much more gut-clenchingly awful.

Apparently the High Chancellor’s idea of “appealing to the Federation for aid” meant “get a landing party on the planet to provide hostages.” The Yoanndrians’ idea of bargaining revolved around a very different values system, Uhura explained to Jim in a voice that remained remarkably steady despite the weapons trained on all of them. Their own weapons and communicators had been confiscated just after they’d been ushered in to greet High Chancellor Thresshan, ambushed by the honour guard that had escorted them from the beam down site.

“That would have been a useful detail to know before beaming down, Lieutenant,” Jim commented lightly. “Remind me to add a notation to the planetary files when we get back to the ship.”

“Ah, but first you must be given leave to return to your ship, Captain Kirk,” Thresshan told him, skin flushed muddy yellow with satisfaction. “And such will not happen until we receive assurances that our demands will be met.”

“You must be crazier than you look if you think the Federation’s going to negotiate with the likes of you,” Bones interrupted before Jim could respond.

“Doctor Grimm!” Jim snapped, registering the Chancellor’s colour deepening to an angry orange in his peripheral vision. What the hell did Bones think he was doing? “Kindly shut it and leave the bargaining to those in charge.”

Bones’ snort of laughter was pure scorn. “If you can call that in charge,” he said, with a dismissive gesture at Thresshan. “Come on. We all know that Command is going to take one look at this pompous jackass and laugh themselves blue in the face.”

Jim heard Uhura’s hiss of dismay and was distantly impressed that Bones had managed such a deft insult with the blue comment. Shit-disturbing wasn’t his usual style, certainly not when provocation invited a very deadly response. Jim shot a quick glance over at Spock, noting the grim set of his mouth. Any hope of negotiating their way out of this had evaporated with Bones’ display of precisely applied cultural insensitivity.

“Enough talk,” Thresshan declared, rising from his throne to stalk over to them. “Your colleague speaks truth. Your Federation has no reason to grant my...request the gravity it deserves. A display of strength and commitment is required to demonstrate how important it is that my words be considered seriously.”

He summoned two of his guards over with a flick of his fingers. They approached without hesitation, eager hostility in every move.

“Blades, I think,” Thresshan decided, tapping his thick fingers thoughtfully against the stiff brocade of his robes. “For an appropriately dramatic presentation.”

The bottom dropped out of Jim’s stomach when the guards holstered their weapons, drawing the ceremonial spears they’d carried into the audience room. Gaudy decorations or not, their tips were plenty sharp and Jim swallowed hard.

“There’s no need for this!” he blustered. “The Federation isn’t going to think any more highly of you for slaughtering the party you requested to be sent to discuss relief!”

“Oh, I don’t intend to slaughter your party, Captain,” Thresshan assured him in a mockery of kindness. “I only need one of you to make an example.”

He considered the four of them, eyes roving across the loose line the guards had prodded them into, commenting on each in turn.

“With so few left, it seems a waste to spend a Vulcan life on such a message. Likewise, such a talented young officer is too valuable a sacrifice. Neither I would like to remove such a figurehead as yourself from play, Captain. Which leaves us with only one viable option,” he concluded with vindictive pleasure.

“Bones, no!” Jim protested as the guards dragged him a few steps away, kicking his feet out from under him so that he was left kneeling at their feet. “You can’t do this!” This could not be happening, there had to be something Jim could do to turn the situation to their advantage...

Bones ignored him, aiming a toothy grin at Thresshan. “Try it,” he invited, even as the guards raised their spears above his back.

“I believe I will,” Thresshan told him, blades falling at his nod.

The first blow knocked Bones nearly flat, plunging into his upper back and pinning him to the floor. The second guard angled his spear lower, stabbing at Bones’ kidneys. Bones made an awful gurgling sound, blood frothing at his lips as he coughed around the spear that was tearing his lungs open. His body jerked as the second guard tore his spear free, jabbing at Bones’ other side with every evidence of enjoyment. The remaining guards surged forward to contain Jim as he lurched forward, shouting denials. Behind him, Uhura’s frantic protests fell silent as Bones shuddered and went limp, lying terribly still in a widening pool of blood.

Jim took a deep breath and forced himself to stare at Thresshan. Calm was not easy to reach, not with what he’d just seen, but he thought he knew now what Bones had been up to earlier. He wouldn’t waste the chance Bones had just bought them.

“That wasn’t necessary,” he grated, not bothering to hide his fury.

“Now you understand the price of ignoring our demands,” Thresshan replied simply. “And now two of you may be permitted to return to your ship to carry our terms back to your leaders.”

Like hell Jim was leaving any of his people here with these maniacs. “We can relay terms just fine from here.”

Thresshan shook his head. “Do you really want to argue with me, Captain? I am willing to provide further demonstrations of the consequences of defiance, if necessary.”

He pointed at the bloody heap of Bones’ body and the first guard wrenched his spear loose to prod at the corpse in silent reinforcement. His face creased in confusion as he lifted his weapon, blinking at the shortened end in astonishment. The blade of the spear was missing, shaft terminating in a ragged mess of blood and splinters.

Jim’s heart leapt at the sight, and he tensed in readiness. A quick sideways glance assured that Spock was already prepared to act and Uhura had noticed and was ready to follow their lead. Not even Jim was expecting things to happen as quickly as they did, however.

Bones exploded to his feet without warning, lashing out with the spear blade he’d broken off the weapon that had pierced his chest. The first guard crumpled without a whimper, throat slashed before he could react. The second guard had time to raise his spear but Bones knocked it away, burying his makeshift weapon in the guard’s stomach. He cried out hoarsely and his knees buckled as Bones pulled the blade out with a sharp twist. Bones let him fall, already in motion as he spun around.

Thresshan was shouting hysterical commands to his guards but the shock of seeing a dead man kill their comrades kept them from moving before Bones was on him, arm snaking around the Chancellor’s chest from behind as he laid the spear blade against Thresshan’s throat.

“Move and I kill him,” he said flatly, eyes fixed on the guard hovering nervously at Jim’s shoulder. “Drop your weapons.”

“You can’t do this!” Thresshan spluttered, skin gone waxy grey with fear.

“You remember how well that worked for you when Jim tried it?” Bones asked, tightening his grip and shifting the blade so that the edge just parted the skin of Thresshan’s throat. “Don’t push me.”

Thresshan cringed away, smug assurance crumbling under Bones’ threat. “Do as he says!” he cried.

Jim permitted himself a silent sigh of relief as weapons clattered to the floor. He scooped one up as he backed away, covering their backs as the away team regrouped.

“Lieutenant, I believe you will find our communicators and weapons in the chest to the left of the Chancellor’s throne,” Spock said calmly, armed with another cast off weapon.

“One ride home, coming up,” she replied, lowering the weapon she’d picked up as she hastened to retrieve their confiscated gear.

The escape itself was almost anticlimactic now that the power had shifted in their favour. One quick call from Uhura and the four of them were dematerializing. Bones had kicked Thresshan away from him after their signal was acknowledged, the Chancellor stumbling and snarling curses at them, but he had no means of preventing their departure. Jim hadn’t bothered to hide his tight, vicious smile as his view of the audience room vanished; he was going to enjoy getting Yoanndriy and her government blacklisted at Starfleet.

Their appearance on the Enterprise prompted a bit of its own chaos. They hadn’t been gone long enough to worry the crew on standby but emergency beam out requests always meant something had gone wrong. Jim couldn’t really blame them for taking one look at Bones — in his torn uniform, covered in two kinds of blood — and assuming the worst.

“Belay that order!” he said sharply as the transporter tech called for a med team to be dispatched. “We’re fine.”

“You’ll be coming down to Sickbay for your post mission workups,” Bones corrected. “You can just do it on your own two feet.” He tugged uncomfortably at the front of his soaked uniform. “Should be a fun walk.”

Jim grimaced. Aside from Bones’ discomfort walking around drenched in his own blood, it was nearing the end of Alpha shift. There would be plenty of onlookers if they went parading through the corridors now. The edited version of Bones’ history was an open secret but that didn’t mean the crew needed to see him like this.

“I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one day,” Jim declared. “Lieutenant, beam us directly to Sickbay.”

Bones flashed him a quick, grateful glance as the lieutenant at the console reset the coordinates but Jim just waved it off. He wasn’t all that comfortable watching Bones walk around like that either.

Bones vanished into the depths of Sickbay almost as soon as they arrived, sticking around just long enough to issue orders for basic check ups all around. His staff got a bit wide-eyed when they caught sight of the state their boss was in but were far too professional to let it interfere with their duties. Bones had long since drilled the counterintuitive (and hypocritical) notion that they did not need to concern themselves with his condition into their heads. The post mission procedures went quickly, since Bones had taken the brunt of the rough treatment this time around. He reappeared just as the medics on staff were finishing up, in a fresh uniform, all traces of the disastrous afternoon washed away. He nodded over their results and pretended not to notice as Chapel scanned him surreptitiously, as she always did despite his repeated assertions that he didn’t need it.

“Old habits die hard,” he’d once explained to Jim, who’d wondered why he put up with it. “She doesn’t waste time with it if there’s anyone needing attention. I’m not going to slap her down for following that procedure. One of these days she might even catch something that actually needs fixing.”

Today she didn’t, but Jim wasn’t going to deny anyone the comfort of routine after everything that had happened. His hands were still shaking with fading adrenaline and he kept them clenched to stop himself from reaching over to make sure that Bones was still as alive as he looked. He’d seen Bones shake off damage before but nothing like what he’d had to watch today. Jim had the feeling that it would take him longer to recover from the guards’ attack than it had taken Bones to do the same.

“Go on,” Bones prodded good-naturedly as he signed off on Jim’s medical release. “You’ve got some calls to make.”

Normally Jim couldn’t get out of Sickbay fast enough but today he lingered near the door, watching as Spock and Uhura followed Bones into his office after they’d been granted release. He shook himself and headed on up to the Bridge. Bones was right; he did have calls to make. He needed to talk to Bones but it could wait. Jim had some business to take care of first.

It wasn’t until much later that night that he finished up everything and had recovered his equilibrium enough to track Bones down. He wasn’t surprised when the computer informed him that Bones was in his quarters. It had been a rough day and Bones always did tend to retreat when circumstances reminded him of his immortality. He still let Jim in as soon as he rang at the door but then Jim was as much his exception as he was Jim’s.

Bones wasn’t at the door when it slid open and Jim squinted into the near-darkness of his quarters as the door hissed shut behind him. “Bones?”

“In here,” came the reply.

Long familiarity meant that Jim didn’t need light to navigate Bones’ quarters. He could have made his way into Bones’ bedroom blindfolded. Had managed it blind drunk a time or two. Between the dim starlight and the barely-there ship’s lighting, Jim just could make out the lines of Bones’ body as he lay on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling. He considered Bones for a long moment, then toed off his boots and climbed onto the mattress beside him. Bones made room for him, grumbling half-heartedly as Jim shoved him into a more comfortable position.

“Anything else you need, Jim?” Bones asked, warm and wry in the darkness. “Can I get you a pillow? Maybe an extra blanket? This one’s Fleet-issue, is it soft enough?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Jim assured him brightly, wriggling his shoulders to soften up the mattress underneath them. “Feeling right at home.”

“As you should,” Bones said dryly. There was no bite to the comment though, and he didn’t resist Jim’s manhandling at all.

The silence that spun out between them was so comfortable Jim hated to break it.

“So that was kind of a stupid thing you did down there today,” he said mildly.

“I’ve seen you do worse with much less guarantee that you’d come out in one piece,” Bones returned evenly.

“Yeah, but that’s sort of my job, Bones.”

“And mine is to keep you alive.”

And really, what could Jim say to that? He’d never forgotten the promise he’d made himself back in the Academy. On duty, he’d never asked Bones to be anything other than the ship’s doctor. If Bones had wanted to be someone’s secret weapon, he’d have stayed in Security or Tactics. But some days, Jim was fervently grateful that his CMO could kick ass and take names with the best of them when he chose to. He’d gotten them out of one hell of a mess today, even if he’d scared holy hell out of Jim doing it.

Jim rolled onto his side, reaching out to clench a fist in the front of Bones’ shirt. “If you were anyone else...” he started scratchily.

“If I were anyone else, I wouldn’t be here,” Bones answered quietly, one arm settling around Jim’s shoulder. “And I’d have to find some other way to save your scrawny ass.”

Jim snorted a laugh at the nonsensical response. Bones was a whole litany of firsts for him. First real friend. First person to care without expecting something in return. First person Jim cared about outside of the obligations of blood and the fleeting connection of sex. First person Jim trusted to stick around. First person Jim needed to have around.

“Not sure if anyone else could manage it,” he yawned, releasing his fistful of Bones’ shirt and smoothing it out. “I’m sticking with you.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m me,” Bones told him.

Jim hummed acknowledgement of a truth too big to put into words and let that thick, comfortable silence envelop them again until he fell asleep, head against Bones’ shoulder and hand resting over his heart.

They said time flew when you were having fun. The Enterprise’s first year of service wasn’t always fun but it did seem to go by quickly. Living from crisis to crisis could do that to you, Jim supposed, though he was the first one to start complaining of boredom when they did get a rare stretch of peace. Spock could extol the virtues of research as much as he liked, Jim preferred action. Fortunately, Starfleet had plenty of that to provide. But sometimes the trouble the ship and her crew found had nothing to do with what they’d made of themselves and everything to do with the circumstances that had made them.

The Enterprise had been docked at Utopia Planetia for less than two hours when the priority communique from Admiral Whitlock came through. Jim raised an eyebrow at the unexpected hail and instructed Uhura to put it through on the main screen. He straightened in the command chair as the connection was established, nodding a polite greeting to the woman who appeared on the screen.

“Captain Kirk!” Whitlock hailed him. “Good to see you back in one piece. I assume you’re in one piece, anyhow. Anything major necessitating your docking at the shipyards?”

“Good to be here, Admiral,” Jim returned smoothly. “And no, we’re in pretty fair shape. Just stopping in on our way through, as per Command’s request for an assessment of the Enterprise’s condition and a few upgrades. They tell me that they’ve got some shiny new toys to add to our weapons and sensory arrays.”

The admiral nodded absent acknowledgement, eyes flicking past Jim at the sound of the Bridge doors hissing open. Jim’s eyes narrowed briefly at the pleased smile that spread across her face. That look couldn’t mean anything good, especially not if the new arrival was who Jim thought it was.

“Doctor Grimm,” Whitlock said, confirming Jim’s suspicions. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Admiral,” Bones said and Jim could hear the wariness just under his neutral tone. “You were looking for me?” he continued as he assumed his usual position at Jim’s shoulder.

“We were,” Whitlock agreed. “You couldn’t have picked a better time to put in at Mars.”

Oh shit. That...was even worse than Jim had thought and he jumped in before Whitlock could put Bones any more on the spot.

“Something happening down on Mars, Admiral?” he asked, all casual interest. He wished he could turn around and check on Bones. He’d spent more than four years very carefully not asking about Mars but he knew it was a sore spot.

“Indeed there is, Captain,” Whitlock answered, voice as full of false ease as Jim’s own. "We've been getting some odd reports from sectors near the old UAC facility."

Bones visibly flinched, the movement registering in Jim's peripheral vision.

"Olduvai?" Bones demanded. "It's still there? After everything that happened?"

"The site was thoroughly scanned before the foundation of any Martian colonies, Doctor," Whitlock told him, tone sharpening in warning. "It was determined to be sealed and inert. It was declared off-limits as a precaution but there's never been any indication of trouble."

"Until now, I take it?" Jim cut in, drawing her fire.

Whitlock nodded reluctantly, annoyance giving way to concern. "Some of the colonies have been reporting unusual seismic activity and anomalous energy readings, apparently centred on the Olduvai ruins.”

Jim glanced over his shoulder at the rough hitch in Bones' breathing and was dismayed at what he saw. Bones looked like he’d been sucker punched, posture stiff and eyes gone wide and dark. Jim hadn’t ever seen Bones this unsettled and he did not like it.

“Spock?” Jim said into the unusual quiet of the Bridge.

Spock was already at his terminal, scanning the data scrolling across his screens.

“There are some highly unusual readings emanating from the coordinates identified by Admiral Whitlock,” Spock confirmed calmly. “They do not match any energy signatures with which I am familiar. In addition, there is continued seismic activity in the region — activity which does not appear to be following the expected patterns of tectonic motion or pressure.”

“That's what got our people to worrying," Whitlock said. "But when we sent a team in for a close-range evaluation of the phenomenon, they found signs that someone had broken into the facility —"

“You let people go back in there?” Bones interrupted. “Are you crazy?”

"It might surprise you to learn that Starfleet has more pressing demands than staffing a guard post on an abandoned research project," Whitlock snapped at him. "We have bigger concerns than monitoring ancient history for potential trespassers."

“Nothing ‘potential’ about this, is there?” Bones retorted, ignoring the flush of anger creeping over Whitlock's cheeks. “So what are you waiting for? Cut your losses and blow the facility off of the damn planet. That'll take care of whatever's left down there.”

“While I appreciate that your past experiences might be colouring your opinion of the place,” Whitlock’s tone implied precisely the opposite, “bringing the facility down on the heads of the people lost inside is not an option.”

“I take it that’s where we and our well-timed visit come in?” Jim broke in, shooting a quelling look at Bones.

“Doctor Grimm is the only member of the Fleet with firsthand knowledge of the Olduvai site," Whitlock said flatly. "He’s got the best chance of finding out what's going on down there.”

“If you think I’m going back —” Bones started.

“Doctor Grimm!” Jim cut him off sharply. This was not the time to let Bones exercise his willingness to voice his opinion, regardless of the authority giving the orders. “My ready room. Now.”

Bones rounded on him but stopped himself short at Jim’s scowl.

Let me handle this, you stubborn bastard! Jim thought as Bones’ eyes searched his face.

To his relief, Bones’ shoulders slumped and he nodded shortly. Jim watched as he stalked across the bridge and disappeared into his ready room.

“Excuse the doctor, Admiral Whitlock,” Jim forced himself to say, layering an apologetic front over his own anger and worry. “It wasn’t an easy time for him. You know how it goes.”

Whitlock sighed and shook her head. For a moment, she actually looked sympathetic and that, as much as Bones’ vehement refusal, chilled Jim’s blood. “More than any of us know, most likely,” she agreed heavily. “But someone’s got to go down there, Kirk. We can’t take any chances — we can’t lose Mars.”

"Lose Mars?" Jim repeated, startled.

Whitlock hesitated, then sighed. "The effects are spreading," she explained tensely. "Several minor quakes have been triggered and the irregular energy readings are increasing in intensity. They're being detected over greater ranges every day. Even some of Earth's long-range sensor arrays are beginning to register some of the anomalies."

Jim swore mentally. Mars was Earth's nearest neighbour and oldest colony. Any hint of a threat to the planet was an unacceptable danger to Earth and the Federation itself, especially after the destruction of Vulcan.

“Understood, Admiral,” Jim said smoothly. “Please send us whatever data is available and I’ll get a team assembled as soon as possible.”

Whitlock nodded a brief acknowledgement. “Done. Good luck, Captain,” she said as the screen went blank.

Jim sighed soundlessly as Whitlock’s image was replaced by the lattice of the orbital dockyards. He was going to need luck to get this sorted. After confirming that they’d received the information Whitlock promised, he turned command over to Spock and headed for his ready room.

Bones was pacing when Jim stepped through the door, walking agitated loops in the limited space of the ready room. He barely glanced over as the door slid shut behind Jim but he did slow to a halt, fetching up against Jim’s desk.

“Have a seat, Bones,” Jim instructed, heart sinking at Bones’ hunch-shouldered slump into the chair.

He perched on the edge of his desk rather than circle around to his own seat, almost close enough to touch.

“So,” Jim started. “Mars, huh?”

Bones shot him a disgusted look. “Yeah, Mars. This isn’t a surprise to you, Jim.”

“Of course not. But it sounds like I’m missing quite a story there,” Jim commented lightly.

“Whatever story that place has to tell, it’s been dead and buried for a few hundred years and it should stay that way,” Bones replied fiercely. “There’s nothing there that Starfleet Command needs to know about.”

“You think I’m asking for them?” Jim snorted. “The admiralty can take a flying leap. It’s you I’m worried about. Something about this place has you running scared.”

Tension had pulled Bones so tight that he looked brittle. “Yeah, well if I’m scared maybe you should take the hint. Leave it alone.”

“I’m sorry, have you met me?” Jim asked. “How likely do you think that is, really?”

“Goddamn it, Jim,” Bones grumbled but Jim could hear his resistance starting to falter.

“Talk to me, Bones,” Jim urged, quietly insistent.

Bones exhaled a long, shaky breath, eyes fixed on his clenched hands, resting on the table in front of him. “It’s really not a pretty story,” he protested thinly.

“I still want to hear it,” Jim said simply.

“No one should have to hear about Olduvai. Not ever again.”

It was a bleak whisper and it traced a chill down Jim’s spine.

“Olduvai?” he prompted softly.

“Olduvai...was a research facility,” Bones began reluctantly. “That’s a matter of record, it was on all the paperwork and PR crap. Hell, you’ve probably seen the name before, if you did any poking into my background. What the UAC kept under wraps was the fact that the whole facility was built on an archeological dig, some ancient civilization that no one recognized, with technology like nothing we’d ever seen.”

Jim bit down a sharp exclamation. Screw the superhuman supersoldier thing — Bones had been sitting on a secret like that for two hundred and fifty years?

Bones caught his reaction and gave him a half-twist of a humourless smile.

“Oh yeah. It was the basis of all the research being done there, everything from genetics to energy development to teleportation,” he continued. “Only something went wrong and they opened up some kind of rift to somewhere else, someplace nasty. And these things came through — they tore up the whole place. That’s when my team got called in. I was the only one who made it out. And by the time I did, I wasn’t exactly the same guy who went in.”

“Jesus Christ, Bones,” Jim rasped as Bones fell silent. So that was what it took to create a man like Reaper. Jim was starting to regret having asked.

“Christ has nothing to do with what happened there,” Bones said flatly. “Biggest discovery in human history and what did we do with it? Turned it into some kind of interdimensional clusterfuck and then buried the evidence.”

“Seems like they did a pretty good job of keeping it quiet,” Jim found his voice to remark. “I take it you had something to do with that?”

Bones nodded tiredly. “I was the only one left who knew what really happened and I blew the place up behind me. So when I got out, I lied my ass off and ran like hell as soon as I was sure the UAC wouldn’t send in any more recovery teams.”

Based on what he’d heard, Jim didn’t blame him. At all. “I’m getting the impression that it wasn’t a big loss.”

“It wasn’t,” Bones assured him. “Even before things went to hell, there wasn’t a person who went to Olduvai that didn’t come out...different. And then there’s me, of course.”

Jim’s stomach twisted at the harsh bark of bitter laughter.

“I grew up in that pit and I’m one of the only ones who ever walked back out. What that does that tell you?” Bones asked, voice thick with distress.

Jim answered without thinking. “That the worst place in the universe can still turn out the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Bones’ head snapped up at he stared at Jim in open astonishment, a long moment of shocked silence stretching between them.

“I don’t believe you just said that,” Bones finally said.

“I don’t believe I just said that,” Jim told him with a grimace. “Fuck, that was disgusting.”

Despite the blow to Jim’s ego, the ridiculous display of sentiment was almost worth it for the way it made Bones laugh.

“You know they’re going to make me go down there,” Bones said after his hilarity had faded into strained silence. “Even if I decided being kicked out for gross insubordination would be worth it, they’d just send someone else in and I can’t — that’s not something I can accept.”

“Wish I could arrange otherwise,” Jim told him, “but yeah. I can’t see this going any other way.” Whatever warnings Bones might issue on the matter, Command would feel the situation on Mars needed to be investigated.

By the way Bones set his jaw, Jim knew he wasn’t going to like whatever he said next. “You’re not going in with me.”

“Like hell I’m not,” Jim countered automatically.

“No. Really. You can’t,” Bones insisted.

“Actually, seeing as I’m the captain of this ship and your immediate superior officer, you’ll find that I damn well can,” Jim informed him coolly.

“This has fuck all to do with you being the captain!”

Jim crossed his arms, eyes narrowing as he glared at Bones. “Fine. Give me one good reason why the fuck I should stay here and let you waltz into the last place in the world you want to go.”

“Damn it, Jim!” Bones exploded, slamming a hand down on the table hard enough that Jim was inanely concerned he’d cracked it. “I as good as lost everything to that place twice. It destroyed my family when I was a kid, and it killed my team the only time I tried to go back. Even Sam — she never got over what happened there.” He swallowed hard, then looked up at Jim. “Don’t make me add your name to the tally.”

Captain or not, it would have taken a harder man than Jim to refuse that quietly desperate plea.

“Okay, fine,” he ground out. “You win. I’ll stay here.”

Bones closed his eyes, breath hissing out of him in undisguised relief.

“But you’re taking a Security team with you,” Jim ordered.

“Not negotiable, Bones,” he added harshly when Bones opened his mouth to argue. “Don’t even try.”

“I — all right,” Bones said, biting off whatever counter he’d been planning. “All right. I suppose they want us down there as soon as possible?”

“Or sooner,” Jim confirmed apologetically.

“All the better to get it over with,” Bones declared and Jim was relieved to see determination in the set of his jaw. “I’m going to go get ready. Let me know when the team is heading down?”

“Will do,” Jim told him, waiting until Bones had left to scrub a tired hand over his face. It had barely started and he hated everything about this assignment already. Talking to Spock after he emerged from his ready room didn’t improve his opinion of the mission any, either.

It turned out that the strange energy readings that were causing such a fuss also interfered with transporters and communications. That was the primary reason they’d sent teams into the facility; none of their instruments had had any luck producing useful scans. Spock, overachiever that he was, had devised a means to force a signal through the outer layers of the interference but anyone venturing into the lower levels of the complex was going to be cut off from any outside aid. Given that this ruined research complex had already swallowed two veteran survey-and-salvage teams, hearing that they’d be unable to pull his crew out if anything went wrong was not welcome news.

Jim left him with orders to make the necessary adjustments on the equipment for the team that would shortly be dispatched, then took his own leave to prepare the team assignments. Bones was right — best to get this done and over with. When Jim made it to the transporter room to see them off, Spock was already present and handing out recalibrated communicators to the away team. Bones was there too, paying half-hearted attention to Spock’s explanations about the interference and the limits of their newly tweaked equipment. Jim, having already heard Spock’s science spiel, was more interested in Bones’s attire.

“Nice look, Bones. Streamlining?” Jim wondered aloud, taking a moment to appreciate the view.

Somewhere along the line, Bones had abandoned his blue medical tunic. Technically, Jim supposed that turning up wearing just the black pants and undershirt counted as being out of uniform but he wasn’t going to enforce that rule. If dressing up like a Risan dancing girl would have helped Bones get through this, Jim wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. Well, okay, he would have. But he’d have waited until they got back to start being a smartass about it.

“No need to walk into hostile territory announcing yourself with pretty colours and shiny gold bits,” Bones answered irritably, eyeing his escort. “I’d be happier if I could get these guys to ditch the red shirts.”

“We’ll be fine, Doctor,” the security lieutenant replied with strained patience. “If you’re almost ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a sec,” Bones muttered, picking through the selection of weaponry the security team had amassed. He tucked a handheld phaser into the holster at his hip then startled everyone by grabbing a heftier phaser rifle. Eyes around the room widened as he proceeded to scoop up a grenade belt in his free hand, loop it around his waist and buckle it into place.

Despite his own surprise, Jim had to hide a smile at the suddenly wary looks being directed Bones’ way. Knowing the ship’s CMO had a military background didn’t prepare one to see him transform himself into a walking arsenal.

“Uh, Doctor?” one of the ensigns piped up as Bones shrugged the phaser rifle into place over his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay with those?”

Not Doctor, Jim realized as he watched Bones calmly tucking his weapons into place as he took his position on the transporter platform. Not at the moment. Bones had left more than his tunic and his insignia in his quarters. A vicious twinge of misgiving had Jim wishing again that he could tell the Admiralty to shove it.

“Trust me, kid. I can handle it,” Bones assured his nervous escort, hefting his rifle with a matter-of-fact competence.

He looked up and caught Jim’s gaze as the security team divided up the remainder of the equipment and ascended the transporter platform. The tense readiness with which he held himself was unfamiliar but those eyes were all Bones.

“Ready to go, Captain,” he said simply.

Jim cleared his throat and wiped the unease out of his expression. “Get in there, get the answers you need, and get out quickly,” he instructed crisply. “Be careful and come home safely, gentlemen.

“And Bones,” he added, “we’re on for dinner tonight. The mess is making your favourite. Don’t be late or I’ll eat your share.”

Bones snorted, a reassuringly Bones-like sound. “That means that you actually have to save me a plate,” he replied. "Not just eat it all and blame me for being late."

“It’ll be waiting for you when you get back,” Jim promised, nodding at the transporter chief and watching as the away team vanished.

Spock made for quiet company on the trip back to the bridge to finish out his shift and for once, Jim refrained from idle conversation. A distraction would be nice but he’d long since figured out that Vulcans were useless at small talk and he wasn’t in the mood for any more science lectures. There’d be plenty of time to discuss whatever the hell was going on down on Mars after Bones got back from his exploratory venture. The team was only scheduled to be gone for a few hours, just enough time to take some readings and poke around a bit, see if they could find any sign of the missing personnel. Jim had managed to spare Bones that much; he wasn’t expected to survey the whole facility in detail.

Jim felt nervous eyes on him from the moment he emerged from the turbolift so he put extra effort into his careless saunter to the command chair. The crew was supposed to pay attention to the captain but this degree of surveillance went a bit beyond duty. He wondered if his own unease had communicated itself to the crew or if word of Bones’ displeasure had spread. Bones was generally pretty unflappable; it would make sense if the crew were concerned after his earlier display. Gossip travelled with a speed any starship’s engines would envy and Jim assumed that by now everyone had heard that there was something wrong on Mars and that their CMO wasn’t happy about it.

Fortunately, Starfleet bureaucracy was pervasive. Even an assignment as simple as docking at the Martian shipyards required compliance with dozens of fiddly procedures which kept the crew occupied, if not unworried. Desultory attempts at his own paperwork meant Jim only checked the ship chrono every minute or so, rather than just watching the numbers change. By the time his shift ended, Bones wasn’t exactly late checking in but there was no way Jim was leaving the Bridge until he’d heard something. When he blithely waved off Spock’s attempt to relieve him, Spock was kind enough to accept the dismissal with nothing more than a mild eyebrow quirk of bullshit detection.

By the time the away team was four hours overdue, however, Jim had given up all pretenses of indifference and the bridge was humming with silent tension.

“I have them, Captain!” Uhura called suddenly, voice sharp with something that wasn’t relief and Jim’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.

“Put it through,” Jim ordered immediately. The transmission crackled to life before he’d even finished speaking; Uhura must have been waiting for the command.

“— Enterprise! Lewis to Enterprise!” one of the security lieutenants was shouting, static hissing thickly over the words. Phaser fire was clearly audible in the background. “There’s something down here — we need help!"

"Spock," Jim started.

"We are currently unable to achieve a transporter lock on the members of the away team," Spock told him. "The interference is too strong. The signal enhancement on Lieutenant Lewis' communicator is not sufficient to beam out the away team."

"Lewis, get to higher ground," Jim instructed urgently. "You're too deep for a solid lock."

"Higher ground's not an option, Captain! We’ve got three men down and we're barely holding out as it —" Lewis’ voice choked off in a gargled yell.

More phaser fire sounded over the open line, along with raised voices and something — some kind of roar.

“Lewis? Lewis! Kirk to away team! What’s going on down there?”

No one answered his demand in the moments before they lost the signal.

“Kirk to Security,” he said into the heavy silence on the Bridge. “I need another away team assembled. Our people have run into some trouble down on the planet, we’re going in to get them out.”

“Aye, sir. A team will be dispatched immediately.”

“Pull out the big guns,” Jim cautioned, as he stood. “What little we know suggests they’re in the middle of hostile action. I’ll meet you in the transporter room.”

Spock was already making his way to the turbolift when Jim started to ask about communicators for the rescue party.

“Further communicators have already been recalibrated,” he explained, lifting one in demonstration. “It seemed a reasonable precaution.”

“More than,” Jim agreed gratefully, plucking it out of Spock’s hand to examine it. He forced himself to focus on the device and not the seconds ticking past as the turbolift sped down its shaft. Lewis had sounded desperate and he hadn’t said anything about the other members of the away team.

“You know that he would not want you to go down there,” Spock said quietly.

Jim’s head snapped up in surprise. “He what?”

“It is not your practice to send subordinates into danger while you remain on the ship, especially not when one of those subordinates is Doctor Grimm. However, it is clear that the doctor was distressed by the order to return to the Olduvai complex. Given his reluctance, I can only conclude that you refrained from joining the initial away team at the doctor’s request,” Spock elaborated, watching Jim carefully.

Jim nodded shortly. “Correct, Mr. Spock,” he confirmed.

The turbolift slid to a smooth stop, door hissing open as they reached their destination. Jim was quick to step out of the lift but Spock’s hand closed around his elbow. He huffed a brief, frustrated sigh but obligingly halted, swinging around to face his first officer. “Something to add?”

“I do not believe that Doctor Grimm wishes for you to join him any more now than he did earlier. No matter what manner of problem the away team may have encountered,” Spock told him and Jim could have sworn that that was actual sympathy he saw in Spock’s eyes.

“Probably not,” Jim admitted, with a shrug that only looked careless. “But then he went and got himself into some kind of trouble down there so he doesn’t get a say in what I do anymore.”

“I very much doubt that he will agree with your assessment of the situation,” Spock commented.

“So he can yell at me about it when I haul his ass back on board,” Jim returned shortly. Jim had agreed not to accompany Bones to Olduvai; he hadn’t said anything about twiddling his thumbs when his people were in danger. “We can discuss the finer points of indestructibility versus immortality while he’s tearing me a new one for reckless disregard.”

Spock frowned, eyebrows drawing together before his expression smoothed out into his usual impassivity. “I suspect he will have a great deal to say on that topic.”

Jim recognized surrender when he heard it and tugged his arm free.

“But he’ll be here to do it,” he said as he resumed his progress towards the transporter room.

That was really all there was to it. Bones had his limits but so did Jim. Standing by when he knew Bones was in trouble was well beyond them, no matter how pissed Bones would be after the fact.

The security team was ready and waiting for him when they entered the transporter room. He collected the gear they’d brought for him while Spock distributed equipment and instructions. Jim hastily briefed the team as he armed himself, securing his weapons and the signal boosters that Spock had passed out with the beefed-up communicators.

“We were unable to determine the precise location of the away team,” Spock was explaining as he took up a position at the transporter console, “but our sensors indicate a clear area near the edge of their effective range that should place you in the vicinity of Lieutenant Lewis’ transmission.”

“Sounds good,” Kirk said, glancing to either side of him to check the readiness of the other members of his team. “Anything else?”

“The interference is still too strong to permit for clear scans,” Spock admitted. “I can only advise caution.”

“Noted,” Kirk acknowledged, catching Spock’s eye long enough to let him know he’d heard and understood the warning. He was worried but he wasn’t going to let it make him stupid. “When you’re ready, gentlemen, energize.”

Back to Part 1

On to Part 3

Back to the Masterpost

[ST XI] FIC: In Three Words (1/4)

evening_bat — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:22:04 GMT

See Masterpost for story notes and warnings.

In Three Words - Part 1

Signing your life away to Starfleet turned out to be a surprisingly easy process. Suspiciously so, if the lines snaking through the Academy Admin block were any indication. Jim thought that probably meant that Pike had pulled some strings during the shuttle ride but he wasn’t complaining. If the guy was so convinced Jim ought to be here, the least he could do was cut through the bureaucratic BS of enrollment. And so it happened that Jim’s registration was concluded with a minimum of fuss, leaving him to contemplate the introductory packet they’d shoved into his hands, his already-full schedule, and his brand-new roommate.

Jim had recognized him as soon as the admin staff had shoved them together and sent them on their way; he’d been sitting next to Jim on the shuttle, remarkable for being the only other person not wearing a uniform. He’d kept mostly to himself on the ride over and Jim hadn’t paid him much mind, being rather more occupied with the lovely Uhura (he still hadn’t charmed that name out of her, damn it) and his bar brawling buddies from the night before. Between the lack of uniform and the fact that he was noticeably older than most of the other cadets, Jim had figured him for another last minute recruit. Looked like that impression had been correct, given their new room assignment.

Oh well. It could be worse. Jim hadn’t been thrilled about being busted back to dorm beds but the resigned tolerance with which his new roommate had been regarding the noisily enthusiastic cadets bustling around him lightened into something approaching amusement as he and Jim eyed each other.

Could definitely be worse, Jim decided as he got a good look at the other man. At least he’d have something nice to look at for the next few years.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” Jim remarked as they stepped back to avoid the panicked rush of a baby-faced cadet who hurtled past them juggling an armful of PADDs. Jim inclined his head in a wordless suggestion, pleased when Tall, Dark and Self-Contained followed his lead with a shallow nod.

“Looks like,” he agreed as he fell into step beside Jim, who shrugged his intake paperwork into one arm to free up a hand.

“I’m Jim Kirk,” he said, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Welcome to the next three years of our lives.”

“Looking forward to it already, kid,” came the slightly sarcastic reply as he irritably twitched his shoulder out from under Jim’s hand.

The edged tone had Jim glancing back from the pretty blonde whose passage he’d been tracking. The swat on the shoulder had been a little familiar but Jim hadn’t expected the guy to get all touchy about it. Heaving a mental sigh and gearing up for a halfway sincere apology, Jim turned to find himself the focus of a considering hazel stare.

Okay, so maybe there was more going on here than offense over Jim taking liberties. He raised his eyebrows in response. Yeah, what?

“John Grimm,” the man beside him belatedly offered, carefully casual but for the wariness in his eyes.

Jim kept his stride even with some effort, downplaying his reaction as his mind worked over what he’d just heard. The name itself wasn’t unusual enough to ring alarm bells but Jim had always had eclectic study habits and a very good memory. He knew who John Grimm was.

The bare outline of John Grimm’s history was a matter of public record. A soldier in the early twenty-first century, he’d gotten caught up in someone’s genetics experiment and come out the other side with a few distinct changes. Superhuman speed, strength and near-instant healing might have been an improvement on the human condition but they weren’t safe traits to flaunt while the Eugenics Wars were raging across the planet so Grimm had quite sensibly pulled a disappearing act. He’d resurfaced from obscurity not long after the founding of the Federation and appealed for recognition as a citizen. He’d won it, along with the attendant rights and protection due all of its members. After more than a century and a half on the run, John Grimm was finally able to live out in the open as a free man. Apparently that included joining Starfleet.

More than all that, however, Jim knew all about having a name that drew the wrong kind of attention. And he knew how goddamn sick he was of having people start in on the Kelvin as soon as they found out who his father had been. From the way John was visibly bracing himself, Jim didn’t figure that being a 250-year-old supersoldier made for any more enjoyable a conversation starter.

“Huh,” he commented mildly. “Reaper John Grimm?” he asked in an undertone.

John shot him a sharp look at the barely audible question and nodded once. The simple fact that he’d heard it would have been answer enough.

“Huh,” Jim said again, strolling along in thoughtful silence for a few seconds. “No shit?”

That won him a snort of laughter and an easing of the guarded tension that had tightened John’s expression. “No shit,” he confirmed.

“Awesome,” Jim decided, keeping his tone light. “Guess I know who to go bother for help when they make us take that history prereq.”

John’s expression wavered between disbelief and amusement before settling on the latter. “I think you’ve got more pressing concerns,” he said dryly, prodding at the dried blood flaking off of Jim’s shirt. “You might want to look into getting a refresher on hand to hand before you worry about ancient history.”

“Hey, you could probably help with that, too!” Jim suggested brightly.

“I’m your roommate, kid. Not your personal trainer,” John told him.

“This could be the start of a beautiful friendship, I’m telling you!” Jim insisted, slinging an arm over John’s shoulders and steering them in the direction of their new dorm.

He couldn’t help the smug grin that spread across his face when John failed to shrug him off, allowing himself to be shepherded along with only a token sigh of protest.

Oh yeah. This Starfleet thing really was looking up for him. Jim was going to have to find a way to buy Pike a drink sometime.

Later that afternoon found the two of them finally arriving at their dorm room, dumping armfuls of Academy-issued supplies onto their beds. Well, Jim dumped his stuff in favour of poking around their new territory. John was busy neatly stowing his things in the storage drawers. Better accommodations than he’d expected, Jim noted approvingly, more like a sparsely furnished apartment than the bare-bones institutional barracks he’d been envisioning. John probably thought it was the height of luxury.

“Hey, when’s your first class tomorrow?” Jim called to John, still at work in their sleeping area. “Should probably make sure we’re not going to be conflicting with each other.”

“I don’t know. My PADD’s on the table — check it out,” John answered.

Given permission to snoop, Jim eagerly scooped up the PADD and keyed on the display. He figured they’d have at least a few classes in common. First year courses were more generalized than the higher-level specialization requirements. And since John was most likely enrolled in — wait, the medical track? Jim squinted in disbelief, refreshing the screen to see if it would correct itself.

“No way! You’re in med school?” Jim practically yelped when the information remained unchanged.

The PADD was plucked out of his hands and Jim tipped his head back to find John looming over him from behind his chair.

“Nope, already finished that,” John responded absently, scrolling through the class list. “That’s Doctor Grimm, to you.”

Jim gaped at him. “Seriously?” he demanded.

“Seriously. This,” he said, waggling the PADD at Jim, “is adding a XenoBio component to augment my degrees.”

Degrees? Jim mouthed to himself as he shook his head. He had more than one? Not what he’d expected from a man with a history like John Grimm’s. He’d figured he’d be somewhere on the Security or Command track, probably testing out of half the classes. “That’s a bit of a career switch, isn’t it?” he ventured.

“Exactly,” John said, mouth flattening into a hard, unamused line.

Oh. Yeah, now that Jim thought about it, a few hundred years of soldiering would probably be more than enough for anyone. Especially if even a fraction of the rumours recorded about Reaper were true. Jim grimaced a quick apology as John visibly shook off the dark turn of his mood before continuing.

“I know all there is to know about breaking people, thought I’d take a turn at putting them back together,” he explained with a shrug.

“Besides,” he added, “I once promised someone I’d give the view through a microscope a try. Seemed like as good a time as any.”

“Fair enough. There’s just one problem with that,” Jim commented, brow furrowing in thought.

“Yeah?” John asked warily. “What’s that?”

“You can’t go around calling yourself ‘Reaper’ if you’re a doctor!”

John blinked at that. “It’s not like that’s how I introduce myself,” he pointed out mildly.

Jim shook his head. “You still need a new handle,” he declared, drumming his fingers thoughtfully. Grimm, Reaper, Death... “I’ve got it! You can be Bones.”

“Can I? Wonderful.”

It was a good thing there weren’t any rules against doctors being sarcastic bastards, Jim reflected.

And the hell of it was that Bones actually made a really good doctor. He was calm, competent, knowledgeable and surprisingly gentle, despite his generally gruff attitude. Jim had cause to know, since it hadn’t taken more than a couple of days for him to find new bars in which to drink — and brawl. The first night he stumbled home drunk, bruised and bloody, he hadn’t expected much in the way of help. Bones hadn’t struck him as the type who had much sympathy to spare for self-inflicted misery.

True to expectations, Bones just raised an eyebrow when Jim sauntered into their room, proudly wearing the marks of his night on the town.

“Hey, Bones,” he greeted him breezily as he sailed through the room, already unbuttoning his ruined shirt. He hissed when shrugging the shirt off tugged painfully at his bruised ribs.

The sound of footsteps trailed him into their room and he suppressed a sigh, calculating the odds that Bones was going to bitch at him for getting hurt in such a stupid way versus Bones being annoyed at Jim for causing trouble.

“So I’m guessing that the night before the shuttle ride wasn’t an isolated incident?” Bones asked mildly from behind him.

Jim shot a careful look over his shoulder and found Bones propped in the doorway, clearly assessing his condition. He pasted on a grin and waved off the accusation.

“Eh, you know how it goes. Boy meets girl. Boy offers to buy girl a drink. Girl’s boyfriend takes offense. The usual,” Jim replied, elaborately casual.

“Looks like girl’s boyfriend nearly broke your nose,” Bones commented, coming a few steps closer and squinting at the bruising Jim could feel spreading across his face. He was sure it was turning spectacular colours by now.

“It’s not that bad,” Jim replied, poking gingerly at his nose and flinching at the wave of pain that rolled through his face. “Okay, so it’s not broken bad.”

“Oh for — stop that,” Bones ordered him and then there was a pair of hands on his shoulders, pushing him down to a seat on the edge of his bed.

Jim grumbled but complied, kicking off his boots now that he was safely seated.

Bones was back at his side a minute or two later, hypospray and medkit in hand. Jim’s protest that he didn’t need any help was briskly ignored and Jim’s bruises were scanned and mended before he’d rallied from the unexpected kindness. Bones’ touch was businesslike but he took care not to cause Jim further pain as he put him to rights.

“You know that it’s possible to go for a drink without getting yourself pounded to a pulp, right?” Bones asked idly, eyes fixed on Jim’s hand as he verified the integrity of Jim’s knuckles.

Jim paused, listening keenly for the reprimand that usually lurked under expressions of concern. The lack of it left him feeling wrong-footed. “Wasn’t looking for trouble,” he answered honestly. “If I’d known she wasn’t alone and he was a jealous prick, I’d have found another girl to chat up.”

Bones nodded to himself in satisfaction — Jim’s condition apparently passed muster — and repacked his equipment. “Be more careful next time, kid,” he chided as he stood up again. “‘Tenderized’ isn’t your best look.”

Jim blinked in bemusement as Bones stowed his equipment and headed back out to the main room. Jim heard the couch creak under his weight and found himself hoping he hadn’t interrupted anything too important. Medical track cadets tended to carry ridiculous workloads even if some of them apparently didn’t mind taking a study break to play doctor for their trouble-prone roommates.

Jim pushed himself to his feet and wandered out into the kitchen. “I’m hungry,” he called over his shoulder, aiming for offhanded. “You want anything?”

“Sure. We should have leftovers from that Chinese the other night,” Bones answered. “Toss them in the warmer? That’d be great. There’s more than enough for two.”

“Dibs on the spicy noodles!” Jim declared as he set the cartons to warm.

“You can have them but I’ll give you all new and exciting bruises if you eat all the sweet and sour whatever that was,” Bones threatened absently.

As it turned out, there was plenty to go around — of food and bickering both — and Jim didn’t even get smacked for stealing the last piece of chicken. Though he did make sure to complain loudly about the nearly invisible mark where Bones had jabbed him with a chopstick.

Jim wasn’t quite sure how it happened but friendship with Bones came surprisingly easily. He’d been cautiously hopeful they’d manage amicable cohabitation, since Bones seemed like a decent guy and he’d proven to be surprisingly tolerant of Jim’s antics. Being buddies with his roommate was convenient. It wasn’t until Jim caught himself having honest conversations with Bones, far beyond the easy interactions he used to cultivate useful acquaintances, that he realized that he actually liked him. Aside from being unexpectedly pleasant company, Bones had evidently decided somewhere along the way that he trusted Jim. The fact that he’d lowered his guard apparently snuck right in under Jim’s. It was kind of hard not to return the favour when a guy like Bones decided you were worth having as a friend.

They made one hell of an odd pair but Jim wasn’t complaining. Whatever other favours life hadn’t done them, it had apparently screwed them up in complementary ways. Of course, accepting that he’d gone ahead and actually become friends with Bones meant taking on certain responsibilities. Bones had demonstrated that he could handle the taking care part. Which left Jim in charge of entertainment.

As nice as Bones was, he tended to be kind of detached. He wasn’t unfriendly enough to be considered standoffish but he kept his distance. Two centuries of watching the world change around him could do that to a guy, Jim guessed. If most of the cadets at the Academy made Jim feel old, how much worse would it be for Bones? The thing that Bones seemed to have forgotten was that passive observation might be a lot less messy but it was also a hell of a lot less fun. Life was meant to be lived, not survived. The least Jim could do was make sure that Bones actually had a good time now and then.

There was always something going on in San Francisco, even for a pair of cadets with a limited amount of time on their hands. Sports, exhibitions, museums, restaurants... Jim could have dragged Bones out to examples of each. He considered it before deciding to start with baby steps. Bars first, culture later.

Thus began Jim’s campaign to pry Bones out of his self-imposed isolation. It never really progressed much past the drinking buddies stage but Jim deemed it good enough. It got Bones out of their room, gave Jim company on nights out and led to Bones actually getting on speaking terms with people outside of a professional context. When they were just Jim and John, two guys out for a good night on the town, Bones finally lost some of his iron reserve and starting sharing more of those slow, warm smiles that Jim liked. Who needed culture anyway?

It was on one of their early ventures that Jim learned about the downside of Bones’ enhancements. Turned out that super fast healing wasn’t always a good thing.

“You’re kidding!” Jim was appalled. “It doesn’t affect you at all?”

“Not a bit. Wish it did, to be honest,” Bones replied, staring down into his glass. “Would’ve made some years easier to get through,” he muttered.

“I bet. That kind of sucks, Bones,” Jim told him. Alcohol and Jim were old, dear friends.

“So why the glass?” he couldn’t help but ask. Bones always had a drink in his hand when they went out, though this did explain his tendency to nurse them.

Bones shrugged, taking a sip. “Can’t get drunk but I still like the taste. The burn of it.”

Jim nodded. There was comfort to be found in old habits, Jim knew. Even when they didn’t actually help.

“You know, there’s dozens of bars around here,” Jim said offhandedly.

“Yeah, and?” Bones raised an eyebrow. “You bored of this one already? You haven’t hit on all the waitresses yet.”

“No, and I’m not leaving until I do — the really hot one just came on shift — but I was thinking that you can’t have tried everything yet,” Jim pointed out.

Bones raised a finger. “I am not drinking that orange shit you got so sick on last week. That drunk would not be worth it, even if it did work.”

“You’ve got no sense of adventure, Bones,” Jim complained though privately he agreed. That orange stuff had been shit.

Bones just snorted at him. “I’ve had plenty of adventure, thanks. I prefer tamer leisure activities, these days.”

Naturally, Jim took that as a challenge and flagged down the hot waitress to order shots of the orange shit. The next day’s hangover was deadly but Jim had the waitress’ comm code and had the satisfaction of Bones bitching for days about the aftertaste.

Drinking games aside, Jim stayed on his best behaviour the first few times he was out with Bones. Bones had proved surprisingly amenable to Jim’s plans to socialize him but Jim didn’t think that would last if Jim started picking fights. Having Bones around made it easier to stay out of trouble anyhow, since Jim wasn’t at the kind of loose ends that left him likely to screw with people just for kicks. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop people from messing with Jim.

He’d had a few run-ins with his buddies from the Riverside bar since arriving at the Academy and relations hadn’t improved since then. If Cupcake and his crew had been there when Jim and Bones walked in that evening, Jim would have found some excuse to introduce Bones to another bar. Instead, Jim found himself face to face with his favourite bar bully on his way back to his table. Jim recognized the expression on Cupcake’s face from the last time he planted his fist there; the chances of this ending without some sort of violence were slim. Jim flicked a glance over at Bones, watching from their table and resolved to try.

He really wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work.

Jim lost track of the fight almost immediately after they stopped trading insults in favour of taking swings. He knew he didn’t throw the first punch but his was the first to connect. By the time Jim split Cupcake’s lip, the thugs he called friends were wading in and things just got more hectic from there. He stumbled as someone snagged the back of his shirt, drawing an arm back as he got his feet under him. He let his fist drop when he realized it was Bones, reluctantly submitting to the sharp tug as Bones got a handful of his collar and dragged him clear.

“What the hell, Bones?” Jim complained as Bones hauled him out of the bar, twisting out of the unreasonably tight grip Bones had on his shirt. One eye was already swelling shut, there was a familiar wetness trickling down the side of his face and his mouth was full of the metallic taste of blood. “What’d you do that for? I was just getting ready to pound his face in.”

“Because I’ve got better things to do tonight than bail you out of jail for brawling,” Bones answered irritably. “And he wasn’t far off from returning the favour, you idiot.”

“You’d know,” Jim shot back sulkily, “what with how you were just standing there watching.”

And he had been, Jim realized belatedly. The fight itself was a bit of a blur but he’d taken the time to check on Bones’ position, make sure he was doing all right, only to find him lurking at the edges of the altercation, watching the fists fly. The following stab of disappointment was a surprise; when had Jim started counting on someone to watch his back?

Bones ignored the accusation, catching Jim’s chin in his hand as he ran a practiced eye over the results of the brawl.

“You’ll live,” Bones told him flatly as he released him. “We can clean you up after we get you home.”

“Great. That’s great. And thanks for all your help in there,” Jim said, spitting a mouthful of blood and trying not to sound too bitter. “Don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Bones smiled tightly as he watched Jim wipe his face on his sleeve. “Sorry, Jim. My mistake. I thought you wanted a wingman, not a bodyguard.”

Jim went still at that innocuously light reply, taking a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

Fair point, he acknowledged with a tip of his head.

Bones was his friend, sometimes his backup, often the voice of his common sense but never his personal attack dog. It wasn’t Bones’ job to clean up Jim’s messes. Especially not when Bones could have taken down everyone in that bar without breaking a sweat, Jim was reminded as the door slammed open behind them and startled Bones into an automatic defensive stance. The drunks stumbling out of the bar didn’t notice Bones’ inhumanly quick reaction but Jim couldn’t miss it.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He’d promised himself, almost immediately after meeting Bones, that he’d never trade on the man’s history. Damn it, that was a promise Jim had wanted to keep.

Jim opened his eyes and caught Bones’ eyes as he nodded once, sharp and solemn, before pasting on a smirk. “As if I’d need any help dealing with those assholes.”

Bones had relaxed slightly, tension easing out of his shoulders as Jim got his temper back under control, though there was still some wariness in the way he scoffed at Jim’s bravado. “Sure, and that’s why you’re bleeding all over yourself again.”

“Yeah, well,” Jim sighed and rubbed a hand carefully over his face. “Come on. You said something about getting cleaned up?”

“Yeah, Jim,” Bones agreed with a sigh of his own. “Let’s go home.”

Jim was more relieved than he cared to admit when Bones failed to hold a grudge. He was maybe just a bit nervous, the next time he invited Bones out but Bones didn’t hesitate before accepting. Well, he did but no more than his usual protests of better things to do and that didn’t count. And if playing things a bit safe kept Bones happy, well, it kept Jim from getting punched up every few days and that was probably a good thing.

It took a few months before Jim realized he’d gotten it a bit wrong.

It was another night in another bar with yet another belligerent drinker. For once, Jim hadn’t actually done anything to warrant getting hit. In fact, he never even saw it coming. One minute, he was nursing a drink while he waited for Bones and the next minute someone was trying to bounce his face off of the bar to the tune of angry bellowing in his ear. Luckily, Jim had been leaning on his elbows and reflexively caught himself before his cheek was driven into the wood. He was just scrambling to get sufficient leverage to shake off the painfully tight grip of the hand latched around the nape of his neck when someone pulled the asshole off of him.

Jim put a hand on the bar to steady himself as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. The alcohol-flushed man slurring curses into the surface of the bar answered the first part of the question; Bones standing at his back, twisting the drunk’s arm up and behind him as he easily held the man pinned against the wood explained the second.

“You okay, Jim?” Bones asked over the ineffective wriggling of the man he’d restrained.

“Yeah, Bones, Thanks, I’m fine,” Jim answered, lifting his free hand to rub away the lingering sensation of pressure at the base of his skull. “Good timing, by the way.”

“What are you,” Jim’s attacker protested muzzily, tugging at his arm, “some kind of motherfucking Vulcan wannabe?”

“Vulcans wouldn’t fuck their mothers,” Bones corrected mildly, maintaining his hold without visible effort. “It wouldn’t be logical.”

The guy snarled in drunken affront, trying to wrench his arm free to swing at him.

“And Vulcans wouldn’t break nearly as many of your bones as I’m going to if you don’t settle down, right fucking now.” Bones barely moved but Jim’s attacker howled in pain, struggles abruptly subsiding.

“Hey,” Bones called over to the watching bartender. “Should I cut him loose?”

“Hell no!” came the vehement response. “There’s a free drink in it for you if you go ahead and toss him out!”

“Sounds good to me,” Bones remarked. “Order for me, would you, Jim?”

“Sure thing, Bones!”

Jim clearly wasn’t the only one the guy had been bothering tonight; there was a smattering of applause as Bones hauled him upright and frog marched him out of the bar. By the time Bones made it back inside, apparently oblivious to the appreciative looks that followed him back to the bar, Jim had his payment waiting: a glass of an expensive bourbon that Bones didn’t usually allow himself to order. Jim figured he’d earned it tonight. From the generous measure she’d splashed into the glass, so did the bartender. Bones raised an eyebrow in pleased surprise when he recognized what he’d been served, lifting his glass in thanks before taking a sip.

“Thanks for the save,” Jim offered cautiously as Bones savoured his drink. He seemed awfully calm for having had to wade into a fight and pull some drunk jerk off of Jim’s back.

Bones shrugged off his gratitude. “I wasn’t going to let him break your nose just because he took exception to your face. It’s not your fault you’re pretty.”

“Is that what he — Aw, Bones! You think I’m pretty!” Jim cooed as he leaned into Bones’ shoulder, batting his eyelashes up at him.

He just laughed as Bones snorted and shoved him off, muttering darkly about breaking Jim’s nose himself, no matter how pretty it was. He knew he was grinning like an idiot but Bones was wearing that familiar look of long-suffering indulgence so he knew they were good. The words not your fault ran through his head again, shuffling Jim’s assumptions about Bones’ lack of involvement in Jim’s everyday scraps into a new, much more satisfying configuration. Jim didn’t need a protector. But, he thought as he propped his arm on Bones’ shoulder without questioning that he’d hold him up, he thought he could get to enjoy having a partner.

When Jim burst into their room during the last week of their first year finals, he was anything but in need of help.

“Bones!” he shouted gleefully, flinging himself to a stop and throwing his arms wide. “Guess who just aced Admiral Jennings’ equivalencies exam?”

It’d been just under a year and Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the way Bones smiled at him: open, unashamed and totally sincere.

“That’s great, Jim! That’s your in for the advanced summer section, right?”

“Damn right it is. Three-year graduation, here I come,” Jim gloated.

Bones shook his head fondly at the show of ego but his pleased expression never wavered.

Jim wasn’t used to making people happy, either.

“I think this deserves a drink!” he announced abruptly, still bursting with far too much triumph and satisfaction for their room to contain. “Come on, get your shoes on and let’s go!”

“Sure, Jim,” Bones agreed easily. “Nice of you to offer to buy.”

“Oh, as if I’ll ever have enough credits to my name to get you drunk,” Jim scoffed. “Besides, did you just kick the ass of the worst test first year has to offer? No, you did not. Drinks are on you, old man.”

Bones rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as he stood but there was a smile curving his lips as he pulled on his boots. “At least that summer course ought to keep you out of my hair for a while.”

The words had no bite, what with the proud smile Bones still wasn’t making any effort to hide or the congratulatory slap on the shoulder. Jim ducked his head to cover the ridiculous grin he couldn’t wipe off his face. “Aw, Bones. You know you’d miss me.”

“Like a fly in my ointment,” Bones replied solemnly, casually hooking an arm around Jim’s neck and dragging him out into the corridor. “A thorn in my side. A pain in my ass.”

“You should maybe consider seeing a doctor for that,” Jim told him earnestly. “I’ve got this friend, he’s always telling me about the miracles of modern medicine. They could probably fix that for you.”

“Smartass,” Bones growled at him, using the loose headlock he had on Jim to shake him gently.

Jim just laughed and let Bones haul him along as he grumbled about how no medicine in the universe could fix Jim’s ego.

“Hey,” Jim started, ducking out from under Bones’ arm and falling into step beside him as they hit the dormitory doors, “you’ve got some time off before that extra training rotation starts, right?”

Bones raised a questioning eyebrow. “Yeah. Why?”

“I’ve got some time before classes start and I feel like taking advantage of it.” Jim shrugged and tossed the idea out there. “There’s got to be some tourist traps out there that you’ve never seen. Want to go check a few of them out?”

When he slid a glance sideways to check Bones’ reaction, he found him looking thoughtful.

“I never did get a chance to spend much time out east,” Bones mused aloud.

“Atlantic coast east or Asia east?” Jim immediately asked.

“We only have a little better than a week, Jim,” Bones warned, unsuccessfully trying to smother a smile. “Don’t get too ambitious.”

As if there could be such a thing.

They split the difference and went to Europe and slept in a different country every night. Jim made a point of trying at least one food item he couldn’t pronounce at every meal. Bones kept a running tally of how many people Jim offended by trying to flirt in their native languages. By the time they headed back, Jim was wearing half a dozen hickeys, Bones was scruffier than Jim had ever seen him and they had two duffels of dirty clothes wrapped around cheap souvenirs and touristy holos. It took some effort for Jim to saunter, rather than stumble, into class the morning after their late night shuttle arrival but he still slipped a wink to the dubious looks the other cadets sent his way. He could guaran-damn-tee that they hadn’t made any better use of their down time than he had.

But the course of true friendship never did run smooth and Jim’s birthdays were enough to derail any routine, no matter how comfortable. Jim was never sure how long it had taken Bones to figure out the significance of Jim’s last name. He knew Bones had to know but to his vast relief, Bones had returned the favour Jim had done him on the day they met by never commenting or treating him any differently. Even if Bones hadn’t understood how little Jim wanted to talk about it, he’d always supposed that Bones’ perspective on loss had to be pretty unusual, what with the centuries-long lifespan he was facing. Whatever the reason, he’d shown remarkable restraint when Jim had disappeared on the first of his birthdays that passed after starting at the Academy.

Bones had been waiting up for him that night when he’d stumbled through the door, barely able to see straight for the volume of alcohol he’d poured down his throat. The layered bruises he’d earned throughout the night weren’t helping matters either. Bones assessed his condition without comment, lips tightening on some unhappy remark but he kept it to himself. Jim, still inclined towards belligerence despite his incapacitation, waited for some of Bones’ usual asperity to sneak out but it never did. Bones just got him cleaned up, medicated, and poured into his own bed. Jim stared up at him in drunken confusion and wondered when the disappointed, angry commentary was going to start right up until the alcohol and exhaustion dragged him under.

Bones held his silence the morning after as well, though he kept a close eye on Jim as he crept gingerly around their room the next day. Jim was feeling fragile enough that he couldn’t argue about the observation. He was just grateful for the absence of the tirade he’d half-expected after the mess he’d made of himself last night. By the time the effects of the night before had worn off, things between them seemed to have eased back into normal and Jim was too relieved to question it. Routine reestablished itself, life went on as normal and Jim put the incident out of his head.

But Bones hadn’t forgotten. He’d just been waiting until Jim’s next birthday came around.

Jim had slipped off early in the afternoon, intent on losing himself in some hole in the wall where the booze was cheap and the company was plentiful. He always started with the best of intentions on his birthdays. If everyone else was too busy crying over his father, Jim would just start his own party. And if he usually found himself in the centre of a knock-down, drag-out brawl before the night was over? Well, there were plenty of ways to remind the world that you were alive. Jim had always been good at making his own fun.

He’d already gotten tossed out of one dive for mouthing off to the regulars and was scouting around for a new place to slink into when a hand settled on his shoulder. He twisted out from underneath the loose grip, dropping automatically into a braced stance before he recognized the man who’d snuck up on him.

Oh goddamn it. Jim recognized that grimly determined expression and now was not a good time for Bones to stage some kind of intervention, or whatever he thought he was doing.

“Bones? What are you doing here?” Jim tried to keep his tone neutral and jerked a thumb over his shoulder as he began to back away. “Look, whatever you want — can it wait? I’m on my way somewhere.”

“I can see that,” Bones replied coolly. “Headed straight for a barroom floor, if I read your trajectory right.”

Jim bit back his temper with some effort, closing his eyes as he sucked in a deep breath. Bones deserved better than to have Jim’s shit dumped all over his head, Jim reminded himself. Even if he did have incredibly bad timing.

“Just - go home, Bones. I need to get out and I won’t be good company tonight.” Jim didn’t want good company tonight. He’d take a good fight or a hard fuck, whichever found him first.

“No.”

The simple refusal caught Jim flat-footed. “What?”

“I said no.”

Jim gave in to the urge to swear at the stubborn set of Bones’ jaw. He’d picked today of all days to turn busybody? Really?

Enough, Jim decided abruptly. Forget arguing about it. This was bullshit. Jim was getting the hell out of here; he’d do damage control tomorrow.

“You can’t stop me,” he said with a shrug, turning on one heel and making a beeline for the nearest bar. If Bones was obstinate enough to follow, he’d ditch him out the back before moving on. At least, that was the plan.

Jim only took two steps before he was seized from behind and manhandled into a nearby alley.

“Watch me,” Bones answered flatly, securing his grip into an immobilizing hold before Jim had even realized what he was doing.

“What — Let me go!” Jim demanded. What the fuck did Bones think he was doing?

“Not a chance,” Bones replied, almost pleasantly.

“Let me go,” Jim repeated furiously.

“Make me,” Bones invited.

All right, then. If that was the way Bones wanted to play it, Jim would.

Jim threw everything he had into breaking Bones’ hold on him. He fought as hard as he could, tried every trick he’d ever learned. Nothing worked. Bones’ grip was unyielding. Jim had always known that Bones was strong but this was the first time he’d experienced it for himself and every failed attempt to get free drove him to a more desperate attempt. It wasn’t until he heard a pained grunt from Bones that he accepted the inevitable. That hit would have broken anyone else’s nose and as pissed as he was, Jim wasn’t willing to go that far.

He went limp in Bones’ arms, letting him hold him up as he panted for breath.

“Okay,” he finally managed. “You win.”

“Damn it, Jim. It wasn’t a contest,” Bones grumbled in his ear.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jim sighed as he got his feet back under him. Despite the temptation to wrench himself out of Bones’ loosened grip, he stayed docilely still. Bones had proven his point. “What do you want?”

“Just come with me,” Bones instructed as he let Jim go and led the way out of the alley. As much as it grated, Jim didn’t have much choice but to follow.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when Bones brought them back to their room. He rolled his eyes as Bones steered him across the room and flung himself sulkily onto the couch under a gentle clap on the shoulder. Wasn’t this just turning into the best birthday ever?

Though things might be looking up, he mused as Bones put a glass full of something alcoholic in his hands.

“Didn’t think drinking was on the list of permissible activity tonight,” Jim complained sullenly, clutching the glass protectively in case Bones changed his mind.

“Getting yourself beat to hell in some shithole of a bar is not on the list of things to do,” Bones corrected, setting the bottle on the table in front of Jim. “You can go ahead and drink all that you can handle. That’s all that some days are good for.”

Jim squinted thoughtfully as he considered the hollowed-out expression Bones’ last comment had left on his face. What kind of anniversaries did a 250-year-old soldier celebrate when no one was watching? And what kind of days did he wish had never happened the first time? Poor bastard couldn’t even wash the memories away in a haze of alcohol.

“Guess I’m drinking for two, then,” Jim declared as he tipped up his glass.

Bones left him to it, reducing himself to a quiet presence on the edge of Jim’s admittedly blurry awareness. Jim was dully surprised to learn that not being alone or at sea in a crowd of strangers actually made a difference, even if it wasn’t enough to make things good. He just hoped Bones was willing to forgive or forget whatever torrents of crap were coming out of Jim’s mouth; he was way too far gone to track what he was saying tonight. He’d lost track of both the hours and the booze by the time Bones finally cut him off. Jim was in no fit state to protest as Bones peeled him off of the floor and dragged him off to bed.

“Your birthday’s over now, Jim,” Bones promised as he got him settled. “Wish it could have been happier.”

“Nah, don’t worry. Best I’ve had in years,” Jim mumbled into his pillow, “but you have some weird ideas about birthday presents, old man.”

Somewhere over his head, Bones chuckled sadly. “Don’t worry. You’ll get the rest of your present later, smartass.”

Jim managed a vaguely interrogative noise.

“Whatever else happened today, kid, some of us are glad you’re alive,” Bones told him softly. “So come tomorrow, I’m going to start teaching you how to stay that way.”

Jim’s breath hitched when a hand settled gently on his head and he squeezed his half-closed eyes tightly shut when a calloused thumb swept along his cheekbone. Stupid drinks. Making his eyes water like that.

If he’d been in any state to wonder, Jim would have questioned if Bones really meant that. He found out the next afternoon when Bones hauled him out of bed, hit him with some hypospray remedy for the hangover and dragged him out to one of the private training rooms.

“We’re going to start with something easy,” Bones told him as he prodded Jim out into the centre of the room, “like how to avoid a punch to the face, you reckless bastard.”

“Come on, Bones. Are we really going to — oof!” the rest of Jim’s question disappeared in a rush of displaced air when his back hit the mat, feet having been neatly swept out from under him.

“Lesson one,” Bones instructed as his face swam into view, hovering over Jim. “Your mouth isn’t going to get you out of most of the trouble you find.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned fiercely and held a hand up. “You are on, old man.”

Bones pulled him to his feet, answering grin spreading across his face.

Oh yeah. This was going to be fun.

Sparring with Bones quickly became a regular addition to Jim’s schedule and the practice was invaluable. Bones ran him through a wide array of defensive and offensive techniques (including an arsenal of dirty tricks) and Jim soaked up every lesson. He might have been annoyed at how easy it became to win the bar fights that had always been his favourite form of stress release but the private tutoring won him a teaching position in Advanced Hand-to-Hand in his final year which more than made up for it. Besides, Jim was hardly going to complain about increasing his chances of surviving active duty out in Starfleet. Propaganda aside, everyone knew it was a rough universe out there.

It didn’t hurt that for all of George Kirk’s achievements, he’d never made a name for himself as one of the best fighters in the Academy.

It was by far the best birthday present that Jim had ever received.

The rest of their final year rushed past in a blur of classwork and testing, the eyes of the Academy administration heavy on the graduating class. Even Bones, with his diminished need for sleep, was starting to look ragged in the last few months of classes. Then came the clusterfuck of the Kobayashi Maru. Then came the distress call from Vulcan and the mass slaughter that followed. By the time it was over, the Federation had been rocked to its foundations and there were far greater concerns than whether or not Cadet Kirk had cheated on his impossible test.

Instead of graduation ceremonies, the Academy was arranging mass funeral services and Command was scrambling to reassign personnel to cover the gaping holes that Nero’s mania had punched in the service fleet. Regardless of the trouble he’d brought on himself with the Kobayashi Maru test, there was no question now of tossing Jim out of the Academy, not after his part in saving the Earth. Not only was his three-year graduation approved, he walked out of his final briefing with the Admiralty wearing a captain’s stripes and carrying orders to take command of the Enterprise. It wasn’t how he’d have chosen to do it but he’d take the win. For the cocky asshole everyone had dismissed three years ago, for everyone that hadn’t made it home after Nero, he’d sit in that chair and show the whole damn Federation that he’d earned it.

Bones was waiting for him when he finally made it back to their room. (Still their room because who’d had time for minor administrative tasks like cadet room assignments?) Jim didn’t have to say a word; Bones’ eyes took in the gold of his uniform and dropped immediately to the stripes on his sleeve.

“Congratulations, you unbelievably lucky bastard,” Bones said but for all the dryness of his tone, his smile was pleased. There was no relief to be seen in his expression, but then Bones had been certain of the outcome even when Jim had privately worried.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Jim told him, dropping to a seat on the mattress beside Bones. That wasn’t anything less than absolute truth, for all that Bones grimaced and brushed it off. Bones had refused to leave him behind when regulations and common sense ordered otherwise and Jim would never, ever forget that.

Jim sighed tiredly and leaned heavily into Bones’ side, appreciating the solid comfort of the arm that wrapped itself around his shoulders. “They’re giving me the Enterprise,” he muttered into Bones’ chest.

He could feel Bones nod. “Figured they would. Any other word on who else will be crewing her?”

Jim snorted. “In theory, I’ve got my pick. But really, there’s some pretty cutthroat competition to nab people from the surviving class. They’re shuffling crew assignments and it’s getting kind of crazy. I put in commendations for everyone and a request to keep whoever wanted to stay on board.” He shrugged without lifting his head. “It’ll be up to them if they want to stick around.”

Bones shook him lightly. “You’ll need to fill some positions before we go out again but I don’t think you’ll lose many. Enterprise is the flagship. She’s meant to carry the best and brightest and there’s not many of them that’ll settle for a lesser ship.”

The assessment confirmed Jim’s own take on his crew-in-the-making but he ignored that for the moment, latching on to one particular word. “We?” he checked. “You planning on coming out there with me, old man?”

Jim had exercised some of his new rank to check on his people (they were still his, damn it, right up until the transfer orders crossed his brand new desk) and had taken particular interest in a few key personnel. Unsurprisingly, there were opportunities pouring in for officers like Chekov, Sulu and Uhura. Even with that minor mutiny issue, there had been so many attempts to poach Spock that his Vulcan composure would have cracked again. And people were lining up to get a piece of the only man Jim wanted for his CMO. There was no reason that Bones had to stay with the Enterprise, not when he could write his own ticket to nearly anywhere in Starfleet.

Bones snorted. “Where else would I go? Someone’s got to stick around and keep an eye on you.”

“Good,” Jim told him fiercely, possessive relief blooming warm in his chest. He wanted to keep all of his crew but he’d fight to keep Bones.

Bones chuckled and tugged Jim over backwards, knocking them both flat to the mattress. Jim grumbled for show but went willingly enough. He was tired and he’d long since stopped trying to polish himself for Bones.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be, kid,” Bones told him as they rearranged their limbs to fit on the narrow bunk. “Now be a good little captain and pass out for a while, would you? Command seems to be labouring under the delusion that none of us need sleep.”

It wasn’t until much later that a fond whisper roused Jim from a comfortable doze.

“Been a long time since I’ve had someone worth following, Jim. I’m not in any hurry to walk away.”

Jim kept his eyes closed and tucked his smile into the side of Bones’ neck. The validation of Bones’ approval followed him into sleep.

On to Part 2

Back to the Masterpost

[ST XI] FIC: In Three Words (Masterpost)

evening_bat — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:19:19 GMT

Title: In Three Words
Author: evening_bat
Betas: seryan and omphaloskepsist
Artists: unseensorrows and birddi
Fanmixers: masterpenguin82 and birddi
Series: Star Trek XI and Doom
Pairing: Jim Kirk/John Grimm
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 27,000
Warnings: Reaper doesn’t have a pretty backstory. And serving on Starfleet’s flagship means that they get into some nasty messes. And did I mention Reaper’s backstory? (Blood & violence ahoy!)

Summary: Pike used George Kirk’s legacy to dare his son into Starfleet. It was John Grimm who taught Jim about living outside of his father’s shadow.

Notes:

Written for the 2012 startrekbigbang challenge. Loosely inspired by this prompt on the buckleup_meme, asking for Reaper living out in the open after First Contact. I doubt this is what the prompter had in mind but the bunny grew teeth when I poked at it once too many times.

A few important details... This is a double AU and I've had to fudge things to fuse the canons together. Therefore, the events of the Doom movie/game happen about 45 years earlier than stated and the Eugenics Wars happen about 10 years later than in Trek, both taking place in the early 2000s. This story begins in 2255, as per the movie timeline.

Infinite thanks go out to seryan and omphaloskepsist for the beta work and the encouragement to keep writing. This story would never have been finished without their efforts and would certainly be poorer without their input.

Art & Fanmixes

Cover art and Part 3 graphic were provided by unseensorrows and you can check out her masterpost here. birddi created the images in Part 1 and Part 4.

You can download masterpenguin82’s awesome fanmix right here.

birddi created another great fanmix, which can be downloaded from here.

It was a privilege to work with these amazing collaborators! Their art and musical contributions are fantastic and you should absolutely tell them so.

Story Links

"In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on." ~ Robert Frost

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you enjoy the ride!

[Chuck] FIC: Impossible To Ignore

evening_bat — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 21:01:16 GMT

Title: Impossible To Ignore
Author: evening_bat
Pairing: Chuck/Bryce
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~ 1200
Warnings: Drunken shenanigans?
Summary: It wasn’t that Chuck couldn’t hold his alcohol. It was that it led to him taking hold of other things.
Notes: So nevcolleil wrote ...are made of these in response to a prompt over on comment_fic. I couldn’t resist replying with my own take on the prompt. :D Title from The Cranberries, to continue with the dream theme.

Impossible To Ignore

Chuck never did manage to remember what had happened the night before. When he woke up, he was too preoccupied with the brain-melting headache to think of anything more than oh my god, I’m dying, I’ll never drink again, I promise. In fact, he was so worried about keeping the contents of his skull inside his head that it took him far too long to notice the warm weight blanketing him. It was only after a few minutes of muzzy appreciation that he realized his arms were wrapped around lean muscle instead of Jill’s soft curves.

The sudden surge of panic galvanized Chuck’s headache and drove spikes of pain through his skull, turning what was intended as a horrified apology into a gurgled protest.

“Hey, buddy,” a familiar voice muttered sleepily into his ear. “You awake yet?”

Bryce -- that’s Bryce -- Oh, thank God, Chuck managed to think through the pain in his head and the swooping of his stomach, now making its displeasure with last night’s activity known. But that was Bryce’s voice and whatever idiocy Chuck had got up to last night, Bryce would take care of Chuck, he always did.

Chuck turned his head blindly, burying his face against Bryce’s shoulder and let out a pathetic groan.

“Ah. Awake and praying for death, then,” Bryce answered, sounding far too amused by Chuck’s suffering. “Think you could get your hand out of the back of my pants now?”

For a long, confused moment the words didn’t make any sense. Chuck wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders at the moment.

“Chuck?” Bryce prompted, wriggling slightly. Given that Bryce was currently draped across him, the minute shift had a much greater effect on Chuck than it should have. He reflexively tightened his grip to hold Bryce still.

...Which was about the time that he registered the smooth slide of skin under his palms. Apparently he’d worked his right hand under Bryce’s shirt. And the fingers of his left hand were molded snugly to the curve of Bryce’s ass.

Chuck jerked his hands free of Bryce’s clothes so fast he was honestly surprised that nothing tore.

“Oh my God,” he whimpered, dragging his pillow out from under his head and pressing it over his face. “Oh my God. I’m sorry!”

The pillow wasn’t enough to muffle Bryce’s laughter and Chuck bit back another groan as Bryce scrambled off of him. Thank Christ he was too hungover to actually react to the slide of Bryce’s body against his. He’d humiliated himself enough for one day.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bryce was saying. “Jill’s out of town this weekend. I know how it goes.”

Chuck ignored the light pat on his chest and concentrated on smothering himself with his pillow. It didn’t work but by the time he’d given up on trying and emerged from under its dubious protection, the room was empty. Bryce had vanished to who knew where but not before leaving Chuck a glass of water and a few painkillers. Bryce really was the most awesome friend ever.

And because Bryce was so awesome, last night was no big deal, Chuck reassured himself as he downed the ibuprofen. Okay, so Chuck had passed out and gotten sort of cuddly. But what was a bit of drunken snuggling between buddies?

* * *

That was it. Chuck was just going to have to swear off alcohol. Or at least give up drinking around Bryce. There was just nothing else for it. It might be kind of tough, what with being in college and being in the frat and all but it had to be done.

Chuck was running out of excuses for why drunk-him was all over his best friend. And yeah, Chuck was pretty sure Bryce would forgive him for the sloppy kiss he’d planted on him last night but Bryce’s usually easy smile had been a bit tight at the edges when he’d put Chuck to bed. Kissing Bryce wasn’t exactly a hardship but it wasn’t worth putting that look on his face. Totally not worth it. Especially not if all Chuck retained of the experience was a few blurry smears of memory.

* * *

Chuck managed to hold surprisingly firm to his alcohol boycott over the next few weeks, thanks to a combination of midterms and a lingering tendency to turn green at the mere mention of booze. But when Bryce walked into their room one night and found Chuck contemplating a mostly empty bottle of tequila, Chuck immediately wished he’d been able to keep away from the stuff for just a few days more. The expression flickered across Bryce’s face almost too quickly to see -- if Chuck hadn’t looked up right as Bryce walked in, he’d have missed it -- but for that split second, he looked so resigned that Chuck was ashamed.

“Looks like someone got the party started,” Bryce commented wryly, eyeing the meager contents of the bottle. “In fact, I’d say it’s about time your party wrapped up.”

“I’m fine,” Chuck protested, clutching the neck of the bottle when Bryce tried to pry it out of his hand.

“Uh-huh,” Bryce replied agreeably. “Sure you are. Why don’t we give Jill a call? I know you said she was busy but maybe she can talk some sense into --”

“I don’t want Jill!” Chuck interrupted, grabbing Bryce’s wrist and tugging hard.

Sober as Bryce was, it was surprisingly easy to pull him off his feet. Their chests bumped together as Bryce practically fell into Chuck’s lap and Chuck had just enough brain power left to be grateful for the gymnast’s reflexes that left Bryce straddling him. His breath caught as Bryce’s weight settled across his thighs, their faces inches apart.

Bryce’s eyes were wide with surprise before he blinked the vulnerability away and forced a grin. “Jesus, Chuck. Just how much have you had?”

Chuck allowed himself the span of one deep breath to enjoy the feeling of Bryce in his lap. “None.”

“None?” Bryce repeated skeptically.

“None,” Chuck confirmed. “Toby passed it off to keep Asshole Brian from finishing the whole thing. I don’t need to be drunk to - to want this. You.”

“Chuck,” Bryce started.

Chuck shook his head quickly and dropped his eyes, addressing his next words to the hollow of Bryce’s throat. “And I shouldn’t need to be drunk to say so.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Bryce, so very very still in the loose embrace of Chuck’s arm, as the silence stretched thick and awkward between them.

“Huh,” Bryce finally said. “Does that mean I don’t have to wait for you to be drunk to put you to bed?”

When Chuck’s head snapped up in surprise, Bryce was smiling like he’d never seen before. Practically incandescent and utterly impossible to look away from. Chuck licked his lips, flushing when Bryce’s eyes followed the motion intently.

“Try it and find out,” he invited.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Bryce answered, shoving Chuck flat to the mattress and diving in to seal their lips together.

* * *

It turned out that sober snuggling was miles better than the drunken kind. And the clear memory of that night was totally worth the next day's lingering soreness.

Fin

End Notes: Written on a spur of the moment today because I miss writing, damn it! and nevcolleil's post was inspiring. (And reminded me of what I thought back when I first spotted the prompt that she used for her story.) Yay, fluff!

So once upon a time I said I wouldn't do this

evening_bat — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 04:08:46 GMT

And by "this", I mean ramble about fannish stuff on this LJ. "I will use it to post fic!" I swore. And I have done.

But I am having ZERO luck at getting anything done recently and I feel like babbling about fic ideas I probably won't get around to writing. So. Uh, if anyone out there is reading this, enjoy! :D

I have this crazy urge to write a Teen Wolf/Flashpoint AU crossover. (Flashpoint is a Canadian series about an elite police tactical unit.) Where Team 1 gets called out but when they get there, they find out it's one of those weird calls. But luckily, there's a specialist team in the city who are willing to pitch in. Cue Sam going, "oh hey, I know those guys!" and going over to say hi to Hale and Stilinski, "the captain and liason of the best para team I ever worked with."

And at one point, Stiles asks Sam just how much he trusts his team -- by which Stiles wants to know if HE can trust Sam's team or should he worry about holding back -- because before the end of things, Team 1 figures out that Hale's group aren't just a team of werewolves, they're a pack, with an alpha and everything. And Greg is quick to notice that the beta wolves actually obeyed the orders that Stiles gave them, which means there is NO WAY he's just their liason officer.

...It made more sense in my head? And it'll probably never see the light of day. But in some corner of the multiverse, there's a Sam Braddock who worked with a tactical unit of werewolves and who later gets to introduce them to his SRU teammates when the wolves swing through town and end up helping on a dicey call.

EDIT: There is a bit more worldbuilding in the comments. And I may be idly making notes about further details. Because why the hell not. If I cobble together enough to share, I'll post the outline or something.