Heart-shaped Box
Slipping in just under the wire, ye gods, but here's kimberlite's birthday fic, on time and everything! And considering it wasn't even one of the stories that I'd started out to write, and was pretty much all written today, it should be counted as the miracle it is. I'll annotate some of it later, especially the one 'verse, but in the meantime, I actually finished in time!
Fandom: VG, FNL (kind of SPN, too), SGA, SGA/SG-1, Leverage, Jericho, Farscape, Miracles, Firefly
Title: Heart-shaped Box
Category: Slash and gen, all pairings listed at the start of each ficlet; drama, angst, schmoop, humor, we have it all.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: Rape, canon character offscreen death (though not all in one story ;)... and written way too fast. ;) I might edit as I go, so feel free to point things out.
Summary: Valentine's isn't all hearts and flour.
~*~
Be a Mime! (Curt/Arthur -- 'The VG fic that shall remain nameless forever'!verse)
Curt had put out some tea cakes (store-bought, because they'd decided they should be edible) and put them in the bathroom. It was more of a bribe to stay out of sight than a Valentine's Day gift, but Cecil actually smiled (instead of smirked), and Jerry had been (mostly) willing to share nicely.
It did keep them somewhat quiet, so it worked better than the gin Arthur had left last time. Which should have been a good idea, putting the two avatars in a more tractable (and less likely to interfere at inopportune times) mood, but hadn't turned out as expected, what with the (loudly) repeated renditions of Jerusalem and Abide With Me, that only ended when Curt had sprayed them with a handy can of Scrubbing Bubbles. It had also turned out to be a bad idea when it led to some rather disturbing thoughts the next time Arthur watched a rugby match, and, even more importantly (at least according to Curt), the next time they had sex, too. After that Curt had outlawed all alcohol from the bathroom (unless it was coming back up), and all singing from anyone not named Curt.
But the tea cakes campaign seemed to be going swimmingly, in that there was no sounds coming from the bathroom except for the occasional argument over who had the bigger piece, which left Arthur free to focus on Curt, who was hovering over him on the bed, face drawn with burning desire, mouth wet and open in need.
Which, of course, meant that he was putting on, because Curt only trotted out the utterly wanton incubus look on stage or as a joke. Even as Arthur watched, appreciating the sight even knowing it was a fake, Curt started to laugh, the siren giving way to the imp. Arthur laughed with him, loving the sound every time he heard it, and knowing that the desire was always real, pressed hard against him, teasing him as it shook against him with that laugh.
Teasing only, because Curt had a plan, his materials laid out on plates around the bed, covered to keep their surprise. One by one Curt brought them out, Valentine's gifts to share. There were no tea cakes here. For Arthur, Curt had candy. Chalky hearts with joke messages (Be a mime!, I lust u, Kick me!) pressed into Arthur's mouth on a kiss. Liquid chocolate fingerpainted across Arthur's nipples, then slowly, so slowly licked off. A mouthful of Pop Rocks for Curt; snap, crackle, pop around Arthur's cock, the tiny stings juxtaposed against the sweetness of Curt's tongue on the head until Arthur couldn't help it but to come, mouth chalky, chesty sticky, cock spent.
Arthur didn't tease, because he didn't have a plan. (His last one, while amusing in retrospect -- though if Curt told one more person that Arthur was a secret Lionel Ritchie admirer, Arthur was going to… well, do something drastic -- and while rewarding at the time, had been far too traumatic to go down that road anytime soon.) But he did have a lapful of Curt, still shaking with laughter, lips red and puffy from candy and pleasure, and the only emotional baggage in the bed with them right then was the horniness that Curt was still looking to Arthur to take care of. And he had a handful of Curt, thrusting into his tight grip, wordless with pleasure, face lost with it.
They wound up tangled together on the bed; plates on the floor, chocolate on the sheets, a heart (I lust u) stuck to Curt's cheek, and the sound of an escalating tea cake war coming from the bathroom. Curt laughed again, somewhat breathlessly, and pulled the heart off, reading the message. He ate it, grimacing at the taste. "I love you, but, God, those are bad. And fucking dry. Next year we're sticking with the chocolate." He got up off the bed, heading for the bathroom, but then turned back around and winked. "And the Pop Rocks. I guess if I'm going to get a drink to get the dry out of my mouth, it better not be soda, huh? Wouldn't want to pull a Mikey."
Then he was gone, the sound of his laughter (and his yelling at Cecil and Jerry to shut up) floating down the hall behind him. And Arthur lay in bed, repeating the words he'd so desperately wanted to hear over and over again in his head. He'd heard them before, of course, from the other Curt, the one he'd created out of his own fears, but never like this, easy and freely given. And truly meant.
Even as a more sober, if no less horrible round of Jerusalem started from the bathroom, Arthur got up and followed after Curt. Life had never been so sweet.
Kiss Me Cupid (Eric/Tim -- SPN fusion!verse)
Tim was looking at the tacky wallpaper in their tacky hotel room, but he wasn't seeing it, too intent on what he was hearing. "Tell me you're kidding, Landry."
"No, I'm not kidding. And why would you even think I was. If you're too lazy to do the research for yourself, it's not my fault."
Landry sounded frazzled, but Tim suspected that was from the late night feedings with the new baby. He knew what Tyra was like when she was woken up, so he could guess who had got stuck with that chore. But even as he sympathized, he was still in a 'kill the messenger' sort of mood. "I don't think it's too lazy when I spent the last two weeks up to my ass in vampires, damn it. And you're sure there's no other way? Nothing? You looked everywhere?"
There was a sigh on the other end of the phone line, but Landry sounded amused rather than frazzled when he said, "What, it's not like you're going to mind doing it. Why are you fighting this?"
And the thing was, that Tim didn't want to fight it. It sounded good to him. Perfect, even. But he knew how Eric felt about this kind of thing, and he wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to him. "Yeah, well, why don't you tell Coach that?"
After a suspiciously sudden bad connection, Landry hung up, a high pitched giggle that could only be Tyra coming through just before he did. Which meant that she knew, too, and there was no way she wasn't going to tell Jason. Or anyone else in the hunter's community she could think of. Tim groaned, knowing his life wasn't going to be worth living for the next couple of weeks.
Well, some of his life. After all, Landry did say it was the only way, and there wasn't going to be an argument that Eric could give against that. Not that he wouldn't try, but he'd give in in the end.
"It's sex magic. That's what Lance found out, right?"
He'd startled Tim, which was just another sign of how much those two weeks chasing vampires had worn him out. It was dangerous, too many things out for them now for them to just be normal people anymore. He looked at Eric, seeing the strain on him in tight shoulders, in the leaner body, harder muscles. Harder face, too, pinched in disapproval.
"You know, Landry's about the only one left who doesn't know you honestly do remember his name from time to time. One day he's going to give us some bad intel just to get back at you about that."
But Eric wasn't going to be distracted. "Shit. I was afraid of that."
Tim remembered a time when Eric had been embarrassed about cussing in front of him. Of course that had been about five years ago, and there was a lot of water under that bridge now. Not to mention a lot more reasons to curse than they'd had back then. "Is it going to be a problem? I mean, I can get you some whiskey, maybe something else if… well, if you need it to get…" He waved a hand in a vague gesture, hoping it would communicate what he meant, since he'd never have the nerve to ask for it, not just right out like that.
Plus, Eric was strangely prudish even now, after every thing he'd seen. He'd probably have an aneurysm if Tim said, "Do you want some Viagra so that you can get it up and fuck me in the ass. Of course, the spell'll work either way, but I'm figuring if you're this freaked out about fucking me, you really would die if I tried to do you. So what do you say?" Yeah, that would work. And there really was such a thing as unicorns, too.
Eric apparently knew how to translate vague hand gestures, because he just looked more nervous. He shook his head. "No, it's okay. I… I can do it. It's not a problem. I just…."
Yeah, he just. Tim had already heard the rail against sex magic, and while he knew it was a stupid thing to mess with, as liable to turn on you as on what you were after, he also knew that if they didn't get to it, so to speak, then twelve more couples were going to die tonight. Happy Valentine's Day to all of them.
If Tim had thought talking about it to Eric was awkward, then actually getting to it was on a whole new level. Like Mario Brothers Level 666 or something, with Eric taking off his clothes like he thought something was going to jump out at them at any moment. Of course, with their luck, it probably was, but they'd made the place as safe as they could, and they had nothing specific hunting them. Tonight, at least.
Trying to keep the freak out to a minimum, Tim left his boxers on, going over to help Eric get off his boots. He took his time, not making any sudden movements, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog in. He didn't think Eric would appreciate the comparison, but then he really didn't think Eric was up to appreciating much right now, his breath coming fast, his shirt still on, looking like he was about to walk the plank.
"You know, you could just lie back. Like, think of England or whatever. I could do the rest. You could even pretend I was someone else, if you want."
It killed Tim to make that offer, but he had to do something. Right now, he was beginning to feel like a rapist, not sure if he could get it up, even with Eric nearly naked before him, and he wasn't the one who minded what was about to happen. He'd had any number of light fantasies about his former coach, harmless, over the years. Lyla had always thought it was funny, but then Lyla had known about him and Jason, from back way before either of them had hooked up with her. There'd been no surprises there.
Maybe that was it. Maybe Eric was afraid that Tim wasn't willing. It made sense, in a way, since for the last couple of months, now that the grief was finally starting to fade, Eric had been almost… well, almost flirty, really, and maybe that had just been Tim imagining it, but he'd always had good radar about that kind of thing before. "You do know that I've done this before, right?"
That made Eric laugh at least. "Yeah, Tim, I'd figured out you weren't a virgin."
"Yeah, no, I mean that I'm not a virgin in any way. With guys. Like that."
Which just brought the worried look back. "Yeah, I'd kind of… I mean, you and Jason just always seemed so…."
And they had been so, once. Back when the worst things in Tim's life were abandonment issues, lack of money, and the occasional beating. But none of that was true anymore, and Tim was beginning to be at least a little okay with it. Enough that he wanted this, wanted Eric. Whatever part of him had died with Lyla, it wasn't this, and he pulled Eric closer, just holding him near for the moment. Letting him get used to the contact.
Not that they hadn't been touching, hadn't been more naked with each other than they were now, but there'd been blood involved with all that, pain from wounds that hunting seemed to dole out, regular as breathing, and that wasn't what Tim wanted this to be about. He ventured a kiss, just a press of lips, hoping it would ease the way a little.
And it was like a dam burst, Eric's lips opening under his, tongue pressing in even as his hips pressed closer to Tim's, the proof that this was something Eric's body wanted, at least, warm through the cotton of their shorts, hard against Tim's leg. God, was the last rational thought he had before he started ripping off his boxers, Eric's shirt, with Eric's hands, trying to be helpful, just getting in his way. Tim put up with it until he couldn't take it any more, and he pushed Eric back onto the bed, smelling as musty as it had when they checked in, but he no longer cared, only wanting to push Eric into it, to do all kinds of things to him. Holding those non-helpful hands down with one of his, he used his other, near-desperate hand, and, in a fit of limberness, one of his feet, to finally get rid of the last barrier between them.
Those old fantasies, the newer ones he sometimes had, had always been sort of like good porno, all smooth moves and prefect moments. This was more like slapstick, with Eric still seeming to have no idea what to do with his hands, one of them almost clocking Tim as he tried to maneuver them around, and Tim being somewhat less than smooth by basically humping away at the body beneath him.
Eric finally held them both still, hands over Tim's, both of them on Tim's hips, holding them still, too. "Stop. Just for a moment. Because if you keep doing that, we're not going to get to what we need to do, at least not for a long while, 'cause you may still only be twenty-two, but I haven't seen that age in just about that amount of time, and I'm not going to be able to come, like, eight times in the four hours we have left."
Tim laughed. "Wow, either you were amazing at twenty-two, or you have some exaggerated ideas of my prowess." But he held still all the same, knowing what they needed to do. And maybe later he could convince Eric to give up the 'I'm too old for this crap' crap, and see exactly how many times he could do it.
When they'd first read about this gig, they hadn't ever even heard of Elk Groves, a small city that had its share of crime, but hardly any murders. But strange deaths? Now that was a different matter. Every Valentine's Day twelve couples just seemed to collapse, always in the throes of passion. And while you might think that would cool off the holiday passions a little, apparently there were always enough takers that the number hadn't missed in five years. A little prelim research had told Tim it was a kamadeva, a kind of emotional Elemental, either named after a Hindu god, or the source of his legend. Or, as he liked to think of him, a freaky ass little Cupid who liked to find couples in the midst of mating rituals and take them out. As the world had moved away from mating rituals, something Tim thought was probably a shame, the creatures had had to search hard to find something that could be considered ritualized sex, mostly dying out. But apparently this one had decided that overly-hyped sort-of romance was good enough. And in a fit of supernatural pragmatism, since the holiday only came once a year, the kamadeva took enough in one bite to get him through the dry spots.
They'd had plenty of time to finish this job when he'd first read about it, but the damn vampires had put a kind of hitch in things, and now, with only hours to go, the only quick solution to the kamadeva problem was sex. And not just any kind of sex, but same-sex sex, and penetrative same-sex sex at that. It also involved some kind of magic powder, 11 secret herbs and spices, but that was just the frosting on the cake, really. Because Eric was a little anal, and always had the SUV packed with all kinds of helpful things, and because Tim had half-way figured, and maybe more than half-way hoped, that things would work out this way, he'd already mixed things up with the lube he kept packed away in the SUV. The only real trick had been to get Eric to agree to things.
Tim scrambled out of bed to fetch the lube, more than a little afraid that Eric would change his mind even now that he'd started, but Eric just grabbed it as soon as he got back in reach. Then he grabbed Tim, pushing him down this time, the careful fingers that stretched him open the only part of Eric not nearly vibrating with need. Tim could see the strain on Eric's face as he pressed slowly in, the need to not hurt vying with the need to bury himself fast and deep. And while the second sounded damn good to him, Tim had to admit that his ass was thankful for the first, his claims to not be a virgin to this type of thing only barely true.
But need built until it pushed back care, and Tim was nearly sobbing out the words, "Fuck me, please, just fuck me now," before Eric finally gave in, the bed springs squealing like they were murdering it, Tim shouting as he was pounded into them. Eric barely made any noise at all, a half-whispered gasp of, "God," as he came, heartfelt and worshipful, if not in the way the church would approve of.
Tim approved heartily, and was feeling fairly worshipful himself, body slightly aching from the hard life they led, from the hard fuck, and feeling better than he had since New Years. Since forever, because that life was behind them now, and maybe this wasn't what either of them had wanted to happen, or would have chosen to happen, but Tim could honestly say, if he had to be stuck in this with someone, he was happy with the way things had worked out.
Eric looked worried again, his post-coital bliss not lasting anywhere near long enough for Tim, but he was used to that by now. Eric carried so much guilt with him. Over Julie, even though there wasn't a damn thing he could have done to stop it. Over Tami, even though she'd been the one to decide. And Tim understood that, because he carried more than a little guilt himself, and his guilt was far more deserved.
But even if they hadn't chosen any of this, they couldn’t change any of it, either. Dead was dead -- or at least Tim hoped so, because he was so not looking forward to finding out zombies were real, especially not after finding out how wrong Buffy had been about the vampires -- and there was no going back. And they still had good things in their life. Matt and Sarah Lynn. Landry and Tyra. Jason, even with his skepticism. JD, with his money. They'd been lucky in a lot of ways, even if the bad luck had weighed so heavily.
"You think it worked?"
Tim was startled again, lost in his own thoughts. They really needed to take a break for a while, get some rest, or else the next hunt might be the one that took them out. "Yeah, I think so. It kind of feels like it, anyway."
Eric snorted, rolling closer to Tim now that they were cooling down, the fall Montana night leeching away their heat. "You and your feelings. You know, if you'd really wanted to have a handy psychic power, then having one that would provide pizza in bed without having to move would have been really handy."
Tim laughed, feeling some of his own worry slip away. Eric might fret about what had happened, but he obviously wasn't going to try to lie and say he hadn't wanted it. Whatever had been going through his mind, at least it wasn't that. "That's what I have you for."
Which earned him another snort, but Eric did roll out of bed, slipping his clothes back on and pulling out his cell phone. He might hate his iPhone, but he really loved the pizza app Tim had found for him.
Tim put his own clothes back on, because it was fall in Montana, and you never knew when something was going to try to bust down the door, but he got back in the bed, waiting for Eric to get back with dinner.
Last year on this day, he'd bought Lyla a diamond heart, knowing she'd just smack him if he bought her too much candy. She'd loved it, wearing it all the time, even the night she died. He'd grieved for her, and still did, the image of her burning on that ceiling still playing behind his eyes on bad nights. But he hadn't died with her, as tempting as it had been at the time. And sometimes, in the dreams, she blamed him, hated him, wanted him to be miserable. But on the good nights, when she was still alive in his mind, beautiful and happy, she smiled at him with knowing eyes.
Later, after a romantic Valentine's Day of pizza, weapons cleaning, and more sex, Tim dreamed of knowing eyes.
Magnet Tar Pit Trap (Todd/John -- well, I did put it in the warnings)
"You have no one but yourself to blame for this."
Todd, like most Wraith, loved to hear himself talk, but John couldn't figure what he was on about this time. What 'this'? Being captured? Because he was pretty sure that neither of them had suspected the whole thing was a trap, and he didn't really think he could be blamed for the trap itself.
"Look, I get that you're pissed off that we walked into an ambush, but since you didn't spot it either, I don't get where I'm to blame."
"No, of course not, Sheppard. The trap is not of either of our doing. It's what's going to happen now that I lay at your door."
Even with the warning, John didn't really have time to prepare. Todd had been duplicitous, had outright used them before, but he'd never seemed the type to just attack for no reason. In that one way, he'd been more human than Michael; before, during, and after the incredibly bad idea experiment.
John fought hard, but without weapons, and without real warning, he was no match for the Wraith's strength. He wound up pinned on the stone floor of the cell in an embarrassingly short time. He bucked up against Todd, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
He shivered when Todd tore open his shirt, but with his hands pinned above his head, there was nothing he could do about it. Todd's free hand traveled over the exposed skin, resting, palm spread, over the spot where the feeding mark had been. Even knowing that he couldn't feed that way anymore, John still felt the ghost pain of feeding, the memory of this Wraith doing just that sharp like iron in his mind.
It was only when that hand started to tear at his pants that John figured out what was about to happen. He'd never considered it, not from this source. The Wraith had always seemed like vampires; something sexual about the feeding, but not in a human normal way. But apparently he'd either been wrong, or more had changed about Todd than just the way he fed.
Knowing it was pointless, John still tried to resist, only getting more bruises for his efforts. Todd didn't even bother getting him entirely stripped, just enough bared on both of them to press the strangely-flared penis against his leg, his hip, his ass, and shove in, pushing past John's resistance to sink in all the way.
It hurt, far beyond what John had expected. It wasn't like he'd never had sex before, had thought he'd known what it felt like if things happened too fast, without enough lubrication, but that pain had always been momentary, something to be got through, and this just seemed to go on and on, until he thought it was honestly going to kill him.
Later, with Todd lying on him, no longer in him, but the threat of it still there, John half-way wished it had killed him. He'd had time to think, time to imagine the looks he'd get, the questions they'd ask. And that was if the dame Misurans didn't kill them both first. Or hell, if they walked in and saw them like this, maybe they'd join the party. Any way you looked at it, John figured he was well and truly screwed.
Which was right about the time that Todd decided to start talking again. "I hadn't wanted it this way."
John figured that was his cue to answer, but he didn't really have anything to say. What would he answer besides, neither did I.
"Since the… change, I can no longer feed the same anymore. That, in itself, is unsettling enough, a way of life gone. But with the absence of one type of hunger, others have appeared. The need for food, that I could handle. It was all around, easily obtained. As for the others… those were more problematic. I thought of you often, in ways I hadn't before. Or, at least, in ways I hadn't realized before. And then, this. This need to work together, and seeing you all these days. It had become harder and harder to control myself, and while I pride myself on my composure, this is a thing I've never had to deal with before."
Unable to contain the inner smart ass for long, John couldn't help but answer that. "Yeah, I really feel for you. I can see how it really wasn't your fault at all. You just tripped and fell."
Todd smirked at that, not looking in any way chagrinned. "But it isn't, John. Not really. No more than my feeding on you when we first me was. Both came from actions that someone else did to me, rather than any I chose for myself. Another form of rape, if you would. I certainly didn't choose to be Kolya's pet, anymore than I chose to become this thing that isn't quite Wraith. Not anymore."
In a really weird way, John could see his point. He'd always had the ability to do that with Todd, even when Todd's point was basically like a knife in the back, a betrayal of the tiny glimmer of trust John had foolishly allowed himself to have, and it had always been highly disturbing to him. Not that it would stop him from killing the bastard when he got a chance. "If you know what that's like, why do this to me?"
But Todd didn't answer, not at first, or at least not verbally, using nails like talons to carve his message into John's chest instead, marking him like he had that first time. It was only hours later, deep inside John again, slower, almost soft, and still as painful, that he said, "There's a connection between us. Almost an obligation of some type. And I don't know how to break it, or how to let it go. But neither of us can ever forget, either, how we met, or what I was before. So this, this not quite enough satiation, will have to do."
It was days later before John got back to Atlantis. He rarely abused his position, or his connection to the city, to get by with what he knew were important checks, but he managed to lie and wrangle, both with his rank and his gene, out of the post-mission checkup. He told himself it was because everything was already healing, and it wasn't something they needed to know.
But it didn't explain why he didn't have the scar, barely recognizable as the Wraith word for Mine, removed.
Or why Todd was still alive.
Secret Admirer (John/Cameron)
Cameron had learned long ago that some things you just left alone. Everyone had secrets, and it wasn't a matter of not loving someone enough, or not wanting to share, but that everyone needed some parts of them that were only for them, and no one else.
John, however, was a walking secret, more unknown than known, and it hurt sometimes, no matter how much he tried to ride it through, that he was always going to be so close, and no closer, to probably the most compelling mystery he'd ever come across in his life.
Still, he'd known the ground rules when he went in, and for the most part it made him happy. Neither of them risked their careers by any public displays. Neither of them asked about their exes, even if they were still on their teams. Neither of them asked about the scars; the one Cameron had on the back of his neck, right near the curve of his shoulder, the one John had on his chest, too close to his heart.
It could have been a unfulfilling relationship, too little shared to be more than sex, except for days like this. The rest of the world was out celebrating with champagne and chocolate, cards and diamonds, and they were in Cam's somewhat stark apartment, lazy after sex, cold pizza in one hand, beer in the other. Cam had thought at first that John was changing the TV channels with his mind, because a new one went by about every three seconds, but he'd eventually figured out he was sitting on the remote, and they'd finally settled on Arizona State/Stanford game, with Cam rooting for Arizona just to piss John off.
He never did see the end of the game, great sex, four beers, and John's feet warm and cozy in his lap, leading him down into sleep. It was only after he woke up, another game playing, John curled up tight against his chest, that it occurred to him that this: the cold pizza, the warm beers, the military commander of Atlantis as a closet snuggler, was their secret. A part of them, and no one else.
And maybe John (hair spiked up in about a zillion different directions, mouth tasting of stale beer and something Cam had never been able to identify, ratty sweats almost falling off of him, their elastic long shot, and looking far better that way than he had any right to), would always have his secrets, but who he was to Cam was never going to be one of them.
Isn't It Fucking Romantic (Alec/Eliot)
Alec knew what Eliot did. He'd shown him, right from that first job. But knowing it, and living with what it meant, those were two different things.
Nathan put his hand on Alec's shoulder, squeezed. "I know you're thinking he's going to kill you when he wakes up, but, while he might threaten it, he won't really do it."
It was supposed to be comforting, but Alec almost could wish it wasn't true. "I fucked up. I was out of place, and I knew I was. And if I hadn't been, then he wouldn't have been." It was all running together, his words just getting tangled, but the good thing about Nathan was that he knew how to listen between the lines.
"Hey, he's going to be fine. Yeah, you were out of place, and we're certainly going to talk about you and this recent trend towards late night gaming sessions and the consequences they have on the job, but…"
He trailed off, and Alec could guess what he was thinking about. Alec wasn't the only one who'd endangered a job with a bad habit, but at least Nathan hadn't gotten Sophie beaten up doing it. And not that Alec was ever going to mention to Eliot that he'd compared him to Sophie, but that's just how upset he was.
Nathan left him alone then. There was a voice in Alec's head, sounding suspiciously like Eliot, that told him that sitting here watching Eliot sleep was kind of a chick thing to do, but Alec just embraced his inner romance novel heroine and went right on waiting.
It was late when Eliot finally did wake up, grumpy about having to do it, just like usual. But he didn't blast into Alec like he'd been expecting, instead going for confusing him with, "Damn, I missed Valentine's Day."
Of everything Alec had been expecting him to say, that was so far down the list it hadn't made his list at all. He'd been practicing his replies to the ones that actually had made the list -- I'm sorry, I'm really very, very sorry, Fuck man, I'm fucking sorry, and Please don't kill me had been in there a lot -- and was kind of at a loss now that he was faced with the anomaly. But Eliot always had been determined to screw up his calculations, and all Alec could come up with was, "Did you have plans?"
Eliot snorted. "Of course I had plans, man. It's Valentine's Day. I was going to cook you dinner and everything."
And, really, that was even further off the list than the first thing, and Alec was out on open water, no land in sight, and sinking fast, because the inner romance novel heroine was getting a little misty-eyed here, but the rest of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Oh. Well. That sounds… romantic."
That got him another snort. "It's Valentine's Day. You're supposed to be fucking romantic."
There was definitely a quality of 'get the fuck with it' in Eliot's voice, and the sarcasm plus the utterly unromantic 'fucking' finally sounded enough like Eliot that Alec knew what to say. "I'm sorry."
And there was no way Eliot was going to pretend that he didn't understand, because Eliot was actually more comfortable talking about things that you'd expect from the macho prick, but he never seemed to handle anyone apologizing to him well. Just another one of the many neuroses that made sleeping with the man an adventure. Eliot squirmed for a moment, but finally managed to take the apology by turning it into something else. "Yeah, well, you could make it up to me."
There was an exaggerated wiggle of his brows, just in case Alec was really dumb. Or had never met him before and didn't know that Eliot was a sex-addict in search of a twelve-step program that didn't require him to give up sex.
Not that Alec was complaining about that, really. He would never survive that program himself.
He wasn't complaining about doing this, either, hands careful of bruises as he pulled Eliot's dick free of his boxer-briefs, licking around the head once before he took the rest in. He wasn't as good at it as Eliot was, still too quick to gag, but he was getting better. And there was something almost magical about watching all that prickly surface disappear beneath something far more tractable, almost, almost sweet, like in that moment, sated and happy, it was too much effort for Eliot to keep the walls in place.
Alec didn't gripe when Eliot fell asleep right after. If he'd been in place, they could have done this the right way. Apparently even with dinner first.
He settled back to wait, he and the inner romance heroine in agreement on this. After all, there were still four more hours of Valentine's Day, and Alec still had plenty of fucking romance left.
The 1,000,476th Best Kiss In the History of Kisses, AKA, The One That Left Them All Behind (Robert/Jake)
Later they called it the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, another Allied States' theft of US history. But Robert just called it a mission.
And the mission had always come first with him. Always. It had cost him his wife and kids, to the point that even now, knowing what they did, they only loved him in an intellectual way. An acknowledgement of what he was to them, rather than any deeper feeling for him.
He'd told himself that that mission had to come first this time, too. Told himself that. And then made sure that the mission was what he knew he intended to do, rather than anything Beck and the others had come up with.
It had been worth it, when he'd got Jake out. All smiles and laughs, even with his body so thin Robert was afraid he'd disappear if he turned sideways. Even with blood on his teeth, blood against his prison pale complexion. Red and white, red and white. "Holiday colors."
Robert didn't know why he said it out loud, because Jake was many things, but psychic wasn't one of them. But Jake, as always, surprised him. "That's right, Cupid. And I have to say that nothing says romance like a daring prison break."
He leaned up, body shaking with even that much effort, and kissed Robert softly. Robert tasted blood, and the sour taste that people who'd been starved seemed to pick up, like their breath had gone stale from lack of food. The kiss was sweet all the same.
Jake leaned back in the Jeep's seat, slightly winded, smiling again. "I'm not wearing any lacy lingerie, though, not even for you."
Robert drove them back to the almost-safety of their camp, laughing for the first time in six weeks.
Lonely Rivers Sigh (Crichton/Everyone -- but in a gen way)
He'd calculated it as best he could, arns to hours being near enough that, at most, he shouldn't be off by more than an arn here or there.
He didn't try to explain Valentine's to them. He could just imagine their confusion (their disdain) if he did. But it didn't stop him from celebrating in his own way.
Little gifts; easily acquired, easily smuggled, easily hidden. Tiny little candies, suspiciously like Kisses, left on Aeryn's bed. A tiny bottle of bishur oil -- worn like perfume it gave you a pleasant tingling sensation for hours, put on food, an aphrodisiac (he'd had to check with Pilot on that one, and hadn't that been embarrassing, just to make sure that it was safe) -- left in the landing bay compartment Chianna liked to think was a secret hiding place. The Delvian version of a mini Zen garden, left on Zhaan's workbench. An almost-chamois type cloth, good for polishing Qalta blades, tied around its hilt as D'Argo slept (and he'd needed Zhaan's help for that, but she'd just smiled at him, not requiring an explanation, always far more tolerant of his weirdnesses than the others). The Nilla Wafer-ish cookies Rygel favored, put in the pantry, but with his name (carefully printed in Hynerian, which Chianna had shown him how to write, in return for one of the wafers) clearly marked on them. Pilot had been hard, little he wanted besides what he had, except for a way to get Moya to safe harbor. But John had untangled miles of Moya's bio cables, something it was hard for the DRDs to do, for him (and gotten Moya to hide him from Pilot while he did it). For Moya, he'd sung to her as he worked, rock songs she'd never heard, and that he'd probably never hear again, and there was nothing he could do to keep it a secret, but she seemed happy with it all the same.
There was also a dinner, the best he could bargain for (and what the hell, it wasn't like Scorpius hadn't just taken it from him when he liked, and this way at least John got something out of it), and even Aeryn, notoriously unconcerned about eating for pleasure, smiled and laughed as they feasted on memories from all their homes.
Not his home, though. Not yet, John too much the optimist to give up hope quite yet. Far too stubborn to let Scorpius steal any more from him, even when he wasn't there. Or usually wasn't there. Not on John's sane days, anyway.
They had looked at him a little oddly when he managed to get a kiss out of each of them, even Pilot (and that had been even odder than Rygel, but far less disgusting). Just for luck, for luck. It wasn't like they couldn't use it.
And if he forgot to mention any of it in his journal to his dad, if he sometimes forgot not to call Moya home (he'd kissed her strut that curved out on the viewing window by the landing bay, making sure that none of the others were watching. She'd seemed happy with it all the same), and if he sometimes wondered if any of it was real, even the childhood memories that now included things that (might have) never been, he didn't tell anyone.
Or usually didn't. Not on John's sane days, anyway.
Paper Hearts (Alva/Paul -- schmoopy)
It started with chocolates, left on his desk at work. Paul ate them, thinking that Evie had given into temptation again, then gotten rid of them in a fit of remorse.
The flowers were harder to explain though, red roses with long stems, white Baby's-breath woven between them. They weren't fattening, as far as he knew, anyway, and Evie didn't know anything about them, nor did Alva.
The paper valentine, looking a lot like the ones they'd made in school when they'd been kids, covered in slightly surrealistic hearts and XOXO kisses and hugs, was a little scary. If Evie hadn't done it, nor Matty, if Alva hadn't lost his mind, then that meant that someone was stalking him, and, frankly, Paul really thought he had enough garbage going on in his life without adding secret stalker to the list.
He was nervous and a little afraid, and Alva smiled at him, but didn't laugh, and drove him home so he didn't have to take the bus. His hands shook as he opened the door, and he almost laughed at himself, but he was so tired of being the center of attention for things he hadn't chosen. And a little depressed that he'd passed another Valentine's Day without anyone but secret stalkers seeming to notice him.
"I'm sorry."
Paul looked at Alva, recognizing the look of guilt on his face, but not understanding it. "Sorry about what?"
Alva sighed. "All of this. It was stupid, but I couldn’t… I just wanted to do something for you, and then I kept chickening out. And now… well, now I'm creeping you out, actually scaring you, and I never meant to, Paul. I never meant to do that."
It had been something of a long day, and Paul was having problems tracking what the hell Alva had thought he was doing. Not that Paul hadn't noticed, what with how he came to work for the man, that Alva could be kind of a little intense, to put it politely, when he was pursuing something, but he just didn't get it. "You wanted to do something for me? And you thought that giving me gifts from a false secret admirer was a good thing?"
Alva sighed again, shaking one hand as if he were erasing what they'd already said. "I'm not explaining this well. I just… I knew that I'd started staring, and standing too close, and touching you too often, and that I shouldn't, but I… I couldn't not. Anymore than I could leave you alone to begin with. And, yes, I know that this goes beyond the pale, and I really don't want to be that man, Paul. I'd managed to keep it under control, or at least not been so obvious that Evie gave me a hard time about it, but then… I'd saw you dead."
Paul knew he was still missing something, because he didn't see how seeing him dead was an impetus to romantic action, unless Alva had a problem he wasn't mentioning here, and he just didn't think that was going to be it. Feeling like an idiot that was missing the obvious, he said, "And that was a problem, how?"
"I thought I'd lost you. There were a couple of moments there, before you finally woke, that I was sure you were well and truly dead. And it wasn't how important you are to the future of what we investigate. It wasn't even fear that I'd have to deal with it alone, Evie too upset by yet one more loss to help, that scared me the most. It was that I thought I'd never see you again as anything but dead. But then you'd probably already guessed that part of it, since I haven't been the subtlest of creatures, at least not according to our coworker."
But Paul hadn't guessed. And he knew Evie was probably laughing her ass off about how oblivious he was being again, especially since she'd already guessed he wasn't exactly averse to Alva, for all that he sometimes drove Paul crazy, but he'd never been any good at reading attraction. He had to hear the words, to be told his worth to someone else to believe that any existed. Too many years of being passed over, with carelessly uttered phrases like too old, too serious, and -- always -- not what we really wanted echoing down those years, to take anything for granted. Only Poppi, with his freely given hugs, and Georgia, with her fierce loyalty, had ever really made him believe. It was why he and Rebecca had been such a disaster, all his neurotic need for reassurance up against her need to not be tied down to anything, and what had happened in that house could almost have occurred without the spirit intervention.
But how did he say that to someone, tell them, be sure? Be very sure that he was what they wanted, and that they would have to make him believe it. Because otherwise he'd drive them crazy, and they'd do the same to him, and it would end just as messy as it had before, with Paul hating the person he'd become.
What he did say was, "The only Valentines I've ever received were the ones we'd made each other in school when we were children, and the one you gave me." He paused, then laughed, unable to resist the dig. "To tell you the truth, they looked about the same."
Alva laughed with him, shrugging away any pretension at card-making skill, but he was looking in Paul's eyes for the first time since they'd come in, and there was something that might be hope there. Maybe just telling him straight out wouldn't be as awkward as Paul thought.
He never had to test the theory, Alva braver in this than Paul was. "It isn't recent, and it wasn't caused by seeing you dead. That was just a goad to action, as it were. I… I love you, Paul, and I think I have since I first met you, and found you so much more than the mysterious figure in so many people's dreams. So much more."
Paul couldn't say it back, not yet, but he took Alva's hand and drew him deeper into his apartment. He wasn't sure that this wasn't scarier than a secret stalker, this laying his heart out, waiting for it to go wrong again, but he'd always been a sucker for other's people's belief. And maybe one day, he'd even believe it himself.
The Way To a Man's Heart (Mal/Everyone -- in a mostly gen way)
Mal had given up on faith long ago. At least any other faith than in himself, his ship, and the people who crewed with him. Well, in at least some of the people who crewed with him. But it was hard to have faith in any of that when everything seemed to be falling apart at the seams, the constants that had been there for so long he'd taken them as truth, gone in a moment.
Not that there weren't still constants in his life. Zoe was still a ghost, apparently waiting for Wash to come back, or to find her way to him in one way or another. Kaylee was still a ditz. A golden, wonderful ditz, but still. Inara was still gone, the violence of his life still too close a memory for her. River was still crazy, and Simon was still a sister's boy. And Wash and Book were still dead.
Now Jayne… well, Jayne was still crazy. But he was still there, still alive, no matter how many people would love to kill him, and just as irritating as ever. It was one of the things that Mal liked best about him.
They were all his, his faith, and maybe sometimes he hated what they were (dead he hated most of all), but as long as they were his, he could fight for them. As long as they were his, he wasn't back in the Valley, breathing death in deep, but not deep enough. As long as they were his, he could keep going. That was his faith, as stupid and crazy as it was. Because they'd lose some day, follow Wash and Book (still dead), and then where would Mal be?
But today, this day, they were still his. And today they were going to have a celebration, regardless of the fact that no one had ever heard of Valentine's Day, or even cared about it.
Of course the only reason Mal had was because Book had mentioned it once, with that crazy old-time knowledge of his. He suspected that Book hadn't really known what it was about anyway, the dinner before them not looking very appetizing, but he'd looked up the ingredients Book had mentioned, and this was the recipe he'd got. And they were damn well going to eat it, and they were damn well going to be happy about it, because Zoe was still a ghost, and Kaylee was still a ditz, and Inara was still gone, River still crazy, Simon still a sister's boy, Wash and Book still dead, and Jayne, God love his ornery little soul, was still crazy enough to just dig right into the pie without even hesitating, and they were all his.
Zoe, for once, noticed what was on the table before her, her face getting that same look that it always had when he suggested what she thought was a slightly unusual (or totally crazy, depending on who you asked) idea. "Are you sure this is a traditional Valentine's Day meal?"
Mal was happy she was talking, happy she was paying attention, and he could almost have hugged her for it, but that wasn't what she needed from him. So he gave her the truth instead, liberally laced with sarcasm. "Hearts and flour, just like Book said. Of course, that also has kidney in it, and some other stuff, but it was the only one I could find with both ingredients in it, so it has to be the right one. So just shut up and eat it."
They all did, food always too precious a commodity to waste, but it didn't stop them from complaining. Mal let them, knowing that was just the way they were, another constant in a world too filled with change.
None of them ever did figure out what Valentine's Day was really about, but they celebrated it with hearts and flour every year all the same.
/stories
Enjoy!
Fandom: VG, FNL (kind of SPN, too), SGA, SGA/SG-1, Leverage, Jericho, Farscape, Miracles, Firefly
Title: Heart-shaped Box
Category: Slash and gen, all pairings listed at the start of each ficlet; drama, angst, schmoop, humor, we have it all.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: Rape, canon character offscreen death (though not all in one story ;)... and written way too fast. ;) I might edit as I go, so feel free to point things out.
Summary: Valentine's isn't all hearts and flour.
~*~
Be a Mime! (Curt/Arthur -- 'The VG fic that shall remain nameless forever'!verse)
Curt had put out some tea cakes (store-bought, because they'd decided they should be edible) and put them in the bathroom. It was more of a bribe to stay out of sight than a Valentine's Day gift, but Cecil actually smiled (instead of smirked), and Jerry had been (mostly) willing to share nicely.
It did keep them somewhat quiet, so it worked better than the gin Arthur had left last time. Which should have been a good idea, putting the two avatars in a more tractable (and less likely to interfere at inopportune times) mood, but hadn't turned out as expected, what with the (loudly) repeated renditions of Jerusalem and Abide With Me, that only ended when Curt had sprayed them with a handy can of Scrubbing Bubbles. It had also turned out to be a bad idea when it led to some rather disturbing thoughts the next time Arthur watched a rugby match, and, even more importantly (at least according to Curt), the next time they had sex, too. After that Curt had outlawed all alcohol from the bathroom (unless it was coming back up), and all singing from anyone not named Curt.
But the tea cakes campaign seemed to be going swimmingly, in that there was no sounds coming from the bathroom except for the occasional argument over who had the bigger piece, which left Arthur free to focus on Curt, who was hovering over him on the bed, face drawn with burning desire, mouth wet and open in need.
Which, of course, meant that he was putting on, because Curt only trotted out the utterly wanton incubus look on stage or as a joke. Even as Arthur watched, appreciating the sight even knowing it was a fake, Curt started to laugh, the siren giving way to the imp. Arthur laughed with him, loving the sound every time he heard it, and knowing that the desire was always real, pressed hard against him, teasing him as it shook against him with that laugh.
Teasing only, because Curt had a plan, his materials laid out on plates around the bed, covered to keep their surprise. One by one Curt brought them out, Valentine's gifts to share. There were no tea cakes here. For Arthur, Curt had candy. Chalky hearts with joke messages (Be a mime!, I lust u, Kick me!) pressed into Arthur's mouth on a kiss. Liquid chocolate fingerpainted across Arthur's nipples, then slowly, so slowly licked off. A mouthful of Pop Rocks for Curt; snap, crackle, pop around Arthur's cock, the tiny stings juxtaposed against the sweetness of Curt's tongue on the head until Arthur couldn't help it but to come, mouth chalky, chesty sticky, cock spent.
Arthur didn't tease, because he didn't have a plan. (His last one, while amusing in retrospect -- though if Curt told one more person that Arthur was a secret Lionel Ritchie admirer, Arthur was going to… well, do something drastic -- and while rewarding at the time, had been far too traumatic to go down that road anytime soon.) But he did have a lapful of Curt, still shaking with laughter, lips red and puffy from candy and pleasure, and the only emotional baggage in the bed with them right then was the horniness that Curt was still looking to Arthur to take care of. And he had a handful of Curt, thrusting into his tight grip, wordless with pleasure, face lost with it.
They wound up tangled together on the bed; plates on the floor, chocolate on the sheets, a heart (I lust u) stuck to Curt's cheek, and the sound of an escalating tea cake war coming from the bathroom. Curt laughed again, somewhat breathlessly, and pulled the heart off, reading the message. He ate it, grimacing at the taste. "I love you, but, God, those are bad. And fucking dry. Next year we're sticking with the chocolate." He got up off the bed, heading for the bathroom, but then turned back around and winked. "And the Pop Rocks. I guess if I'm going to get a drink to get the dry out of my mouth, it better not be soda, huh? Wouldn't want to pull a Mikey."
Then he was gone, the sound of his laughter (and his yelling at Cecil and Jerry to shut up) floating down the hall behind him. And Arthur lay in bed, repeating the words he'd so desperately wanted to hear over and over again in his head. He'd heard them before, of course, from the other Curt, the one he'd created out of his own fears, but never like this, easy and freely given. And truly meant.
Even as a more sober, if no less horrible round of Jerusalem started from the bathroom, Arthur got up and followed after Curt. Life had never been so sweet.
Kiss Me Cupid (Eric/Tim -- SPN fusion!verse)
Tim was looking at the tacky wallpaper in their tacky hotel room, but he wasn't seeing it, too intent on what he was hearing. "Tell me you're kidding, Landry."
"No, I'm not kidding. And why would you even think I was. If you're too lazy to do the research for yourself, it's not my fault."
Landry sounded frazzled, but Tim suspected that was from the late night feedings with the new baby. He knew what Tyra was like when she was woken up, so he could guess who had got stuck with that chore. But even as he sympathized, he was still in a 'kill the messenger' sort of mood. "I don't think it's too lazy when I spent the last two weeks up to my ass in vampires, damn it. And you're sure there's no other way? Nothing? You looked everywhere?"
There was a sigh on the other end of the phone line, but Landry sounded amused rather than frazzled when he said, "What, it's not like you're going to mind doing it. Why are you fighting this?"
And the thing was, that Tim didn't want to fight it. It sounded good to him. Perfect, even. But he knew how Eric felt about this kind of thing, and he wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to him. "Yeah, well, why don't you tell Coach that?"
After a suspiciously sudden bad connection, Landry hung up, a high pitched giggle that could only be Tyra coming through just before he did. Which meant that she knew, too, and there was no way she wasn't going to tell Jason. Or anyone else in the hunter's community she could think of. Tim groaned, knowing his life wasn't going to be worth living for the next couple of weeks.
Well, some of his life. After all, Landry did say it was the only way, and there wasn't going to be an argument that Eric could give against that. Not that he wouldn't try, but he'd give in in the end.
"It's sex magic. That's what Lance found out, right?"
He'd startled Tim, which was just another sign of how much those two weeks chasing vampires had worn him out. It was dangerous, too many things out for them now for them to just be normal people anymore. He looked at Eric, seeing the strain on him in tight shoulders, in the leaner body, harder muscles. Harder face, too, pinched in disapproval.
"You know, Landry's about the only one left who doesn't know you honestly do remember his name from time to time. One day he's going to give us some bad intel just to get back at you about that."
But Eric wasn't going to be distracted. "Shit. I was afraid of that."
Tim remembered a time when Eric had been embarrassed about cussing in front of him. Of course that had been about five years ago, and there was a lot of water under that bridge now. Not to mention a lot more reasons to curse than they'd had back then. "Is it going to be a problem? I mean, I can get you some whiskey, maybe something else if… well, if you need it to get…" He waved a hand in a vague gesture, hoping it would communicate what he meant, since he'd never have the nerve to ask for it, not just right out like that.
Plus, Eric was strangely prudish even now, after every thing he'd seen. He'd probably have an aneurysm if Tim said, "Do you want some Viagra so that you can get it up and fuck me in the ass. Of course, the spell'll work either way, but I'm figuring if you're this freaked out about fucking me, you really would die if I tried to do you. So what do you say?" Yeah, that would work. And there really was such a thing as unicorns, too.
Eric apparently knew how to translate vague hand gestures, because he just looked more nervous. He shook his head. "No, it's okay. I… I can do it. It's not a problem. I just…."
Yeah, he just. Tim had already heard the rail against sex magic, and while he knew it was a stupid thing to mess with, as liable to turn on you as on what you were after, he also knew that if they didn't get to it, so to speak, then twelve more couples were going to die tonight. Happy Valentine's Day to all of them.
If Tim had thought talking about it to Eric was awkward, then actually getting to it was on a whole new level. Like Mario Brothers Level 666 or something, with Eric taking off his clothes like he thought something was going to jump out at them at any moment. Of course, with their luck, it probably was, but they'd made the place as safe as they could, and they had nothing specific hunting them. Tonight, at least.
Trying to keep the freak out to a minimum, Tim left his boxers on, going over to help Eric get off his boots. He took his time, not making any sudden movements, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog in. He didn't think Eric would appreciate the comparison, but then he really didn't think Eric was up to appreciating much right now, his breath coming fast, his shirt still on, looking like he was about to walk the plank.
"You know, you could just lie back. Like, think of England or whatever. I could do the rest. You could even pretend I was someone else, if you want."
It killed Tim to make that offer, but he had to do something. Right now, he was beginning to feel like a rapist, not sure if he could get it up, even with Eric nearly naked before him, and he wasn't the one who minded what was about to happen. He'd had any number of light fantasies about his former coach, harmless, over the years. Lyla had always thought it was funny, but then Lyla had known about him and Jason, from back way before either of them had hooked up with her. There'd been no surprises there.
Maybe that was it. Maybe Eric was afraid that Tim wasn't willing. It made sense, in a way, since for the last couple of months, now that the grief was finally starting to fade, Eric had been almost… well, almost flirty, really, and maybe that had just been Tim imagining it, but he'd always had good radar about that kind of thing before. "You do know that I've done this before, right?"
That made Eric laugh at least. "Yeah, Tim, I'd figured out you weren't a virgin."
"Yeah, no, I mean that I'm not a virgin in any way. With guys. Like that."
Which just brought the worried look back. "Yeah, I'd kind of… I mean, you and Jason just always seemed so…."
And they had been so, once. Back when the worst things in Tim's life were abandonment issues, lack of money, and the occasional beating. But none of that was true anymore, and Tim was beginning to be at least a little okay with it. Enough that he wanted this, wanted Eric. Whatever part of him had died with Lyla, it wasn't this, and he pulled Eric closer, just holding him near for the moment. Letting him get used to the contact.
Not that they hadn't been touching, hadn't been more naked with each other than they were now, but there'd been blood involved with all that, pain from wounds that hunting seemed to dole out, regular as breathing, and that wasn't what Tim wanted this to be about. He ventured a kiss, just a press of lips, hoping it would ease the way a little.
And it was like a dam burst, Eric's lips opening under his, tongue pressing in even as his hips pressed closer to Tim's, the proof that this was something Eric's body wanted, at least, warm through the cotton of their shorts, hard against Tim's leg. God, was the last rational thought he had before he started ripping off his boxers, Eric's shirt, with Eric's hands, trying to be helpful, just getting in his way. Tim put up with it until he couldn't take it any more, and he pushed Eric back onto the bed, smelling as musty as it had when they checked in, but he no longer cared, only wanting to push Eric into it, to do all kinds of things to him. Holding those non-helpful hands down with one of his, he used his other, near-desperate hand, and, in a fit of limberness, one of his feet, to finally get rid of the last barrier between them.
Those old fantasies, the newer ones he sometimes had, had always been sort of like good porno, all smooth moves and prefect moments. This was more like slapstick, with Eric still seeming to have no idea what to do with his hands, one of them almost clocking Tim as he tried to maneuver them around, and Tim being somewhat less than smooth by basically humping away at the body beneath him.
Eric finally held them both still, hands over Tim's, both of them on Tim's hips, holding them still, too. "Stop. Just for a moment. Because if you keep doing that, we're not going to get to what we need to do, at least not for a long while, 'cause you may still only be twenty-two, but I haven't seen that age in just about that amount of time, and I'm not going to be able to come, like, eight times in the four hours we have left."
Tim laughed. "Wow, either you were amazing at twenty-two, or you have some exaggerated ideas of my prowess." But he held still all the same, knowing what they needed to do. And maybe later he could convince Eric to give up the 'I'm too old for this crap' crap, and see exactly how many times he could do it.
When they'd first read about this gig, they hadn't ever even heard of Elk Groves, a small city that had its share of crime, but hardly any murders. But strange deaths? Now that was a different matter. Every Valentine's Day twelve couples just seemed to collapse, always in the throes of passion. And while you might think that would cool off the holiday passions a little, apparently there were always enough takers that the number hadn't missed in five years. A little prelim research had told Tim it was a kamadeva, a kind of emotional Elemental, either named after a Hindu god, or the source of his legend. Or, as he liked to think of him, a freaky ass little Cupid who liked to find couples in the midst of mating rituals and take them out. As the world had moved away from mating rituals, something Tim thought was probably a shame, the creatures had had to search hard to find something that could be considered ritualized sex, mostly dying out. But apparently this one had decided that overly-hyped sort-of romance was good enough. And in a fit of supernatural pragmatism, since the holiday only came once a year, the kamadeva took enough in one bite to get him through the dry spots.
They'd had plenty of time to finish this job when he'd first read about it, but the damn vampires had put a kind of hitch in things, and now, with only hours to go, the only quick solution to the kamadeva problem was sex. And not just any kind of sex, but same-sex sex, and penetrative same-sex sex at that. It also involved some kind of magic powder, 11 secret herbs and spices, but that was just the frosting on the cake, really. Because Eric was a little anal, and always had the SUV packed with all kinds of helpful things, and because Tim had half-way figured, and maybe more than half-way hoped, that things would work out this way, he'd already mixed things up with the lube he kept packed away in the SUV. The only real trick had been to get Eric to agree to things.
Tim scrambled out of bed to fetch the lube, more than a little afraid that Eric would change his mind even now that he'd started, but Eric just grabbed it as soon as he got back in reach. Then he grabbed Tim, pushing him down this time, the careful fingers that stretched him open the only part of Eric not nearly vibrating with need. Tim could see the strain on Eric's face as he pressed slowly in, the need to not hurt vying with the need to bury himself fast and deep. And while the second sounded damn good to him, Tim had to admit that his ass was thankful for the first, his claims to not be a virgin to this type of thing only barely true.
But need built until it pushed back care, and Tim was nearly sobbing out the words, "Fuck me, please, just fuck me now," before Eric finally gave in, the bed springs squealing like they were murdering it, Tim shouting as he was pounded into them. Eric barely made any noise at all, a half-whispered gasp of, "God," as he came, heartfelt and worshipful, if not in the way the church would approve of.
Tim approved heartily, and was feeling fairly worshipful himself, body slightly aching from the hard life they led, from the hard fuck, and feeling better than he had since New Years. Since forever, because that life was behind them now, and maybe this wasn't what either of them had wanted to happen, or would have chosen to happen, but Tim could honestly say, if he had to be stuck in this with someone, he was happy with the way things had worked out.
Eric looked worried again, his post-coital bliss not lasting anywhere near long enough for Tim, but he was used to that by now. Eric carried so much guilt with him. Over Julie, even though there wasn't a damn thing he could have done to stop it. Over Tami, even though she'd been the one to decide. And Tim understood that, because he carried more than a little guilt himself, and his guilt was far more deserved.
But even if they hadn't chosen any of this, they couldn’t change any of it, either. Dead was dead -- or at least Tim hoped so, because he was so not looking forward to finding out zombies were real, especially not after finding out how wrong Buffy had been about the vampires -- and there was no going back. And they still had good things in their life. Matt and Sarah Lynn. Landry and Tyra. Jason, even with his skepticism. JD, with his money. They'd been lucky in a lot of ways, even if the bad luck had weighed so heavily.
"You think it worked?"
Tim was startled again, lost in his own thoughts. They really needed to take a break for a while, get some rest, or else the next hunt might be the one that took them out. "Yeah, I think so. It kind of feels like it, anyway."
Eric snorted, rolling closer to Tim now that they were cooling down, the fall Montana night leeching away their heat. "You and your feelings. You know, if you'd really wanted to have a handy psychic power, then having one that would provide pizza in bed without having to move would have been really handy."
Tim laughed, feeling some of his own worry slip away. Eric might fret about what had happened, but he obviously wasn't going to try to lie and say he hadn't wanted it. Whatever had been going through his mind, at least it wasn't that. "That's what I have you for."
Which earned him another snort, but Eric did roll out of bed, slipping his clothes back on and pulling out his cell phone. He might hate his iPhone, but he really loved the pizza app Tim had found for him.
Tim put his own clothes back on, because it was fall in Montana, and you never knew when something was going to try to bust down the door, but he got back in the bed, waiting for Eric to get back with dinner.
Last year on this day, he'd bought Lyla a diamond heart, knowing she'd just smack him if he bought her too much candy. She'd loved it, wearing it all the time, even the night she died. He'd grieved for her, and still did, the image of her burning on that ceiling still playing behind his eyes on bad nights. But he hadn't died with her, as tempting as it had been at the time. And sometimes, in the dreams, she blamed him, hated him, wanted him to be miserable. But on the good nights, when she was still alive in his mind, beautiful and happy, she smiled at him with knowing eyes.
Later, after a romantic Valentine's Day of pizza, weapons cleaning, and more sex, Tim dreamed of knowing eyes.
Magnet Tar Pit Trap (Todd/John -- well, I did put it in the warnings)
"You have no one but yourself to blame for this."
Todd, like most Wraith, loved to hear himself talk, but John couldn't figure what he was on about this time. What 'this'? Being captured? Because he was pretty sure that neither of them had suspected the whole thing was a trap, and he didn't really think he could be blamed for the trap itself.
"Look, I get that you're pissed off that we walked into an ambush, but since you didn't spot it either, I don't get where I'm to blame."
"No, of course not, Sheppard. The trap is not of either of our doing. It's what's going to happen now that I lay at your door."
Even with the warning, John didn't really have time to prepare. Todd had been duplicitous, had outright used them before, but he'd never seemed the type to just attack for no reason. In that one way, he'd been more human than Michael; before, during, and after the incredibly bad idea experiment.
John fought hard, but without weapons, and without real warning, he was no match for the Wraith's strength. He wound up pinned on the stone floor of the cell in an embarrassingly short time. He bucked up against Todd, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
He shivered when Todd tore open his shirt, but with his hands pinned above his head, there was nothing he could do about it. Todd's free hand traveled over the exposed skin, resting, palm spread, over the spot where the feeding mark had been. Even knowing that he couldn't feed that way anymore, John still felt the ghost pain of feeding, the memory of this Wraith doing just that sharp like iron in his mind.
It was only when that hand started to tear at his pants that John figured out what was about to happen. He'd never considered it, not from this source. The Wraith had always seemed like vampires; something sexual about the feeding, but not in a human normal way. But apparently he'd either been wrong, or more had changed about Todd than just the way he fed.
Knowing it was pointless, John still tried to resist, only getting more bruises for his efforts. Todd didn't even bother getting him entirely stripped, just enough bared on both of them to press the strangely-flared penis against his leg, his hip, his ass, and shove in, pushing past John's resistance to sink in all the way.
It hurt, far beyond what John had expected. It wasn't like he'd never had sex before, had thought he'd known what it felt like if things happened too fast, without enough lubrication, but that pain had always been momentary, something to be got through, and this just seemed to go on and on, until he thought it was honestly going to kill him.
Later, with Todd lying on him, no longer in him, but the threat of it still there, John half-way wished it had killed him. He'd had time to think, time to imagine the looks he'd get, the questions they'd ask. And that was if the dame Misurans didn't kill them both first. Or hell, if they walked in and saw them like this, maybe they'd join the party. Any way you looked at it, John figured he was well and truly screwed.
Which was right about the time that Todd decided to start talking again. "I hadn't wanted it this way."
John figured that was his cue to answer, but he didn't really have anything to say. What would he answer besides, neither did I.
"Since the… change, I can no longer feed the same anymore. That, in itself, is unsettling enough, a way of life gone. But with the absence of one type of hunger, others have appeared. The need for food, that I could handle. It was all around, easily obtained. As for the others… those were more problematic. I thought of you often, in ways I hadn't before. Or, at least, in ways I hadn't realized before. And then, this. This need to work together, and seeing you all these days. It had become harder and harder to control myself, and while I pride myself on my composure, this is a thing I've never had to deal with before."
Unable to contain the inner smart ass for long, John couldn't help but answer that. "Yeah, I really feel for you. I can see how it really wasn't your fault at all. You just tripped and fell."
Todd smirked at that, not looking in any way chagrinned. "But it isn't, John. Not really. No more than my feeding on you when we first me was. Both came from actions that someone else did to me, rather than any I chose for myself. Another form of rape, if you would. I certainly didn't choose to be Kolya's pet, anymore than I chose to become this thing that isn't quite Wraith. Not anymore."
In a really weird way, John could see his point. He'd always had the ability to do that with Todd, even when Todd's point was basically like a knife in the back, a betrayal of the tiny glimmer of trust John had foolishly allowed himself to have, and it had always been highly disturbing to him. Not that it would stop him from killing the bastard when he got a chance. "If you know what that's like, why do this to me?"
But Todd didn't answer, not at first, or at least not verbally, using nails like talons to carve his message into John's chest instead, marking him like he had that first time. It was only hours later, deep inside John again, slower, almost soft, and still as painful, that he said, "There's a connection between us. Almost an obligation of some type. And I don't know how to break it, or how to let it go. But neither of us can ever forget, either, how we met, or what I was before. So this, this not quite enough satiation, will have to do."
It was days later before John got back to Atlantis. He rarely abused his position, or his connection to the city, to get by with what he knew were important checks, but he managed to lie and wrangle, both with his rank and his gene, out of the post-mission checkup. He told himself it was because everything was already healing, and it wasn't something they needed to know.
But it didn't explain why he didn't have the scar, barely recognizable as the Wraith word for Mine, removed.
Or why Todd was still alive.
Secret Admirer (John/Cameron)
Cameron had learned long ago that some things you just left alone. Everyone had secrets, and it wasn't a matter of not loving someone enough, or not wanting to share, but that everyone needed some parts of them that were only for them, and no one else.
John, however, was a walking secret, more unknown than known, and it hurt sometimes, no matter how much he tried to ride it through, that he was always going to be so close, and no closer, to probably the most compelling mystery he'd ever come across in his life.
Still, he'd known the ground rules when he went in, and for the most part it made him happy. Neither of them risked their careers by any public displays. Neither of them asked about their exes, even if they were still on their teams. Neither of them asked about the scars; the one Cameron had on the back of his neck, right near the curve of his shoulder, the one John had on his chest, too close to his heart.
It could have been a unfulfilling relationship, too little shared to be more than sex, except for days like this. The rest of the world was out celebrating with champagne and chocolate, cards and diamonds, and they were in Cam's somewhat stark apartment, lazy after sex, cold pizza in one hand, beer in the other. Cam had thought at first that John was changing the TV channels with his mind, because a new one went by about every three seconds, but he'd eventually figured out he was sitting on the remote, and they'd finally settled on Arizona State/Stanford game, with Cam rooting for Arizona just to piss John off.
He never did see the end of the game, great sex, four beers, and John's feet warm and cozy in his lap, leading him down into sleep. It was only after he woke up, another game playing, John curled up tight against his chest, that it occurred to him that this: the cold pizza, the warm beers, the military commander of Atlantis as a closet snuggler, was their secret. A part of them, and no one else.
And maybe John (hair spiked up in about a zillion different directions, mouth tasting of stale beer and something Cam had never been able to identify, ratty sweats almost falling off of him, their elastic long shot, and looking far better that way than he had any right to), would always have his secrets, but who he was to Cam was never going to be one of them.
Isn't It Fucking Romantic (Alec/Eliot)
Alec knew what Eliot did. He'd shown him, right from that first job. But knowing it, and living with what it meant, those were two different things.
Nathan put his hand on Alec's shoulder, squeezed. "I know you're thinking he's going to kill you when he wakes up, but, while he might threaten it, he won't really do it."
It was supposed to be comforting, but Alec almost could wish it wasn't true. "I fucked up. I was out of place, and I knew I was. And if I hadn't been, then he wouldn't have been." It was all running together, his words just getting tangled, but the good thing about Nathan was that he knew how to listen between the lines.
"Hey, he's going to be fine. Yeah, you were out of place, and we're certainly going to talk about you and this recent trend towards late night gaming sessions and the consequences they have on the job, but…"
He trailed off, and Alec could guess what he was thinking about. Alec wasn't the only one who'd endangered a job with a bad habit, but at least Nathan hadn't gotten Sophie beaten up doing it. And not that Alec was ever going to mention to Eliot that he'd compared him to Sophie, but that's just how upset he was.
Nathan left him alone then. There was a voice in Alec's head, sounding suspiciously like Eliot, that told him that sitting here watching Eliot sleep was kind of a chick thing to do, but Alec just embraced his inner romance novel heroine and went right on waiting.
It was late when Eliot finally did wake up, grumpy about having to do it, just like usual. But he didn't blast into Alec like he'd been expecting, instead going for confusing him with, "Damn, I missed Valentine's Day."
Of everything Alec had been expecting him to say, that was so far down the list it hadn't made his list at all. He'd been practicing his replies to the ones that actually had made the list -- I'm sorry, I'm really very, very sorry, Fuck man, I'm fucking sorry, and Please don't kill me had been in there a lot -- and was kind of at a loss now that he was faced with the anomaly. But Eliot always had been determined to screw up his calculations, and all Alec could come up with was, "Did you have plans?"
Eliot snorted. "Of course I had plans, man. It's Valentine's Day. I was going to cook you dinner and everything."
And, really, that was even further off the list than the first thing, and Alec was out on open water, no land in sight, and sinking fast, because the inner romance novel heroine was getting a little misty-eyed here, but the rest of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Oh. Well. That sounds… romantic."
That got him another snort. "It's Valentine's Day. You're supposed to be fucking romantic."
There was definitely a quality of 'get the fuck with it' in Eliot's voice, and the sarcasm plus the utterly unromantic 'fucking' finally sounded enough like Eliot that Alec knew what to say. "I'm sorry."
And there was no way Eliot was going to pretend that he didn't understand, because Eliot was actually more comfortable talking about things that you'd expect from the macho prick, but he never seemed to handle anyone apologizing to him well. Just another one of the many neuroses that made sleeping with the man an adventure. Eliot squirmed for a moment, but finally managed to take the apology by turning it into something else. "Yeah, well, you could make it up to me."
There was an exaggerated wiggle of his brows, just in case Alec was really dumb. Or had never met him before and didn't know that Eliot was a sex-addict in search of a twelve-step program that didn't require him to give up sex.
Not that Alec was complaining about that, really. He would never survive that program himself.
He wasn't complaining about doing this, either, hands careful of bruises as he pulled Eliot's dick free of his boxer-briefs, licking around the head once before he took the rest in. He wasn't as good at it as Eliot was, still too quick to gag, but he was getting better. And there was something almost magical about watching all that prickly surface disappear beneath something far more tractable, almost, almost sweet, like in that moment, sated and happy, it was too much effort for Eliot to keep the walls in place.
Alec didn't gripe when Eliot fell asleep right after. If he'd been in place, they could have done this the right way. Apparently even with dinner first.
He settled back to wait, he and the inner romance heroine in agreement on this. After all, there were still four more hours of Valentine's Day, and Alec still had plenty of fucking romance left.
The 1,000,476th Best Kiss In the History of Kisses, AKA, The One That Left Them All Behind (Robert/Jake)
Later they called it the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, another Allied States' theft of US history. But Robert just called it a mission.
And the mission had always come first with him. Always. It had cost him his wife and kids, to the point that even now, knowing what they did, they only loved him in an intellectual way. An acknowledgement of what he was to them, rather than any deeper feeling for him.
He'd told himself that that mission had to come first this time, too. Told himself that. And then made sure that the mission was what he knew he intended to do, rather than anything Beck and the others had come up with.
It had been worth it, when he'd got Jake out. All smiles and laughs, even with his body so thin Robert was afraid he'd disappear if he turned sideways. Even with blood on his teeth, blood against his prison pale complexion. Red and white, red and white. "Holiday colors."
Robert didn't know why he said it out loud, because Jake was many things, but psychic wasn't one of them. But Jake, as always, surprised him. "That's right, Cupid. And I have to say that nothing says romance like a daring prison break."
He leaned up, body shaking with even that much effort, and kissed Robert softly. Robert tasted blood, and the sour taste that people who'd been starved seemed to pick up, like their breath had gone stale from lack of food. The kiss was sweet all the same.
Jake leaned back in the Jeep's seat, slightly winded, smiling again. "I'm not wearing any lacy lingerie, though, not even for you."
Robert drove them back to the almost-safety of their camp, laughing for the first time in six weeks.
Lonely Rivers Sigh (Crichton/Everyone -- but in a gen way)
He'd calculated it as best he could, arns to hours being near enough that, at most, he shouldn't be off by more than an arn here or there.
He didn't try to explain Valentine's to them. He could just imagine their confusion (their disdain) if he did. But it didn't stop him from celebrating in his own way.
Little gifts; easily acquired, easily smuggled, easily hidden. Tiny little candies, suspiciously like Kisses, left on Aeryn's bed. A tiny bottle of bishur oil -- worn like perfume it gave you a pleasant tingling sensation for hours, put on food, an aphrodisiac (he'd had to check with Pilot on that one, and hadn't that been embarrassing, just to make sure that it was safe) -- left in the landing bay compartment Chianna liked to think was a secret hiding place. The Delvian version of a mini Zen garden, left on Zhaan's workbench. An almost-chamois type cloth, good for polishing Qalta blades, tied around its hilt as D'Argo slept (and he'd needed Zhaan's help for that, but she'd just smiled at him, not requiring an explanation, always far more tolerant of his weirdnesses than the others). The Nilla Wafer-ish cookies Rygel favored, put in the pantry, but with his name (carefully printed in Hynerian, which Chianna had shown him how to write, in return for one of the wafers) clearly marked on them. Pilot had been hard, little he wanted besides what he had, except for a way to get Moya to safe harbor. But John had untangled miles of Moya's bio cables, something it was hard for the DRDs to do, for him (and gotten Moya to hide him from Pilot while he did it). For Moya, he'd sung to her as he worked, rock songs she'd never heard, and that he'd probably never hear again, and there was nothing he could do to keep it a secret, but she seemed happy with it all the same.
There was also a dinner, the best he could bargain for (and what the hell, it wasn't like Scorpius hadn't just taken it from him when he liked, and this way at least John got something out of it), and even Aeryn, notoriously unconcerned about eating for pleasure, smiled and laughed as they feasted on memories from all their homes.
Not his home, though. Not yet, John too much the optimist to give up hope quite yet. Far too stubborn to let Scorpius steal any more from him, even when he wasn't there. Or usually wasn't there. Not on John's sane days, anyway.
They had looked at him a little oddly when he managed to get a kiss out of each of them, even Pilot (and that had been even odder than Rygel, but far less disgusting). Just for luck, for luck. It wasn't like they couldn't use it.
And if he forgot to mention any of it in his journal to his dad, if he sometimes forgot not to call Moya home (he'd kissed her strut that curved out on the viewing window by the landing bay, making sure that none of the others were watching. She'd seemed happy with it all the same), and if he sometimes wondered if any of it was real, even the childhood memories that now included things that (might have) never been, he didn't tell anyone.
Or usually didn't. Not on John's sane days, anyway.
Paper Hearts (Alva/Paul -- schmoopy)
It started with chocolates, left on his desk at work. Paul ate them, thinking that Evie had given into temptation again, then gotten rid of them in a fit of remorse.
The flowers were harder to explain though, red roses with long stems, white Baby's-breath woven between them. They weren't fattening, as far as he knew, anyway, and Evie didn't know anything about them, nor did Alva.
The paper valentine, looking a lot like the ones they'd made in school when they'd been kids, covered in slightly surrealistic hearts and XOXO kisses and hugs, was a little scary. If Evie hadn't done it, nor Matty, if Alva hadn't lost his mind, then that meant that someone was stalking him, and, frankly, Paul really thought he had enough garbage going on in his life without adding secret stalker to the list.
He was nervous and a little afraid, and Alva smiled at him, but didn't laugh, and drove him home so he didn't have to take the bus. His hands shook as he opened the door, and he almost laughed at himself, but he was so tired of being the center of attention for things he hadn't chosen. And a little depressed that he'd passed another Valentine's Day without anyone but secret stalkers seeming to notice him.
"I'm sorry."
Paul looked at Alva, recognizing the look of guilt on his face, but not understanding it. "Sorry about what?"
Alva sighed. "All of this. It was stupid, but I couldn’t… I just wanted to do something for you, and then I kept chickening out. And now… well, now I'm creeping you out, actually scaring you, and I never meant to, Paul. I never meant to do that."
It had been something of a long day, and Paul was having problems tracking what the hell Alva had thought he was doing. Not that Paul hadn't noticed, what with how he came to work for the man, that Alva could be kind of a little intense, to put it politely, when he was pursuing something, but he just didn't get it. "You wanted to do something for me? And you thought that giving me gifts from a false secret admirer was a good thing?"
Alva sighed again, shaking one hand as if he were erasing what they'd already said. "I'm not explaining this well. I just… I knew that I'd started staring, and standing too close, and touching you too often, and that I shouldn't, but I… I couldn't not. Anymore than I could leave you alone to begin with. And, yes, I know that this goes beyond the pale, and I really don't want to be that man, Paul. I'd managed to keep it under control, or at least not been so obvious that Evie gave me a hard time about it, but then… I'd saw you dead."
Paul knew he was still missing something, because he didn't see how seeing him dead was an impetus to romantic action, unless Alva had a problem he wasn't mentioning here, and he just didn't think that was going to be it. Feeling like an idiot that was missing the obvious, he said, "And that was a problem, how?"
"I thought I'd lost you. There were a couple of moments there, before you finally woke, that I was sure you were well and truly dead. And it wasn't how important you are to the future of what we investigate. It wasn't even fear that I'd have to deal with it alone, Evie too upset by yet one more loss to help, that scared me the most. It was that I thought I'd never see you again as anything but dead. But then you'd probably already guessed that part of it, since I haven't been the subtlest of creatures, at least not according to our coworker."
But Paul hadn't guessed. And he knew Evie was probably laughing her ass off about how oblivious he was being again, especially since she'd already guessed he wasn't exactly averse to Alva, for all that he sometimes drove Paul crazy, but he'd never been any good at reading attraction. He had to hear the words, to be told his worth to someone else to believe that any existed. Too many years of being passed over, with carelessly uttered phrases like too old, too serious, and -- always -- not what we really wanted echoing down those years, to take anything for granted. Only Poppi, with his freely given hugs, and Georgia, with her fierce loyalty, had ever really made him believe. It was why he and Rebecca had been such a disaster, all his neurotic need for reassurance up against her need to not be tied down to anything, and what had happened in that house could almost have occurred without the spirit intervention.
But how did he say that to someone, tell them, be sure? Be very sure that he was what they wanted, and that they would have to make him believe it. Because otherwise he'd drive them crazy, and they'd do the same to him, and it would end just as messy as it had before, with Paul hating the person he'd become.
What he did say was, "The only Valentines I've ever received were the ones we'd made each other in school when we were children, and the one you gave me." He paused, then laughed, unable to resist the dig. "To tell you the truth, they looked about the same."
Alva laughed with him, shrugging away any pretension at card-making skill, but he was looking in Paul's eyes for the first time since they'd come in, and there was something that might be hope there. Maybe just telling him straight out wouldn't be as awkward as Paul thought.
He never had to test the theory, Alva braver in this than Paul was. "It isn't recent, and it wasn't caused by seeing you dead. That was just a goad to action, as it were. I… I love you, Paul, and I think I have since I first met you, and found you so much more than the mysterious figure in so many people's dreams. So much more."
Paul couldn't say it back, not yet, but he took Alva's hand and drew him deeper into his apartment. He wasn't sure that this wasn't scarier than a secret stalker, this laying his heart out, waiting for it to go wrong again, but he'd always been a sucker for other's people's belief. And maybe one day, he'd even believe it himself.
The Way To a Man's Heart (Mal/Everyone -- in a mostly gen way)
Mal had given up on faith long ago. At least any other faith than in himself, his ship, and the people who crewed with him. Well, in at least some of the people who crewed with him. But it was hard to have faith in any of that when everything seemed to be falling apart at the seams, the constants that had been there for so long he'd taken them as truth, gone in a moment.
Not that there weren't still constants in his life. Zoe was still a ghost, apparently waiting for Wash to come back, or to find her way to him in one way or another. Kaylee was still a ditz. A golden, wonderful ditz, but still. Inara was still gone, the violence of his life still too close a memory for her. River was still crazy, and Simon was still a sister's boy. And Wash and Book were still dead.
Now Jayne… well, Jayne was still crazy. But he was still there, still alive, no matter how many people would love to kill him, and just as irritating as ever. It was one of the things that Mal liked best about him.
They were all his, his faith, and maybe sometimes he hated what they were (dead he hated most of all), but as long as they were his, he could fight for them. As long as they were his, he wasn't back in the Valley, breathing death in deep, but not deep enough. As long as they were his, he could keep going. That was his faith, as stupid and crazy as it was. Because they'd lose some day, follow Wash and Book (still dead), and then where would Mal be?
But today, this day, they were still his. And today they were going to have a celebration, regardless of the fact that no one had ever heard of Valentine's Day, or even cared about it.
Of course the only reason Mal had was because Book had mentioned it once, with that crazy old-time knowledge of his. He suspected that Book hadn't really known what it was about anyway, the dinner before them not looking very appetizing, but he'd looked up the ingredients Book had mentioned, and this was the recipe he'd got. And they were damn well going to eat it, and they were damn well going to be happy about it, because Zoe was still a ghost, and Kaylee was still a ditz, and Inara was still gone, River still crazy, Simon still a sister's boy, Wash and Book still dead, and Jayne, God love his ornery little soul, was still crazy enough to just dig right into the pie without even hesitating, and they were all his.
Zoe, for once, noticed what was on the table before her, her face getting that same look that it always had when he suggested what she thought was a slightly unusual (or totally crazy, depending on who you asked) idea. "Are you sure this is a traditional Valentine's Day meal?"
Mal was happy she was talking, happy she was paying attention, and he could almost have hugged her for it, but that wasn't what she needed from him. So he gave her the truth instead, liberally laced with sarcasm. "Hearts and flour, just like Book said. Of course, that also has kidney in it, and some other stuff, but it was the only one I could find with both ingredients in it, so it has to be the right one. So just shut up and eat it."
They all did, food always too precious a commodity to waste, but it didn't stop them from complaining. Mal let them, knowing that was just the way they were, another constant in a world too filled with change.
None of them ever did figure out what Valentine's Day was really about, but they celebrated it with hearts and flour every year all the same.
/stories
Enjoy!