HAPPY VD DAY <3
Title: when you say yes, say it quickly.
Pairings: Hawkeye/BJ, RayK/Fraser, Reid/Morgan, Jared/Jensen.
Rating: PG15.
Summary: Our favourite couples attempt to show their affection through grand gestures. Each can be read on its own, sort of, but all are ~interlocked~.
AN: While totally self indulgent, I thought by doing a little bit for many fandoms I could give my flist a little token of love. When I say Happy Valentine’s Day, I mean Happy LOVE Day. You are so very loved <3
Hawkeye heaves another white washed stone - courtesy of Frank ‘Here We Are!’ Burns - across to the far side of the compound. With knees locked and back bent, he moves in spite of his profession. Over the pile of jeep parts, around the hung over bodies, to the end of the line. Literally.
The stone drops in the mud, splattering, and Hawkeye - brand new gloves, straight from the U.S of A - uses both hands, a little grunt, to squish it into place.
It’s Radar who stops to wonder, first. He stands on one foot and bends, letters from his mailbag falling onto the ground. “Wi - woo - we - ”
“Will!” Hawkeye shakes his hands at the offending mural. “It says will.”
“Oh.” Radar closes one eye and squints. “Will.” He huffs out a small, proud chuckle before his face drops. “Will? I hope you’re not planning on being dead today, sir.”
“Are you kidding?” The arm Hawkeye rakes across his face leaves a line. “Satan’s waiting list is longer than you are.” He kicks at the word, as if there’s a chance it isn’t sturdy.
“Do I need to get Captain Hunnicut?” Radar eyes him warily. “I mean, this looks like one of those things you two do that aren’t really things on account of you two being the only ones who do them.”
“You call BJ and I’ll have Satan usher you to the front of the line.”
“That means no, sir?”
“Ooh, I can just see that smug look if he finds out before I’m done.” Despite the haughty tone, Hawkeye’s voice is the closest to affection it will ever be. “I’ll show him this time. We'll see who cares about who more.”
“I think I should be getting on with not being here anymore.”
“You do that, Radar. And see if you can talk the corpsmen into getting me some more stones. I don’t want to resort to using that extra shipment of toilet seats.”
*
“Flush? Royal Flush?”
…
“I know it’s the second word. I was simply being … pre-emptive.”
…
“Well, really, Ray! I don’t think that gesture is going to help me figure out what you’re trying to say.”
“I’m not trying to say anything, Fraser, this ain’t Pyramid.”
“I was under the impression you weren’t supposed to talk?”
Ray’s whole body jerks with frustration. His hand clips quickly over his hair, back forth, before stopping to stick up two fingers. Fraser nods and says, “Second word.”
The following five minutes are nothing short of a fiasco. Ray’s tugging at his t-shirt; jigging like an Irishman; at one point he gets down on his hands and knees and starts trying to eat the carpet. It is only when he reaches for Fraser’s hat, perched on the kitchen bench, that Fraser cuts in.
“You know, Ray, I distinctly remember your telling me that you didn’t like playing games. That people who played games were… how shall I put it? Too gregarious.”
Ray remembers saying ‘a bunch of nut jobs’ but he lets it pass. He groans and slumps into a chair. “I’m not playing games with you, Fraser.” His voice is weary, his hands are shaky; he’s losing steam. “I’m trying to tell you something. Important.”
“Well, then, please continue.” Fraser straightens his back, intently. “Third word.”
“You mean second word.”
“On the contrary, we already have two words. Will and You.”
“Fraser.” Ray leans forward in his chair. Squints. “Are you tellin’ me I twisted my leg over my head for nothin’? You already knew?”
Diefenbaker raises his head and snorts. Ray doesn’t speak half wolf, but he thinks a snort means something similar to, you stupid flat foot. Of course he knows. Me and Fraser play Charades every damn day.
“I’m terribly sorry, Ray. But the desire to see you hula without a hoop was too great.”
As Fraser’s tongue touches his lip, a grin touches Ray’s mouth. “You’re a freak.”
“Understood.”
*
Reid is sitting, yoga style, on the floor in the middle of his lounge room. The newspaper is ripped into squares, scattered in a semi-circle, like a force field, around him. He’s smirking up at Morgan. He’s smug.
“You’re a freak.”
Reid only laughs. “You used to call me genius.”
“You are a genius,” Morgan concedes, sitting opposite. “but it’s freaky.”
“Well, not really. A few well placed calls, a few simple equations. When you scour the same newspaper for 21 days you start to recall the patterns. You know, the templates they often use and the behaviours of certain editors. Take this for - ”
“Reid,” Morgan reaches out, taking Reid’s wrist in a gentle hand. “I’m not surprised you figured it out. I’m disappointed.”
“What?” Reid scrabbles closer to Morgan, disrupting clippings, brushing knees. “Why?”
“It’s only the 4th! You’re ten days early.”
“Well, yeah, but I was going to find out anyway.”
Morgan shakes his head and looks away. The muscle in his neck pulls, his jaw ticking, his pride bruised and in hiding. “That’s not the point, man. I worked hard at this. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It was! I was totally surprised! There was a definite increase in my blood pressure. I was - ”
“Reid. Stop.”
“You know me.” Reid grabs at Morgan’s collar, like a plea. Please know me. “If I’m set to a task, I have to finish it.”
“Sure. Plus address it and stamp it and send it on its way.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan throws him a sceptical frown. “I am! I just … I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about it. I kept thinking about you and what you were trying to tell me. We’ve been together for five months. That’s not a good time frame; it’s in-between. 2 out of every 3 relationships hinge on whether they make it past - ”
“You’re making this up.”
Reid drops his head, resting at the soft skin of Morgan’s collar bone. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better I’ll pretend I only know so far as I’m supposed to. What was that again?”
“Will. You. Be.”
“Right.” Reid knows the question, and he definitely knows his answer. This time, though he’ll wait.
[Yes, I will be. Anything. Everything.]
*
They’re criss-crossed on the couch, an arm over a leg under a hip bone. Jared’s pressing and pulling his mouth along any strip of fair, freckled skin he can find. He’s breathing words into it. “Anything. Everything. Tell me, Jensen, say it.”
“Jesus, I said.” Jensen arches his back, his lashes tremble. They’re open shut, too charged to decide.
“Well, say it again,” Jared teases, smile playing at his lips and fingers playing at Jensen’s fly.
“You gotta ask the question again.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
Jensen scoffs, deep in his throat. “Pot, Kettle. Get on with it.”
“A’right, a’right,” Jared drawls, low and sweet and knowing. “Will -”
“Right,” Jensen grunts, repositioning. “First word. I can’t believe it took a whole week of Independence Day to figure that out.”
“I was gonna buy the Fresh Prince but that song, dude. It’s like Lamp Chops. Once it’s there it’s there forever.”
“West Philadeph - ”
“Will,” Jared says loudly, clawing his fingers into Jensen’s sides. Jensen hisses, but he’s not hurting. “You. Be.” Jared throws a quick, humoured glance at the ceiling. “Mine.”
“You’re sick,” Jensen tells him, but he’s grinning at Jared. His eyes are grinning.
“But kind of a genius, right?”
“I’m not fucking you on this couch, Jared.”
“What? Why? This couch has been so good to us.”
“Jared.” Jensen says it slow and clear. It’s like teaching a six year old how to tie his shoes. “My face is on the wall.”
“And the ceiling, don’t forget the ceiling.”
They stop and look. On each plane, corner, angle of the room there is a poster. A big, blown up poster that Jared went and had custom made. It’s the weirdest, train-wreck thing Jared’s ever done. It’s - he’s - impossible.
“I asked the question,” Jared finally says. “Answer it, bitch.”
Jensen sighs, as if it’s beneath him. “Yes, I will,” he drones, trying not to smirk as Jared dismounts. “Anything. Everything.”
Jared grabs his ankle and tugs. “Let’s fuck.”
Pairings: Hawkeye/BJ, RayK/Fraser, Reid/Morgan, Jared/Jensen.
Rating: PG15.
Summary: Our favourite couples attempt to show their affection through grand gestures. Each can be read on its own, sort of, but all are ~interlocked~.
AN: While totally self indulgent, I thought by doing a little bit for many fandoms I could give my flist a little token of love. When I say Happy Valentine’s Day, I mean Happy LOVE Day. You are so very loved <3
Hawkeye heaves another white washed stone - courtesy of Frank ‘Here We Are!’ Burns - across to the far side of the compound. With knees locked and back bent, he moves in spite of his profession. Over the pile of jeep parts, around the hung over bodies, to the end of the line. Literally.
The stone drops in the mud, splattering, and Hawkeye - brand new gloves, straight from the U.S of A - uses both hands, a little grunt, to squish it into place.
It’s Radar who stops to wonder, first. He stands on one foot and bends, letters from his mailbag falling onto the ground. “Wi - woo - we - ”
“Will!” Hawkeye shakes his hands at the offending mural. “It says will.”
“Oh.” Radar closes one eye and squints. “Will.” He huffs out a small, proud chuckle before his face drops. “Will? I hope you’re not planning on being dead today, sir.”
“Are you kidding?” The arm Hawkeye rakes across his face leaves a line. “Satan’s waiting list is longer than you are.” He kicks at the word, as if there’s a chance it isn’t sturdy.
“Do I need to get Captain Hunnicut?” Radar eyes him warily. “I mean, this looks like one of those things you two do that aren’t really things on account of you two being the only ones who do them.”
“You call BJ and I’ll have Satan usher you to the front of the line.”
“That means no, sir?”
“Ooh, I can just see that smug look if he finds out before I’m done.” Despite the haughty tone, Hawkeye’s voice is the closest to affection it will ever be. “I’ll show him this time. We'll see who cares about who more.”
“I think I should be getting on with not being here anymore.”
“You do that, Radar. And see if you can talk the corpsmen into getting me some more stones. I don’t want to resort to using that extra shipment of toilet seats.”
*
“Flush? Royal Flush?”
…
“I know it’s the second word. I was simply being … pre-emptive.”
…
“Well, really, Ray! I don’t think that gesture is going to help me figure out what you’re trying to say.”
“I’m not trying to say anything, Fraser, this ain’t Pyramid.”
“I was under the impression you weren’t supposed to talk?”
Ray’s whole body jerks with frustration. His hand clips quickly over his hair, back forth, before stopping to stick up two fingers. Fraser nods and says, “Second word.”
The following five minutes are nothing short of a fiasco. Ray’s tugging at his t-shirt; jigging like an Irishman; at one point he gets down on his hands and knees and starts trying to eat the carpet. It is only when he reaches for Fraser’s hat, perched on the kitchen bench, that Fraser cuts in.
“You know, Ray, I distinctly remember your telling me that you didn’t like playing games. That people who played games were… how shall I put it? Too gregarious.”
Ray remembers saying ‘a bunch of nut jobs’ but he lets it pass. He groans and slumps into a chair. “I’m not playing games with you, Fraser.” His voice is weary, his hands are shaky; he’s losing steam. “I’m trying to tell you something. Important.”
“Well, then, please continue.” Fraser straightens his back, intently. “Third word.”
“You mean second word.”
“On the contrary, we already have two words. Will and You.”
“Fraser.” Ray leans forward in his chair. Squints. “Are you tellin’ me I twisted my leg over my head for nothin’? You already knew?”
Diefenbaker raises his head and snorts. Ray doesn’t speak half wolf, but he thinks a snort means something similar to, you stupid flat foot. Of course he knows. Me and Fraser play Charades every damn day.
“I’m terribly sorry, Ray. But the desire to see you hula without a hoop was too great.”
As Fraser’s tongue touches his lip, a grin touches Ray’s mouth. “You’re a freak.”
“Understood.”
*
Reid is sitting, yoga style, on the floor in the middle of his lounge room. The newspaper is ripped into squares, scattered in a semi-circle, like a force field, around him. He’s smirking up at Morgan. He’s smug.
“You’re a freak.”
Reid only laughs. “You used to call me genius.”
“You are a genius,” Morgan concedes, sitting opposite. “but it’s freaky.”
“Well, not really. A few well placed calls, a few simple equations. When you scour the same newspaper for 21 days you start to recall the patterns. You know, the templates they often use and the behaviours of certain editors. Take this for - ”
“Reid,” Morgan reaches out, taking Reid’s wrist in a gentle hand. “I’m not surprised you figured it out. I’m disappointed.”
“What?” Reid scrabbles closer to Morgan, disrupting clippings, brushing knees. “Why?”
“It’s only the 4th! You’re ten days early.”
“Well, yeah, but I was going to find out anyway.”
Morgan shakes his head and looks away. The muscle in his neck pulls, his jaw ticking, his pride bruised and in hiding. “That’s not the point, man. I worked hard at this. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It was! I was totally surprised! There was a definite increase in my blood pressure. I was - ”
“Reid. Stop.”
“You know me.” Reid grabs at Morgan’s collar, like a plea. Please know me. “If I’m set to a task, I have to finish it.”
“Sure. Plus address it and stamp it and send it on its way.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan throws him a sceptical frown. “I am! I just … I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about it. I kept thinking about you and what you were trying to tell me. We’ve been together for five months. That’s not a good time frame; it’s in-between. 2 out of every 3 relationships hinge on whether they make it past - ”
“You’re making this up.”
Reid drops his head, resting at the soft skin of Morgan’s collar bone. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better I’ll pretend I only know so far as I’m supposed to. What was that again?”
“Will. You. Be.”
“Right.” Reid knows the question, and he definitely knows his answer. This time, though he’ll wait.
[Yes, I will be. Anything. Everything.]
*
They’re criss-crossed on the couch, an arm over a leg under a hip bone. Jared’s pressing and pulling his mouth along any strip of fair, freckled skin he can find. He’s breathing words into it. “Anything. Everything. Tell me, Jensen, say it.”
“Jesus, I said.” Jensen arches his back, his lashes tremble. They’re open shut, too charged to decide.
“Well, say it again,” Jared teases, smile playing at his lips and fingers playing at Jensen’s fly.
“You gotta ask the question again.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
Jensen scoffs, deep in his throat. “Pot, Kettle. Get on with it.”
“A’right, a’right,” Jared drawls, low and sweet and knowing. “Will -”
“Right,” Jensen grunts, repositioning. “First word. I can’t believe it took a whole week of Independence Day to figure that out.”
“I was gonna buy the Fresh Prince but that song, dude. It’s like Lamp Chops. Once it’s there it’s there forever.”
“West Philadeph - ”
“Will,” Jared says loudly, clawing his fingers into Jensen’s sides. Jensen hisses, but he’s not hurting. “You. Be.” Jared throws a quick, humoured glance at the ceiling. “Mine.”
“You’re sick,” Jensen tells him, but he’s grinning at Jared. His eyes are grinning.
“But kind of a genius, right?”
“I’m not fucking you on this couch, Jared.”
“What? Why? This couch has been so good to us.”
“Jared.” Jensen says it slow and clear. It’s like teaching a six year old how to tie his shoes. “My face is on the wall.”
“And the ceiling, don’t forget the ceiling.”
They stop and look. On each plane, corner, angle of the room there is a poster. A big, blown up poster that Jared went and had custom made. It’s the weirdest, train-wreck thing Jared’s ever done. It’s - he’s - impossible.
“I asked the question,” Jared finally says. “Answer it, bitch.”
Jensen sighs, as if it’s beneath him. “Yes, I will,” he drones, trying not to smirk as Jared dismounts. “Anything. Everything.”
Jared grabs his ankle and tugs. “Let’s fuck.”