Fic: “Strange Company” (1/2), ST:XI/BtVS Xover, Sulu/Spike, Rated NC-17
NOTE: THIS FIC HAS BEEN NOMMED OVER AT THE SUNNYDAWARRDS SITE.
Since I don't know how to post a button and there are no instructions on how to do so, just go to the site and maybe vote for me? Thanks!
Sleep is still my arch-nemesis, but I've found a regiment of sugary energy drinks, and sleeping only when dead exhausted that works for me. But ask your doctor if it's right for you :)
Anyway, more crack with a straight face. Alternately, this fic has keep me awake, or given me something to do when I couldn't sleep. It's been broken up, so as to fit in the allotted post-space. Part two is posted immediately after, or it's in one wet, hot glurt in my DW journal.
Thanks to vinniebatman, who let me bounce a bunch of ideas off her, and generally act like a whiny, tunnel-visioned, angst h00r. She also pointed out that one idea? Was better than the other. She was right. Thanks to my flist for putting up with all my shit, be it fic or rl.
And I'd also like to thank the Academy, for snubbing me nineteen years in a row. . . .
Strange Company
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI/BtVS crossover
Pairing: Sulu/Spike, Xander/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers for ST:XI, ST: DS9, BtVS/Ats. Crack, to angst, and back again.
Summary: After an unforgettable night that he's conveniently forgotten, Hikaru Sulu wakes up in a strange hotel room, with a strange ache, and strange company. Written for rosivan's prompt: Sulu/Spike.... and I think that'll be difficult on it's own. You ain't just whistlin' Dixie, hon.
“Ow, m' hea' . . . m' nehh! Th' fuhhhh?!”
It's the first thing Hikaru says-slurs, really-when he wakes up the morning after his final night of leave on Risa. Said slurring only calls to more immediate attention the fact that his neck is ridiculously sore, and his tongue, swollen and numb, tastes like an old, thrashed carpet--complete with gross stuff tracked in by careless feet.
Just struggling up into sitting position is effort times nine jillion, but he does, swinging his legs over the side cautiously, without cracking his eyes more than a micron. He doesn't need to open them to know the room is slowly revolving, like a nauseating waltz.
His body and brain feel just as turned around as the room, and upright is not a position that he loves right now. But at least the spinning room is also relatively dim. The atmospheric tint on the windows is cranked well above where Hikaru likes it, which is weird since, like any SoCal boy, he loves natural sunlight, and always has the atmospheric tint on his window set somewhere between five and ten percent. And that only till he's properly awake.
A glance at the clock says it's mid-morning, Risan time, which kinda makes a man wonder where the hell the rest of the past six teen hours went. Last thing he remembers, is soaking up some last minute rays with Pavel, at the hotel pool. Then Pavel had spotted McCoy sitting in a shady corner, the only person wearing a sweater, jeans, and boots--period, let alone poolside--and alternating stabbing three different PADDs with blunt, frustrated fingers.
“Where're you goin'?” Hikaru had asked when Pavel stood up, pale under his slight sunburn, wearing ridiculously loud swim-trunks and exuding determination.
“I am going to take the bool by the hooves. I hope not to see you until morning,” he'd said, finishing his Bolian Fizz in one long swallow. He'd handed Hikaru the glass, squared his shoulders, and strode off, McCoy-ward.
Grinning, Hikaru'd made his exit shortly thereafter-right around the time McCoy put down the PADDs, and laughed at something Pavel had said--silently wishing his closest friend good luck. After a quick shower back at his room, he'd comm'ed Kirk and Scotty, and agreed to catch up with them that evening for the Moon Festival. . . .
His very last memory before an impenetrable wall of nothing goes up between yesterday and today, is of trying to make his wet hair lay flat, mostly succeeding, and then mugging in the mirror.
I'm so easily amused, he'd thought, not for the first time that day, or even that hour. He'd been in a good mood since arriving at Risa, and for the first time ever, he thought he just might sample the local talent. End the evening with a figurative bang. . . .
Now he groans in abject misery. For the way I feel, there'd better have been a bang. Maybe six bangs. Though God, not with Kirk. Please, not with El Capitan Man-Whore. The last thing I need is some funny kinda Risan Syphilis. Jeez. Maybe it's better I was black-out drunk. At least I'll still be able to look Kirk and myself in the ey--
It's then that he realizes his mouth doesn't taste boozy, and despite the ache in his head, he doesn't think he's hungover. Which leaves only one other cause besides injury (and he's not injured), but he couldn't have been drugged, could he? Granted, Risa can be that sort of place, but it's never been that sort of place for Hikaru. He's neither easy enough nor high enough in professional rank to make date-rape or kidnapping worth it.
And even if . . . why would he be drugged, and then left to wander back to his own room?
It makes no sense to even Hikaru's sluggish brain, but he has no doubt that he has been drugged. It's like Spock says . . . something about impossible and improbable, and . . . some damn thing or other . . . bickety-bam: solution.
It's very logical and sane-sounding, when Hikaru can remember it all. So he latches onto that. For all of five seconds before he's in, for him, extreme panic mode.
“Fuhh me, wha' th' fuh happe' las' nigh'?” he moans to his dim hotel room, very much not expecting any kind of response not supplied by himself. So when cool hands run up and down his back like they've done it a thousand times before, Hikaru understandably screeches.
Like a startled little old lady.
In fact, he's so startled, the cause of his sluggish disorientation is completely forgotten as he all but levitates off the bed, whirling into a clumsy Crane Gobbles Tiger defense maneuver. Unfortunately, he trips over a horga'hn, and tumbles backward on his ass hard.
A second later, three sets of coolly amused blue eyes, topped by three white-blond bed-heads, peer over the edge of the mattress. The eyes and hair are quickly joined by Cheshire cat smiles with too many teeth.
“What didn't happen, pet? Now there's an easier question to answer, innit?” The strange guy in Hikaru's bed says in a deep, English accent that'd probably be sexy if not for the fact that it shouldn't even be here. But at least he stops being three of himself after a few seconds. But the one of him that's left is easily pretty enough for ten people.
It's at this comfortable and secure moment that Hikaru realizes he's completely, bare-ass naked--a state that he's usually only ever in while showering-and sprawled on the floor. Not to mention that, despite the depressed state of his system, he'd still woken up hard, like he has every healthy day of his life since he was twelve.
And if leering was a Galactic Olympic event, this guy could leer for Earth-possibly for the entire Federation. Hell, he's even thrown in some galaxy-class tongue-curling and eye-fucking, which has to be good for picking up extra technique points. Even the Andorian judge'd have to give that a standing O--
Realizing he's been sprawling and staring at the stranger's mouth, and raising wood like it's going out of style, Hikaru covers his hard-on with both hands, blushing. Getting hard, he's used to. Getting hard because of some random guy who's staring at him . . . not so much.
“Who you and wha' th' hell you do' in my roo'?” he says, struggling to his feet, careful of the horga'hn of doom (it's presumably the stranger's, since Hikaru wouldn't be caught dead carrying one. Though last he'd heard, Kirk has at least fifteen in his room). The intruder's elevator eyes follow him up, ticking obviously between his face and his hand-covered crotch, and it'd really help if he stopped licking his lips. It'd help a lot, but Hikaru's not about to admit that.
“Well, if you'd like, I could be doin' you, soldier-boy,” the guy says, all clever and innuendo-laden. One eyebrow, scarred, quirks in a sultry sort of way, and those dilithium-glow eyes seem to flicker for a moment, blue-gold-blue. Which means whatever druggy-payload is still in Hikaru's system is pretty bad news. Maybe hallucinogenic. “Or you could be doin' me. I like it both ways.”
Hikaru catches his eyes in the midst of fluttering shut. It's all too easy to imagine that clever mouth put to much better uses than talking. He tries to imitate Spock's glare-of-death. “Tre'pass inna roo' of a Starflee' officer! I wi' 'ncapacita' you an' have you detain', if you don' gimme damn goo' reason why--” it's here that Sulu falters, and the stranger's leer becomes a Cheshire cat smile again. Which doesn't do a damn thing but help his erection along.
“Why . . . what, exactly?” the stranger asks lowly, and that eyebrow's really inching up, now. “Why . . . I'm so impossibly sexy before noon? Why . . . your command of Standard's gone to the dogs? Oh, and in case you hadn't noticed whose room you're not in, pet. . . .”
And yeah, though this room looks a lot like Hikaru's, all delicate, cream-colored walls and abstract furniture, it's much larger. Like . . . five times larger. Decked out in scads of modern and alien art. The bed takes up at least one quarter the room, festooned in soft, cream-colored pillows, hangings, and sheets. Which should clash with the stranger's blanched-ivory skin and moon-white (it looks softer than clouds) hair, but it doesn't. Not really. If anything, the stranger's naked, compactly-muscled frame is perfectly showcased, and--
Well, he's not a natural blond. Then again, who is? Hikaru thinks inanely. Then realizes that not only is he staring at this guy's junk, but said junk is rising to full attention as he stares. And possibly drools.
The stranger lounges back in bed, dilithium eyes half-lidded, limbs sprawled in what's clearly an invitation. And even if it wasn't clearly and invitation, the way the stranger's started touching himself (everywhere but that pale-pink cock, though it's already hugging his stomach, now) would be folding handwritten cards with dates, times, and places-not to mention reassuring that there will be validated parking for those with their own transports, and please RSVP as soon as possible.
“Think maybe we should both stop posturin', and you should bring that incredible arse of yours back to bed, yeah?” The Cheshire cat smile becomes something that's almost a real smile, wry and kinda weary. The stranger's wandering hand, shapely, strong, and tipped with iridescent black nail-color, slides down well-defined abs Hikaru does not want to memorize with his fingers. Then his tongue. “C'mon, Starfleet, back in bed. I don't bite . . . except when it's warranted. And I don't make a habit of bringin' drugged blokes back to my suite, even when they're as incredibly charming as you are, so--”
“Yeah, I' fuhhin Lor' Byro' whe' drug'! Tha' how you go' me here?” Not that you needed to drug me, asshole. You're the first guy I've really wanted in years. If you'd winked at me, I'd have been yours for as long as you wanted, no drugs required.
“I've no doubt by the time we left the Festival, the drugs'd already gone to work. But I wasn't the one slipped 'em to you.” The stranger gives him another heated once over and Hikaru flushes. Realizes he's still naked, still hard, and quickly drags some kind of knit throw off the foot of the bed and wraps it around his waist. All under the stranger's watchful amusement. “I brought you back here to keep the person who did drug you from getting . . . whatever they wanted, as I had my doubts that it'd be anything you were interested in givin' up without a fight. And in that spirit of not lettin' you get taken . . . advantage of, I kept myself to myself all night. Though I won't say I wasn't tempted.”
Which is something Hikaru's kinda figured out for himself. His body doesn't ache in any way that he associates with sex: his jaw isn't achy, he doesn't think he's got dick-chafe. But it's good to hear it said. Even though he's got a feeling he shouldn't trust this guy as far as he could throw him.
Maybe not with my life savings, or my little brother, but he's not a rapist, whatever else he is. Nor is he a kidnapper.
“So, uh, i' you didn' drug me-ah, fuhh!” Hikaru fights to get his mouth working the way it should. It's probably been at least twelve hours since he got drugged with . . . whatever. It's gotta start wearing off soon, right? “You . . . didn' . . . drug me . . . who did?”
“Dunno. Well. Didn't know then, but I did think you were actin' like a man with a snootfulla somethin' illegal.” The stranger's smile fades, and those blue-blue eyes weigh and measure him for several extremely long moments. “Guessin'' you aren't normally the type that goes and slams a dashing bloke up against a kebab kiosk, crams your tongue down said bloke's throat, and offers to suck his cock dry right there, as a way of introducin' y'self. . . ?”
Hikaru shakes his head no, vehemently, and the stranger snorts. “Didn't think so. Bloody too bad, though, cos I can assure you . . . the bloke was very appreciative,” he says wistfully. “Anyway, somethin' tasted off about you, delicious though you are. Too many chemicals and a bitter burn at the back of my throat. Er, had to let you keep kissin' me, didn't I? Only way to figure out what you'd been slipped, obviously.”
“Uh-huh.” Hikaru scoffs as much as his carpet-tongue will allow, and the stranger clears his throat, his lips curved in what clearly wants to be a smirk. “Right. So, pushy, unpleasant bint comes over, makin' out like she's your long-sufferin' wife. Says she has a taxi waitin' to take you home. Suffice it to say I was skeptical--”
“No' marr'!”
The stranger nods. “That's what I figured, 'specially since I neither felt nor saw a wedding ring on those talented, curious fingers of yours as they made their way down my trousers. Anyway, I told the the little woman to sod off. That if, as she claimed, you were her husband, then you'd find your way home in the morning, bringing an entirely new skill-set with you. And she'd have me to thank.”
“The'?”
“Well, then your alleged wife . . . didn't get a bit shirty, not like one would expect. Not even when you started kissin' me again. She just kinda . . . left. Which I numbered as odd, but didn't mind at all, since it left me with an armful of very amorous you.” The stranger actually sounds wistful, like this stroll down memory lane isn't a felony offense for whomever did the drugging. “'Course, on the way back here, the little woman tried to hypo us both as we rounded a corner. Got you, but good. Tried to get me, too-an' I didn't take well to that. Gave her a dose of her own medicine and woulda left her there, snorin' and droolin' but for you.”
The stroking stops and the stranger somehow, gracefully, makes his way out of the pit-trap bed, and pads his naked, unabashed way to a door that's either a closet or a bathroom. But all Hikaru has eyes for is the way muscles ripple under pale skin, the aesthetic harmony of the most beautiful being he's ever seen, flowing across the room like oiled smoke. . . .
Well. That's all he has eyes for till the stranger opens the door, and a fucking body tumbles out, swaddled in ridiculous amounts of black, and hopefully only unconscious.
“After I made sure you were safe here, I figured I should go back and get this just in case it could provide answers, should you care for them,” the stranger muses, prodding the body with one long toe also tipped in iridescent black. The woman, pale-faced and limp, stirs sluggishly, and a soft moan barely reaches Hikaru's ears. “Wakey-wakey, darling! Eggs and bakey!”
Another moan that ends in a weak snore.
The stranger looks up at Hikaru, who's been too repeatedly gobsmacked to know how to feel, or what to do. For all he knows, this guy is some kind of elaborate hoax toward some strange end. Though that's kind of hard to believe when the guy smiles at him, like a man who's having more fun than he has in a very boring lifetime.
Hikaru looks down at the snoring woman. Her face is about as familiar as the stranger's, though not nearly as attractive. Neither round, nor sharp, nor square, no distinguishing features, fine dark blonde hair cut too short for any style.
The stranger stops prodding Hikaru's alleged, lights-out Not-Wife and takes a step toward Hikaru, who takes a step back, nearly dropping the throw, not that it's offering any concealment at this point. “Right. That's all I know. So, what say we put the little lady back in the closet, and you make good on the rest of those wicked, nasty things you promised me, yeah?”
“The reh'?!” Hikaru shakes his head in negation, even as the stranger nods, and leers, and leers some more. He should look ridiculous-like some over-done lothario, but he doesn't. He looks like exactly what Hikaru's been needing, and so help him, he wants to pin this stranger to the nearest flat surface and plow him hard and fast till one of them sprains something important. “Nuh-uh! Tha' wa' th' drug talki'! I' sober now!”
He backs away till his thighs hit the bed and he pinwheels his arms to keep from sitting down--so much for the useless throw, slithering to the floor--and the stranger's crossing the room, still smiling, still hard, still completely cool with his high level of nudity. Said cool is especially alarming to Hikaru, as if having a cock pointed at him is more intimidatnig than having a phaser set to kill pointed at him.
“I know you're sober, now, pet. Been waitin' all night for you to wake up sober, so I can take advantage of you with your full and right-minded consent.” Which makes no freaking sense whatsoever, and while Hikaru's sludgy mind is trying to parse it, the stranger's strong arms are sliding around him, holding him close. His face is all blue eyes, square jaw and razor-sharp cheekbones. Uncommon, but handsome. So ridiculously. . . .
“Sto'-we shoul' ca' loc'l 'thor'ties,” Hikaru says, and that beautiful, fucking perfect body is pressing against his, hard everywhere, and as implacable as a brick wall. Which really doesn't help with the formation of words, or even thoughts. Reason is apparently allergic to skin-on-skin--and shimmying, there's now shimmying--which feels far too good because it's been far too long since Hikaru had anything like this. His particular preferences have all but forced him to live like a monk since joining Starfleet. “No, no--p'lice. 'Fore she wa' up.”
“Secret agent man, there, can't hurt me. And I won't let her hurt you.” The stranger grabs Hikaru's ass and curls one talented looking tongue over his teeth and licks his lips again. Then he licks Hikaru's, a lingering swipe of cool, wet tongue. “The name's William Betancourt. Got somethin' special you'd like to be called while you're buggering me, or shall I just stick with 'Sulu'-can't tell if that's your first name or last, and I didn't get a chance to ask last night. Though I don't suppose it matters, really.”
“'Tay ba'!” This conversation isn't going at all as planned. Nope. Not when Betancourt shoves him down on the ridiculously soft and deep bed, (long-term sleeping on this would be ruinous for posture and the back in general) and Hikaru has to scrabble back toward the head board just to avoid being straddled.
Then winds up straddled, anyway, and forced to hastily drag a pillow across his lap to belatedly hide the fact that his body? Is so on board with the impending mattress sports no matter who's laying on the floor.
Betancourt pouts and makes a damn fine show of stroking himself-the most unabashed rent-boy pose Hikaru's ever seen, and he's been a lot of places. “Don't you like me, Sulu?” he asks softly, gone still and frame-worthy, like some piece of old-fashioned marble statuary.
Spurned Lover With Erect Cock In Hand.
Hikaru groans. Wonders if he's the only one who has days like this. He knows Pavel doesn't, poor kid-though that may only be because McCoy's too stubborn to see what's in front of his scowling face. “I-yea'. You sa' me fro' gett'n ki'napp'--aaay'!” he exclaims, trying for affronted, or appalled, or some word that probably begins with an “A” when the pillow gets snatched and tossed away. “A'ho'!”
“Sticks and stones, pet. Sticks and stones.” Betancourt says, grinning playfully when Hikaru's resumed retreat ends with the headboard. The latent strength in the hands that take Hikaru's ankles and drags him forward is, frankly, scary. But all Betancourt does is trace cartilage and bone with his thumbs, and stare at Hikaru's cock, licking his lips once again. It's enough to make a guy feel like an hors d'oeuvre, but in a really hot, and only slightly creepy way. And creepy is, by no means, a turn-off to Hikaru. In fact, one could say creepy is a major selling point for Hikaru, and--
--still the stranger stares. Hikaru never realized he had that much cock to stare at.
“I could tell you stories about the gag reflex I don't have . . . but I'd much rather give you a demonstration.” Those blue eyes tick to Hikaru's and Betancourt doesn't wait a second longer for an answer Hikaru couldn't summon the cognitive composure to give anyway, spellbound as he is. Betancourt drags him closer still, swooping down like a white vulture and--
“Oh. Mah. Gah!” Hikaru exclaims, falling back into the pillows, one hand reaching out not to clench in Betancourt's hair, but to touch it. It is softer than clouds, and Betancourt wasn't lying. He has absolutely no gag reflex. Hikaru's pretty sure that the tip of his cock is glancing off of spleen every time he bucks up into Betancourt's tireless swallowing.
Nearly mindless with how incredibly amazing it is to drive his fever-hot flesh up into cool, wet, welcoming relief, Hikaru's more than happy to keep doing so until he comes, and probably bursts every blood vessel in his brain. . . .
Hold on, a minute--
“Wai'-sto'-sto'!” he gasps, shoving weakly, half-heartedly at Betancourt's shoulder, and Betancourt indeed stops, pulling off of him with a slow, obscenely noisy slurp that momentarily drives everything else out of Hikaru's head and almost makes him come. It's several minutes before he can open his eyes, and when he does, he's finds himself blinking up into those too-vivid eyes because Betancourt's hovering over him worriedly, arms bracketing Hikaru's head. His eyes are wide and grave, and he looks like he's closer to Pavel's age, than Hikaru's, but Hikaru's certain Pavel's never looked this . . . chastened.
Whatever artifice and guile Betancourt'd been displaying in spades before is completely gone now, like a covering of leaves blown off the surface of a quicksand bog. Vulnerability deep enough to die a slow death in.
“Never let it be said William Ramsay Betancourt isn't a proper gentleman. Please accept my deepest, and most sincere apologies for my boorish behavior, and know that I would never, never force you to do anything you don't wish to do. In my . . . excitement, I thought, well, never mind what I thought.” He closes his eyes and sits back on his heels, bowing his head and holding it in his hands like he's afraid it's about to fly off. When next he speaks, it's practically a whisper. “Suffice it to say, sometimes things get . . . mixed up and turned 'round in my head. Sometimes, the devil on my shoulder takes the reins, and it . . . I apologize again. That I caused you undue alarm--”
“It. Oh. Kay. I. Sah-ee,” Hikaru forces out past his stupid, numb-tongue. Betancourt just kind of folds in on himself, shaking his head, and Hikaru doesn't at all feel like a mean, awful, horrible, not to mention utterly heartless monster.
But what else could I say? he wonders, completely torn, and markedly lacking in previous experience to draw on. I barely know the guy. I'm not Kirk, to just go fucking anything that catches my eye. He could be anyone, have anything, and it's already obvious that he's not anything like, oh, sane. And damnit, there's a woman who allegedly tried to kidnap me, snoring on the floor not ten feet away, and . . . hey, when exactly did the snoring stop?
Just then there's a red flash from behind Betancourt, and his chest lights up a similar, baleful red, glowing bright enough to turn his startled eyes violet . . . just before they close and he topples silently forward onto Hikaru--who's stunned even aside from having the breath driven from him-and toppling them both to the bed.
Looks like he really fell for the oooool' Sulu charm! tap-dances across Hikaru's consciousness in Uncle Masa's raspy-weird voice. Complete with the requisite wakka-wakka-wakka! noises that used to slay Hikaru when he and Anza were little. . . .
Then he's shaking Betancourt's shoulders to wake him--ignoring the fact that the chest against his own is both far too warm, and far too still. He kisses the crown of Betancourt's head and buries his face in cloud-soft hair. “Be'cour'? Wi'iam'?! 'Plea' be o'ay?” he murmurs frantically, even as Betancourt's skin cools too rapidly. There's not a pulse to be had from shoulder to wrist, not a twitch in those strong, beautiful hands, no matter how hard Hikaru squeezes them. “Wa' up, plea' wa' up?”
“So'ry. No' g'nna happ',” a cold and slurring voice says, and Hikaru doesn't need to look up to know his alleged abductor and lights-out Not-Wife is standing at the foot of the bed, phaser pointed at him. He supposes he could feint, using Betancourt's body as a shield, and make for the door. It's a ploy that's worked before on undercover and away missions, only . . . that sort of thing's a lot easier to do when the body in question was a dead Klingon who'd tried to gut your captain.
Not so easy when the body is insanely, inhumanly, unbelievably lovely, and belongs to a man who saved your life, and who then tried to give you what probably would've been the best blowjob you've had in years.
Practically impossible when the body belongs to a guy who, when he's not talking like . . . whatever the hell he talks like, has the sensibility of a Dickensian hero.
Hikaru may wind up paying for this unaccustomed squeamishness with his life, but he can't use space-age Pip as a human shield.
“Didn' ha' t' kill'im'," he tells the Not-Wife, though it's pointless. Anyone who'd shoot-to-kill a naked, unarmed man can neither be shamed, nor bargained with; and anyway, between the drugs and a strangely keen sort of grief, Hikaru feels like he couldn't effectively fight his way out of a wet paper bag.
“Wor's tinie't vi'lin, kid. Fuhh. I e'pected leas' one sudden movemen'-leas' a' 'temp' to ge' 'way. You fuh'in p'theti'.” At the derisive laugh in the Not-Wife's voice, Hikaru opens his eyes and looks at her. She's standing--barely--and listing a little to the left, but her phaser arm is steady, and aimed straight at him. Her features are all drug-droopy, her skin the color of new cheese, or old gym socks. Her eyes are a bright, keen blue at odds with the sea of red surrounding them and the lack of conscience she's clearly got going on. Her smile is as cold and dead as her voice.
Defense and martial arts training aside, line-of-duty kills aside, he's never in his life wanted to kill someone who didn't crew the Narada. But he wants that now. He wants his retractable katana, which is probably laying in an alley somewhere nearby. He wants Betancourt to have left her unconscious body in that alley to be eaten by stray cats and alley rats.
He wants his siblings to be here, ready to take retribution in ways the Not-Wife couldn't even conceive of-oh, yes, he wants that last more than he's ever wanted anything, because he knows that he alone couldn't make her suffer enough for killing poor, dead Betancourt. Not even if they both lived to be a thousand. But between the Siblings Sulu, something could no doubt be arranged.
However, none of that would bring Betancourt back from the dead.
He closes his eyes again. Concentrates on the way Betancourt's hair smells, like newly-harvested spearmint. It's calming, and makes him think of Kei's herb garden, which used to be their grandmother's till she retired to Mars. “Wha' you wan' wi' me?”
“I' as' the questio'." She gestures at William with her phaser. "Te' me who tha' a'ho wa'. Shad' ops? Ta' Shia'?”
Tal Shiar? He shakes his head in disbelief and disgust. If William Betancourt is Intelligence--Romulan Star Empire, Federation, or otherwise--Hikaru'll smile and kiss this bitch who killed him. “I' no' telli' you shi', an' I' no' go' a'where wi' you.”
“No choi', Lieuten'. Thi' phase' ha' a stun settin', too.” An unwelcome click as the phaser cycles to readiness once more with a whine so high above his hearing range, he only recognizes it as his skin crawling. “No har' feeli's, ki', an' lemme be firs' t' welco' you to sectio' thir'-one.”
One moment, the still, cool hands he's holding squeeze his own. The next, before Hikaru can even draw enough breath to gasp, Betancourt's whirling around toward the foot of the bed, and standing up as he does so. Likewise, Hikaru also doesn't have time for existential fright, or even another little old-lady scream. Betancourt's taken another phaser blast to the chest, this one as blue as his eyes, though not nearly as intense. To say he shrugs it off would be to overstate matters, since he ignores the blast completely and keeps advancing on the Not-Wife. She backs away, toward the dresser, her eyes saucer-section wide.
“A stun settin', Missus? You don't say!” Betancourt exclaims stridently, and then with a very much not human growl, he's leaping on her, and Hikaru's looking away, not wanting to see what's coming next, because he knows what's coming next, he fucking knows. Every puzzle piece he's been handed since he woke up has fallen into place, and the picture he sees is beyond clear.
There's another, weakish blue flash from the direction of the struggle, and he closes his eyes.
Nothing but silence.
For a few moments, Hikaru's unable to look, let alone sit up. He's uncertain who he hopes won, but then he finds himself remembering the wry smile, and those vulnerable, lonely Pip-eyes-and the fact that though Betancourt could have threatened him, and then followed through on such threats, he never did. Hasn't, at least in Hikaru's limited experience, killed an unarmed person, though given ample chance to do so.
“Aaay, Wi'iam . . . you o'ay?”
No response for several seconds, and just as Hikaru's turning his head, prepared to meet the Not-Wife's bland, groggy, deadly stare, a throat clears itself. A deep, manly sort of clearing, and there's Betancourt, standing at the foot of the bed holding a hypo. He's a . . . sexy, naked, lion-faced ninja, and his mouth-well, with all those teeth it's technically a maw, but Hikaru's never been big on technicalities-stretched wide in a goofy grin.
Those formerly vulnerable, formerly blue eyes are a bright, capricious gold.
“'Course I am, pet. William the Bl-er, Betancourt is always okay. More or less.”
Completely nonplussed as to how to deal with such an unexpected unknown quantity, Hikaru smiles lamely. Can't think of a single thing to stammer, and can't seem to stop blushing.
“'S pathetic, really,” Betancourt goes on, no hint of that former vulnerability, gold eyes sparkling with age and hunger, humor and desire, and about a thousand other things. “How villains never really change. Though they did have a certain style, in my day. Here, hold still a mo'.” And before Hikaru can respond, Betancourt's on the bed again, straddling Hikaru's legs (also again) and there's a cold, painful pinch on the side of his neck that hurts like hell. But in seconds, the grogginess, the numb, useless tongue, the lethargy in his limbs is all gone. He blinks at Betancourt, and smiles for real, this time. Gets another big, goonish grin in return.
“Better, I take it?”
“Um, much . . . thanks,” Hikaru says softly, licking chapped lips that're on the verge of cracking. Betancourt's eyes follow the movement, then meet his own again, at once strange and familiar. Still blushing, Hikaru looks down at his hands. Then at Betancourt's, which had somehow settled on Hikaru's chest without his notice. “So. Is she dead?”
Betancourt's toothy grin stretches practically from ear to ear. “Nah, nah. Used her little ray-gun to put her down for a nice nap. No other weapons, but I did find more of these.” He waggles the hypo, and the smile looses some luster. “Bloody black ops, government spooks turnin' espionage, murder, and recruitment-unconscionable experimentation into high sodding art. They may change names every few generations-The Initiative, Earth First, Section 31-and mission statements, but they're all the same in the end. Secret agents doin' secret evil in the name of public fucking good.”
Hikaru watches Betancourt growl, and clamp down on the hypo enough that it starts to crack a little.
“Okay . . . so, I dunno what my Not-Wife wanted, but I wanna know who you are.” Hikaru sits up before he's even registered the impulse, and scoots closer, his legs sliding along the smooth, slightly warm skin of Betancourt's thighs, which spread wider for him without hesitation. Gold eyes widen, but don't glance away when Hikaru reaches out to brush one prominent brow and cheekbone. “It's weird, how this face is warmer than the human one. Still cool, but definitely warmer than room temp,” he murmurs, stroking until Betancourt closes his eyes and takes a deep, unnecessary breath in. His skin is soft and smooth, despite the fierce bone structure underneath. Not porous at all, like living Human skin, and Hikaru supposes it wouldn't need to be. But Kazue's the one who comes up with detailed theories about this kind of thing. It's part of why he's so good at what he does. “I mean, who are you . . . besides a guy with no pulse, no body heat, and no metabolic processes whatsoever?”
Betancourt makes a rumbling sound low in his chest and grabs Hikaru's hand faster than his eye can follow. Presses it to his cheek for a minute, before that other-face fades away, right under Hikaru's fingertips, leaving behind cool, human skin and faint stubble.
Too-innocent blue eyes blink at him. “Er. Right then . . . so, uh. I'm clearly not a, er, human bloke--”
“Clearly not.” Hikaru rolls his eyes, but can't help smiling a little. Betancourt's still leaning into his touch like a man who hasn't been touched in years.
“So. I'm a, er, previously undocumented sort of alien bloke. That can shape-shift about the face and has a terrible iron deficiency, and--”
“You're a vampire, and possibly the worst liar I've ever met,” Hikaru says, and Betancourt's mouth drops open. It's with a small glow of pride that Hikaru realizes he's managed to totally shock a Paranormal.
Entirely worth the kidnapping and drugging, in his opinion.
“Vampire? Wha-wait, no. 'Course not, pet, there's no such thing, is there?” Betancourt laughs, heartily and phony, turning his face away from Hikaru's hand. “Who even jumps to bleedin' vam-pyres of your, er, primitive Earth-lore as an explanation, when I'm obviously just an alien fella. From, er . . . Gallifrey--”
“The hell you are, Doctor Who. I know from gameface, and that? Was gameface.” Hikaru crosses his arms and purses his lips when Betancourt piles on the fake innocence thick enough to go sledding on. “But even if there was such a thing as a humanoid that registered no life-signs whatsoever, I'd still know a vamp when one flashed gameface at me, buddy. Try again.”
The gaping shouldn't be cute, but it is. Hikaru want to kiss that stupid look into a different look entirely, but they've been down that road before.
“Oi, how'd you know about gam-I mean, you've had a long, harrowin' night, mate, and your morning wasn't much better. Of course you're imaginin' things that aren't there: vampires, werewolves, leprechauns, giant talking hamburgers-none of which exist. Especially the vampires.” Betancourt nods.
“The hell they don't. You're souled, too, right? Either that or really, really old. Maybe both-you're at least two hundred, aren't you? Your pop-culture references aren't just dated, they're carbon-dated.” Hikaru puts his fingers under Betancourt's chin and closes his mouth. “Hmm. And re-souling vampires hasn't been big since before the First Contact.”
The stranger gives Hikaru several impressed once-overs. “Forget me, pet, who in the bloody hell are you?”
“Oh, I'm just a guy who, five squintillion miles from Earth, still can't get away from New Sunnydale, apparently.” Hikaru throws up his hands and flops down on the bed, grinning up at the ceiling till his face feels like it'll crack. “I'm from one of the few corners of the Earth that hasn't forgotten about Paranormals. My twin sister, Anza, got Chosen when we were five. My older brother's a werewolf, who became a Watcher Historian. My younger brother came out of the womb making any object not bolted down float, and was a full warlock at eight. And that's just my generation. You wouldn't believe some of the things my parents have seen and done, or my grandmother . . . or maybe you would. The Sulus are famous and infamous on Paranormal Earth. At least, the magical ones are. I'm what you'd call . . . the ordinary one.”
Betancourt doesn't say anything for awhile, and Hikaru closes his eyes, and waits for the past to sweep him under. It's no use dog-paddling, no use swimming for shore. He's not even sure he wants to.
After a few minutes, a cool body is cuddling against his own. He reflexively puts one arm around Betancourt, who drags the other as far as it'll go. Of course it feels nice to hold someone, to have a hand sweeping up and down his chest and a leg thrown over his. Of course it feels good to know that the body he's holding is, when not moving, utterly still. No beating of a heart, no breath, no warmth but Hikaru's own reflected back at him; a body that is, for all intents and purposes, dead, and yet . . . it's animated. Affectionate, pliant, lovely.
This is-this moment--in some ways, everything HIkaru's always wanted, but. . . .
But he already chose the life he wanted. A long time ago. And that life doesn't include having sex with walking, talking dead dudes. No matter how gorgeous and funny they are. “Thank you for helping me, and everything, but . . . I'm sure there're, like, a hundred guys in this hotel alone that would kill, probably literally, to have you in their bed.”
“There are. But I can't be arsed to move. Normally, I'm asleep at this time. Daylight-hating creature of the night, you know,” Betancourt apologizes, and Hikaru sighs.
“I'm leaving, end of story. So stop being all funny and sweet.”
“'M sorry . . . hmm . . . bloody hell, but you're warm.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, I doubt you're all that sorry. And I'm going.”
But he makes no move to do so, and Betancourt somehow cuddles closer, his fingers keeping time over Hikaru's heart. “I think you should stay.”
“Oh, you do, do you, Mr. Secret-Agent's-Unconscious-Body-Drooling-On-His-Floor-Betancourt?”
“Well, it could be worse. She could be dead, after all,” Betancourt notes without irony, and Hikaru grins. But only for a moment. “Anyway, she'll be out for hours. That ray-gun of hers packs a punch. A herd of rhinos fucking in a pit filled with cymbals and gravel wouldn't shift her before afternoon, I'm thinking.”
“That's lovely imagery.”
“I used to be a poet.”
Hikaru thinks Betancourt is joking, but has a sneaking suspicion he's not. Isn't certain how to respond, so he just holds the vampire closer, because there's an idea that never got anyone into trouble, right?
But, trouble or not, Betancourt rumbles contentedly, and Hikaru wants, irrationally, illogically, quite powerfully, to keep him.
“Like my very own electric blankie . . . always wanted one of those. For Christmas, or Kwanzaa, or somethin'. Never got one, though. Cheap fuckers,” Betancourt muses fondly, each word a cool puff of air on Hikaru's chest. “You know, I once knew someone who had a Slayer for a sister. Not her twin, but her older sister. Spent a lot of time trying to get out from under big sis's shadow.”
“I'm not twelve, you don't have to mentor me, or whatever it is you're trying to do.”
“And this chit I knew . . . spent years trying to be whatever her sister wasn't, and be it as big and as splashy as she possibly could, and then. . . .” Betancourt trails off, kissing Hikaru's throat, right over the jugular vein. It's not-so-unexpectedly arousing.
Hikaru closes his eyes and finds his family waiting. The parents, siblings, cousins he's absolutely nothing like. Who love him without reservation or judgment . . . or any understanding of the ordinary little cuckoo that was dropped in their magical nest. Hikaru loves them all, but that's an easier job to do when he's not on the same planet with them. It's the only way he can avoid being eaten alive by the unfairness of it all. Not of being the only non-magical person in his family for generations, but the unfairness of having been born to a magical family at all.
The vampire making himself at home in Hikaru's arms just goes to show, that when he thinks he's finally clawed his way off of Paranormal Earth and made his own way, his own life, his own personal success without help from his family magic or his family name . . . it pulls him right the fuck back in.
And yet, though he resents this resurgence of the Paranormal in his life, he can't deny that it saved his life. That Betancourt saved his life, and . . . he definitely doesn't resent Betancourt.
“Did she ever? Get out from her sister's shadow?”
“Yep.” Betancourt kisses his chest tenderly, repeatedly. “She found her own way. Became a Watcher, in her time. But only after she accepted that it was okay to be . . . the ordinary one. That it's what made her so extraordinary, and so necessary.”
“Huh. That makes the sense that's non. You know that, right?”
“Bugger.” Betancourt lays his head on Hikaru's shoulder. “I may have got it mixed up, a bit. Been two centuries, now, since they all . . . since the people I loved passed on. She was the last to go, and after her I just . . . went a bit mad, for awhile. M' memory's not what it used to be.”
Hikaru supposes he'd be a little mad, too, outliving everything he ever knew-even, probably, other vampires. He tightens his arm around Betancourt and runs his fingers up and down the cool, satin-soft skin of shoulder and arm.
“Oh . . . Sulu, may I touch you?”
That hopeful whisper again. Hikaru doesn't even have to open his eyes to know he's being watched by eyes as melancholy and honest as they can be ancient and hungry. Doesn't have to guess what Betancourt means by touch. He swallows, thinking that a smart man might be comm'ing a peacekeeper, or at least his own commanding officer, right about now.
“Yeah, okay. Um . . . please?”
Which is worth a kiss so demanding and long, Hikaru's lungs start to think he's been dumped out an airlock.
Never has he been more glad that he's not an especially smart man.
II
Since I don't know how to post a button and there are no instructions on how to do so, just go to the site and maybe vote for me? Thanks!
Sleep is still my arch-nemesis, but I've found a regiment of sugary energy drinks, and sleeping only when dead exhausted that works for me. But ask your doctor if it's right for you :)
Anyway, more crack with a straight face. Alternately, this fic has keep me awake, or given me something to do when I couldn't sleep. It's been broken up, so as to fit in the allotted post-space. Part two is posted immediately after, or it's in one wet, hot glurt in my DW journal.
Thanks to vinniebatman, who let me bounce a bunch of ideas off her, and generally act like a whiny, tunnel-visioned, angst h00r. She also pointed out that one idea? Was better than the other. She was right. Thanks to my flist for putting up with all my shit, be it fic or rl.
And I'd also like to thank the Academy, for snubbing me nineteen years in a row. . . .
Strange Company
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI/BtVS crossover
Pairing: Sulu/Spike, Xander/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers for ST:XI, ST: DS9, BtVS/Ats. Crack, to angst, and back again.
Summary: After an unforgettable night that he's conveniently forgotten, Hikaru Sulu wakes up in a strange hotel room, with a strange ache, and strange company. Written for rosivan's prompt: Sulu/Spike.... and I think that'll be difficult on it's own. You ain't just whistlin' Dixie, hon.
“Ow, m' hea' . . . m' nehh! Th' fuhhhh?!”
It's the first thing Hikaru says-slurs, really-when he wakes up the morning after his final night of leave on Risa. Said slurring only calls to more immediate attention the fact that his neck is ridiculously sore, and his tongue, swollen and numb, tastes like an old, thrashed carpet--complete with gross stuff tracked in by careless feet.
Just struggling up into sitting position is effort times nine jillion, but he does, swinging his legs over the side cautiously, without cracking his eyes more than a micron. He doesn't need to open them to know the room is slowly revolving, like a nauseating waltz.
His body and brain feel just as turned around as the room, and upright is not a position that he loves right now. But at least the spinning room is also relatively dim. The atmospheric tint on the windows is cranked well above where Hikaru likes it, which is weird since, like any SoCal boy, he loves natural sunlight, and always has the atmospheric tint on his window set somewhere between five and ten percent. And that only till he's properly awake.
A glance at the clock says it's mid-morning, Risan time, which kinda makes a man wonder where the hell the rest of the past six teen hours went. Last thing he remembers, is soaking up some last minute rays with Pavel, at the hotel pool. Then Pavel had spotted McCoy sitting in a shady corner, the only person wearing a sweater, jeans, and boots--period, let alone poolside--and alternating stabbing three different PADDs with blunt, frustrated fingers.
“Where're you goin'?” Hikaru had asked when Pavel stood up, pale under his slight sunburn, wearing ridiculously loud swim-trunks and exuding determination.
“I am going to take the bool by the hooves. I hope not to see you until morning,” he'd said, finishing his Bolian Fizz in one long swallow. He'd handed Hikaru the glass, squared his shoulders, and strode off, McCoy-ward.
Grinning, Hikaru'd made his exit shortly thereafter-right around the time McCoy put down the PADDs, and laughed at something Pavel had said--silently wishing his closest friend good luck. After a quick shower back at his room, he'd comm'ed Kirk and Scotty, and agreed to catch up with them that evening for the Moon Festival. . . .
His very last memory before an impenetrable wall of nothing goes up between yesterday and today, is of trying to make his wet hair lay flat, mostly succeeding, and then mugging in the mirror.
I'm so easily amused, he'd thought, not for the first time that day, or even that hour. He'd been in a good mood since arriving at Risa, and for the first time ever, he thought he just might sample the local talent. End the evening with a figurative bang. . . .
Now he groans in abject misery. For the way I feel, there'd better have been a bang. Maybe six bangs. Though God, not with Kirk. Please, not with El Capitan Man-Whore. The last thing I need is some funny kinda Risan Syphilis. Jeez. Maybe it's better I was black-out drunk. At least I'll still be able to look Kirk and myself in the ey--
It's then that he realizes his mouth doesn't taste boozy, and despite the ache in his head, he doesn't think he's hungover. Which leaves only one other cause besides injury (and he's not injured), but he couldn't have been drugged, could he? Granted, Risa can be that sort of place, but it's never been that sort of place for Hikaru. He's neither easy enough nor high enough in professional rank to make date-rape or kidnapping worth it.
And even if . . . why would he be drugged, and then left to wander back to his own room?
It makes no sense to even Hikaru's sluggish brain, but he has no doubt that he has been drugged. It's like Spock says . . . something about impossible and improbable, and . . . some damn thing or other . . . bickety-bam: solution.
It's very logical and sane-sounding, when Hikaru can remember it all. So he latches onto that. For all of five seconds before he's in, for him, extreme panic mode.
“Fuhh me, wha' th' fuh happe' las' nigh'?” he moans to his dim hotel room, very much not expecting any kind of response not supplied by himself. So when cool hands run up and down his back like they've done it a thousand times before, Hikaru understandably screeches.
Like a startled little old lady.
In fact, he's so startled, the cause of his sluggish disorientation is completely forgotten as he all but levitates off the bed, whirling into a clumsy Crane Gobbles Tiger defense maneuver. Unfortunately, he trips over a horga'hn, and tumbles backward on his ass hard.
A second later, three sets of coolly amused blue eyes, topped by three white-blond bed-heads, peer over the edge of the mattress. The eyes and hair are quickly joined by Cheshire cat smiles with too many teeth.
“What didn't happen, pet? Now there's an easier question to answer, innit?” The strange guy in Hikaru's bed says in a deep, English accent that'd probably be sexy if not for the fact that it shouldn't even be here. But at least he stops being three of himself after a few seconds. But the one of him that's left is easily pretty enough for ten people.
It's at this comfortable and secure moment that Hikaru realizes he's completely, bare-ass naked--a state that he's usually only ever in while showering-and sprawled on the floor. Not to mention that, despite the depressed state of his system, he'd still woken up hard, like he has every healthy day of his life since he was twelve.
And if leering was a Galactic Olympic event, this guy could leer for Earth-possibly for the entire Federation. Hell, he's even thrown in some galaxy-class tongue-curling and eye-fucking, which has to be good for picking up extra technique points. Even the Andorian judge'd have to give that a standing O--
Realizing he's been sprawling and staring at the stranger's mouth, and raising wood like it's going out of style, Hikaru covers his hard-on with both hands, blushing. Getting hard, he's used to. Getting hard because of some random guy who's staring at him . . . not so much.
“Who you and wha' th' hell you do' in my roo'?” he says, struggling to his feet, careful of the horga'hn of doom (it's presumably the stranger's, since Hikaru wouldn't be caught dead carrying one. Though last he'd heard, Kirk has at least fifteen in his room). The intruder's elevator eyes follow him up, ticking obviously between his face and his hand-covered crotch, and it'd really help if he stopped licking his lips. It'd help a lot, but Hikaru's not about to admit that.
“Well, if you'd like, I could be doin' you, soldier-boy,” the guy says, all clever and innuendo-laden. One eyebrow, scarred, quirks in a sultry sort of way, and those dilithium-glow eyes seem to flicker for a moment, blue-gold-blue. Which means whatever druggy-payload is still in Hikaru's system is pretty bad news. Maybe hallucinogenic. “Or you could be doin' me. I like it both ways.”
Hikaru catches his eyes in the midst of fluttering shut. It's all too easy to imagine that clever mouth put to much better uses than talking. He tries to imitate Spock's glare-of-death. “Tre'pass inna roo' of a Starflee' officer! I wi' 'ncapacita' you an' have you detain', if you don' gimme damn goo' reason why--” it's here that Sulu falters, and the stranger's leer becomes a Cheshire cat smile again. Which doesn't do a damn thing but help his erection along.
“Why . . . what, exactly?” the stranger asks lowly, and that eyebrow's really inching up, now. “Why . . . I'm so impossibly sexy before noon? Why . . . your command of Standard's gone to the dogs? Oh, and in case you hadn't noticed whose room you're not in, pet. . . .”
And yeah, though this room looks a lot like Hikaru's, all delicate, cream-colored walls and abstract furniture, it's much larger. Like . . . five times larger. Decked out in scads of modern and alien art. The bed takes up at least one quarter the room, festooned in soft, cream-colored pillows, hangings, and sheets. Which should clash with the stranger's blanched-ivory skin and moon-white (it looks softer than clouds) hair, but it doesn't. Not really. If anything, the stranger's naked, compactly-muscled frame is perfectly showcased, and--
Well, he's not a natural blond. Then again, who is? Hikaru thinks inanely. Then realizes that not only is he staring at this guy's junk, but said junk is rising to full attention as he stares. And possibly drools.
The stranger lounges back in bed, dilithium eyes half-lidded, limbs sprawled in what's clearly an invitation. And even if it wasn't clearly and invitation, the way the stranger's started touching himself (everywhere but that pale-pink cock, though it's already hugging his stomach, now) would be folding handwritten cards with dates, times, and places-not to mention reassuring that there will be validated parking for those with their own transports, and please RSVP as soon as possible.
“Think maybe we should both stop posturin', and you should bring that incredible arse of yours back to bed, yeah?” The Cheshire cat smile becomes something that's almost a real smile, wry and kinda weary. The stranger's wandering hand, shapely, strong, and tipped with iridescent black nail-color, slides down well-defined abs Hikaru does not want to memorize with his fingers. Then his tongue. “C'mon, Starfleet, back in bed. I don't bite . . . except when it's warranted. And I don't make a habit of bringin' drugged blokes back to my suite, even when they're as incredibly charming as you are, so--”
“Yeah, I' fuhhin Lor' Byro' whe' drug'! Tha' how you go' me here?” Not that you needed to drug me, asshole. You're the first guy I've really wanted in years. If you'd winked at me, I'd have been yours for as long as you wanted, no drugs required.
“I've no doubt by the time we left the Festival, the drugs'd already gone to work. But I wasn't the one slipped 'em to you.” The stranger gives him another heated once over and Hikaru flushes. Realizes he's still naked, still hard, and quickly drags some kind of knit throw off the foot of the bed and wraps it around his waist. All under the stranger's watchful amusement. “I brought you back here to keep the person who did drug you from getting . . . whatever they wanted, as I had my doubts that it'd be anything you were interested in givin' up without a fight. And in that spirit of not lettin' you get taken . . . advantage of, I kept myself to myself all night. Though I won't say I wasn't tempted.”
Which is something Hikaru's kinda figured out for himself. His body doesn't ache in any way that he associates with sex: his jaw isn't achy, he doesn't think he's got dick-chafe. But it's good to hear it said. Even though he's got a feeling he shouldn't trust this guy as far as he could throw him.
Maybe not with my life savings, or my little brother, but he's not a rapist, whatever else he is. Nor is he a kidnapper.
“So, uh, i' you didn' drug me-ah, fuhh!” Hikaru fights to get his mouth working the way it should. It's probably been at least twelve hours since he got drugged with . . . whatever. It's gotta start wearing off soon, right? “You . . . didn' . . . drug me . . . who did?”
“Dunno. Well. Didn't know then, but I did think you were actin' like a man with a snootfulla somethin' illegal.” The stranger's smile fades, and those blue-blue eyes weigh and measure him for several extremely long moments. “Guessin'' you aren't normally the type that goes and slams a dashing bloke up against a kebab kiosk, crams your tongue down said bloke's throat, and offers to suck his cock dry right there, as a way of introducin' y'self. . . ?”
Hikaru shakes his head no, vehemently, and the stranger snorts. “Didn't think so. Bloody too bad, though, cos I can assure you . . . the bloke was very appreciative,” he says wistfully. “Anyway, somethin' tasted off about you, delicious though you are. Too many chemicals and a bitter burn at the back of my throat. Er, had to let you keep kissin' me, didn't I? Only way to figure out what you'd been slipped, obviously.”
“Uh-huh.” Hikaru scoffs as much as his carpet-tongue will allow, and the stranger clears his throat, his lips curved in what clearly wants to be a smirk. “Right. So, pushy, unpleasant bint comes over, makin' out like she's your long-sufferin' wife. Says she has a taxi waitin' to take you home. Suffice it to say I was skeptical--”
“No' marr'!”
The stranger nods. “That's what I figured, 'specially since I neither felt nor saw a wedding ring on those talented, curious fingers of yours as they made their way down my trousers. Anyway, I told the the little woman to sod off. That if, as she claimed, you were her husband, then you'd find your way home in the morning, bringing an entirely new skill-set with you. And she'd have me to thank.”
“The'?”
“Well, then your alleged wife . . . didn't get a bit shirty, not like one would expect. Not even when you started kissin' me again. She just kinda . . . left. Which I numbered as odd, but didn't mind at all, since it left me with an armful of very amorous you.” The stranger actually sounds wistful, like this stroll down memory lane isn't a felony offense for whomever did the drugging. “'Course, on the way back here, the little woman tried to hypo us both as we rounded a corner. Got you, but good. Tried to get me, too-an' I didn't take well to that. Gave her a dose of her own medicine and woulda left her there, snorin' and droolin' but for you.”
The stroking stops and the stranger somehow, gracefully, makes his way out of the pit-trap bed, and pads his naked, unabashed way to a door that's either a closet or a bathroom. But all Hikaru has eyes for is the way muscles ripple under pale skin, the aesthetic harmony of the most beautiful being he's ever seen, flowing across the room like oiled smoke. . . .
Well. That's all he has eyes for till the stranger opens the door, and a fucking body tumbles out, swaddled in ridiculous amounts of black, and hopefully only unconscious.
“After I made sure you were safe here, I figured I should go back and get this just in case it could provide answers, should you care for them,” the stranger muses, prodding the body with one long toe also tipped in iridescent black. The woman, pale-faced and limp, stirs sluggishly, and a soft moan barely reaches Hikaru's ears. “Wakey-wakey, darling! Eggs and bakey!”
Another moan that ends in a weak snore.
The stranger looks up at Hikaru, who's been too repeatedly gobsmacked to know how to feel, or what to do. For all he knows, this guy is some kind of elaborate hoax toward some strange end. Though that's kind of hard to believe when the guy smiles at him, like a man who's having more fun than he has in a very boring lifetime.
Hikaru looks down at the snoring woman. Her face is about as familiar as the stranger's, though not nearly as attractive. Neither round, nor sharp, nor square, no distinguishing features, fine dark blonde hair cut too short for any style.
The stranger stops prodding Hikaru's alleged, lights-out Not-Wife and takes a step toward Hikaru, who takes a step back, nearly dropping the throw, not that it's offering any concealment at this point. “Right. That's all I know. So, what say we put the little lady back in the closet, and you make good on the rest of those wicked, nasty things you promised me, yeah?”
“The reh'?!” Hikaru shakes his head in negation, even as the stranger nods, and leers, and leers some more. He should look ridiculous-like some over-done lothario, but he doesn't. He looks like exactly what Hikaru's been needing, and so help him, he wants to pin this stranger to the nearest flat surface and plow him hard and fast till one of them sprains something important. “Nuh-uh! Tha' wa' th' drug talki'! I' sober now!”
He backs away till his thighs hit the bed and he pinwheels his arms to keep from sitting down--so much for the useless throw, slithering to the floor--and the stranger's crossing the room, still smiling, still hard, still completely cool with his high level of nudity. Said cool is especially alarming to Hikaru, as if having a cock pointed at him is more intimidatnig than having a phaser set to kill pointed at him.
“I know you're sober, now, pet. Been waitin' all night for you to wake up sober, so I can take advantage of you with your full and right-minded consent.” Which makes no freaking sense whatsoever, and while Hikaru's sludgy mind is trying to parse it, the stranger's strong arms are sliding around him, holding him close. His face is all blue eyes, square jaw and razor-sharp cheekbones. Uncommon, but handsome. So ridiculously. . . .
“Sto'-we shoul' ca' loc'l 'thor'ties,” Hikaru says, and that beautiful, fucking perfect body is pressing against his, hard everywhere, and as implacable as a brick wall. Which really doesn't help with the formation of words, or even thoughts. Reason is apparently allergic to skin-on-skin--and shimmying, there's now shimmying--which feels far too good because it's been far too long since Hikaru had anything like this. His particular preferences have all but forced him to live like a monk since joining Starfleet. “No, no--p'lice. 'Fore she wa' up.”
“Secret agent man, there, can't hurt me. And I won't let her hurt you.” The stranger grabs Hikaru's ass and curls one talented looking tongue over his teeth and licks his lips again. Then he licks Hikaru's, a lingering swipe of cool, wet tongue. “The name's William Betancourt. Got somethin' special you'd like to be called while you're buggering me, or shall I just stick with 'Sulu'-can't tell if that's your first name or last, and I didn't get a chance to ask last night. Though I don't suppose it matters, really.”
“'Tay ba'!” This conversation isn't going at all as planned. Nope. Not when Betancourt shoves him down on the ridiculously soft and deep bed, (long-term sleeping on this would be ruinous for posture and the back in general) and Hikaru has to scrabble back toward the head board just to avoid being straddled.
Then winds up straddled, anyway, and forced to hastily drag a pillow across his lap to belatedly hide the fact that his body? Is so on board with the impending mattress sports no matter who's laying on the floor.
Betancourt pouts and makes a damn fine show of stroking himself-the most unabashed rent-boy pose Hikaru's ever seen, and he's been a lot of places. “Don't you like me, Sulu?” he asks softly, gone still and frame-worthy, like some piece of old-fashioned marble statuary.
Spurned Lover With Erect Cock In Hand.
Hikaru groans. Wonders if he's the only one who has days like this. He knows Pavel doesn't, poor kid-though that may only be because McCoy's too stubborn to see what's in front of his scowling face. “I-yea'. You sa' me fro' gett'n ki'napp'--aaay'!” he exclaims, trying for affronted, or appalled, or some word that probably begins with an “A” when the pillow gets snatched and tossed away. “A'ho'!”
“Sticks and stones, pet. Sticks and stones.” Betancourt says, grinning playfully when Hikaru's resumed retreat ends with the headboard. The latent strength in the hands that take Hikaru's ankles and drags him forward is, frankly, scary. But all Betancourt does is trace cartilage and bone with his thumbs, and stare at Hikaru's cock, licking his lips once again. It's enough to make a guy feel like an hors d'oeuvre, but in a really hot, and only slightly creepy way. And creepy is, by no means, a turn-off to Hikaru. In fact, one could say creepy is a major selling point for Hikaru, and--
--still the stranger stares. Hikaru never realized he had that much cock to stare at.
“I could tell you stories about the gag reflex I don't have . . . but I'd much rather give you a demonstration.” Those blue eyes tick to Hikaru's and Betancourt doesn't wait a second longer for an answer Hikaru couldn't summon the cognitive composure to give anyway, spellbound as he is. Betancourt drags him closer still, swooping down like a white vulture and--
“Oh. Mah. Gah!” Hikaru exclaims, falling back into the pillows, one hand reaching out not to clench in Betancourt's hair, but to touch it. It is softer than clouds, and Betancourt wasn't lying. He has absolutely no gag reflex. Hikaru's pretty sure that the tip of his cock is glancing off of spleen every time he bucks up into Betancourt's tireless swallowing.
Nearly mindless with how incredibly amazing it is to drive his fever-hot flesh up into cool, wet, welcoming relief, Hikaru's more than happy to keep doing so until he comes, and probably bursts every blood vessel in his brain. . . .
Hold on, a minute--
“Wai'-sto'-sto'!” he gasps, shoving weakly, half-heartedly at Betancourt's shoulder, and Betancourt indeed stops, pulling off of him with a slow, obscenely noisy slurp that momentarily drives everything else out of Hikaru's head and almost makes him come. It's several minutes before he can open his eyes, and when he does, he's finds himself blinking up into those too-vivid eyes because Betancourt's hovering over him worriedly, arms bracketing Hikaru's head. His eyes are wide and grave, and he looks like he's closer to Pavel's age, than Hikaru's, but Hikaru's certain Pavel's never looked this . . . chastened.
Whatever artifice and guile Betancourt'd been displaying in spades before is completely gone now, like a covering of leaves blown off the surface of a quicksand bog. Vulnerability deep enough to die a slow death in.
“Never let it be said William Ramsay Betancourt isn't a proper gentleman. Please accept my deepest, and most sincere apologies for my boorish behavior, and know that I would never, never force you to do anything you don't wish to do. In my . . . excitement, I thought, well, never mind what I thought.” He closes his eyes and sits back on his heels, bowing his head and holding it in his hands like he's afraid it's about to fly off. When next he speaks, it's practically a whisper. “Suffice it to say, sometimes things get . . . mixed up and turned 'round in my head. Sometimes, the devil on my shoulder takes the reins, and it . . . I apologize again. That I caused you undue alarm--”
“It. Oh. Kay. I. Sah-ee,” Hikaru forces out past his stupid, numb-tongue. Betancourt just kind of folds in on himself, shaking his head, and Hikaru doesn't at all feel like a mean, awful, horrible, not to mention utterly heartless monster.
But what else could I say? he wonders, completely torn, and markedly lacking in previous experience to draw on. I barely know the guy. I'm not Kirk, to just go fucking anything that catches my eye. He could be anyone, have anything, and it's already obvious that he's not anything like, oh, sane. And damnit, there's a woman who allegedly tried to kidnap me, snoring on the floor not ten feet away, and . . . hey, when exactly did the snoring stop?
Just then there's a red flash from behind Betancourt, and his chest lights up a similar, baleful red, glowing bright enough to turn his startled eyes violet . . . just before they close and he topples silently forward onto Hikaru--who's stunned even aside from having the breath driven from him-and toppling them both to the bed.
Looks like he really fell for the oooool' Sulu charm! tap-dances across Hikaru's consciousness in Uncle Masa's raspy-weird voice. Complete with the requisite wakka-wakka-wakka! noises that used to slay Hikaru when he and Anza were little. . . .
Then he's shaking Betancourt's shoulders to wake him--ignoring the fact that the chest against his own is both far too warm, and far too still. He kisses the crown of Betancourt's head and buries his face in cloud-soft hair. “Be'cour'? Wi'iam'?! 'Plea' be o'ay?” he murmurs frantically, even as Betancourt's skin cools too rapidly. There's not a pulse to be had from shoulder to wrist, not a twitch in those strong, beautiful hands, no matter how hard Hikaru squeezes them. “Wa' up, plea' wa' up?”
“So'ry. No' g'nna happ',” a cold and slurring voice says, and Hikaru doesn't need to look up to know his alleged abductor and lights-out Not-Wife is standing at the foot of the bed, phaser pointed at him. He supposes he could feint, using Betancourt's body as a shield, and make for the door. It's a ploy that's worked before on undercover and away missions, only . . . that sort of thing's a lot easier to do when the body in question was a dead Klingon who'd tried to gut your captain.
Not so easy when the body is insanely, inhumanly, unbelievably lovely, and belongs to a man who saved your life, and who then tried to give you what probably would've been the best blowjob you've had in years.
Practically impossible when the body belongs to a guy who, when he's not talking like . . . whatever the hell he talks like, has the sensibility of a Dickensian hero.
Hikaru may wind up paying for this unaccustomed squeamishness with his life, but he can't use space-age Pip as a human shield.
“Didn' ha' t' kill'im'," he tells the Not-Wife, though it's pointless. Anyone who'd shoot-to-kill a naked, unarmed man can neither be shamed, nor bargained with; and anyway, between the drugs and a strangely keen sort of grief, Hikaru feels like he couldn't effectively fight his way out of a wet paper bag.
“Wor's tinie't vi'lin, kid. Fuhh. I e'pected leas' one sudden movemen'-leas' a' 'temp' to ge' 'way. You fuh'in p'theti'.” At the derisive laugh in the Not-Wife's voice, Hikaru opens his eyes and looks at her. She's standing--barely--and listing a little to the left, but her phaser arm is steady, and aimed straight at him. Her features are all drug-droopy, her skin the color of new cheese, or old gym socks. Her eyes are a bright, keen blue at odds with the sea of red surrounding them and the lack of conscience she's clearly got going on. Her smile is as cold and dead as her voice.
Defense and martial arts training aside, line-of-duty kills aside, he's never in his life wanted to kill someone who didn't crew the Narada. But he wants that now. He wants his retractable katana, which is probably laying in an alley somewhere nearby. He wants Betancourt to have left her unconscious body in that alley to be eaten by stray cats and alley rats.
He wants his siblings to be here, ready to take retribution in ways the Not-Wife couldn't even conceive of-oh, yes, he wants that last more than he's ever wanted anything, because he knows that he alone couldn't make her suffer enough for killing poor, dead Betancourt. Not even if they both lived to be a thousand. But between the Siblings Sulu, something could no doubt be arranged.
However, none of that would bring Betancourt back from the dead.
He closes his eyes again. Concentrates on the way Betancourt's hair smells, like newly-harvested spearmint. It's calming, and makes him think of Kei's herb garden, which used to be their grandmother's till she retired to Mars. “Wha' you wan' wi' me?”
“I' as' the questio'." She gestures at William with her phaser. "Te' me who tha' a'ho wa'. Shad' ops? Ta' Shia'?”
Tal Shiar? He shakes his head in disbelief and disgust. If William Betancourt is Intelligence--Romulan Star Empire, Federation, or otherwise--Hikaru'll smile and kiss this bitch who killed him. “I' no' telli' you shi', an' I' no' go' a'where wi' you.”
“No choi', Lieuten'. Thi' phase' ha' a stun settin', too.” An unwelcome click as the phaser cycles to readiness once more with a whine so high above his hearing range, he only recognizes it as his skin crawling. “No har' feeli's, ki', an' lemme be firs' t' welco' you to sectio' thir'-one.”
One moment, the still, cool hands he's holding squeeze his own. The next, before Hikaru can even draw enough breath to gasp, Betancourt's whirling around toward the foot of the bed, and standing up as he does so. Likewise, Hikaru also doesn't have time for existential fright, or even another little old-lady scream. Betancourt's taken another phaser blast to the chest, this one as blue as his eyes, though not nearly as intense. To say he shrugs it off would be to overstate matters, since he ignores the blast completely and keeps advancing on the Not-Wife. She backs away, toward the dresser, her eyes saucer-section wide.
“A stun settin', Missus? You don't say!” Betancourt exclaims stridently, and then with a very much not human growl, he's leaping on her, and Hikaru's looking away, not wanting to see what's coming next, because he knows what's coming next, he fucking knows. Every puzzle piece he's been handed since he woke up has fallen into place, and the picture he sees is beyond clear.
There's another, weakish blue flash from the direction of the struggle, and he closes his eyes.
Nothing but silence.
For a few moments, Hikaru's unable to look, let alone sit up. He's uncertain who he hopes won, but then he finds himself remembering the wry smile, and those vulnerable, lonely Pip-eyes-and the fact that though Betancourt could have threatened him, and then followed through on such threats, he never did. Hasn't, at least in Hikaru's limited experience, killed an unarmed person, though given ample chance to do so.
“Aaay, Wi'iam . . . you o'ay?”
No response for several seconds, and just as Hikaru's turning his head, prepared to meet the Not-Wife's bland, groggy, deadly stare, a throat clears itself. A deep, manly sort of clearing, and there's Betancourt, standing at the foot of the bed holding a hypo. He's a . . . sexy, naked, lion-faced ninja, and his mouth-well, with all those teeth it's technically a maw, but Hikaru's never been big on technicalities-stretched wide in a goofy grin.
Those formerly vulnerable, formerly blue eyes are a bright, capricious gold.
“'Course I am, pet. William the Bl-er, Betancourt is always okay. More or less.”
Completely nonplussed as to how to deal with such an unexpected unknown quantity, Hikaru smiles lamely. Can't think of a single thing to stammer, and can't seem to stop blushing.
“'S pathetic, really,” Betancourt goes on, no hint of that former vulnerability, gold eyes sparkling with age and hunger, humor and desire, and about a thousand other things. “How villains never really change. Though they did have a certain style, in my day. Here, hold still a mo'.” And before Hikaru can respond, Betancourt's on the bed again, straddling Hikaru's legs (also again) and there's a cold, painful pinch on the side of his neck that hurts like hell. But in seconds, the grogginess, the numb, useless tongue, the lethargy in his limbs is all gone. He blinks at Betancourt, and smiles for real, this time. Gets another big, goonish grin in return.
“Better, I take it?”
“Um, much . . . thanks,” Hikaru says softly, licking chapped lips that're on the verge of cracking. Betancourt's eyes follow the movement, then meet his own again, at once strange and familiar. Still blushing, Hikaru looks down at his hands. Then at Betancourt's, which had somehow settled on Hikaru's chest without his notice. “So. Is she dead?”
Betancourt's toothy grin stretches practically from ear to ear. “Nah, nah. Used her little ray-gun to put her down for a nice nap. No other weapons, but I did find more of these.” He waggles the hypo, and the smile looses some luster. “Bloody black ops, government spooks turnin' espionage, murder, and recruitment-unconscionable experimentation into high sodding art. They may change names every few generations-The Initiative, Earth First, Section 31-and mission statements, but they're all the same in the end. Secret agents doin' secret evil in the name of public fucking good.”
Hikaru watches Betancourt growl, and clamp down on the hypo enough that it starts to crack a little.
“Okay . . . so, I dunno what my Not-Wife wanted, but I wanna know who you are.” Hikaru sits up before he's even registered the impulse, and scoots closer, his legs sliding along the smooth, slightly warm skin of Betancourt's thighs, which spread wider for him without hesitation. Gold eyes widen, but don't glance away when Hikaru reaches out to brush one prominent brow and cheekbone. “It's weird, how this face is warmer than the human one. Still cool, but definitely warmer than room temp,” he murmurs, stroking until Betancourt closes his eyes and takes a deep, unnecessary breath in. His skin is soft and smooth, despite the fierce bone structure underneath. Not porous at all, like living Human skin, and Hikaru supposes it wouldn't need to be. But Kazue's the one who comes up with detailed theories about this kind of thing. It's part of why he's so good at what he does. “I mean, who are you . . . besides a guy with no pulse, no body heat, and no metabolic processes whatsoever?”
Betancourt makes a rumbling sound low in his chest and grabs Hikaru's hand faster than his eye can follow. Presses it to his cheek for a minute, before that other-face fades away, right under Hikaru's fingertips, leaving behind cool, human skin and faint stubble.
Too-innocent blue eyes blink at him. “Er. Right then . . . so, uh. I'm clearly not a, er, human bloke--”
“Clearly not.” Hikaru rolls his eyes, but can't help smiling a little. Betancourt's still leaning into his touch like a man who hasn't been touched in years.
“So. I'm a, er, previously undocumented sort of alien bloke. That can shape-shift about the face and has a terrible iron deficiency, and--”
“You're a vampire, and possibly the worst liar I've ever met,” Hikaru says, and Betancourt's mouth drops open. It's with a small glow of pride that Hikaru realizes he's managed to totally shock a Paranormal.
Entirely worth the kidnapping and drugging, in his opinion.
“Vampire? Wha-wait, no. 'Course not, pet, there's no such thing, is there?” Betancourt laughs, heartily and phony, turning his face away from Hikaru's hand. “Who even jumps to bleedin' vam-pyres of your, er, primitive Earth-lore as an explanation, when I'm obviously just an alien fella. From, er . . . Gallifrey--”
“The hell you are, Doctor Who. I know from gameface, and that? Was gameface.” Hikaru crosses his arms and purses his lips when Betancourt piles on the fake innocence thick enough to go sledding on. “But even if there was such a thing as a humanoid that registered no life-signs whatsoever, I'd still know a vamp when one flashed gameface at me, buddy. Try again.”
The gaping shouldn't be cute, but it is. Hikaru want to kiss that stupid look into a different look entirely, but they've been down that road before.
“Oi, how'd you know about gam-I mean, you've had a long, harrowin' night, mate, and your morning wasn't much better. Of course you're imaginin' things that aren't there: vampires, werewolves, leprechauns, giant talking hamburgers-none of which exist. Especially the vampires.” Betancourt nods.
“The hell they don't. You're souled, too, right? Either that or really, really old. Maybe both-you're at least two hundred, aren't you? Your pop-culture references aren't just dated, they're carbon-dated.” Hikaru puts his fingers under Betancourt's chin and closes his mouth. “Hmm. And re-souling vampires hasn't been big since before the First Contact.”
The stranger gives Hikaru several impressed once-overs. “Forget me, pet, who in the bloody hell are you?”
“Oh, I'm just a guy who, five squintillion miles from Earth, still can't get away from New Sunnydale, apparently.” Hikaru throws up his hands and flops down on the bed, grinning up at the ceiling till his face feels like it'll crack. “I'm from one of the few corners of the Earth that hasn't forgotten about Paranormals. My twin sister, Anza, got Chosen when we were five. My older brother's a werewolf, who became a Watcher Historian. My younger brother came out of the womb making any object not bolted down float, and was a full warlock at eight. And that's just my generation. You wouldn't believe some of the things my parents have seen and done, or my grandmother . . . or maybe you would. The Sulus are famous and infamous on Paranormal Earth. At least, the magical ones are. I'm what you'd call . . . the ordinary one.”
Betancourt doesn't say anything for awhile, and Hikaru closes his eyes, and waits for the past to sweep him under. It's no use dog-paddling, no use swimming for shore. He's not even sure he wants to.
After a few minutes, a cool body is cuddling against his own. He reflexively puts one arm around Betancourt, who drags the other as far as it'll go. Of course it feels nice to hold someone, to have a hand sweeping up and down his chest and a leg thrown over his. Of course it feels good to know that the body he's holding is, when not moving, utterly still. No beating of a heart, no breath, no warmth but Hikaru's own reflected back at him; a body that is, for all intents and purposes, dead, and yet . . . it's animated. Affectionate, pliant, lovely.
This is-this moment--in some ways, everything HIkaru's always wanted, but. . . .
But he already chose the life he wanted. A long time ago. And that life doesn't include having sex with walking, talking dead dudes. No matter how gorgeous and funny they are. “Thank you for helping me, and everything, but . . . I'm sure there're, like, a hundred guys in this hotel alone that would kill, probably literally, to have you in their bed.”
“There are. But I can't be arsed to move. Normally, I'm asleep at this time. Daylight-hating creature of the night, you know,” Betancourt apologizes, and Hikaru sighs.
“I'm leaving, end of story. So stop being all funny and sweet.”
“'M sorry . . . hmm . . . bloody hell, but you're warm.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, I doubt you're all that sorry. And I'm going.”
But he makes no move to do so, and Betancourt somehow cuddles closer, his fingers keeping time over Hikaru's heart. “I think you should stay.”
“Oh, you do, do you, Mr. Secret-Agent's-Unconscious-Body-Drooling-On-His-Floor-Betancourt?”
“Well, it could be worse. She could be dead, after all,” Betancourt notes without irony, and Hikaru grins. But only for a moment. “Anyway, she'll be out for hours. That ray-gun of hers packs a punch. A herd of rhinos fucking in a pit filled with cymbals and gravel wouldn't shift her before afternoon, I'm thinking.”
“That's lovely imagery.”
“I used to be a poet.”
Hikaru thinks Betancourt is joking, but has a sneaking suspicion he's not. Isn't certain how to respond, so he just holds the vampire closer, because there's an idea that never got anyone into trouble, right?
But, trouble or not, Betancourt rumbles contentedly, and Hikaru wants, irrationally, illogically, quite powerfully, to keep him.
“Like my very own electric blankie . . . always wanted one of those. For Christmas, or Kwanzaa, or somethin'. Never got one, though. Cheap fuckers,” Betancourt muses fondly, each word a cool puff of air on Hikaru's chest. “You know, I once knew someone who had a Slayer for a sister. Not her twin, but her older sister. Spent a lot of time trying to get out from under big sis's shadow.”
“I'm not twelve, you don't have to mentor me, or whatever it is you're trying to do.”
“And this chit I knew . . . spent years trying to be whatever her sister wasn't, and be it as big and as splashy as she possibly could, and then. . . .” Betancourt trails off, kissing Hikaru's throat, right over the jugular vein. It's not-so-unexpectedly arousing.
Hikaru closes his eyes and finds his family waiting. The parents, siblings, cousins he's absolutely nothing like. Who love him without reservation or judgment . . . or any understanding of the ordinary little cuckoo that was dropped in their magical nest. Hikaru loves them all, but that's an easier job to do when he's not on the same planet with them. It's the only way he can avoid being eaten alive by the unfairness of it all. Not of being the only non-magical person in his family for generations, but the unfairness of having been born to a magical family at all.
The vampire making himself at home in Hikaru's arms just goes to show, that when he thinks he's finally clawed his way off of Paranormal Earth and made his own way, his own life, his own personal success without help from his family magic or his family name . . . it pulls him right the fuck back in.
And yet, though he resents this resurgence of the Paranormal in his life, he can't deny that it saved his life. That Betancourt saved his life, and . . . he definitely doesn't resent Betancourt.
“Did she ever? Get out from her sister's shadow?”
“Yep.” Betancourt kisses his chest tenderly, repeatedly. “She found her own way. Became a Watcher, in her time. But only after she accepted that it was okay to be . . . the ordinary one. That it's what made her so extraordinary, and so necessary.”
“Huh. That makes the sense that's non. You know that, right?”
“Bugger.” Betancourt lays his head on Hikaru's shoulder. “I may have got it mixed up, a bit. Been two centuries, now, since they all . . . since the people I loved passed on. She was the last to go, and after her I just . . . went a bit mad, for awhile. M' memory's not what it used to be.”
Hikaru supposes he'd be a little mad, too, outliving everything he ever knew-even, probably, other vampires. He tightens his arm around Betancourt and runs his fingers up and down the cool, satin-soft skin of shoulder and arm.
“Oh . . . Sulu, may I touch you?”
That hopeful whisper again. Hikaru doesn't even have to open his eyes to know he's being watched by eyes as melancholy and honest as they can be ancient and hungry. Doesn't have to guess what Betancourt means by touch. He swallows, thinking that a smart man might be comm'ing a peacekeeper, or at least his own commanding officer, right about now.
“Yeah, okay. Um . . . please?”
Which is worth a kiss so demanding and long, Hikaru's lungs start to think he's been dumped out an airlock.
Never has he been more glad that he's not an especially smart man.
II