Home for the Holidays: six AU ficlets from old ‘verses
In the spirit of the season, I wanted to revisit some of my old AUs, and bring the characters home again for holiday-themed vignettes. So, these are six ficlets that range from PG to R, with no major warnings.
Let’s go visiting!
Heroes: Love’s the Burning Boy. Peter visits the White House on Christmas Eve.
Heroes: Territories. Luke gets too enthusiastic about Advent.
Star Trek: I’d Take a Bullet. Kirk gets all sentimental at Yule.
Star Trek: We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly. Chekov explains the importance of Noviy God.
Heroes/Supernatural: Secret’s in the Telling. The Petrellis and the Winchesters treat themselves a bit.
Sherlock: In My Master’s House. Sherlock interrupts Mycroft's careful non-gift-giving.
Heroes: from the Love’s the Burning Boy ‘verse (the Nathan/Peter slave AU in which Nathan is the President and the Heroes team has recently brought an end to enslavement of “specials” in the US). Set after In the Forests of the Night.
“Please?” Monty looked up at Peter with wide eyes. “Please please please?”
Peter looked over at Nathan and raised an eyebrow.
Nathan shrugged. “I’m not the one who brought up the p- word.”
Peter tightened his grip on the gift bags he held and moved them behind his back. “When your brother gets here, you can both open one. One!”
“YES!” Monty pumped his fist in the air. He screamed, “Simon!” and raced off down the hall of the White House residence in search of his brother.
Peter turned back to his brother, who was wearing a smug smile. “What?”
“Softie,” Nathan said. He downed the last of his whisky and set the glass aside.
Peter set the gift bags under the tree-one of the residence’s more modest ones. “I’m allowed to spoil my nephews.”
“Do I get to open a present early?” Nathan moved in close, but kept his hands tucked in his immaculately tailored pants.
Peter leaned in slowly, put his mouth close to Nathan’s ear, and said, “I didn’t bring you anything.”
Nathan frowned. “Oh.”
Peter pulled back far enough to deliver a brotherly kiss. “This weekend is for you and Heidi and the boys.” He moved to the sideboard to fix himself a drink. "You’ll get what’s coming to you at New Year’s, when we can go off on that security tour.”
“And what’s coming to me?”
Peter turned around from pouring his drink and gave Nathan a slow smile. “That depends on whether you’re good between now and then.”
“Peter?” Heidi glided into the room, resplendent in a black and red dress, and some of the Petrelli heirloom jewelry. “Do I have you to blame for turning my youngest into a press-conference-crashing barbarian?”
Nathan groaned. “Oh, he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Heidi,” Peter said quickly. “I didn’t realize-“
Heidi crossed the room to press a kiss to Peter’s cheek. “It doesn’ t matter. He was actually quite polite, for a seven-year-old bursting to get at his presents. The press corps didn’t mind.”
“Uncle Peter!” Monty raced back into the room with Simon in tow. “Presents!”
Peter hadn’t thought he’d ever have this again: home, love, and family. He felt a sudden surge of gratitude for all who’d helped him find his way here. Impatient at the delay Peter’s sudden revelation brought, his nephews regained his attention by the simple expedient of tackling him.
“Okay, okay!” Peter laughed. “I’m here.”
Heroes: from the Territories ‘verse (the virus AU Sylar/Luke one in post-apocalyptic New York City). Set post-story.
“What are you doing?”
“What? Um, hi.” Luke turned around to see Sylar standing in the middle of the East 51st Street, wrapped in his long black coat and a wool scarf. The light from the flames danced on the contours of his face, the face Luke never tired of seeing in the midst of all this desolation. “I didn’t know you were around.”
“Seeing a giant column of smoke on the skyline was a signal to hurry back. So I say again: what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Luke clasped his hands behind his back, like hiding the soot stains on them would make Sylar forget about the fire currently ravaging St. Patrick’s Cathedral behind him.
Sylar remained focused on Luke, but at least his eyes didn’t darken with the frightening glint they could sometimes hold. He was clearly waiting for an explanation.
“Well, so,” Luke began, “I know you’re Catholic or whatever, so I found one of those Christmas wreath things that have candles.”
“An Advent wreath?”
“Maybe? It’s, like, green, and there are some candles on it? Purple ones?”
“An Advent wreath.”
“Well I thought it might be nice if, y’know, I lit one. It was going to be a surprise, since it’s not like you can go to church on Christmas or anything. But... uh. When I couldn’t find you this morning, I guess I forgot about it? I just thought, since we’re not really doing presents...”
“Luke, Christmas was three days ago.”
“Really?” Luke looked at his watch, which had stopped working months ago. He felt his face flush as the truth of what a stupid idea this was became clear. “Whatever. It was a dumb idea anyway. Forget it.”
“You burned down a church for me.”
“Not on purpose. Well, it doesn’t matter. I think God wasn’t too happy with me anyway.”
“Me neither. Come here.” Sylar wrapped his arm around Luke and pulled Luke’s back against his chest. They stood watching the flames curl out through the broken windows to lick at the finely carved exterior of the cathedral as darkness fell. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” Sylar tightened his arms around Luke, holding him as if he were the very toy he'd wanted on Christmas morning. “Thank you.”
“So, Merry Christmas, I guess?”
“Merry Christmas, Luke.”
Star Trek: from I’d Take a Bullet Meant for Both of Us ‘verse (the mirror!verse Academy-era fic in which McCoy belongs to Kirk). Set post-story.
Screams drifted in through the windows of their dorm room, but McCoy didn’t have energy to spare for contemplating the fates of those poor souls playing their role in the Academy’s traditional Yule festivities. He had all he could handle in the form of James T. Kirk, straddling his hips and scraping the dull edge of his knife across McCoy’s skin.
“Y’know, Bones,” Kirk drawled. “It’s a special night.”
Another scream echoed across the campus.
“Yeah,” McCoy rasped. “A joyous time of year.”
Kirk tapped the flat of the knife against McCoy’s bare chest. “It is. Yule always puts me in a good mood.” He rutted against McCoy, grinding their bodies together painfully, deliciously.
“Is it the feasting or the bloodletting that gets you?” McCoy grumbled.
“It’s the presents, actually. I’ve always loved getting presents.” Kirk slid the knife further down, ghosting over McCoy’s belly, dangerously close to certain essential components of his anatomy.
McCoy held his breath. He had no idea what kind of a gift Kirk had a mind to take from him, but whatever it was, McCoy would give it. He’d chosen this path, and he’d choose it again, even if Captain Pike had appeared at their bedside right now offering McCoy a way out. When he felt no further movement from Kirk’s knife, he opened his eyes.
Kirk was watching him with a crooked grin. “You’ve been very good this year, you know.”
“What?”
“You’ve been good. Mostly. I could have done without you trying to peddle your ass to Pike, but…” Kirk tapped the knife against his lips, thoughtfully. “In the end, that worked out pretty well for me. So I think you deserve a gift.” He leaned in close, and McCoy recognized the playful glint in his eye that could lead to horrific pain or intense pleasure. “Tell me, Bones. What do you want?”
“What do I…?” McCoy’s brain ground to a halt. Here he was, pinned and helpless beneath the rising star of the Imperial Academy, and he couldn’t think of a single thing his heart desired except to stay here forever. But he couldn’t say that. He wouldn’t say that. “I…”
Kirk’s grin smoothed into a less feral smile. He set the knife aside, and reached down to stroke his fingers across McCoy’s jaw. “Right.” He leaned forward, settled against McCoy’s chest, and pressed a firm kiss to his mouth. “Me too, Bones. Me too.”
Star Trek: We Have Loved the Stars ‘verse (in which McCoy rescues Chekov from slavery). Set after Though My Soul May Set in Darkness.
McCoy walked into the cargo bay-cum-refugee-barracks, and stopped short just beyond the doorway when he caught a glimpse Chekov sitting on Luka’s bunk, next to the young Vulcan.
Chekov was holding out a small wrapped parcel. “It is a tradition,” Chekov said. “Noviy god, we call it. I know it seems silly, when we’re not actually orbiting a star, and so there can be no real concept of what it is to complete an annual orbit, but still…”
Luka raised an eyebrow at Chekov, but did not take the package.
“Where I come from, they use this day to celebrate and to mourn the passing of the previous year.” Chekov clasped his hands together between his knees. “I know that this year has been difficult for me, and I cannot precisely imagine how it has been for you.”
“There is enough to mourn and to celebrate,” Luka said.
Chekov extended his gift again, and this time Luka took it. Chekov stood. “We’re having a celebration later, a few of us, in my quarters. Len thinks it is silly, these old traditions, but he doesn’t mind the excuse to celebrate with friends. And to drink. You will come?”
“Yes,” Luka said, still looking at the parcel in his hands.
As Chekov started out of the makeshift room, Luka called after him, “Thank you.”
Chekov’s eyes widened when he saw McCoy hovering near the doorway. It occurred to McCoy then that eavesdropping wasn’t the most gentlemanly thing to be doing, especially to the partner whose trust he’d worked so hard to earn. But Chekov merely caught McCoy by the hand as he passed, and tugged him along the corridor and into the turbolift.
Into the silence, McCoy said, “I don’t think it’s silly.”
A small smile crept over Chekov’s face. “So you will drink champagne with me when the ship’s clock strikes midnight?”
Picturing that scene sent a warmth spreading through McCoy’s chest that was absolutely not holiday cheer, no matter what Kirk said with that knowing twinkle in his eye. “Sure.”
“Also,” Chekov said casually. “At midnight, there is usually a kiss between those who love each other.”
McCoy pulled their joined hands up and pressed a kiss to the back of Chekov’s hand, then glanced up to meet his eyes. “I’m honored to mourn and to celebrate with you. This year and every one, as long as you want me.”
Chekov’s answer was an enthusiastic preview of their midnight celebration.
Supernatural/Heroes: from the Secret’s in the Telling ‘verse (Heroes/Supernatural crossover). Set after My Brothers’ Keepers. Co-written with jaune_chat.
“Hey.”
Dean turned to see Peter leaning against the building, one foot propped against the brick wall, hands shoved in his pockets. He looked like a statue in the gently falling snow.
“Hey yourself.” Dean’s blood, already warmed with whiskey, began to stir. “This a business call?”
Peter shook his head and pushed off the building. His smile held filthy promises. He raised a hand and pointed past Dean’s shoulder, to where Nathan stood by their still-shiny 2010 Impala. Nathan raised a hand in greeting.
Peter said, “We were hoping you’d want some help keeping warm tonight.”
Dean blinked once and grinned broadly. He’d have to make it up to Sam for bitching about taking a job in Chicago during Christmastime. Dean hated being in a city at Christmas; he preferred the freedom of the open road. But for certain… amenities, he’d make an exception.
“Maybe. Where are you two staying?”
The cold seemed to fall away as Peter sauntered closer. “Nathan splurged. He knows the concierge at the Palmer House Hilton.” Peter reached out and slid his fingers along the sleeve of Dean’s jacket.
Dean could feel his caress all the way through to his skin.“Cheater,” Dean said, and tugged Peter closer. Their mouths met in a hard, hot kiss. He was pretty sure all the snow in his immediate area instantly evaporated as Peter pressed up flush against him. He pulled away before Peter’s hand could start to stray southward in public. “Lemme call Sam-.”
Dean looked over his shoulder as Peter smirked, and saw Sam leaning against the side of Nathan’s car, with Nathan himself pressed against Sam, both of them framed by a store window that glittered green and red.
“Sneaky bastards,” he muttered.
Peter pulled back just enough to wave the hotel key card in front of Dean. “Coming?”
Dean closed the gap between them again and plucked the card from Peter’s hand. “Hell yeah.” His arm snaked around Peter’s waist, pulling them closer together against the cold of the December night.
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”
“From you, I’ll take that. Now, you said something about getting warm?”
Peter put an arm around Dean in return as they went to join their brothers for the holiday celebration.
Sherlock: from the In My Master’s House ‘verse (Slave AU featuring Sherlock/John and Mycroft/Lestrade). Set before In My Master’s House Are Many Rooms but after the flashbacks from The Place Where I Am Going.
Lestrade entered through the servants’ door to the master suite to see Mycroft facing the fire, brandy snifter in his hand.
“You may go, Clarke,” Mycroft said. “I’ll do without your assistance tonight.”
“It’s me, sir.”
A lesser man might have whirled around, but Mycroft merely tensed. Lestrade noticed the slight shift in his shoulders that betrayed the movement. The half-empty glass was set gently on the mantle as a cover for Mycroft’s pressing closed a wooden box next to it, whose lid had been lifted. Mycroft turned to present a perfectly placid exterior. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude, sir.” Lestrade dropped his eyes to the floor, adopting a more proper, formal attitude. “I only thought…”
“Yes, Gregory?”
Without looking, Lestrade couldn’t be sure of the intention behind those words. Even if he’d been brazen enough to sneak a look, he knew Mycroft’s face would give away nothing. “I thought you might want some company, sir.”
Mycroft turned around to retrieve his drink, and kept his back turned. “I had thought I was clear before, Gregory. You needn’t perform any function in this household that you find unsavoury. Especially not when-- ”
The main door to the suite banged open. “Mycroft, I’ll need you to inform Mummy that- ” Sherlock stopped short upon seeing Lestrade, who, for his part, kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. He wasn’t ready to look Sherlock in the face. Not yet, and maybe not ever again.
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “I see.”
“Yes.” Mycroft moved quickly to the door, holding it open and gesturing with a most un-Mycroftian overtness. “If you have anything to say to our mother, I’ll please you to say it yourself. You’re a grown man and a Lord. Good night.”
Lestrade risked raising his eyes to watch the strange exchange; neither of the brothers had a glance to spare for him now that they were facing off.
“Oh, I see,” Sherlock said again. He drifted further into the room, far too casually. When he approached the mantle, with its square wooden box, Mycroft moved quickly to intercept him. Sherlock was faster, however, and he snatched the box out from under Mycroft’s hand, whirling away triumphantly as he swept the lid off the box. “Ha!”
Mycroft stilled where he was, going stone-faced.
Sherlock stared into the box. He glanced up at Lestrade, who quickly dropped his eyes to the floor, but not before catching a glimpse of black leather and a glint of silver inside.
Sherlock pressed the lid back onto box. He swept back over to Mycroft. “I’ve never known you to exchange Christmas gifts.” He shoved the box at him. “I’ll be expecting a present this year. Good night, Mycroft.” He strode toward the door, but hesitated for a moment on the doorstep. His eyes swept across the room toward Lestrade, but he said nothing else, and disappeared a moment later.
Mycroft closed the door gently behind his brother. He held the box tightly in both hands. In the heavy silence, he moved to the mantle, replaced the box, took up his glass, and downed the rest of the brandy. “Gregory,” he said eventually. “I think it best if we continue this conversation in the new year, after my family has departed.”
“As you wish, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head further, and wished he dared ask what was going through his Master’s busy mind.
“Goodnight, Gregory.”
“Goodnight, sir.” Lestrade knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he retreated the way he’d come. He hadn’t been able to ask the questions he wanted this night, but at least he had some hope that soon, Mycroft would provide answers.
Let’s go visiting!
Heroes: Love’s the Burning Boy. Peter visits the White House on Christmas Eve.
Heroes: Territories. Luke gets too enthusiastic about Advent.
Star Trek: I’d Take a Bullet. Kirk gets all sentimental at Yule.
Star Trek: We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly. Chekov explains the importance of Noviy God.
Heroes/Supernatural: Secret’s in the Telling. The Petrellis and the Winchesters treat themselves a bit.
Sherlock: In My Master’s House. Sherlock interrupts Mycroft's careful non-gift-giving.
Heroes: from the Love’s the Burning Boy ‘verse (the Nathan/Peter slave AU in which Nathan is the President and the Heroes team has recently brought an end to enslavement of “specials” in the US). Set after In the Forests of the Night.
“Please?” Monty looked up at Peter with wide eyes. “Please please please?”
Peter looked over at Nathan and raised an eyebrow.
Nathan shrugged. “I’m not the one who brought up the p- word.”
Peter tightened his grip on the gift bags he held and moved them behind his back. “When your brother gets here, you can both open one. One!”
“YES!” Monty pumped his fist in the air. He screamed, “Simon!” and raced off down the hall of the White House residence in search of his brother.
Peter turned back to his brother, who was wearing a smug smile. “What?”
“Softie,” Nathan said. He downed the last of his whisky and set the glass aside.
Peter set the gift bags under the tree-one of the residence’s more modest ones. “I’m allowed to spoil my nephews.”
“Do I get to open a present early?” Nathan moved in close, but kept his hands tucked in his immaculately tailored pants.
Peter leaned in slowly, put his mouth close to Nathan’s ear, and said, “I didn’t bring you anything.”
Nathan frowned. “Oh.”
Peter pulled back far enough to deliver a brotherly kiss. “This weekend is for you and Heidi and the boys.” He moved to the sideboard to fix himself a drink. "You’ll get what’s coming to you at New Year’s, when we can go off on that security tour.”
“And what’s coming to me?”
Peter turned around from pouring his drink and gave Nathan a slow smile. “That depends on whether you’re good between now and then.”
“Peter?” Heidi glided into the room, resplendent in a black and red dress, and some of the Petrelli heirloom jewelry. “Do I have you to blame for turning my youngest into a press-conference-crashing barbarian?”
Nathan groaned. “Oh, he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Heidi,” Peter said quickly. “I didn’t realize-“
Heidi crossed the room to press a kiss to Peter’s cheek. “It doesn’ t matter. He was actually quite polite, for a seven-year-old bursting to get at his presents. The press corps didn’t mind.”
“Uncle Peter!” Monty raced back into the room with Simon in tow. “Presents!”
Peter hadn’t thought he’d ever have this again: home, love, and family. He felt a sudden surge of gratitude for all who’d helped him find his way here. Impatient at the delay Peter’s sudden revelation brought, his nephews regained his attention by the simple expedient of tackling him.
“Okay, okay!” Peter laughed. “I’m here.”
Heroes: from the Territories ‘verse (the virus AU Sylar/Luke one in post-apocalyptic New York City). Set post-story.
“What are you doing?”
“What? Um, hi.” Luke turned around to see Sylar standing in the middle of the East 51st Street, wrapped in his long black coat and a wool scarf. The light from the flames danced on the contours of his face, the face Luke never tired of seeing in the midst of all this desolation. “I didn’t know you were around.”
“Seeing a giant column of smoke on the skyline was a signal to hurry back. So I say again: what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Luke clasped his hands behind his back, like hiding the soot stains on them would make Sylar forget about the fire currently ravaging St. Patrick’s Cathedral behind him.
Sylar remained focused on Luke, but at least his eyes didn’t darken with the frightening glint they could sometimes hold. He was clearly waiting for an explanation.
“Well, so,” Luke began, “I know you’re Catholic or whatever, so I found one of those Christmas wreath things that have candles.”
“An Advent wreath?”
“Maybe? It’s, like, green, and there are some candles on it? Purple ones?”
“An Advent wreath.”
“Well I thought it might be nice if, y’know, I lit one. It was going to be a surprise, since it’s not like you can go to church on Christmas or anything. But... uh. When I couldn’t find you this morning, I guess I forgot about it? I just thought, since we’re not really doing presents...”
“Luke, Christmas was three days ago.”
“Really?” Luke looked at his watch, which had stopped working months ago. He felt his face flush as the truth of what a stupid idea this was became clear. “Whatever. It was a dumb idea anyway. Forget it.”
“You burned down a church for me.”
“Not on purpose. Well, it doesn’t matter. I think God wasn’t too happy with me anyway.”
“Me neither. Come here.” Sylar wrapped his arm around Luke and pulled Luke’s back against his chest. They stood watching the flames curl out through the broken windows to lick at the finely carved exterior of the cathedral as darkness fell. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” Sylar tightened his arms around Luke, holding him as if he were the very toy he'd wanted on Christmas morning. “Thank you.”
“So, Merry Christmas, I guess?”
“Merry Christmas, Luke.”
Star Trek: from I’d Take a Bullet Meant for Both of Us ‘verse (the mirror!verse Academy-era fic in which McCoy belongs to Kirk). Set post-story.
Screams drifted in through the windows of their dorm room, but McCoy didn’t have energy to spare for contemplating the fates of those poor souls playing their role in the Academy’s traditional Yule festivities. He had all he could handle in the form of James T. Kirk, straddling his hips and scraping the dull edge of his knife across McCoy’s skin.
“Y’know, Bones,” Kirk drawled. “It’s a special night.”
Another scream echoed across the campus.
“Yeah,” McCoy rasped. “A joyous time of year.”
Kirk tapped the flat of the knife against McCoy’s bare chest. “It is. Yule always puts me in a good mood.” He rutted against McCoy, grinding their bodies together painfully, deliciously.
“Is it the feasting or the bloodletting that gets you?” McCoy grumbled.
“It’s the presents, actually. I’ve always loved getting presents.” Kirk slid the knife further down, ghosting over McCoy’s belly, dangerously close to certain essential components of his anatomy.
McCoy held his breath. He had no idea what kind of a gift Kirk had a mind to take from him, but whatever it was, McCoy would give it. He’d chosen this path, and he’d choose it again, even if Captain Pike had appeared at their bedside right now offering McCoy a way out. When he felt no further movement from Kirk’s knife, he opened his eyes.
Kirk was watching him with a crooked grin. “You’ve been very good this year, you know.”
“What?”
“You’ve been good. Mostly. I could have done without you trying to peddle your ass to Pike, but…” Kirk tapped the knife against his lips, thoughtfully. “In the end, that worked out pretty well for me. So I think you deserve a gift.” He leaned in close, and McCoy recognized the playful glint in his eye that could lead to horrific pain or intense pleasure. “Tell me, Bones. What do you want?”
“What do I…?” McCoy’s brain ground to a halt. Here he was, pinned and helpless beneath the rising star of the Imperial Academy, and he couldn’t think of a single thing his heart desired except to stay here forever. But he couldn’t say that. He wouldn’t say that. “I…”
Kirk’s grin smoothed into a less feral smile. He set the knife aside, and reached down to stroke his fingers across McCoy’s jaw. “Right.” He leaned forward, settled against McCoy’s chest, and pressed a firm kiss to his mouth. “Me too, Bones. Me too.”
Star Trek: We Have Loved the Stars ‘verse (in which McCoy rescues Chekov from slavery). Set after Though My Soul May Set in Darkness.
McCoy walked into the cargo bay-cum-refugee-barracks, and stopped short just beyond the doorway when he caught a glimpse Chekov sitting on Luka’s bunk, next to the young Vulcan.
Chekov was holding out a small wrapped parcel. “It is a tradition,” Chekov said. “Noviy god, we call it. I know it seems silly, when we’re not actually orbiting a star, and so there can be no real concept of what it is to complete an annual orbit, but still…”
Luka raised an eyebrow at Chekov, but did not take the package.
“Where I come from, they use this day to celebrate and to mourn the passing of the previous year.” Chekov clasped his hands together between his knees. “I know that this year has been difficult for me, and I cannot precisely imagine how it has been for you.”
“There is enough to mourn and to celebrate,” Luka said.
Chekov extended his gift again, and this time Luka took it. Chekov stood. “We’re having a celebration later, a few of us, in my quarters. Len thinks it is silly, these old traditions, but he doesn’t mind the excuse to celebrate with friends. And to drink. You will come?”
“Yes,” Luka said, still looking at the parcel in his hands.
As Chekov started out of the makeshift room, Luka called after him, “Thank you.”
Chekov’s eyes widened when he saw McCoy hovering near the doorway. It occurred to McCoy then that eavesdropping wasn’t the most gentlemanly thing to be doing, especially to the partner whose trust he’d worked so hard to earn. But Chekov merely caught McCoy by the hand as he passed, and tugged him along the corridor and into the turbolift.
Into the silence, McCoy said, “I don’t think it’s silly.”
A small smile crept over Chekov’s face. “So you will drink champagne with me when the ship’s clock strikes midnight?”
Picturing that scene sent a warmth spreading through McCoy’s chest that was absolutely not holiday cheer, no matter what Kirk said with that knowing twinkle in his eye. “Sure.”
“Also,” Chekov said casually. “At midnight, there is usually a kiss between those who love each other.”
McCoy pulled their joined hands up and pressed a kiss to the back of Chekov’s hand, then glanced up to meet his eyes. “I’m honored to mourn and to celebrate with you. This year and every one, as long as you want me.”
Chekov’s answer was an enthusiastic preview of their midnight celebration.
Supernatural/Heroes: from the Secret’s in the Telling ‘verse (Heroes/Supernatural crossover). Set after My Brothers’ Keepers. Co-written with jaune_chat.
“Hey.”
Dean turned to see Peter leaning against the building, one foot propped against the brick wall, hands shoved in his pockets. He looked like a statue in the gently falling snow.
“Hey yourself.” Dean’s blood, already warmed with whiskey, began to stir. “This a business call?”
Peter shook his head and pushed off the building. His smile held filthy promises. He raised a hand and pointed past Dean’s shoulder, to where Nathan stood by their still-shiny 2010 Impala. Nathan raised a hand in greeting.
Peter said, “We were hoping you’d want some help keeping warm tonight.”
Dean blinked once and grinned broadly. He’d have to make it up to Sam for bitching about taking a job in Chicago during Christmastime. Dean hated being in a city at Christmas; he preferred the freedom of the open road. But for certain… amenities, he’d make an exception.
“Maybe. Where are you two staying?”
The cold seemed to fall away as Peter sauntered closer. “Nathan splurged. He knows the concierge at the Palmer House Hilton.” Peter reached out and slid his fingers along the sleeve of Dean’s jacket.
Dean could feel his caress all the way through to his skin.“Cheater,” Dean said, and tugged Peter closer. Their mouths met in a hard, hot kiss. He was pretty sure all the snow in his immediate area instantly evaporated as Peter pressed up flush against him. He pulled away before Peter’s hand could start to stray southward in public. “Lemme call Sam-.”
Dean looked over his shoulder as Peter smirked, and saw Sam leaning against the side of Nathan’s car, with Nathan himself pressed against Sam, both of them framed by a store window that glittered green and red.
“Sneaky bastards,” he muttered.
Peter pulled back just enough to wave the hotel key card in front of Dean. “Coming?”
Dean closed the gap between them again and plucked the card from Peter’s hand. “Hell yeah.” His arm snaked around Peter’s waist, pulling them closer together against the cold of the December night.
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”
“From you, I’ll take that. Now, you said something about getting warm?”
Peter put an arm around Dean in return as they went to join their brothers for the holiday celebration.
Sherlock: from the In My Master’s House ‘verse (Slave AU featuring Sherlock/John and Mycroft/Lestrade). Set before In My Master’s House Are Many Rooms but after the flashbacks from The Place Where I Am Going.
Lestrade entered through the servants’ door to the master suite to see Mycroft facing the fire, brandy snifter in his hand.
“You may go, Clarke,” Mycroft said. “I’ll do without your assistance tonight.”
“It’s me, sir.”
A lesser man might have whirled around, but Mycroft merely tensed. Lestrade noticed the slight shift in his shoulders that betrayed the movement. The half-empty glass was set gently on the mantle as a cover for Mycroft’s pressing closed a wooden box next to it, whose lid had been lifted. Mycroft turned to present a perfectly placid exterior. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude, sir.” Lestrade dropped his eyes to the floor, adopting a more proper, formal attitude. “I only thought…”
“Yes, Gregory?”
Without looking, Lestrade couldn’t be sure of the intention behind those words. Even if he’d been brazen enough to sneak a look, he knew Mycroft’s face would give away nothing. “I thought you might want some company, sir.”
Mycroft turned around to retrieve his drink, and kept his back turned. “I had thought I was clear before, Gregory. You needn’t perform any function in this household that you find unsavoury. Especially not when-- ”
The main door to the suite banged open. “Mycroft, I’ll need you to inform Mummy that- ” Sherlock stopped short upon seeing Lestrade, who, for his part, kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. He wasn’t ready to look Sherlock in the face. Not yet, and maybe not ever again.
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “I see.”
“Yes.” Mycroft moved quickly to the door, holding it open and gesturing with a most un-Mycroftian overtness. “If you have anything to say to our mother, I’ll please you to say it yourself. You’re a grown man and a Lord. Good night.”
Lestrade risked raising his eyes to watch the strange exchange; neither of the brothers had a glance to spare for him now that they were facing off.
“Oh, I see,” Sherlock said again. He drifted further into the room, far too casually. When he approached the mantle, with its square wooden box, Mycroft moved quickly to intercept him. Sherlock was faster, however, and he snatched the box out from under Mycroft’s hand, whirling away triumphantly as he swept the lid off the box. “Ha!”
Mycroft stilled where he was, going stone-faced.
Sherlock stared into the box. He glanced up at Lestrade, who quickly dropped his eyes to the floor, but not before catching a glimpse of black leather and a glint of silver inside.
Sherlock pressed the lid back onto box. He swept back over to Mycroft. “I’ve never known you to exchange Christmas gifts.” He shoved the box at him. “I’ll be expecting a present this year. Good night, Mycroft.” He strode toward the door, but hesitated for a moment on the doorstep. His eyes swept across the room toward Lestrade, but he said nothing else, and disappeared a moment later.
Mycroft closed the door gently behind his brother. He held the box tightly in both hands. In the heavy silence, he moved to the mantle, replaced the box, took up his glass, and downed the rest of the brandy. “Gregory,” he said eventually. “I think it best if we continue this conversation in the new year, after my family has departed.”
“As you wish, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head further, and wished he dared ask what was going through his Master’s busy mind.
“Goodnight, Gregory.”
“Goodnight, sir.” Lestrade knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he retreated the way he’d come. He hadn’t been able to ask the questions he wanted this night, but at least he had some hope that soon, Mycroft would provide answers.