alphabet ficlets, round two
For gin200168:
Mac/Abernathy, D is for Desperation
Afterward, Mac can't stop touching him. The idea that Abernathy is here, in New York and in his bed, is too strange, too unbelievable. He'll wake up any time now; any moment the dream will fade.
The lines of Abernathy's body are familiar, even after 25 years, but there's a deep, ragged scar on his thigh, bisecting the muscle, that Mac knows was never there before. He can't stop himself from running his hand across it over and over again, feeling the hard little bumps beneath the rough skin.
"Shrapnel," Abernathy says in a sleepy voice. "Ain't nothing."
"When?"
"Kuwait City. Got my femoral artery. I came close to bleeding out, but someone managed to get a tourniquet on it in time." He shrugs, but his eyes are distant. "Makes for one hell of a conversation piece, I'll say that much."
Mac stares at him for a moment, then reaches up and kisses him hard. By Kuwait City they hadn't spoken in almost seven years; if Abernathy had died, Mac might never have known, or the news might have only found its way back to him by distant rumor. He wouldn't have been there, either way, because he had been in Sarajevo that year, and it might not have mattered even if he had been. Yet life would have gone on if Abernathy had been killed; he would have gone on not knowing, never even guessing.
They kiss, and there's only tonight; tomorrow this will all be over, and life will go back to normal. Abernathy's mouth is smoky with ash and whiskey, and if he wakes up to an empty bed in the morning, Mac thinks, it'll come as a relief.
For scsquidsnaps:
The Tenth Doctor, L is for Loss
He understands what loss is, and he recognizes its inevitability. In 900 years, in a lifetime that's been spent, from the very earliest moments he can remember, focused upon the meaning and value and manipulation of time, it would be a very strange thing indeed if he didn't. It hasn't been much time at all since he had someone he could talk to about that, someone who would understand, in a way none of his human companions ever will, what it's like to lose and lose and lose again, or what it's like to think loss is something you'll never have to worry about, only to have it come crashing down on your head. Not so very long at all, measured by his standards; a very long time, counted in human years, and maybe he has spent too long venturing to Earth, because he feels the weight of those years the way he imagines one of them would.
But he hasn't really talked to anyone in those terms since Romana, and that was several different men ago, and although he can remember, clear as clear, the things they had done together, the things they had seen, he can no longer say how many of these memories are real, and how many he's imposing his hindsight upon, rewriting to suit his present needs.
His time with Rose had been a lark, a madcap carnival, a roundabout: that was what he kept telling himself, over and over again. He was happy, and she was happy, and there was so much to explore, so much to do. That wasn't going to change, because he had decided it wasn't, and even when Sarah Jane had come back and he'd had a forcible reminder of how the story ended, how all stories end, he'd promised Rose that it wouldn't happen that way with them.
And then it ended, and she was gone, and he doesn't even think that she blames him for that, sweet Rose sleeping in her new world, far away beyond the barrier.
The impulse to go back and change things, to fix things, is almost an impossible one to resist. He knows that, too, and because of that it's best that he can't travel to where she is, just like it's best that Gallifrey is no more, that, in this reality at least, it's been erased from all of recorded time. He won't even offer himself the temptation.
Things change, and Martha sits with him in an alley five billion years in the future, and he decides that it's safe to tell her about Gallifrey, to recreate the silver-tipped trees for her.
She'll end too, and he'll go on, and he can never reach home again, can never be tempted to rewrite the past. He's made sure of that.
For fallen_arazil:
Tosh/Suzie, M is for Meaning(less)
Tosh doesn't ask for the job of writing up Suzie's file; it gets assigned to her. Jack is casual about it when he asks -- no, tells -- her to do it, but nothing in his calm gaze leaves room for her to ask why she has to be the one: why he thinks this could possibly be a good idea, or why she might have any insight into Suzie that the rest of them lack.
She doesn't, and when she sees how personal she's let the write-up become, how much private pain and fear bleeds through what should be neutral words, she wants to erase it and start over. She sits for a long time with her finger poised over the delete key, but in the end she lets it stand. Maybe, when Jack reads it, he'll be forced to act, forced to do something before another one of them takes Suzie's escape route.
But he doesn't say a word, and Tosh thinks she should have known that.
She's glad, then, that for all its raw hurt and confusion, there are still some things she left out of her report. Like how she'd seen Suzie standing at the far end of the car park one night over a year ago. Suzie had been smoking and tears had been running down her face, and she wasn't bothering to wipe them away, and Tosh had pretended she hadn't seen her and just walked on. Or how Suzie had come up to her at the pub, months later, and how her eyes had been hard and desperate, her mouth twisted in a too-bright smile. She'd kissed Tosh in a dark corner, but they had both gone home alone. She hadn't written about any of that, and now, she thinks that's for the best.
Suzie had tasted like apples. Tosh didn't write about that, either.
For xguardianangelx:
Danny/Mac, P is for Phobia
The jukebox is loud, and there's a lot of conversation going on all around them, and so at first Mac doesn't hear the question Danny asks him.
Danny leans closer and repeats it. "What scares you?" he says, right up against Mac's ear.
Mac looks at him in surprise. "What brought that on?"
Danny shrugs. "Just wondering." He leans in close again. "It's one of those things that really lets you know what someone is all about, you know? I was thinking you've never really mentioned anything that might scare you, so I was kind of curious."
"What scares you?" Mac counters.
Danny smiles at him. "You first," he says.
"Oh, you know," he says after a pause. "The usual."
"The usual varies from person to person," Danny says, and Mac has a brief fantasy about punching him. "You gotta be a little more specific, you know that. Flying? Spiders? There must be something."
"I'm fine with flying," Mac says. "Spiders are all right, too. I'm not about to keep one for a pet, but they don't bother me." He considers. "I'm not crazy about snakes."
Danny gives a brief shudder. "Me neither. I used to scream my head off when I was a kid and anyone tried to make me go into the Reptile House at the Bronx Zoo."
Mac has to smile. "I would never go in the one at the Lincoln Park Zoo when I was little."
"Smart move. Don't blame you." Danny raises his beer. "So what else?" he says, and smiles, moving a little closer as he does.
This, Mac thinks, but there's no way he can say that.
For zekkass:
Hawkes/Flack, S is for Shadows
Somewhere down the street a car backfires, or a truck goes by with a heavy load, and there's a sound like thunder in the room and the windows rattle, and Flack spills his drink before he can stop himself.
"Fuck," he mutters, and shakes vodka off his hand, and he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. He's aware that Hawkes is looking at him, but he doesn't turn around. If he ignores the look for long enough, he knows from experience, the moment will pass, and they'll be able to move on. He's done that with enough people by now, on enough different nights, that he should know how near to foolproof the trick is.
After a moment, Hawkes clears his throat, and Flack tenses, thinking that this would be the case, that Hawkes would be just that one person out of everyone to ignore the clear hint, but all he says is, "Let me refill your drink."
Flack nods and holds out the glass, and Hawkes takes it without saying another word. After a minute or two, he comes back and puts the drink in Flack's hand, then sits down beside him. "Always startles me, too," he says. "In my old building, my living room faced an alley, and the trucks went back and forth all day long. I never got used to it, either."
"Hell of a thing," Flack says, and he's pleased when his voice doesn't crack.
"Yeah," Hawkes says in a calm voice. "It is."
Flack wants to tell him that he hasn't always been like this, that he hasn't always jumped and trembled at every little noise, but he's too tired to even try to form the words. "Thanks," he says, instead, and Hawkes just nods, as if he knows what Flack means.
For moska_v:
Stella/Mac, V is for Visceral
Mac's mouth covers Stella's skin with hot gasps of air as he arches shuddering against her and they sink deeper into the backseat of the car. She kisses him and fumbles at his shirt, and a button pops off and rolls off somewhere in the dark. His skin is cold as she works her hands beneath his undershirt, and she feels his heart start to beat faster as she presses her palm flat to his chest. She pushes his shoulders down to the seat of the car and holds him there as she climbs on top of him and kisses him deep, and he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as his mouth tangles with hers. She rubs against him, writhing as his hands come up and his fingers dig into the small of her back, then slide lower to trace the curve of her ass.
The kiss gets harder and wetter and she bites at his lower lip, and he lets out a harsh groan. She bites harder and his fingers begin to work between her legs, and then the delicate skin gives beneath her teeth and his moan turns into a sharp cry as he pushes up against her. For a moment, she's scared that she's really hurt him, that he's not enjoying this any more, but he hangs onto her when she tries to pull back and pushes his hips up into hers. "Please," he says, "please," and when she opens her eyes, he's looking up at her, eyes wide and desperate and needy.
She holds still for a moment longer, until he moves against her again and his fingers start to move faster, and then she bends low and kisses the corner of his mouth, softly, and starts to lick the blood away.
Feedback is always appreciated.
Mac/Abernathy, D is for Desperation
Afterward, Mac can't stop touching him. The idea that Abernathy is here, in New York and in his bed, is too strange, too unbelievable. He'll wake up any time now; any moment the dream will fade.
The lines of Abernathy's body are familiar, even after 25 years, but there's a deep, ragged scar on his thigh, bisecting the muscle, that Mac knows was never there before. He can't stop himself from running his hand across it over and over again, feeling the hard little bumps beneath the rough skin.
"Shrapnel," Abernathy says in a sleepy voice. "Ain't nothing."
"When?"
"Kuwait City. Got my femoral artery. I came close to bleeding out, but someone managed to get a tourniquet on it in time." He shrugs, but his eyes are distant. "Makes for one hell of a conversation piece, I'll say that much."
Mac stares at him for a moment, then reaches up and kisses him hard. By Kuwait City they hadn't spoken in almost seven years; if Abernathy had died, Mac might never have known, or the news might have only found its way back to him by distant rumor. He wouldn't have been there, either way, because he had been in Sarajevo that year, and it might not have mattered even if he had been. Yet life would have gone on if Abernathy had been killed; he would have gone on not knowing, never even guessing.
They kiss, and there's only tonight; tomorrow this will all be over, and life will go back to normal. Abernathy's mouth is smoky with ash and whiskey, and if he wakes up to an empty bed in the morning, Mac thinks, it'll come as a relief.
For scsquidsnaps:
The Tenth Doctor, L is for Loss
He understands what loss is, and he recognizes its inevitability. In 900 years, in a lifetime that's been spent, from the very earliest moments he can remember, focused upon the meaning and value and manipulation of time, it would be a very strange thing indeed if he didn't. It hasn't been much time at all since he had someone he could talk to about that, someone who would understand, in a way none of his human companions ever will, what it's like to lose and lose and lose again, or what it's like to think loss is something you'll never have to worry about, only to have it come crashing down on your head. Not so very long at all, measured by his standards; a very long time, counted in human years, and maybe he has spent too long venturing to Earth, because he feels the weight of those years the way he imagines one of them would.
But he hasn't really talked to anyone in those terms since Romana, and that was several different men ago, and although he can remember, clear as clear, the things they had done together, the things they had seen, he can no longer say how many of these memories are real, and how many he's imposing his hindsight upon, rewriting to suit his present needs.
His time with Rose had been a lark, a madcap carnival, a roundabout: that was what he kept telling himself, over and over again. He was happy, and she was happy, and there was so much to explore, so much to do. That wasn't going to change, because he had decided it wasn't, and even when Sarah Jane had come back and he'd had a forcible reminder of how the story ended, how all stories end, he'd promised Rose that it wouldn't happen that way with them.
And then it ended, and she was gone, and he doesn't even think that she blames him for that, sweet Rose sleeping in her new world, far away beyond the barrier.
The impulse to go back and change things, to fix things, is almost an impossible one to resist. He knows that, too, and because of that it's best that he can't travel to where she is, just like it's best that Gallifrey is no more, that, in this reality at least, it's been erased from all of recorded time. He won't even offer himself the temptation.
Things change, and Martha sits with him in an alley five billion years in the future, and he decides that it's safe to tell her about Gallifrey, to recreate the silver-tipped trees for her.
She'll end too, and he'll go on, and he can never reach home again, can never be tempted to rewrite the past. He's made sure of that.
For fallen_arazil:
Tosh/Suzie, M is for Meaning(less)
Tosh doesn't ask for the job of writing up Suzie's file; it gets assigned to her. Jack is casual about it when he asks -- no, tells -- her to do it, but nothing in his calm gaze leaves room for her to ask why she has to be the one: why he thinks this could possibly be a good idea, or why she might have any insight into Suzie that the rest of them lack.
She doesn't, and when she sees how personal she's let the write-up become, how much private pain and fear bleeds through what should be neutral words, she wants to erase it and start over. She sits for a long time with her finger poised over the delete key, but in the end she lets it stand. Maybe, when Jack reads it, he'll be forced to act, forced to do something before another one of them takes Suzie's escape route.
But he doesn't say a word, and Tosh thinks she should have known that.
She's glad, then, that for all its raw hurt and confusion, there are still some things she left out of her report. Like how she'd seen Suzie standing at the far end of the car park one night over a year ago. Suzie had been smoking and tears had been running down her face, and she wasn't bothering to wipe them away, and Tosh had pretended she hadn't seen her and just walked on. Or how Suzie had come up to her at the pub, months later, and how her eyes had been hard and desperate, her mouth twisted in a too-bright smile. She'd kissed Tosh in a dark corner, but they had both gone home alone. She hadn't written about any of that, and now, she thinks that's for the best.
Suzie had tasted like apples. Tosh didn't write about that, either.
For xguardianangelx:
Danny/Mac, P is for Phobia
The jukebox is loud, and there's a lot of conversation going on all around them, and so at first Mac doesn't hear the question Danny asks him.
Danny leans closer and repeats it. "What scares you?" he says, right up against Mac's ear.
Mac looks at him in surprise. "What brought that on?"
Danny shrugs. "Just wondering." He leans in close again. "It's one of those things that really lets you know what someone is all about, you know? I was thinking you've never really mentioned anything that might scare you, so I was kind of curious."
"What scares you?" Mac counters.
Danny smiles at him. "You first," he says.
"Oh, you know," he says after a pause. "The usual."
"The usual varies from person to person," Danny says, and Mac has a brief fantasy about punching him. "You gotta be a little more specific, you know that. Flying? Spiders? There must be something."
"I'm fine with flying," Mac says. "Spiders are all right, too. I'm not about to keep one for a pet, but they don't bother me." He considers. "I'm not crazy about snakes."
Danny gives a brief shudder. "Me neither. I used to scream my head off when I was a kid and anyone tried to make me go into the Reptile House at the Bronx Zoo."
Mac has to smile. "I would never go in the one at the Lincoln Park Zoo when I was little."
"Smart move. Don't blame you." Danny raises his beer. "So what else?" he says, and smiles, moving a little closer as he does.
This, Mac thinks, but there's no way he can say that.
For zekkass:
Hawkes/Flack, S is for Shadows
Somewhere down the street a car backfires, or a truck goes by with a heavy load, and there's a sound like thunder in the room and the windows rattle, and Flack spills his drink before he can stop himself.
"Fuck," he mutters, and shakes vodka off his hand, and he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. He's aware that Hawkes is looking at him, but he doesn't turn around. If he ignores the look for long enough, he knows from experience, the moment will pass, and they'll be able to move on. He's done that with enough people by now, on enough different nights, that he should know how near to foolproof the trick is.
After a moment, Hawkes clears his throat, and Flack tenses, thinking that this would be the case, that Hawkes would be just that one person out of everyone to ignore the clear hint, but all he says is, "Let me refill your drink."
Flack nods and holds out the glass, and Hawkes takes it without saying another word. After a minute or two, he comes back and puts the drink in Flack's hand, then sits down beside him. "Always startles me, too," he says. "In my old building, my living room faced an alley, and the trucks went back and forth all day long. I never got used to it, either."
"Hell of a thing," Flack says, and he's pleased when his voice doesn't crack.
"Yeah," Hawkes says in a calm voice. "It is."
Flack wants to tell him that he hasn't always been like this, that he hasn't always jumped and trembled at every little noise, but he's too tired to even try to form the words. "Thanks," he says, instead, and Hawkes just nods, as if he knows what Flack means.
For moska_v:
Stella/Mac, V is for Visceral
Mac's mouth covers Stella's skin with hot gasps of air as he arches shuddering against her and they sink deeper into the backseat of the car. She kisses him and fumbles at his shirt, and a button pops off and rolls off somewhere in the dark. His skin is cold as she works her hands beneath his undershirt, and she feels his heart start to beat faster as she presses her palm flat to his chest. She pushes his shoulders down to the seat of the car and holds him there as she climbs on top of him and kisses him deep, and he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as his mouth tangles with hers. She rubs against him, writhing as his hands come up and his fingers dig into the small of her back, then slide lower to trace the curve of her ass.
The kiss gets harder and wetter and she bites at his lower lip, and he lets out a harsh groan. She bites harder and his fingers begin to work between her legs, and then the delicate skin gives beneath her teeth and his moan turns into a sharp cry as he pushes up against her. For a moment, she's scared that she's really hurt him, that he's not enjoying this any more, but he hangs onto her when she tries to pull back and pushes his hips up into hers. "Please," he says, "please," and when she opens her eyes, he's looking up at her, eyes wide and desperate and needy.
She holds still for a moment longer, until he moves against her again and his fingers start to move faster, and then she bends low and kisses the corner of his mouth, softly, and starts to lick the blood away.
Feedback is always appreciated.