Valderys

Dear Yuletide Writer

valderys — Sun, 28 Oct 2012 21:39:54 GMT

Dear Yuletide Writer,

I am linking you to my letter from last year as nothing has appreciably changed in my tastes, I do hope that's ok. Do please ask anything you may wish to there or here as I'm screening comments for all round privacy!

Hugs,
Valderys

O Captain, My captain, Arthur/Eames (PG)

valderys — Wed, 25 Jul 2012 09:11:49 GMT

Title: O Captain, My Captain
Author: valderys
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: 9,287
Warnings: Underage in some countries, but not in the country of setting (UK).
Notes: Written for Inception Reversebang with many thanks to my inspiring artist shiroi_ten. I'll link to the gorgeous artwork properly later after posting. I intended this as a vague kind of prequel to the actual movie, and it kind of still works for that, but only kind of. The title is actually a quote from the Dead Poet's Society, as opposed to Walt Whitman, but I suspect only I would have realised that :)
Summary: Eames is a geeky sort of boy with middling ambitions, not particularly prone to stepping out of line at his conservative boarding school, until one day he meets Arthur, the American hipster with a secret past. He doesn't know it but that changes everything - falling in love is only part of the problem.

“Howzat!” came the cry and Eames had to watch as the ball sailed over his head, quite happily heading for a six, but also, unhappily, heading completely off the playing fields. And he was the nearest fielder by far. He sighed but started jogging off towards the boundary, trying to appear keen, anything that got him a few points with his teammates, or with Jenkins, the sadistic Games Master, was devoutly to be wished. Still, at least no-one could accuse him of failing to catch the bloody thing this time, which was something. After all, explaining for the umpteenth time that he really just wasn’t cut out for cricket, or anything athletic at all really would cut no ice with anyone. At least this was Sixth Form and in less than a year, assuming A’ level results went well, he’d be out of here and installed in a much more pleasant university – Cambridge if he was lucky, but Imperial would do in a pinch. And then no-one would expect him to do anthing more athletic than kick people’s arses at World of Warcraft. He frankly couldn’t wait.

However until that time, the ball was being recalcitrant. It surely couldn’t have gone over the enormous looming block that was the Chemistry Tower but he couldn’t find it on any of the paths or on the green verges, the patchy flower beds or even on the tennis courts. Eames was about to give up when instead of looking down, he decided to stretch his back and look up for a change. It then occurred to him – he’d like to think he calculated the angles in his best geometrical manner, but really it was idle luck – that the ball might have made enough height and distance to land itself on top of the swimming pool annexe. Well, it was possible, anyway. He debated with himself, was it worth the climb? Did he care? Well, of course not, but at least this way he stayed out of the line of fire for longer, Eames would swear that the batsman, Smithson, had it in for him – he didn’t know how you could aim a cricket ball at one poor lowly fielder’s head, but he swore that Smithson tried.

Decided by the thought, Eames looked at the rough wooden fence beside the swimming pool and calculated that even he, computer geek extraordinaire, could climb up using it. It was but the work of a moment to shimmy his way there, wriggling his arse in a way that would put Craig Revel Horwood to shame, but landing him on the flat felt roof in no time. Eames was about to congratulate himself when there was an aborted movement in his peripheral vision and his head snapped around. A thin boy, a year or two younger than himself, was sat back against the brick wall of the Chemistry Tower, where no-one from below would ever see him. He was glaring at Eames, which Eames supposed was fair. He’d hardly want his sanctuary invaded by random oafs either.

“Um. Hello?” Eames ventured, as it seemed rude to ignore the chap. He was trying to place him, but was coming up blank. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen…?”

The kid held up the ball, the worn red leather was being held gingerly between his fingers as though it was catching, as though some sporting fever would transmit itself by osmosis if he held on too hard.

“Oh. Thanks.” Suddenly Eames heard the distant snap of leather on willow and a muffled cheer. It sounded like they’d given up on waiting for Eames and had started again with a replacement ball. He debated it quickly, he could probably get away with staying here, saying it had taken him a long time to think of the roof, that it had taken him a while to climb it, all plausible reasons, most of them even true.

He scrambled over the roof until he was crouched in front of Arthur, not wanting to stand up straight in case he was visible from the school grounds. The glare hadn’t lessened. Eames plucked the ball from between the boy’s fingers before plonking himself next to him, so close their elbows could be brushing if the kid wasn’t huddling away from his touch.

“Cheers, mate, that makes it easier. If I went back empty-handed Jenkins would claim I’d been taking the piss. This means he’s less likely to give me detention.” Not that Eames minded detention, it was a nice quiet time when he could get his homework done.

“I’m Eames, by the way.” He held out his hand for a shake, only mildly taking the mickey, because it felt like something his father might do, but the boy studiously ignored it.

“Arthur,” he muttered instead, as though answering personally offended him, but he couldn’t think of a way out of it, and Eames answered with a “Nice to meet you, Arthur,” that was only mildly sarcastic.

So Arthur was American, was he? Well, that meant that Eames could place him then, there weren’t that many American boys at the school. Which meant that ‘Arthur’ was in fact Arthur…

“Hey, why aren’t you using your surname?” asked Eames, abruptly, “This is public school, you know – you get drummed out of the tuck shop for that kind of thing!”

This time the sideways glance was positively withering. “Because Arthur is my name. Do you have a problem with that?”

Eames held up his hands in the universal ‘who me?’ position. But he also took a good look at Arthur, even as he fussed with the ends of his school tie, ran a hand through his hair and generally messed about in a distracting fashion. Arthur was thin, rake thin even, although Eames didn’t think it was necessarily a worrying skinniness, maybe he just didn’t like spotted dick, or treacle tart and custard, because lord knows if you did it was impossible to have a figure like Arthur’s at boarding school. But that kind of stick-to-your-ribs stodge probably wasn’t what Arthur was used to, being from… California, wasn’t it? And then there was the fact that Arthur was up here without his blazer, in just a shirt, his tie stuffed roughly in his pocket, and some kind of shapeless woolen hat on his head. What was that? Fashion as rebellious statement? Rebellion masquerading as fashion? It had a tiny logo on it which Eames resolved to look up later.

“I’m sure Arthur is a positively scrummy name, darling, don’t let me keep you from it.”

Which actually got Arthur turning towards him and looking absolutely murderous. Eames was charmed. “What did you call me?”

“Surely you can’t object to my version of a name the school wouldn’t approve of?” asked Eames, carelessly, “That would be awfully unfair of you.”

“I’m not interested in fairness. Just don’t call me… that.”

“Well, I can’t promise. But I can pretend to try.”

It was just on the tip of his tongue to add another pet name but Arthur’s gaze was swinging wildly backwards and forwards between the fence and Eames, as though he was torn between leaving his hideaway or putting up with Eames any longer. And this had been rather fun. Eames was loath to let the most interesting thing he’d seen in absolutely eons get scared away, just because he couldn’t hold his tongue for thirty seconds. Well, it was rather difficult, but Eames could manage, he was sure.

Instead he settled down more comfortably against the wall, his arm just brushing Arthur’s, wriggling happily in the late afternoon sun. “So,” he asked, at last, having judged Arthur sufficiently appeased, “What is up with that hat anyway...?”

***

It turned out that Arthur was rather an odd duck, as it happened. Eames was delighted with him. When among their fellow students, Arthur didn’t deign to speak to Eames, which was fair enough, Eames thought. A nerd like him? No-one wanted to talk to him, and he was ok with that. He had his friends among his fellow nerds and geeks and that was fine – but Arthur was something else. Something strange and fey and fascinating. It was partly because he was American, of course, but it wasn’t just that, he always seemed to know odd things in class, snippets of information that were pertinent but kind of weird. He listened to music as much as he could on earbuds that hung mostly inside his shirt half hidden under his slightly-too-long-for-regulation hair. Eames had never seen the teachers confiscate them either which meant that Arthur was exceptionally lucky or exceptionally careful to only use them at allowed times. Eames was betting on careful - Arthur didn’t strike him as a boy who relied on luck very much.

Then there were the t-shirts. Eames had begun to realise that Arthur always wore t-shirts with slogans or images under his school shirts. The shirts were white so if Eames paid a lot of attention then he could almost make out what some of them said. Almost. It was enough to drive a man potty.

And it would have driven him even more insane, if it hadn’t been for the other Arthur. The boy he met when he’d shin up the fence and take his place on the roof. When he’d kick off his shoes and stretch his toes and settle down next to Arthur’s slim form, sometimes nudging into him just to see his glare or to watch him squirm, sometimes just settling down to play a game on his DS. The boy who grumbled at him but not too seriously, who seemed to hate him being there until Eames actually tried to leave, who one day, when Eames had needled him enough, lifted up his white school shirt and showed Eames a picture of a whale and ‘gone fishing’ in garish red writing. It was ironic, Arthur said, completely unselfconsciously, to Eames’ startled eye. It was vintage. He’d picked it up in a little thrift store in Williamsburg when he was in New York. This should have apparently meant something to Eames and Arthur looked a little crestfallen when it didn’t. Eames tried extra hard to be nice after that, but Arthur just asked if he'd managed to hit his head or something.

Eames didn’t feel up to explaining that when Arthur had lifted up his shirt, just for a split second, he’d showed a thin stripe of smooth pale stomach and just a few dark hairs. Eames saw more than that in any locker room after a rugger match though, so he didn’t know why his mouth had suddenly gone dry and his palms so hot and clammy. Except he totally did know, but Eames was an exceptional liar, particularly to himself – this was the first time anyone had stripped off anything just for him, even something as innocuous as a shirt. And it was Arthur, of course, don't forget that. Because Eames certainly couldn't.

***

The first time Eames brought his laptop to the roof, Arthur pretended he wasn't interested. He liked to make out that he didn't care about anything that wasn't ethical or old or homemade, but Eames knew better. Arthur's ipod was state of the art even if all he listened to were weird bands that Eames had never heard of. He didn't know why Arthur pretended he didn't care about computers but Eames had never tried to call him on it. He hadn't even really meant to pique Arthur's interest this time by bringing his laptop, only he had a stupid piece of homework he needed to finish and it was lovely and quiet on their roof, unlike his dormitory - he might only be sharing with three other boys this year, which beat the year before, but they were still terribly loud arseholes, the lot of them. Anyway, it meant he could finish the assignment he was working on and then carry on playing World of Warcraft afterwards, if the school's wifi signal stayed strong enough. And if it didn't, then that meant Eames would know for next time and could come up with a plan.

Either way, he hadn't thought about Arthur or his reactions - except in the low level way he always thought about Arthur. The way his black school trousers were slimmer and more fitted than almost anyone else's, for example - Eames suspected him of altering them himself in the Sewing Room, while trying not to think of Arthur, trouserless, bent over a furiously working sewing machine, in case the unbearable hotness of the image caused unfortunate physical reactions. Still, Eames wasn't about to complain when Arthur began to twitch a little, taking tiny glances over at Eames' shiny high-end Dell. He'd upgraded everything he could, streamlined the clunkiness of the original operating system (bloody Windows) and if Eames said so himself, it was a beautiful thing to see. Almost as lovely as Arthur himself. Or equal at least. Or... Oh thank goodness he didn't have to choose.

So Eames angled the screen so Arthur could see what he was doing - which was coding, and while Eames didn't think it was boring, sadly he suspected Arthur might. He hesitated briefly, before bringing up the web and his myriad tabs in another window. He could multi-task, of course he could, quickly clicking through to some videos on YouTube he found funny and setting one to play while he tried to carry on working. The window was tiny now though, only half the screen, and that was the problem, right, not the fact that Arthur had pushed himself even closer and was half leaning over Eames, their arms constantly brushing, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the wool of his trousers where their legs were pressed together. Eames could feel Arthur's chuckle when he huffed with quiet laughter as though it was squeezing his own chest. He found he'd almost stopped breathing with the intensity of it all. His code was probably going to absolutely shit bugs at this rate.

Eames took a breath. This was ridiculous. He wasn't quite a grown man yet but it wasn't like he was a blushing virgin. Well, he was, technically, but there was a hell of a lot of internet porn under his belt, so to speak, and he'd snogged more than one boy behind the bike sheds. Or at his sister's 18th birthday at least, plus Kevin at Computer Club, plus... Well, the point is, he shouldn't be feeling this way, not Eames, he knew what he was doing, he had a plan, he'd promised himself that he wouldn't get into anything serious in his last year before university because that way lay madness and heartbreak and massive regrets. He couldn't have such a huge crush on Arthur, ok? It just wasn't allowed.

But he still ended up shutting down his coding and opening up a larger browser window, smiling dutifully at the video of cat yodelling, but really only feeling Arthur snugged up against his side.

***

"Eames?"

It was after supper and the sun was slanting low over the chestnut trees around the playing fields. Eames looked up from his book to see Arthur's eyes hidden by sunglasses, very large and black. He blinked and watched a fuzzy reflection of himself blink back at him. It was weird, as though Arthur was trying to hide again, like being on their roof but alone all over again. Eames didn't like it one bit.

"Yes, what is it, love?"

Eames had got Arthur to accept the pet names in the end, by dint of sheer persistence really. He'd worn him down enough that Arthur barely even twitched these days but Eames didn't want to give the joke up, for private reasons that he suspected were something to do with it not actually being a joke at all anymore.

"Have you ever wondered what it feels like to die?"

What? What the bloody everloving fuck? The question came so out of the blue that Eames felt like someone had shot half a million volts straight up his spine. His heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute and he had a terrifying urge to rip off Arthur's sunglasses so he could see what he was thinking. Well, try to, at any rate.

"What the hell? Where did that come from?" Eames managed at last, after gaping, probably unattractively, for more than a few seconds.

Arthur shrugged and turned away. There was a petulant slant to his mouth, as though Eames had disappointed him in some way. He certainly didn't look like someone who was contemplating offing themselves in the near future. Surely no-one with those kinds of dark thoughts was going to look as prettily pissed off as Arthur always did?

"It's just a question. A theoretical question. Surely you've thought about it some time?" Arthur shrugged with one shoulder, as though it didn't matter to him one way or the other. "The only certainties are death and taxes, remember? I might have asked if you wondered what it felt like to kill someone instead, but it doesn't mean I'm going to go out and murder people tomorrow."

"I should hope not. Terribly messy business, murder." Eames could tell his voice was too high-pitched, because he didn't like Arthur's follow-up thought either. Was that really the direction his mind was tending? Towards murder and suicide? Well, he supposed Arthur was American, and he was in the equivalent of high school. Dazed and a little bit scared, Eames found his mind leaping unwillingly onto thoughts of Columbine and other school shootings. No, that was crazy, Arthur wasn't depressed or anything. He might have been a little bit of an outsider here at the school but not enough for that. Surely? Anyway he had Eames, didn't he? And... Surely Arthur had other friends? Eames racked his brain for other boys Arthur hung around with and failed to think of anyone that stuck out as being particularly close to him. Shit.

"Look, I've never really thought about it," said Eames, desperately feeling like he was picking his way through a minefield. "At least not like that. I've never really believed in the live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse philosophy, but that's as far as I've got. I'm looking forward to the rest of my life too much, I suppose."

Arthur knew this. Eames had waxed lyrical about his university hopes at great length. Ridiculous length really. Anxiously, Eames wondered if he'd perhaps gone a bit too far.

Arthur made a hmm noise of agreement, but it didn't seem as though he was offended, just contemplative.

"It must be cool," said Arthur, at last, "Looking forward to what you're going to do when you leave here. I bet half our class mates don't even have a clue what they want to do."

"You've got another year yet to decide," said Eames, "That's plenty of time."

Arthur shrugged and nodded but he still didn't take off his sunglasses. Eames tried not to read anything into that. Maybe Arthur was just having a bit of a crisis about his future? He'd never quite looked at things in a straightforward way and yet he always needed to plan everything out in intricate detail, Eames knew that. And that was hard to do with the rest of your life.

Maybe he still wasn't quite easy in his mind but there was one thing that comforted Eames. This wasn't LA or New York, after all - this was a boarding school in the home counties, nestled in the heart of the English countryside. He was sure that even Arthur couldn't get hold of a gun.

Well, mostly sure.

***

It was nearly the end of term. Eames didn't know how he felt about that. On the one hand, only two weeks to go and he would have nine glorious weeks to mess about at home before finding out his A' level results and the lucky university that got to accept him and his (hopefully) glorious grades. On the other hand, he only had two weeks left in which to vacillate, pine and generally enjoy the company of Arthur, one slightly weird, gorgeous and mysterious pain in the backside. Eames was torn, he didn't mind admitting it.

He'd never thought he would ever regret leaving school. When he was boarding he missed his home and his parents, and even his annoying little brother, which wild horses wouldn't get him to admit aloud. He acted out a little by being loud and obnoxious, baiting the teachers and making the other boys laugh, when he wasn't lost in his own little geeky world. Either way, he knew he had his coping strategies, but never, not in a million years, had he ever expected to do more than miss the place a bit, in a nostalgic best-years-of-your-life sort of a way, and that not for a long time. But Arthur made everything different. It made Eames want things to be different too somehow, and not just because he wished he knew what Arthur looked like naked. Well, he wished for that too, of course, but not only that.

It threw him, being so worried for another person. He wasn't used to it. Boarding school life made you good at protecting yourself by necessity, made you independent and self-reliant, all of that crap. He wasn't sure he liked being so concerned about another human being, so much so that it made Eames want to do silly dangerous stuff like grab Arthur's hand when he was looking particularly closed off, just to remind him there was someone who cared. Or made him want to talk to him in public, when they were off their roof, even though Eames knew that was a bad idea and a terrible upset of the school social order.

He compromised in the end. Which was his style all over, he knew that, but considered it to be just good self preservation. He wrote Arthur a note. His heart was beating stupidly fast and his hands were clammy as he shoved the folded piece of paper into Arthur's hand as he brushed past him in the East corridor. He'd never felt more ridiculous but the smile he sent Arthur's way was wide and guileless, and while Arthur's suspicious frown didn't go away, Eames rather fancied he saw his eyes soften, with perhaps even a hint of a dimple peep out. It was enough to have the butterflies in Eames stomach decide to jump around like elephants in concrete boots.

The butterflies hadn't put down their Doc Martens and power tools by the time late evening rolled around. There were whispers all around him and rustling noises as people got ready. The air of suppressed excitement was only added to as other boys started trickling into Eames' dorm room. Eames sighed - it was a traditional event, he'd been going to other dorm's midnight feasts all term, but it was a bit different when it was your own. Lights-out was hours ago, but all it took was the click of a torch and as simply as that the ordinary little room was transformed into a place of mystery and wonder. Eames grinned back at him as Barnes, one of his dorm-mates, held the torch up under his chin to better enhance the spooky effect. Then torches were being clicked on all over the place, and Eames added the beam from his own Maglite before spreading out the picnic blanket some enterprising oik had nicked from their mum's cupboard.

The party was in full swing now, Eames thought, and everyone seemed to be having a tremendous time. Their do would be talked about as bloody good fun, he reckoned, as Earnshaw had somehow managed to smuggle in a bottle of gin and Eames himself had managed a small bottle of vodka - parties with alcohol were always the best. The only thing that could make it better was if Arthur would actually show his blasted face. Eames worried at it, like a dog with a bone - it wasn't a properly public occasion and the unspoken social rules were always more relaxed at midnight feasts. Any bugger could come if they found out about it or heard about it, and there'd be no questions asked and free cake - what more did any self-respecting teenager need? Of course, Arthur didn't have to come if he didn't want to, Eames knew that, but he really, really hoped that Arthur would take that stick out of his arse long enough to relax and allow himself the luxury of saying yes. To Eames. To his personal invitation, that he'd dithered about but ultimately risked. Fuck.

Eames was prepared to admit that he was both grumpy and sad, and just about ready to try and drink himself into a coma, if that was possible on the tiny amounts of alcohol he had available to him, when the door opened just one more time. He couldn't help it, when Eames saw Arthur's stupidly uncertain face in the bobbing torch light he sat up and beamed at him, probably like someone demented. Arthur blinked a little before shaking his head. That was definitely a dimple this time, Eames thought proudly, that was very nearly fucking two. He felt like king of the world.

"Alright?" said Eames, trying for casual as Arthur sidled into the room and slid down the wall next to him.

He got a stare that was somewhere between 'Eames, you are an idiot' and the 'I can't believe I put up with you' face. Eames handed him a paper cup and splashed vodka and orange juice into it happily. He didn't care what Arthur thought of him, not really, as long as Arthur was there. It stopped him short a little. That was true wasn't it? Bloody hell.

Oh well. Never let it be said that Eames didn't throw himself into a challenge - and sometimes Arthur felt like the greatest challenge of all. It occurred to him that this technically counted as their first proper date together, and just contemplating that gave him tingles. Asked and answered, Eames thought smugly, he'd take that bet. It didn't even seem like that big a deal any more to act on all these terrible emotional revelations, just the exhilarating feeling of being in freefall. Inspiration struck him then, with the added fear of being proved wrong. Still, it was better to know, right? Rather than pining horribly? And Arthur had come to the party, hadn't he?

Eames feigned a chilliness he didn't really feel to pull the duvet from his bed around himself and not incidentally, Arthur. Under its cover he slipped his hand into Arthur's, almost holding his breath as he waited to see what Arthur would do. His hand was cooler than Eames, but not much and his fingers was soft against Eames' own. It wasn't everything Eames wanted but it would do for a damn good start - and Arthur hadn't even tried to punch him.

It was all he could do not to leap in the air for a dance of victory when Arthur squeezed his hand in return.

***

To say the least Eames was nervous the next day. If he could have paced on their roof without being spotted he would have done, but there were secret school hangouts and then there was being hauled up before the headmaster for abusing school property, so Eames contented himself with sitting quietly and biting his fingernails. Terrible habit, but needs must.

It was Arthur, of course. Eames didn't know where they were going to go from here and it was driving him crazy trying to work it out. After all, should he go straight for a snog now? Or should he wait for Arthur to make the next move? Or, worse yet, were they even on the same page? Maybe Arthur held hands with people all the time? Maybe Eames was now lumped in with all the maiden aunts or, or grandmas that Arthur no doubt had stashed away. And there was still Arthur's own frame of mind to worry about, maybe all the wonderfully dubious things Eames wanted to do with him would be too much, too soon? Maybe...

Then Arthur arrived on the roof in a scrabble and a shower of flat roof gravel which was utterly unlike his usual precise and careful self. It sent all of Eames' confused worrying tumbling out his head in the face of an immediate panic.

"Christ, Arthur, you could have given me a heart attack!"

It didn't help when Eames managed to catch sight of Arthur's face which was white and pinched-looking. He wanted to grab hold and never let him out of his sight again. Arthur looked dreadful.

"What's wrong, something's happened, hasn't it? It's not me, by any chance? No, surely not."

Eames always babbled when he was scared. He shut his mouth with a snap as Arthur sat down next to him and then just leaned in, his bony shoulder shoving its way under Eames' arm, his dark head burrowing itself beneath his chin. Not that it wasn't pleasant to have Arthur in his arms exactly where he'd been dreaming him all these weeks but really in an ideal world Eames would have liked to be less terrified when it happened.

"Come on, hey, sweetheart, it can't be that bad," he tried instead.

It was meaningless noise really as Eames just overloaded on all the sensation, the smell of Arthur's shampoo, and the feel of his slim body, as he uncertainly put his arms around Arthur and began to rub soothingly up and down his back. He squeaked a high-pitched gasp of his own when Arthur shifted a little before beginning to kiss his way up the column of Eames' throat. Bewildered but not knocking the idea, Eames lifted his chin to allow Arthur more access, trying not to groan, even when Arthur made it up to side of his jaw and then finally onto his mouth, enthusiastically deepening the kiss to something dirty and finally answering at least one of Eames' nervous concerns - Arthur obviously did know what he was doing. Well, at least as much as Eames did, anyway.

He wanted to lose himself in it, just enjoy the moment, because that's what Eames was good at, he could have been the very definition of 'carpe diem'. When they had come across that phrase in Latin class Eames had liked it, from Horace apparently, and he had resolved right away to seize all the days he possibly could. And then Arthur had come along, who'd shattered that resolve along with everything else.

So he didn't let his hands wander anywhere near as far as he wanted, and when they both rediscovered the need to breathe, he didn't immediately dive back in to Arthur's soft inviting mouth. Eames decided he bloody well deserved a medal for restraint. This worrying for another person just sucked in his opinion. But he didn't let Arthur go either, there were limits to his willpower, and he continued petting him, as much as he dared, running his fingers through the longer hair at the back of his neck, until he felt the tension Arthur was carrying beginning to disperse.

"You want to talk about it now?" asked Eames, softly, "Because I'm not going anywhere, love, and I can wait. For as long as you'd like."

Arthur was quiet, but that wasn't unusual. And at least this way, Eames could revel in the physical contact, marvel at each brush of his fingers against Arthur's skin. It could be worse, Eames reminded himself, after all, Arthur was here for a start and not off brooding god knows where.

"My father's going back to the States." Arthur's voice was low, and he kept his head down as though Eames' chest was as high as he wanted to raise his gaze. "And he wants to take me with him."

Eames' stomach plunged into his sturdy black shoes. Arthur was leaving, he wasn't going remain comfortably here at school while Eames swanned off into the distance, he wasn't even going to stay in the same country. He knew that he was being massively unfair but it felt like Arthur was abandoning him personally. Which was ridiculous.

Eames cleared his throat. "America's cool though, right? And it'll be good to go home, won't it? Shame about your exams though. Can't imagine A' level studies will help much over there."

Arthur's hands were fisted in Eames' shirt front so hard that Eames was a little worried he'd tear the fabric. His voice shook with sudden seething passion. "You don't get it. I hate my dad, ok? I loathe him with everything I am and I don't want to go but I haven't any fucking choice because I'm only sixteen! Fuck! I had a plan, and now it's all ruined."

"What?" Eames felt like he'd been smacked in the head by a piece of two-by-four. Is this why Arthur didn't talk about himself? Is this what was behind the talk of death and murder? Eames reminded himself that lots of people hated their families, it wasn't that unusual. Maybe Arthur was just acting out or whatever? But even as he thought it, he was dismissing the idea, he knew Arthur, he wouldn't do something so serious as declare hatred for a member of his family without good reason. Arthur never overreacted about anything.

"Look," Arthur said, his teeth clenching, "I don't want to talk about it, but. He drinks, ok? And, well, isn't that careful with his fists when he does. My sister... I couldn't always protect her. But then Mum came to her senses and divorced him and took Anne with her - it was the best day of my life. Second best was when the bastard decided he didn't want to be bothered to look after me and sent me here. I might have known it wouldn't last. I don't get to be that lucky."

Eames thought he should say something but he honestly had no idea what. He tightened his grip hoping the hug would do in lieu of cleverly sympathetic things to say that would obviously make everything better for Arthur, but inside he was reeling. He'd thought having this monstrous crush on a boy he would never see again was having it hard. He obviously had no bloody idea what he was even talking about - he'd been so selfish. So instead he ducked his head down to hide his face in Arthur's gorgeous hair because he felt so ashamed.

"Yeah, well. That was special. Thanks for nothing. I'll see you round, Eames. Or not."

Arthur began to fight then, pushing his way out of the circle of Eames' arms with a surprising amount of strength and entirely-not-surprising-at-all amounts of viciousness. It was all Eames could do to hold on but he refused to let go. Obviously shutting up had been the wrong thing to do - but how was he to know? He'd never had a proper boyfriend before! But there was a distinct possibility he would lose Arthur forever if he allowed him leave right now and Eames wasn't about to let him to do that to them both so easily. He clung on like a particularly grabby octopus, grunting when Arthur landed a painful elbow in his kidney, but still not letting go. He began to murmur a stream of quiet words, nonsense and endearments, whatever soothing babble his brain could conjure at short notice. It must have worked eventually, because Arthur stilled, his body tense, but not fighting Eames any more.

"I'm sorry," said Eames, as sincerely as he knew how, even though apologies didn't exactly come naturally to him. They were such uncomfortable things, but Arthur deserved them all, many more than Eames knew how to give. For the whole of his life, apparently. "If there's anything I can do, I'll do it. Anything at all that is in my power, it's yours, darling, you must know that. Just ask me."

Arthur was relaxing again, looking up at Eames from under his fringe with dark suspicious eyes. Eames wanted to take all the bastards that had ever hurt his Arthur and shoot the lot of them. In the kneecaps where it would hurt more.

"I want you to hack the Vital Records Department of California and change my date of birth," said Arthur calmly, "Can you do that for me, Eames? Because that's what I really want."

***

Now hacking had never been Eames' strong suit, but that didn't mean he wasn't willing to give it a go. He did love noodling around on his laptop, and he did love coding, but that was miles away from what Arthur wanted him to do. He'd never thought of himself being the criminal type, but for Arthur... Privately, Eames didn't think it was possible, but since that's what Arthur wanted he was going to try his damnedest to make it work, particularly since there seemed to have been so few people in Arthur's life who had ever put themselves out for him. Well, Eames wasn't going to be one of them. He was going to do his best. If only he could figure out what that was.

"So what do you want me to do?" he asked carefully, the next day. "I mean, how old do you want to be? If I get to change the records." That was a safe enough question, right?

Arthur was still sitting next to him on their roof as though nothing had changed, even though everything had, scowling out at the cricket pitches, although Eames doubted that he was seeing them. "Just a year older. That's all. Just one pathetic year."

"Umm." Eames wasn't sure how to ask this, without setting him off. "What difference does a year make? You still won't be a legal adult. I could make it two...?"

Arthur shook his head, definitively. "No, that's too much. He'd notice it. Getting my age wrong by a year? He might buy that. Maybe. But not two - that's too much. And I can't afford to have him too suspicious or he might... take action."

Eames played about a bit more, looking at registering babies in the United States, looking at Social Security Numbers and passports and medical insurance and... He was getting off track.

"What does it matter then if you're sixteen or if you're seventeen then? I don't understand."

Arthur looked at Eames and his eyes were sharp and hard, as though he'd seen things he wished he hadn't. And then he was just Arthur again, with his too thin shoulders and his stupid smile that just looked lonely right now. He leant against Eames and Eames let him, shifting his body so Arthur would fit into the curve of it. Mostly, Eames didn't think about Arthur being just as young as he was, but this was one of those moments. He couldn't help himself, he bent down for a kiss and Arthur just let him, melting under his mouth into something pliable and soft, until it felt like Eames was going to just burst apart with all these feelings just exploding inside of him.

Eventually, when Arthur's mouth had become pink and wet and altogether delicious, until Eames just wanted to devour him whole, Arthur started to answer the question in that soft voice of his that Eames realised was a private thing, that seemed to be just for the two of them together.

"My mother is English and that means even though I was born in California I have a dual passport, so I could stay here. In theory." Eames' heart leapt ridiculously at the thought, but Arthur hadn't finished. "But I need somewhere to go that isn't my mother's house. My father would look there first and he might start making trouble if I do. I can't risk that."

"You could always come and stay with me, darling, I think my mother would like you very much. She'd pinch your cheeks though, I warn you."

Eames was unaccountably cheered at the thought. That way he wouldn't be saying goodbye to his Arthur just after they'd found each other, which would be absolutely marvellous. He ignored the small voice in his head that said his mum would ask them all kinds of questions, especially the longer Arthur stayed. Because that didn't matter either - Eames would work something out. He would.

Arthur was looking at him now with a complicated expression, as though he'd done something wonderful but also something unutterably stupid. Which Eames thought was rather unfair - it wasn't that bad a plan.

"It's a kind offer but I can't accept, or rather..." Arthur's attention seemed arrested as though he was clicking through plan after plan in his head. "Maybe for a little while? Because I don't know how long it will take to process the application. So it might be useful. And it's why I need to be seventeen."

"What do you mean? What application?" Eames had a bad feeling about this. Arthur was trying to avoid his eye which meant he really wasn't going to like it. "Is it some kind of sixth form college, or a foundation year at uni or something?"

"Or something." Arthur, his Arthur, who wasn't afraid of anything, who wore stupid hats and listened to terrible new music. Who loved his hair long and hated treacle pudding with custard. That Arthur visibly steeled himself, pulling himself partway out of Eames' embrace, almost becoming someone else, the aloof untouchable boy he saw around the school, who used his ever-present earbuds like weaponry. That was the Arthur who spoke the fateful words, who told Eames what was really going on, who was already stronger and tougher than Eames could ever be.

"I'm joining the army. I'm sorry."

***

It made sense. Eames kept running through all he knew of the situation over and over again. And that was the problem, it did make sense. He wanted it not to, quite desperately, but it was logical. In an Arthurish kind of a way, at least. Apparently there was a clause in the divorce settlement, Arthur had agreed to go with his father as long as his mother had custody of his sister and Arthur, rightly or wrongly, believed his father might try to overturn the arrangement if Arthur took refuge with her. He had no money, of course, and any kind of course took cash, if only in living expenses, which Eames would have known if he'd thought things through. And Arthur refused to ask his father for anything and his mother couldn't afford it. So that was that.

Unless you were Arthur. He'd planned this for a long time, Eames realised. It wasn't just a scheme born in the desperation of the moment, it had always been Arthur's intention.

"I'll get an equivalent education this way, one that I know I've earned, and not on his sufferance or his choice. He'll hate that I've done this but he won't be able to stop it. He won't be able to control me any more."

Arthur had stared at Eames and his eyes had pleaded with him to understand. Which he did. Understand, that is - he just wasn't sure that he agreed with the decision. But it did explain why Arthur was desperate to alter his date of birth, because he'd planned on it being later, he'd planned on being left alone to finish school.

Eames might not like it, but it was what he had. He had to face that his Arthur was leaving, whatever the destination, and at least it explained why Arthur's thoughts had turned so dark lately, talking of murder and death and suchlike. The only thing left that he could do was try to have Arthur pleased with him, instead of disappointed, for all his choices were between the rock and the hard place, where instead Eames might have put them both somewhere comfier, with a bed and maybe an endless supply of cream cakes.

The chief problem, amongst so many others, was that he wasn't a hacker and he didn't have time to learn. He couldn't do what Arthur asked, and that somehow was worst of all.

***

It was the last day of term. Exams were finished, for good or bad, and Eames thought that they had passed rather as dreams might, disjointed and horrible, with odd leaps in time and logic. He hoped he hadn't cocked it all up, but he couldn't bring himself to care all that much, not with the results months away and Arthur leaving now. It was the last day Eames would ever see him, possibly for the rest of their lives. Eames had a lump in his throat that wouldn't subside, however much he cleared his throat, so much so that he could see Arthur's impassive public face soften just a little. It made Eames feel a little better, he supposed, although not enough, not in the shattering face of reality.

It was just a boy, Eames kept telling himself, he was just obsessing over a boy. There'd been others before, and he tried to tell himself there'd be others afterwards, but he didn't really believe it. Arthur was special.

At least they'd had these last few weeks, spending as much of their time together as they possibly could, even while revising, even while Eames frantically sought out another solution for Arthur's problem. At least they'd had that. And now the moment had come.

Eames' parents were on their way, he'd had a text from his brother, the car was probably half an hour out, if that. Around them were hundreds of other boys, all with trunks and rucksacks and mysterious tins, all talking and laughing and making the kind of god-awful racket that only a bunch of teenage boys were capable of making. Arthur wanted to leave, Eames knew that. He didn't want to see his dad, he wanted to make a quick clean escape. He was only staying for Eames' sake, and Eames appreciated that. He did.

Eames stood quietly next to Arthur, who was wearing his beanie again and provided a still, calm presence in the face of the swirling chaos around them. It was time. Eames picked up his backpack and pulled out the papers he'd printed off the website, all correctly filled in and signed. He pushed them at Arthur, barely looking at his face, because he could swear that it physically hurt.

"There you go. It's not what you wanted, but it will do the job. And that's what matters."

Arthur took them, before Eames' too-tight grip crumpled them, and he was glad - he'd spent a long time on time them, and there wasn't time to do another set.

"Eames..." Arthur's voice was plaintive, as though this was affecting him too and Eames felt selfishly glad.

"We were looking at it all wrong," said Eames hurriedly, before he lost his nerve or his pride. "It was never a case of changing your date of birth, that was too difficult from the start, too fundamental to who you are. I found the simple way, the expedient way. In the States you have to be seventeen to sign up so you thought that's what you needed, but it's not. You have to think about all angles on a job like this, and you've got a dual passport, Arthur, remember? It doesn't have to be the States, you can join the army here in the UK instead, if you want. You only need to be sixteen with parental consent." He nodded at the papers in Arthur's hand. "That's parental consent, right there. I found your dad's signature in amongst your things and I've forged it. It's rather good I think, since I had plenty of time to practice. That's another skill of mine, you see, better than hacking, much better. I used to do it all the time on sick notes and permission slips back when I was little. Never thought it would come in handy again."

His voice cracked on the last word and he shut up. He always did have that tendency to babble, damn it. He offered a wan smile instead.

Arthur was staring at him, papers in his hand, looking lost. He glanced down at them as though he couldn't believe his eyes. "Eames, I don't know what to say..."

Eames laughed then, because what was there to say? Arthur, skinny, tough, wonderful Arthur was going off to get shot at, and Eames might never even know what happened to him. It was too unbearable to think about for long so he'd been trying hard not to, but that was impossible now.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself, darling," he said, at last. Clichés were all anybody had at the end.

"I'm going to be the best." Arthur's voice was low and hard, determination in every line of him. "I don't need to promise."

"And I know you will be," said Eames, so proud of him he could spit, "But try for the sake of my nerves, at the very least. Please."

Instead of replying, Arthur took a look around at the groups of their fellow students before very deliberately lifting a hand to Eames school tie and tugging. It wasn't a great wrench, Arthur had done worse in his sleep, Eames could say no, he could stay within the school code of behaviour if he wanted to, but why would he want to? They were both leaving, this was their last chance, their last goodbye, and all at once Eames thought, bugger it, why not? Let's give them a show.

He let Arthur pull him close, dropping his backpack and letting his arms rise to circle Arthur's waist, feeling the warmth of the skin beneath the cotton shirt. He wished just for a moment they were back on their roof but only for a moment, instead losing himself in the feel of Arthur against him, in the strength of his wiry body as he pulled Eames close and then kissed him messily and hard. All that mattered was the taste of Arthur, the feel of his tongue pushing its way greedily into his mouth, the scent of him surrounding Eames like the warmest of blankets. He wished he could stay there for eternity, wished he never had to let Arthur go - but that wasn't the way the world worked.

There was a stillness that was working its way outwards from where they were standing as close as two people could be, still kissing, Eames with his eyes only half shut because he didn't want to miss a second of anything, even the blurry shadow of Arthur's cheek. But nothing lasts forever, eventually Arthur swayed back a fraction of an inch and let go of Eames' tie. He was smirking, Eames could feel it, and it made him want to giggle in return.

"Thank you, Eames," Arthur whispered against his lips, "For everything, for all of it. I'll always remember."

And then he was picking up his stuff and walking away, down the gravel drive to the small town and the train station.

It was over.

***

Things were a blur for Eames after that. Boys whispered around him but nobody asked him anything, and he barely noticed. His folks turned up and packed his bags into the boot, chattering about the journey they'd had, about how Eames' brother had won a science award and how pleased they were, but Eames stayed quiet, stayed numb. He muttered something in response to questions about how his term had gone, about his exams, but he didn't know what he said. In the end he was allowed to slip into silence in the back seat, permitted to be absent-minded and distracted. And he was grateful in a dim sort of way.

He couldn't stop thinking about it. Arthur doing basic training, with his hair all cut off, awkward-looking in a uniform just a touch too big for him. Arthur being pushed around and hazed, being shouted at by huge men with sergeant stripes on their sleeves. Every war movie he'd ever seen played itself out behind his eyelids when he blinked. He couldn't stop himself shuddering. Just the thought of anything happening to Arthur made his hands clench into fists, just contemplating the huge array of terrible possibilities made him him feel sick, and yet there was nothing Eames could do. He was a geeky kid of average ambition and limited social skills. Maybe he could start getting into shape, take a course in martial arts, in psychology, start becoming the kind of man Arthur would need, but that wouldn't solve the fundamental problem. He didn't have even the slightest chance of being in the right place at the right time. He couldn't be with Arthur.

The car drew to a halt and Eames looked up, at his house and his family and all the comforts of home that he missed when he was away at boarding school. He found that none of it mattered to him any more. Not in the same way. It was like another life, lived by someone else a long time ago. It was funny but Eames realised it was as though he'd already made the decision, a sense of comfort and rightness stealing over him, settling him into place, into his new expectations as he thought everything through. It was coming home of a completely different kind, with his old university ambitions feeling like a distant dream. They wouldn't like it, he knew that, but he was eighteen now, he didn't need parental consent any more, not with his loyalties engaged elsewhere. He took a deep breath, ready to begin.

"Mum, Dad... Terribly sorry about this but I'm going to join the army."

Who Fights With Monsters, Captain America/Iron Man (PG)

valderys — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 22:02:06 GMT

Title: Who Fights With Monsters
Author: valderys
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,906
Notes: Written for dark_fest. An Avengers movieverse AU.
Summary: What if Steve Rogers hadn't been born in Brooklyn? What if he'd been born in Berlin instead? And what if Tony found him anyway?

There would have been the hint of red and black amongst the gleam of ice crystals. Then the winking of torches shifting about in the downed plane, changing the angles to add to the sinister feel of the place - oh yes, Tony could imagine it alright. He didn't need to have been there to picture the scene. There would have been hushed voices, trailing off into awe or horror. Perhaps a hand or two trembled - or maybe not, the men he picked were tough, after all. Then there had been the radio signal, the prearranged message bouncing off satellites directly to his office. Pepper's mouth would have dropped open, very briefly, Tony liked to think, before she hurriedly located him. He'd been at the Malibu house, he remembered, and luckily hadn't even been drunk, or not enough to notice anyway. He'd sobered immediately though, faster than he liked, he remembered that. Just before arranging to fly out directly, to supervise the recovery himself. But he would never forget that first prickly rush at the news, like a flush of cold nausea. Merely the first and least of a long string of things to lay at Stefan Rutgers door...

***

He was blond and blue-eyed. Of course he was. He was built like some sort of god - and Tony had met gods, if you counted Asgardian's, and he couldn't say that Stefan didn't belong amongst their company. Stefan stared around at the bare metal walls of the cell in earnest unsurprise, as though he expected the blankness, the stuffed mattress on the floor (no springs, no bed frame), the metal toilet, the high ceiling with tiny lights behind toughened glass, the lack of windows. Maybe he did expect it, Tony didn't know, Stefan had never really been captured in the War, but it was possible the Allies had held him for a day here or there, enough for him to know what a cell looked like. Or, more likely, he'd taken part in interrogations of spies, or HYDRA agents, it was possible he'd seen many, many cells, but never on the wrong side of the bars. Tony had a stupid urge to ask how his cell measured up in comparison - was it comfortable? Had cells improved in seventy years? Oh, who was he kidding? He was Tony Stark. He asked the question anyway and got a delightfully surprised look, all widened eyes and pink mouth opened in an 'o'. But it didn't matter, Tony couldn't chatter on like he usually did, he had to pause, he had to let the translator catch up, he felt crippled like this, stifled, Stefan's attention split between the pair of them all the time, it wasn't an acceptable situation. He made a mental note to program Jarvis to speak German, before he left again. Rising up in the elevator at Stark Tower, higher and higher, he felt like a phoenix leaving behind some kind of Stygian underworld, blinking when the pink and gold of sunrise surprised him through the glass.

***

Jarvis translating instead didn't help matters as much as he'd thought it would. So Tony buckled down to intensive language training, helped along by the services of a mutant Charles Xavier swore could be trusted. He paid enough for scholarships to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters that it might even be true.

***

There were things that needed to be understood about Tony. He was a man with issues for a start. He'd be the first to admit it, to agree with you, any soul-baring he indulged in was nearly always conducted under the spotlights of the media, so the whole world knew about Tony's issues - too much money and too much fame. Too many women, too few relationships. Parents who'd died too young and were too brilliant - and well, Tony was just like them, wasn't he? Would he die too young as well? What would become too much for the billionaire playboy Tony Stark? Would he leave as beautiful a corpse?

Tony didn't know himself. Hell, if he knew he'd tell the paps, confessional-style, because he had this thing about control, a horror even, of having his secrets discovered, of having his deepest self laid bare - so Tony always kissed and told everything himself, no stories were worse than those he cracked jokes about at dinner parties; Tony Stark with his love/hate relationship with the media, as much as with himself.

So for example, people were aware of Howard Stark's time as a German prisoner of war, it was no family secret, it had just been forgotten about by most people, by almost everyone - except, in fact, by his son, by the man who'd grown up with the emotionally distant father who couldn't bring himself to love his talented, infuriating little boy. The manchild who'd listened to his father's tales of the War, who'd heard about Hauptsturmführer Deutschland¹, about the human being behind the infamous legend, how he'd been the greatest soldier Howard had ever met, the most honourable, the man who'd saved Howard's life with no thought of personal gain.

But what no-one knew because they didn't know to ask, was what that same little boy overheard in the night. What he saw and heard when he crept from his bed to sidle round the door of his parent's bedroom. The image of his icily remote father wracked with shivers and sweats, muttering to himself in his sleep, screaming even, stayed with the boy long after he became a man.

***

His German accent was terrible, but Tony reckoned he could converse now, he could be understood and understand in return. Stefan presumably had a Berliner accent, but it was impossible for Tony to tell. That bothered him, the evidence that more than likely he'd never even know. Regional accents in a non-native language? Not impossible, but not easy either. He tried not to think about it, even as they chatted, him and Stefan, about where he was,what had happened to him and precisely how much time had passed. Stefan remained polite at all times, friendly yet reserved. They could have been at one of his mother's charity luncheons, Tony thought, with that same air of polite disinterest pervading the proceedings, the dance that might have led to donations, but not to anything actually real. God forbid that Mother's society friends should be touched in any way by the misery they were trying to alleviate.

Stefan Rutgers was like that, perfect and untouchable. Tony wanted to mess him up a little, ruffle his hair, rumple him for a while. His fingers itched with how badly he wanted to imprint something onto that put-together facade - the world paid attention to Tony, but that wasn't enough, he wanted Stefan's attention, his regard, his awe and laughter and shock, he wanted more than the public persona, far more, and he wanted it all, every day, twenty four-seven. Tony wanted...

***

It occurred to him eventually that maybe Stefan didn't actually believe a word he said.

***

Stark Industries used to be the leading manufacturer of arms in the USA, but that was before founder and majority shareholder, Howard Stark, had been captured behind enemy lines in a downed experimental plane. Howard had never joined the military, so he wasn't in uniform, and therefore wasn't technically an enemy combatant. He could have been shot as a spy, he could have been tortured by the Gestapo to learn the plane's secrets, or he could have been drugged into near madness by a scientist such as Dr Erskine experimenting on human subjects. And he could have been eventually saved from all this by chance, by a complete coincidence that saw the super-soldier hero of the Third Reich coming to visit his beloved creator and seeing things he shouldn't. Things that horrified him. It could be that to keep their hero from becoming disillusioned and his value from being drastically reduced, Howard Stark's captivity might have improved out of all measure, and in his gratitude Howard might well have designed and built an impregnable shield out of a new element to keep that super-soldier safe.

But if that was the case, then it would have turned out to be the last weapon that Howard Stark ever made, and when he was repatriated at the end of the War, he immediately stopped the manufacture of all weapons at his company and bent all its efforts to more peaceful pursuits. He might have taken a financial hit for a time but it would have been worth it. And when the time came, his son saw no need to change his father's company's ethos.

***

Tony wasn't a genius for nothing. His mind zipped through the possibilities. He couldn't just give Stefan a tablet and let him find out the truth for himself via the internet, because that could all be faked too, although much more elaborately - even when he found himself smiling as he pictured Stefan's horror at the idea Tony had created 4Chan just for him.

But Tony couldn't just let him just wander about either - what if someone recognised him? After old Adolf himself, Stefan's was easily the most recognisable face from the War - after all, he'd been the Nazi's favourite poster boy. Tony also managed to ignore the growl that kept threatening to erupt from some primeval inner psyche at the thought of letting Stefan go. He was Tony's, Tony had found him, and he wasn't about to let him out of his sight now, just as things were starting to get interesting. Tony was supremely good at ignoring things he didn't want to examine too closely, so this didn't seem at all weird to him.

Besides, if the government or the armed forces got even a whiff of who it was that Tony had dug up then Stefan would be dissected and studied like a bug faster than you could say military intelligence, never mind laugh at the irony. No, he needed another way.

***

Tony was good at other ways. It was said he didn't play well with others, but he barely needed to, his genius frequently having led him to discover far more than six impossible things before breakfast. Unfortunately, a few years ago it had also led to him being captured by terrorists in the Afghan desert and forced into making weapons for them, despite all his military contracts being for stuff like better self-heating MREs. Tony had tried to explain that weapons weren't his thing, but terrorists were notoriously bad listeners and after waterboarding him for a while, Tony agreed that perhaps he'd give it the old college try. He'd never been more scared in his life, but he'd also never felt closer to his dad.

Oh yes, there had also been the issue of those shrapnel fragments in his chest that were only failing to kill him due to a lovely homemade electromagnet hooked up to a car battery. Tony was a man of many issues, as previously mentioned - for the full report on his subsequent befriending of Dr Yinson, their building of the arc reactor and then finally a crude suit of armour with which to effect an escape from captivity, see Time magazine, vol. 171, no. 17. There are pictures.

***

The original suit was just scrap metal these days, and anyway it had been a heavy, crude thing, smelling of desperation and fear. It gave Tony the heebie-jeebies to think about it now, but that hadn't stopped him playing with another prototype or two. He'd had plenty of time to tinker with it, leaving Jarvis to run calculations and iron out the wrinkles. It did need test flights, of course, and probably some kind of shakedown cruise. Tony hadn't - quite - got round to it. Oh, who was he kidding? Tony hadn't quite got the nerve to put himself voluntarily into another tin can - with or without car batteries. Which was a separate point - he had a much more powerful arc reactor these days, and he'd designed the suit around it, so that would need altering too... Tony got Jarvis on speed-dial before he'd even finished formulating the thought. Stefan looked at him as though the American schweinhund had suddenly gone mad and begun raving to himself, which up to a point, Tony thought, certainly appeared to be true.

He'd had an idea. But his newly acquired German was barely good enough to convey thoughts streaming at Tony's normal pace, never mind the scorching flow at peak operating period, so Tony didn't even try. Instead he was reduced to snapping his fingers and grinning manically at Stefan through the glass. It felt like a shot of whiskey straight to the heart when, for the first time, even if he was humouring him, Stefan tentatively smiled back.

***

This is what is known about Hauptsturmführer Deutschland, pieced together from records and propaganda. Stefan Rutgers was born in Friedrichshain, a suburb of Berlin, in 1917. As a young patriot, he was utterly loyal to the Führer, he was the most enthusiastic member of his Hitler Youth corps, and he tried to join the army when he turned eighteen, as a good member of the Nazi Party should. But a seven stone weakling couldn't join the Führer's glorious march to victory, he had to serve in other ways, for all Stefan's hair was as gold and his eyes as blue as any pure Aryan.

He got his chance in the end though, thanks to Dr Erskine. The good doctor saw Stefan's latent promise and took him into the project he was working on, which was to produce a super-soldier that would win Hitler the War. Stefan was by all accounts so grateful and happy to be able to do his duty at last that even with the dangers of death or disfigurement that could result from the experiment, he eagerly volunteered. After all, Stefan had never backed down from a fight, even if before this, he'd never won one either.

He'd apparently admired the previous test subject, Johann Schmidt, very much, and had shaken his hand before going into the metal suit for his own rebirth. There was a photo in the Getty Archive of little Stefan with his huge grin, being towered over by the future Red Skull. Ironic really, considering what came next. Sadly, Schmidt did not prove loyal to the cause of the Third Reich, he was merely a man overcome with greed for himself and not for the glories of Greater Germany and Lebensraum.

Instead, it was Stefan who got to meet the Führer and who became a national hero, held up to all as the perfect example of the master race, the embodiment of the Ayran ideal. Dr Erskine was later killed by Johann Schmidt and the secret of his serum died with him, leaving Stefan alone to be the perfect super-soldier. He fought in many battles against Allied forces and often his actions were instrumental in carrying the field. He was given a title too, Hauptsturmführer Deutschland, but it was just as likely that the crowds appearing at his rallies would instead be chanting his popular nickname of Übermensch, Übermensch!² Eventually, he got a costume in the colours of the flag - black, white and red with the swastika prominent in the centre of his chest. He even had a beautiful German maiden to be his girl, Margarete, who was an officer in the Bund Deutscher Mädel³. They had been planning to get married on his next leave of absence, if other events hadn't intervened.

***

When Tony surfaced from his workshop approximately three days later, he was covered in oil, ravenous, slightly singed around the edges and had no idea what colour he was going to spray the suit. Stefan's old costume had been all about the Nazis, but it didn't sit right with Tony to make it all about the USA either - he'd thought red, white and blue, but it felt cheap somehow, taking something neither of them had earned. Then he thought he'd paint it in the colours of his favourite car, but he couldn't choose between them, so he plumped in the end for red - his favourite colour - and gold - a shade as close to Stefan's hair as he could get it. Which was sappy and ridiculous but he did it anyway.

When he lugged the armour into the elevator in the suitcase he'd designed for it, Tony was running on about four hours sleep, and a shot of vodka he'd downed to clear his head. Stefan actually looked alarmed when Tony arrived outside his cell, hurriedly putting down one of the German novels that Tony had managed to get shipped over. Apparently it wasn't just Pep who freaked out when he'd been on an inventing jag, huh, who knew?

Tony managed to remember enough words to convey that it was a present for Stefan though, even as he squeezed the suitcase through the aperture that was meant for meal trays. The man managed to look both flattered and suspicious at the same time - which was a feat, Tony thought, even as he waved him on impatiently, because he couldn't wait to see the fit. Cautiously, Stefan pressed the button, and then Tony got a first hand view of something he didn't think he'd ever see - the Übermensch in full combat mode, fighting each piece of Tony's beloved armour as it flew towards him. It was educational, Tony could admit that, although it was also alarming, and damn hot too. It was possible,Tony thought, just the teeniest bit likely, that he should have warned Stefan first.

***

Johann Schmidt became more than a selfish man broken by his tortured condition, he evolved into a megalomaniac who thought he was above the Führer. He began working with a shadowy organisation named HYDRA and started calling himself the Red Skull. Hauptsturmführer Deutschland was appointed the task of tracking him down, which Stefan eagerly accepted, only begging for the privilege of picking out an elite corps of stormtroopers to aid his mission. His best friend Jakob 'Jeckel' Scheune came with him and the rest of the war was spent hunting down the race traitors and arrogant warlords of HYDRA - their motto was cut off one head and two more would grow in its place, but they reckoned without Stefan's sheer doggedness.

Finally, the last HYDRA Base was destroyed, but not before the Red Skull himself escaped in a plane full of bombs destined for Berlin and other cities. Stefan couldn't let the Fatherland he loved be destroyed so regardless of the personal risk he clambered aboard at the last minute and fought and killed Johann Schmidt. During the battle the plane was badly damaged and as it was too dangerous to risk landing it anywhere near a population, selflessly Stefan brought down it down in the Arctic. Despite the Führer personally sending several rescue missions, taking precious resources away from the War efforts, Stefan's body was never recovered. In absentia, he had the largest state funeral the Third Reich had ever seen.

After the War, a certain American industrialist continued to send out search missions of his own, but it was his son who finally succeeded in recovering Stefan Rutgers' body. Meanwhile, popular myth had Hauptsturmführer Deutschland striding across battlefields ten feet tall and breathing fire. Children were put to bed with warnings that the Übermensch would get them if they weren't good. The collective unconscious shook in its very boots at his name.

***

It was just as well he'd built the suit tough. Although Tony figured there were only a few dents here and there really, as a stream of small metal components flying at your body all at once could only be fended off so far. He'd be proud of it if he wasn't so worried. But the suit was assembled now, and Tony had the autopilot engaged so he had the leisure, a little late, to finally explain. Or rather he tried to, Stefan didn't appear to be talking back, and his physical stress readings were off the chart. Tony could hear harsh rapid breathing over the comlink, and it made him near frantic to make everything alright, when he'd obviously somehow made everything all wrong.

In desperation he nearly hit the control for flight right then and there before realising that a hole punched straight through the entirety of Stark Tower might be a little over the top even for him. Instead he used the elevator and felt his mood lift with the floors passing just by watching how smoothly the suit's servomotors worked and the joints shift. The override controls he was using were getting a good test run too - this would work, he was sure of it.

He babbled down the comlink all the way along, explaining what he was doing in minute detail, breaking out in English before forcing his brain back into German. Exhaustion was definitely beginning to kick in. It was all worth it though when they reached the roof and Tony heard Stefan gasp - at the view? At the daylight? Tony didn't know. It was pretty awesome either way. He let out a whoop of his own when he finally got to do what he'd been longing to do ever since he'd designed the new repulsor units.

The armour shot into the air like a streak of red and gold fire, and just for an instant, a tiny moment, Tony felt he could watch it climb forever into an infinite blue dawn.

***

Tony might not want to be in the suit itself but this was the next best thing. Really. Like chocolate and peanut butter, if peanut butter preferred to hide in the jar. He built a kind of virtual reality suite in his penthouse and that made controlling the suit so much easier. And when he didn't control it, once he'd got Stefan on board with the programme, got him to take over sometimes, on the ground at first, so they wouldn't plummet out of the sky like a broken bird, then... Then it was even better. Tony could hear every tiny hitched breath or muttered comment, it was like he was there with Stefan, alongside him, inhabiting it with him, almost feeling the same sweat crawling along his brow, with the same readouts in front of his eyes. It was the next best thing to being him - but Tony didn't let himself think about that either. He just worked on getting the pick-ups more and more finely attuned, and improving the feedback circuits, and then there was something cool he could do with nanites, Tony was certain...

Stefan just flew. And sometimes landed and looked around at the thronging crowds of people in New York with wondering eyes. Luckily, there were enough superheroes bouncing around the place to make it an unsurprising sight - people would check about them nervously in case there was a full-scale invasion by Doom-bots or something but when nothing materialised then they'd go back to shopping or talking or strolling in the park. Stefan didn't seem to mind either. Tony kept thinking he'd try to ~~escape~~ strike out on his own, but he never seemed to want to. Maybe the future was too scary or something - because at least Stefan seemed to believe him now. Frozen for seventy years, but now thawed out again and good as new. Yay for super-soldier serum.

The only time Stefan went off-map was when he caught sight of a particular window display in a bookshop in Brooklyn. Tony knew he could take back control at any time he liked, and besides Stefan might trust more in things he found out for himself. The books were all in German, and while Tony had learned to speak it, he wasn't as fast with the written word. Even using the visual pick-up he couldn't keep up with what everything Stefan was learning, although the pictures made Tony swallow and look away. Stick-thin figures in striped pyjamas, piles of abandoned belongings, blocks of soap, photos of medical test subjects...

Stefan's breathing and other readings were changing but for once Tony looked away. He hated it, hated being separated, as though he was alone again - but it wasn't right to intrude, whatever Stefan discovered. He had to find out sometime.

***

It's not your fault, Tony told him all the time. It's just survivor's guilt. And sometimes he'd offer to fly them to Germany, so Stefan could go rooting about in all those Nazi archives that were being declassified these days, to satisfy any burning curiosity. Because it occurred to Tony that Stefan might think everything published about the Führer, the Nazi party, even the War, was just another case of the winner's rewriting history. But the idea backfired, Stefan had just shuddered and looked sick, before stating he never wanted to see Germany again. And he said it slowly and clearly in English just to make sure there were no misunderstandings. Tony assumed Jarvis was teaching him English, but tried not to think about it. Never mind that Jarvis was like an extension of Tony, he still wasn't his back-up brain yet. He still wasn't Tony himself.

Stefan had been moved from his cell. It was like locking up a puppy in a yard, after a while Tony found he couldn't do it any more. Particularly when those big eyes had just looked at him so sadly, and the puppy was so very well behaved. Anyway, the penthouse was nearly as secure and a lot more comfortable and while Stefan didn't show any signs of wandering off, didn't ask for anything and never complained, where was the harm? Tony found he bought a lot of things for him anyway, just because he could. There was more than one kind of guilt at work here, after all.

Steve was online a lot now, once Tony had shown him how to use a tablet. He looked at sites about art, and classic motorbikes, and the Nuremberg trials. He watched cartoons, and Indiana Jones movies and the terrible Übermensch trilogy, where Stefan was played by Dolph Lundgren as a remorseless, cold-blooded killer. Sometimes they both sat on the couch and watched something together, although when their arms brushed, or when Stefan nodded off and his head slipped onto Tony's shoulder, Tony tried not to think about it too much. His skin felt too sensitised, like a thousand tiny magnets were pulling him to his own personal north. He tried very hard not to initiate anything of his own, because it was Stefan, who'd saved his father's life, who was perfectly and impossibly there, who'd strode through his dreams ever since he was a small boy, ten feet tall but always with a smile. It was enough to make his heart beat faster, or maybe at least to help the arc reactor glow. And the best part? He was all Tony's, and nobody else's. He never had liked to share.

***

Tony Stark is a man with issues. He's lived his whole life in the glare of the spotlight and he still has a horror of being exposed. He has an even greater horror of not being in control. Just ask Raza, the terrorist who kidnapped him, or Justin Hammer, his main rival. (They're both dead now, as it happens.)

Just ask Stefan Rutgers, who was saved from the ice only to discover that life in a gilded cage was just as chilling. But don't ask Stefan to give himself up, don't force him to confront his demons, because he doesn't want to sit alone forever in a cell in Spandau, unable to help anyone or atone for what he did. Stefan knows what he's doing when he stays with Tony. Every day when he puts on the armour, he's reminded of Dr Erskine's metal suit, that started all this seventy years ago, which is a fitting irony. Every day he offers a kind of penance in claustrophobia, and control surrendered, and covert protection. All this because he didn't recognise what was happening all around him, because he didn't try and stop it.

He always stands behind Tony's right shoulder at public events. His new bodyguard, the papers gossip, a secret employee. The Iron Man. It doesn't bother Stefan. He has held his own war-crimes tribunal in his mind and declared himself guilty, has all the media of the last seventy years to back him up. He's a monster. He wants to be punished.

He knows Tony doesn't intend to ever let him go, but that's ok. Tony always has the override controls, so you see, Stefan is never really free. But Tony will let him help people as Iron Man, he'll even let him fight with other superheroes sometimes, because he'll be there to ride alongside virtually. At least Stefan will never be alone.

***

And if he gives in to touch starvation once in a while, if he lets himself sink into Tony's warmth on the couch, and much later lets him kiss him and take him to bed, finding some Stockholm comfort in his prison, well. Who in the world could blame him?

1. Hauptsturmführer Deutschland - Captain Germany
2. Übermensch - superman, overman
3. Bund Deutscher Mädel - League of German Girls

Paradise Snow, Inception, Arthur/Eames (PG)

valderys — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 12:08:08 GMT

Title: Paradise Snow
Author: valderys
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,000
Notes: AU. Written for picfor1000, for the tenth annual challenge 'A perfect ten'.
Summary: Eames tends bar in the poshest ski resort this side of the Alps. It's a dream job - if only he can get Arthur, the professional ski instructor, to even notice he's alive.

It occurs to Eames as he works his magic, flirting with a bored housewife as he wipes down the optics, commiserating with the poor slob left to drown his sorrows at the end of the bar, that what he does is a little like counselling, with some chameleon thrown in and a hefty dose of people-reading. He supposes everyone who tends bar does something of the sort, but he likes to think he's got an edge or he wouldn't have got a job here at the poshest ski resort this side of the Alps. After all, to say it's exclusive would be insulting the place and would only make the owner, Saito, look pityingly at him before twitching his fingers over Eames' collar, straightening it in that possessive way he does all his things.

Not that Eames wants to be owned, precisely - not that he is - but it has to be said that after the first time he turned up to work in purple paisley, Saito eyed him warily, in a way that made Eames feel he was contemplating where to hide the body. But Eames isn't brilliant at his job for nothing, a little banter, a little charm, rough or smooth depending on punter, and purple paisley becomes the English barman's eccentric taste, and isn't he just darling? Saito eyed him with more respect after that, and left him to do what he does better than anyone.

Instead Dom Cobb, Saito's manager, is the one who looks harried, his face set into a permanent squint. Eames supposes he would look like that too if he was in charge of all this sybaritic luxury, answerable for the comfort of Saito's many fastidious guests - no, Mr Cobb, I asked for Fijian mineral water, not Norwegian - and even the vagaries of the weather, responsibility for which is heaped on Cobb's head as though he's able to control the environment with his mind. No, Eames is very happy to be where he is, warm, indoors, and without such lofty ambition.

But in any paradise there is a serpent, lithe and gleaming, and with a dangerous smile. Eames finds, like any fascinated prey, it's impossible for him to look away. Arthur just shines too brightly; sometimes Eames wants to blink and wear dark glasses, the better to hide the longing in his eyes. Surely he could blame it on the snow glare? Arthur Levene was Olympic downhill skiing Gold Medal winner, champion and notorious bastard, before he was collected by Saito, just like everybody else. Always the best for Saito and his guests, and so Arthur was presented with an offer difficult to refuse. Eames sometimes thinks of Arthur as a creature somehow caged by pillows, angry but finding it difficult to hit out with all that goose down in the way.

Arthur is there to chaperone the rich and famous up and down the slopes, to ensure they don't break their very expensive necks, and to teach classes at all levels just so the guests may leave Saito's august retreat eagerly chattering about how Arthur is such a slave-driver, how they have been positively bullied by a Gold Medal winner, how delicious. It makes Eames smile too, because Arthur stalks into his bar looking murderous more often than not, all shiny in Gore-Tex, and Eames may or may not have disturbing fantasies about Arthur slaughtering CEOs with his ski poles.

So life is sweet, or rather, rich perhaps. Eames doesn't want to complain, he only wants the regard of a crazy man in a ski-mask, who peels out of his insulated jackets to reveal sharp suits that cling to his lean frame in ways that ought to be illegal. Who unfortunately doesn't seem to know he's alive, despite Eames ensuring that Arthur's regular tipple is always waiting for him, and always ready too with a quip or a compliment or an endearment - that seem to wash over Arthur like the rush of the wind on the slopes and just as little regarded.

Fortunately there are compensations. Saito's lodges have all the mod-cons that money can buy - saunas, steam rooms, jacuzzis, you name it. Staff may partake as they like on their off-hours, and Eames does like to indulge himself - another reason to stay. He enjoys getting himself out on the mountains too and teaches himself how to use a snowmobile, zipping around, blowing up a storm. He doesn't quite dare ask for skiing lessons, because he doesn't want to be just another tourist. Or he could be fooling himself, there is always that.

But Fate has a habit of intervening, that bitch, and one day when Eames is out and about, just enjoying the air, and not thinking about Arthur at all, oh no - that is the day when a particularly incompetent VIP loses control of his snowmobile and goes careering off down the slope with his throttle open. It's a toss-up whether he's going to hit the black ski run (where Arthur is) or a stand of trees and kill himself, but either way Eames knows his duty. Or has really bad impulse control, take your pick.

So Eames roars after him, catches up and leaps aboard, James-Bond-style, before ripping the throttle out of its stuck position and bringing them both to a halt. It would have been impressive if he wasn't cursing his own stupidity - he could have been killed! But the VIP seems grateful, and later Saito has those crinkles around his eyes that mean he's pleased. Eames isn't fired for reckless endangerment, so that's something.

And that night, when the lights are low, and the music has turned to slow jazz, that's when Arthur shows up, to pick up his drink just like always. Eames holds his breath, also just like always, his desire a restless prickle under the skin. But this time Arthur doesn't move away, instead he takes a seat at the bar and his eyes have a speculative gleam as he smiles. "Good evening, Mr Eames."

Changing word counts

valderys — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 17:16:23 GMT

Ok, now this may be me being stupid, but why are there three different word counts on my latest fic? It wouldn't matter except that I'm writing for picfor1000 which obviously needs 1000 words exactly. So - I have 1000 words exactly in Googledocs where I'm writing, but then I'm curious (because it's happened before) so I paste the fic into Word to see if there's a difference and there is! It's 974! And in AO3, it's 965!

Now I've done some experimenting, apparently Googledocs considers the the dash to be a word, which I somewhat object to finding out now, but I can't for the life of me figure out what the difference is between Word and AO3... Has anyone else explored this particular phenomenon?

Something for us to protest in the UK

valderys — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 00:04:56 GMT

Originally posted by cantarina1 at post

Originally posted by electricdruid at The fiasco continues

ACTA in a Nutshell –

What is ACTA? ACTA is the Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement. A new intellectual property enforcement treaty being negotiated by the United States, the European Community, Switzerland, and Japan, with Australia, the Republic of Korea, New Zealand, Mexico, Jordan, Morocco, Singapore, the United Arab Emirates, and Canada recently announcing that they will join in as well.

Why should you care about ACTA? Initial reports indicate that the treaty will have a very broad scope and will involve new tools targeting “Internet distribution and information technology.”

What is the goal of ACTA? Reportedly the goal is to create new legal standards of intellectual property enforcement, as well as increased international cooperation, an example of which would be an increase in information sharing between signatory countries’ law enforcement agencies.

Essential ACTA Resources -

Read more about ACTA here: ACTA Fact Sheet
Read the authentic version of the ACTA text as of 15 April 2011, as finalized by participating countries here: ACTA Finalized Text
Follow the history of the treaty’s formation here: ACTA history
Read letters from U.S. Senator Ron Wyden wherein he challenges the constitutionality of ACTA: Letter 1 | Letter 2 | Read the Administration’s Response to Wyden’s First Letter here: Response
Watch a short informative video on ACTA: ACTA Video
Watch a lulzy video on ACTA: Lulzy Video

Say NO to ACTA. It is essential to spread awareness and get the word out on ACTA.

Via Tumblr

This entry was also posted at http://cantarina.dreamwidth.org/131889.html. (comments: )

Club Middle-of-Nowhere, Peep Show, Mark/Jeremy (PG)

valderys — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 09:44:52 GMT

Title: Club Middle-of-Nowhere
Author: valderys
Fandom: Peep Show
Pairing: Mark Corrigan/Jeremy Usborne
Rating: PG for swears
Word Count: 1,153
Notes: Written for cesperanza's 101 Ways To End Up In A Canadian Shack Challenge 2011
Summary: Since when did Mark trust Jeremy to pick their holiday destinations?

The door banged open. A cloud of dust flew up which did little to illuminate the gloomy, frigid interior. The rough wooden walls were unadorned except for the head of a large cross-eyed moose, which as Mark stamped through the door trying and failing to knock snow off his loafers, stared at him in much the same abject horror that Mark himself felt in being there. It gave him a funny kind of warm fellow feeling. It was the only warm thing about him.

"Well, that's it, we're all going to die," said Mark, with a certain amount of relish.

"We're not going to die," said Jeremy as he followed Mark in, dumping his rucksack on the wooden floor and dislodging more dust. "There will be a roaring fire, hot toddies and many, many après-ski chicks in fur hats. That's what the brochure said. And that's what we will have."

"That's what you get in a Swiss chalet or a French ski lodge. Or possibly in films with the Men From Uncle." Mark decided he might as well enjoy himself. He always did have a certain ghoulish appreciation for other people's misery. "In those kinds of chalets you probably can't move for glamorous fur-clad girls pressing hot chocolate on you. And other things. But we..." He peered out of the grimy window out onto the snow-covered wilderness. "We are in Canada."

Jeremy was pouting, something he could compete in for the Olympics 2012. "So? What about it? There's snow, isn't there? And mountains. And people who speak French. What's the difference?"

Mark's sense of vindictive satisfaction grew to almost gargantuan levels, fattened obscenely like a spider on its innocent prey. There weren't many pleasures in his life but tormenting Jeremy was definitely one of them.

"Oh really? What possible difference could it make to be stuck in the middle of the arctic circle in a snowy waste that goes on for thousands of miles in all directions with ravening polar bears, wolves and Pamela Anderson. You tell me, Jeremy, you tell me."

"Oh shut up," said Jeremy, his lower lip dangling like a five year old's,"I want a hot toddy. At the very least I deserve a toddy that is hot, whatever that is. I'm on holiday."

Mark went to the door and dragged in his executive luggage (with matching laptop bag). "Well, I'm not making it for you."

"Why not? You make me tea. It's almost exactly the same."

"Because," said Mark with super-human patience, "There isn't a kettle. There isn't even a proper kitchen."

He wandered around their hut - there was some kind of wood burning stove that looked like it would take more outdoorsmanship than Mark felt he was capable of. He may have spent five years in the Scouts but that didn't mean he was capable of lighting actual pieces of dead tree from scratch. Give him a bottle of lighter fluid and some charcoal briquettes and he might conceivably, possibly, be your man. But not this.

Elsewhere there was some kind of fur rug on the floor in front of a rustic looking sofa. Mark considered it a blessing that the rug did not have the head attached. Although, horrid thought, maybe it was the skin of the moose on the wall? Maybe they'd just been really environmentally conscious and paid attention to the wartime adage 'waste not, want not' to decorate the cabin all over. Mark decided he really didn't want to know.

"This isn't at all like the brochure. I'm going to complain and get our money back." Jeremy still wasn't moving from the doorway, as though if he sulked long enough a silky-pelted lovely called Yvette would pop out from behind the rickety table to relieve his frustration. Mark snorted.

"You mean my money. Where did the brochure come from anyway?"

Jeremy looked shifty. Mark didn't know how he knew that Jeremy was looking shifty, given he hadn't moved a muscle, but given their many (many) years of association (which right now he wouldn't deign to call friendship, not with his bollocks in danger of freezing solid and dropping off like Christmas baubles played with by a particularly vicious cat) Mark could tell when Jeremy was hiding something. Hiding something else.

"What is it? You didn't get it from your pyramid marketing pals, did you?" asked Mark suspiciously, "Or god forbid, that arsehole from the Job Centre - what's his name? Piers? Perry? Something pretentious beginning with 'P'."

"Of course not!" How Jeremy could still look outraged given all the shit he'd pulled over the years amazed Mark. "It was Super Hans."

"Oh well, that makes it so much better. Super Hans recommends holiday destinations now, does he? Is Canada particularly well known in crack cocaine dens? Does it have many bonkers, religious, drugged recommendations on Trip Adviser? Actually..."

"No Mark," said Jeremy with an air of long-suffering that Mark definitely thought he wasn't entitled to, "That would be Brighton. This was meant to be a winter break beyond my wildest dreams. And my dreams get pretty wild, as you know."

There was a staccato crashing noise outside and the wind took on an eerie note, as though it was speeding up. Mark looked back out of the window to see... nothing. Well, snow. A lot of it. A blizzard maybe? It was hard to tell, Mark had never been in a blizzard.

He shivered. "Well, all we have is a Canadian shack in the middle of a snowstorm. What do people do in Canadian shacks?"

He wasn't going to panic. He refused to panic. He wasn't going to give Jeremy the satisfaction. Oh god, they really were going to die. He was too young to die, he hadn't even finished editing his own amusing subtitles to Hitler's Downfall yet. Mark took his face away from the useless window and blinked a bit because in the meantime Jeremy had vanished. There were reassuring thumping noises from deeper in the hut however and then Jeremy emerged, red-faced and dusty. He was carrying a heap of brightly-coloured knitted blankets.

"People huddle together for warmth in Canadian shacks," he announced grandly, "Until the sexual tension becomes too much for them and they wank each other off. Ok with that? I know about this survival shit. I watched Bear Grylls eat a sheep's eyeball once."

Mark supposed it could be worse. He might be allergic to all that Canadian wool, but Jeremy would be there, and at least Mark knew he wasn't allergic to Jeremy. He could always use him as a barrier method.

"My hero," said Mark, and the irony was, he didn't even mean it ironically.

The Year in Fic Meme

valderys — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 19:08:16 GMT

Well, I am continuing my 'not quite as prolific or as happy about my writing' theme which I started last year. Although this year I at least have a culprit to blame in that I wrote a lot for my freeform larp game The Lists of Avalon. This ate into my time and into my creativity - I've noticed that I have a finite well of creativity and when it's dry, that's your lot, I'm afraid to say. This year fic writing suffered but the game ended up being enjoyed by 32 ofl its 33 players, so that's good at least! :)

I was also unsuccessful for the first time in my self-appointed task to write a minimum of one fic a month, by failing to post anything in November - but since that's when the game ran I'm forgiving myself :)

January

Get Up, Stand Up, Lotrips. Billy/Orlando, Billy/Dom, Billy/Elijah, PG
On the Northern pubs and clubs circuit, it's a tough crowd for a small-time stand-up comedian like Billy Boyd - but with mates he can rely on, it'll turn out ok.
Word Count: 3,874

Fashionistas, Merlin, Merlin/Arthur, PG
On the eve of London’s Fashion Week, top designer Artorius is short one model - and Merlin is looking for a job.
Word Count: 3,731

February

Not Exactly Tourette's, 10 O'Clock Live RPF, David Mitchell/Charlie Brooker, PG
When Charlie's behaviour becomes odder than usual, David worries it's something he's done...
Word Count: 1,000

March

Karma's a Bitch, Misfits, Simon/Alisha, PG
Alisha’s not that good a girl. Who says she’s not been experimenting with her power? Everybody else has fucked things up - it’s kind of her turn.
Word Count: 887

Who Am I?, Les Miserables, Jean Valjean/Javert, R
In the guise of Monsieur Madeleine, Jean Valjean is gradually losing himself under a sugary pile of good deeds. But Javert knows Valjean’s true self - given that temptation, how can Valjean stay away?
Word Count: 2,673

April

Star Stuff, Sarah Jane Adventures, Luke/Clyde preslash, G
After the passing of Sarah Jane Smith, Clyde helps Luke to understand.
Word Count: 1,031

May

The Private Life of Us, Our Private Life (play), Carlos/Edgar, PG-13
Carlos and his boss at the grill don't really have a relationship at all.
Word Count: 2,147

June

Writer's Room, Lotrips, Billy/Dom, PG, AU
Billy is an author who has had his book optioned for a screenplay, and Dom is the house writer who’s been ordered to work with him in order to get the script in shape. ~~Together they fight crime!~~ Together they work surprisingly well together...
Word Count: 5,695

July

Cradle Will Fall, Inception, Eames/Arthur, PG
How complicated could it get? Eames only wanted to give Arthur a birthday present...
Word Count: 3,389

August

Home by the Sea, Inception, Eames/Arthur, PG-13
Arthur wasn't expecting the end of the world to be so peaceful. Or for Mal to turn out to be right. Except she isn't, not really, she's still just as screwed up as she ever was. There's only one man Arthur can count on, if only he can find him - it really is the collapse of civilisation, if Arthur has begun to miss Eames.
Word Count: 9,783

September

White Linen, Merlin, Merlin/Arthur, Lancelot/Gwen, PG-13, AU
There's nothing quite like a wedding in Philadelphia - for Merlin Emrys, reporter, writer and all around nice guy, it's a chance to become more than the hack he's been reduced to. And for Arthur Pendragon, rich, spoilt and trying to do the right thing, it's a chance to atone. If only he can get over his own prejudices...
Word Count: 5,033

October

Five Times Sarah-Jane was Awesome in the Year That Never Was, The Sarah Jane Adventures, Luke/Clyde, PG, AU
Martha Jones wasn't the only one that walked the Earth at the end of the world - or bits of it, anyway.
Word Count: 4,215

November

Nothing

December

A Little Wine For Thy Heart's Sake, Inception, Eames/Arthur, PG-13, AU
For a one night stand Eames is astoundingly persistent. How dare a man who Arthur met quite by chance also just happen to work in the exact same niche criminal enterprise? Arthur doesn't believe in coincidence, but the truth may be something even more impossible.
Word Count: 8,163

Great Marlborough Street, Hanover Street, David Halloran/Paul Sellinger preslash, G
Halloran looked up, and wouldn't you know it, he was standing on the corner of Hanover Street. What was it about this place that his feet just unknowingly took him here?
Word Count: 2,744

Love in a Cold Climate, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Peter Guillam/Richard, Ricki Tarr/Irina, George Smiley/Ann Smiley, PG
People love and are loved in so many different ways. In the hotbed that is the Cold War, these are just some of them.
Word Count: 1,571

So this year I have written 55,936 words over 15 stories in 10 fandoms. This is slightly less than two thirds what I wrote last year sadly, but I bet I wrote at least the difference in Avalon, although it's hard to tell as there were three of us writing it.

My favorite story of this year: Hard choice this year, as I'm really quite fond of lots of them - and that makes a pleasant change for me! However I am going to say White Linen, because I love the Philadelphia Story and it was pure pleasure to adapt it for the Merlin universe.

My best story this year: I think technically my best is Get Up, Stand Up because I kept a slightly stream of consciousness style going throughout, that I really like the voice for. Also ran's include White Linen, Home by the Sea and Five Times Sarah-Jane was Awesome because I really liked how they all came out.

Story most underappreciated by the universe, in my opinion: I could say Great Marlborough Street but since the movie Hanover Street has never had a fandom it might be a little unfair, because it's not like I expected a lot of attention for that fic! :) Maybe Writer's Room - although again Lotrips fandom is hardly dynamic at the mo, so I might be being unfair. Though Take a Little Wine for Thy Heart's Sake was surprisingly undercommented, as it were, for an Inception fic.

Most fun story: Another hard choice :) Maybe Fashionistas, because it's so silly, or maybe the Private Life of Us which I wrote for the pure pleasure of it because I know there's barely a fandom for a little indie play! Although the story isn't fun so much as angsty so perhaps the category isn't appropriate.

Most sexy story: Hee. My porn quotient is going downhill! Especially since I only wrote one thing for kink_bingo this year. My only sexy story, judging from the oh so reliable rating system, is Who Am I? and that's only an R. I'm slipping.

Most "Holy crap, that's wrong, even for you" story: Well, as I wrote them for dark_fest perhaps it's not surprising that I'll name Karma's A Bitch and Who Am I? for this category :)

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: I don't really have one here - there's fic that crystallised something about them for me though so that will have to do. And for me that would be The Private Life of Us and a little bit Five Times Sarah-Jane is Awesome.

Hardest story to write: Yikes. That's nearly all the longer ones as I'm finding it a struggle to write anything long at the moment. I think I need a new and exciting fandom to re-energise me, but that's not on the cards, so. Maybe A Little Wine for Thy Heart's Sake? Which was a bit like pulling teeth because it was a premise I wasn't entirely happy with that only just matched my recipient's requests anyway, so difficult all round, really.

Biggest Disappointment: Nope, not going to be negative - I expected this year to be low in numbers and it was. But there was a good reason for it.

Biggest Surprise: Well, people liked Five Times Sarah-Jane is Awesome much more than I expected, so that was nice. To talk about a peripheral thing - I am constantly surprised by how much kudos I still get on Coincidence and Collectible (my Sherlock fics written in the first two weeks after Sherlock first aired). I suppose the moral is that writing fic so soon in a fandom gets real notice - which I could have guessed, but the proof is pleasant!

Most Unintentionally Telling Story: Maybe Not Exactly Tourette's - which I loved a lot and really think it has their voices, to blow my own trumpet :) Or maybe Star Stuff - except that the emotion I tried to put in wasn't unintentional, so I'm not sure it counts.

Story I haven't yet written, but intend to: Ooh, I don't have one! I want to write more Inception, because although I'm late to the party, I don't think I've quite got out all I want to say. I'm sure I'll write a Merlin fic or two because I do still love it, even though the fannish love is waning somewhat. I might dip my toe in the Sherlock waters again, maybe. (Irene Adler is very interesting - I'm not sure I like her, but she's interesting.) Not sure otherwise. I really want a new fandom, but it's not like you can whistle one up, just like that!

Anyway, that's my year in fic. I know that this year I'm going to be helping to write another big larp game, Once Upon a Fairytale, so if I don't write much fic this year either, I refuse to beat myself up about it - as long as I'm writing at all, I think everything's going to be ok!

Yuletide Reveal!

valderys — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 15:36:23 GMT

Slightly late to this but my Christmas break has been filled with lots of fun things and also, inevitably, being ill. So this is the first chance I've had.

First of all, my gift was the most marvellous piece by the dear toft_froggy, Five Times Peter Guillam Didn't Have A Drink With Ricki Tarr (and One Time He Did) - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Peter Guillam/Ricki Tarr (R)

This is a lovely shaded piece, with lots of hints to other things under the surface, just as any Tinker, Tailor fic should be, and I've read it lots and I love it to bits - so do go read it too.

My own offerings were these:

Title: Great Marlborough Street
Fandom: Hanover Street
Pairing: David Halloran/Paul Sellinger (preslash)
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,744
Notes: Written for Peet4paint. I watched the movie and then wrote the fic as it was clear from her letter that this was the fandom she really wanted something written in :)
Summary: Halloran looked up, and wouldn't you know it, he was standing on the corner of Hanover Street. What was it about this place that his feet just unknowingly took him here?

Great Marlborough Street

Title: Love in a Cold Climate
Fandom: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Pairing: Peter Guillam/Richard, Ricki Tarr/Irina, George Smiley/Ann Smiley, Bill Haydon/Jim Prideaux
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,571
Notes: Written for Bogged. My only pinch hit this year, because my writing brain has been a little overloaded from other things. But I am glad I got one pinch hit in, at least, so I can feel I did my best!
Summary: People love and are loved in so many different ways. In the hotbed that is the Cold War, these are just some of them.

Love in a Cold Climate

Yuletide, Sherlock Holmes, Hobbit, XMas etc.

valderys — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 13:59:06 GMT

Oh, there's so much to talk about that I'll only skim the surface! First, my Yuletide fic is in as of about an hour ago or so - which is late for me, but I started it late because of finishing dream_holiday yada yada - and I happened to see that there's a greyed out fic waiting for me on AO3, so no fears this year of being last on the pinch hit list :) Speaking of which I've not managed to catch a pinch hit this year - yet. I suspect I may not as my enthusiasm is low, my writing brain was all used up on finishing The Lists of Avalon (my freeform game that ran in November) so I don't feel so bad.

Secondly, if you haven't already seen Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows may I recommend you do so? Especially if you are of a slashy turn of mind and like RDJ even a little? It really is that rare beast, a sequal that is better than the first movie. (So, just this one and... Empire Strikes Back maybe?) I loved every single second of it, really fun - particularly the last action/fight sequence - when you see it you'll know why I loved it so much. Jared Harris made an excellent Moriarty.

Thirdly, OMG how good is the first Hobbit trailer? It really gave me a emotional punch in the stomach. I think a LotR rewatch is in order this Christmas. The trailer made me so excited for the movie at long last - I suspect I'll be dusting off my hobbit fic writing credentials. There may even have to be dwarf slash, or should I stick to RPS, as the safer, saner alternative? :)

What else? There's probably loads, but I'm mentally knackered at the mo. I hope XMas will recharge the batteries - all except for Come hel or Hiawatha, of course, which needs editing in time for it's run at the end of Jan (next freeform game I'm running.) So Happy Christmas, you guys!

A Little Wine For Thy Heart's Sake, Inception, Arthur/Eames (PG-13)

valderys — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 11:50:57 GMT

Title: A Little Wine For Thy Heart's Sake
Author: valderys
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 8,163
Notes: Slightly cracky Greek myth AU. Written for perfectivity for dream_holiday. The prompt I used was 'Arthur is super drunk/half asleep Arthur and thinks he has dreamed up a sexy night time visitor', although it's strayed a little from that as it turns out :)
Summary: For a one night stand Eames is astoundingly persistent. How dare a man who Arthur met quite by chance also just happen to work in the exact same niche criminal enterprise? Arthur doesn't believe in coincidence, but the truth may be something even more impossible.

The first time it happens is... well. The first time. Arthur doesn't make a habit of drinking, he's abstemious by inclination and far too cautious to just let himself get drunk. Even in the army, when a day's furlough would likely lead to a splitting head on the parade ground the next day for 99% of the men in his squadron, Arthur makes a beer last, nursing it quietly, pretending he's had more, buying rounds when it's his turn but not necessarily drinking them. No-one seems to notice, or if they do, he commands enough respect that no-one calls him on it.

It's not that Arthur has a problem with trusting himself or others. It's that... well, trust is such a rare commodity, isn't it? Arthur merely likes to be in control of any situation, that's all, and to know what substances go into his body. It's not a big deal. He can party with the best of them when he wants to. He just happens to do it sober.

So it would be a time he lets his guard down. How could it not be? Unless there just happen to be nefarious criminal types just dying to kidnap and drug him. Hah. His imagination is better than he thought. No, it's nothing like that - he's at a family wedding of all things, and he's there in uniform because all the nice girls love a soldier or something like that, and there's punch. Fruit punch. Just like his Auntie Fran used to make, all delicious and fruity with cranberry juice. Arthur loves cranberry juice. So he might have had one. Or two. One or two, definitely. Then because he was thirsty, he drank them quickly and now he is... Arthur looks round, too quickly, and the room spins. He forgets what he was thinking.

"There you are, you lovely thing," says a voice in his ear. It's a purring kind of voice and Arthur wants to turn to it automatically, as though all good things come from it, from him, the man at his side, cupping his elbow, "I've been looking for you all your life."

"All my life?" says Arthur, wanting some specificity even when three sheets to the wind and random gorgeous strangers start breathing into his ear. He thinks the stranger is gorgeous anyway. Probably it's the beer goggles talking.

"Well, certainly those adult parts of it, once you were of sufficient age that I could afford to take notice of you without feeling too much like a cradle-snatcher."

Arthur's companion seems amused, and Arthur wants to tell him he's always been of 'sufficient age' - even when he was a child, he couldn't ever remember a time when he really felt young.

"'M not a kid," he says instead, which is not coherent enough, and irritates those parts of him that realise quite how drunk he is.

"Oh Arthur, I know that, none better. I wanted to welcome you in person, I suppose. To our little club. Most people, except for those with a strong religious inclination, are more likely to have joined long ago. You're unusual, so I kept an eye on you, I suppose. You don't mind?"

Arthur squints sideways at his tormentor. At the distracting expanse of tattooed skin, at the luscious full lips that quirk upwards as he stares. No, he doesn't mind. Although he wonders if he should.

"What's your name?" Arthur asks, abruptly, the desire to perhaps see the man again bubbling into his consciousness, but knowing he needs a name to manage it.

The guy huffs a small laugh, even as he steers Arthur away from the press of people towards a wilder corner of his aunt's landscaped garden. "Dear Arthur, so on point even now. You should do your research, you know. I have many names, to many peoples, but you can call me... Eames, I think. More up to date than Evius."

"Eames..." It feels right on Arthur's tongue, somehow, which is madness but perhaps that is the point. It's a wild night, after all, and the fruit punch is sliding through his veins in much the same way that Eames' hands are sliding under his shirt.

"Darling," says Eames, right before Arthur's senses are drowned by the smell and taste of Eames pushing him greedily against a tree. "Debauchery in nature's arms. It's a classic."

"I don't care," says Arthur, unable to bear the wait a second longer, thrusting up against a hard muscular thigh. "Just shut up and fuck me."

Fortunately for everyone's self control, Eames does.

***

One night stands are not something Arthur had ever thought he would indulge in, so when he wakes the next morning with a series of hickeys blooming like roses across his chest, and a certain satiated aching in all his limbs, he's faintly ashamed. Then he curses, showers as hot as he can stand, and proceeds to put it out of his mind. It's not that an encounter with an attractive stranger is unwelcome precisely, but Arthur's blood runs cold to think of the vulnerable position he'd been in, the chances he'd taken. A little voice whispers that it's no more than any other young man of his generation might have done, but Arthur holds himself to a higher standard, and he's disappointed in himself. But it was a family wedding, no-one is likely to ask, or to tell, and so he goes back after his furlough is over and everything is the same as it ever was.

Or it would be. Arthur discovers he looks for a certain reflection in the curved glass of a bottle now, or for a presence out of the corner of his eye. He puts it down to paranoia, to being in the army for too long, to the heat and the flies and the dust. He's been shipped to Afghanistan, and for once his paranoia is put to good use, while being called mission readiness by his superiors. Arthur would curse his luck at being put on point duty except that it's his vigilance that'll save the lives of his patrol if he sees the roadside bomb in time. He can't regret that. He is the best, after all.

There are afterimages flaring green in his vision by the end of a patrol these days, and Arthur's finding it hard to sleep. He needs to get some rest, he knows it, but his eyes are scratchy and dry, he has a headache, and a horrible feeling he may have a touch of sunstroke. He gets up to fetch himself some hydration - his canteen might be full of unpleasantly metal-tasting water but it might settle his headache, if nothing else. But he must be further gone than he thought, the starbursts in his eyesight distorting everything too much, because the canteen he picks up from the tiny table in the corner of the platoon tent isn't his own. The first large gulp is too much, the harsh sting of spirits biting at the back of his throat, until he swallows, in a reflex to stop himself choking. It brings tears to his eyes, but it's better than waking half the inhabitants of the tent with his sudden coughing fit. Arthur sways, the strength of the liquor going straight to his head, until he is captured under the elbows and set on his feet again.

"Whoops-a-daisy... There you are," says a familiar and comforting voice, an impossible voice, as unlikely in this context as the solid muscular body crowding his. Arthur is almost loath to turn round, because that makes the impossible too real, and he's not sure he wants to face the likelihood that he's gone mad in the desert, like some sort of ridiculous cliché.

"Whoops-a-daisy? Who says that?" Arthur can't focus on the big things, doesn't really want to, but something smaller, that's ok.

"Ah, well, it's part of my charm, I expect," says Eames, laughter curling around the syllables like smoke around a cigar, "Always being a little behind the times. I can't help it, I'm afraid, pet."

Arthur turns round, looks into Eames' eyes. Who can't be here. Who's an hallucination brought on by too much sun and stress. Arthur apparently really needs to get laid if he's bringing his one-night-stand to life in the middle of Afghanistan.

Eames looks unfairly good though, Arthur can't help but think. After the wedding his memory was a little hazy, but he's pleased to see that Eames is as hot now as he seemed then. Dark blond hair, blue eyes, a full and generous mouth - that's smiling at him, revealing teeth that are just a little crooked. A real amount of crooked, in fact - because who hallucinates crooked teeth?

Eames lifts an arm from Arthur's waist to run it through his hair and down the side of his face, in a gesture that might conceivably be described as tender. A hint of ink peeks out from the rolled-up sleeves of his BDU shirt. Arthur digs his fingers into the meaty part of Eames' forearms, just as a test, and the flesh gives in a satisfying way, and which doesn't make Eames wince but Arthur can tell he wants to. Stupid macho bullshit, but he can't deny that he'd do the same.

It's still not proof. He could be dreaming this, for example. He's always had very vivid dreams.

"So have you decided?" Eames is smiling at him, with a hint of mischief. "I can see that logical brain of yours working away, and I want to know what you've concluded. Why don't you tell me while I sort out your headache for you?"

Arthur wants to protest, but there's something about Eames that always puts him off-balance and even on the defensive. Something that whispers to him of the comforts of home. Something that makes the wildest inconsistency unfairly plausible.

And his hands are magic. As Eames begins to sweep his thumbs in circles on Arthur's temple, his whole head held in the cradle of his large palms, Arthur could easily forget his own name. The relief of it is bliss, the nagging headache, the dizziness, and the after-images that have plagued him for days, are all soothed away by Eames' touch. He feels like he could be floating in a warm bath. Embarrassingly, he even thinks he lets out a groan. Distantly, he hears Eames chuckle and wonders when he closed his eyes.

"Don't worry, Arthur, no-one will hear us. I don't have much power these days, but I can borrow a little from Morpheus. No-one will wake up."

It disturbs Arthur that the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

***

So Arthur has a fantasy lover. So what? Lot's of people have fantasies they don't talk about. It's all perfectly normal. Of course, most people's fantasy lovers don't turn up randomly to cure headaches, don't appear in the theatre of war, or keep platoon-mates asleep. Arthur is prepared to believe that he's unusual, but not that unusual. So sensibly, rationally, he concludes that he really has been dreaming. Of course, it's the most logical explanation. Everyone knows that.

But Arthur doesn't touch another drop of alcohol while he's in Afghanistan. It might also be one reason behind the curiosity that makes him apply to a new black ops team that's being put together. Scuttlebutt says that it's in the wholly new field of dream-sharing technology. Scuttlebutt is often wrong, but in this case it doesn't even begin to skim the surface of the reality. Arthur learns exactly how it feels to be gutshot, strangled, blown to pieces and drowned. Among other things. He can't say that he's surprised that he appears to be good at this job too. If there's something delicate and dangerous to be done, apparently Arthur is the army's man every time. He gets commendations he can't talk about and a chest full of ribbons to prove it. He's still not sure it's worth the rest.

The worst of it is that he doesn't even see Eames again - but Arthur is fierce in his mental defences. He's glad he's not going insane, he's happy that fantasy lovers don't exist except when his mind is on the very edge of its boundaries. But when alone in his bunk, biting his hand to muffle any noise, if the image of Eames' hard body floats in his mind's eye, or if the memory of his broad hands, or the spicy rough scent of him, helps to bring Arthur off quicker than otherwise - well, who is he to complain about it?

It all comes to a head one night in a bar. It's a shady place, with rough wooden tables and a mysterious golden mask on the wall. There's snow falling outside, but inside the clientele are full of jolly cheer. Hard-bitten, bearded guys for the most part, having a good time but Arthur knows the mood could turn ugly in a heartbeat. He's also a little contemptuous - it seems Lt. Sumner, who's the dreamer for this level, has watched Indiana Jones a little too often for Arthur's taste. The chinos and brown leather bomber jacket he himself is wearing are in keeping enough and are about as dressed-down as Arthur is willing to go in the less than perfect circumstances.

They're meant to be there discovering the location of a particular warlord's opium fields, so they can be fire-bombed with a greater chance of success, and the map is meant to be won from the warlord in a game of dice - loaded ones, naturally. Although perhaps Arthur isn't as surprised as all that when things don't go quite to plan, the whole job has had an edgy feel, as though there's something not quite right. Arthur is on look-out and protection, point-man again, although without the benefit of more intel than has been deemed need to know. Personally, Arthur thinks there's a whole lot more information that he could have done with knowing, but it's not like he has another option other than to try and do his fucking job.

So the shit hitting the proverbial fan is not a surprise. Arthur's throwing punches and overturning tables before he even begins to think about it. He does his best to lay down covering fire to protect Lt Sumner at the dice game - with a revolver, no less, there's such a thing as too much authenticity - long enough for him to pick up his winnings, but doesn't know how well he succeeds. Because the next thing Arthur is consciously aware of is the blood trickling down his face, a splitting headache, and what looks like half the bar-top - a nice black and white grained marble - lying on his legs. They're both broken, of course.

Damn Indiana Jones obsessed lieutenants. The bar's also on fire.

Arthur struggles then, with all his not inconsiderable might, to very little avail. He knows, with a visceral bone-deep terror, how much burning to death will hurt. He'd tripped and nearly fell into a bonfire when he was a child, he has the scar on his leg to prove it. He can cope, literally cope, with anything else, but he can't handle fire. God damn this man's fucking army, where's his team-mates? But he knows. They've left him to die, because it's standard operating procedure in a hostile environment. He'll die in the dream and be no worse for it in the real world, and then he'll get to do it all again tomorrow. Well, not this time.

Arthur struggles futilely against the immovable marble, then against the rough wooden planks of the floor, desperately trying to pull himself away, to drag himself out by his fingernails, without any success. His thumb knocks against a cool sticky cube, and he clutches it, a red die fallen from the craps game. He clutches at it like a lifeline for no particular reason, and then in spite of himself he thinks of Eames. It's a random thought, produced in the most dire of circumstances, but Arthur has it none the less. Eames would no doubt be a projection, but surely that wouldn't matter. At least Arthur wouldn't be alone.

He's giving in to something, Arthur knows, but it doesn't stop him. He won't be able to put the genie back in the bottle, and he knows that too. Calmly now, given the way his heart is jack-rabbiting, Arthur lifts the die to his mouth. There's a sweet smell, a little sickly, probably a cheap scotch of some kind, but that's the least of it. Arthur puts out a delicate tongue and licks at the die, just once, suppressing his shudder of distaste. It's all that's required. One tiny fleeting hint of whisky on the tongue and then he's there. Eames is there. For once Arthur doesn't hide his relief.

Eames bends down and carefully lifts the bar-top off of Arthur's legs while he tries not to hiss as the feeling comes back to them, nerves screaming in newly-discovered pain.

"It's all right, pet, we'll get you out of here," says Eames lightly, and Arthur might be mistaken, but there's a darkness now behind the casual grin, as though it takes a lot to rouse Eames' anger but this might just have managed it. Arthur sympathises - it must be his own anger reflected back into his projection's eyes.

Eames picks him up then, and Arthur wants to laugh, because it's like any cheesy Hollywood movie ever made. He wouldn't be surprised if Eames even had a whip tied to his belt, although he doesn't look to see. Instead he's carried out in the hero's arms with an outline of flames at his back. Being held to Eames' chest feels so good that Arthur, for once, just appreciates it.

Eames leans down as they walk, until his mouth is brushing the shell of Arthur's ear. "It's not just booze, you know, there's all sorts of ways. Ritual madness. Ecstasy. Revelations and epiphanies even. I'd like to think I've offered pretty good equal opportunities over the years. Don't feel you have to wait to call me, Arthur, please. Ask and I'll be there."

It's not something Arthur wants to probe into right then, even though he knows he should. So he avoids the question. "What's your first name?"

Eames hesitates, and Arthur wonders if he'll accept the change of subject. "Dion. I suppose. If you must."

But Arthur doesn't want to think about that either. He prefers Eames anyway. As a name.

***

Absconding with a military PASIV machine is pretty damn freeing. It frees Arthur from all sorts of restrictions and scruples, and it keeps him busy enough that he doesn't have to think about anything too hard. Which is just as well. Like the fact that Eames seems to turn up everywhere now. Like the fact that he seems to know everyone in the dreamshare community, on both sides of the legal line. Like the fact that everyone seems happy to see Eames, who is the best forger in the business, did Arthur know that? Yes, Arthur does know that, thank you very much. Well, he knows it now.

It's ridiculous. How dare a man who Arthur met once quite by chance, who he apparently can't get out of his mind judging from his unruly sub-conscious, also just happen to work in the exact same niche criminal enterprise as Arthur? The odds are slim, the coincidence unlikely. Arthur doesn't really believe in coincidence, so he begins to look for other connections.

Like the fact that he seems to be especially friendly with the Cobbs, and with Mallorie Cobb in particular. Arthur begins to work with them more regularly just to test the connection. He finds, completely by accident, that he likes them both. That Dom is an architect of great skill, and his wife is an extraordinary extractor, delicate of touch and compassionate too. They haven't Arthur's hard edges either, having come to dreamshare through an academic route. Mal makes Arthur laugh, a rare enough thing, while Dom just shrugs at them both indulgently, the settled domestic kind of love just pouring off him as he bounces their new baby on his knee. Philippa, their daughter, messes around at his feet before asking Uncle Arthur to play horsie. Luckily Uncle Arthur only gets a very minor pout when he refuses - he's wearing Gucci for god's sake. Which is another welcome change.

As for Eames, he's often just there, a glass of something always in his hand, a raised eyebrow above a paisley shirt, comfortably slouched against the kitchen counter.

"A family friend," Dom dismisses when Arthur asks. Mal merely goes more French and incomprehensible when Arthur brings up the subject of Eames.

"What is it, darling?" Eames asks, his voice low and smooth, like warmed brandy on a smoky evening. But Arthur just shakes his head, as though a phantom migraine is making itself known in some other dimension, and takes Eames hand off his thigh. Philippa isn't the only one known to pout in the Cobbs' house.

So it's probably Arthur's imagination. Everything that has happened, or that he's imagined has happened, really are all due to the things he'd logically decided they must be - stress, overwork, sleep deprivation. Despite the speculation that has been going on in the maniacally busy parts of his mind that won't give up on it and want to come to different impossible conclusions. But he's tired of the game, or he's willing to settle for a normal life - as normal as anyone in dreamshare is likely to have anyway. And Eames has been trying hard, god knows, perfectly politely, with his wandering hands and his filthy innuendo, that nevertheless never seems to offend. And he's still as gorgeous as ever, that's never changed - Arthur has wicked sinful thoughts about Eames' mouth, about being held against the wall by that body, and those hands; he wants to lick the ink he knows that Eames sports until they're both groaning with it.

But then Mal and Dom go too far, go too deep. Not that Arthur knows that's the problem. And suddenly Dom is taking the knives out of Mal's hands, and her eyes are far away, holes in a face that leads to nothingness. And Eames is spending every waking minute he's allowed to with her, all the time that Dom lets him have, who's grateful for it, because Dom too is falling apart, even as he tries to put his beautiful wife back together, as hopeless a task as catching the wine falling from a shattering glass.

When Eames holds Mal's hands and whispers in her ear, Mal will talk back in French, and Arthur wishes that it was a language he'd ever paid any attention to. Eames has stopped putting his hand onto any part of Arthur's body he can reach, and he's stopped flirting. It terrifies Arthur for unspecified reasons, while Eames just manages to look unbearably sad and old when he thinks Arthur isn't looking. But he still makes Mal smile, at least, manic smiles or wistful ones, and since Eames is one of the very few to coax a real reaction out of her these days, Arthur hopes that it will help.

It doesn't. Arthur finds Eames by chance in a bar that's all polished wood and brass fittings. There's a conveniently empty stool next to him which Arthur slides onto before he's even really thought it through. Eames raises his glass to Arthur, which contains a heavy dark red wine, and then reaches for the dusty bottle and splashes some into another glass. It looks old and expensive, not Eames' usual taste at all.

Eames is smiling, but it doesn't fool Arthur. It doesn't reach his eyes. "It's too late. She's one of mine but that doesn't help. She'll be gone by morning and I can't stop her. I never can, not any more. And that's my punishment, I suppose."

"You do know that you are making no sense at all?" said Arthur, carefully, trying not to let the edge of either fear or affection colour his voice.

Eames snorts in a way that shouldn't be sexy, and yet he still manages it. "Darling, I'm hardly allowed to do otherwise. I don't like losing one of my people, that's all. Her mind is so beautiful, even now. Mad, bad and dangerous to know, she would have run on the hills of Thebes like the wind. She would have loved it." Eames waves his glass in a way that makes Arthur realise he's a lot drunker than he'd thought. It might be why he's talking more nonsense than usual.

He doesn't mean to but Arthur stays with Eames. He tells himself that Eames might get himself into trouble, he might get himself mugged or lose track of the right hotel, or any one of a number of scenarios, which are good enough reasons surely? It means Arthur doesn't have to think about the fact that he's missed Eames these last months. He has no claim, and nothing to miss, not really, but the luxury of sitting in an ordinary bar and keeping him company is... welcome. Arthur finds it surprisingly peaceful. At some point, a lot later, Eames rests his hand on his knee and Arthur doesn't even push it away. It's a comforting weight, warm and solid. A point of contact in the darkness.

At some stage Arthur even takes a sip of the wine he's been poured. He thinks that's when he really understands. It's so compelling and rich on his tongue, tasting of long ago sunshine and the heavy salt of grief. History in a bottle, as though two thousand years were distilled into a mouthful. He's surprised when it doesn't send him reeling.

Perhaps he's finally starting to get a head for wine.

***

After Mal's death, Dom goes on the run. During the funeral Eames tells Arthur what Dom's planning and asks him to leave with him.

"I'd go myself, pet, but I'm not what he needs right now. I'll remind him of her too much, and I can't help him, not like you can. All that efficiency and willpower of yours has got to be good for something, right?" Eames cracks a smile, just a small one, not inappropriate for a funeral, but at the same time his hand casually brushes against Arthur's in a move that feels more like begging than if he'd got down on his knees. It disarms Arthur, makes him bite out his words a little less.

"Fine. But there is nothing good about this situation. You work to get this resolved as soon as possible, and in the mean time I'll try and keep him alive." Eames makes a complicated face that ends with some kind of an apology and while Arthur is still seething, he feels better about things. "For the record, I would have gone anyway," he says, more quietly, and is rewarded with a flash of Eames' crooked teeth that's as good as a caress.

It so happens that Arthur's skill set is one that fits criminal enterprise one step ahead of international law enforcement perfectly. He's still the point man, going in first, taking the responsibility, clearing the way - and doing it so efficiently that Dom barely notices all his hard work. That would bother Arthur more if he thought that Dom was in any fit state to acknowledge it, or if he wasn't already used to being treated like dirt. Thanks to the army he thinks he can come up smelling of roses whatever is thrown at him. He's proud of it. Yet despite that Arthur reckons Dom would still drive a saint to drink.

They work with many different teams until Mal's shade becomes too active, until they become poison to work with, not quite blacklisted, but not top of the food chain either. Arthur grits his teeth and carries on, he's been shot and stabbed before, after all; he's a big boy. It's not really Mal, he reminds himself, it's Dom's own guilt, although that doesn't exactly make his feelings towards Dom any more more warm and gooey. It helps when Dom stops designing the levels and moves into the extractor's role. It helps even more when they work with Eames.

Arthur misses him. He would rather have all his fingernails extracted in lemon juice than admit it, but to himself he can afford to concede the fact. It makes him grumpy when he's actually with Eames. When did the ease they had in each other's company disappear? When did it become so hard to reach out? How can a relationship that started with sex become so much less and so much more?

Then the inception job comes along and everything is different. They get a new architect, Ariadne, who despite being wet behind the ears, takes one look at Eames and snorts in a very unladylike way. If she rolled her eyes any further they would fall out of her head. Eames looks sheepish but not cowed by it, as though he's trying very hard not to pinch her cheeks. After Arthur kisses her to distract the projections, and she doesn't slap him, he decides it's ok to ask how she knows Eames.

"Huh. Would you believe we were married once?" Ariadne's eyes are twinkling, and Arthur would dismiss it as a joke except... He's good at reading people. She's joking about something, he gets that much. "He dumped me in Naxos. Probably the best thing that could have happened to the both of us."

Arthur laughs and they carry on, but he wonders about it. Perhaps Ariadne is not as young as she looks?

***

They are in the first level of the dream and Eames is dying. Arthur wants to punch something, preferably Cobb, but it was his own slip-up that meant they didn't know Fischer's subconscious was militarised. He should have assumed it, even without the proof - what billionaire's only son wouldn't be? - but Arthur likes to dot his 'i's and cross his 't's, he hates to follow hunches or even logically worked out hypotheses. And now they're stuck in Fischer's mind with no way out except for the kick. And Eames has been shot.

Arthur's heart is beating too fast, his hands are stained with Eames' blood where he tried to staunch it in the taxi, and he's listening to the ragged sounds of Eames in pain as he attempts to convince Fischer of his kidnap as Browning. A consummate professional even when gutshot. Arthur clenches his hands in helpless anger. When this is over he's going to kill him. If he's not dead or in limbo first.

They go down to the second level, to the hotel, and then to the third, leaving Arthur to arrange the kick, and to take some of his frustration out on the projections. Yusuf is too early and there isn't enough time before the second kick to cope with the zero gravity but Arthur makes time, roping them all like steers with wire and tubing, dragging them to the elevator, setting the charges. He runs a shaking finger along Eames' cheek and wonders when he came to matter so much. Wonders what the hell he can do about it. His breath stutters in his lungs and his hands feel cold. Shock, he reminds himself. Because Eames isn't breathing any more. He's not just dying, he's goddamned well gone and died.

Arthur barely thinks about it, which is self-preservation instinct perhaps, because he knows if he lets himself dwell too heavily on the incredibly stupid idea he's about to implement he might not survive his own insanity. He does a quick calculation, sets the timer for the detonator and then as it goes off, his finger still against Eames' soft lips, Arthur calmly puts his gun to his own head and pulls the trigger. They all of them only have seconds here, now the dreamer's dead, but he only needs seconds - that will be days for him in limbo, or even forever. But he can't let Eames rot in his own sub-conscious. He just can't.

***

Arthur opens his eyes and there is golden sand beneath his cheek, a handful of seaweed clenched in his fist. The soft sounds of a gentle beach on a summer's day filter through to ears that aren't waterlogged after all. There's sand in his mouth though, which Arthur spits out before getting to his feet. He's dry again because he wishes to be and his suit is not salt-stained. Arthur may never have been to limbo before but he's heard the stories. Nothing but that which you bring with you. He can bring order out of chaos and find Eames too, if he just puts his mind to it. Literally.

There's a booming noise and Arthur tenses before realising that the cliffs along the coast are not cliffs at all but skyscrapers caving into the water like icebergs falling from a glacier. There's a strange dichotomy between the tearing, rolling ocean farther along and the gentle slap of the small waves at his feet. Arthur takes a hesitant step up the beach raising his gaze to the horizon, expecting bland emptiness, the desert of unformed consciousness. What he gets is something different. The rolling gentle hills are covered in blue-green vegetation, with a hint of rust at the top. There is the smell of sage in the air, and a glimpse of the green-grey tops of trees nestling in a valley, and snuggling up the early slopes. The glimpse of white limestone, hinted at from a broken mountain top, and from the scrubby patches on the barer slopes, shine out like diamonds. Then a distant noise echoes, made more lonely by its distance and solitary splendour, a bleating sound, perhaps that of a sheep or goat, Arthur's not sure. What he is sure about is that this place, this incredibly detailed, Mediterranean-like paradise, should not be here. This is limbo, and Eames hasn't been here that long. Has he? Arthur followed him down only moments later and from the second level. Surely Eames hasn't had time to build all this?

"Surprise."

Arthur turns his head. He's not sure what to expect. There's the prickling of distant embarrassment he knows he'll feel if Eames works out the sentiment he's showing by coming here, but mainly Arthur is aware that something important isn't right. A sudden weight pulls at his shoulder and comfortingly he knows that a Glock has appeared in the holster under his arm. There's a sharpness to his vision that means he's poised to attack, the adrenaline pushing him forward, but it's only Eames on the beach. Only Eames, who looks a little windswept, and his hair is longer, but otherwise hasn't changed. It says a great deal for Eames' usual sense of style that he's dressed in some kind of white sarong and Arthur doesn't bat an eyelash.

"Well, this is pleasant." He watches Eames wince minutely and realises he's said it in much the same tone that somebody might use upon finding say, a dead drug dealer in the living room. But he didn't mean it like that, not exactly. Arthur hates being off-balance, and Eames has pretty much had him tilting from the very first moment they met.

"I can explain." Eames looks distant for a second and then focuses back on Arthur's face, one corner of his mouth curling up in a teasing smile. "Actually, I can't. It's all terribly unbelievable, darling, to such a rationalist as you. And you're not one of mine, not even a little bit, despite my best efforts. I've had to drag you every step of the way, so I really don't know what I can say to convince you, especially here in dreamspace. You're not going to believe a word of it. And I can't even blame you."

Arthur opens his mouth to respond with a cutting insult or two of his own, but memories of other occasions stop him. Times when he was stressed, tired or over-worked. Little things that add up to something bigger and more impossible. But Arthur is a point man, he plans, he sifts the information and then he acts accordingly. He can't ignore things just because the conclusions are unpleasant. That wouldn't be doing his job.

His jaw flexes when he realises he's grinding his teeth. So instead he bites out the words, "Try me."

It has nothing to do with the tiny pinprick of hurt at Eames rejection. No really, nothing at all. He'd thought they were a team and here Eames is denying it to his face. Perhaps thinking Arthur isn't good enough. He'd never thought of himself as being 'one of Eames' because he's not presumptuous that way, and they're all too independent for labels anyway, but even so. Arthur swallows, feeling stupid at his assumptions. Serves him right for believing they had something more.

"Don't be like that," says Eames softly. He's moved closer, without Arthur being aware of it. Almost as though he can read his thoughts. In limbo, he supposes, anything is possible, but the knowledge doesn't make him any happier.

"What is it, Mr Eames?" Arthur snaps at last, and that feels better, keeping him on track. The sight of Eames bare chest is distracting, but watching his bare toes dig into the sand is somehow even more so.

"Where do I start?" Eames flaps a hand at the hillsides, at the sage and scrub, in a helpless way. "I was born here. This is Ikaria. It's a Greek island..."

"Ten miles south west of Samos. I know."

"Of course you do. It's been so long since I was last here that I was surprised to see it too. Surprised I washed up here, I suppose. But if we built a boat and sailed south east I guarantee you we'd also find Samos, and Chios, and Naxos. All the others. I suppose since I've been around the place a tad longer than most, my subconscious has had time to establish itself, quite deeply, in all the places that matter, particularly these early ones, which is the root of the problem as you might say. They had to go somewhere and here's as good a place as any."

Eames is rambling. He's also stretching out a hand, Arthur might even imagine in a pleading fashion, and he isn't at all sure what will happen if Eames touches him in his current tense state. He might explode like a bomb.

"Are you saying what I think you are saying? Clumsily, by the way." Arthur wants his conclusion to be refuted, to remain unvoiced, in case just by inhabiting limbo even for this small time, it's sent him irretrievably insane. Specificity, in this case, is overrated.

"Well..."

"If I asked you for your real name, what would you say?"

He can see that Eames doesn't want to say it, is twisting and turning like a fish on a hook, squirming with his own kind of embarrassment. Arthur points at the staff that's lying on the sand behind him, a thin rod with a pine cone-shaped head that Eames is studiously ignoring.

"That is a thyrsus, you were once married to Ariadne, you were born in Ikaria and can be summoned with alcohol. I've done my research, as always. I know who you think you are, god help me."

Eames is grinning now, suddenly all smiles, like a boy post-test, the hard part out of the way. "Well, that's all right then. Shall we go and find an olive grove and I'll mix honey and wine and feed you grapes from my hand. It'll be marvellous, darling. Retro is the new chic."

"We shall do no such thing." Arthur is sure he can feel a vein in his forehead starting to throb. "Quite apart from the fact that we'll miss the second kick if we stay long, even here, it's not that easy."

"Nothing ever is with you, love."

That stymies Arthur, just for a moment. Surely nothing worth fighting for is ever easy? Doesn't Eames understand that? He turns away and stares up at the recreated slopes of Mount Pramnos. Does that mean Eames has given up fighting for Arthur?

Eventually he forces out words. "What did you mean when you said I wasn't 'one of yours'? You said Mal was one of yours the night she died. But you say that I'm not." His voice is distant, as though it's not really him speaking. And then Eames does touch him and he doesn't explode or attack, instead he feels unexpectedly grounded, with Eames' large hand holding his arm, holding him down.

"Oh Arthur, I didn't mean..." Eames' voice is soft and full of regret. "It's just that I don't have worshippers any more, of course not, there's no cult of Dionysus these days. But if there ever was a woman who truly was a maenad in her soul, that woman was Mal. I knew her for a kindred spirit as soon as the first sip of wine-and-water touched her lips when she was five. I know everybody you see, anyone who has ever touched a drop of alcohol, or howled at the moon, or threw a stone at a tank for freedom's sake. They're all mine, in a way, but some are more so than others. That's all."

"Then what am I, Eames? Do you fuck about with everyone like this? Do you randomly turn up and drive the entire world absolutely crazy? Well, I appreciate the thought, the specialness of your attention, but I bet there are a great many lushes just begging for it out there, so next time I suggest you go harass one of them." Arthur is feeling almost incandescent with anger. That masks a deeper humiliation he's not going to examine too closely. "You're also assuming I believe you."

"Would you like a drunken orgy in a Thracian olive grove, Arthur? By way of proof? We've got time if you do. Here we've got all the time in the world."

"Not true and not the point."

Eames is inching closer all the time. Arthur can feel the heat of him with every fibre of his body. He wants to step away in high dudgeon. He wants to press every centimetre of his flesh against Eames, he wants to lift the ridiculous white chiton and explore, he wants to run away and press the mouth of his Glock lovingly to his forehead. There's another hand now, on his hip, and the brush of a muscular thigh against his knee. He's not sure if he imagines it but he smells a tantalising hint of salt and cinnamon in the air from Eames' skin. The hand on his arm is rubbing now, up and down, not too much, not yet, but not soothing either. Eames like this could never be soothing.

Eames is curled up behind him now, snug against his back, and Arthur still isn't moving. "You're my Arthur if you want me to be. Do you want me? You've fought me so hard - you always perceive my strengths to be your weaknesses, did you know that? But I want you Arthur. I always have. You don't think I seduce just anyone on a first date?"

Arthur opens his mouth to say that's exactly what he thinks, but Eames chooses then to kiss him behind the ear, with a tiny nip, and down his neck, fluttering light kisses that seem more gentle than Arthur is used to. Creatures like Eames probably seduce people all the time, but Arthur can't bring himself to say so, not when Eames is being so maddeningly careful with him. But it's lovely, he'd never deny that, to be so close and so cared for in a situation that isn't immediately fraught with danger, maiming or drug-compromised consent. He wishes he could stay.

But he can enjoy this for a little while. He twists in Eames' hold until their chests are rubbing together and he can run his fingers up the muscles of Eames back, solely to hear him groan. He gets to kiss Eames properly, savouring the plush feel of the lips beneath his own, and the plunge of heat when Eames opens up beneath his searching tongue. It's perfect and wonderful. Perhaps too perfect for the ordinary world.

Reluctantly, he draws back an inch or two and stares at Eames, at the hope in his eyes, and the affection in the corner of his mouth, and the rejection he fears in the line of his jaw. He's a ridiculous man who Arthur happens to be stupidly fond of, and he's tired. Tired of fighting him.

"What will we be like out there?" he asks, "This shared madness of ours will fade and then what will be left?"

Eames smiles, crookedly, but he looks full of wonder all of a sudden. "There'll be you and me, darling, just like always. No more, no less - just us, I promise." He shifts then, a quick abortive movement towards a pocket that doesn't exist, and then sheepishly opens up his hand between them anyway. What was empty before is no longer, filled with the creative stuff of limbo. A cheap plastic red die lies on his palm which Arthur recognises.

"I kept it for you," says Eames, happily.

And Arthur wants to laugh as he plucks it off his palm, because it's not something that should make him believe the preposterous, but it does. How else could Eames have possibly known? He slips it snugly into his waistcoat pocket for safekeeping - a ridiculous notion in limbo but he does it anyway. The ground shakes then with the tremble of a distant earthquake - or an exploding building, a ricocheting elevator or a van hitting the water at sixty miles per hour. Arthur grins, all teeth and unacceptable levels of risk-taking. He leans forward, capturing Eames' mouth for another kiss, pressed as close as possible, grinding up against his flimsy chiton. Eames cannot possibly mistake the hand that Arthur fumbles between them, reaching for his Glock, but he doesn't protest, just opens his mouth wider, tasting a little deeper. His eyes closed, Arthur brings the gun to Eames forehead first, ever the gentleman, finally ready to start their new life together regardless of the circumstances. Perhaps it really doesn't matter, and Arthur's been worrying over nothing. They can only try it and see.

After all, in many ways, Eames has always been an impossible thing.

Dear Yuletide Writer

valderys — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 17:36:59 GMT

Dear Yuletide Writer,

Well, I think I described what I wanted for each prompt pretty clearly, so this is some general overall stuff about what I like and don't like in a story, but please only take this as guidelines and not rules! I will love whatever you produce, I know I will!

I love me my slash, as I'm sure was clear, and I love character pieces. Smut is good but really not essential, and only as part of a greater whole. I've never been fond of PWPs, for example. AUs are cool, as is angst. That's what I write the most of, but that's mainly because I'm interested in writing that, because my plot bunnies are seldem happy or funny, but I am also a sucker for a happy ending, even though I don't always write them! :) I also adore romance and first times.

I hope this is enough but please comment anonymously if you need to ask me anything else!

Love Valderys

Yuletide and Lists of Avalon

valderys — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 12:16:44 GMT

Yay, Yuletide is almost here, sign-ups will be going up real soon now :) And I can finally allow myself to get excited about writing for Christmas challenges, because my big freeform RPG game that I've been writing (a theatre-style larp in US parlance) is about to be run. We packed the game at the weekend, so it's now completely out of my hands - we can't do any more fact-checking, plot inconsistencies, or re-writes any more. Which means I get some fannish writing time back *collapses in heap*

I'm quite excited about how it will be received, although worried about the number of rules mechanics we've had to put in - I still can't believe I've written a game that has any quite frankly, as I hate them! *sigh* There's a tourney with jousting and archery and stuff so I suppose some are needed. I really hope it goes well... *crosses fingers*

Five Times Sarah-Jane was Awesome in the Year That Never Was, Luke/Clyde (PG)

valderys — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 22:41:48 GMT

Title: Five Times Sarah-Jane was Awesome in the Year That Never Was
Author: valderys
Characters: Sarah-Jane, Luke, Rani and Clyde.
Pairing: Clyde/Luke
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,215
Warnings: Nowhere near as many as there should be given its the Year That Never Was! Some slavery and starvation off screen. Lots of implied death, two actual deaths (not main cast).
Notes: Written for the End of Sarah-Jane Adventures ficathon, using Prompt 14: Sarah Jane and Co during the Year that Never Was. It's also surprisingly in keeping with the show - by accident, I hasten to add, but I found I couldn't bear to do anything too awful to any of them! EDIT: Also, possibly more AU than I thought - I've just gone and recalculated my years and I think it should still have been Maria... Damn, I missed that.
Summary:
Martha Jones wasn't the only one that walked the Earth at the end of the world - or bits of it, anyway.

Mr Smith was the first problem. His energy signature was like a red flag to the Toclafane, but it didn't take Sarah-Jane very long to realise it either. Clyde and Rani and Luke were too busy being shocked by the assassination of the President of the United States to think it through. But Sarah-Jane wasn't a journalist for nothing - she'd had cause to observe the takeovers of countries by hostile forces before, both on Earth and on many alien worlds. More to the point she knew who the Master was and what that might entail, although there even Sarah-Jane was wrong, for he was more insane than that, and much more destructive than even the UNIT files gave him credit for.

It didn't matter. The first thing she did, as they stood in the attic exclaiming over the news, over the screams that were beginning to start, was order Mr Smith to shut down, a priority override that didn't even give him time to discuss it. And her voice had that note of controlled panic, that strained note that meant you just didn't want to argue with Sarah-Jane, you just did what she wanted. So the screen went black, and Clyde felt his back-bone stiffen into a flight-or-fight response that was virtually second nature now. That's when they realised the screams weren't just on the screen, they were beginning in Bannerman Road. The high whine that accompanied the Toclafane was first heard, and Rani tried to leave the attic to go look for her parents. But Sarah-Jane didn't just tell her no, when Rani went to push past her - voice frantic, her eyes panicked - Sarah-Jane just said, "Stop her, Luke. You have to stop her, Clyde." And when they didn't move fast enough, Sarah-Jane did it herself, using some kind of karate move that Clyde hadn't even known she was capable of.

Rani banged her head on the wooden steps of the attic, and had blood pouring from her nose while Sarah-Jane was sitting on her back, whispering, "Sorry, sorry..." All Clyde could do was stand there with Luke feeling too shocked and dazed to move, while his stomach tried to drop through the floor. Everything was happening so quickly, the end of the world in an instant. And then he watched helplessly as Sarah-Jane used her sonic lipstick to short out the first little Toclafane bastard to break through the attic window...

***

Rani tried to hate Sarah-Jane after that. Her parents died that first day, because they'd immediately gone into the street to see what the noise was and had been killed in the Toclafane's initial decimation. She hoped that was the reason, but in her heart of hearts she worried that they'd gone to look for her. But in the end, maybe it didn't matter why they were out there. Maybe it was a mercy of sorts, or at least that's what Rani tried to tell herself now. They didn't have to see what was happening to the world. They didn't see the slave labour camps begin, or watch the shipyards rise along the South Coast in a pall of black smoke that could be seen from Birmingham. They didn't see all the death that followed or the cruelty. Maybe it was better.

Because they knew what the Toclafane were now. From that first day, in fact. They'd all seen what was behind the metal spheres - the giggling insane face of a terrible child who shouldn't even have existed for ten trillion years. Not that they could tell anyone about their discoveries as communications was one of the first things to go down, but Rani kept an obsessive diary nonetheless - because perhaps she'd never get to be a journalist one day like she'd always dreamed but that didn't mean her words might not be read. She kept the diary in an hermetically sealable aluminium box she'd found, and she put in a Rosetta Stone too - the English alphabet next to Raxacoricofallapatorian pictograms, in the hopes that when her race was dead and gone, some archaeologist might find her account of their last days.

It had been Sarah-Jane's idea. Of course, it had been. Even in the first days of being on the run, when Rani was barely speaking to anyone in her grief, and particularly not to Sarah-Jane, even then she'd written in her diary. Even when she couldn't bear to look at Clyde because he'd try to cheer her up, she could still pour everything she was feeling onto the pages in front of her, still push her pen forward pointlessly and futilely. Except it wasn't futile, not any more.

They'd been hiding in some abandoned B&B somewhere near the M4 when Sarah-Jane gave her the list of pictograms. Of course she knew written Raxacoricofallapatorian, Sarah-Jane knew everything - but Rani instantly knew what she meant them to be used for. Not so bad for a kid reporter. And it gave her constant writing a new meaning because it meant the whole galaxy would eventually be able to read about the silly human race - a clever species but they killed themselves in the end. Literally.

She knew whatever happened next, it wouldn't all be in vain. Because as well as her very own Rosetta Stone, Sarah-Jane gave her another gift at the same time. Rani picked it up sometimes, and it felt warm in her hand, glowing red through the translucent membranes of her fingers. When humanity was but a memory, and the Toclafane had turned on themselves until nothing was left, then the interdiction of Earth would end. When that finally happened the Star Poet's communicator would light up, glowing crimson like her blood, and send its last message across the stars - and someone would investigate. That was all.

It was comforting, thinking of it. Someone would know.

***

It was K9 who kept them safe. Mr Smith was too bulky to be moved and his energy signature was so large that it would have been almost impossible to mask. But K9 had abandoned his repair of the black hole early and had come with them.

"The black hole is secure, master," was all Luke could get out of him.

Luke wondered if he really meant that the black hole didn't matter any more for the brief amount of time the human race had left.

K9 was invaluable because he could modulate his energy weapon to the precise electronic surge of 58.5 kiloamperes, transferred charge 510 megajoules, that was required to knock a Toclafane out of the air. And he didn't need to sleep. That was very important. Even Mum needed to sleep sometimes, even Luke did, although part of his genetic enhancements was the ability to go without sleep for long periods, he still couldn't hold it off indefinitely. K9 could though, as long as he could be charged sufficiently often. And that meant he could protect them.

It became harder, though, as time went on - K9 had a self-charging battery system, but he needed to self-charge from ambient power at the very least, and as slaves didn't need electricity it often became necessary to be closer to clusters of Toclafane than Luke really liked. It was dangerous, of course, but Luke was a quick learner - he always had been, his genetic legacy in action. But instead of learning school work or how to react to social situations, he was learning how to sneak his metal dog near to Nuclear Plant 6 instead. Or how to steal food. He'd become good at stealing - his quick reflexes meant he made an excellent cat burglar, and his sharp senses kept him safer than the others. Luke became their main breadwinner as they travelled.

First to find UNIT - but their bases were all destroyed, their operatives dead or enslaved. Mum heard the whisper through a wire fence that UNIT's Central Control was under one of the radiation pits in Geneva. Many others died in the futile military action that tried to bring down the Valiant - there was no salvation there, not for any of them. Then they headed to Cardiff, as a last resort, to see if Torchwood had fared any better, cross-country along the M4 corridor.

Luke found he was getting more and more quiet. When he was out in the field, he had to move as silently as a cat, and it was a habit he was finding hard to break. He spent an ever greater proportion of his time alone, foraging in dangerous territory, often breaking into secure facilities to steal the dwindling food and other supplies. And when he came back, he found he didn't know what to say any more. He'd never been good at small-talk and now he'd seen so many terrible things, death and slavery and torture. Starving kids. Then he had to steal what food they might have left, so that his family might live. Luke knew it needed to be done, that he had to be practical, but he hated it - he hated every single moment.

Clyde tried to make up for his and Rani's silence, of course, and Luke tried to appreciate his chatter, but he couldn't tell him everything because he didn't want Clyde to be sad too. He wanted to protect him. But Mum understood. Maybe not the specifics, because Luke was careful there too, in case she didn't approve of some of his... methods. But she knew what he was going through, because he'd heard enough stories about the wastelands and slavepits of Skaro to know she'd seen worse, and he'd seen her strength in the face of all kinds of horrors.

She didn't ask him for details either, and that was lovely, and surprising. Instead, just before they went to sleep, when Luke didn't think he could possibly let go of any of his hyper-alertness, couldn't relax, not even for an instant, Mum took to humming low under her breath, and began to stroke his hair. It was something she'd never done before and it made Luke feel as he imagined a tiny child might feel - loved and safe. Wrapped up in bed without a care in the world, with no responsibilities and no worries. It meant he could sleep, and that was a gift from the stars.

***

On the day Clyde turned sixteen the only person who knew was Sarah-Jane. It was too easy to lose track of days on their eternal march, and so Clyde knew his birthday was soon but not that it had actually arrived. They were somewhere near Gloucester by now, a necessity because the Severn Bridge was far too long and bare to be crossed easily without making themselves a target, so they were taking the long way round. Suddenly, while there was still a good portion of the night left to walk in, Sarah-Jane stopped and said brightly, "Here we are!"

They were in a village called Eastington according to the metal sign they'd walked past, so incongruous in its cheerful declaration, with painted enamel flowers too out of proportion and garish, to Clyde's mind. It was far too small to be of immediate use to the Toclafane, and Clyde saw Luke tip his head a little to one side as he judged the likelihood of any successful scavenging and knew by the crease in his forehead that pickings were going to be slim. It was a safe enough haven though, Clyde guessed - Sarah-Jane was good at choosing those. The village would have had its population cleared out and into one of the slave camps, as there looked to be a missile factory at nearby Stroud.

So Eastington was theirs, for what it was worth, a small collection of streets with minimal damage, and only a few wild dogs, nothing dangerous, not like coming out of London, when the packs were just forming, when they still had an amount of training and liking of humans, and didn't think of them as food, before starvation had properly kicked in. Clyde didn't want to even think about doing that now. Anyway, here in Eastington, K9 could see off any small pack.

Sarah-Jane forced open a door, and it wasn't too bad, a broken window in the front bedroom, but the rest of the house was sound, and with no nasty surprises. Its owners could have stepped out yesterday, except for a little dust. And then Sarah-Jane managed to surprise Clyde even more - she pulled open her rucksack and pulled out a can of coke, and an honest-to-goodness cake in a battered plastic wrapper. It was McVitie's Jamaica Ginger cake, and was a bit squished and a month past its sell-by date but was still the most delicious thing that Clyde had ever eaten.

"Happy Birthday!" said Sarah-Jane, kissing his cheek, and Rani looked up from her diary and smiled and said it too, while Luke just stood about looking awkward and weird until Clyde pulled him into a hug, and if there was a little moisture at the corner of his eyes then it was just dust from the road, right?

Because Clyde didn't know what he'd done to deserve these friends of his, when he was so useless - he couldn't plan like Sarah-Jane, or forage like Luke, or even record things for posterity like Rani. All he could do was make stupid jokes, and keep walking, keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep filling in the silences that got too long and difficult. He didn't deserve to be here - he should have been with his Mum, but she wasn't here, was she, because she'd been rounded up in the first wave, and was somewhere in the slave quarters that used to be Slough. They'd got a message out just before they ran, so he knew Mum wanted him with Sarah-Jane. That Mum said she trusted Sarah-Jane to keep her Clydie safe. But it didn't stop him feeling guilty.

Today was his sixteenth birthday and he hadn't even realised. He should be with his family - all his family - but he tried to put it out of his mind. He had birthday cake, and coke that was sweet and fizzy in his mouth, and it could be a kind of bliss if he didn't think about it very hard. Clyde was really good at not thinking about things too hard.

So just for tonight they could be in an ordinary living room, having an ordinary party, and Clyde threw himself into it, telling jokes, pulling faces, anything he could think of, and watched his family laugh. It was a brilliant idea of Sarah-Jane's, one that made them forget the darkness, forget everything, and just watching them be happy again was the best present of all. Even when they settled down to sleep at last, Clyde fought it, his eyelids drooping, but not willing to say goodnight quite yet.

He was on the sofa with Luke. It was a generous puffy thing, almost a sinful luxury compared to some of the places they'd slept. Clyde could see the glint of Luke's eyes in the pre-dawn gloom, still awake too. It gave him a pang seeing Luke like that, so ordinary-looking - they could have stayed up playing a Halo marathon or something, and be falling asleep afterwards. It could be normal.

Luke put out his hand and grabbed Clyde's. His nails were all dirty, Clyde noticed absently, before allowing himself to be pulled down. Luke was a skinny streak of nothing under usual circumstances, and these days he was whipcord thin, all muscle and sinew. But Clyde could feel the warmth of his skin through his t-shirt and as Luke shifted to pull the sleeping-bag over the both of them, he could have cried to know he still had his best friend right here, tucked up beside him, his hair all shaggy and too long, his dear stupid face still looking at Clyde with something like awe. He used to be the cool one, ok, but Clyde knew that he hadn't been that in a long time. It was Luke and Sarah-Jane who kept them alive now, and Clyde didn't deserve them.

But here was Luke still looking at him, even with both of them almost buried in the sleeping bag, their feet tangling in the joined part at the bottom, and Luke's breath was coming faster, puffs of sweet cake-scented air ghosting across Clyde's lips. He was looking panicked, Clyde thought, and a jolt of something kicked him in the stomach. He didn't think it was fear, he was almost sure it wasn't, but what it was instead... Clyde was dead certain he didn't want to think it through. He opened his mouth to ask, to make a joke, he didn't know, and Luke took it for permission, and leaned forward that extra inch or two to kiss him. It was fumbling, because Luke had obviously not kissed many people, not like Clyde had - three whole times, in fact - but it was sincerely meant and Clyde found that Luke's lips on his were brilliant, actually. Slightly dry, slightly off centre, but Clyde could fix that by tipping his head slightly and by licking at Luke's lips until he opened up, parting into sweet warmth that Clyde found he could get used to quite easily.

Their hands seemed to have found themselves naturally curling round one another, and to be resting on skin under rucked up t-shirts. The skin on Luke's back felt so soft, Clyde realised, marvelling, but he could also feel his shoulder blades sticking out like wings. You're too skinny, mate, Clyde thought, and he felt such a wave of tenderness that he was incredibly glad it was still dark, because he wasn't feeling nearly as manly as a bloke should be, quite frankly. But then, as he carried on kissing his best mate, well into the dawn and forever if he had any say, Clyde decided perhaps it didn't matter so much, not here at the end of the world. Who would know or care except for their family? And surely they would only be happy for them.

Best birthday ever, thought Clyde sleepily, before pulling Luke closer still.

***

Their journey ended just as they began to hear rumours of Martha Jones. She's walking the world, Luke overheard at a fissile production plant. She was the last person out of Japan before it burned, said gossip at a steel mill. Think of the Doctor, said the whisper through the wire of a internment camp. You'll know when. You'll feel it. Luke just wished he believed them.

All he knew was that he shouldn't be so happy when everything was so terrible. He shouldn't be looking forward to returning to their temporary camp and hearing the dreadful tearing cough that Rani had started to suffer after the last storm. Bronchitis, Mum had whispered to him, and told him to look for medicines, and Luke had tried, but medicine was even harder to come by than food, rarer than diamonds and much more precious. But Clyde was at the camp and Luke couldn't help himself, he wanted to see Clyde. He couldn't ever not want to see Clyde.

"Nearly there," Mum said, always cheerful, and Luke thought about how lucky they had been. If a Toclafane died quickly enough they didn't convey their last thought to the hive mind, and K9 had got really, really quick. He nodded his agreement. They were nearly to their latest goal, that was true. He wondered where they'd go next.

It was some kind of irony, Luke thought, that Mum hated the idea of Torchwood so much, and yet it might be their salvation. It might have some solution to the Master and the Toclafane, or at least have some supplies and shelter for a time. He didn't like to pin any more hope on things that that. Luke wondered if it was normal that he thought so little about the next day, or the day after that. So they'd walked to Cardiff? It didn't matter - they'd walk to somewhere else tomorrow.

But Torchwood was empty.

They stood looking around the Hub, as Mum called it. The white tiled walls, the water-tower in the centre and the pool below. The desks and their computers, screens all dark and abandoned. Luke supposed he should think it impressive, and he did in a way, but he'd seen all kinds of places abandoned in the last months, this was just one more. He wondered what had happened to the people, given the Toclafane had obviously ignored this place - maybe they'd left before the invasion? And perhaps the large round door Mum had opened with her sonic lipstick had been enough to shield it since?

"Mistress?" K9 couldn't sound nervous, but Luke swore it was there. "There is an incursion heading this way, mistress. Seventy nine in the swarm and its numbers are increasing."

Seventy nine were far too many Toclafane to handle even with K9 and the sonic lipstick. Luke became conscious of a kind of churning in his belly - he looked instinctively at Clyde. Who was looking at him.

"Get down behind the consoles," said Mum briskly. "Then they'll have no reason to attack you. Would you help Rani please, Luke?"

Unless they want to attack you, thought Luke, unless they'd find it funny. He didn't want to go, he wanted to stay with Mum, but he didn't have the words any more, and Rani needed Clyde and him on either side to help her down. She began coughing again, a wet rasping sound.

Our Last Stand, Luke thought, swallowing. He put his hand out behind Rani, groping until he found Clyde's, and then clutched on tight, the three of them huddling together like bedraggled puppies. Perhaps when they opened the door it had allowed the Toclafane to sense something that attracted them here, some power source maybe? Could he try and find it, and maybe switch it off? No, it was too late for that, far too late.

His Mum, his wonderful, funny, brave Mum was standing ready to defend them just like she always did. Sarah-Jane Smith with her robot dog by her side - as last moments go, Luke decided, it could be a lot worse. As the swarm of Toclafane flew down and began to mass in the entrance, Luke clutched at Clyde's fingers even harder.

And then they suddenly stuck there, hovering in mid-air, like flies in amber. There was a shimmer in the air, like an energy field maybe. They all waited for a moment, and then another, before Mum stepped forward and prodded it. Congealed and solid air, like rubber, bounced her finger back. She lifted her wrist and levelled her watch at it, while K9 trundled forward to sense too. Suddenly Luke felt he could breathe again, and realised that the muscles in his calves were cramped from all the crouching, so he collapsed back onto the floor in a heap. God, how stupid and how brilliant - he wanted to laugh at the turns the universe threw at them, so he did, just lying back and laughing, watching Rani smile at him helplessly and Clyde look at him as though he'd gone mental but that he probably loved him anyway.

"It's a time-lock," Mum called over, with a little wonder in her voice, "They can't get in and we can't get out, but there's food supplies, air scrubbers, a medical bay and..." She looked a little overwhelmed.

"So we're here for the duration?" said Clyde, sounding suspicious.

Luke tested the idea in his head. No more fresh air for the foreseeable future, but also no gut-wrenching terror, no more listening for the slightest noise on the breeze, no more picking his way through the detritus of people's lives. They could even relax for a time while they figured out the time-lock. Rani could get better. Clyde would be safe. Mum would eventually get used to the idea. Luke nearly giggled again before he thought better of it, instead just reaching up for Clyde's hand to tug him down on top of him. Clyde made an oofing noise but didn't protest as he landed against Luke's chest, solid and warm and most of all, alive.

He could live with that exchange, Luke decided, he really could. Torchwood had saved them after all.

Delicious (last call)

valderys — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 09:09:42 GMT

Just quoting anatsuno here (via msilverstar):

Today Friday, September 23, is the day your Delicious bookmarks will disappear if you don't log in to the site and allow them to transfer your bookmarks.

If you've ever used Delicious to look for fic / meta / fanart / fanvids to peruse, you know how precious the network of bookmarks that's there now is precious. Please, do what you can to preserve it?

Click, log in, accept the new ToS: http://www.delicious.com/

Fandom will thank you! -- M

White Linen, Merlin/Arthur (PG)

valderys — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 15:01:16 GMT

Title: White Linen
Author: valderys
Prompt: The Philadelphia Story
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, Lance/Guinevere, (previous Arthur/Guinevere)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,033
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Notes: Written for reel_merlin. I've tried for 1930's idioms, but I don't know how well I've managed it! Also, there is a liberal sprinkling of dialogue lifted from the movie and one line of Shakespeare.
Summary: There's nothing quite like a wedding in Philadelphia - for Merlin Emrys, reporter, writer and all around nice guy, it's a chance to become more than the hack he's been reduced to. And for Arthur Pendragon, rich, spoilt and trying to do the right thing, it's a chance to atone. If only he can get over his own prejudices...

It had to be said - there was nothing like a wedding in Philadelphia. For a good old blue-collar working guy like Merlin Emrys it was meat and drink, literally in this case. Merlin might have a chip on his shoulder a mile wide but that didn't mean he was going to turn down the most upmarket spread he'd laid eyes on since he was last invited to his boss' hideaway in the Hamptons - which was never, but a guy could dream, right? Besides, Merlin had been there, he just hadn't been invited...

His photographer, Gwaine Knight, was lurking behind a pot plant, and trying to look like he hadn't stolen the silver - which would be difficult, Merlin thought in amusement, since in order to steal this dame's silver you'd need a small truck at the very least. And maybe an encyclopedia since he had no idea what half the items even were. Did the very rich just silver-plate anything that didn't move fast enough?

The image made him smile, so it was lingering on his lips when Merlin turned round yet another corner and bumped into one of the last people he'd been expecting - since it had been in his own boss Sidney Kidd's office that he'd last seen him, when he'd been blackmailed into accepting Kidd's offer of a wedding exclusive for 'Spy' magazine on behalf of Guinevere Smith, socialite extraordinaire and also his ex-wife. Arthur Pendragon was of the same social class as Smith, which was to say considerably higher than Merlin's, but he found he couldn't hate him for it, however much he wanted to, on account of the aforementioned blackmail. Perhaps it was the romantic in him but Merlin liked that Pendragon was trying to help Smith out, even now, when he didn't owe her a thing. That smacked of loyalty, that did, and he liked that, even if it was from some stinking rich, blond-haired, blue-eyed Adonis. Crap, where did that come from?

Pendragon meanwhile was staring at him lazily, as though arrested by the sight. Perhaps he wasn't used to hoi polloi reporters stinking up his ex-wife's mansion? It made Merlin become very conscious of his ears, and his shabby off-the-peg suit, that hadn't been new when he got it. Still, he was working here, not goofing around; it didn't matter what Pendragon thought.

"So how do you want us to play this?" he asked, brusque to the point of rudeness, chiefly due to embarrassment.

Pendragon just seemed to find him funny. "You are to be intimate friends of Guinevere's brother Elyan. If that's alright with you."

"So, we're to be Elyan's friends, are we? How nice. How is dear, dear Elyan?" asked Merlin, since he'd always subscribed to attack being the first form of defence.

Pendragon raised an interested eyebrow. "He's in South America. Ranching cattle. How is Argentina at this time of year?"

"Tall," said Merlin, shortly, and that seemed to be that.

***

Guinevere herself seemed to be taking it in her stride. There'd been some teasing, but Merlin rather liked that - meant she wasn't a complete stuck-up bitch. Which would make Sidney Kidd sad, since he wanted an angle and that would be a great one. Still, Sydney Kidd could go hang himself as far as Merlin was concerned, because Guinevere Smith was a peach. She'd offered to read his book for a start. About twenty people in the whole world had read his book, and Guinevere would make it twenty one. His book had come of age! Yeah, right. Keep on dreaming, Merlin.

She asked him to go for a swim that afternoon, in the pool in the backyard. If the word backyard was still appropriate when it included a small forest, several acres of grazing land, stables, garage, and a pool-house bigger than Merlin's apartment block. It made Merlin uncomfortable, but name something that didn't on this ridiculous assignment? He was standing there trying not to fidget in the fluffiest white bath robe he'd ever had the pleasure of wrapping around his scrawny frame, when Arthur Pendragon strolled up and his looming, elegant, linen-suited presence nearly made Merlin trip over his own feet. And he wasn't even moving - life was so unfair. It turned out Pendragon had a wedding present for Guinevere, but he didn't ignore Merlin, just slid that cool amused gaze across him, as though in surprise.

"Oh Arthur, thank you!" she said, looking up at him adoringly, and Merlin wondered in disgust why they had ever bothered getting divorced if they could look that revoltingly happy afterwards.

It was a model of a yacht. Guinevere sailed it at the edge of the swimming pool, and the light reflecting from the water looked like jewels in her hair. "It's a model of the 'True Love'," Guinevere explained, her eyes dreamy, "We sailed it up the coast the summer we were first married, didn't we, Arthur? My, she was yar."

"She was. But I wasn't though, was I, Guinevere?"

"Not very. But...oh, I didn't mean..."

Guinevere Smith also blushed quite prettily, her skin flushing darker than usual, her eyes sweeping closed in mortification. She looked adorable. Pendragon just had to be charmed. But instead there was a wry twist to his lips when he took her by the hands and said, "Good at the brightwork, that was me. It's ok, you know."

Pendragon could make anything shine, in Merlin's opinion. But no-one was likely to ask.

***

"DuLac, Lance DuLac," said the guy with the pearly white smile and the unfeasibly shiny hair, "It's nice to meet you. I'm Gwen's fiancée, you must be Elyan's friends."

"That's us," said Merlin, "Dear Elyan." He winced as Gwaine took another picture, right in DuLac's eyes. Who didn't even blink.

"Well, that's swell, any friend of Elyan is a friend of mine," said the suspiciously perfect man in front of them, while Merlin was left wondering if everyone in these rarefied circles was this good-looking. Maybe they threw the ugly ones back in the sea. Or swapped them at birth. Or... no, that wasn't right. Wasn't Lance DuLac a self-made man? A 'man of the people' as Time magazine had dubbed him, and hadn't Sidney Kidd been mad that they'd lost that exclusive.

"Isn't he something though?" said Guinevere, as she came up to the pair of them and took Lance's arm. He smiled down at her as though she hung the moon and the stars as well.

"Oh, don't be like that, Gwen, you know that you're so high above me, I can barely see the pedestal. Like a beautiful goddess, or a queen maybe, regal and perfect - I can hardly believe my luck that you ever said yes," declared Lance, his expression heartfelt, and his tone fervent.

Gwen gazed up at him lovingly, which was just as well, Merlin thought, given she was marrying the guy tomorrow. But Lance seemed too much of a stuffed shirt to him, too earnest and sincere. For his own part, he preferred a guy with more of a sense of humour.

***

The ball that night was sparkling, as was the champagne. Merlin watched Guinevere being swirled around the dance floor under the light of silvery chandeliers and felt bitter. He drank more than he should while failing to avoid Gwaine's advances, although having his ass pinched seemed to be an occupational hazard in this house, since Guinevere's father, Tom Smith, had also had a go. As shouting I'm a writer not a gigolo would likely get him thrown out, Merlin had just stuck with the champagne.

He saw Guinevere go out on the terrace, and on a whim, followed her. She was humming and swaying as though she had an invisible partner, so Merlin didn't think she'd mind if he joined her. She giggled, before tapping him on the nose.

"You're Merlin, and you're awfully sweet. You write beautifully, and you deserve better than to work for a filthy rag like Spy. I have a darling little cabin in the woods, I'm barely there, except in hunting season, and not so much then - it's yours if you want it." She made a little face then, her mouth round with shock. "Oh, I'm not meant to know that, am I? Oh dear."

"It's fine," said Merlin, "Everything's fine. For example, don't you think that it's a fine night?"

"Oh sure!"

"Well, that's all that matters then."

He took her in his arms, a warm sweet-smelling armful, and they danced. Guinevere was an excellent dancer, Merlin not so much. Luckily if he did tread on her feet, she was too soused to notice.

"So tell me about Pendragon," asked Merlin, "Because I'm not meant to be writing this piece about him, so it's completely safe."

"Really? Well, I suppose if you say so, you're the professor." She giggled again. "Arthur is... Arthur lets people down, I suppose. He doesn't mean to - he always tries to be the very best, but when he doesn't match up to his own completely impossible ideals, he falls. Then the guilt just eats away at him until he does things he regrets. He'll never be a first-class human being or a first-class man, until he's learned to have some regard for human frailty."

"Is that so," Merlin murmured to himself as much to the lovely Guinevere, "Well, I have a bone to pick with the high and mighty Arthur Pendragon. Right now."

He went to find his car.

***

"Arthur Pendragon! That's right, you just park yourself there, how nice you haven't turned into a pumpkin and six white mice, since midnight's come and gone. That's good. Arthur Pendragon!"

Merlin hiccuped, and grabbed for the bottle of champagne he'd brought with him from the party. He wasn't in the habit of talking to motor vehicles but since his car had kindly decided not to leave the road and get friendly with a tree, and seemed to have rolled to a halt just nicely in front of Arthur Pendragon's mansion without Merlin having to do much of anything, he felt it deserved acknowledgement.

The light on the porch had come on, and that was terribly convenient, since Merlin wanted to go inside - they must have known he was coming. Merlin couldn't think how.

"ARTHUR PENDRAGON!"

"Yes, yes," said the man himself, testily, "I don't know what I might have done in a former life to deserve this - or actually, maybe I do."

Merlin blinked at him. Pendragon was dressed in a pair of white silk pyjamas that left absolutely nothing at all to the imagination. He also looked deliciously rumpled and a tad grumpy, and while Merlin had no idea why the grumpiness was so endearing, it most definitely was.

Rather than reaching out with greedy hands, Merlin chose to flip at the ends of his own untied bow-tie - now when had that happened? He watched Pendragon follow the movement with great interest.

"I've come to talk to you, Pendragon," said Merlin, and waved the bottle in the air, "With Cinderella's slipper. Champagne is a great leveller. It makes us equals."

Pendragon smiled, his mouth a little wry. "Almost equals."

"You're right - you're nearly my equal. Now, I wanted to say something," said Merlin, grandly, while trying to remember through the pleasant fuzziness. Oh yes. "Are you still in love with her? Gwaine thinks you are. And if you are, you should man up! That's what you should do."

"With Cinderella's slipper?" Pendragon's voice had gone so far away. Merlin peered closely at him to see where it had gone. He smelled good - so good it must be expensive. "You should call me Arthur, you know," said Pendragon then, his tone soft, but altogether there again. Somehow Merlin's arms had gravitated to hold onto soft silk sleeves. His black tux next to the pajamas made a nice contrast.

"If you love her, why are you letting her go? I don't understand. You should fight for her!" said Merlin, experiencing a revelation.

Arthur's arms were circling his waist and it felt nice, just firm enough, and warm. He was being steered to the comfort of a couch. "You think I should fight Lance?" asked Arthur, and that was better, Merlin could hear the underlying amusement again.

"Why not?"

"Because Cinderella's slipper let me down. And I let myself down, and everyone really. But Guinevere most of all."

"What?" Merlin really shouldn't have had that last glass. He blinked at Arthur rather owlishly.

Who huffed a tiny laugh. "When I couldn't be what Guinevere needed me to be, I took to drinking, Merlin. Is that clear enough for you? I was no kind of a husband."

"But you'll spare her blackmail, if you can." He was still trying to understand.

"She's a wonderful girl, it's the least I can do."

"You know, I wish I could help," said Merlin. And he did, he wanted to help Arthur, who smelled so nice, and had lovely arms, and a gorgeous ass, not that Merlin had been looking, no sirree. "Sidney Kidd is a heel, that's what he is. A no good, cynical, stinking louse. The things I know about him would curl your hair - like the time he went to Boston to be awarded the Sarah Langley Medal for World Peace. The true story on that little jaunt would ruin him."

"Really?" Arthur was looking intrigued through his amusement, and it made Merlin happy, seeing him smile. "Well, that's how we'll do it then. You see, Kidd is holding a dirty piece on Guinevere's father. This might stop him."

"If I give up my career to spill my guts and get fired," said Merlin, blissfully.

"Will you do it?"

"In a heartbeat. Let me get my pen..."

***

"This Sidney Kidd, ladies and gentlemen, this Sidney Kidd who at the exact same time was entertaining a South Carolina Mata Hari on his yacht..."

The doorbell went, and Merlin shut his mouth. Arthur had taken over writing down Kidd's exploits, in order for Merlin to alternately wave his hand in glorious emphasis, or drink from his bottle of champagne. There was a heavy mist before his eyes, so Merlin wasn't even sure he could see to write any more. He felt quite grateful to Arthur - he hated his job anyway, so why not do this? Maybe he should take up Guinevere's offer of a cabin in the woods.

"There's my wandering parakeet," said Gwaine, his expression fond.

Arthur snorted. "He's certainly been singing like a canary. Have you come to pour him into bed?"

"Something like that," said Gwaine.

There was a complicated series of looks going on over his head, which he was in no state to appreciate, but finally there appeared to be détente. Gwaine sighed and took his arm, a lot more impersonally than Merlin had been expecting. "Come along then, let's get you home."

Which surprised Merlin until he realised that Gwaine didn't mean Ealdor, Colorado but Camelot Mansions, Philadelphia.

Gwaine turned out to be the perfect gentleman, but even once in bed Merlin wasn't tired. He ended up wandering down to the Smith's impressive gardens to clear his head, wrapped in his fluffy bath robe. It seemed only right and natural to bump into Guinevere - since she'd been drinking too.

"Come on, let's go for a swim!" she suggested, her eyes sparkling nearly as hard as the champagne.

"Ok," Merlin agreed, "But I want you to know that my revolutionary heart rebels, even if the finest sight in this fine, pretty world is the privileged class enjoying its privileges."

Guinevere huffed, a delicate noise, like a cat sneezing. "Oh really? Why you're a snob, Merlin Emrys, and one of the worst kind. An intellectual snob."

"No doubt, but at least I'm not arrogant. Or, at least, only arrogant enough to know it."

Guinevere put her hands on her hips in an unconscious gesture of impatience that had Merlin smiling. She was so absurd and so brave, all at the same time. It was sweet.

"Well, I never knew such a man!"

"Not even your precious Lance?" Merlin laughed, his head spinning. "Oh, you're wonderful, you know? There's a magnificence in you, Guinevere, it's like you're lit from within. You've got fires banked down in you. Hearth fires and holocausts!"

She was smiling at him now, as though he were the adorable one, and kissed him quickly to prove it. "Oh hush now. You'll be a first class writer one day, Merlin, if you don't get murdered first. Now how about that swim?"

He stole from the best. "I will live in your heart, die in your lap, and be buried in your eyes!" He winked. "Moreover I will go with you to your swimming pool."

***

The morning dawned fair and lovely, and Merlin would have thanked it, if he hadn't been swearing and trying to remember his own name. He could have done without some of its brightness, and rather than breakfast wished instead for a large stinger that might take away some of the sting. When he finally stumbled downstairs he was greeted by the pristine form of Arthur Pendragon in more impeccable white linen. Merlin winced and shaded his eyes from the glare.

"Here," Arthur said and shoved something the colour of blood into Merlin's hands, "I've been told this will pop the pennies off the eyelids of dead Irishmen. Why don't you try it and see?"

Merlin could only groan.

His one consolation was that Guinevere wasn't in any better shape. But she came out to the terrace in sunglasses, and Merlin cursed her forethought.

"So, Guinevere," said Arthur, his voice a shade colder than Merlin had ever heard it, "Do you remember much of last night?"

She picked up a piece of toast and bit into it enthusiastically, as Merlin watched with a glum face and queasy belly. "Of course, I always remember my parties - I've got an excellent head for wine. Has anyone seen my bracelet and engagement ring, by the way? I know I left them out here somewhere."

Without saying a word Arthur brought the offending articles from out of his pocket. Guinevere smiled up at him as she slipped them on. "Thanks, you're a prince."

There was a certain amount of silence then, although Merlin didn't feel it was an empty one, by any means. Guinevere ate her toast, everyone else drank coffee, while Merlin slowly sipped his concoction which tasted like it wanted to blow the top of his head off. Luckily, it also seemed to put it on again the right way round afterward, so Merlin was feeling almost human after a few minutes and ready for anything. He kind of thought he might need to be, as Arthur was staring at Guinevere through narrowed eyes as she blithely crunched away.

"We're expecting Lance soon," said Arthur, "I sent him a note."

"Oh, that's grand!" Guinevere's face lit up, like a flower turning towards the sun, "Although it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding - Arthur, are you sure?"

His tone grim, Arthur said, "I'm sure."

There was nothing left to do but wait. Merlin got changed so at least he wouldn't have to face the perfect, handsome face of the 'man of the people' without the armour of suit and tie - this one pin-striped - even if he did manage to crumple it somewhere between his bedroom and the bottom of the stairs. His sartorial shortcomings made Arthur's lips twitch which Merlin counted as a win, ignoring the resultant surge of warmth that swelled in the pit of his stomach. Even if he was a reporter, some things were always best left unexamined.

Lance announced his arrival first with a toot of his horn, and then with the tipping of his hat. His smile was blinding.

"So what's all this about, then?" asked Lance, as he sat down at the table. He was holding an envelope. Arthur looked tense, but Lance was still nodding easily at everyone. Guinevere seized his hand.

"Oh, some absurd nonsense of Arthur's - you know what he's like when he gets a bee in his bonnet! It's so good to see you."

"And you, my dearest."

Merlin thought he was going to be sick. But that might just be the hangover cure.

Lancelot looked round at them all, comfortably. "I received a letter this morning asking me to come and there were also some accusations that... Well. I'm not sure I should say."

"Oh do," said Arthur, cuttingly, "We're all friends here."

Merlin had a secret guilty longing. He wanted Lance to get angry, to start puffing up, and declaring that he'd never heard of anything so ridiculous in his life, to become incensed and maybe a little red in the face. Maybe even for Arthur and Lance to have a knock-down, drag-out fight, fifteen rounds with no decision. He fancied a little bit of all that perfection to be mussed, but he didn't get his wish.

Lance merely blinked, and began to read in his measured voice. "My dear Lance: I want you to know that I will always think kindly of you, but I will understand if you do not return the sentiment after this. You must know that your fiancée's conduct last night was so shocking to the ideals of womanhood that your attitude toward her and the prospect of a happy and useful life together can only be changed materially. To have, on the very eve of her wedding, an affair with another man is shocking beyond belief. Her breach of common decency certainly entitles you to a full explanation before going through with your proposed marriage. In the light of day, I am sure that you will agree with me. With profound regrets and all best wishes, yours very sincerely... Arthur Pendragon."

Merlin realised he was gaping and closed his mouth with a snap. Surely this was when the sparks would fly, and the terribly expensive china would get thrown? How could Arthur have done this, to have been so cruel - how could any man stand it? How could any honest and spirited woman bear the shame?

But no-one was doing anything of the kind. Lance picked up Guinevere's hand and kissed her knuckles tenderly before saying, "Sweetheart, you make me the happiest man alive, as always. I am so proud that you would consider stooping so low as to marry me."

"Well, that's just silly," Guinevere said, with a shy duck of her head, "It's me who should be thanking my lucky stars that I've found the best, most decent man in the world to love."

Only Arthur seemed to be reacting at all normally. He got up and started pacing the terrace, his hands in his hair, disordering the immaculate blond locks delightfully. Only when he veered a little too close to Guinevere did Lance hold up a warning hand, "Easy now."

"But I don't understand! How can you sit there so calmly - don't you care that she had an affair? On the night before her wedding no less! For Guinevere to fail so clearly in her duty to you, and to herself - I don't know how you can stand it, never mind sit there like some kind of stuffed shirt, or smiling dunce, I just... Don't... How...?"

Arthur eventually ran out of coherent words, and ended up spluttering into the silence like a pan left to boil over.

It was all the more impressive when Lance stood up, quiet and imposing, his hand still held in Guinevere's.

"I can stand it, Pendragon, because I don't believe a word of it. I know Guinevere rather better than you do, I suspect, for all you have a husband's right until the ceremony. But even if I did remotely believe it, then she would have made a mistake and as such it would behoove me to forgive her, as a loving husband should, because it might be my mistake the next time and I would like to believe that I too could hope for some forgiveness for my own simple human frailties."

You could have heard a pin drop. Or at least a silver knife clatter the last inch onto porcelain. Merlin wanted to say something, to stick in his own particular oar, but the reporter in him couldn't bear to interrupt a good dramatic scene. He rather thought that DuLac couldn't look a speck more noble than he did right at that minute, even if he wasn't Merlin's type. For once he forgave Guinevere's worshipful gaze.

"Come along, honey," said Lance, at last, "I think you had better retire to change. The wedding's only a hop, skip and a jump away."

"Yes, dear," said Guinevere demurely, but there was a spark of amusement in her eyes as she glanced sidelong at the gaping form of Arthur Pendragon, dishevelled, and indignant, and yet still so deliciously perfect. She quickly ran over to him, and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "Dear Arthur. You have to forgive yourself, don't you see? And that's got nothing to do with me."

It was so obviously a goodbye.

***

The day was still just as bright and fine, the breeze still as fresh, the people still as rich and classy, and yet nevertheless some of the shine had been rubbed off it. Merlin sat with a linen napkin in his lap and a certain disappointment in his heart, wondering what to do. He chose in the end to let his feet do the talking and stalked over to Arthur Pendragon, who was obviously a man in the throes of a crisis. But Merlin wasn't a reporter for nothing, he ignored the anguish on the guy's face, in favour of jabbing his forefinger into his sternum.

"Now see here, I don't know what kind of gall you've got, spreading muck like that and insulting people to their faces. I may only be some hick from Ealdor, Colorado when all's said and done, but in my neighbourhood you don't talk about a fella like that unless you've got evidence and don't mind a kicking. What happened to being innocent until proven guilty?"

It had taken a while but Merlin wasn't completely naive, he'd worked it out eventually, reading between the lines, so oblique and appalling as the implications were. Arthur thought Guinevere had had the affair with him.

Arthur was looking at him in disbelief, as though he was in the middle of a bad dream, but Merlin didn't see any need to stop. Arthur might look like a model out of some designer's Spring Collection, but that didn't mean he could just ride roughshod with his accusations and assumptions.

"It may interest you to know," said Merlin, "That the so-called 'affair' consisted of exactly one kiss and a rather late swim... Both of which I thoroughly enjoyed, and the memory of which I wouldn't part with for anything - but neither happens to constitute an affair."

He stopped, his breath coming short with emotion. As he took a second to get it back, Merlin realised he was much closer to Arthur than he realised, possibly invading-his-personal-space close. Merlin wondered what it said about him that he hadn't even noticed.

There was one good thing. Arthur appeared to be smirking again. The rush of relief on seeing that cool amusement return to his stupid beloved face was... Hold up. What was that?

"Well, how was I to know?" said Arthur, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "You can't trust the morals of common reporters who tell lies for a living and profit from filthy blackmail. You could have had designs on Guinevere's virtue, not to mention her money. She would hardly have been able to resist all that peasant charm of yours."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Arthur!" said Merlin, exasperated beyond endurance, "I'm gay, alright! I wouldn't know what to do with Guinevere's virtue if it was handed me on a silver platter garnished with the Kama Sutra! Now... mmmph."

It was the only reasonable thing to do. Stranded here in these majestic rarefied heights had obviously addled his brain. When a warm, soft mouth descended on his, and broad hands encircled his shoulders, it was obviously only logical to kiss back.

"What an evocative picture you paint. Did anyone tell you that you might have a career in writing?" Arthur whispered against his lips, causing the most delicious shiver to run down Merlin's spine.

"Well, now that you've got me fired, I suppose anything is possible," Merlin whispered back, before diving in to taste those lips again. The smell of cedar wood and spice enveloped him, and the feel of a ridiculously soft shirt was delightful under his fingers - although exactly when he'd slipped his hands beneath Arthur's jacket was beyond him. Arthur was actually almost of a height with Merlin it turned out, which pleased him; it was so easy to stay there, lazily trading kisses and forgetting the world.

Only the sound of the band tuning up and beginning the Wedding March brought them back to their senses. Arthur looked sheepish, which made him seem ten years younger and made Merlin want to dirty him up even more.

"I've made a terrible fool of myself - which isn't unusual," said Arthur, "But I resolve to make it up to you, if you'll let me. I said I was no kind of a husband for Guinevere, didn't I?"

"You did," said Merlin, wondering why it felt as though his heart was doing somersaults in his chest. "Now it so happens that I may be sticking around to take up an offer from that self-same lady and borrowing an apparently darling little cabin in the woods. I've been told she's barely there, except in hunting season, and not so much then. I expect there's room for two."

"How beautifully planned," said Arthur, his mouth still but his eyes dancing.

"Isn't it?" agreed Merlin smugly, and kissed him again.

Crack_van and RL

valderys — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 16:15:43 GMT

I'm driving the Merlin van for this month so it's likely that I'll be even quieter over here. This is also partly because I am trying to write a freeform game for 32 people and all my writing energy is going into that at the mo. Arghh, not enough plot - there's never enough plot... :)

Home by The Sea, Arthur/Eames (PG-13

valderys — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 16:07:33 GMT

Title: Home by the Sea
Author: valderys
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 9,783
Notes: Written for the apocalyptothon for beggar_always
Summary: Arthur wasn't expecting the end of the world to be so peaceful. Or for Mal to turn out to be right. Except she isn't, not really, she's still just as screwed up as she ever was. There's only one man Arthur can count on, if only he can find him - it really is the collapse of civilisation, if Arthur has begun to miss Eames.

Home by the Sea

Warwick Castle and Merlin Filming in the Forest of Dean

valderys — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 09:52:59 GMT

Just a few pics below. These are my good ones from Colin at the Warwick Castle 'Meet the Cast' fiasco, and a few bonus shots from yesterday afternoon. I was at the Amazing Maze and had mentioned I was doing a Merlin locations tour, when a family told me that they were actually shooting not more then two or three miles away up at a place called Biblins near a youth camp. I immediately went and got the car to try and find it - base camp was easy to spot, and also the orange 'M's as seen below :) Eventually, after a bit of judicious following of the quad bike they were using to tow stuff to the filming site I eventually found them near to the caves called 'King Arthur's Seat'. Very appropriate :) They were nearly done for the day, sadly, and were moving on today or I'd have gone back. Still, any new shots are good right? There's no spoilers except of costumes by the way, as it was second unit stuff with stunt guys dressed as main cast. There is a stunt Gwen but also one more girl who could be anyone. They were riding up and down two different bits at speed.

But even though no main cast, what a lovely and unexpected addition to my holiday!

All Quiet on the Western Front

valderys — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 11:44:43 GMT

Go away on holiday, without news sources, and apparently the world explodes! Or London riots, at least. I'm in darkest Gloucestershire all this week with friends and their kids - and lots of Merlin location spotting. It wasn't until I got here that I remembered there's all sorts of Merlin related goodies nearby. Yesterday I was at Puzzlewood, and today may be Clearwell Caves. Yay!

Cradle Will Fall, Arthur/Eames (PG)

valderys — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 22:30:49 GMT

Title: Cradle Will Fall
Author: valderys
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,389
Notes: Written for the 'Dress-up' square of my kink_bingo. This turned out much longer than I was expecting and there are emotions and things :)
Summary: How complicated could it get? Eames only wanted to give Arthur a birthday present...

"Oh, don't be like that, darling." Eames was pouting, and Arthur hated that. It was ridiculous - a grown man pouting like a child. He hated even more the fact that it worked. Ariadne glanced across at them and looked like she was restraining a giggle.

She let teeth show show in her grin. "Oh, I don't know - if my boyf..." Arthur glared at her. "...colleague and/or booty-call wanted to do something special for my birthday then I'd think it was romantic."

Arthur debated the merits of throwing the stapler at her or his now cold cup of coffee. One was merely messy, but one might actually draw blood...

"Eames is not my 'booty-call'," said Arthur, tightly. "He's..."

"Yes? I'd love to know what I'm classified under in that tidy little brain of yours." Eames' voice was drawling, but his eyes were bright with laughter. Something unclenched in Arthur's belly, he didn't actually want Eames to feel upset or be offended by what were really his own issues. And something told him that Eames could be offended. Eventually. If Arthur tried really hard.

He didn't want to try that hard.

"You are all ridiculous," he said instead, "I don't know why I need to even continue this conversation."

"Because I want you to say yes to Eames," said Ariadne, brightly, "And if I keep pushing then you'll say yes because it's the easier of the two options, and then you can escape and leave the room to go and brood and clench your teeth somewhere else. Is that about right?"

"I'm not getting into it," says Eames, holding up his hands, "I just want to give Arthur a birthday present."

"Fine." Arthur realised his teeth were indeed clenched, and immediately stopped. He stayed and tidied up the papers on his desk for another five minutes too, just because.

But he was probably still brooding. Dammit.

***

"So." Eames had his lips pursed and his fingers steepled. It was quite possibly one of the hottest things Arthur had ever seen. He loved it when Eames took charge in any way, although he tried not to show it in case Eames abused the privilege. So Arthur raised an eyebrow instead.

Eames smiled and evilly chewed at the top of his pen just to torture Arthur some more. "What shall I get you? I suppose it will have to be a surprise. You'd never tell me what you'd actually want so I'm going to have to go in blind. As it were."

"You'd be disappointed if I made it too easy."

Eames quirked his lips. "Well, perhaps, but you'd be more furious with yourself, so I think I'll manage to live with the guesswork."

Arthur froze for another moment, and looked carefully once more. No, Eames was still not upset with him. It was a miracle, Arthur knew it. Outsiders might think that Eames was the annoying one in the relationship, might see him teasing Arthur and wonder how he could put up with him, but Arthur knew that wasn't really true. He was the guy who couldn't trust his emotions, who had to keep testing things, and it was Eames who was the mainstay, their rock. It was Arthur, for example, who couldn't even call Eames his boyfriend. Not without wincing anyway. Eames put up with a lot.

He got up and went over to Eames as he sat at his desk in their own apartment, goddammit, before leaning over and kissing him softly, caressing the longer hair at the nape of Eames' neck. He came out of the kiss and found Eames was looking up at him with a ridiculously tender expression. It made Arthur want to clear his throat, but he held it in, desperately, not wanting to spoil yet another moment.

Eames glanced over at the clock and then grinned up at him through his lashes. "Happy Birthday, Arthur, love." It was five minutes past midnight.

***

"What do you mean you won't sleep with me?" said the woman in obvious disbelief.

She was a redhead and beautiful if your taste ran to voluptuous curves with too much make-up, Peter Roper thought as he began to walk past her. He was a shy man himself, and would have preferred that such discussions weren't carried out at the top of a rather piercing voice from a table at a street cafe but he realised he was probably the minority in that, here in Paris. The man with her was scruffy and rumpled, but good-looking enough and built. It seemed odd he might be turning her down.

"Look, pet, I'm sorry about it but there you are. I've met someone." The man looked almost bored, if that were possible. The woman was pouting in an extremely fetching manner now and Percy couldn't help but stare as he slowed his footsteps down.

Until she slammed her coffee cup so hard that it jumped and spilled her espresso. "I don't care about that, Eames - you may sleep with whoever you want, I don't see why that should affect us? I've never asked you for exclusivity."

The man - Eames - looked wistful. "Ah, but he would never ask. That is part of the problem. But he would care." He waved his fingers in a c'est la vie manner. "And I don't want to cut the journey short."

Obviously prey to high passions, the woman then thew her coffee in his face. Peter continued on past, shocked to his very soul. What was the world coming to?

***

Sandy Kowalski was twirling her long blonde hair around her finger, desperately trying not to give in to the temptation to put it in her mouth. She was an inveterate hair-chewer but was trying to stop ever since she'd seen a program all about bezoars. Eww, how horrible to have a ball of hair like that growing in her stomach!

The bar she was in must offer some distractions - there were hot guys everywhere, after all, you just had to know where to look. Her eyes opened wide. Just like that guy there - wow, look at all those muscles. And the tats. Mmm. Sandy was into tats. The guy looked like he might be a wrestler or maybe he'd done some time? Sandy tried not to giggle - the guy was looking hotter all the time...

Oh boo. Sandy tapped her nail on the bar. Some other bitch had got to him first. Today was just not her day.

"Hiya, honey, do you want to buy a girl a drink?" said the bitch. Ha! Did she know she had lipstick on her teeth! God, look at her, pushing her tits into into his face like that - this girl had no class.

"Well, while that would have been an interesting prospect once, I'm afraid that these days I am all spoken for." The man leaned away from her against the stained wood and brass of the bar counter, his shoulder flexing under Sandy's fascinated gaze. "I'm afraid my jealous gay lover wouldn't understand."

Yikes, a British accent too! Sandy sulked just a bit more - she bet Hot Tat Guy was just making up being gay to get away from Slut Girl. She bet he wouldn't have pushed her away...

***

"Hi," said Logan, his voice as deep as he could make it without sounding ridiculous. "Will you dance with me?"

He had been forced to lean right into the guy's side in order to make himself heard above the music, a throbbing pounding beat that made Logan itch. It made him want to do dangerous things - stuff he knew he wanted to do with all his desperate seventeen year old might, but not really quite knowing how. He thought this would be a good start. Maybe. Fuck but the guy was hot. Leaning this close Logan could smell the musky spiciness of him, he could see the stubble at the underside of the jaw that the guy hadn't caught when he shaved. Logan wanted to lick right... there.

There was the rumble of a laugh that Logan felt even through the vibration of the club around them, which made him stumble a pace back, feeling his face flame. But the gorgeous guy didn't seem to be laughing at Logan's clumsy attempt to chat him up, at least, not quite.

He leaned forward and turned Logan's face, this way, that way, towards the light. His voice was amused but not insulting, when he said, "Well, aren't you the sweet one."

Logan shut his eyes and as quickly opened them again, in an agony of anticipation. What did it mean? Maybe they would dance? Maybe it meant they'd go straight to something more interesting than dancing?

"There would have been a time," said the guy, a wistful note colouring his tone, "When I wouldn't have hesitated to eat up a lovely little thing like you."

He stroked down Logan's cheek and neck, before holding on to his shoulder. Logan wanted to lean into the phantom touches like a cat.

"I would have taken you home and we'd have done all sorts of depraved things to one another. Would you have liked that?"

Logan swallowed a suddenly dry mouth. "Umm, yeah. We could still...?" Words failed him, even as his imagination went into overdrive.

"Sadly, times do change. Or not so sadly, for me at least. My Arthur would have a fit if he knew I was even touching you." The guy's smile was pained, but also somehow fond. Logan wished he could be as lucky as this Arthur guy one day.

"Is Arthur your boyfriend then?" Logan asked, not knowing if he should ask really, but wanting to keep talking, even knowing it was hopeless.

The gorgeous guy laughed, but it seemed wistful now, rather than happy.

"Maybe one day," he said, and patted Logan goodbye on the cheek.

***

Arthur woke up gasping, and scrabbled for the IV line, pulling it out too fast, leaving more than one bead of blood staining his skin. He took a breath, and then another, feeling his racing pulse slow down, before getting to his feet calmly and deliberately, and not throwing himself off the sofa in a panic. He was better than that, he could cope, he could put himself together again, he wasn't bleeding into a dozen different people. He didn't have breasts. He didn't...

Eames was staring at him from the armchair, his IV still not cleared. He looked like he was expecting Arthur to run, or explode, or maybe try to shoot him. His mouth was wary, and his eyes dark; he didn't look happy. Arthur's heart gave a thump.

He walked across their living room, and he knelt down at Eames' side. He pressed on the skin at the point of exit, and then smoothly withdrew the needle, rolled up the line, and put it away in the PASIV case. He moved his hands back to Eames' skin, took a cotton ball and taped it to the wound. A little over the top for professionals like them perhaps, but he had to do something. He had to touch Eames, to make sure he was real and in front of him. A beautiful sack of meat and bones, not a mind stretched round his, not invading, not...

Arthur cut off that train of thought. The muscles in Eames' forearm flexed under his fingers, but Arthur couldn't let him go. His mind was spinning, he'd never known anyone to do what Eames had just done for them. A completely new technique. For a birthday present. Arthur took another breath as the implications started to build and his brain went to work on the problem. They could use this in jobs. They could...

"You didn't like it." Eames was matter-of-fact. He was still sitting, not moving. An alarm rang in Arthur's head.

"No, it was extremely impressive. The possibilities are... breathtaking."

Eames looked away. "But you didn't like it. What I showed you. It didn't mean anything."

"I'm not sure what you mean." Arthur was stalling. He was trying not to think about the actual experience itself. The feeling of being completely surrounded by another person, smothered in them like a child cocooned in a blanket, and then have them become someone else, many others, all their personalities swirling around the squeezed desperate core that was Arthur - it was profoundly disturbing to him. He had a sudden flash of a new baby wrapped up in swaddling and hung on the wall like a little mummy. It made him feel slightly sick.

Eames' face spasmed, and Arthur realised he should have deflected, should have walked away, not let Eames see his expression, because although he had a good poker face, Eames knew all his tells.

"Eames..."

"No, it's alright. I understand." He got up abruptly, Arthur's fingers sliding off his arm. "I'm going off for a quick constitutional, you know. Clear my head."

Arthur experienced a sudden see-saw effect, as the world shifted through its axis ninety degrees. He had a horrible premonition that if he let Eames walk away now then things might never be the same again. The two of them, they would fracture, and then eventually they would fall. Arthur couldn't bear even the idea.

"Wait!"

He clutched after Eames, who did at least pause. Arthur stood uncertainly wondering how he could explain... He raised his head in a determined tilt and walked forward. Eames was wearing a revolting spotted shirt with a pair of chinos, but at least the shirt was soft against his fingers. His own vest and rolled up sleeves wouldn't get in the way either. Arthur turned Eames round, and stood against him, his front to Arthur's back, and pulled his arms around him.

"This is how I felt, ok?" He pulled Eames arms around him tighter and tighter. "Like this, only more so. It was... I was squeezed too closely, that's all. It was constricting - but I know I'll be able to handle it in the future, it was just a surprise and I let it get to me. I promise you this kind of forgery around a different dreamer is a masterpiece, and I apologise if I didn't make that clear enough." He took a deep breath. The smell of Eames' cologne was all around him, his arms entirely circling Arthur's body. He could catch a wriggle of ink if he looked down. It felt... safe. Secure. Completely different to the dream. Arthur sighed, and wished he could explain better, knowing he didn't have a way with words, but knowing that Eames knew that. Knowing it had never bothered him before.

Eames leaned his head forward, until his chin could rest on Arthur's shoulder. But he didn't let him go, and that made Arthur feel a lot better.

"You're an idiot, darling," said Eames, "You know that, don't you?"

Arthur stiffened and made to pull away, but Eames wouldn't let him.

"Yes, it's a new dream technique that I've been working on but that wasn't..." There was a gusty sigh that tickled his ear and cheek. "Did you not look at the dream itself? The people? The situations?"

Arthur kept his voice even but cold. "Yes, it was hilarious. You were having attractive people hit on you. I'm sure it happens all the time."

Eames squeezed him slightly, then turned his head so his lips were just resting at the pulse point in Arthur's neck. Arthur nearly shivered, goosebumps chasing a surge of want at the delicate touch.

"Those were memories, my most dear and obtuse Arthur." Arthur opened his mouth to complain about the stupidity of using your own memories, the irresponsibility of it, the danger. Eames took that second to bite down lightly, and Arthur swallowed his words in a gasp. "There are other encounters I could show you - but they all end similarly. There's only you. I wanted you to know. I mean, really know, deep down, viscerally, I wanted you to believe in me." Eames pressed a butterfly kiss to the same spot. "Because you don't, love, and it scares me. I thought this would help."

Arthur thought about the dream, he tried to remember what he'd seen past the panic and the claustrophobia. There'd been a string of people, and they'd hit on Eames-the-projection, while the real them had watched - Eames always forging someone else, Arthur wrapped up inside his forge.

As forged by-standers they had predominantly been selfish, or detached - they'd had no real vested interest in the outcome, and they'd all watched the various flirtations from different perspectives. They'd seen... Arthur wasn't sure. Had they seen the real Eames in his projection? Were the scenarios really memories? It may have been a reckless thing to do but that was hardly out of character for Eames. But Arthur only had Eames word for that - and that of his subconscious in the dream. Could he trust them?

He took a deep breath and felt the flex of Eames' muscles against the fine wool and silk of his suit vest. There was a scent of coffee curling in the air from their French press. Arthur knew the laundry needed doing, because they were goddamn-well living together. What other proof did he need - was he really that suspicious? What did he think Eames was trying to pull if this wasn't real?

Arthur was standing being cradled in the arms of the man he loved, who had just tried to show how much he loved him in return, as a birthday present. What the fuck was wrong with him?

With a tiny indescribable noise, that Arthur really hoped Eames wouldn't bring up later, he turned his head to meet Eames' lips with his own. It was a bad angle for a kiss but he didn't care, Eames had given Arthur a new technique for the dream, and his heart on a plate. And Arthur had kicked it in the metaphorical teeth. How typical of him and his stupid emotional constipation - no wonder Eames had needed to go for a walk. Thank god he'd stopped him. Fucking hell.

Arthur pulled away, but only long enough to turn round, so they were pressed together down the whole line of their bodies, Eames' arms still surrounding him, allowing Arthur to run his own palms up the loose fit of the horrible shirt and onto hot skin. There was a heavy promise lying low in Arthur's belly, and Eames' hard length pressing insistently against the snug dip of his hipbone. Arthur stared into changeable eyes and knew they weren't. Not for him. That he was ridiculously blessed.

"Ariadne will be disappointed," Arthur whispered at last. Eames looked as curious as any man was capable of being in the throes of seducing his significant other. Arthur smiled, trying to convey the wealth of his tumbling emotions in the few words he could ever really manage. "Now you're officially my boyfriend, she'll not get to call you my booty-call."

Eames stilled just for a split second and his clutch on Arthur tightened, before he chuckled quietly and dipped down to scrape his teeth along Arthur's jawline.

"I think you underestimate our Ariadne's ingenuity," he suggested, in a bland tone that had Arthur's skin prickling in suspicion, "I have it on excellent authority that she's considering upgrading the campaign to snuggle-bunnies..."

Eames wasn't the best forger in the business without knowing the intricacies of body language. He swallowed Arthur's protest with a kiss.

It's back!

valderys — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 08:00:55 GMT

This is the first time I've been able to get on to my account in a week! I've occaisionally been able to read specific journals if I don't log in but this is the first time I can see my lovely flist or my own posts. It's so nice to see everyone!

Still. However annoying this is, I'm not going to leave lj over it, because in a small way, just by staying here we're all sticking up for free speech - and that makes me happy.

(I also got a fair amount of writing done in the downtime, although still nowhere near as much as I wanted :)

Back to the grindstone

valderys — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 14:56:03 GMT

Just the first day back at work - I've had a week off pottering at home, doing bits of DIY, day trips, cinema, that sort of thing. Ah, I hear you ask, why not post to lj on your week off - well, I would but I'm more bored now :)

Anyway, may I recommend the Cult of Beauty exhibition at the V&A? I did love it, but I'm fond of the period - sort of 1860-1900. I particularly like the early Pre-Raphaelite stuff which has a huge energy and freshness to it. Oh, and a lot of sex, but that's hardly going to put anyone off, now, is it? :) It's a mixed media exhibition, so it's really nice to see paintings, next to furniture, next to textiles, next to wallpaper! Brilliant stuff.

Kindle

valderys — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 11:38:05 GMT

I have been reading of peeps Kindlarising their fic and their favourites and their recs and I am jealous - it reads as pretty easy to do too, and that makes a difference to me. As is often the case with new tech, the fact it's useful for my fannish interests makes me tip over into 'do' as opposed to just 'thinking about' :) So as my birthday prezzie to myself I think I will get myself a Kindle. My question though is, do I need a Kindle with 3G or just with wifi? Guys, those of you with Kindles - is the 3G really useful, on the move as it were? Or since I can download any new fic or books from the wifi at home, is that good enough?

glitterboy1? Thank you so much for my prezzie - guess what I'm going to use it on! :)

Kink Bingo

valderys — Fri, 03 Jun 2011 14:20:25 GMT

I've just got my Kink Bingo card and there looks like there's a couple of lines I could potentially do. Excellent! *rubs hands*