Buttering Parsnips

parsnips @ 2012-01-09T21:43:00

2012-01-10T02:44:00Z

Soooooo. I'm not sure if anyone actually reads this lj, rather than just getting linked to it, but for those who might lurk:

In my regular life, I also write. In fact, this one time I co-wrote a paranormal romance! So that was exciting. We wrote it under a pseud, and it's a pseud we're planning to retire before we go write other things, on other topics. But we did write a sequel to our book -- a very, very fannish-meta kind of sequel, where we have a fat heroine and an asexual hero and there are vampires and the nature of good and evil and non-Eurocentric folklore and bitchy academics.

And now we're looking for betas.

Interested? Leave a comment, or stalk me on one of my various social networking thingies.

Say What You Say When You're All Alone

2011-11-08T04:45:06Z

Title: Say What You Say When You're All Alone
Author: parsnips
Rating: R
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Warnings: Language, sex, teenage boys in love.
Spoilers: AU following "Silly Love Songs," but mildly informed by events following.

Summary: In which there is sex. Somehow. Sort of. Probably. Sure. (Part 3 of the "Crazy Boys in Love" series.)

Written for skyfyre, MP, and She Who Does Not Watch Glee. This fic continues a couple of months after where We Are All a Little Weird, and Life's a Little Weird left off, still in an alternate universe where Klaine turned canon a little sooner than in reality. In addition, while I've been working on this fic since August, I really, really wanted to finish it and post it before "The First Time" aired on the 8th. Because of reasons.

Say What You Say When You're All Alone
--
by parsnips
--

He can feel Kurt's fingers twisting around his cock, and Kurt's hot, open mouth around the head. Maybe a hand, fingers, digging into Blaine's thigh, fuck, and then something else, something, just enough, yes, fuck--

Blaine comes hard, muttering Kurt's name, wringing the last moments of orgasm out as long as he can. One, two, three... yes...

He lets out a long, slow breath, gets his bearings back again. Blaine feels warm, limp, and tired enough to finally get to sleep.

He opens his eyes and strips the sock from his dick, wiping himself off as he does so, and tosses it into the pile of laundry in the corner of his bedroom. The video on GayTube is still going strong -- he's on, like, part three of a promotional video that had gotten divided up and posted separately -- but he just closes the browser and shuts the computer, shoving it off his lap and then lying down. He turns off his lamp, and then--

And then he imagines Kurt curled up behind him, hand running down his side with a maddeningly slow touch, reaching around, running the tips of his fingers through the hair at the base of Blaine's cock, and then wrapping around...

Blaine exhales roughly, hand seeking his growing erection, and thinks, hazily, that this is starting to be a problem.

--

Kurt is wonderful. Kurt is his boyfriend, and they've had phone sex a bunch of times now, sometimes even on purpose, and they make out, like, every time they're in the same room together.

And Blaine feels like a complete dick because... because it's not enough.

The hazy August weather presses against Blaine's face -- the humidity clings like a layer of skin -- and Blaine takes one hand from the wheel of the car and scrubs at his forehead, willing away the imaginary feel of Kurt's mouth on his skin. Hyper-real daydreams of sex with his boyfriend are not useful companions on car trips. He's almost run into a possum twice now.

Sometimes, when he's doing the long drive back to Westerville and his parents' quiet house, with just the radio playing and the road stretching out, hot and wavering in the sun, he gets stuck in these perpetual loops of "what if" and "I should have" thoughts--

What if Kurt followed me back to the car, pressed me up against the car door and pressed his hand down my pants--

I should have turned around when he let me out of the house, I should have turned and put my hand on his shoulder and around the back of his neck and pulled--

--just perpetual loops of all the things that he wished he'd done and that he wants Kurt to do to him, jumping around in his head and making it really, really hard not to say something dumb to Kurt about it.

Because the other thought that runs through Blaine's head, sometimes parallel and sometimes all by itself, is that he knows Kurt doesn't want to have sex yet. Knows because Blaine has put some moves on him, has hinted at going further, and Kurt's evaded it every time. Kurt is the Houdini of sex talks. Except without handcuffs.

(And now he's thinking about Kurt and handcuffs. Fuck. Maybe he should pull over.)

Maybe it's just Kurt's general reticence about physical stuff that's getting in the way, but it might also be-- maybe Kurt's asexual? That's a thing. It doesn't really make sense with the phone sex thing, but maybe he's a romantic asexual, and Blaine will die a virgin because Kurt will never want to have sex with him and Blaine never wants to be with anyone other than Kurt.

He really, really wants to be with Kurt, though. And if Kurt is asexual, or, or even just wants to wait for a long time-- then at some point he's going to notice Blaine's not interested in waiting any more, and it'll be awkward, and maybe pressure-y, and then Kurt is going to break up with him for being a massive jerk.

And he'd really like to have sex with Kurt before they break up. Which means he has to be interested enough to get Kurt into it and not so interested that Kurt freaks out and breaks up with him before they even do anything.

Blaine passes a possum laid out on the highway. Summer traffic in Ohio is not kind to quadrupeds.

The other thing that's bothering Blaine is... he thinks they are going to break up. Him and Kurt. School starts in another couple of weeks. Blaine's heading back to Dalton, and Kurt's heading back to McKinley, and they're not going to have this kind of freedom again for weeks, months, maybe ever. That last part probably isn't true, but it feels true, and it's just enough to make Blaine nervous.

And it's not that he wants to break up, god no, but-- that's what happens, isn't it? Every relationship ends, except the last one. He's only seventeen. It'd be-- it's really, really unlikely that this will last. So he wants to hold on for as long as he can, and maybe have sex for the first time with someone he loves while he still has the chance.

He hates his brain. It's nothing but repeating worries and handcuff fantasies. He flips the turn signal and turns into his driveway.

Blaine's house is cool, and dark. His car is the only one in the garage. His parents are out of town, doing anniversary stuff in Nova Scotia, and he's going to be by himself for at least another week. He heads up to his bedroom, opens his laptop, and starts fucking around with his playlists. It's been an ongoing project most of the summer -- not the most entertaining thing ever, but it fills the time.

And it lets him watch his chat windows, and, well, as the song goes, the internet is for porn. He might as well get some use out of his empty house.

--

A chat window pops up before dinner (delivered Thai for Blaine, roast chicken for Kurt):

hummel_k: doing much tonight?

Blaine grins at his computer, and preemptively pulls off his shirt before replying.

BA_1994: nope. you?

hummel_k: just sitting around, thinking about you.

Blaine settles against his pillows, and reaches out for his phone.

BA_1994: I'm thinking about you too. where are you?

Blaine's already dialing when Kurt replies "in my living room", which should teach him a very important lesson about getting full details before making a phone sex booty call because the person who answers Kurt's phone is actually Mr. Hummel.

He knows it's Burt because right after the wrong voice says "Hi, Blaine," there is an abrupt squawk and the sound of phones being fumbled. "Oh my god," Kurt says, half at Blaine and half at Burt, and then the phone goes silent.

A minute later the chat window says:

hummel_k: discretion - look it up.

--

Blaine was twelve years old the first time he ever saw porn. Through a lot of judicious googling he'd discovered that the net-nanny on his computer couldn't really keep up with all the different YouTube-style porn sites that sprung up like weeds across the internet -- it was easy to find something to watch. Men and women, women by themselves, women together, blindfolds, food, toys, a lot of toys, gallons of lube, fantasy scenarios... It kind of blurred. It was interesting. Academic.

Until he'd accidentally clicked on a gay one.

("Accidentally" was the word he used back then, even in his own thoughts. But Blaine remembers how nervous he was to actually click the link, how he jumped up and locked his bedroom door beforehand just in case his dad came in. He remembers the hot feel of anxiety and fear.)

It was two guys, sitting on a futon. The one on the left had a loose fist around the one on the right's hard-on -- the one on the right was leaning over and just, just swallowing the left guy's cock. There wasn't any music except the noise of their breathing, a moan, the slick sound of a mouth.

Blaine watched it until the end, and then he went looking for another one.

It turned out that gay porn was different from all the other stuff. Because unlike every other video he'd watched, gay porn was actually hot. Literally, too -- he could feel the tips of his ears turning red, a flush across his face, and his own dick was tight and hardening.

Blaine was twelve years old when he admitted to himself that maybe he liked guys.

It didn't take long for him to figure out his own interests, either -- he liked blonds, and he liked light eyes, and he liked watching them get fucked. "Penetrative sex" is what he would call it now, but at the time, his vocabulary was entirely bathroom mutters and the vast world of online pornography, so that's what he called it. There were a lot of other videos, and some of it was weird and fantastic, and some of it was weird and disturbing, and some of it was just weird -- and Blaine still worries about whether something he wants to do will fall under the "fantastic" or "disturbing" category, once he actually gets to have sex with someone ever.

--

Blaine is pretty sure he watches more porn than Kurt. Of course, there are probably baby penguins that have seen more porn than Kurt, so that's probably not indicative of anything except that Kurt is Kurt and Blaine is overthinking things.

--

Over the course of the summer, Blaine's spent more time with the New Directions people than with his own friends -- a couple of beach trips, a jaunt to Cedar Point, a terrible party Puck threw wherein Blaine got drunk and did something remarkably stupid -- all of which basically demonstrated the downside to going to a private boarding school instead of public school. Most of his friends live hundreds of miles away instead of down the block or whatever.

Blaine's not even sure who lives down the street from him right now -- his parents moved house while he was at Dalton this year, and he's still exploring the neighborhood. They'd moved to be closer to him, which is-- pretty great? He thinks that's supposed to be a good thing. His room is decorated with a more grown-up version of his sports-themed room -- fencing prints instead of football posters, that kind of thing. Like a decorator had been hired and given several key words about Blaine's life with which to fill a room, but no actual details.

That probably was what happened, actually.

Blaine keeps a picture of Kurt in his wallet. If he stuck it to the wall, it would be the one piece of decor in the entire house that he actually cared about.

His computer beeps at him. A chat window's popped up.

puckmeister: whats up, hogwarts

Blaine sighs. He's pretty sure he'd never given Puckerman his email. Or IM name. Or any identifying personal information, for that matter.

BA_1994: hi puck

puckmeister: my boy needs some lovin. you need tips?

Blaine blinks.

His phone buzzes, and he picks it up without really thinking about it.

from Finn Hudson: DONT TELL KURT FUCK IM SO SORRY

puckmeister: finn told me that you and my boy r still in virgin territory. wtf dude

from Finn Hudson: IM TRYING TO GET HIM TO STOP SORRY SORRY

puckmeister: the puckmeister doesnt swing that way but shit dude, I woulda hit tht by now

puckmeister: so so hard. fist of an angry god hard.

Blaine, very tentatively, allows himself to type in the open chat window.

BA_1994: I think it's more of a lack of opportunity

--and then wonders what the hell he's doing.

from Finn Hudson: OMG WHAT DID YOU DO

puckmeister: shit dude, is that all? IMMA FIX IT

And then Puck shuts down the chat, and Finn stops texting, and Blaine feels several long moments of deepening dread.

--

Here's the thing about wanting to have sex with your boyfriend for the first time, and which no one warns you about when you're just a tiny baby-gay looking at the wide world through the eyes of GaGa and television stereotypes:

It is really hard to decide what that actually means.

As far as the polite discussions between David and Wes would indicate -- as well as the considerably more graphic and maybe honest appendices provided by Puck and Santana Lopez -- boy-girl sex is pretty straightforward. Like, maybe not in execution, but nobody's shocked and surprised by what is and isn't sex. Tab A, slot B, rinse, repeat. Sex. And by extension, anything that isn't that isn't sex. Blowjobs, handjobs, enthusiastic and inventive locational kissing, a whole lot of submission and dominance stuff that Blaine's not sure he's ready to even think about -- none of that "counts," because it isn't sex as everybody defines it. Or-- not everybody, but a lot of people. Like, the culture? That.

The thing is... nobody's really defining what boy-boy sex is.

And he knows that there's a shitload of blog entries all across the internet about this very topic -- about how it's okay that some gay guys don't like being fucked, or giving head, or any number of things that Blaine had thought were pretty standard issue "gay." He knows that there's not supposed to be any hard rule about what sex is, even for straight people, because it's limiting and stupid and nobody but you can define what sex is for you.

Which is really the problem, in the end. Blaine doesn't know what sex is for him.

Sometimes he worries about this chain of thought, because, following it down the line, it means he and Kurt may have had sex without really discussing that they'd done so. Which means-- how do you even define "virginity" if anything sexual counts? What's the invisible line? Are you supposed to know, suddenly, or do you examine the last five months and tell yourself yes, yes indeed, you can probably definitely pinpoint the loss of virginity at that point right there, when you first felt Kurt's hard-on pressed against your thigh in the backseat of the Navigator.

Based on what he's read about the ancient Greeks, and leaving aside the "combustion engine" part required in that scenario, maybe they would've counted that as sex. Just the slide, the feel, and... the intent. The love. I love him, and we are together in this way. Maybe that's sex.

But maybe it isn't. He just doesn't know.

--

His fears about Puck and imminent disaster are totally justified by the phone call he receives less than fifteen minutes later.

Kurt doesn't bother saying hi, but goes right for, "So..."

Blaine taps on his space bar, bites his lip, and tries not to sound guilty. "Hi, Kurt."

"Puck tells me you're having a party at your parents' house."

Blaine closes his eyes. "I am?"

"Oh yes. Tonight, as a matter of fact."

Blaine's eyes shoot open again. "What?"

"And what I want to know is what exactly you've been telling him that made him call me up especially to announce the news?" Kurt's voice has reached a particular pitch that means he's angry and amused and maybe can't figure out which is going to win out yet.

It's not a tone that Blaine's particularly good at dealing with. "Um?" he says, and shuts his laptop. Shit, if people are coming over, he needs food, he needs drinks, he needs pants.

"'Um,'" Kurt repeats back at him. "I'm going to assume this means that you didn't just decide to have a party and forget to invite me. Or forget that the last time Puck planned a party, you ended up making out with Rachel Berry. Or forget that I never forget."

Blaine says, "Augh." Or something like that. It's definitely a noise that's related to "oh shit" in a sort of hindbrain mammalian kind of way.

The Puck Party of Disastrousness has not yet really had a chance to settle.

Kurt sniffs and says, "I'll take that as a 'I'm very sorry, please come to my party, I love you.'"

"Yes, that, oh my god," Blaine says.

"And the reason Puck is throwing this little soiree is...?"

Blaine swallows and considers whether now is really the time to start lying to Kurt. "You probably don't want to know," he says instead, and it's true, Kurt really wouldn't want to know.

There's a pause as Kurt deliberates, and then, because he is a kind and loving boyfriend, lets it go. "In which case," Kurt says, "the party's supposed to start at eight. I'll be over by six to help you plastic-wrap the furniture and lock the wine cellar. You're in charge of music and ordering food. Puck's apparently covering the rest."

"I will never get the stains out of the carpet," Blaine says, and Kurt laughs a pitying laugh.

--

Laptop on the desk, delete the search history, clean the bed, hide the laundry, trash the leftovers, pants, he needs pants.

--

"You should know," Blaine says, a couple of hours later, "that there's a really attractive boy going through my clothes right now and saying the most ridiculous things."

Kurt looks over his shoulder and makes a face. Blaine, lying stomach-down on his elbows across the bed, tilts his head and says, "I think he might be trying to get into my pants."

"Oh for the love of--" When Kurt blushes, it doesn't spread farther than two hectic spots across his cheeks. It does, however, happen fast, and frequently. Particularly when Blaine says anything quite that... forward in front of him. Kurt steps completely out of Blaine's closet, holding up a plaid shirt from the Gap that Blaine hasn't ever actually worn (bought during the course of a Clever Ruse, back when getting Jeremiah to be his checkout guy was the height to which Blaine aspired). "How do you have no clothes?" Kurt says, the blush staying but the conversation moving bravely beyond Blaine's comment.

Blaine shrugs. "Uniforms."

"Oh my god," Kurt says, and sets the shirt over the back of Blaine's desk chair before diving back in. "Weekends exist, malls happen, please tell me the cardigan you wore to Rachel's party was an ironic nod to hipster fashion and not the only party clothes you physically possess."

Blaine rolls over and stares into the closet upside-down. "I think I have a tux?"

Kurt makes a faint noise of horror and the clothes hangers rattle with more vigor. Ten minutes later he's pulled out what appears to be a random assortment of clothes and is placing the now carefully folded stack beside Blaine's head.

"Change into these and then come downstairs immediately," Kurt says above him. "I need to find a room that can handle Puck's idea of a good time, and I want to see you before you decide to add a sweater or a hat or something equally horrific."

There's a pause, a breath -- and Blaine feels, for just a moment, Kurt's fingers brush through his curls.

And then Kurt's out the door and gone, leaving Blaine wishing he'd set some kind of boyfriend-net in the hallway. Kurt's been doing this recently, these swift touches -- different from held hands, which are to a certain degree Kurt being Kurt, living in a black-and-white movie and getting his romantic cues from them, and likewise different from the brief leaning he'll do sometimes, just shoulder to shoulder, as if to check to make sure there's someone else beside him.

No, these are very different -- nervous, and fast, and almost more intimate than anything they've done so far. Which is saying something pretty big, because phone sex is without a doubt one of the most intimate, embarrassing things one person can do with another person ever.

Maybe, Blaine thinks slowly, as he starts changing clothes and wondering why the hell there's a bowtie tossed on the pile, maybe.

Except that way lies madness, and disappointment, and probably bad pressuring or something, so he pushes it out of his mind and hopes it stays there this time.

--

It's nine o'clock, and Blaine is at a party. Technically it's his party, but as an outside observer, he couldn't swear to it in a court of law. He's pretty sure it's actually Puck's party, and, somehow, Kurt's.

They'd eventually settled on holding the party in the workout room, which was of a medium size, contained no furniture that couldn't be windexed afterward, and had some very large mirrors that were sure to be just as entertaining as Rachel's stage had been. Blaine had dragged his minifridge into the room and set it up in the corner, while Kurt muttered over Blaine's iPod and the mechanics of the room's stereo system. Pizza and subs and a huge number of breadsticks were delivered and set down on the side table Kurt had covered in a garbage bag earlier.

Bottles of water; more garbage bags; signs in Kurt's careful, looped handwriting pointing the way toward the bathroom on this floor. It was a stupid party they were putting together on too-short notice, but it was still... still their first one. He kept finding himself looking up at Kurt and seeing dozens of future parties overlaying this one, the situations different, but the actions, the teamwork, still the same. It made his breath hitch.

Then, of course, everyone had suddenly arrived at once. At which point the party stopped being an emotionally potent symbol of their relationship and went right back to being a really bad idea.

At this very moment, Brittany is leaning heavily against Rachel with a wild gleam in her eyes, Lauren is listening with rapt attention as Artie falls deeper into his hip-hop soul, and Finn is sitting on the seat of the rowing machine with the remains of what he called a "pizzasubosaurus" littered on the floor around him. Santana and Sam are in a strip-staring contest. Tina and Mercedes are pressing up against the speakers and swaying in time to a completely different song than the one that's playing, and Mike is choreographing something fast and complicated in front of one of the mirrors. Quinn is lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with a cup of beer on her stomach and her bare feet rocking back and forth, and there are about half a dozen strangers that Blaine vaguely remembers as playing backing instrumentals on some of the glee club's numbers.

The music is loud, and the air is too warm, and Blaine has actually drunk several cups of questionable alcoholic liquids. He keeps having flashbacks to random after-school specials about kids who throw illicit parties and then have to learn important life lessons. He worries that the doorbell will ring -- does this house have a doorbell? -- and his parents, or the police, or, or Burt will be there, and somehow they'll all know Blaine wants to have sex with Kurt.

Which brings him right back to where he started. The bass thumps, Mike's gyrating hungrily against the mirror, and Blaine's head is starting to hurt.

Blaine's pretty sure that none of the others know about the secret "Get It On With Kurt" plan -- least of all Kurt. If any of the others knew, they'd have told Kurt, and if Kurt had found out, this party would have been put to a stop half an hour ago. Possibly by arson. So Kurt doesn't know. Which is probably for the best, because Blaine kind of likes having a boyfriend, and it would really suck to lose him because Puck is an asshole without boundaries.

The only catch to the "nobody knows" theory is that Finn's starting to look a little squirrelly. As squirrelly as Blaine's ever seen him, which, to be fair, may just be what his face normally looks like. It's hard to tell. Maybe Blaine's just paranoid.

"Hey, Anderson." A large, well-muscled arm drapes itself across Blaine's shoulders, and no, no he is definitely not paranoid, life is just that awful.

Puck gestures broadly with his cup of red alcoholic sugar water, encompassing the room and the several drunk people already residing in it. Santana has just delicately pulled her underwear off from under her skirt. "Hope you're not too wasted," Puck continues, "because, uh, I think you left some stuff in your room."

Blaine stares helplessly up at Puck's wagging eyebrows and extra-wide eyes. "Pretty sure I didn't, Puckerman."

"You would be so surprised by what's in your room," Puck says with deepening conviction, and that's when Blaine finally does a head count, ignores the dropped drink cups and the naked people, and notices what Puck's actually done.

Kurt's not here.

Kurt... might be in Blaine's room.

Far, far away from this room, and its drunken people, and its legitimate excuse for Kurt to be in Blaine's house without parents around.

"Go forth, my wayward son," Puck says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Get jiggy with that gay stuff. I'll make out with everyone here, keep the coast clear for you."

Puck grins cheerily at him, and then saunters off in a disturbing fashion toward Rachel, Lauren, and Artie.

Quinn is balancing a cup on her forehead. Brittany is kissing Tina.

Kurt is somewhere upstairs, in the cool and quiet, waiting.

--

Blaine closes the door carefully behind him-- and suddenly it's dark, and the music is muted, and... it's like cold water. It's different. He's only had a few drinks, nothing like at Rachel's party, but he somehow feels drunk just from the sudden shift.

Kurt is upstairs. He is going to try and seduce Kurt.

He doesn't know what he's doing.

He can't go back to the party -- god only knows what Puck would do to get him out again -- and he can't leave Kurt in his room, waiting for... whatever Puck told him to wait for. Running away is not an option here.

And his cellphone is in his room, so texting and then running away isn't an option either.

Blaine's sweating a little, dampness clinging to the back of his neck, the very edge of his hairline. The party had been hot -- too many bodies in too little space -- but the rest of the house is air conditioned until it's just a touch too cool. Another reminder that out here isn't like in there. Another reminder that he isn't an idiot anymore, he didn't sing about sex toys in public, he thought about his actions and then he did the right thing. That's who he is now. That's what he wants to be.

Blaine takes a deep breath and heads for the stairwell. Two flights up, and down one hall, and that's plenty of time to figure out what he's going to say to Kurt when he gets to his room.

--

Two flights and one hall is significantly shorter than he'd thought it would be. On the other hand, he's gotten better at this stuff -- he'll ask questions first, make sure Puck hasn't done something really horrible, tell Kurt what happened, and then they'll head back to the party. Or maybe just hang out in the living room and watch Katherine Hepburn movies or something. Something nice, and just them -- that'd be perfect, actually. And it's not crazy, or fake, or stupid. Perfect.

He reaches his door. It's closed. He knocks lightly, and then twists the knob.

Kurt's sitting with his back to the door, Blaine's laptop on the desk in front of him. Blaine takes a second to breathe out -- whatever he'd just been telling himself, there had been a moment when he'd had a vague mental picture of Kurt laid out on the bed, waiting... but no. This is better. Better.

"Hi," he says. His voice, thank god, is calm. No outbursts of doubt, or slurred flirting, or whatever else his brain could have tried to fuck him over with. If he'd learned anything from those years of being fake and charming, it was how to deliver a line.

The room is dark -- just the bedside lamp and the blue-white glow of the laptop screen, highlighting the edges of Kurt's hair, the curve of his ear. Like he's standing in front of a spotlight. Like he glows.

Kurt's tapping the scroll button on whatever he's looking at on-screen. "Hi," he says, and he doesn't have Blaine's stupid control, he doesn't have the ability to hide what he's feeling.

Which is how Blaine knows something is really, really wrong.

"Kurt?"

Kurt turns halfway -- his profile cuts the screen in half, and Blaine finally sees what Kurt's looking at: Blaine's playlists.

Oh. Oh shit.

Kurt's voice rasps when he speaks. Too slow, too carefully, he says, "I don't understand."

And this is what it feels like, Blaine realizes, to completely, utterly fuck up. This acid in the stomach, this sinking, this desperate look for something, anything to justify what he's done. They've argued, but it's all been misunderstandings or random bitchiness or just the full moon. Not like this. Not like this is going to be.

"I--"

"Shut up," Kurt says, and it's fast, and it's sharp. "I don't want to hear what you have to say right now, because I'm a little too upset about finding out you've been trying to break up with me for the last six weeks." He turns around completely. That flush is back on his cheeks, but for the wrong reasons, all the wrong reasons. "Seriously, I just-- what the fuck, Blaine? The time you spent on this fucking breakup mix, you could have just fucking called me."

"I didn't--"

Kurt lifts a hand, shutting Blaine down completely. "You made a breakup mix, Blaine. You've been working on it since July. So unless you've got some other boyfriend hanging around--"

"Would that be better?" Blaine asks, and hates himself immediately for chasing after a stupid throwaway comment with something that won't actually help--

Kurt turns back to the laptop. "Death Cab, Adele, more Adele -- really digging into the originals, there, so glad our breakup is going to be so pop-heavy -- awful Ani DiFranco, 'Candles', how poignant, 'Blowing Kisses in the Wind,' and Kenny Chesney, really--"

Blaine slowly goes to sit on the edge of his bed. The alcohol sits heavy in him. He thinks that maybe he deserves this.

"And then there's this one by The Avett Brothers -- this doesn’t even make sense--"

"That one was for you."

Kurt's suddenly silent, and Blaine wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. "You... you picked my breakup music, too?” Kurt twists to stares at him like Blaine’s hair is actively, like, on fire or something. Or like Blaine is insane. Probably more that one.

Blaine says, "It's because it's about going to New York, getting accepted there. I thought you'd find that comforting."

"After we break up."

There is really no good answer here. "...Yes?"

Kurt is pale. Super pale. His old cheerleading coach called him Porcelain, and she wasn't wrong. What she missed, though, was the even more astonishing color he could become when he was actually incandescent with rage.

And his eyes shine. Blaine read a poem once that talked about someone looking forward to battle having "joy-candles gleam in thine eye" -- he’d never really gotten it until he'd met Kurt. It's too easy to think Kurt's holding back tears. It's a lot harder to realize that Kurt's holding back war.

"And you thought, what, we'd break up and then share playlists? Just like that? As if nothing had happened, as if I'd want to take anything so insignificant after losing you?" Kurt slams up from the desk and stands, arms crossed, across the room. Closed off and far away and Blaine doesn't-- he knows he has about five seconds before drama and reality merge so much that Kurt leaves him not just because it's narratively necessary, but because Blaine actually is a massive dick.

Okay. Okay. Breathe. Not everything he learned was bad. Not everything. He closes his eyes, and opens them again. "Kurt," he says, and puts everything into it. Because this needs to be a showstopper.

Kurt stills, staring at Blaine with wide, angry eyes.

"Kurt," he says again, "I don't want to break up with you." Kurt snorts, looks away. No. Blaine stands and comes close, gets Kurt looking at him again. "I never want to break up with you. But I can't imagine how this, us, can be possible." He closes his eyes -- just a blink, long enough for effect, not too long to lose the momentum. "It's too good, Kurt. Us. When we're over, it's going to kill me."

He spreads his hands, eyes holding Kurt's. "I don't know what I'm feeling unless I've got a song attached to it," he says, just quiet enough to draw Kurt closer, make him listen harder. "I wanted to be prepared for when it happens. I needed to have something ready to keep me going... after."

And that's all he's got. It's the truth, and he's given it everything he has.

Kurt shakes his head, just the smallest movement. He takes a step away, and it's like he's slapped Blaine in the face. "And now, on top of that," he whispers, "you're lying to me." He turns on his heel, and he closes the door quietly behind him.

--

Blaine has shut down his computer. He has turned off the light. He has changed into just a t-shirt and boxers, and he is lying in bed.

Somewhere, very far away, he can hear a bass thump. The party's still going on. It doesn't matter.

In all the scenarios Blaine had envisioned about their breakup -- growing apart, cheating, long-distance jealousy, competitiveness gone wrong, horrible death -- in all of that, he somehow hadn't considered "self-fulfilling prophecy." He'd found dozens of breakup songs, categorized them, arranged them for every occasion except the one where he was caught doing it at all.

And while he knows it isn't the worst part, nowhere near the worst part, he can't help but think-- all of that work, all of that preparation, and it's all worthless. He doesn't want to listen to music. He doesn't want to wallow in some fake bullshit emotional methadone that's supposed to somehow make him feel better about the fact that he fucked up.

He's on his side, facing the window. There's moonlight. Some Westerville sky glow. No stars tonight, but he sees the black silhouette of trees against the night, and they're swaying. There's a breeze. Finally, at the end of August, the weather is turning.

He'll be okay. He's seventeen. He knew this was going to happen. He knew. This isn't the end of everything.

Blaine wishes he could call his mom and have it actually help.

--

He hadn't thought he'd go to sleep, but he must have, because something's woken him now. The music is gone. The moon has set.

His door is opening.

He turns over, fast, ready to throw something at Puck or whoever else thought it'd be a good idea to try and get it on in his bedroom -- but the door snicks closed again, and there's someone else in the room with him. Blaine's night vision isn't great, but the bed dips, and then-- he knows it's Kurt. He can smell Kurt's aftershave, just the same as the day he'd wrapped his face in Kurt's scarf and realized that whatever he'd had with Jeremiah wasn't anything compared to what he has with Kurt. The dip shifts, moves, and then Kurt's curled up on his side next to Blaine. Blaine can feel Kurt's breath on his skin.

They don't say anything for a long time, until Blaine says, "I'm sorry."

It takes a while, but Kurt eventually says, "The playlist thing was stupid. Really stupid."

"I know."

Blaine can hear his own heartbeat, loud and fast in his ears. He wishes he could hear Kurt's. He doesn't know what's going on.

But Kurt's in his bed.

"There are a couple of things," Kurt says. "I have a list. Things that did not go right this evening."

"I'm sorry," Blaine says again, because that's really all he's got now.

Kurt ignores him. "The first big thing was the stupid playlist. Let's just all acknowledge that that was dumb." There's a brooding silence. Blaine considers apologizing again. Forever. "But," Kurt says at last, "I spent some time taking apart your kitchen, and staring at your parents' walk-in closet, and dead-heading the roses outside even if they didn't strictly need it, and I did eventually come to the conclusion that, regardless of how you said it, you meant it when you said you were preparing, not planning."

"Never planning," Blaine says, and his voice is shot. It sounds like tears.

"No," Kurt says quietly. "But maybe you should stop preparing, too. Because that's... it's not helpful. It doesn't make it easier, and it definitely doesn't make it look like you have any confidence in us. And..." He takes an audible breath. Blaine holds his. "I need you to have confidence in us, Blaine. I can't be the only one who's dreaming big. When I left earlier... I expected you to follow me." His voice is smaller when he says, "And you didn't."

Blaine knows he's in the wrong for a lot of this. He does. And he is going to continue apologizing, probably for the rest of time. But-- He turns over completely so he's facing Kurt. He can see the edges of him, a lighter darkness. "I can't be an actor in some drama, Kurt. If you leave-- that's what leaving means. Just because I didn't follow you doesn't mean I don't believe in us. It means you left."

Kurt's stilled beside him -- Blaine hadn't even realized how warm Kurt had been until he'd frozen. "Which brings us," Kurt says, brittle and not actually acknowledging Blaine's point, "to the next item on the list. If I was enacting any kind of drama, Blaine Anderson, it's because you started it."

Blaine doesn't even have the chance to fight that one, because Kurt's rolling with it. "Open hands, strong eye contact, deep and meaningful words given soulfully -- that whole 'explanation' you gave, it was all you acting. The words may have been real, but it wasn't you saying them. It was Blaine Warbler, with the short, gelled hair and the meaningless flirting and the crush on a guy five years too old who wasn't me. So don't go telling me that I shouldn't have expected you to come running after me -- that's exactly what that you would have done."

Kurt's breathing hard, and Blaine-- fuck, he's going to cry. His eyes feel hot, and the world is awful. "I didn't know how else to stop you leaving," he says, voice thick. And there's nothing else. No other reason or excuse.

"Maybe... me neither," Kurt admits. The bed shifts as he uncurls a little, hand reaching out to find Blaine's hair, the side of his face. "But it hurt," he says. "That you would do that to me. Put on the Blaine Show, charm me out of whatever. It's not... it's not something I dealt with very well. So I'm sorry too."

And Blaine breaks.

He reaches out, blind in the darkness, and finds Kurt's shirt, the jut of his hip, the line of muscle on his back, and uses it as a guide to bring himself close. Kurt's hand's in his hair, his arm curved over Blaine's arm, and Blaine's found Kurt's shoulder, now, and the curve of his neck. Kurt's neck may be his favorite place, all skin he loves to mouth and bite, wonderful smells and the brush of late-night stubble against his face. Now he just presses in and holds Kurt hard, shaking as he realizes how fucking close they'd come to something he'd never really understood before.

Kurt's holding him just as hard. Maybe he wasn't just apologizing to make things fair. Maybe he felt it too.

Kurt kisses Blaine's forehead, hot breath exhaling against his skin, and then pulls his hand from Blaine's hair, curves around Blaine's chin, and drags Blaine's face up for a kiss.

Oh.

Kissing in the dark isn't new for them -- nights in the car are a sterling example, and once in Kurt's backyard, sweet and soft, on a blanket meant for stargazing. They've kissed in bed, too, though lights were on, clothes were on, it was basically a convenient horizontal surface that was softer than the floor and more leisurely than a wood-panelled wall in a Dalton hallway.

This is different.

They're under the covers -- just a sheet and a cotton weave blanket, but still. They're holding one another. There's no sound but the susurration of the central air, and it means that every sound they make is louder, closer, echoing in the dome of space where they breathe the same air, share the same warmth. Kurt's stretched out, flush against Blaine, hands back in Blaine's hair and his mouth, fuck, his mouth's just not stopping. Blaine knows they can get closer -- basically because if they don't, he's going to-- he doesn't even know-- there's just no other option.

The blankets have become heavier, somehow. The pillow is-- somewhere? Kurt is wearing too many layers. Under the collar of Kurt's shirt, Blaine can feel bare skin heating up, the faintest trickle of sweat. God, he wants.

He slides his hand out of Kurt's shirt, runs it up until he's got a grip in Kurt's hair. It's a thick handful, softer than it looks. He bites Kurt's bottom lip, just the lightest touch, and Kurt gasps into the kiss, open mouths and the touch of tongues-- and then breaks off, panting, his hand fisting Blaine's hair. "Oh my god," Kurt whispers, and it's loud in the space between them. A very small amount of space, that doesn't actually feel like distance at all.

"You," Blaine says, and that takes too long to say, because what he wants to be doing is basically not stop kissing Kurt for the rest of time. But that's not even completely true anymore, it isn't, because he wants-- not more, but different. He wants what the space between them is and isn't promising, what the weight of the blankets is pressing into his skin, what the feel of Kurt in one place means in another.

He's been worrying all this time about what kind of sex he wants to have, and what kind of sex he thinks he can get, and he's never made the leap, never understood that from here to there isn't a line crossed, it's just--

I love him, and we are together in this way.

"Kurt," he says, low because that's the only way he can speak right now, "I want you." So much easier than the first time he'd said it-- so much easier to follow words with actions, and draw Kurt close, closing the space, holding them together hard enough for Kurt to feel-- god, everything. "I want you," Blaine says again, and again, and hopes to god Kurt understands.

"Fuck," Kurt says, and "Can I--?" and "Please," and Blaine's nodding, nodding in the dark like an idiot, but an idiot with the most amazing boyfriend in the world because Kurt's pulled the hand from Blaine's hair and is pulling Blaine's shirt up instead, slipping his palm against Blaine's skin. Blaine feels the strangest touch -- Kurt, his fingers carding the hair on Blaine's chest, following it down until the angle's too sharp too sustain. Kurt follows the muscle up to Blaine's hip, instead, and then it's just Kurt's hand, curved above the edge of Blaine's boxers, a hot weight that's different, necessary, and almost frightening.

And-- Blaine should move. That's probably what has to happen next, shifting for access, tugging down clothes, pulling off shirts, finding the pillow, those are all the things that go with what Blaine thinks they're doing-- and neither of them are moving. Like moving is the same thing as falling off a precipice, and not knowing how long the drop is.

There are two ways this can go, Blaine thinks in the weird half-space his brain is occupying, where everything is sparks and warmth and embarrassment and mouths. He can go back to kissing Kurt -- which is good, and is fine, and is by no means a bad ending to the evening -- or he can fall from his side to his back, open, Kurt's.

Which would be terrifying and amazing in equal measures, he thinks. Provided Kurt understands. Provided he wants it too.

Kurt understands so much, and so quickly, but if there's anything that Blaine's learned tonight, it's that the times when Kurt doesn't understand -- or when Blaine doesn't understand Kurt -- it's all the more awful. That ability to know is rare, Blaine thinks, which means it feels like a betrayal of their epic romance when they... become normal. Normal people in normal relationships have misunderstandings, don't follow one another's thoughts exactly, have petty faults that can overset an argument that shouldn't have started in the first place. Normal people learn to adjust, to figure out how to cope with it all -- become stronger because of it.

Which means, because theirs was the Best Relationship Ever, Blaine had assumed that he and Kurt didn't have to talk.

And then it's not two options anymore -- it's not binary. Nothing's binary, Blaine thinks, and he can't help it, he laughs as he kisses Kurt. Before Kurt can withdraw his hand -- misunderstanding after misunderstanding, and Blaine hadn't made the connection -- Blaine says, "I just figured out something amazing. You're part of it. I love you. I'm going to turn onto my back now, and if you're okay with it, I'd really like it if you, uh, kept going. If you're not, just let me know, and we'll figure something else out."

He turns. Kurt's hand drags along until it's flat on Blaine's stomach. His fingers twitch, but otherwise don't move. And there's silence.

Brief silence, at any rate. "Blaine..." Kurt says slowly, "I'm not sure I understand what just happened there." Kurt takes away his hand, and suddenly Blaine's skin is really, really cold. "I will say, though," Kurt says, and then there's a shift in the bed, the covers move, Kurt takes off his shirt holy fuck and leans over Blaine on one elbow, so fucking bright in the darkness, "that I really, really approve."

Blaine pretty much cannot take his own shirt off fast enough. Particularly with Kurt pushing his fingers under the waistband of Blaine's boxers, the rough pads of his fingertips catching on hair, tracing faint paths on sensitive skin. "I notice," Blaine says, breath catching, "that you are still very overdressed."

"Mm," Kurt says, and this is better than silence, better than the uncertainty of perfection, because this is the total knowledge that they have no fucking clue what they're doing, but by god, they're doing it together. "I think," he continues, and his knuckle brushes the head of Blaine's cock, just the lightest touch, fuck, "that that would be really distracting for me right now. Maybe later. Can you do something about your boxers?"

Yes, there are definitely some things he can do with his boxers. Throw them away, go back in time and not wear them, rip them off without somehow using scissors or velcro, all of those things -- but what he does is shove them down his hips, catching briefly on Kurt's hand, doing the strange dance of attempting to remove them in some graceful manner that isn't, in fact, graceful at all.

With bright flashes of sensation twisting him every time Kurt lightly touches his cock. The best and worst distraction, all in one.

Kurt lies down again beside Blaine, head a little lower than Blaine's, cheek resting on Blaine's shoulder. Blaine can feel Kurt's bare chest against his arm, the slight scratch of hair he knows must be there rough against his skin, the muscles along Kurt's abdomen tense and uncertain. He's moving in the slightest of rhythms as he runs his knuckles up the curve of Blaine's erection, and Blaine can feel how hard Kurt is inside those painted-on jeans of his.

Kurt lets out a breath; Blaine breaths it in. And then Kurt's opening his hand, fingers trailing with infinite slowness as he circles tentatively around Blaine. It's different from how it feels when Blaine touches himself; Kurt doesn't try to move, just holds Blaine, in a grip that is and isn't the same, and-- it's not just that this is Blaine getting his dick touched by someone else for the first time in his life that is making this so unbelievably amazing. Somehow, in some way... it's also knowing that this is how Kurt starts when he's by himself.

Kurt's hand is dry, and his thumb is brushing back and forth just under the head, and Blaine is actually twitching, he can't help it, it's too much, too different, too everything-- and then Kurt uncurls his fingers, pulls his hand away, and instead... Blaine feels something touch the tip of his cock, slow circles, and it's Kurt palm, the very center of his hand, touching just that one slick point.

And Blaine has, up to this point, been pretty fucking polite when it comes to certain boyfriends and their experimental teasing touches, but he's officially reached the end of the line with this. "Jesus," Blaine wheezes, and grabs Kurt's wandering hand, directing it back down and around his aching cock. Fingers just there, this much pressure, just how long a stroke to make when there isn't much lubricant around -- and all Kurt's hand, under his own, with Kurt rocking up against Blaine's bare thigh and his teeth against Blaine's shoulder.

And Kurt's talking now, just words and words -- how soft Blaine is, how hot, the smell of him, the feel, dozens of little words like beautiful and fuck and love and you. And it's that voice, his voice, curling around and coasting over and touching every part of Blaine and his skin is tight and either the nighttime world is phosphorescing around them or Blaine is actually seeing stars.

Kurt moves his leg over Blaine's, thrusts tight and hard against him, and their hands move together until-- Blaine comes, and he's doesn't know if Kurt comes or not, but it's all a mess and hot and sweaty and twisted sheets and embarrassing words and essentially the most amazing experience he's ever had in his life, even if he does feel a little bit like someone may come in at any moment and perform the other kind of after-school-special scenario.

Not enough to get up, though.

He tugs Kurt closer, rubs a kiss into Kurt's hair, and lets sleep take him.

--

He wakes up, probably only a short while later, to the feeling of Kurt teasing one of his nipples. Maybe not on purpose, though -- just idle drags of his fingernails across the skin, more thoughtful than sexual.

Sexual. Sex.

They've had sex.

...Wow.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is a little scratchy -- he doesn't actually know if he was loud or not, before, but he wouldn't bet against it.

"Hi," Kurt says, more contemplative than anything else.

The sky outside is starting to lighten -- not real dawn, not for a while yet, but just the difference between black and midnight blue. For the first time, Blaine wonders what happened to everybody else at the party. Finn had been the designated driver again, but that assumed that people had actually gone home. There were something like four guest rooms and six couches throughout the house -- it was more than possible that no one had bothered leaving.

Puck could still be somewhere in the house. Puck, who had engineered the entire party to get Blaine a chance to hook up with his own boyfriend. Puck, who would be cheerfully obvious when he asked, at some near future point, just how surprised Blaine was about what he'd forgotten in his room.

"Not to be weird," Blaine starts, and Kurt snorts into the pillow, "but I think I should tell you that we've kind of fallen into a scheme of Puck's."

"Only sort of," Kurt mutters, which, wait a minute, doesn't actually make sense. Blaine twists to try and get a better look at Kurt's face, which is presently hiding itself under Blaine's shoulder. Kurt squirms against him and eventually turns to stare petulantly at the ceiling. "Fine, yes, I knew about Puck's sexing up plan," he says, and before Blaine can even address that little revelation Kurt finishes, "and he's going to be a nightmare on Monday unless we figure out our stories now, so do we want to say it was a very beautiful night or just smile mysteriously and say nothing?"

Blaine blinks. "Well, I mean, I'm in favor of the smiling mysteriously plan just on principle, but-- you knew? And also, you said we'd only sort of fallen into it, which--"

"Puck wanted to give us a chance to-- be together," Kurt says. He raises one hand above their heads and stares at it critically. It looks like some kind of pale bird. A hand-shaped bird, anyway. He starts waving it in delicate figure eights and frowning. "And I was curious, and it was a good opportunity, and-- and then there was the playlist, and the fight, and the things I did to your mother's copper saute pan that we're not going to talk about right now, and..."

The hand drops, and Kurt sighs. "I love you," he says, "but I wasn't ready. I'm sorry."

Blaine raises his own hand, tries a couple of figure eights. It stays resolutely just a hand. "I love you, too," he says, "even though I have no idea what you're talking about."

Kurt swats his hand down and props himself up on one elbow to better glare down at Blaine. The upside to this is that, in the increasing morning light, Blaine can see more and more of Kurt's bare chest. There's not really a downside here-- or there isn't, until Kurt says, "I thought you wanted to have sex, and I said I was sorry because we didn't."

Blaine blinks. "But we did."

There is a long and ominous pause. "No," Kurt says, "we didn't."

Blaine levers himself up until he's sitting against the headboard, blanket draped demurely over what he's now remembering is his completely naked and kind of crusty body. He tries not to make it sound like he's talking down to Kurt, but it's really hard not to slow his words when he carefully repeats, "But... we did. I was there. That was-- pretty sure that was sex, Kurt."

"Maybe in some kind of complicated dreamworld you inhabited for the half hour you were unconscious," Kurt says, grabbing his shirt from the end of the bed and pulling it roughly over his head. "But in the universe we both actually live in, that was what is commonly referred to as a lot of making out and-- and--" Kurt's arms raise in a complicated gesture to the heavens that is apparently completely necessary for him to actually say the words, "--a handjob, and that is not at all what is commonly known as sex."

"Says who?" Blaine crosses his arms, and he knows he's being ridiculous, he knows that Kurt can have his own definitions of sex that don't have to at all match Blaine's, but it is kind of horrifyingly disappointing that something that was actually fucking magical for him was just-- something to Kurt? Wait. "So if that's not sex, what is it?"

Kurt looks down at the bed as if it will mysteriously reveal all answers to him. Or rise up and strangle Blaine. "Messing around?" he throws out. "Heavy petting?"

Oh my god, who says 'heavy petting'? Blaine blames the black-and-white movies. "So I guess this would be a bad time to tell you that after that 'messing around' I'm taking myself off Virgin Island and I am totally fine with telling Puck that the mission was accomplished."

"You what?"

This is not going at all well. Which is probably why it's a very good thing that the entire universe wants them perpetually embarrassed.

There's a sudden -- and very loud -- knock on the bedroom door. It serves the dual purpose of cutting the argument off mid-breath and also sending both Blaine and Kurt scrambling after every piece of clothing in the world. "Guys," a whisper that sounds suspiciously like Brittany's says through the door, "I think maybe you forgot about us? Because we're all still in the house. Like mice." There's a ruminating pause. "Mice with, like, cochlear implants."

Kurt raises a finger to his lips. Blaine crosses his eyes at him and manfully abstains from shouting some kind of gratuitously sexed up thank you back through the door. After a moment Brittany, from somewhere near floor-level, says, "Blaine, I ate all the breadsticks in your pantry. Don't blame Kurt," and then thumps her way back down the hall to... somewhere else. Maybe one of the spare bedrooms. Maybe somewhere more disturbing.

Through Blaine's window, the dawn light is now properly gold, not just a lighter shade of darkness. It's lighting up Blaine's room with mellow assurance. Kurt's hair is everywhere, and his face is flushed, but he's looking at Blaine as if he doesn't know which way the conversation is going to go next, just that he'll follow it come hell or high water.

Misunderstandings after misunderstandings.

It's easier to be angry than it is to be real. "Real" is just another way of saying honest, and honesty is a lot harder than it looks.

Blaine takes a deep breath, and lets go.

He tugs at a curl touching his ear, and smiles crookedly. "Let's start this again. Good morning, Kurt. I consider what we did last night to be sex, and I'm really glad my first time was with you." He pulls off the shirt he'd managed to find when Brittany had knocked -- inside out and backwards, not that it ended up mattering. He tosses it over the side, and slides back down under the blankets. Kurt looks... a little dazed, actually. Blaine says, "If it wasn't sex for you, first time or not... that's okay. I'm just-- I'm happy I'm with you. I'm happy you want to be with me." He gestures, and it takes in the bed, and the morning, and the look on Kurt's face. "I'm happy here."

"That's..." Kurt swallows. "That's a lot of happy."

"Well," Blaine says, "yeah. I have a boyfriend who loves me and my dick. It's a pretty good day to be me."

"Oh my god," Kurt says, all hectic blush and pale, fluttering hands, "you say things. You think we're having sex and don't even tell me so that I can too. And, and--" He flops down beside Blaine and shoves Blaine's head with his own until they've both got space on the pillow, "you have awful taste in breakup music."

Blaine turns on his side and puts a tentative arm over Kurt's clothed chest. Kurt burrows closer. "To be fair," Blaine says, "I've been collecting those since I was thirteen. And they're not awful."

"I'm just going to point out: Paula Abdul."

"She," Blaine says, and closes his eyes, "is an underrated genius. Modern youth has been corrupted by pop sensationalism."

Something brushes his forehead -- Kurt, kissing him. "Shut up, Pink. Go to sleep. We have lots of pretty lies to tell everybody later."

The curve of Kurt's neck is dark and warm. Blaine leaves a kiss of his own there, and breathes in, and in, and in.

END

podfic?

2011-04-28T05:20:08Z

Podfic!

I have committed terrible things, and I am deeply sorry for it.

That being said, perhaps you'd like a podfic version of We Are All a Little Weird, and Life's a Little Weird:

audiofic archive link

I apologize if it's lousy -- I beg your indulgence, if only because this is my first time out. HOORAY.

We Are All a Little Weird, and Life's a Little Weird

2011-04-13T21:16:03Z

Title: We Are All a Little Weird, and Life's a Little Weird
Author: parsnips
Rating: R
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Warnings: Language, phone sex, teenage boys in love.
Spoilers: AU following "Silly Love Songs".

Summary: "We are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." --A brief sequel/coda-thingy to Love (Makes You Do the Crazy).

Written for skyfyre and MP as a surprise mini-sequel to the first "crazy boys in love" fic. This fic continues a couple of months where the other left off, still in an alternate universe where Klaine turned canon a little sooner than in reality.

ETA: There is also a podfic version of this fic, available for download here.

--
We Are All a Little Weird and Life's a Little Weird
--
by parsnips

Blaine has a boyfriend.

It's... still kind of unbelievable.

Like, he actually has a boyfriend, and it's not one he made up over the course of several coffee dates because he was lonely and clueless, or maybe because he was a little in love with the idea of finally--

Look. It's one thing to say that you're gay, to come out, to wander around jauntily proclaiming your sexuality and proving to everyone that you can be gay and still like football. But... it's another thing to be really gay. Which is a ridiculous thing to think, but there it is. Gay with somebody. Because saying you're gay and then not ever having a boyfriend feels a little like maybe there's the possibility that you're not gay, because you haven't actually tried it, even if you've watched the porn and dreamed about Nathan Fillion and never really saw the point of breasts.

Which makes it sound like being gay is all about the sex stuff, and that's-- he's pretty sure that's offensive. Being gay is more than just what kind of person he wants to make out with.

It just feels like an important part.

Blaine wonders if there's a song that could explain the differences to him.

But. Whatever. Boyfriend. He has one. And it's Kurt. Kurt, who is amazing.

Kurt, who has transferred.

"It's different," Kurt is saying. He's probably sitting at his vanity in his room in Lima while Blaine is stuck here at Dalton, skipping a late-night study session with the other Warblers so he can get a little privacy while he talks. (To his boyfriend.)

(Who is not here.)

"It'd have to be," Blaine says, looking at the ceiling and trying to think happy thoughts so he doesn't end up projecting half the weird things he's thinking into the conversation. His hair feels crumpled against the pillow -- he's growing it out again. It's touching the back of his neck.

"Well, aside from the obvious sartorial improvement," Kurt agrees. Blaine hears a little hum -- Kurt's talking to him while going through his evening moisturizing. It's oddly intimate, and Blaine wishes he could see it. He's never actually watched Kurt do the much-vaunted skincare routine, even though he's been a happy benefactor from it for the most glorious two months of his entire life. He's seen the bottles of lotion, though, and he knows how they smell just from the lingering traces on Kurt's skin in the morning. Skin Blaine got to touch when Kurt pulled up in the parking lot before classes, cradle as they'd kissed hard against the car door until they were both breathless and muttering darkly about this stupid school thing that everyone kept insisting they go to.

Blaine tugs at one of the curls coming down over his eye, lets the slight pull remind him of Kurt. They've got kissing down. Very, very down. Blaine has discovered just how much Kurt likes his hair without gel in it; Kurt has discovered just how much Blaine likes to smooth down Kurt's hair after they've kissed, putting it all back into place, knowing that he's the only one who's allowed to mess it up.

They're also both very aware that they possess dicks that, with relative frequency, get hard in one another's vicinity. Once, Blaine had his uniform jacket off, and he can still remember how hot Kurt's hands had felt through his cotton shirt. And another time, Kurt had gasped, breathy and so entirely like how Blaine had imagined he'd sound if they ever actually had sex that Blaine had nearly died.

But then-- transferring. Not because of them, Kurt had been very clear on that, but for a dozen other reasons, some about McKinley, and facing his own fears, and his dad, and-- other things. Important things, and it made sense, and sometimes Blaine wonders whether maybe he doesn't need Dalton anymore either-- but the important thing, the critical thing, is that Kurt is somewhere else. Instead of conveniently here. Where there is a bed.

Blaine misses the taste of Kurt's mouth. His skin.

And all the other wonderful things he could be doing with his boyfriend right this second if only they'd had enough time to get to them.

"So, when's a good time to visit?" he asks, trying manfully to keep his voice smooth and not at all desperate.

It doesn't work. "Miss me much?" Kurt says, coy and more flirty than he tends to get when they're actually in the same room together. As great as the making out is (and it's really, really great), they've both been... slow with going further. Which was wise of them, except for the part where it was totally awful.

It's a lot easier to think of the things he wants to do with Kurt than it is to actually try them. Or-- it's easier to remember after the fact, or before the fact, that he wants to do more than what they're doing. In the middle of it, though, when it's just him and Kurt and maybe they're lying on Blaine's bed or they're sitting in the backseat of Kurt's Navigator or they're tucked against the wall in the Dalton commissary -- when it's just them, all he can think of is kissing Kurt, hands in his hair, chest to chest, legs tangled together. His mouth. The smell of him. How bright everything looks even when he's got his eyes closed, how everything has to focus down, there, right there, to every place they're touching and every place they aren't.

And then the bell rings, or Jeff starts singing loudly in the hallway, or Burt flashes the porch lights to the grim and meaningful staccato beat of I know exactly how far you can go in the back of a car, and I want you to know that I know.

And it's a minute after that, when he's smoothing Kurt's hair and humming ballads under his breath, that he remembers that he had been totally planning on doing something after they started kissing. Something hopefully involving hips, and cocks, and maybe even bare skin below the neck.

But then Kurt transfers, and the tiny moments they'd carved out for themselves are even smaller now, and there's less time, and there's longer intervals of nothing in between, and he doesn't want to waste the time he has trying new things when he basically doesn't want to ever, ever stop kissing Kurt Hummel.

"Yeah," he says, lower than he meant, more real than he meant, "I do."

Kurt takes a surprised breath, low and sudden. It's still tough for Blaine to be real without prompting, to just feel things, say things, do things because he wants to and not because the imaginary Blaine in his head thinks he should. It's getting easier, though. The part where it makes Kurt melt like ice cream against whatever part of Blaine is nearest to him is a huge incentive.

It... he's not sure it makes him feel good, being real, but it makes him... worthy? Like this is something he can give Kurt. And give to himself, though he feels weird about thinking of it like that, like it's some self-serving thing. But Kurt, though... Kurt loves him. The real him. And it's bad enough that they hardly get to see each other these days as it is, but it'd be worse if Kurt never got to see the real him at all. So in the end, it doesn't matter how uncomfortable being real makes him, how hard it is. He wants this. Partly because it's probably a much more mentally healthy way to be, but also because-- this is something he can do. For the guy he loves.

"I miss you too," Kurt says softly. Blaine hears rustling, the creak of a bed. Kurt's voice is closer, somehow, when he says, "I wish I was with you."

Blaine laughs, just a little. "You wouldn't be impressed," he says. "The stuff I sleep in is, like, dumpster-dive fabulous compared to you."

"You? You probably wear some very masculine T-shirt and pants combination," Kurt says, letting Blaine off the hook a little. Sometimes real is... too real. "Which, correct, is not as amazing as my sleepwear, but I break out in hives in the presence of Hanes and heathered gray. It's my cross to bear."

"Tragic," Blaine says. He tugs at his hair again. He used to do it all the time back at his old high school -- he wonders if he's picking up the habit again, or if he really is just reaching for a sense memory. Who knows. "Actually," he says, "I'm wearing an old camp shirt. Pink, I'll have you know, with green lettering."

"Oh my god," Kurt says. "I had no idea your despair over my return to Lima had sunk you so low."

Blaine snorts. "I wish I could say that that was it, but this is definitely all me," he says. "It's an old shirt. I like how soft old cotton shirts feel, you know? You can't buy that in a store. It takes years of patient effort and lapsed dignity."

"And what do you do to complete the ensemble, hm?" Kurt sounds sleepy and pleased. It's nice, talking to him like this. Not as nice as kissing (or the many, many other things they could maybe someday do) but... it's these kinds of things that made him fall in love with Kurt in the first place. Talking, sharing stories, just being with one another. With every other change that's happened, he thinks that he's most glad that this stayed the same.

"Me? Just boxers," Blaine says.

And then, just like that, there is a sudden silence at the other end of the line.

Like, Kurt's not even breathing.

"Really," Kurt says. And there's something in his voice. Something that is very not like the Kurt who's his best friend, but is so like the Kurt who, one time, pushed him up against a bookcase and kissed him because he could.

And Blaine's not gonna lie, not even to himself -- just hearing Kurt like this makes his own breathing stutter, and there's that buzz, like there's something under his skin that's aching, hot, and he wants Kurt's hands, wants him to press the ache away.

It's still so new, this feeling, this knowing that he could, theoretically, have this, that it almost scares him. He's suddenly grateful that Kurt's an hour and a half away, that he doesn't have to decide now, right now, what he wants and how he wants it and what, if anything, Kurt thinks about the entire matter. He can just... he can just feel this. Feel what it means to want somebody and know that he'll have them someday.

Kurt is silent for another moment, and then he says, slowly, almost tentatively, "I did not know this about myself half a minute ago, but. Um. I am having a mental picture here that is just..." There's a shy laugh, almost nervous. "Good," he finishes. "Very-- good."

"Yeah?" Blaine says. He blinks down at himself, tries to see what Kurt might be seeing, and he-- maybe can see it? "Break it down for me," he says, and this is where the conversation officially turns, when it stops being best friends talking and starts being... this new thing. This new, wonderful thing.

Because Blaine has totally just asked his boyfriend to describe what he finds sexy about him, as they're both lying in bed, alone, with nothing but a pair of phones and some very thin cotton between them.

Kurt doesn't say anything for a second, and Blaine has the very short, panicked thought that he's somehow gone too far, pushed too hard-- when he hears the shift of pillows on the other end of the line. And then Kurt saying, "It's kind of the whole package."

Blaine makes a noise that he hopes indicates polite inquiry, because he's not sure he can talk.

"I mean," Kurt says, picking his words, dropping them slowly, "I've seen you with your sleeves rolled up. I've seen you out of uniform. I've... I've felt a lot of you, but I've never seen you. And just the idea that you're, you're lying in bed, almost half of you completely-- I mean, without anything..."

"Oh, fuck, Kurt," Blaine breathes out.

"I don't even know how I'm talking right now," Kurt says in a rush. "Because all I'm thinking is, 'Blaine's on the other end of the phone, and he's naked.'"

"Only half," Blaine says, and then wonders why he can't ever manage to shut up.

"It's still more, though," Kurt says. His voice is... not low, never low, but there's this amazing rasp to it, the sound that usually comes right after he's been kissed. Always after he's been kissed, actually, and so this-- this is new, too.

Blaine presses his phone closer and just... breathes out. He would do-- a lot of things, just to hear Kurt sound like this regularly. Not all the time, not so much that it wasn't special any more, but-- to know that he can make this happen. Just from-- just from existing.

And that's it, he's done, he's gone officially insane, because there are words coming out of his mouth that he hasn't planned, hasn't vetted, and there's a part of him that's panicking and hoping the phone will explode in his hand, and another very, very quiet part that's pointing out how the last time he just spilled his guts like this he got a boyfriend out of the deal, so maybe he should chill out because whatever the hell's wrong with him, it's something Kurt definitely seems to appreciate.

"Kurt," Blaine says. "Kurt, I know we don't do this, that we've never done this, that we've never talked about doing anything like this, but I swear to god, I'm going insane over here, and, fuck, I'm telling you right now, I will do anything you ask me to do. Anything at all."

And he gets it, Kurt gets it immediately. Kurt knows him, knows he's not talking about picking up coffees or driving out for visits or finding expensive flowers that only bloom once every thousand years -- Kurt knows. And there's that gasp, that one that Blaine's only heard a couple of times, surprise and sex and god, yes, Kurt knows.

"Take off your shirt," Kurt says, and Blaine almost fucking comes just from that.

"Okay, yeah-- yes," Blaine says, and puts down the phone just long enough to pull the T-shirt over his head, feel it pull against the hair on his chest, rumple the curls on his head. Everything's sensitive -- everything feels like the brush of a fingertip. He picks up the phone again, and his voice is strange. "Done," he says.

Kurt makes a noise. A wonderful noise, like his gasp and his breathing and his saying I love you all mixed into one, and Blaine knows for a fact that it's because Kurt's mental picture just got a whole lot more naked. And it's amazing that he knows that.

Though not as amazing, maybe, as Kurt taking a deep breath and saying, "Tell me." There's almost a stutter there. Almost a break in the words, like he's not sure he's allowed to talk like this. Except he really, really is. "Tell me-- what you look like."

"I--" Blaine closes his eyes, swallows, opens them again. It's uncomfortable, trying to look at himself through someone else's eyes. Maybe... too revealing.

Except-- it's Kurt.

"Darker than you," he says, like he's describing a stranger. In some ways, he is. "Hairy."

"Really," Kurt says. His breath comes in short, shallow.

"Yeah. Compared to you, anyway."

And then Kurt says, "You'd be surprised," which is pretty much the end of any chance Kurt ever had to remain clothed in the future ever.

Which Blaine doesn't say out loud. No. He also doesn't say, Tell me exactly what you mean, right now--

Or The swim team shaves their chests, have you ever been to a swim meet? Positively smashing, old boy, smashing--

Or I need you, everything about you, I need what we're doing and how we're doing it and there's only one way this could possibly be better, one way I can think of, and--

What he says is, "I don't want to be doing this alone."

There's a whisper of uncertain sound-- fabric. "You're not," Kurt says, breath hitching. "I'm. Yeah. I'm unbuttoning my top."

He's not sure he can accurately describe how much he loves Kurt.

And also, boom, now he's got his own mental picture. Kurt, lying on his back among his pillows. Kurt with the blanket pushed down to his hips, phone in one hand, buttons being unclasped one by one with the other. And then the buttons fall open, and there's that milk-pale skin, with, Jesus, that golden brown hair, hair he usually only ever sees neat and controlled-- that same color, spread over Kurt's body, short and curled and wild and all of it leading down--

"God, I want you so much," Blaine says, and this is the first time he's ever said that, and it's different from loving, it's different from liking, it's different and scary and the truest thing he can think of at the moment, because he literally cannot imagine wanting anything, anyone, more than Kurt.

Kurt says -- immediately, no lag, no questions, just two words, hot and heavy in his ear: "I'm yours."

And that's it; Blaine swears, gives in, pulls down his boxers. "Kurt," he bites out, "if you don't want-- I just-- you should hang up-- I mean-- fuck--"

"Are you going to--" Kurt's voice is hungry, and high, and just as terrified and amazed as everything Blaine's feeling, "fuck, wait for me, wait--"

Blaine's already going through the bedside table, getting the lotion, and it's the work of a second, that's all, to finally get his hand on his cock, twist his wrist to spread the lotion out. Just another second more to get a rhythm going, thoughts of Kurt, Kurt naked, Kurt doing this too, all of it just crashing in his head, all of it just waiting to hit that moment where it all makes absolute perfect sense.

"You," Blaine says, gasping into Kurt's ear, thrusting into the air where Kurt isn't, "I want you, I want you touching me, fucking me, I want everything with you--"

Kurt says, "Oh my god," and his breathing is ragged and rhythmic and he's there, he's doing this too, they're jerking off together on the phone, and this is the hottest thing that has ever happened in Blaine's life. And then Kurt moans, actually moans, he's noisy and Blaine had no idea--

Blaine's so close, so close, and he knows that it'll just take one more thing, one more breath or gasp or swear or moan from Kurt and he'll be done, and that's when Kurt says, "I want to fuck you."

Blaine comes. He thinks he's loud. He can't tell, since he's sort of incredibly dead. The phone is pressed hard enough against his head to hurt, but there's absolutely no goddamn way he's going to let it go while there's still a second left of Kurt fucking his own hand because he's pretending it's Blaine.

Kurt's only a breath behind him, and all it takes, apparently, is for Blaine to say, "Yes," and that's it, that's Kurt over and done with, and while he was noisy before, he's absolutely silent now, nothing but a cut-off breath and then... quiet.

They're both quiet.

It's... it was amazing. Definitely. But-- how--

"I don't know what to say," Blaine says, because he still has not found his mental off-switch.

Kurt's laugh is a little hysterical. "Gee, nice knowing you?"

"I-- what? No. I mean, unless you--?"

"No, absolutely no," Kurt says quickly. The manic edge leaves his voice, and then it's just Kurt again, and he's saying, "I'm not-- okay, I'm embarrassed, but that was... really, really, really good. And something I would definitely be interested in trying again." He hesitates, and the manic makes a brief reappearance. "If you are."

Blaine is not sure he can emphasize enough how interested he is in doing this again, many, many more times. He settles on, "I really am," and hopes he injects enough feeling into the words that Kurt understands it without Blaine having to go into really thorough details.

The line goes quiet again, and Blaine picks up his T-shirt and starts cleaning himself off. The silence is less awkward this time, but there's still something... there. And he's pretty sure he knows what it is. It's just-- talking about it, when they're not in the middle of phone sex or, or whatever it is that they just did-- talking about it without any filters seems impossible, like death from embarrassment is actually a possibility.

Then again, he's just masturbated with his boyfriend over the phone for the first time; maybe there's no such thing as "too embarrassing."

"I meant it," Blaine says finally, words he hadn't exactly planned on saying, but true ones regardless.

Kurt's quiet for a long time, and then he says, "I meant it, too. Just maybe not..."

"Not, like, the exact second we see each other next," Blaine finishes, and yes, yes, that was it, that was the thing. "It's good to know, though," he says. "That you want to."

"Yeah," Kurt says, and it's that happy, sleepy voice again, the best voice. "It'll happen when it happens," he says, "and we both want it to happen, so... it will."

"Yes," Blaine says, and he guesses his voice must be happy and sleepy too, because Kurt makes a quiet, contented sound, and in some distant corner of his mind Blaine thinks, I want to hear that forever.

"I love you," he says instead, not because he's scared, or uncertain, or an idiot, but just because he wants to. And Kurt murmurs a 'love you' back before falling asleep, the line still open, the soft sounds of his breath keeping Blaine company until eventually he, too, goes to sleep.

END

Love (Makes You Do the Crazy)

2011-03-28T03:55:52Z

Title: Love (Makes You Do the Crazy)
Author: parsnips
Rating: R
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Warnings: Language, sexual situations, awesomeness.
Spoilers: Up to Silly Love Songs

Summary: In which Blaine is an emotionally stunted idiot, and Kurt finally notices. (A sequel/coda-thing now exists as well: We Are All a Little Weird, and Life's a Little Weird.)

Written for skyfyre, because she asked, and MP, because she also asked. Started right after Silly Love Songs, and jossed by everything after, but hey, a love story's still a love story no matter how AU it gets, right?

ETA: This fic mentions in a positive light PSU Coach Joe Paterno and the Penn State football community. This is in the process of being edited out.

--
Love (Makes You Do the Crazy)
--
by parsnips

He hadn't thought things could get worse.

They're coming back from the coffee shop. Kurt's just walking next to him, not talking or anything like that; they do this thing where they can hang out together without talking constantly and it's... nice. It's always been nice, actually, that there's someone he can just be quiet around, someone he doesn't have to prove anything to, or--

Except that apparently his actually being comfortable around Kurt means that he's been leading him on. Meanwhile, two coffees do not make a deathless passion, serenading does not equal instant boyfriend, and Christmas duets are a major turn-on. It's Bizarro World all up in this shit. Also, it's winter, and it's cold, and he's making that once-in-a-blue-moon wish that he'd actually kept his hair long, because his ears are freezing. He should have brought a hat with him.

He should've done a lot of things.

Blaine keeps his head down as he walks into the wind, and tracks the cement under his shoes. There's a lot of twigs, and pebbles, and gum stains. He doesn't remember ever seeing anyone chewing gum at Dalton. It's an Altoids institution.

The Jeremiah thing is-- it fucking sucks, but at least it's sort of easy to understand now that he's on the other side of it. Laughably easy, which is depressing. He'd met Jeremiah at a local Alliance meeting back in September, in the basement of the Westerville town library. Someone had made snacks, and there was lemonade and fall-themed paper napkins, and Blaine had wondered if every gay man and lesbian in the entire state of Ohio was over the age of forty. It wasn't until people had settled down and started talking about that week's topic (half discussing the Cleveland Gay Games thing, half gossiping behind their Tollhouse cookies about the Target-brand cups and napkins and scabs who break shopping boycotts in favor of cute and affordable disposable dinnerware) -- it wasn't until then that Blaine had caught sight of the young guy across the room, all blond, wavy hair and a mouth that was more than a little amazing.

He remembers thinking Might be straight might be straight might be totally uninterested and straight, but after the meeting broke up he'd made a beeline for the guy and-- yeah, the guy wasn't straight. And he was actually close to Blaine's age, and his voice was wonderful, and his hair was manageable, and when Blaine had smiled at him he'd given a small, shy smile back, and Blaine was crushing so hard that it was a miracle the guy didn't immediately notice and file a restraining order.

Add a couple more Alliance meetings, where they'd sat together to represent the "too young to remember Stonewall" crowd, and two coffee dates-- not dates, back up, two coffee occasions, because there hadn't actually been dates and all they'd talked about was more Alliance stuff, god-- all that adds up to is a friend. Maybe a friend. Probably an acquaintance with a limited number of mutual interests.

The wind gusts, and Blaine wonders if his ears could actually, like, fall off from hypothermia before they make it back to Dalton.

"You're kind of a moron," Kurt says philosophically beside him.

Kurt never looks cold. Ever. He seems to wear scarves solely for decorative purposes, and his gloves have more cutouts than actual fabric. Right now he's wearing a coat, but Blaine gets the impression it's only because it's winter, and one wears coats in winter.

Kurt unwinds his scarf one-handed and drapes it over Blaine's shoulder. "Tie it around your head if you're feeling adventurous, but you could probably just wrap it over your scarf. If you pull it up you should be able to cover your ears a little." And then he folds his hands around his latte and goes back to silent walking. As if they hadn't just had a Major Conversation in the Starbucks; as if Blaine isn't stuck here wondering if everything he does -- everything Kurt does -- now secretly means something.

Blaine wraps the scarf up around his face, a compromise between Kurt's options. He's suddenly much warmer, and he can smell Kurt's aftershave, and he'd never had anything like this with Jeremiah. Which doesn't make any sense, because he thought he'd been in love with Jeremiah, and he's only friends with Kurt. It's all backwards. Bizarro. Horrible.

Also, with his face covered up, he has no idea how the hell he's going to drink his coffee.

*

Kurt is his friend. Definitely his friend. Probably his best friend, actually, which is weird, because he hadn't realized he was missing one before Kurt came to Dalton.

It's just that... Blaine doesn't know what else Kurt might be. Maybe. In the future.

Blaine lives in the dorms, but since Kurt's just a day student he goes home every night. Sometimes Kurt sticks around to study, but usually he's off at five, after Warblers practice or coffee or whichever. It's a long drive to Lima, and the times when he does stay to study are usually just before finals or midterms, when the "refined air of quality leather upholstery" is apparently the perfect study aid.

So it's more than a little startling when Blaine steps into the common area and finds Kurt sitting on the couch, idling texting someone while swinging his foot to silent music. It's late, nearly nine, but Kurt doesn't look like he's got anywhere to be.

Why is he here? Was he waiting for him? Blaine has a terrible vision of Kurt breaking out into song. Maybe the same song he sung to Jeremiah. Maybe to a Disney song. A world of awkward possibilities looms, the opening chords of something melodramatic start to fill his ears--

Kurt looks up and quirks a smile. "Hey," he says, and then goes back to texting.

What he is feeling is definitely not disappointment. Definitely. Because if Kurt had tried to serenade him it would have been weird, and also his brain needs to shut up.

"Hey," Blaine says. Except that it's actually been a minute since Kurt said anything, and now Kurt's looking up again, a little puzzled, and oh good, Blaine turned a friendly greeting into a massive awkward pause. He coughs, and sits down beside Kurt. Unless-- is he too close? Jesus. "I mean. Hi," he says, and tries with every ounce of self-control he has left not to twitch violently either off the couch or, somehow, into Kurt's lap.

Kurt raises an eyebrow, then puts down his phone with a determined air. "Okay," he says, "I think we need an intervention." He twists on the couch until he's facing Blaine directly, and rests his cheek on one fist. "I didn't actually say I like you," Kurt says, "but I pretty heavily implied it. Because I thought you should know. And now you're acting like a straight guy in a gay bar wondering if it 'means something' that he wants to dance to ABBA." Kurt wrinkles his nose. "Which it does. But that's beside the point."

"You... think I'm straight?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "After the show at the Gap? No. No, I do not. But I think maybe you're feeling weird about me liking you. So, here you go: Bam. I'll stop reading meaning into your every move, and you can stop being nervous around me."

There's a window just beyond Kurt. Blaine totally thinks he could jump through it before anyone could stop him. He could die in a blaze of glory and artistically applied snowflakes. "I'm not nervous around you, Kurt."

"Uh huh." Kurt nods at Blaine's school jacket. Where apparently Blaine's hands have, unbeknownst to him, been smoothing out the seams for the last, like, ten minutes. "You, my friend, have a tell," Kurt says with diabolical good humor, and then laughs himself silly when Blaine, for lack of any response, starts singing Gene Kelly numbers as a defensive maneuver.

Kurt gets his breath back eventually and joins in. Which is... nice.

*

He doesn't have classes with Kurt, which is a bit of a relief. It means there's at least one place where he won't dive into music just so there's some way to end a conversation. Ms. Rosenbaum would not appreciate his French assignment sung in three-quarter time, especially because he tried it his freshman year and it went over really badly.

He still doesn't know what Kurt was doing in the common room last night, because, frankly, nothing happened. They'd finished singing, both of them laughing and Kurt saying disparaging things about Blaine's habit of climbing on the furniture, and then Kurt had picked up his bag and left, waving over his shoulder and promising lunch together today. No lingering glances, no subtextually interesting comments -- just a friend saying goodnight.

Except Kurt likes him. So he doesn't know what anything means, really.

Lunch comes quickly, or slowly, depending on where Blaine is in his mental weirdness map. Kurt sits down beside him and brings out one of his step-mom's lunch bags, always full of soup and salad and an enormous baked good that Kurt pushes Blaine's way automatically. Blaine eats from the kitchens, because he hasn't seen his parents since the beginning of the school year, and this whole line of thought is depressing and should be stopped immediately.

Kurt's step-mom makes really good brownies.

"So I'm thinking that you're emotionally stunted," Kurt says by way of greeting. He shakes a carton of milk and opens it with panache. "And I am here, Blaine, to help you with your sad, sad issues."

"Really," Blaine says, because that is a great way to talk to someone you like, Kurt.

"Totally," Kurt says, unfazed. "You sang about sex toys in public to a boy you hardly knew, and then you got weirded out by a completely normal person--" he sweeps a hand down his immaculate uniform, "--saying that he likes you. And then you confessed that you're bad at romance while at the same time giving the 'you're a real pal' speech, so you're clearly someone who needs to learn how to interrogate their own emotions."

"You... have thought a lot about this," Blaine says.

"Not really," says Kurt. "It was obvious. That it wasn't obvious to you just proves my point." Kurt takes a sip of milk, and then turns a serious eye on Blaine. "My issues are straightforward and to the point: bullying, inappropriate crush objects, and skin that dries out too quickly in the winter. You? You are, by your own admission, faking a confidence you don't feel and are apparently so out of touch with the emotional reality of others that the only way you feel you can connect with anyone is through song. You may be out and confident about it, but this isn't about being gay or whatever -- this is about being human." Kurt breaks off the steady eye contact and instead spears an enormous forkful of salad. "So, step one: Tell me all about Jeremiah. The whole story. Without," he adds sharply, "singing your way out of it."

Blaine feels a little like he's been trapped into something, and that's probably because he has been.

*

He does start humming at least twice, but he makes it through lunch. Just before they head to different classes, Kurt rests his hand on Blaine's arm and gives a little squeeze. Blaine's pretty sure it could be interpreted as "supportive friend" or "supportive potential boyfriend," but either way, it's comforting.

"Step two will come over coffee, after school," Kurt says. "Meanwhile, your ongoing homework--" Kurt visibly puts on a brave face as he shoulders his bag. "I don't need an answer right away or anything, but... think about what you actually feel for me, okay? Whatever it is, I promise, I'll be fine with it -- I had a crush on a straight guy who thereafter became my brother, I am really not going to be bothered. But it's going to stay weird between us the longer you're uncertain of things, and I'm starting to miss my best friend."

"What about you?" Blaine asks without meaning to. "Are you going to think about it too?"

Kurt doesn't actually call him an idiot, but his face is very, very expressive. "I don't have to," he says slowly. "I already know I like you."

And then Kurt's heading toward the north wing, waving briefly before getting caught up in the throng of students.

A few minutes later Blaine takes his seat in American Literature and proceeds to ignore it entirely. He can study up on James Fenimore Cooper some other time. He's sort of stuck thinking about Kurt right now, because after that little speech, how could he not?

Anyway, it's an easy, familiar place for his thoughts to wander. Mr. Murkoff's rundown on Leatherstocking can take the backseat for a bit.

So. Kurt. They'd met on a staircase, which was a pretty good start to things. Less good was the misery pouring off the kid, and-- yeah, and the thing where he thought of him immediately as "the kid," that was probably a bad sign. It was just that -- he knew exactly what Kurt was feeling, because it was clear from a mile away that Kurt was gay, bullied, and looking for a way out. It was startling, and scary, to see it on someone else's face, someone else clutching the straps of their book bag, someone else checking for exits out of the corner of their eyes. Blaine had gone through it two years ago, and Kurt had gone through it two months ago, and somehow that had all added up to "show the kid that it gets better."

So he'd taken Kurt by the hand, and pulled him through the corridors, and basically eye-flirted like mad while singing a romantic song -- and all because this was what he knew he could do. He couldn't pull the kid out of his school, and he probably couldn't actually beat anybody up for him, but he could show him that sometimes it didn't actually suck to be alive.

Blaine makes score marks on his notepaper, black lines crisscrossing over and over. God, no wonder Kurt likes him. The first gay guy Kurt's age to ever pay attention to him like that -- without being crazy stalkerish and abusive -- and Blaine had made himself into some kind of ideal mentor on high, the perfect crush object. Except he isn't a perfect person, he isn't any kind of mentor, and about the only difference between them is that Blaine had been miserable two years sooner than Kurt.

And anyway, if he actually does the math, Kurt is only about six months younger than him. So everything is basically wrong and awful and James Fenimore Cooper fucking sucks.

*

Blaine's last class of the day is a study hall, so he skips out early and heads to the coffee shop to grab a seat by the windows. It's because of this that, an hour later, he has the opportunity to watch Kurt make the walk over, has a chance to think about exactly what he's seeing when he looks at Kurt.

To be honest, at first, he's exactly the same. He's... Kurt. He's got his earbuds in, listening to dance music or musical theatre or, more likely, a combination of both. His coat is open, and he's changed out of his school uniform into something metallic and knitted and entirely amazing. He should be freezing, but his head and his hands are bare, and the flimsy crocheted thing around his neck is a scarf in name only.

He's... tall. Taller than Blaine, at least, which isn't that difficult. He might get taller. Right now, though, he's just tall enough that Blaine has to look up a little when they're standing close together. Kurt has these eyes that can sometimes be a light blue, sometimes a light green. They're probably the prettiest thing about him if Blaine had to pick, except that it doesn't take into account what it looks like when Kurt smiles at him, or rolls his eyes, or agrees to sing a duet, or says, "I thought that the guy you wanted to ask out on Valentine's Day was me."

Blaine's coffee is bitter, and cold, and too fucking metaphorical.

Okay, shake it out, looking objectively, completely wiping his mind of everything he knows about Kurt Hummel: There's a guy walking down the street, coming closer, ignoring all the sounds around him just to take in a couple of minutes of music. Slow walk, long legs. Chin up, eyes watching some middle distance. Blaine's age, definitely. Objectively speaking, easy on the eyes. The guy stops on the corner to wait for a pause in traffic, turns his head--there's a jawline there, sharp but curved just enough, maybe, to fit into a palm. There's a cleft to his chin--had he noticed that before? Really noticed? Because it's... good. Very good. Pale skin, patches of pink from the wind across the very top of some really nice cheekbones. A long mouth. Eyebrows that perfectly complement those changeable eyes.

The traffic changes, the guy crosses the street and gets closer to the windows, and then--lights up, like it's the goddamn Fourth of July, when he sees Blaine staring at him. A big, infectious smile, and he walks a little faster, waves with long, thin fingers.

Blaine takes a very important moment to come to some conclusions:

Kurt is a hot guy.

Blaine is not immune to this hotness.

And now this hot guy has sat down across from him, right here, and is apparently saying something, because his mouth is moving and everything.

Blaine has lost all sense of time, sense, and propriety, and is very close to wishing he was dead, because dead would be so much easier to go through than suddenly figuring out that his best friend is attractive as fuck and into him and has stopped talking, oh god, oh shit, what should he say.

Blaine takes a long sip of his coffee and says, "So, step two?"

*

Step two is awful. Step two is the worst.

"David," Blaine says, "Wes." He gestures them toward the common room couch. They sit, looking a little leery. The three of them are alone for the moment; Kurt is back in Lima, probably cackling evilly because he knows what's going down. Blaine is willing to bet, like, a lot of money that Kurt has practiced evil, Disney-esque laughter. Probably while dreaming happily of Maleficent costumes.

Except whatever, focus. David. Wes. Feelings.

Blaine is going to stuff Kurt into a cardboard box and mail him somewhere with terrible humidity and no theatre program.

"Guys," Blaine starts. He stops again, twitches out a fold in his uniform jacket, and finally sits down on the coffee table in front of them. Okay, brave face. What can they do?

Laugh themselves sick and then throw you into the streets.

Awesome, brain, that was an awesome answer to that one.

"Remember when I first came to Dalton?" Blaine asks. He's talking a little too fast, maybe. A little too loud. Damn it. Keep going. "It was... not a great time for me. I think you know some of it..."

David shares a quick glance with Wes. "Yeah, we got that impression."

Wes says, "The bruises were a hint."

Blaine remembers. The shiner on his left eye had been his defining feature for the first several weeks at Dalton, courtesy of Walnut Hills High School's very own Mike Wilson and his discomfort with anything disrupting the common heteronormative narrative. Blaine, with his propensity for pink sunglasses and cuffed jeans and wild curls, was a pretty big disruption -- and that was without knowing Blaine was actually gay. The fight with Mike had been the last straw for Blaine's parents, and they'd transferred him within the week.

Blaine had been grateful to get away. His parents, though, weren't overjoyed when he'd been more than just grateful and had actually come out at Dalton. Which in the end had just made it absolutely clear that they'd been more interested in finding somewhere to put him than somewhere to keep him safe.

But he hadn't known any of that when he'd first met David and Wes. And that's not what he's here to say.

Blaine clasps his hands between his knees and tries to maintain something like reasonable eye contact. "Yeah, the bruises were a hint. I'd been getting beaten up for a few months, but never with marks somewhere people could see. Until the last one. And then I came here, and you guys..." Blaine shrugs, and loses the battle with the eye contact. The rug's nice, anyway. "When I met you, and you asked me to sit with you at lunch, and you asked me what brought me to Dalton, and I said 'Homophobia and poor clothing choices,' and you laughed and asked if I could sing..."

Wes frowns, but David just nods. "Sure," he says, as if this whole encounter is totally normal, as if this is something Blaine does. As if Blaine sits down in front of them and tells them something real.

Step two, Kurt had said. David and Wes are, like, your oldest friends at Dalton, and I don't think they've ever even seen you with your hair au natural. Talk to them. Actually talk to them.

Blaine takes a deep breath. "I wasn't out at my old school. When I said that to you guys... you were the first people I ever came out to. And you took it in stride. And it was... it was really important to me, and it's an important memory, and I wanted you to know that."

They're quiet for a moment, and then Wes is leaning forward and putting his hand over Blaine's clenched fists. "Oh my god," he says intensely, "are you dying."

"What?" Blaine did not envision this reaction.

Wes now has both hands wrapped around Blaine's, and is staring really creepily. "Is this one of those twelve steps," he intones. "Have you been experiencing a life-crippling addiction you are only now pulling yourself out of."

David rolls his eyes. "He means you're welcome."

"Is it the crack, Blaine," Wes says. "Is it the white man's devil drug."

"Oh my god," Blaine says, tugging his hands out of Wes's. "This is what I get for listening to Kurt."

"What's Kurt got to do with this?" Wes asks, dropping the crazy eyes and sitting back. "Unless he's the one that's getting you out of your dapper-do-good thing and talking like a human being."

David nods sagely as Blaine tries really, really hard not to make a run for it. "I knew he'd be good for you," David is saying, and what does that even mean?

"I do not understand you," Blaine says dully. "Your words are strange and meaningless."

"He means," Wes says, "that you're an amazing junior Warbler, and a great front-man, and Jeff says you're a decent roommate. But you're not the guy you were when you came here. The Blaine of today -- well, yesterday -- probably wouldn't have come out to us. Not like that, anyway."

"We didn't really notice," David admits, "until Kurt came along. Before him, you smiled and you were charming as hell, and the only time you looked really relaxed was when you were singing. And then Kurt came, and you started getting..."

"Happier," Wes says firmly. "You started getting happier."

Blaine doesn't know what to say. "I--" He cuts himself off, but takes a breath and tries again. "I was happy. Am. Before Kurt."

David and Wes look at him with equal expressions of doubt. It's starting to get pretty frustrating, actually. Like, what, Kurt shows up and suddenly he stops being a Ken doll and becomes a real boy? Like everything he is here is a lie or something? And what kind of friends say that? Fuck them, anyway, he can talk or not talk as real as he wants to whoever he wants and he doesn't need their support or understanding or whatever, this was a fucking stupid idea, Kurt.

Blaine has never actually gotten angry at David or Wes before. It burns, and it makes him want to hit things just to feel the impact on his skin.

He hates feeling like this.

He hates... he hates feeling.

Wes and David are watching him, a little warily now. David says, "We know you're happy. It's just that since Kurt, you seem to know that you're happy, too."

Blaine really can't handle this anymore. So he doesn't. The door's right there, and nobody stops him as he stands, and runs.

*

His room is covered in college football posters and Harry Potter paraphernalia (the football stuff is his; the Potter stuff is Jeff's. Jeff is a fanboy on a deep and shameless level). He wishes he had something on the ceiling, though. Something to stare at as he lies in bed and tries not to think of anything else at all.

His phone rings, and he doesn't really think; he just answers it.

"Hi," he says.

"I am going to kill them." Kurt's voice is tinny and furious. "I'm going to replace Wes's hair product with glue and David's iPod with a Chinese knockoff of ethically questionable manufacture."

"Kurt," Blaine says. "Don't."

"I expected them to have a straight-guy bonding thing with you, not break you," Kurt continues. He sounds like he'd rather keep coming up with grim punishments than actually listen to Blaine, which is funny in a way that really, really isn't, all things considered.

Blaine could hang up. He could change the subject. He could be charming and mentor-y and fucking dapper.

He's so, so tired.

He turns over, looks at a blank spot on the wall, and starts talking.

"When I was younger," Blaine says, slowly and inexorably right over whatever the hell Kurt's saying now about fabric dye and false coinage, "when I was younger, when my dad talked to me, he talked about football. Pro football was the famous stuff, but college ball was the better game, he used to tell me. He loved it. And I loved it too, Kurt. I really did."

Kurt's stopped talking. Blaine can barely feel the phone in his hand. The ceiling has shadows from the setting sun, stretching long and dark, but he's got his eyes trained on that empty patch of wall. "When I was thirteen, my dad drove the two of us to Pennsylvania for a couple of weeks, right in the middle of the school year, to watch the Penn State home games. It was fantastic. Nittany Lions, Joe Paterno, the blue paw stickers, everything. Amazing games. My dad, actually being with me. I was really, really happy, which was pretty impressive because I'd just started figuring out that maybe I might be gay, which was a fucking miserable thing to realize in seventh grade.

"My dad bought me a ton of merchandise before we left, including a poster of Paterno. The coach. Famous guy, practically owns the town, the team, everything. Won't let his players stay on the team if they let their grades drop, that kind of thing. We went to the college's ice cream shop, the one they run out of the agriculture program, and had big cones of Peachy Paterno, that's how big the guy is there. Anyway. We came home, and I put the poster on my wall, and... and I don't even pretend to know why, I really haven't had enough therapy for this, but I... talked to the poster. To Joe. He just seemed like the kind of guy who would listen to his players, support them no matter what. So it was Joe I talked to about my first sort-of girlfriend, who I confessed to when I realized I was more interested in being around Pete Alcott than her, who listened to me when I finally admitted the actual reason I broke up with Megan. He was my total confidant about everything. Anything. Like a dad. A better dad, because I could talk to him, and I couldn't talk to anybody else."

He can hear breathing. That's about it. He doesn't know what he's saying. For the first time -- in a long time, maybe -- he's just talking, without caring about what he should be saying next. It would be terrifying, if he could feel anything. But he doesn't have feelings, that's been established by now.

"The year I transferred to Dalton," he says, "Penn State wasn't doing that well. My parents were helping me pack, and my dad... threw my poster away. Like it was nothing. Because the team was losing, and Paterno should retire, and he-- he didn't think. Or maybe he did, maybe he just didn't care. It was just a poster. It wasn't important or anything." Blaine shrugs, even though there's no way for anyone to see him do it. "He didn't ask me. He just did it. The way I got transferred here, too, actually. I'm glad they sent me, but... I wasn't asked. That's the way the Andersons work. We don't talk, we don't explain, and we don't mean anything."

"I'm sorry." Kurt's voice ghosts out over the phone, and Blaine wants to throw his phone as hard as he can, but he might hit the invisible poster on his wall, and he doesn't think he could bear it right now.

"It's fine," Blaine says.

"Is it?" Kurt asks.

Blaine closes his eyes. "No," he says.

Kurt lets out a loud breath. "Do you need me to come over?"

Blaine laughs, just a little. It hurts his throat. "You wouldn't get here before they close school grounds."

"Whatever," Kurt says, "do you need me?"

"Kurt," Blaine says, "I haven't been able to really talk to anyone in two years, because my two-dimensional D-list celebrity father-substitute is in a garbage dump somewhere. I need a psychiatrist."

"Yeah, I'm getting that," Kurt says, and his voice sounds weird. Which is great, because what Blaine needs right this second is to alienate more people.

Blaine is going to hang up. He is. Except somehow, because he's started saying one real thing, he apparently doesn't know how to shut up about it. "I wish you were here," he says, even as he's thumbing the power button. The phone goes dark. He lets it slide out of his hand and then, because it's a terrible, stupid device that makes him say terrible, stupid things, he pushes it off the side of the bed. It thunks against the hardwood, and Blaine feels, for a second, bad for it.

Everything he's feeling hurts. Even when it's about phones.

Which is right about when there's a perfunctory knock at his door before it swings open, and-- it's Kurt. Kurt who looks winded, and his hair is out of place, and his jacket is open, scarf untied and coming off his neck. He comes barrelling to a halt beside Blaine's bed, narrowly missing stepping on Blaine's phone and instead kicking it hard enough to hit the wall; they both wince. Kurt looks apologetic for a second before taking a deep breath, flicking his bangs, and saying, "Looks like I'm your fairy godmother this time. Your wish is my command."

Blaine stares up at him. And the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, "Did you practice that?"

Kurt sniffs. "Not everyone has to over-think every word they say. Some of us are just that good. Now shove over, it's time for some girl talk. Boy talk. Whatever, we need to talk and I just ran from the parking lot and up several flights of stairs to get the timing right, so I kind of need to sit down before I fall on your face."

Well. Blaine shoves over.

Kurt flops heavily beside him, sitting on one leg while the other dangles over the side of his bed, and begins shedding over-garments. The coat is hung on the bedpost, his bag is placed gently on the side table, and his scarf is rolled into a loose column and put into the bag. "Silk," Kurt murmurs absently, an explanation Blaine hadn't asked for.

Kurt's still wearing his uniform -- clearly he hadn't gone home. "How did you know?" Blaine asks. "That I would talk to them today, instead of tomorrow or--"

"I didn't," Kurt says. He shrugs, clasps his hands over his knee. "I've been staying late every day, just in case." He smiles crookedly; it looks crooked, anyway, from Blaine's position. Sideways and above him and almost too much. "You've been jumpy since Valentine's, and I was... worried about you."

Blaine shifts, stares back up at the ceiling. It's easier than watching Kurt watch him. "I'm fine," Blaine says, and doesn't know whether to be grateful or not when Kurt snorts loudly in response.

"This is definitely what I think of when I think of 'fine'," Kurt says. "Confessional phone conversations and desperate pleas for help."

"It wasn't desperate."

Kurt pokes him in the shoulder, though more gently than he could have. "It was totally desperate. I was there. I ran for you, you idiot."

"Okay," Blaine says. The sun has finally finished setting, and Jeff is probably going to come back to the room soon, and he still feels horrible, but... "Maybe it was desperate." He takes a breath, then another. The words are slow to leave him, but he manages anyway: "I'm... glad you're here."

"Of course," Kurt says immediately. He doesn't poke this time, just lays his hand on Blaine's shoulder and keeps it there. Steadying. "I'm going to try my best to always be here for you. If you want me to be, anyway."

The ceiling is blank, the wall is blank, his thoughts are everywhere and nowhere all at once. But Kurt is here, even after the stupid shit Blaine told him, even after Valentine's and getting sort of turned down and the last four months of Blaine's meaningless flirting. He's here, and he's Kurt. He's never been anything other than Kurt, even when Blaine's been everyone except himself.

In a long day of hard things, it's easy as anything to reach up and put his hand over Kurt's. And for all that Kurt said they were going to talk, they actually don't say anything at all. Just Blaine on his back, Kurt sitting by his head, their hands together until Jeff comes home.

*

Kurt goes home eventually. Not because Kurt doesn't want to stay (and Blaine is surprised by how much he really, really doesn't want Kurt to go), but for the simple reason that he wasn't at all prepared to stay overnight anywhere. His skincare regimen is not one to be trifled with, apparently.

Except the thing is, Blaine would've given up the bed and slept on a blanket on the floor if it would've kept Kurt near him. He thinks he might actually have said that out loud, too. He doesn't remember, things are kind of glowy in his brain right now.

He is pretty sure he didn't say out loud that he also would've gladly shared the bed, if that's what Kurt wanted, because he can still feel the warm press of Kurt's hand on his shoulder, like a buzz under his skin, and the idea of having that feeling along his arms, across his chest, the tops of his thighs-- god, he wants it.

He maybe, when it comes down to it, wants Kurt.

He thinks he didn't say that one out loud, because if he had, maybe Kurt would still be here, and why exactly hadn't he said it again? That would have been amazing. He thinks. He's pretty sure. He's not actually sure, and isn't that why he's lying here? Because it's 10 at night and he's staring at the ceiling again, except in an entirely different way than he was four hours earlier, because instead of existential misery what he's actually doing is trying to balance the timing so that going to the shower just looks like his usual routine and not at all like he's looking for private time with some soap and his hand.

It's a fruitless gesture in the end, because this is an all-boys school, and that's everyone's mental math, but Jeff is sitting at his desk doing Latin homework and hasn't said a word so far about the tableau he walked in on. Or the stay-or-go conversation he had to sit through which, Blaine suspects, was kind of more sappy than maybe either he or Kurt realized at the time.

Jeff is a quiet man with ridiculous hair and a lot of patience. And Blaine is deeply suspicious that if anyone has started a betting pool regarding certain gay members of the Warblers and their undeniable chemistry and certain romantic future, it's totally him.

Blaine swings out of bed and gets his shower caddy and towel and stuff, trying to remember all his usual steps and not blurt out something like, "Hi, I'm just going to go shower, it has nothing to do with Kurt at all why would you say that oh my god I have to leave now--"

He almost makes it to the door, too, before Jeff looks up and says, "Hey, so-- oh, never mind. Showering. Got it," and turns back to his homework.

Because he clearly has a mental disorder that prevents him from shutting up, Blaine says, "Sorry about earlier. With Kurt."

Jeff looks at him again, smiling politely. "It's cool," he says, sounding distracted. Blaine smiles back, trying for as normal as possible, and is halfway out the door when Jeff calls out after him, "Since you're madly in love forever."

Don't look back, don't look back--

Jeff is smiling broadly at him and giving the most lascivious thumbs up Blaine has ever seen in his life. "Rock it, my son. Rock it hard," he says, and Blaine can maybe die now, thank you, good night.

The bathrooms are, thankfully, empty. Most of the guys on his floor are morning men, but Blaine's got the hair gel thing going on, and unless he wants to actually throw away every pillowcase he owns, he makes sure his hair is clean before he goes to bed. And, yes, there's an element of wanting to get some time to jerk off when no one is around, because he may enjoy fronting for the Warblers but in some ways he's very, very private, and he likes to think that time with his dick is one of them.

There are six cubes, three by three, separated from the toilets and urinals by a short hall with hooks and cubbies. He always goes for the last shower on the left; it has the best light, the least draft, a hundred other things he doesn't usually think about. He's thinking about it now. He's thinking about the water (turn the knob full circle, hot as it will go, just to kick the water heater in gear), he's thinking about the bench where he's sitting to take off his shoes (wooden, old, faintly musty from being around steam and heat all the time), he's thinking about the tiles in the cube as he steps under the water (warm, now, but when he touches the wall, leans with one hand and lets the water comb through his hair and run over his neck, they're cold and slick from condensation)-- he's thinking about everything and anything other than what he's about to do, because he's jerked off thinking about all sorts of people, but he's never done it while thinking about Kurt.

His best friend. The only person he's been able to talk to about anything real in years. The first person -- maybe ever -- who's cared enough to understand, to listen.

And who likes Blaine. Likes him, and is hot, and who maybe has jerked off because of him.

Holy fuck. That is a mental image.

The water is hot and the air is thick and he's half hard already just from the thought of Kurt doing, god, anything. Blaine gets a handful of shampoo and cups his cock tentatively, hisses a little at the touch. The shampoo is cool, and he twists lightly to spread the soap just enough to allow a slick slide and yeah, he's ready for this. He doesn't even know what he's doing really -- testing? Seeing if this is something he wants? Someone he wants?

He closes his eyes, remembers the feel of Kurt's hand on his shoulder. The buzz that spreads under his skin, across his muscles. His face feels flushed. He closes his eyes, makes one slow stroke, and imagines Kurt's hand touching his jaw, a thumb on his cheek. Imagines the light brush of skin, someone breathing next to him, Kurt. He rocks into his fist, bracing against the shower wall, and Kurt's eyes are watching, and he can hear singing, a countertenor raising the hair on his arms and he's so fucking hard it hurts.

Kurt's mouth is smiling, crooked and beautiful and Blaine imagines that there's another hand touching him, sliding down, wrapping around his cock and taking over, long fingers and pale skin and a rough touch that's everything Blaine never knew he wanted. Like this? he can hear Kurt saying, tentative and hot, curved behind him with a hand on his hip and the other on his dick and his chin hooked over Blaine's shoulder, taller than him, pressing himself up against Blaine and he can feel it, fuck, he can feel how it would be, could be, Kurt, Kurt.

He gasps, louder than he's ever let himself in the showers, and comes hard enough to see stars, and for just a minute he feels wonderful. Except... it only lasts a minute.

The shower tile is still cold against his hand; he gives up and just leans his body against it, let's the porcelain cool his face even as his hand squeezes once, twice, getting every last moment he can from this. Because he's never felt like this, about anyone, and Kurt may say that he likes him, but this is beyond liking, this is so much more, and Blaine is terrified that he wants something now that Kurt will never give him.

Because this is what he's just figured out: Liking someone is one thing; loving is another.

Blaine's wrung out from the best orgasm he's ever had in his life, and wishing he'd just stayed in his room and dreamt about crushes instead of discovering how much he wants and how little chance he has of getting it.

*

The next morning he wakes up, heads to the bathroom, and pulls out his hair gel.

And looks in the mirror.

His hair is curly. Really, really curly, and a very slightly lighter brown than it is when he's gelled it. It reminds him of his old high school, and the person he used to be. Bullied. Ignored.

But he wore pink sunglasses and he cuffed his jeans and he was... definitely himself. And maybe that was the guy who got beaten up, but he was also the guy who could find happiness in little things, because that's all he had.

Blaine needs to find happiness right now.

He puts down the gel, and spends the entire time he's shaving, brushing his teeth, and tying his tie just looking in the mirror, being startled every time by the person he is.

And trying not to think of what he'll do when he sees Kurt today.

*

Turns out that the easy answer to that one is to avoid Kurt completely. Because every time Blaine tries to think of how their meeting today will go, he sort of blanks out and can't decide if he'd stand there like a moron or, like, fall face-first onto Kurt's mouth. Which would be awkward, and bad, and would probably send the wrong message. Or the right message, except that Kurt wouldn't want it, and that would be worse than the Gap thing, a million times worse, because Jeremiah was a crush and Kurt is... Kurt's everything.

So basically, Blaine has been hiding in the library all day between classes and hoping to god no one rats him out. A couple of the Warblers have seen him -- Jeff had raised his eyebrows when he'd seen Blaine's hair, and David had smiled a bit uncertainly and then complimented him on the look -- but no one's actually found him in the library yet. There's a really good chance that he can avoid Kurt for days just by sticking it out in the Religion section on the second floor, fifth bookcase from the back and without a carrel in sight.

It's after school now, anyway, so he thinks he's home-free for the day at least. It's Friday, and Kurt always heads straight to Lima on Fridays unless there's a Warbler event. Which there is not, particularly after Blaine called up Wes and made dire threats if he even thought of doing an impromptu gig. Wes had relented much more quickly than Blaine had anticipated; he wonders if maybe he'd freaked him out yesterday, talking about coming out and then making a run for it.

He wonders if maybe Jeff has been texting the crew and keeping everyone up to date on the latest gossip.

Something terrible is going to happen to Jeff's Prisoner of Azkaban figurines, he swears to god.

The library is always a little chilly, and a little too dark for comfort. It smells like paper and book glue and dust, though, and Blaine can't help it, he's always loved the smell of libraries. This is his favorite spot, too, quiet and with a small window just lighting this corner. He likes to sit on the metal step-stool that lives on this floor and just lean back against the books, closing his eyes, thinking about... oh, anything.

Or Kurt. He could think about Kurt while he's here.

He doesn't even know why he's bothering to lie to himself.

Kurt. Kurt who likes him, except the only Blaine Kurt's ever known is the fake one with gelled hair and an easy smile. This Blaine, the one who's hiding in the library, is the real one. This Blaine wasn't even the one who confessed his lousy life over the telephone last night, because that Blaine was somebody who still thought Kurt was just his best friend, just somebody he could like-like one day, maybe, in the future.

This Blaine, the one right here, is the one who might be in love.

Kurt doesn't know him. And he doesn't know what he'll do if Kurt finds out that he doesn't like the real Blaine, because Blaine's not sure he can go back again.

His phone rings, and he scrambles to shut it off before one of the student shelvers comes and glares at him. Don't be Kurt, don't be Kurt, he thinks, because he is not ready for Kurt at all.

It's Thad. "Blaine," he says, voice serious and startling over the phone, "did you break up with Kurt? Because I need at least thirty-minutes warning of this kind of news before having him show up weeping on my doorstep."

What?

Blaine swallows and hopes his voice doesn't break. "You're over-dramatic," he says. "Kurt isn't weeping on your doorstep. Also, you don't have a doorstep."

He can almost hear Thad waving away his statements. "Don't try to distract me. Are you confirming that you and Kurt were dating, though? Because this changes some things."

Blaine wishes he had never picked up the phone. "No, we were never dating. No, Kurt is probably not on your doorstep. I have to go, this has been great."

"Don't hang up," Thad says quickly. "Fine, none of the above is true. But he is moping, and Jeff said something, and Wes said something, and as a member of the Warbler board I feel it necessary to hold an intervention here if you're thinking of having loud arguments and tearful reunions, because we really can't afford to lose both your voices right before Regionals."

"That," Blaine says, "sounds remarkably more like Wes than you."

"Wes is feeling guilty," Thad says -- in the background, Blaine hears something like a squawk and dark muttering.

"Are you... are you with anybody else?" Blaine asks.

"No," says Thad, "what? No. I mean. What?"

"Listen," says David, suddenly filling Blaine's phone and making Blaine wonder whether the world is conspiring against him, because apparently it totally is, "maybe there are some other people here. But not Kurt, so you're, uh, safe. From him."

There is a voice in the background that sounds a lot like Jeff, and it is clearly saying, For now--

"What exactly is going on here?" says Blaine, and David starts saying something about wanting what's best for him, and delaying the inevitable, and at least three guys are singing in the background words that Blaine is trying not to hear, and--

And Kurt. In the library. Rounding the corner in a rush, and breathing hard and staring down at Blaine.

Blaine hangs up the phone.

Kurt is usually immaculately dressed. Hair perfect, skin perfect, every movement controlled and... perfect. He utterly occupies any space he stands in, and when he sings, that space extends to the boundaries of the room and beyond.

Kurt looks like a wreck.

Blaine's seen Kurt near tears before, but this isn't it. This is wilder, more uncertain. This is Kurt looking panicked. Blaine pushes himself up to his feet and grabs Kurt by the shoulders, all thoughts of love and showers and misery gone. "Oh my god, Kurt, what's happened?" Blaine inhales, the worst options coming first. "Is it Burt? Is he--"

"What?" Kurt blinks heavily down at him, jittering under Blaine's hands. "What's my dad have to do with--"

"You just, you look--" Blaine's thumbs are pressing just above where Kurt's clavicles would be, a dip he can feel through his uniform. "You look like something bad has happened," Blaine finishes, and he should let go, he should probably let go.

"I'm sorry," Kurt says, talking fast, the panic obvious, "I'm just sorry, I shouldn't have made you do any of the steps or whatever, I should've just supported you and bought you coffee and-- and it wasn't David or Wes or anybody who broke you, it was me, and I'm sorry, and please be my friend again, I, I," he swallows, and Blaine can see his adam's apple bob, pale and shadowed, and Kurt says, "I don't care about anything else, I just want us to be okay again."

Blaine lets go. He leans against the bookcase, and closes his eyes. Kurt doesn't care about anything else. Kurt doesn't care. "It's fine," Blaine says to the darkness, "it's okay, we're okay. We don't have to be anything else."

Kurt's silent then, and Blaine wonders if maybe he's gone, left Blaine now that they're friends again. Except he can feel the air shift in front of him, and he can smell Kurt's aftershave, just a little bit. He doesn't know what brand it is, but he's pretty sure he'll recognize it for the rest of his life.

"Blaine," Kurt says, and Blaine doesn't even know what to make of his voice. "Blaine."

Blaine opens his eyes. Kurt's looking at him, but not exactly at him. At his head. His hair.

Kurt raises his hand halfway, stops himself. "Your hair," he says, a little wonderingly.

"Yeah," Blaine says. He wishes he was still sitting down. He wishes a lot of things. "I-- remember when I said I pretend to know what I'm doing?" he says, and there are words pushing to come out of him and all he can think is Why not? It can't get worse, it can't-- "I still don't know what I'm doing, Kurt, but I'm tired of pretending, and I'm tired of being someone fake and happy when I'm not. And I'm not happy, not at all, my family life is fucked up and my entire concept of self-worth is kind of wrapped up in my singing ability and I have this thing where I need to keep my hair gelled because otherwise I'm somehow different and weird like I was in my old high school and maybe no one will like me anymore which is just, just insane, I know it's insane, and how can you possibly like someone like me? How can you like someone who loved a sports poster and can't manage to talk to anyone without the aid of song lyrics? You can't like me, you can't, and it's awful, because the only time I'm ever happy is when I'm with you."

He stops, because if he doesn't he's going to run or kiss Kurt or something stupid, really stupid, and he can't be that guy anymore. So he stands against copies of Lutheran doctrinal studies, the sun throwing splashes of dusty light on the floor, and stares at Kurt. Kurt who is looking at him like he's a stranger, and that's because he is, he is.

And then Kurt takes a step forward, and puts a hand on his shoulder, right over the spot he held last night. And his other hand reaches up, and... Jesus, touches one of Blaine's curls. Gently, so gently. Blaine can feel it on his skin. Kurt bites his lip, and says, very, very hesitantly, "I like you."

Blaine swallows. "You can't," he says numbly. "I'm not the guy you like."

"Okay," Kurt says, and there's just the faintest touch of bite to it, the Kurt who throws pillows at his head and buys him coffee after Gap disasters. "I liked that other guy, yes. I like you more."

Kurt's mouth is right there. "I like you, too," Blaine says, and he's staring, he knows he is, and he flicks his eyes up and there's Kurt.

"You do?" Kurt says, and Blaine nods. Kurt lets out a breath, long and low, and says, "Then I really hope you don't stop me," and presses Blaine hard against the shelves, long body flush against his, and kisses him.

It takes a moment for Blaine to move, because this is-- he-- fuck-- and Kurt hesitates, starts to pull away. No. Blaine reaches out, holds on. And kisses Kurt back. Kurt's hand slides into his hair, and Blaine's tipping his face up, changing the angle, and if Kurt is the Fourth of July when he sees Blaine, then this is all fireworks, bright lights and sparkles and a crowd of thousands breathing out all at once.

Kurt breaks the kiss long enough to whisper against his mouth. "You," he says, and kisses him again like he can't help it. Blaine feels it too, like there are words he needs to say except that would be a stupid use of his mouth right now. And hands, he should probably do something with his hands, but he can't manage anything except fist Kurt's jacket and try to rock him closer. He shifts against the bookcase, his legs spreading as he does, and suddenly Kurt's got a leg between his, his thigh hard against Blaine, and holy shit he's in love.

Kurt gasps, and Blaine chases after him, tasting Kurt's mouth as the kiss turns wet and amazing. The sun is warm and it's quiet, it's so quiet here that he can hear the sound of their mouths, their skin, their blood rushing rushing rushing--

"I like you," he says against Kurt's jaw, finally unclenching one hand just so he can reach up and press his fingers through the hair at the base of Kurt's skull, just to hold him there. "I like you so much, I can't even--"

"How," Kurt says, "how can you, I'm horrible, I made you do awful things," and Kurt kisses him again, like maybe Blaine will stop him from ever doing it again now that he's been reminded of Kurt's infamy.

"It was me," Blaine says, "just me, and then you found me, how did you find me? God, you're perfect, and you found me."

Kurt presses his forehead against Blaine's, and his thigh tenses, hard against Blaine's extremely interested cock. "I have spies everywhere," Kurt says. "And also, Thad told me."

Blaine moves his hips, just a little, and they both hiss. "Thad said you were moping," he says.

"I was a little distressed," says Kurt, "because you were avoiding me."

"I wasn't-- okay, yes, I was avoiding you," Blaine says, and darts a kiss because he can, because that's allowed, because Kurt likes him, even when his hair is curly and he's not singing. Kurt bites Blaine's lip, and that's enough to cause Blaine to make a very embarrassing noise and grip Kurt's head harder, curve his back to get closer to Kurt's body, closer to everything hot and hard and there.

"I couldn't stand it," Blaine says, "the idea that you wouldn't, that you couldn't like me the way I am--"

"Idiot," Kurt says, "you're an idiot, I'm in love with an idiot--"

Kurt rears back, hard, stepping out of Blaine's grip and crashing against the other bookcase, breathing fast and his hair mussed all out of shape and he's beautiful, absolutely beautiful, but way too far away.

Also, there's the thing that he just said, which Kurt seems also aware of.

"I mean," Kurt is saying very quickly, flapping his hands, his eyes rolling wildly as he tries to backpedal like whoa, "I mean, I love you like a friend, not at all like a creeper who has been pining for you for months, I mean," he trills a laugh that is in a register beyond even his normal one, "I mean, this is great, we like each other, kissing, very good, but I don't want you to think that I--"

Blaine reaches across the aisle and pulls Kurt back against him. Kurt almost fights him, and it means that he lands less than gracefully on Blaine, all stiff and hard and a dozen other words that are also convenient euphemisms for exactly what Blaine's feeling right now, because oh my god, Kurt loves him.

Him. Blaine. Kurt loves him, unless this freakout is somehow meant to imply he doesn't, which Blaine is pretty sure is not the case. The part where Kurt is actively melting bonelessly against him is a great sign, all things considered.

"I think I'm in love with an idiot, too," Blaine says, and then he kisses Kurt because yeah, he's in love, and Kurt's in love, and this is what they can do, in the silence of the library, in the warmth of the sun.

END

go to: We Are All a Little Weird, and Life's a Little Weird

an author's note

2010-12-31T17:08:50Z

This year, under the pseud I've used for ages for the Yuletide rare fandoms fic exchange, I wrote the following Monty Python RPF stories:

READ THIS ONE FIRST

and

We would skip this one, if we were you -- it’s more of a supporting document, really

Here follows some very extensive author notes.

How This Happened, or, Why Monty Python RPF, omg, wtf, idek
I was not going to participate in Yuletide this year. I have plenty of other projects on my plate, and this didn't need to be another one.

One day, though, someone posted up the poor wee fandoms that had someone requesting them and no one offering for them. And one of the fandoms was Monty Python.

There was no clue to whether it was the show or the troupe. But I had recently watched the documentary Monty Python: Almost the Truth (The Lawyer's Cut), and in it Terry Jones described their 1973 album The Monty Python Matching Tie and Handkerchief, which had two concentric grooves on one side "so that different material would be played depending on where the stylus was put down on the record's surface" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Monty_Python_Matching_Tie_and_Handkerchief#Double_Grooves). When I saw that Monty Python was a requested fandom, I immediately thought to myself, That's the way to write a MP fic. Always changing. So I signed up for Yuletide and listed Monty Python as one of the fandoms offered.

And then, miraculously, I was totally assigned it. Yuletide goat fairy, for the win! Now all I had to do was write RPF (which I had never done) and Monty Python (which I had also never done). EASY-PEASY.

A few different ideas really influenced the creation of this project. First, of course, was Terry Jones's idea of the concentric grooves. Second: Terry Gilliam, at one point in the documentary, said that if the group every got back together, it would be hilarious if the first three shows were absolutely awful, complete rubbish, and when they'd driven away all but the most ardent of fans, they'd then show the fourth episode, and it would be brilliant, but no one would believe it. Third: The Special Edition DVD of Monty Python and the Holy Grail was filled with pleasant little Easter eggs, including (I think) starting the film with an entirely different film for about two minutes. Finally: nova_bright gave me a lot of leeway with her request, while at the same time giving me really solid starting points. It was pretty much a perfect request, and without it none of this would've been possible. :D

What Is Really Going On (In the Actual Story, Like, the Actual Sequence of Events)
I don't think I'll tell. People are coming up with perfectly good explanations all by themselves. Post-structuralism, man, all the way -- "The author's intended meaning, such as it is, is secondary to the meaning that the reader perceives."

If you're really, really want to know, though, I will answer in comments. It'll probably be disappointing, though, fair warning.

A Short List of Hints for What You Might Have Missed, If You Still Want to Find Things on Your Own

Did you try clicking on the scene-break lines?

Have you looked at the source code for all those external scenes?

Have you tried refreshing all those external scenes?

Did you ever stay on one of the pages for around a minute, just waiting?

Did you find the Google login and password? Did you sign into Google with it, and look at the emails and documents?

Have you actually read all of the "plain text" version?

A Much Longer List of the Digressions, Hidden Links, and Easter Eggs, Provided I Can Remember Them All
Do you really want to read this? Are you sure? Because it looks very boring to me like this, but on the other hand, I completely understand the wish for cheat codes and walk-throughs. If you're certain, then...

Let's start at the top of READ THIS ONE FIRST:

The summary reads "Anne Durham: What it is to be married to Clive." This is a reference to E.M. Forster's Maurice. In the source code of frutescent.html, there's a 200-word drabble that matches that summary.

The notes link to a "plain text" version of the story, called FIRST READ THIS ONE. It is not actually a faithful copy of the story; it starts changing around the time they arrive in the hotel room. This was my attempt to reconcile the alcoholism narrative of both the "base" version (READ THIS ONE FIRST) and the "unstuck" version (We would skip this one, if we were you). It's part of the way time/space is changing around Terry; this is one of the ways it could have gone, had it happened at all.

"But there was a sketch that needed to be written,*": The asterisk leads to waxingcats.html, which contains a video of Pong. The source code says something ominous. The "back" link takes you to the story translated into Basque.

"Sorry, dear, sorry!*": The asterisk leads to bellicose.html, which contains a pop quiz about Carol Cleveland's breasts. The duck is a female mallard. The "back" link goes to the "unstuck" version, which provides the answer. (Carol Cleveland has staunchly said she has, at most, appeared onscreen with pasties, so in all likelihood none of them have ever seen her nipples.) The source code discusses my inability to find a nude picture of Graham Chapman anywhere. If you stay for too long on the quiz, the page redirects to frutescent.html (frutescent, adj., having or approaching the habit or appearance of a shrub).

"I'm-- I'm going to Biarritz.": The link leads to the fifth scene of the "unstuck" version, the phone call as seen from the unstuck-in-time Terry.

I have in fact been to Biarritz. The whole thing really is painted salmon-pink, and the sunsets try valiantly to apologize for it. The beach is rocky, but long. There is a man who sells caramel ice cream in cones the length of my forearm, and I once walked the streets at midnight carrying only that ice cream cone and a piss-poor sense of self-preservation, trying to find my way back to the hotel without getting either accosted or arrested. There was also a woman in a pub with black-rimmed eyes, and she was gorgeous, and I was a moron (and underage, but that is neither here nor there).

"Oh, I've been doing all sorts* of things,": The asterisk leads to drollic.html, which contains a Terry Gilliam animation from Monty Python (drollic, adj., pertaining to puppet shows). The source code is snarky about the British monarchy, because I couldn't manage to get classism into the story proper. The video gets interrupted halfway through by redirecting to senticous.html (senticous, adj., prickly, thorny), which contains a vid with clips of Terry Jones and Graham Chapman. The source code for that is relevant to the "unstuck" story. The "back" link goes to the first scene of the "unstuck" version.

"magnanimously explaining the world to a sad Oxfordian.*": The asterisk leads to a notepad.cc page containing the userid and password for a Google account. This Google account ostensibly belongs to Terry Jones. If you sign into it, you will find three draft emails and a document, all of which pertain to the "unstuck" story.

"it brought the scent of watery things, and pipe smoke.": The link goes to the eleventh scene of the "unstuck" version, carrying on the discussion of Terry/Michael Palin.

The scene-break line between "What do you want to talk about?" and "They received a phone call at half-past three" is actually a link to glond.html (glond, n., a Awlwort. b Cowherb.). The source code recites a filthy Catullus poem. Glond is one of the sites that will change if you refresh the page -- there are three additional scenes. If you wait for too long without doing anything, the page redirects to frutescent.html. The "back" button leads to mingent.html (mingent, adj., discharging urine), which contains an animation with the lyrics of Knocking Nellie, a song I find funny. If you were to go to xtranormal's main site, where the vid exists, you'd find a tiny dialogue between Graham and Terry. Mingent's "back" link goes to scene 18 of the "unstuck" version, where Graham tells Terry that he needs to go home.

"why post-structuralism* wasn't actually annoying": The asterisk leads to a "Let Me Google That For You" page, perhaps cluing the reader into the idea that a post-structural reading is totally the way to go with this story.

"'It would be hilarious to call John up, wouldn't it?' Graham said.†": The dagger leads to the randomizer for the comic A Softer World. I can easily imagine Graham uttering the dialogue of any of those comics into the phone at two in the morning, waking up John and making everyone uneasy in the morning.

The scene-break line between calling up John and Terry waking again at eight A.M. is a link to frutescent.html. The source code is that Maurice drabble. Frutescent is another one of the sites that will change if you refresh the page -- again, there are three additional scenes. The "back" link goes to scene 11 of the "base" version, where Terry finds the words "Terry Jones has come unstuck in time," thereby making you miss four scenes and a video link if you're not paying attention.

"Terry swore he would never argue Milton* with Graham ever again": The asterisk leads to a comic from the tumblr of John Campbell, who writes Pictures for Sad Children. Like many of the outgoing links to comics or videos, this strikes me as a work that has been influenced, one way or another, by the surrealist humor of the Python gang. Love them or hate them, their work has touched a lot of stuff. On an unrelated note, Graham's comment about Milton's Paradise Lost is cribbed from one of my own papers.

The scene-break line between Terry getting drunk and watching stupid television and the video that pretends to be that television is yet again another link. This one leads to tortiloquy.html (tortiloquy, n., dishonest or immoral speech), wherein everyone is oxnardly drunk and Terry shows his hand a bit much. The source code mutters about carrots. The "back" link goes to scene 15 of the "unstuck" version, connecting the drunk scene to the Graham-talking-about-sex-scenes scene (before Terry clues him in).

The Look Around You clip is, of course, modern, and not at all television from 1974, but it strikes me as the sort of thing the Pythons would've entirely loved to do.

The Fowles reference is to John Fowles's The French Lieutenant's Woman, a book that has three endings offered to the reader by the author; the link goes to a flickr photo of the beach at Lyme Regis, an important location in the book. The Pynchon reference is to Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, a war-era book that is famous for messing around in time and space both narratively and stylistically (and I have not, in fact, finished it); the link goes to a Google Books link to one of the pages of the book, the bottom paragraph of which says something mysterious regarding homosexuality. The "unstuck in time" bit is a reference to Theodore Sturgeon's Slaughterhouse-Five, wherein the main character travels through three realities and the author steps in frequently. Finally, the Sterne reference is to Laurence Sterne's The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, a nine-volume "autobiography" during which the main character never actually gets around to being born; the link goes to sparsile.html (sparsile, adj., of a star, not included in any constellation). Sparsile contains a black page, a reference to Sterne's page of mourning for the parson Yorick. The source code does something unseemly to Shakespeare. Clicking the black page leads you to 1989.html, when Terry and Alison see Graham and David in hospital before he dies. The source code says something daft about death, and if you stay too long on the page, you are brought to a "Write or Die" box, where you have 1 minute to write 10,000 words (and maybe, if you are Terry, show the dying Graham how it might have gone in Biarritz).

"an inventive idea of female anatomy.*": The asterisk leads to another notepad.cc page, this one giving the contents of Terry G.'s telegram. The joke therein is both juvenile and not nearly clever enough, but there you go.

The scene-break line between Terry describing Graham looking heroic and the voice-over narration is, once more, a link, this one going to supellectile.html (supellectile, adj., of the nature of furniture), where Graham and Terry wander the streets at night. The source code is a dialogue of frustration. The "back" link takes you to glond.html.

"terrible thoughts,* and gin": The asterisk leads to a Pentasmal comic that I find incredibly funny, and almost no one else does.

"absolute shit.": This link leads directly to mingent.html, which does not speak well for Terry's state of mind.

"an indeterminate meat pie": This link leads to an artful picture of cuts of beef, in French. It is therefore a cow meat pie.

"or slept in it all.♣": The club leads to another Pictures for Sad Children comic. Take or add your meaning as you see fit.

"And an ending.": This link leads to a Toothpaste for Dinner comic, which, for my purposes, is referencing back again to Pynchon. It's also another one of those surreal bits of humor that I couldn't imagine existing today without the influence of Python.

"END": This link leads to unstuck.html. The page has a blink tag on it, which only by a narrow margin beat out the use of the marquee tag. The source code says something snotty about liberal educations. The link goes to the beginning of the "unstuck" version.

And now, We would skip this one, if we were you -- it’s more of a supporting document, really. I'm going to skip over the majority of the "back" links, because generally they do just lead to various scenes in the "base" version. That being said:

The notes make reference to that Maurice story again.

The first "back" link takes you to unstuck.html -- very circular, man.

The video is the third portion of the actual Mr. Neutron sketch as aired (though presumably without the subtitles).

Following the scene where they eat calamari and shout down for ice cream, the "back" link takes you to thedream.html. All but one of the paragraphs switch randomly between two options, creating slightly different scenes each time you refresh. The source code somehow involves Hugh Laurie. The "back" link goes to the Google document referenced previously, that contains a snippet of text and a photo of the Pythons, where Graham and Terry are looking at one another.

Following the scene where Michael calls Terry J., the "back" link takes you once again to drollic.html.

Finally, the last line is in fact the last line of John Fowles's The French Lieutenant's Woman.

Acknowledgments and Credit Lines
skyfyre read all three versions of the story (what I call the base, the plain, and the unstuck) and provided excellent commentary; MP read the base version, even though she despises all things Monty Python-related, and pronounced it not terrible for persons such as herself. Lex Neva, of Second Life, was kind enough to provide web space to preserve my anonymity.

In no particular order, credit belongs to the following people (none of whom I asked permission from, and who I sincerely hope don't mind what I've done with their work):

the rare words used as website names all came from SavetheWords.org, with the exception of "glond" (from Wondermark: http://wondermark.com/a-note-about-glond/) and "bellicose" (which isn't actually rare, I just like the sound of it)

the relevant clip of the Mr. Neutron sketch was uploaded (with Turkish subtitles?) by MOPFC, courtesy of Monty Python's Flying Circus: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd5pDZk170M

Carmen 16 is courtesy of Catullus

the Basque version of the base story is courtesy of Google Translate

the Pong video is courtesy of Turboboyturbinado: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPkUvfL8T1I

the beef diagram is courtesy of secretmeat.com

the photo of Carol Cleveland is courtesy of WikiVisual: http://en.wikivisual.com/index.php/Image:CarolCleveland.jpg

the photo of Graham Chapman is courtesy of the following link: http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1160/4721568480_83d2d938eb.jpg

the photo of Terry Jones is courtesy of TerryJones.Net: http://www.fortunecity.com/bennyhills/jones/724/

the photo of the female mallard is courtesy of Benh LIEU SONG, under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cane_Portrait_Chevreuse.JPG

the animation to go with the song "Knocking Nellie" was created by me using xtranormal's free service; the song itself is courtesy of Bernard Wrigley, from his 1971 album The Phenomenal B. Wrigley: http://bernardwrigley.blogspot.com/2007/07/blog-post.html

the Pentasmal comic is courtesy of Aaron Farber: http://www.pentasmal.com/

both Pictures for Sad Children comics are courtesy of John Campbell: http://www.picturesforsadchildren.com; http://boohooboo.tumblr.com/

the photo of Lyme Regis is courtesy of emmdee: http://www.flickr.com/photos/10163027@N05/2723348564/

the black page is courtesy of Marc Singer: http://notthebeastmaster.typepad.com/weblog/2006/04/cocks_and_bulls.html

the page view of Gravity's Rainbow is courtesy of Google books

the countdown writing box is courtesy of Dr. Wicked's "Write or Die Online": http://writeordie.com/

the Graham Chapman/Terry Jones Tribute vid is courtesy of adayinthelife: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCMInyDQTzQ

the A Softer World comics are courtesy of E Horne and J Comeau; while I only linked to their randomizer, they should totally get props regardless: http://www.asofterworld.com/

the italicized text for the Mr. Neutron sketch is from The Complete Monty Python's Flying Circus: All the Words, Volume 2

the Look Around You clip was uploaded by JackofAllHades, courtesy of Robert Popper and Peter Serafinowicz: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmw7JfsNzoY

two sections utilized the text space available at notepad.cc

the animation from Monty Python's Flying Circus was uploaded by mush01, courtesy of Terry Gilliam: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhVod-29QRk

the foreign language phrases are courtesy of The World Phrasebook: http://worldphrasebook.net/

the last line of We would skip this one is courtesy of John Fowles's The French Lieutenant's Woman

several ideas and much of the research for this project came from watching the documentary Monty Python: Almost the Truth (The Lawyer's Cut): http://www.ifc.com/monty-python-almost-truth-lawyers-cut/about-the-show.php

much of the follow-up research and fact-checking came from The Pythons Autobiography by the Pythons, where I discovered that I couldn't match Graham's writing style on short notice and without a great deal more education

Wherein There Is a Case, Several Mysteries, John Coming to the Rescue, and an Old Folk Saying

2010-11-14T05:00:19Z

Title: Wherein There Is a Case, Several Mysteries, John Coming to the Rescue, and an Old Folk Saying
Author: parsnips
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Someone is drugged off-screen, and the word "peripatetic" is uttered in dialogue.
Spoilers: The first two episodes, but no mention of the third.

Summary: There are three mysteries to living with Sherlock Holmes.

Written for skyfyre, because she asked. (MP asked as well, and I felt I could not deny them both.)

--
Wherein There Is a Case, Several Mysteries, John Coming to the Rescue, and an Old Folk Saying
--
by parsnips

On the subject of compromises.

There are three mysteries to living with Sherlock Holmes -- this opposed to the dozens of compromises to be made living with Sherlock, "compromise" here being a loose term for "things John will just have to learn to put up with."

Do not expect Sherlock to make tea.

Do not anticipate food ever entering the cupboards by Sherlock's hand.

Do not even consider what Sherlock may have gotten on those hands within the last twenty-four hours, particularly in light of the gruesome photos of hacked-off body parts Sherlock's been texting in that same time frame.

Once John got his mind around the fact that Sherlock wasn't ever going to be a normal flatmate, it became startlingly easy to settle in at 221B. Living with Sherlock is a bit like living in a reality TV show, with all the guilty pleasure that entails. Periodically rating dips would demand that the house be set on fire, or an entire dead pig be found beneath John's bed, just to see what John would do, but otherwise it was just... fun. It's fun being Sherlock's flatmate, writing up blog posts about their cases, flying in the face of establishment and catching criminals at the same time.

However... there are the mysteries. Three of them. Three things that Sherlock will absolutely not talk about, or even allude to, which is so completely outside of Sherlock's normal modus operandi that it's starting to become something of an obsession with John, this wondering what in god's name Sherlock is trying to hide.

Regarding the mysteries.

1. When Sherlock bothers to go to the chemist, he always goes in person. Once a month, however, he will have something delivered.

Sherlock is massively secretive about this delivery. It's not drugs, and it's not poison, unless Sherlock is lying, though he's never bothered to lie about either one of those before. Sherlock's chemist is dodgy enough to supply either, so that doesn't narrow the field. Medication? Would imply a heretofore unmentioned illness -- unlikely. Condoms? Would imply a sex life -- so unlikely as to be ludicrous. And asking about this delivery gets absolutely nothing by way of a response, which is starting to drive John slightly mad.

2. There is a mold of uncertain origin in the sink, and Sherlock refuses to tell him the purpose of it.

Sherlock says it's a mold, anyway. The sink in the loo has had unsettling streaks of blueish-black in it from very nearly the beginning of their residence. Mrs. Hudson has complained. John has complained. Sherlock has attempted on several occasions to call it an experiment, but when pressed won't specify exactly what the experiment is in honor of.

It's more than a little disgusting, and it has a very odd smell.

The one time John tried to clean it out, he ruined a perfectly good sponge, and the mold just returned a few weeks later regardless.

3. John has no idea what the rest of the Holmes family looks like.

Mycroft is the exception to this, and if it weren't for Mycroft refusing to let Sherlock bully him out of sight, John suspects Sherlock would never have let on that Mycroft even existed. So far John knows that Sherlock has a mother (Mycroft alluded to her), and a father (because the presence of both Mycroft and Sherlock heavily depends on it) -- other relatives, though? More siblings? Nothing. There are no photos, no hints dropped, no terrible Christmas dinner stories to tell.

And when it comes down to it, John is not exactly certain of the verity of Mycroft in the great Holmes pantheon. Their brains are certainly similar enough, but in looks they're completely different. While they both have a vampiric skintone, Mycroft's can be attributed to his ginger hair. Sherlock has no such excuse, and anyway, is it even possible to have such dark hair with red-heads in the family?

John has no idea. He toys with asking this question, if only to discombobulate Sherlock enough to throw in a follow-up question about possible sisters. Perhaps in all the confusion, Sherlock will actually answer.

John thinks he might quite like to meet a female Holmes. Not the mater, obviously, but someone Sherlock's age or thereabouts. A female Sherlock, come to think of it, would be more than a little wonderful, particularly if she was actually interested in having sex any time in the future ever.

A female Mycroft does not enter into the picture.

John does not spend much time on the whys and wherefores of this train of thought.

Pertaining to the relationship.

One of the many compromises John has made, living with Sherlock, is in regard to his own sex life. It's just... difficult, trying to date other people while he's living with Sherlock. Sarah had been a prime example -- it just didn't seem possible to leave the flat, get some dinner, and end up anywhere approximating a bed without Sherlock appearing at some point during the proceedings. (The time that he had appeared in Sarah's bedroom was probably what put the final kibosh on that relationship.)

Subsequent relationships are as follows:

Tamsen: Sherlock had called her an idiot, and though he hadn't meant it, she took offense. Two days.

Jill: Had survived the initial onslaught, but had drawn the line with the dead pig. Three weeks.

Anthea: John had only ever mentioned that perhaps he'd be interested, and Sherlock had somehow aimed Mycroft at John and fired. An uncomfortable hour and a half.

Maggie: Sherlock had called her an idiot, and meant it. Offense was taken all around. Twenty minutes, and a very awkward cab ride.

John wonders whether he will ever, in fact, get to sleep with anyone ever again.

When it comes down to it, though -- and he will deny this vehemently if asked -- he wants to spend as much time as he can running with Sherlock. If that means giving up some of the more entertaining things he'd hoped to do after the war, well, that is a sacrifice he's willing to make. Because while women are great, Sherlock is fantastic.

John's not exactly sure what Sherlock's getting out this arrangement. Even John can admit that he is depressingly normal, and Sherlock is so completely not normal that John must seem the epitome of boring in comparison. John has learned by now that "boring" is synonymous with "the unutterable torments of the damned," and he is very concerned that perhaps Sherlock will look up one day, make a moue of distaste, and say something truly horrible to John.

Something like, "Please leave this flat and don't come back."

Or, "Don't bother coming with me for this case. Or the next. Or any others, ever again."

Or, "I've found someone else to live in this flat and come with me on cases and you were an idiot for ever thinking I would remain constant to something so absolutely mundane as yourself."

And he will mean it, and it won't be offensive, just an absolute truth. Sherlock is very good with absolute truths; he wields them like a knife. John will be left cut in a dozen places, and then he will leave, and he has no idea what he'll do with himself then.

No, John thinks he can forgo just about anything if it means another day by Sherlock's side. If that means no sex for a while, well, he's gone through worse. He's gone through a war, for god's sake. This is nothing.

Alluding to the mysteries again.

Mycroft has been known to pick John up from outside the clinic and drive him home. John thinks this is because Mycroft gets bored, and if he's anything like Sherlock, would rather torment John than start a minor land war just to have something to do. If Mycroft were more like Sherlock, he'd start the land war anyway -- John tries not to examine the news any more closely than usual on days Mycroft picks him up, but sometimes he does wonder.

Today Mycroft is sitting across from John, twirling his umbrella and smiling in John's general direction. He's saying nothing, but he's saying it loudly.

John sighs. "Yes?"

"Have you ever considered throwing aside this peripatetic life of yours and settling down to something more... steady?" Mycroft says.

"No," John says.

"My brother is fickle, you know, very prone to dropping his toys just as quickly as he picks them up."

"How flattering for both of us," John says. Mycroft's smile gets a little more benign. "Tell me," says John, "d'you have a sister?"

"How very amusing that you should ask that," Mycroft says. He examines the handle of his umbrella with all the attention of a scientist at a microscope. "Has Sherlock said anything about it?"

John looks out the window rather than answer. Mycroft clears his throat in a delicate manner. "No, John," he says, "the Holmes brothers number only two, and there are no sisters to complement the set. Whyever do you ask?"

Sometimes Mycroft speaks like he's from a different century. "I'm just... curious," says John.

"I suspect Sherlock just hasn't gotten around to telling you. There's no great secret about the family, John," Mycroft says. The car pulls up in front of 221B, and John's got his hand on the handle when Mycroft adds, "Well, perhaps one. Though I'd call that more Sherlock's dramatic inclinations interfering with life as usual than any sort of secret. Pay it no mind." He waves John out with one pale hand, and leaves John in front of the sandwich shop.

In the flat, Sherlock is typing on John's laptop. His hair looks like a dandelion gone to seed, suggesting that Sherlock has spent some amount of time in the last several hours rumpling it furiously. John considers the minor bad manners involved in breaking into his laptop, versus the major property damage of a bullet-riddled wall, and decides that if frustration is going to take any avenue for Sherlock, it might as well take the less destructive one.

John makes several more observations before he eventually rolls into bed, trying not to wonder too loudly whether Sherlock truly wants him around. Not all of these things are consciously observed, but they are all certainly affecting John's current state of mind.

Someone who isn't John has taken out the trash.

Sherlock has not said one single word to John for the last 34 hours.

The mold in the sink seems to have only gotten more sinister.

Sherlock has nevertheless solved two related drug crimes in those 34 hours, using only John's laptop and a yellow camera filter dredged from beneath the sofa.

Sherlock's laptop was not inaccessible during all this -- it was, in fact, beneath John's.

Mycroft is a bit of a bastard.

And, very deep down, John finds himself trying to guess what it would feel like to rumple Sherlock's hair.

Whereupon Sherlock goes missing.

It happens in this way: DI Lestrade calls at the flat for Sherlock. Sherlock is not there -- has not been there, in fact, for over a day, John's only communication from him being occasional text messages that are more confusing than reassuring. John inquires of DI Lestrade whether he might be of use. DI Lestrade thinks not. DI Lestrade leaves the flat, John stares at the floor, and quite coincidentally everyone receives a text message from Sherlock's number within two minutes of this meeting.

Patch test

(Neither John nor Lestrade are to know that this message was also sent -- accidentally -- to every major news organization in Britain. Lestrade finds out within a quarter hour, but doesn't bother to tell John. If he had, much of the following would not have occurred, so perhaps it is for the best.)

John thinks this is another of Sherlock's recent messages, except that DI Lestrade is pounding back up the stairs. "Do you have any idea what he's on about?" Lestrade demands.

Not usually, but John is willing to give it a go. "Patch tests," John says. "Used to determine allergens, among other things. Does that connect with the crime scene you wanted Sherlock to investigate?"

Lestrade eyes John. "Maybe," he says. He looks around the flat once more, as if Sherlock will magically unfold from the mantelpiece if he only waits long enough.

"I know quite a bit about Sherlock's methods," John says mildly. "While I'm no genius detective, I may be able to provide some assistance."

DI Lestrade looks skeptical, but he is also desperate for reasons that are not yet apparent, and John shortly finds himself in a first-story flat in Peckham, examining the face-up corpse of a man who... well. Is dressed exactly like Sherlock would be this time of year. Blue muffler, expensive coat, polished shoes, exquisite tailoring...

John kneels on one knee by the body. The tailoring is clearly bespoke, but the buttons on the shirt strain against the dead man's chest.

"You see why I wanted Sherlock for this one," Lestrade says over John's shoulder. "It's uncanny. We'll have the team ask after the clothing manufacturers, see if there are any records of purchases we can trace--"

"Not sure that's necessary, detective inspector," John says. He leans forward and sniffs at the blue scarf. There is a distinct smell of sulfur. He leans back, and his hand is twitching. "These clothes don't just look like Sherlock's -- they are Sherlock's."

"What?" Lestrade says, but he receives a phone call at that moment, and gestures for John to continue his observations without him.

Instead, John pulls out his mobile.

Where are you? -JW

That one goes to Sherlock.

Seen Sherlock? -JW

That one goes to Mycroft.

The text to Sherlock goes unanswered, but in less than a minute John receives a text from Anthea's number. Have been told to tell you that the Holmes brothers were often mistaken for one another in youth. Nothing further comes, not even when John actually calls Mycroft's number and only reaches the voicemail.

John stares down at the dead man, and contemplates many things. These things include: the gruesome photos of cut-off hands Sherlock sent him a week ago, the sink mold, Sherlock's mysterious text, the smell of sulfur, Anthea's equally mysterious text, Sherlock's monthly deliveries, rumpled hair, ginger hair, that case Sherlock solved with the yellow camera filter, and John's sudden and all-abiding wish that Sherlock was here.

After a moment he reaches out and with two fingers he touches the corpse's ears, first one side, then the other.

He stares some more.

As Lestrade comes back into the room, saying something horrifying about the fourth estate into his phone, John is calling Sherlock's regular chemist. He leaves a message on the company voicemail.

Hello. This is John Watson, I live at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes gets deliveries from you every last Thursday of the month. Where is he?

John hangs up without bothering to leave a number, and then looks up at Lestrade. John says, "The clothing is all Sherlock's, and they're clothes he's recently worn. The victim dressed himself, probably without Sherlock's input. The victim was made to look superficially like Sherlock, including hair color and makeup, but something went wrong. I don't think he was murdered; we should be more concerned about where Sherlock is than anything else."

Lestrade is looking at John very oddly. "Go on, then," he says after a long pause, during which John starts to feel a little stupid. "How do you figure?"

John points at the body as he lists his findings. "I know the clothing is not the victim's because the tailoring is too expensive to have been done poorly, and these clothes don't actually fit. It's not a matter of gaining weight, either, as this man's ribs would never have fit in so narrow a shirt.

"I know the clothing is Sherlock's in particular because I've been living with him for nine months now, and I am very familiar with the sorts of chemical burns he accrues." Now is not the time to mention that he also knows what Sherlock smells like. "I also recognize two different marks on his shoes and coat, both from the last week, which is how I know these are recent clothes and not just ones plucked out of the closet. And the cuffs on the shirt are unevenly buttoned, something that drives Sherlock round the bend, so I doubt Sherlock helped with this.

"The victim's wearing about as much pancake makeup as a single human can manage without it falling off, probably meant to mimic Sherlock's appearance. His hair has been dyed black, identical to Sherlock's shade, and recently. I suspect that is the cause of death, by the way, though I wouldn't argue it in court without an actual coroner's report in front of me."

John stands again and nods to himself. "Right. I have to go."

DI Lestrade clamps one very firm hand on John's shoulder. "I don't think so," he says. Lestrade does not look happy. "Did Sherlock tell you to say all that? What's going on here?"

John wishes he still had a cane. He could hit people with it. "What's going on is that Sherlock is missing, this man died of anaphylactic shock shortly after Sherlock's abduction, and Sherlock found a way to tell us all this using only two words and a missing signature."

"What?" Lestrade looks like how John feels most of the time, and John is suddenly acutely aware of what Sherlock's brain must be like on a regular basis.

"Patch test," John says, before stepping out of Lestrade's grip. "The man's dyed his hair recently, and the hairline is uneven -- probably did it at home. While not everyone follows the instructions on the box and does a patch test to see if they're allergic, this man did. Commonly people want to do the test out of sight, where the color won't look strange. Elbow or behind the ear are the ones I've seen when it goes wrong. For this man, the results didn't show up immediately, so he didn't realize what was about to happen. Sherlock was able to see what the man didn't, though -- you'll find a massive rash behind the man's left ear, and you'll probably find that some of the bloating in his face isn't just from the beginnings of decomposition."

Lestrade looks down at the body, and then back up at John. "But why would someone go to all the trouble?"

John shrugs helplessly. "I have no idea. That's where it stops being all medical stuff and knowing Sherlock, and starts being... genius madman territory."

He takes the stairs at a run.

During which John solves the case.

The door to the chemist's has a bell on it. Or it did, before John slammed the door wide and the bell broke off. John doesn't bother looking at any of the startled customers, but rather heads immediately for the back of the shop.

It's a very small chemist shop, independently owned, and if John was to guess he'd say that Sherlock's use of it is entirely based on the owner being an old client. This logic upsets John, because it means someone Sherlock had helped in the past has betrayed him now. Sherlock will be devastated -- he won't say he is, but he will be, because Sherlock is much easier to hurt than anyone suspects. He tends to act like a bastard because of it, but that doesn't mean the feeling isn't real.

There's no one at the register. There is the very rushed sound of someone dashing through the back rooms, though, and John feels the smallest tinge of relief to discover that he was right.

He jumps the counter and pushes through the door to the back, a supplies cupboard and break room all in one. There's a second door, swinging on its hinges, and he hears something slam on the other side. It takes the work of a moment to cross this room and enter the next.

The new room is completely empty. There are no windows, and there are no doors beyond the one he's just come through. The only light comes from the storage room behind him. There is no furniture, and the floor is a terrible laminate. The walls are plain white-painted plaster, the radiator is ill-placed, and the ceiling is no better than it should be.

John considers setting the whole building on fire, but decides that is probably not called for.

He could spend the next half hour tapping on the plaster and pulling up the frankly appalling floor, but he doesn't have time to be sensible, methodical, or anything like the person he generally pretends to be. Sherlock is in danger somewhere, and John is... displeased by this.

John reaches into his pocket and retrieves the yellow filter from Sherlock's email case, the cause of his delay in arriving here. He opens the door behind him as wide as it will go; light from the storage room hits the opposite wall, directly beside the ill-placed radiator. With the additional light, John can now see the scores of paint chipped off around the base of one radiator leg -- where a handcuff might have rubbed. More importantly, though, the wall itself -- yes -- there is a slight sheen there. John lifts the filter and stares through it.

PATCH TEST
OR
TEXTS

The letters are badly formed, but still recognizably Sherlock's handwriting. John's not sure what chemical he used to get the color contrast to work for the filter, but he did have an entire chemist shop to raid for supplies before getting locked up.

What he didn't have time for, apparently, was to come up with any sort of reasonable clue. "Patch test," John says to himself. "You insufferable git, you thought I might have missed it." The second part, though... he's not sure what that means. He hasn't received any new messages from Sherlock since the one that started him on this chase, and before that -- ah.

"Patch test," John breathes, pulling out his mobile and thumbing quickly through the last twenty-four hours worth of texts, "or patch texts."

51.496807,-0.145136

Drug cartel

Revenge

Framing

Murder/suicide

London eye

Patch test

The first set of numbers are coordinates, latitude and longitude. John can't be sure, but he's willing to bet that it's another direction to the chemist's. The rest of it... Drug cartel revenge framing murder/suicide London eye patch test. Words typed out quickly while a guard wasn't looking, just as the words on the wall had been written hurriedly before Sherlock was taken somewhere else. Not as careful as they should be, whoever they were -- or perhaps they felt they didn't have to be. Suggesting a large number of people, or a certain inevitability to their actions. Possibly both.

John does not have time to consider that Sherlock was texting him all this while, trying to get his help; he does not have time to think about how he'd ignored these texts, instead assuming that Sherlock was leaving John behind again, throwing John scraps from his case just to keep John appeased. He does not have the time to think about Sherlock leaving clue after clue, for hours, and not knowing whether John would ever catch on...

John has to tell himself very, very firmly that he doesn't have time for any of that.

Instead, he calls Lestrade.

Resolving all the mysteries, including one heretofore unmentioned.

The London Eye is in Lambeth, on the Southbank, and John has never been on it. It's ridiculous, really, that this should be as close as he's ever come to the overgrown ferris wheel, but he can't help it -- it looks like a target. In more ways than one.

The eleventh capsule, the one they've been waiting for, sweeps slowly into place, and the operators open the doors as quickly as they can. Passengers waiting to disembark find themselves pulled out quickly and replaced with half a dozen officers, all heading for the back end of it. The view from the back is of across the river, where the Ministry of Defense looms and where, perhaps, Mycroft has yet another office.

The officers find the last kidnapper holding up a nearly unconscious Sherlock, dressed in another man's clothes. Within moments they've brought the villain down, but Sherlock slips away and stumbles to his knees. His eyes are unfocused, and he opens and closes his mouth as if he's talking, but there are no words. He collapses forward onto his hands, and with his head hanging he wheezes out, "John."

Lestrade probably imagined he was doing a good job holding John back. This proves incorrect. John will have bruises to show for it later, of course, but this is more important. He kneels beside Sherlock and pulls him up. "I found you," he says. He hauls them both up to their feet. The EMS workers are heading for them, for Sherlock, thank god, because Sherlock is quite clearly drugged and most probably dying. "I've got you."

Sherlock lifts his head with visible effort and his cheek lands on John's shoulder. Sherlock's been gone for two days, and had no access to a razor -- for the first time in the many months John has known him, there is the very start of a beard coming in. A line at his jaw, made of a lighter shade than his hair. A considerably lighter shade.

As the paramedics pull him away, Sherlock's face scratches against John's neck, and John inhales sharply. Whether it's from the feel of Sherlock on him, that pass of heat and secrets, or from twice, twice in one day, being right... well. John doesn't think too hard about it.

Six hours later, John is sitting beside Sherlock's hospital bed reading a photocopy of Sherlock's suicide note.

John's read his fair share of suicide notes -- one generally does, when practicing medicine -- and this one just doesn't hold up.

I couldn't take it any more.
I've ruined too many lives.
Tell my family I love them.

John thinks about texting Mycroft with Sherlock's dying protestations of love and is giggling madly to himself when Sherlock wakes up.

Sherlock coughs, looks groggily around the room, and then focuses on John. He's more present than he was earlier, less near-death. His mouth curves into a smile, and his voice is very low. "How badly did they cock it up?"

John makes a valiant effort at subduing his laughter. It doesn't entirely work. "You love your family, and you're sorry you ruined so many lives."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "They weren't even trying."

"No, I don't think they were," John says, and tucks the copy back into his pocket. His humor fades a little, and he settles back into his chair, watching Sherlock watch him.

Sherlock clears his throat again, and John belatedly offers him water. Sherlock accepts, and it's strange to be reaching a glass out to Sherlock, strange to see Sherlock suck on the straw, his cheeks hollowing, the shadows on his face looking new and different with the whiskers coming in. Sherlock's not meeting his eyes, which is stranger still, and John thinks he might know why.

Sherlock settles back again, and John puts back the water, and Sherlock says, "How?"

This may be the only time John gets to be Sherlock, gets to give the reveal. He folds his hands over his stomach and says, "You dye your hair."

Sherlock glares out from beneath black curls and sniffs. "I don't," he says, as if saying the words might make them true.

"You do," John says. "You absolutely do, you tit, and you've been passing off the stain in the sink as mold just to keep hiding the fact. You get your dye from a chemist that owes you a favor so you never have to pay for it, and you have it delivered so that you're never seen picking it up. And Mycroft's a bloody ginger, Sherlock, along with the rest of your family, and that's why I've never seen hide nor hair of them the entire time we've shared a flat."

"Mycroft told you," Sherlock mutters.

"No," John says, "he had Anthea tell me that the two of you were often mistaken for one another as children, but that was a reasonable -- well, Mycroftian -- response to a text I had sent him. The two of you look like night and day now, literally -- black and strawberry, there's no way you could be mistaken for one another. So something must have been different when you were children. It was just another clue, in the end."

"And your clues led you to discover my terrible secret," Sherlock says acidly, "how grand for you, how miraculous that you discovered Sherlock's vain little habit--"

"It led me to discover you," John says quietly, cutting Sherlock's rant off at the knees. "That, and your messages. Last week you sent me pictures of that murder case, the one with the hands cut off -- it upset me at the time, because I don't particularly like seeing body parts on my mobile. Then came the two emailed cases, but you wouldn't talk to me about them -- I didn't realize it at the time, but those were related to the bloody hands case, a case you thought would just make me unhappy to know about."

Sherlock says nothing.

John says, "Lestrade came to us because he found a body dressed as you. That's when we received your 'patch test' message, us and apparently every reporter you regularly harass when Lestrade annoys you." Sherlock winces slightly, but waves his hand for John to continue. John obliges. "When we found the body, it was obvious. You saw the man's reaction to the dye, dye which was an exact match for the color of your hair. You knew the man wouldn't be able to accomplish whatever crime he was hoping to frame you for -- murder, if your text is anything to go by. You were still missing, however, and the one connection I had was to that hair dye. Incidentally, it's making you smell of sulfur."

"I was hoping," Sherlock says, "that that could be attributed to my various chemical experiments."

John shrugs. "If it helps, that is what I thought until I saw the body. Your scarf smelled of it, but so did his hair. Things started happening a bit quickly, then, though I don't think DI Lestrade was really following. Why kidnap you now? Might have something to do with what you were working on recently. The only thing you'd been working on were the email cases and the bloody hands case, and I already knew I had to go to the chemist that supplied your hair dye -- who else would know your exact shade, after you'd been so secretive about it? I went to the flat first, and checked your emails -- you were still signed in on my computer. The cases were connected, all pointing to the drug cartel that apparently was being run out of the back of your dodgy chemist, and the yellow filter had been used to hide messages at the scene of the crime. When I went to the chemist, I found where you'd been kept, and found your message, and that led to the rest."

Sherlock looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "Your stories lack," he says.

"Shove off," John says cheerfully, because he did it, he was right, and this is wonderful.

"You're of course missing several key details," Sherlock starts, but John cuts him off again.

"I don't care," John says, and Sherlock frowns heavily. "I mean, you can tell me later, but-- I found you. You wanted me to find you, and I did. And you lived, and I am very, very glad of it."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You still haven't any real proof that I dye my hair," he says, trying one last time.

"No?" John stands and leans over Sherlock's hospital bed, one hand braced beside Sherlock's head. With his other hand, he reaches out and brushes his fingers across the arch of Sherlock's cheek. The unshaven skin drags across John's fingertips, catching, and Sherlock breathes out all at once. "There's a saying," John murmurs. "'Trust no man, though he be your brother, with hair one color and beard another.' Except I do trust you, you mad genius, so either the saying is wrong, or you dye your hair black for reasons that probably have to do with wanting to look imposing and older than you are and any number of ridiculous things."

John starts to pull away -- because this is Sherlock, and Sherlock is... he's not a girl, he's not interested, he's not John's -- but Sherlock takes hold of his wrist.

Very carefully, like he is trying to get the smallest drop of innuendo into the beaker of their conversation without changing the color of it entirely, Sherlock says, "I dye some of my hair."

John stops moving completely.

Some? Some?

His eyes flick involuntarily down the long stretch of Sherlock's body on the bed. He meets Sherlock's gaze again, and Sherlock gives a very slight, very real smile. "Yes," Sherlock says.

He says yes several more times before the nurses make their rounds again.

END

parsnips @ 2009-12-05T13:40:00

2009-12-05T18:38:26Z

In trying to write a historically inaccurate romance novel, I have had some difficulty avoiding doing research. My balancing act finally crashed resoundingly when my inaccurate-plot met with my accurate-history and then they all gave one another the cut direct and swore to never visit this establishment again.

So I wrote START OVER in very big letters in my notebook and followed that with:

Ooo, la! I am a young miss who happens to know codebreaking, out and about Town for the first time! My father the prelate taught it to me, and now I am a companion to this young miss, a debutante of the First Water! I follow her to London, where, mysteriously, a young lordling drops into my lap and says, "what ho! can you count to five?" At my affirmative, he kisses me. Hurrah!

It has changed somewhat since then (I've dropped the codebreaking entirely, for one thing), but the general feeling remains.

Hurrah, indeed.

The Winter's Tale

2008-05-04T06:26:28Z

Title: The Winter's Tale
Author: parsnips
Rating: G
Pairing: none
Warnings: none
Spoilers: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but really only as much as what's given in the summary regardless.

Summary: Hermione performed a memory charm on her parents before the start of the seventh book. And she was indeed the cleverest witch of her age. But memory is complex, and magic uncertain, and she was, after all, very young.

--
The Winter's Tale
--
by parsnips

When they reached Perth, it was like feeling a great beast had finally left their backs. Australia was in the midst of autumn, bright and lovely. Everything they'd wanted.

It was when Monica was unpacking the last box of clothes that she came across the maternity dresses. Half a dozen, years out of fashion as far as these things went. She remembered, vaguely, packing them, but their last few days in Surrey had been so crazed... she'd packed everything without really checking to see what it was she was doing. They'd just wanted to be gone.

The dresses belled out to accommodate a figure several months along. Monica had never been pregnant.

"Wendell," she said later, "do you know where these came from?"

He gave a short glance from the corner of his eye, distracted by the paper. "Yours, dear."

"Are you sure? From when?"

He looked up and focused -- except not, not really, because didn't his eyes seem to dull a little? "You're right. I must've been mistaken. Did you get them from a friend? I think they might be too big for you."

"I don't know," Monica said. "I don't remember."

--

She began to dream that night. When had she last dreamed?

There was a baby, bright-eyed, with curly brown hair. The dream was simple, almost meaningless. Monica just changed the baby's diaper -- the girl's diaper -- and then leaned down and kissed the girl's soft round stomach.

When Monica woke up, she could smell warm milk and baby powder and new-nappy plastic.

--

Such mundane things. She started her new job at the dentist's on George Street. She kept the windows open to hear the street sounds, comfortingly different from England. It was important that it be different from England, and she couldn't remember why.

"Mum, Mum, Mum!"

She was at the window, staring below, looking for a curled head, and she didn't know why.

--

"Wendell," she said. He was watching the telly, and didn't look up. Didn't hear.

"Wendell."

The name felt strange in her mouth.

--

She dreamed again. Macbeth's witches, around a cauldron, but all young women with brown curls and short wands to stir the brew. Monica stepped into their magic circle. The women said, "Mum," as one voice, and they plucked out their wands, and they touched them to Monica's forehead and then they emptied her.

She woke. After that, her only dreams are these: a baby, laughing; a teenager crying in a dark bedroom; candles floating above a smiling child; wands; emptiness.

--

"Was I ever..." Monica stopped. "Wendell." He didn't look up. She reached out and shook his shoulder, hard, and he turned to her annoyed, as if he'd been perfectly present the entire time.

"Wendell," she said again, "was I ever pregnant?"

He smiled, like she was joking. "You? You never wanted kids. That was one of the conditions of you marrying me, actually."

"Why do I have those dresses?"

He frowned. "I wouldn't know, dear. They were in your closet."

She blinked. "We had separate closets?"

He blinked back. "I... I think so. Didn't we?"

They stared at one another.

--

"England. We lived there?"

"In... in a house."

"Two story, or one?"

"Christ, I don't remember."

"Why are we here?"

"We've always wanted to be here."

"Yes, but why?"

"Was there something wrong with where we were before?"

"We were somewhere before?"

"Yes-- in a house, we remember a house."

"This house?"

"Was it this house?"

"How long have we lived in Australia?"

"It feels like we've always wanted to be here."

"But have we?"

"Wanted, or been here?"

"I don't know -- I don't know."

--

Here are the facts as Monica and Wendell Wilkins have determined them, in a cold winter room that neither have left in three days:

England.

A girl.

Reality is bounded by experience. Together, if they can manage to remember one another, there is a chance.

(Mum.)

But the first to look away destroys the world.

END

parsnips @ 2008-03-26T12:33:00

2008-03-26T16:33:18Z

One of the later plot outlines from that romance novel (what was a throwaway comedy line in an X-Files fic, what will become -- much changed -- an sf political thriller). I'll probably use this someday, but in a nearly unrecognizable form (see: X-Files --> sf political thriller). For the moment, though, see after the cut a brain that's not terribly good at outlines trying very hard nevertheless. With exclamation points.

(But no coshing.)

Scene 1: Prologue. Death of Momma-spy. Mourning Daddy-spy. Beginning of Baby-spy. Hint of later betrayal stuff from much younger Government Dude.

Scene 2: Baby-spy all grown up. Worried because Daddy-spy acting wonky. Action/adventure as she delivers a Secret Note in his stead.

Scene 3: She meets L'Ange (St. Wyndham). Trouble and instant attraction ensue.

Scene 4: She buggers off again, and sees Daddy-spy being all sickly. From what? Something devious.

Scene 5: Cut to Guy-spy. He's thinking about Girl-spy. When can he see her again? And who the hell is she? No, he can't ask that. Shucks.

Scene 6: Deviousness. The government sends notes to our heroes, saying yo. You will work together now. But how will they meet safely, without compromising their identities?

Scene 7: Well, they can't really. Dammit. But there's a special case rolling about -- a traitor to the crown. Who is it? Our heroes have to find out, without shagging like bunnies.

Scene 8: They have tea. Much fun ensues. Guy-spy doesn't know Girl-spy is just impersonating Daddy-spy. Whoops. Girl-spy doesn't quite realize the actual dangerousness of Guy-spy. Likewise whoops. Dangerous currents, as they say in romance.

Scene 9: They have to figure out who the baddie might be, in high society. How do they do so? By going to bunches of parties and dancing together far too often. Chicks notice, and say Bad Things. Also, there's action and adventure and perhaps one too many break-ins. Our girl shows a definite weakness for word and number puzzles, while our dude has a thing for ungentlemanly pursuits, to the detriment (ha) of everyone involved.

Scene 10: Ha! At some fancy soiree (involving either scandalous clothing or large gardens), our kids discover Encrypted Papers. They abscond with them, but not without having attempts made on their lives. This leads to Intimacy, which, while oh-so-yummy, is probably Not Good at this point in the story.

Scene 11: Girl-spy, in the first blush of whoohooniess, does not realize that Daddy-spy is Even Worse Than Before. He'll surely die very shortly. She rushes to his bedside. He whispers... whispers... a Warning. Beware the saint... She thinks he means Guy-spy. Eek. Distrust! She hurries to translate the encrypted papers, and tries to set up a meeting with Government Dude, cutting Guy-spy out of the loop. Daddy-spy sadly falls into a coma, this mysterious illness still being damn, y'know, mysterious.

Scene 12: Government dude is actually... a baddie! He tells Guy-spy that Girl-spy is up to no good, and gives false proof to Guy-spy about Treachery. Guy-spy is devastated -- but he knows his duty. He has to get those papers back... (ominous pause)... no matter what the consequences. Then later he can go toss himself off the Embankment.

Scene 13: Girl-spy is still translating. She also keeps going to these parties that the Government Dude says he (or one of his cronies) will be at. She goes, but doesn't meet with anyone but the girls -- and inevitably, there's Guy-spy, being all threatening and the like. He doesn't want to hurt her -- he wants to hurt her for her betrayal -- he wants to end his own misery. Life sucks for him. And she thinks he's out to kill her -- she thinks he's out to kill her father -- she thinks he was lying about liking her. Life sucks for her too. Guy-spy and Girl-spy have a very violent verbal confrontation.

Scene 14: Ack. Guy-spy tries to break into the house and steal the encrypted stuff, at the urging of Government Dude. Girl-spy knows it's going to happen, thanks to Government Dude. Perhaps they shall kill one another! But wait, why are you here? Why are _you_ here? Should we keep trying to kill each other? Over the body of my dad, who, by the way, is the one who's really the spy? He's really the spy? Who the hell are you then? I'm just his loving daughter, caught up in the tempests of fate. Don't kill me. Shucks, he says, you've ruined my life and my sense of morals. I'm useless as a man, and though you're probably a foul temptress, I can't keep away from you. That's okay, she says, though you're a foul murderer, I can't keep away from you. Ah, the follies of youth. Kisses, darling.

Scene 15: Guilt, and lots of it. But hey, confessions too. Guy-spy figures out what's wrong with Daddy-spy -- poison! In the form of the food the newish maid's been bringing up. Quick, follow the maid! She used to be the servant of... no, it couldn't be... Miss Saint, a society miss and close friend of Girl-spy!

Scene 16: But wait, there's more! What does Miss Saint have to do with any of this? Why would she poison the Daddy-spy? To keep him from finding out her dreaded secret -- the very secret, in fact, that is in those encrypted papers. _She_ is the traitor to the crown! But who is Government Dude then? Why, he's her former beau, only not so former as all that. She's got him under the cat's paw, with promise of fortune and high Frenchie rank and her lovely charms. That, and he doesn't like Guy-spy that much, because Guy-spy is just so much cooler. But wait -- who was the guy they snatched the papers from originally? Sadly, he was a dupe, and his only secret is his illegal brothel. Whoops.

Scene 17: Murder, mystery, unknowns, great unknowns! The maid runs for it, and heads to that dangerous spot with the nice gardens, the home of Miss Saint. Is it a trap? Well, duh. But it has to be done anyway. Why? Because the maid snatched the now-decrypted papers, and those are, in fact, a bunch of secret British things the French cannot know! So they've got to go get them back, no matter the risk, and with no help to boot. It's just them. They have to trust one another completely to make it out alive.

Scene 18: Whoosh bang. Lots of fighting. The maid is seriously wounded. The Government Dude snuffs it. Miss Saint is knocked unconscious and trussed up like Christmas dinner, to be interrogated by the not-bad Government Guys. Now that they know that Daddy-spy was being poisoned, he'll recover one of these days.

Scene 19: Epilogue: Sometime later. For reasons best known to him, Guy-spy cut out of town for a while -- he shows up for tea unexpectedly. They talk, though carefully. Daddy-spy hobbles downstairs, and says Girl-spy should take over for him permanently. Aw, she says, that's sweet. Guy-spy says he doesn't know if he can make her happy with this kind of life. Girl-spy says, duh. You think I've ever been happier? Nothing says love like making good on a death threat. Guy-spy smiles and says, I know exactly what you mean. Ha! ha-ha-ha-ha. So they all live happily ever after.

first lines, part two

2008-02-27T16:50:23Z

Hard drive treasures of Computer 2:

Fanfic

When it had all gone to hell -- and Mulder, at least, had known it was going for years, it seemed -- it happened quickly.

--A Silent Extinction. What came of making it a third of the way through Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow when I was in high school. Likely to never get much further than the thousand-odd words it is now (plus assorted notes), but I may salvage some of it for later use. Did have a really good time finding random (really random) song lyrics to intersperse between sections.

It hurt.

It wasn't ever supposed to hurt again.

--Cold Blood for the Blacksmith. Buffyfic, maybe? Spike-centric? Who knows. There's only three sentences, and the one I didn't quote here is actually incomplete. There was a related file somewhere that had a bunch of prophecies I'd made up, and I remember the premise was pretty cool -- but on the other hand, from this beginning I think it fairly clear that I didn't have a good handle on what I wanted this story to do. Particularly since at one point I mistook it for the beginning line of a Harry Potter fic. So there you go.

I won't. They can't make me.

Of all the pain, all the heartbreak, all the indignities I've had to suffer for Mulder's damn cause, this is the worst.

And he's gotten everyone else in on it too.

--Bones, for reasons I never questioned. X-Files fic, comedy, silly beginning. I sound alarmingly young. (Note to self: Never use that many italics ever again.)

On the afternoon of the previous Monday, Harry Potter had an unparalleled opportunity to practice Cartesian philosophy.

It was now Thursday, and the situation had gone pear-shaped.

--Cartesian Philosophy, working title. Odd Harry/Draco story that never went anywhere, largely due to my lack of knowledge regarding, um, Cartesian philosophy. An appalling reason to have dropped the story, but there you are. Also, my premise was silly, and I didn't like any of my characterizations anyway. So... maybe more than just the philosophy bit.

from Casefile X-98265, investigator Dana Scully, dated August 14th, 2000:

". . . In 1894, a Mr Jacob Goddard wrote Sarah of the Labyrinth, or The Journey Below, a 20,000 word novella sold, serial fashion, to a short-run magazine specializing in fantasy subjects. No specific commentary can be found, although the reviews of it currently in existence are largely negative.

--Casefile X-98265: Sarah of the Labyrinth. An X-Files/Labyrinth crossover. Suffered from wanting to be a serious original story rather than a dramedy fic. The serious bits can be salvaged -- the dramedy bits... not so much. It's weird looking at this, since there are so many random pieces belonging to the same story floating around, and they read really, really differently.

"You goddamn blacklunged bastard."

--Ahahahaha. The first line to the first couplet poem I tried after reading Pale Fire. (Note to self: Stealing from the best clearly an early plan of mine.) X-Files, Scully getting kidnapped by CSM. Man. The levels of suck in this surpass even my poetry now, which, you know, ASTONISHING.

That's the thing about holograms. Close your eyes and they disappear.

And what you feel... it's yourself.

--Empty Hands, ST:Voyager, an AU vignette for the episode when everybody except Seven of Nine gets put into deep sleep to pass through a massive radiation field, and Seven starts to go a bit crazy. In my version, full on crazyiness! Exciting. Was too much like an X-Files story of mine, though (that would be Burning Bright, which I'm not sure I've put up here yet), for my comfort. So it's complete, and even ready to post, but I never did. Que sera.

Deck Four, Corridor 4c
U.S.S. Starship Voyager, docked at DS9

"You'll never believe who you've got to orientate." Michael Tolsen handed Jen Guillis a datapadd; the entire crew manifest in a bite-sized chunk.

"What, like a Cardassian?" Guillis asked, tapping a key. Tolsen shook his head. "Something worse?" Tolsen nodded. Guillis kept tapping, scanning the list, until she noticed one name. Her eyes widened. "No. Please tell me no."

Tolsen patted Guillis on the back. "I didn't have the heart to let you find out when she beamed on."

Guillis squeezed her eyes shut. "She promised she'd never come back. I heard her. I taped her. I have documented proof that she'd never come back to Starfleet."

"Maybe we can beam you back onto the station before--"

"Rossotti to Guillis," a cheerful voice called from Guillis's communicator. "How's it going, toots? Screwed Mike yet?"

"Oh god, we're too late," Guillis moaned. "The whole damn mission is doomed."

--Heave Ho, and Aboard My Loves! I'm pretty sure a working title. ST:Voyager, very "lower decks" style. Comedy retelling of Voyager's adventures with the addition of a plucky malcontent inventor, meant to skew off from canon more thoroughly after reaching the Delta Quadrant. Six thousand words, but absolutely no notes -- I was totally making this up as I went. (Note: The incorrect use of the word "orientate.") Also, I was enamored of the character type after reading Mindy Glazier's Tales of Feldman, a TOS-era fanzine with much the same setup (take regular show. add hijincks and weirdo. dramedy ensues!). I like a lot of what I did in this, but I realized (shortly after reaching the Delta Quadrant) that (1) following an episode scene for scene was immensely boring, and likely to get more boring as I went, and (2) not having notes about anything? PROBLEMATIC.

Ron was in trouble.

"No, really, I think you should." Mary Sue Cutebottom's beseeching eyes bore across the dining table, limpid blue pools just on the verge of tears or mirth.

--Harry Potter and His Very Small Role in the Plot, what became the working title after I realized that, actually, Harry would have to have an enormous role in this sequel to Harry Potter and Horrid Pain of the Artiste (another story I'm not sure I've put here). Three thousand words in this file, but there are piles elsewhere, and a bundle of notes. Largely cast aside because I found myself having to correct a lot of the issues that popped up in the first story by dealing with them in this one, and that was getting tiresome. But on the other hand, there's a lot to like in this -- maybe I'll pick it up again, since I am in love with several bits of it. (Case in point: "Good God, you're annoying!" Ron said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "What, did the film make you remember the good old days of vinegar and bile, or did you decide the retro 'bossy prude' look was back in style?" || "Neither," she countered, "but I can see your petulant prat personality was merely on holiday. Was it nice? Did you get Polish television?")

In the days when there was no peace and there was no sadness, there was a god-fathered warrior named SaSo'. (In these days there were also gods, for Kahless had not come and killed them yet.)

SaSo' was the son of veS, also named vavma', the chief god and father to all that was to be the tlhIngan wo'. SaSo' knew his father veS, and was a dutiful son, and he did not fear battle. There was no army that did not drench the field in blood when he was fighting--there were no ships that did not drown when he was sailing.

--Kronos, working title. A Klingon folktale I was cooking up to intersperse between some never-written story. I like it a lot, but it got bogged down when I tried to add to much. Folklore is ragged messes of memorable bits -- what I was writing had too many boring things.

The Social Services rep didn't look happy when they sat down. It wasn't hard to tell why -- even shutting out most of his power couldn't stop Matt from hearing a very loud, very cranky I don't believe this for an INSTANT crash into his mind.

--No title. A pargraph and a half of a Heroes, Matt/Mohinder story. I am lemming, hear me roar.

"Scully, I know what I saw. Why can't you see that this is something that I need? That I need to believe in?"

--Oh my God, why was there no one to stop me from attempting romantic Mulder/Scully fic? PAINFUL.

"Scully, you've got to get down here."

--Night, Death, Sleep, and Stars, clearly every pushbutton word there has ever been in the history of ever. Me attempting femmeslash. A little under three thousand words of dubious quality with no notes. I can see that I lost patience at the very end -- clearly I knew it wasn't going well.

It wasn't a minute after Ginny slammed her door that Ron, standing at the base of the stairs, turned grimly toward Harry.

"Right," he said. "Outside. Now."

--The file's labeled "shubbery", so I suppose I might have decided to call it that if I changed my mind. Ron/Harry slash, sort of -- I never did decide how I wanted it to end, so the boys are still stuck having just kissed and being ragingly awkward. Perhaps the thing where Ron/Harry does nothing for me got in the way...

It starts like this. They argue. It's usually about something stupid. Sometimes it's not. The fight gets louder. Ron yells at him. He yells back. Fists clench. The air feels hot. They step closer.

--Woods, Dark. Harry/Ron -- I think this might have been another attempt at the same challenge that prompted the one above. Marginally better, and I like the mood, but, again, didn't know where it was going. Also, the voice stymied me a bit. Might still go back to it, though.

After All of It:

It was, Severus reflected, exactly what he'd been promised.

And so he knelt before his cauldron, and wept.

--Sixteen Marrowbones. It looks like it might be another attempt of mine to write the "Voldemort = babelicious" story, with marginally more success. I like a lot of it, actually, but I'm wondering if it belongs somewhere else now.

The reason the Slytherin common room was underground was not, as was popularly supposed, because the Slytherin's head of house could not stand the touch of sunlight. As Hogwarts: A History made very clear over several chapters regarding the 17th century's very active inter-House warfare, it was because stone walls, several feet thick, surrounded by lake on one side and Scottish mountainside on the other, made for a pretty damn inpenetrable fortress. The wisdom of this move, in 1668, was demonstrated when the abandoned Slytherin tower had a particularly vicious hex levitated through a broken window. It took four days for the tower to melt from the inside out.

--I don't even know. This is all there is of this, and I have no idea what story it could go to. Man, though -- wherever it ends up, it will be filled with awesome.

There was something white, floating up in the corner of her eye. She turned, and saw the evening breeze catch her lace curtains.

She hadn't left her window open.

--No title. Some Spike/Buffy thing from season five. Decent writing, no real drive. Blah.

Blood. It was red, warm, running down her arm. Summers' blood. Her fingers were tingling -- if she tipped her arm to the side, would all the blood in it pour out, like a full cup falling off a table? If she leaned over the edge of the couch, would all the blood in her body come running out, stain the carpet, leave her empty and flat and draped like a human throwrug--

No. She wasn't human. So this wasn't blood.

--No title. Spike/Dawn fic, when Dawn went all crazypants. Decent, but a bit too post-eppy for finishing at this point.

Orig. fic

Dios mio. The stars shiver above me. They feel a cold that I do not.

--Cancion del Jinete. Short story. Based on an article I read about the houses of dead Colombian drug lords. I like this (and I like that it's finished), but I think the language might be too damn twee.

Horatio:

I realized only afterwards the folly of my leaving in such a hasty fashion -- it was not until after I had made my request that you came to me with news of my father, and I could not in all justice repeal my case for returning to Wittenberg. So here, by the hands of my servants, I give my instructions: Stay awhile in Denmark, and be my eyes and ears. I'll see to it that your studies do not suffer -- a student who is yet a prince has some weight to his words. Discover, if you will, the true nature of this ghost. See if it has words, commandments, or is indeed a demon. Beg it reveal its secrets, by my name. I am already a'sea as you read this; send word as soon as can be done. I will spend as brief a time in Wittenberg as can be managed; I would not leave you in that den of vipers for the world.

Hamlet

--The Hamlet Letters. AU epistolary fic! Someday, my pretty, I will write you. And drive Horatio mad in the process.

A week ago Bill woke up and realized he had no insides.

--He Killed Six Before They Stopped Him, because I read a Theodore Sturgeon story and liked the ending enough to make it a title. The story itself is garbage. But completed garbage, so I suppose that's something.

I tell this story wherever I go. This happened a hundred miles back, and I know because I was there.

--Mouths Like Doors. Southern Gothic horror story, what came of me revising a Lone Gunmen story I wrote and hadn't liked much. I like this one a great deal, but it needs a lot more revising to make it sit well in the brain.

a complete lack of linear time. that's what this was. not even the concept of "now"; there was nothing, a continuous world of nothing, no air for breath, no future, no past, just this, always this, lasting forever ever ever ever fucking ever--

There wasn’t enough air for this nightmare. Christ.

--Night Gone Long. Novel I started for my thesis, based on a screenplay I'd started in sophomore year, based on an article I read in high school. The first paragraph, though, is snagged from a Harry/Snape fic comedy short I wrote for pornish_pixies. So there you go. I'd continue this, but my brain was unfortunately infected with John M. Ford's style from The Last Hot Time, and I couldn't keep it up. I did make an amazing mix CD to write to, but it is so very much in keeping with the story that I can't listen to it without getting horribly depressed. YAY CREATIVITY.

There had been flowers everywhere.

Sir Benjamin Wood, just forty and too young to be a widower, sat behind his desk and thought about the flower arrangements at the funeral, and the church, and within the house itself. He couldn't remember if he'd had a hand in the patterned arrangements, or if they'd been his wife's design, written down before her confinement, or if the florists were connected with the government, and the number and position of each branch of cypress was the key to a message he needed to decipher within the next hour in the name of God and country.

A hell of a thing to think of one's government. Or florists.

And damn himself to hell as well -- he was thinking about ciphers, and Frances was dead.

--My foray into historical romance. Research included reading a very large anecdotal history of codebreaking and pamphlets on how to knife fight. Started with a line in a discarded Mulder/Scully fic, morphed into a Mulder/Scully AU, was completely ditched to become the fine prologue you see quoted here today. Now the whole thing is being ditched again in favor of being set on an alien planet with the possible human colonizers taking the place of the French. (Note to self: This may be why it takes me decades to write things.)

When the heart beats faster, the sunlight becomes unbearable, and the skin twitches as if old Earth's fire ants are crawling, biting along it -- that is the first moment of realization.

--Was called Site 645, then (stupidly) The Requirements of Necessity, and now Trickle Down. This whole line (and the section is belongs to) is going out the airlock, though -- this fic is in happy revision-land. I'm trying to solidfy the central theme. And then, I suppose, I should actually make the science work. (Note to self: Wife would say that perhaps that should come first. She is usually right about this sort of thing.)

When Jenny was four, her parents bought her a robot. It was as big as she was, moved on hidden rollers, and had a large plastic dome on top, dark like sunglasses so she couldn't see its brain.

--It is a Weird Kind; or, Beauty and the Turing Test. Three hundred-odd words of setup with no outline or notes to help me fill in the rest. Still like the title, though.

Welcome to Ceremony of Innocence, sir, the only full-interaction hololife pavilion of its kind, a guaranteed once in a lifetime experience.

--The Ceremony's Dancers. Hello, high school. I r emo. With the ethics of holography!

You're going on a trip.

--No title. Was written to make clear my point for some paper. Had a really, really cool idea in it, but now I'm still figuring out what story the really, really cool idea should be in.

Anderson thinks she remembers what alarm clocks sound like, though her memory of it has been slowly changing. Trying to go to sleep on a pallet that never dries out, under the hazy fog of mosquito nets, she wonders if her alarm really had sounded so much like the buzz in the ear that came of insects waking up in the sun.

--Study, winner of world's most boring title. I played with time in this one, and with the classic emic/etic problem, but it didn't have much oomph, and the time thing fell flat. Maybe I'll come back to this? What the heck, I've only had it written for a few years -- maybe it needs five more...

The sun came through the window sideways. The girl beside him spoke. "I hate taking this bus." She smiled shyly. "Have to, though. Only one that comes close to getting me home in time."

--The End of the Day in Innovative Studies. Sadly, tragically, XKCD beat me to it. Which is good, actually, because he did it much better. The alternate title for this was The Theft-Makers, though, and I might keep that for something else.

Arrived on-scene at 4:06 PM. Pedi. approx. four years old, female, missing for over 1hr when patient's mother called 911. First on scene were police, followed by search team composed of firemen and EMTs.

--This, the Body. Completed. Now, have to see if there's actually an audience for it, since it's, um, kind of weird. Also, have to see whether I actually want to just rewrite the entire thing and retitle it Automaticity. OPTIONS.

Hurrah for files. Let's see what gets sloshed into the brain after all this.

first lines, part one

2008-02-27T14:28:47Z

Here's what's on my hard drive on Computer Number 1:

Fanfic

“It’s ugly.”

Lex twitched a fold into place. “It’s traditional.”

“It’s pink.”

--Dressed, a Smallville/Harry Potter crossover drabble written for thamiris to a color challenge. Let us never speak of it again.

The furniture had been covered; the doors had been locked with more than one spell; three years this flat had stayed untouched. The owner was studying Taoist magic somewhere in China and was quite content to stay there for the time being. Had he known who -- or how many -- were breaking into his flat at that moment, he might have changed his mind.

--Hello Dorothy, How Are You?, part one of three parts, which gathered together would, according to my copious notes, be one overall chapter to the eight chapter story called A Study of Interaction, 1350 Edition, Translated from the Original Neapolitan. It was a Queer Eye/Harry Potter crossover. The third part is written -- nearly the entirely thing is intricately outlined -- it has nonetheless languished. Possibly because it is silly. Getting those notes in here may be a future project, though -- sketching that stuff out was loads more fun than actually writing. (Note to self: Important lesson here.)

He was a beautiful man.

--O'Bedlam, working title, Harry Potter. Based on the bare paragraph I have here, it looks like I was attempting the whole "no really, Voldemort was a total babe" story I threatened ages ago.

It had been many years since Jane, Michael, and the twins had seen Mary Poppins.

--No title. Less than five hundred words of a Mary Poppins story I tried my hand at after reading the original novel. (Note: CREEPY.) I was also thinking about making it a sort of weird follow-up to A Hundred Years Ago, but, much like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, it left something to be desired. Though the second paragraph isn't bad, and I did have Mary staring at a grown-up Jane out of a Nuremberg photograph -- that was pretty cool.

It was raining in London. There was a window that faced the street intermittently – the wall would open and close like a sleeping eye when the houses to either side stretched apart to allow someone though the door to Number 12. Harry sat on the floor where the window appeared, waiting for glimpses of black streets and washes of streetlight-orange. The view would only last for a moment before the buildings came together again, and Harry was left in darkness, waiting for the next opening.

--No title. A little over a thousand words to a sequel of In the Shade of Quiet, set after the bar, from Harry's POV. Actually, rereading it, I might salvage it -- it derailed into a different story about halfway through, but if I murder that darling...

The evening had rather died down, and Ginny was no where to be found. Not so bad, that -- Neville was just grateful to have had a date at all, and one who liked to dance. Now it was just him at a table, listening to the old Warbeck classics McGonagall had put on as "go home" music, and watching the band clear up and the remaining students clear out.

--Sex with the entire band, working title (I SHOULD HOPE), based on a bunny from sarahtales's review of one of the Harry Potter movies. Neville for the win! Never got very far, since I couldn't actually manage to image Neville having sex with, you know, the entire band, but I did have a good time coming up with Celestina Warbeck lyrics.

Orig. fic

The mountains pressed up against the house.

--Dragon Land, working title. Bunny came from a children's cartoon show wherein the children regularly leave their room with the aid of magical devices and spend time in "Dragon Land". My thought? How creeped out a parent might be to find their young children intermittently, and mysteriously, missing. (Note to self: A parent thing, much?) Also bears some relation to The White People in my head.

The road was dark; there wasn't even a moon tonight to help light the way. Paige gripped the wheel and stayed slow. It was the wrong time of year for deer or moose to be a really big problem, but there was always the possibility.

--Well, this is embarrassing. This is me starting a very rough rewrite of--

His skin was damp. He was nervous.

There was a river, a wide city river, that flowed down through the country land until it reached the West Sea and left its spendings there. Near that river there were mountains, and between those two a train traveled from Seoul, down and down, to a little train depot where there lived nearby the girl Han Sang-Min was to marry.

--Demons, previously titled Kumiho, previously existing in Western consciousness as, um, Little Red Riding Hood. This story is actually complete, but... it lacks. So I'm trying it from another angle (hence the previous "first line"). Still has the "don't trust the countryside" lesson, which is what I was going for anyway, and hopefully still has the folkloric angle. What it does not have: Any good writing whatsoever. Whoops. Might be waiting in the wings for octette, depending on how it evolves.

One day Nala became a step-mother, though she hadn't realized what that would really mean. Her husband was older, more than she thought at first, and she had just quit college. He had a wife eight years dead and a child turned just fourteen. He'd said things like, "You remind me of my wife," "You remind me of my daughter," before he'd touched her in a way she didn't mind too much.

--Little Ash Girl, or, alternatively, Aschenputtel. Let us ignore for the moment my inability to name characters with any finesse whatsoever. This came out of one of the many Cinderella-variants that exist out there (sidebar: incestous versions of Cinderella do not get made into Disney films. Discuss.). Slated to be revised and put lovingly aside for octette.

"Are you the investigator?"

The guy who opened the door was about an inch short of six foot -- if Kelly hadn't been wearing boots, she probably would've been able to look him in the eye. As it was, he had to look up at her, and he didn't seem to like it.

--No title, except possibly what I labeled the folder: Magic lesbian. Mystery short story with lesbians and magicians, around 1600 unconnected words. What comes of reading submission calls immediately after finishing The Prestige. Would be worth actually finishing if I could make it to the end scene.

On the fourth evening, there was a rattling of spoons in the cellar pantry.

--Saint Jamie of the Ordinary Revelations, short story I've been keeping for the title alone. Weird, sort of miraculous things start happening around this guy, but all the messages are really mundane (like, "Maybe you should visit your mother more often" and "Butter isn't really that healthy for you"). Recently discovered while showering (prime accidental plotting time) that it was actually a story about coming out, and now it's percolating happily in my backbrain.

Lu took the long way home, passing through every streetlamp and holding tight to her skin. She'd been holding tight for two weeks now, barely sleeping, moving like a rock through the water of the world.

--The folder says Superhero sex!, but the title I came up with for this story -- long after I discarded this beginning -- is How Lady Luck and Glass-girl Got Started on Their Life of Crime. The outline after this sort-of draft was set in a business convention being held at a casino, but recent (shower) thinking has led me to believe that octette's suggestion of a Victorian steampunk milieu might be an extremely awesome idea. So, percolating.

The Chinatown bus was hauling ass in the fast lane toward the city. The New York skyline was curving into view just an hour and fifteen after leaving Philly, and that meant Dan would be arriving at Canal Street at about two-thirty, over an hour before he was supposed to get picked up by his client. Good. He could get a bite to eat and stock up on some magics he didn't have.

--Original title was Ash and Oak Man, but that's probably going to fall to the wayside. Started out as a short story, attempted to morph into a novel, and now I'm wrestling it back down to the short story it really ought to be. Seriously, though, this is a fucking awesome story, to the point where I'm seriously wondering why I'm the one writing it. Related: Has the only good character name of any of my original fics, and only because my wife came up with it. (Note to self: Wives = awesome.)

When they pulled up the carpet Christian and Leyla found a key between the ugly red-green weave and the decomposing carpet pad.

--File labeled The Future Tastes Like Jellies. I have no idea.

The answering machine was a dismal thing. There was one message on it.

--Word for My Lord. I vaguely recall that this was supposed to be some sort of religious mystery short story, but I haven't the faintest idea what was supposed to happen. Perhaps a note exists in one of my notebooks? Somewhere? (Note to self: Transcribe notebooks. In a private entry, god help us all.)

Okay. She'd figured out north ages ago. A candle went there, and then another two at her left and right for west and east, and then she had to twist around back to stick the last candle into the southern holder and--

Crap. Wax on the carpet.

--YA fantasy novel, take 1! Discarded for being too "Wiccans are kind of silly"!

Webster's was a used bookstore that catered to college kids and hippies, full of home improvement books from the 1970s and soggy children's books and knee-high piles of stuff by local authors that looked like it'd been done up at Kinkos the night before. It was wonderful.

--Same YA novel, take 2! Discarded for being filled with boringness!

The funeral was at 4 PM. It began to rain at 2.

--Same YA novel, take 3! Not as yet discarded, but might be for killing off main character's family members before the opening credits!

Have you no heart to confess?

--They Laughed While in a Position of Prayer, completed, being sent around. Has been in the Land of Revision for... um... ten years? A couple of you might remember the very earliest versions of this one, from when I was Young and Foolish. Still not convinced I've nailed it, though -- wondering if I should meld it with the rewrite of Demons, above. (Note to self: Ten years...)

And now, the next computer...

What You Bring With You, What You Leave Behind

2008-01-01T20:48:59Z

Title: What You Bring With You, What You Leave Behind
Author: parsnips
Rating: PG
Pairing: none
Warnings: language
Spoilers: Up to season 5 of CSI: Miami, season 3 of Without a Trace, and the movie Empire Records

Summary: Lucas grows up; Joe sells the Empire; Speed leaves Miami; Jack finds him. And, again, Lucas grows up. CSI:Miami/Without a Trace/Empire Records crossover.

Beta'd by the wonderful and brilliant flyakate and swimmingotter. Written as a birthday present, six months too late. For you, octette. Because you're you.

--
What You Bring With You, What You Leave Behind
--
by parsnips

Tim. Speed. Speedy. Timmy.

He calls up Joe and leaves a message on his office voicemail. I'm not dead, okay? Don't ask. And then Speed takes the back way out of Miami and hopes like hell Alexx doesn't squeal to Horatio.

--

Ten days later he's in New York. Getting out of Florida without Horatio noticing was actually a lot harder than he thought it'd be.

Craigslist finds him a room for the week in a small Brooklyn apartment with a lot of cats. There's a late-night place across the street that'll makes omelettes anytime you want. The woman who owns the apartment is still awake on the living room couch, laptop blaring something with explosions, when Speed remembers just how good Joe's gotten at finding lost people.

And that Joe's office probably collects the phone numbers of all incoming calls.

It's midnight. He decides not to answer the cellphone, which is smart because it means maybe Joe can't trace the call to his location, but is actually pretty dumb because it means Joe's going to go to voicemail, and Speed's managed to avoid being yelled at by Joe for a good five years now. That's a record to make any honest man proud, and Speed's not above keying in the erase function to keep that record solid.

--

He listens anyway.

Lucas. When I find you, you're gonna wish you'd been shot.

And after a long pause, where Speed imagines that Joe is staring at something in the distance and counting rock beats in his head, That Caine guy has a problem.

There's another silence, and in the living room the sound of explosions has gotten louder, and Speed's gearing himself up for whatever Joe's going to say next when the message suddenly stops and a tinny woman's voice is asking whether he wants to delete.

--

He does delete it, eventually. He also checks his old cellphone's voicemail, and finds one message. It's Horatio. Drunk dialling "a memory." Jesus.

--

He leaves the girl's apartment as soon as he wakes up the next day and finds a flop house in the Bronx. This means that he has made the terrible decision not to leave the city, which further means that he shouldn't be surprised when Joe knocks the hell out of his graffitied door at four AM and drags his sorry ass out to get eggs whether he wants it or not.

Speed doesn't want any damn eggs. Joe says he wants eggs. Speed's eating eggs.

They're not as good as the omelettes in Brooklyn.

The diner is open for morning workers, subway jocks, a lot of cops. Joe and Speed blend in, and it's weird.

Joe looks... old. Not old old, not pulling himself along with his walker old, but older than the last time Speed saw him -- which was end of high school.

Speed was going off to Columbia because that's what you did when you were done with school, you left your summer job and your family and you did something with yourself. Joe had thrown the going-away party in the back room of the Empire, bought all the food, took away all of Berko's booze and what he could find of Eddie's pot before going into his office, locking the door, and providing the mood music for the next two hours.

No one asked Speed why he was moving to the other side of the country, but the question was there. Only one person had even brought it up, and it wasn't really a question when he'd asked anyway, so Speed didn't really have to answer him. Talking with Eddie had been like that.

Midway through his sophomore year, Speed had gotten a call from Deb. She told him Mark was dead. Which wasn't really a surprise, but he'd always thought Deb would go first. (Looking back, he shouldn't have said that out loud. She didn't hang up, but she did laugh at him a lot and then hang up.)

Speed had called Joe and talked to him for the first time in six months, and it turned out that Deb had been lying through her ass. What was actually happening was that Joe was selling the Empire. And that Mark was in Canada. More about the selling thing, though. At which point Speed hung up, and had told himself that studying for his psych test was a lot more important than selling music had ever been.

He changed his major to bio right after that, and Speed didn't even pretend it had nothing to do with Joe.

Looking at him now, Joe has shorter hair, darker except for two wings of white coming from his temples. He's gained weight, too, but not a lot. Joe's watching Speed eat scrambled eggs, and finally says, "You should've tossed the phone."

"Did. I got one of those disposable ones instead."

"On your credit card?"

Speed shrugs. "Horatio saw me autopsied. Dead people don't do credit. Occam's Razor. Somebody'll come up with something."

"So you use a dead man's money, buy a phone, and call me? All while trying to leave town? Which you still haven't explained, by the way."

Speed stabs at the last portion of egg. "Didn't want you to worry."

Joe goes with it. "What was there to worry about? Lucas McAllister never popped up on the registers. It wasn't until I called Lieutenant Caine that I found out about Tim Speedle."

"It was a good name."

"Speedle."

"Speed. I like Speed."

Joe says nothing. He drinks his coffee and looks around the diner while Speed signals the waiter for the check. Joe puts down his cup and links his fingers. "I'm not really one to talk," he says at last. He looks up from his hands. "I'm back to Jack Malone."

So not "Joe" anymore, and he already knew "Reaves" had been some midlife crisis thing about Superman or something, but it felt -- too fast.

The check comes, and Speed's put down the cash for it before Joe can even snag the receipt. Speed smiles, and it feels a bit weird on his face. He thinks about saying something like, Be seeing you, or, I should've done this the first time around -- or, for a quick second, The cheese stands alone.

And the moment's gone, because actually, Joe's already standing, nodding, walking out, and Speed's sitting there and feeling like an asshole because he paid for Joe's coffee when he knows, deep down, Joe would've bought Speed's breakfast, cuffed him on the head, and then let him crash on his couch for the next six months.

Joe's Joe, whatever he calls himself.

--

Speed moves six more times in the two months following. Twice is because Horatio visits the city and Speed finds himself accidentally living in Jersey for the duration of those visits. The other four times is just trying to find a place that wasn't horrible. None of the moves is because of Joe.

--

The phone rings, and Joe picks it up. His voice is muffled, hoarse from sleep, and tense.

Maria?

Who? "I don't think so," Speed says.

There's a pause. Sorry. I'm waiting for a call.

"At two in the morning?"

The pause is longer this time. I'm not going to point out the obvious. There's a shifting sound, like cotton sheets. So, uh... what's on your mind?

Which is a really, really good question. "Nothing much."

Uh huh. Everything okay?

"Yep, everything's good."

You got someplace to live?

"Yeah, it's nice." Actually, he's back in that Brooklyn apartment. He can live with the cats.

Right. Right. Are you working?

"I think so. I mean, I have an interview for a lab tech job at Columbia. It's not CSI, but that's sort of a point in its favor."

Is there... I don't know, someone special in your life?

Speed frowns and watches the traffic lights blink from his window. "That's not something I... no. There's no one special in my life."

Joe coughs. So you called me in the middle of the night to tell me everything's just... okay?

Speed's coming up with a reply, something that might actually make sense, and then-- Dammit, Joe murmurs. Other line. I'll call you. And he hangs up.

--

Speed remembers when he first moved in with Joe. The bachelor apartment with a pull-out couch that Joe said would be his until he could get a bigger pad. The small-but-potent collection of 45s Speed still, to this day, has never been allowed to touch. The bookcase full of psychology textbooks, case studies, beginning biology, intermediate statistics, and bootleg concert videos. The general lack of his mother in the nearby vicinity.

About a week after he moved in, when he started to wonder if maybe Joe really was going to keep him, he asked about the psych books. And Joe sighed and sat down and told him in one quick breath about his master’s degree. And the FBI. And the burnout.

Speed remembers wishing he hadn't asked, because as great as it was to find out that he wasn't the only crazy one -- and that Joe was on leave from the FB-fucking-I, how cool was that? Did he have a gun? Could he still legally arrest people? Were their phones tapped? Did he have catch phrases? -- all it really meant in the end was that Speed could never, ever believe that this arrangement would last.

And so he knows he shouldn't have felt angry when he found out Joe was going back. It wasn't like he hadn't warned him, even then. It was Speed's damn fault for forgetting that none of it was forever.

--

A week later, Joe hasn't called. Speed starts work at the lab, though, and decides he doesn't care.

--

The girl he lives with, Lou, looks up as he comes back to the apartment at 11 PM again, bringing a wash of cold air with him. He smells like sulfur, which made the train ride fun. She apparently notices, because before he can make it to his room she asks him why he bothered coming to New York when there were chemical labs in cities with a lot lower cost of living.

There's nothing bitchy about it -- it's just a question. And he's really, really tired. So he says, "I faked my death in Miami to escape the kind of creepy attention my boss was paying me, and I think I can hide in New York." He pauses. "Mostly."

She gives him a long look. She says, "That is so dumb. South Dakota would have been a better bet. Or a shack in Canada. Somewhere that actually requires a layover if you try to fly it."

Which, okay, come to think of it, is true. He doesn't have an answer for that. When he shrugs, her eyes narrow. "Faked death is fine. This boss thing is interesting, and I demand you tell me about it later. But if you're going to keep staying here -- is Lucas even your real name?"

And Speed has no idea what to say.

--

Two weeks since the phone call. There's a cute girl who works beneath the hood next to him. Judicious use of his investigative skills has led him to believe she is dating the other cute girl in the lab. Speed still doesn't care about Joe.

--

Here's the thing about H. Horatio. Lieutenant Caine. Whatever. He's creepy.

Not in the hitting on him kind of way, which at least Speed is familiar with (and maybe, minus the "creep" vibe and the "boss" aspect, he would've gone for that), but in a sort of demented priest way, like any second he was going to pull out his flail and whip himself bloody for thinking sinful thoughts about the young and nubile Tim Speedle.

(Nubile. Ew.)

Except there was also this part where it felt like maybe H. likes the flail, and while Speed's no slouch when it comes to basic knowledge of S&M principles, it starts to get really uncomfortable when you know you're participating in someone else's sex act whether you want to or not.

Sometimes Speed could sense Horatio watching him, feeling like an immoral man and getting off on the self-degradation. It made his skin itch.

Maybe talking Alexx into covering for him while he made a run for it was a bit much, but Speed has seen Horatio when there was a loose end to a mystery -- better to "die" and make a run for it than know Horatio was looking for him.

Joe has a similar streak in him -- the loose end thing, not the sex thing -- so maybe Speed should've known better than to call. Or to move to New York. Or to even let Joe take him to the diner, to see him, to know he was okay.

Speed almost wonders what exactly H. said to weird out Joe, and he knows he could ask -- he thought he knew he could ask--

It's seventeen days later and Speed is so full of not caring that he can hardly believe he even gave a damn about Joe just following up on what he goddamned said he'd do.

--

Christmas. Speed isn't sentimental about it. He remembers his mom's idea of the holidays -- let's skip that -- and Joe gave presents like he wasn't sure if this is something he should be doing, you know, ever. Last year a lab tech intern in Miami gave everyone a little bottle of adulteration strips with a cheap bow stuck on -- which no one said they tried out as soon as they hit the bathroom to find out what the specific gravity of their urine was, but, you know, yeah.

Corey made everyone come to her Empire Christmas parties no matter what else was going on in their lives, and it was the Christmas of 1995 -- two months after they raised enough money to buy the store, and three years before Joe decided to sell it anyway -- that Eddie said something really meaningful and, even more surprisingly, cogent. Everyone swore they'd never forget it.

He spends this Christmas in the lab, Nevermind on infinite repeat through his headphones, which is just fine, dammit.

--

He thought if he ran away, he'd leave everything behind. But, really, he's tried that a couple of times now, and things just keep following him.

This time, it's... it's the feeling that he's got skills, right? Investigative skills. He was a goddamned CSI. Change means loss, he understands that by now, but maybe he'd gotten it wrong, maybe he didn't have to lose everything.

For instance, even after all this, he still has Deb's number. And Deb has Gina's. And Gina knows all.

--

A month. Just about. Two days from New Year's, a whole Disney dalmatian pack of days since Horatio'd looked soulfully at him, and a month since Joe said he'd call. (He feels like an idiot every time he does this math.) He's paying rent on the room, now. He still doesn't know if Zoe and whatsherface are dating. Columbia is filled with idiot hipsters who he swears to God don't resemble himself at eighteen whatsoever at all. He told a lot of people he was either alive, or temporarily dead, and he heard a lot of gossip -- so maybe it's okay that Joe hasn't called, because Speed has to rearrange his brain, and it'd be better if there weren't witnesses.

It's now eight PM, and someone's knocking at his bedroom door.

It's Lou. She hefts one of the cats and says, "There's a guy outside who says he knows you. He's kind of bleeding on the doormat, though, and if you have those kind of friends then maybe we need to renegotiate the lease."

"Did he give a name?"

"Sounded like it started with a J, ended with a moan of pain."

Never mind about that brain rearranging. "I'll go look."

Lou sits down with the cat and picks up her cellphone in readiness. For the camera or the 911, Speed doesn't know which. He looks through the front door's peephole. It's Joe, weaving slightly in place, eyes closed, and there's a wash of blood down half his face.

Speed's not even sure how Joe found him when he's clearly barely conscious, but he also never found out how Joe knew when he lost his cherry at the tender age of seventeen, so really, Joe's a man of many mysteries. Speed says something to Lou, and he's worried he might have said that, but he's also unlocking the front door at the same time and she's not dialing, so maybe it made sense. He pulls Joe in and sits him down in the bathroom -- a moment later a gallon of betadine, three rolls of paper towels, and a large cardboard box of medical supplies is shoved in, and Speed wonders just what those cats get into.

Joe's head is lolling as he sits on the toilet. Speed checks his airways, his breathing, his circulation -- Joe's nose isn't broken, but it is seriously contused. He's not breathing too well, but his mouth looks fine under the blood and he seems to be doing okay on that front. His heartbeat is the slow end of normal, no trace of any adrenaline-soaked action. When he checks his wrist, though, he sees that Joe's hands are ragged messes, knuckles split, a couple of nails torn, some black gunk smeared in everything. The betadine becomes a better and better idea.

"What happened?"

Joe's mouth moves, but there's no voice. Joe tries again. "Got in a fight," he says.

"Hospital?"

Joe starts to shake his head, flinches, coughs (not blood, which is pretty good all things considered), says a little more strongly, "No."

"Any reason?"

Speed has a guess.

"Record." Joe's head swings back and makes a horrible noise when it hits the tile. He tries again. "There would be a record. Trouble."

Score one for Crime Boy.

One part of Speed is processing that, Miami CSI-style, adding it to the other pieces, moving the motives -- the rest of him's gone still, focused on the body in front of him. It's still breathing, which is different, but he remembers Alexx once taking him through the rough highlights of emergency diagnostic medicine when they were both stuck on a scene, waiting for it to clear, the dawn air dewing up their kits-- and even more distantly he remembers Corey pushing A.J. onto one of the backroom tables one afternoon at Empire, practicing the everything-but of CPR, Speed and Mark nudging one another's shoes and stifling laughter until Gina came up and laid the breath of life on A.J. personally. Speed remembers pressing his lips together and wheezing through his nose, knowing he looked stupid but still trying to retain some measure of dignity. He also remembers Mark giggling helplessly beside him, just looking happy.

"What's the problem with trouble?" Speed asks, nonchalance dripping from him. "Or a record?"

Joe looks exhausted. He doesn't answer. Speed pours betadine over Joe's hands, mumbles an apology when Joe hisses at the burn, and finally taps four extra-strength Tylenol out of the bottle in Lou's medicine box.

"Take these," Speed says, and Joe dry swallows all of them. It looks painful.

After a moment, Joe sighs, and then levers himself off the toilet lid. He's looking better, less zombie. "Sorry," he says, and opens the bathroom door, and nods at Lou, and then he's weaving toward the door and actually starts to leave, Jesus, not gonna happen, because now that Speed's got him pinned in one place there's no way he's letting him out of his goddamned sight.

Lou makes a discreet exit out the front, saying something about omelettes and raising her eyebrows meaningfully in Speed's direction, and that's how Speed finds out he said all that stuff out loud. Since when does he have to actually say every stupid thing he thinks? 1995 was a really long time ago.

Joe blinks at him. He's stopped moving toward the door, though, which is a plus.

Lou's living room has a landscape painted on the wall. Her coffee table has nail polish splashed across it, looking like a trannie Pollock visited. He took some photos of it after he'd signed the subletting paperwork. There's a lot of stuff like that in Lou's living room -- like A.J. was living in her closet or something and turning her apartment, slowly, into a giant art project. It'd have to be the A.J. from the Empire days, though -- now he's grown up and bitter and weird and a detective in Florida apparently. Who knew?

Joe passes one hand over his face. Behind the blossoming bruises, he looks sad. "What is it, Tim?"

The lamps dim, the landscape turns grey. Speed's voice comes out wrong. "Don't call me that."

And bam, like a switch, Joe's back. It's the rage that gives it away. "What the hell am I supposed to call you?" he grates out. "Huh?" He stalks up to him, adrenaline getting rid of the last of the zombieness. His voice goes lower. "I don't know what you want, Speedle. Or, Tim, or Lucas, or whatever the hell you're calling yourself these days. Figure yourself out before you get on my case. You want me to go away? Fine. You want me to stick around? Fine. But you gotta give me a goddamn clue here, because I'm not sure how much more of this jerking around I can take."

"I'm jerking you around? Me?" Speed forgets himself, steps up. He's taller than Joe. Another stupid way stupid things have changed. "I called you, Joe. I did that. You haven't given me the time of day since you sold the Empire, it's been five years since you even spoke to me, and I think it's pretty damn insulting that the most you can manage now is to show up on my doorstep for a band-aid and a 'fuck you' before running off and--"

Joe shoves Speed into the wall, hard, and the sound cracks through the apartment. Joe curls his bleeding fists around Speed's shirt and yanks him up.

"Let's get this cleared up between you and me," Joe says. "I thought this started when you decided to be a genius and fake your own death, but apparently that was just some kind of denouement to the personal passion play going on in your head. You want to know what happened with the Empire?" Joe's eyes are dark, and they're angry, and they're sad. "You all stopped being dumb kids and starting being dumb adults. You all left to go make something of yourselves, and I realized I didn't want to be a kid anymore either. So yeah, I sold the Empire. And I went back to work, and now I'm trying to live my life. What are you doing?"

Joe looks like he wants to punch him. "'Cause the last thing I heard," Joes says, close and mean, "you were busy being dead."

Joe's fist curls -- and it must hurt, because Joe winces, and lets Speed go, and stumbles over to the couch. He puts his head in his hands. And that seems to be it.

Speed slides down the wall until he can feel the floor bump into him. One of the cats, the black-and-white tuxedo, comes out of Lou's bedroom and strops around his ankles. He doesn't remember if Joe likes cats. Or dogs. He'd never asked Joe for a pet when they were living together. There was always that tiny fear that maybe that would be the straw that broke the camel's back. Then again, he'd thought that about a lot of things. Which, considering things like that Atlantic City gambling fiasco, was probably kind of dumb.

And all through this, information clicks steadily into place in Speed's head, like a background whine that's slowly becoming more and more annoying. This is what it felt like. Sitting in the backseat, talking to Calleigh and Eric on a stakeout and thinking nothing and everything and click click click.

"D'you like cats, Joe?"

Joe doesn't say anything. He drops his hands, though, and looks at him. "Yeah," he says eventually. "I like cats."

Speed levers himself up and picks up the tuxedo cat. He sits down on the couch beside Joe and dumps the cat in his lap. The cat immediately jumps off and runs under the couch. Joe almost laughs.

It's easier because Speed doesn't have to look at Joe. It's harder because he's sitting next to him. Speed counts the colors on the coffee table and waits.

Joe says, "My wife's divorcing me. She's trying to get full custody. She's going to take them to Chicago. What's in Chicago? I was doing better, I thought. Turns out it wasn't better enough."

Speed exhales. Click. "I know." He waves his hand, magic trick, he's Atlantic-City Lucas and Dead-Boy Speed and for the first time in ages he feels competent. "I called Deb. And then Gina. And then Gina told me what she'd heard from Corey, who'd heard it from A.J., who, by the way, dated one of my coworkers after Corey, and is all kinds of bitter but pretends he isn't, so maybe you want to keep an eye on that. Uh. But. Yeah. I know. Also, about your kids. Which was a surprise, but not to everybody else, who all thought I knew, and I think I covered for you, but when I called Mark, I sort of mentioned, and I think he's writing a song about it now, so heads up on that front too. He said no details, but he's a man in search of a rhyme scheme, and I'm not sure where his line lies."

Joe snorts, and smiles, and winces when he flexes his hands. There's traffic outside, and maybe the smell of omelettes. Joe says, "I hate all this stuff."

"I know."

And that's all he says out loud. Finally. He's got a pile of stuff he doesn't say, like, I know you're terrified of losing your kids, because maybe you remember what is was like with the Empire -- or, really, me. I know I was a dick to you, and it wasn't your fault. Or I'm pretty sure it wasn't your fault -- still working on that one, but at least I know that's where I'm heading.

I know you went and got into a fight somewhere because you may be a high-flying FBI agent now, but there's still a drummer in there, and drummers think best when they're hitting things. I know enough about divorce proceedings that random spates of violence aren't so hot for custody battles.

I know, or can guess, what you were doing the last month. I'd like confirmation, but on the other hand, I'm not sure I could handle you actually, I don't know, talking. Lucas beats out Speed on that one.

There are more things. The having-kids thing is a big one, for the record. Maybe we'll work them out, and maybe we won't but we won't care anymore. I know that I can't say any of this, and I know that really, I don't want to. It'll work out. I'm me, and you’re Joe, and that won't change.

"There is one thing I don't know," Speed says. They've been quiet a long time. Lou's gonna kill him if he doesn't show up soon and tell her what's going on.

"And what's that?"

"What exactly Horatio said to you."

Joe knocks him lightly on the head with an open palm. Speed smiles. "The man's insane. He tried to interrogate me. About a dead kid." Joe pauses. "You ever get the impression he was a little obsessed with you?"

--

Joe went home. He'd offered his couch, if Speed wanted to stay with him, but Speed's... okay with where he is. He is making Joe take him to dinner tomorrow. Also, he's going to find out if Joe's nose really is broken, and then very subtly not make fun of him for it either way.

By the time Joe'd gone, Lou had managed to take over the kitchen of the place across the street and when Speed stepped in she shouted something he couldn't make out and then made him something with cheese and spinach and maybe crack cocaine. He understands now why they let her take over.

Joe has kids. Horatio really is a creep, it wasn’t just in Speed’s head. The Empire is gone, finally. He’s burned his CSI bridges -- sort of. Except for one thing.

It's morning. He doesn't have to be in the lab until four, and he's got his little cheap cellphone in hand.

He lets it ring. It's the private number, the one that won't route him to her beeper or anything. He knows it'll go to voicemail.

Click.

You've reached Alexx. Leave a message.

"Hi," Speed says. "It's Lucas. Just letting you know I got in safe. Have a good new year."

And then he hangs up, tosses the phone into the garbage can, and goes to get an omelette.

END

parsnips @ 2007-12-16T13:04:00

2007-12-16T18:07:28Z

The Pinski story should actually be called Trickle Down.

parsnips @ 2007-12-05T12:22:00

2007-12-05T17:22:33Z

Trufact:

A Hundred Years Ago, my Peter and Wendy story, was originally written in (probably) 2003 for a class on fairy/folk tales. The assignment that week was to reenvision Beowulf.

As I was riding on a bus of some sort two days later, I heard Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" on my CD player. With the immortal line Davy Crockett, Peter Pan, Elvis Presley, Disneyland, an idea was born.

So yes. My Peter Pan story is actually Beowulf fanfic inspired by Billy Joel.

The end.

parsnips @ 2007-11-27T14:24:00

2007-11-27T19:27:58Z

Comics were such a fascinating thing to play with. I mean, very circumscribed parameters, with a very clear beginning, middle, end... Forcing myself to really stick to that form of writing was actually a phenomenal tool. Right up there with writing greeting cards (and I am not even joking -- try it).

parsnips @ 2007-11-15T15:18:00

2007-11-15T20:22:13Z

Yes, well. For a while I had a comic strip. Go figure.

"Moritura", redux

2007-10-12T18:52:33Z

Buffy/Crossman, wip, version 2.0. See previous post for details.

--
Moritura
--
by parsnips

There were a lot of reasons to be unhappy about my new assignment. The big one was that it was cutting into my leave. I'd just seen the back of Toronto after spending a few weeks making sure a logging-camp Messiah wasn't really Him. The false idol in question was suffering from a few too many mushrooms, and the rest of the camp was just living off his good time. I reported it in to Chatillon, got on the red-eye for the coast. I figured I'd have time to catch a week of sleep and a production of Faustus before the next mission.

When I finally got to a safe house, there was a message waiting. I didn't need to know the odds at Vegas to bet it wasn't Marlowe's mighty line.

The Masters at Chatillon knew I had leave coming to me. So this wasn't officially an assignment. They were just kind of suggesting, casually, that I head out to a suburb about two hours north of L.A. and make like a member of the Knights of Byzantium. If I happened to hear anything of interest, I could pass it along. And if there was something heavier going on than a pack of heretics practicing their jousting... then there would be a Templar on site to take care of the matter. Otherwise, I'd just be there to help out.

I snorted. Sure. The last time I'd helped out anybody, there were four dead Knights of St John by the time I left, with some intermediate difficulty involving a sword-hefting Bride of Satan and a demon that liked to wear human flesh inside-out. I was a 'good times' magnet.

Then again, maybe that was why the Masters were sticking me on it. Nothing like being appreciated by your superiors.

I looked at the thick packet of information they'd given me, and the itinerary and tickets they'd helpfully provided. Next-morning flight to L.A. under the name Peter Crossman, and a train ticket to a place called Sunnydale. The casual suggestions of the Masters of Chatillon have a lot of weight.

I switched on Mister Coffee and started to read.

---

Buffy was sitting on the Magic Shop counter, tossing a bottle of something indefinable from hand to hand. The label said it was magicked up bits of demon guts that should never see the light of day, but when it dropped it looked like the glass held tiny red fireworks.

It was late afternoon. Buffy had called a Scooby gang meeting after school, to make sure Dawn would be included. It was all part of the now-important 'Dawn needs to be in the loop' plan. No one could afford to be uninformed... with the exception of maybe Spike, except he'd actually done the right thing two days back, so she really had to stop mentally beating his face in with a brick. Bitch-god Glory had already kicked Spike's ass into next week -- if Buffy so much as sneezed at him, he'd probably fall over.

Hence why this meeting was Spike-less -- last time she'd checked, he was still unconscious. Until he was healed enough to defend himself against the combined might of pissed off Scoobies, she couldn't risk dragging him over to the Magic Shop during the middle of the day just to hear what she could tell him well enough at his crypt.

She wasn't sure what to do about Spike, but unlike Glory, monks, or knights with pointy things, he was a problem that could be dealt with much, much later.

Thinking about the knights reminded Buffy about the purpose of the meeting. In between tosses, she checked her watch. They were only waiting for Xander and Anya to show up before starting. Dawn was talking about her school friends, and was finishing with, "... so Julie came back from vacationing in Vermont, and she said they have little quarter machines that give out crosses for fifty cents. Like, right next to the Skittles and bouncy balls. And N*sync stickers."

"Can't forget those," said Buffy. Dawn gave Buffy a disgusted look and pointedly ignored her.

"How come the east coast has the cool anti-vampire dispensers?" Willow asked from the table. "I mean, let's consider the number of vampires in the land of non-Hellmouthy maple trees."

Giles spoke up from behind the counter as he finished helping the last customer of the day. "Quite a few, actually, in the right season. The vampires of the colder climes are somewhat migratory." He caught the bottle Buffy had been making merry with and set it gently back on a shelf. Buffy made a face and sat at the table with everyone else.

"I don't see it," Tara said from beside Willow. Giles walked around the counter and followed the lone customer to the door. "Wouldn't the long nights help them? And, I mean, do vampires get cold?"

"No," Giles said, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and returned to the table, "but consider a winter during which everyone stays within their homes for the majority of the time. And those homes can be, well, miles from civilization." He paused. "Mind you, the hotels are practically all-you-can-eat buffets."

"Pretty picture, Giles," Buffy said. "But I like the little crucifix machines. Think you could install one outside? We'd be quarter tycoons in no time."

"And those of us who still use dorm washing machines would greatly appreciate contributions," Willow said. "Oh, and having another dispenser with little pentacles and Stars of David would also be, y'know, neat."

"What would be neat?" asked Xander, stepping into the store with the bounty of Dunkin Donuts cradled in his arms. Anya followed, sipping a steaming cup of coffee. "Sorry for being late," he said, and dropped the box of donuts on the table. "I've brought sacrifices to appease the gods of punctuality."

"If there's jelly, you're forgiven," said Giles.

"Then may the forgiveness be heaped. I brought enough for everyone. What's neat?"

"Crosses," said Dawn, picking out a glazed.

"I see the need for this meeting now. I never thought the coolness of crosses was in doubt."

Once everyone was munching on something, Willow said, "So, what's the haps?"

Buffy swallowed her bite of donut and held up a white-sugar coated finger. "One: Glory knows that the Key is human, but not who."

Xander looked around the table, then back to Buffy. "So, Spike...?"

"Didn't say anything," Buffy said. Her tone did not suggest further inquiry. Let them wonder, she thought, then amended it to, Let them wonder, but never suspect. Lips of Spike are not to be mentioned and definitely not discussed. She held up a second finger. "Two: Those Knights? They're starting to make a serious showing around here. I think they're making good on the whole 'legions will follow' thing."

"What do you mean?" Giles had finished his jelly-filled, and started cleaning his glasses.

"It started out with just a couple guys every other day or something -- last night, six at once, all armed with bruise-quality shields. The night before that, three early on, four just before I came home. They're varying their tactics, but there's definitely more of them coming in to Sunnydale -- I checked under their face plates. All human, all new people." She twiddled with the donut box and frowned darkly. "I was hoping they were recruiting demons -- I'm tired of having to pull my punches."

Willow nodded. "Killing humans is a no-no."

"Punching demons would also I think be under question," Anya added quickly. "Right?"

"Only demons that haven't been de-demoned," Buffy said. "Promise."

Dawn was slouched low in her chair with her arms crossed in front of her. Buffy's ability to translate Teenage Girl said that this was not good. It was a drawback to telling Dawn everything going on. "So," Dawn said, "what do they want?"

Buffy sighed. "To do bad things."

"With me."

"With the Key. That's point number three: The Knights don't work with Glory, so the Knights don't know the Key is human. They keep asking me if I carry it around." She wrinkled her nose. "As if I'd let them do a search-and-seizure on me."

"Maybe it's just a pick-up line. Like, 'Hey, strong lady, you give me the Key, we can find the Lock it fits,' " Xander said. There was silence. Xander smiled quickly. "Not endorsing."

Anya rubbed his shoulder. "We know, sweetie. Don't give suggestions."

"Anyway," Buffy said, "the knights may decide to do a crusty monk maneuver and start following you all around. Be careful what you talk about, and try to travel in pairs or more. Crosses and holy water would be bad in a fight with them, because of the whole 'doesn't do anything' factor, so avoid confrontation."

"Is that the long-term or the short-term plan?" said Tara. "Because Willow and I might be able to come up with some defense spells. You know, based on intent. If there's time to look."

Buffy gestured widely, finally noticed the white-sugar coating on her hand, and cleaned it off with all due force. "All plans are short-term until we know why the Knights specifically want the Key to go poof. Anything you two can come up with would be way helpful."

"They want me to go poof?" Dawn said, her voice hitting an uncomfortable high note. "Not squish, or, or maybe thud?"

Reassurance time. "Maybe thud." Dawn paled. Okay, note to self: Work on the reassurance. "I don't know. Hence the needing to find out." Buffy reached over and tucked a strand of Dawn's hair away from her face. "Until then, only Buffy Incorporated's special effects sound crew gets to mess with you."

Dawn smiled -- Score, thought Buffy -- and the gang turned its efforts toward finishing the rest of the donuts and bickering about dispensing machines.

---

It was 1800 hours, and the train to Sunnydale was filled with Knights. Not just some guy on the other end of the car -- I'm talking every seat. They were wearing baseball caps with their chain mail and leather boots, and speaking in Latin loudly enough for me to catch every word they were saying.

The Knights of Byzantium are nothing if not incompetent.

I was lying back with my own cap pulled down, breathing slow and feigning sleep. I caught a couple questioning glances out of the corner of my eye, and some of the voices asked whether someone had botched the seat reservations. When it looked like I was going to sleep the entire way, they started speaking up.

I'd gotten some details about what the Knights were doing from my information packet, but not much. Mostly I knew their entrance hand signal and which names not to use when I introduced myself. I'd also been given an outfit and a batch of temporary tattoos to pass the dress code. After that, I was on my own.

The Knights weren't much for exposition. I learned where they were based, and I learned that the weather was causing chafing where there shouldn't be. There was some muttering about the trouble they'd been having with Sunnydale locals, and a couple of prophecies about the Beast -- they weren't quoting Apocalypse.

By the time the train reached Sunnydale station, the talk had devolved back to that chafing problem. I waited until they'd all left, pulled down my own pack, and stepped out into late afternoon.

The moment I hit dirt I got an idea why the Knights were here. Evil. It seeped through the ground and tried to climb up my legs. It didn't get far. Maybe it was my faith. Maybe it was the cold iron I carried -- you can't kill the Devil with a gun or a sword, but my Colt .45 is inlaid with stuff that might give me a chance.

I shook my head, reminded myself that Presumption is a sin, and took a walk out onto Main Street. Perfect suburbia, with a couple of parks, a few streets of shops and restaurants, and the rest of the space filled with houses. I checked into my motel, picked up a local paper, and found a place where I could sit with a sandwich and a cup of coffee. For dinner hour, the restaurant looked dead. I figured I'd think about that later.

The paper had the usual -- local activities at the school, big events for the next month -- but about half those pretty pastel houses I saw in town were going up for sale, and cheap at that. It didn't make news, so maybe it was normal. I found two weddings and the crime section -- the kids were busy around here. A couple of the arrests sounded like they'd been fun. If the Byzantines didn't give me anything interesting, I might check out the drunk tank and see what could be found.

I turned to the last section of the paper and saw the obits. Lots of 'em, all ages, most occurring at night with the cause of death listed as "wild dogs." I decided that Sunnydale's animal control officer was on the take, and paid my bill.

Outside, I followed the main flow of pedestrian traffic past four major cemeteries, a community college, and a carousel. Quarter of a mile from the carousel, from what I could tell, were the docks, and a castle that had Bram Stoker Was Here painted on the side. In the opposite direction were the high-end residences, with some construction going on nearby.

I had a choice. The sun was going down. Sunnydale didn't look like the kind of town where an evening stroll was the major amusement. I could go back to the middle of downtown to see where people went for a good time, or I could follow where I was being lead -- because somewhere farther out from here, something bad was waiting for me.

I'd come to find out what was happening in Sunnydale. Maybe this was it. I started walking again.

The sun had set by the time I'd made my meandering way to the other side of town. I could've cut through the main thoroughfare and saved myself an hour, but I hadn't known where I was going when I started. When I turned a corner and saw the desiccated shell of a burned out building, I put two and two together.

Why it was still standing, I didn't know -- it had to have been burned a year, maybe two years before, from the signs of weathering along the broken support beams. Wherever I was being lead, though, this was the entrance. A smoke-stained sign told me this had been Sunnydale High. The lack of animal or plantlife told me this was a cursed place. I whispered the Credo, hummed the first stanza of Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Burning of the School, and stepped in.

Half an hour later, and full dark, I got out again. Arson had torched the place, but something big and fast had warped the hallways and twisted the lockers. I didn't want to think about the types of skeletons I'd seen in the lower levels.

And I really didn't want to think about the portal to Hell that'd been underneath all that.

It was that portal that had been desecrating the land around it, but not recently. The portal had to have been closed months or years before the building was destroyed, so maybe Sunnydale was just a normal hotbed of sin and degradation. One of the Cities of the Plains moved to California, as if California would notice. Maybe that was why none of the locals seemed to care. I didn't know either way, so I said a Mass over the portal before I left, just to be sure, and walked back to my motel. I reported in from a payphone on my way. Tomorrow I was planning to knock on the Byzzies' door, and see if they let me in.

If their problem was bigger than a portal to Hell, then maybe I wouldn't have to pay a call on the drunk tank after all.

---

Night had fallen over Sunnydale, and the Slayer walked the streets.

"Skip the drama, SuperGirl," Buffy muttered. She checked her watch. Only nine. Patrol so far had been about as normal as it ever got. The Knights Who Say "Key" had already made their appearance for the evening; this time three of them, all carrying flails. Buffy made the command decision that metal balls studded with three inch long spikes, attached with two feet of chain to a metal bar, were categorically a Bad Thing. Maybe Giles has one I can borrow, she thought.

But when the Knights had gone, they'd taken the fun with them. She thought longingly of heading for home, but it was early yet. Some of the baddies hadn't even woken up for their long hard day of Attempting to Kick Buffy-Butt.

Buffy twirled her stake and walked through West Park. The streets were empty, except for a few stragglers speed-walking from street lamp to street lamp. There was one guy who looked like he was out for a stroll instead of walking through evil-infested waters; either he was a tourist, or a demon himself, and no matter which he was, if she didn't keep an eye on him someone would be getting human-kibble snacks later tonight.

She'd paralleled his course from a discreet distance for less than a minute when she felt a frission from her vamp-senses. For a moment Buffy thought it was the stranger, but then one of the stragglers she'd written off as human was joined by three of his close friends, and the four started circling the tourist.

By the time the first vamp had stopped the stranger, looking like it had bathed in pure innocence before going out, Buffy was already running.

---

I'd be the first to tell you I'm only human. I saw three people around me -- two Johns hugging the street lights ahead of me, and one blonde in the park. She was the odd man out. I couldn't place her in the mental map I'd made of Sunnydale culture.

One of the Johns took a turn down a side street, and the second looked around like he was lost. He saw me. I kept going. We met at the corner light.

"Hey," he said, "you know where I could find some girls?"

I'm not the man to ask even in the best of times, but I didn't mention Little Miss Clairol. She'd started tailing me two blocks back. I didn't like it, but I didn't want to involve a civilian if she decided to say hi. "Sorry," I said, and walked past.

"That's okay," he said. The John held out his hand when I drew level, stopped me mid-stride. I heard rustling, too quiet for me to tell how many had circled behind when I wasn't paying attention. "You'll do fine."

Maybe it was the soulless feeling that emanated from its outstretched hand that told me I was dealing with the undead. Maybe it was the twisted features and traditional teeth that told me these were vampires. But it was definitely my holy water that ruined his day.

"Shit!" The one who'd stopped me started clawing at his face, trying to remove the consecrated water I'd tossed up from my hip flask. Something hissed, and I ducked and rolled before the vampire behind me could wrap his paw around my neck. I was up and armed with crucifix and Colt when the blonde from the park reached the scene.

The vampires forgot I was there once she started in. She fought like she had speed pumping through her veins instead of blood, and talked like Valley Girl was a close cousin. She had a stake in one hand, and a moment later another came flying out of her jacket pocket. The left-hand stake hit the lead vampire just as the right-hand stake stuck one of its flunkies -- both burst into dust. I wondered whether I could give Last Rites, or if the thought would have to count.

The chick was packing the heat she needed for this encounter. When she turned under the light to attack the last two, I saw a flash of metal. She was wearing a cross. I decided she had the situation in hand. I backed fifty feet down the side street, pressed myself against a wall, and waited to see what happened next.

---

"I mean, honestly," Buffy said as she punched the vampire in the head. "Four to one. Not cool odds. And you know you'd just leave a mess afterwards, which would lead directly to my staking you. Not worth the trouble, if you ask me."

She head-butted the second vampire, kicked up to connect with its jaw, and spun and elbowed it in the gut. It fell back, in time for her to do a roundhouse kick to the first vamp, spinning it around a couple times before she had to duck, stab, puff of dust, and, "Also, the pick-up line sucked. I am personally ashamed. I must've killed off all the savvier ones," before she stood, jumped up and over, and thrust her stake through the back of the last one.

As the dust settled, Buffy looked around for the stranger. He'd done a neat trick with some holy water -- Not so touristy after all, thought Buffy -- and then backed out when she started in. Now was the time for her to offer the "I take lots of self-defense classes" excuse and drop some pointed hints about not letting strangers into his hotel room, but the guy was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he'd taken the chance and run off.

Buffy frowned. If he knew enough to use holy water, he should be okay, but walking around Sunnydale alone at night was a fast way to lose his mortality license. After saving him a couple minutes ago, she'd be muy P.O.'d if she found his drained body later.

Or she would, if she could remember what he looked like. There'd been a hat, and definitely denim, but other than that she was drawing a blank. Great. If the newspaper listed any dead guys between the ages of fifteen and fifty-five over the next few days, there would be serious ice cream abuse.

Or maybe worse. Buffy looked up at the Sunnydale skyglow. I can't save everybody. Not even--

Thoughts that shouldn't be thought. She didn't bother checking her hair in a storefront window, as she might have done only less than a year ago. She just continued her patrol.

---

Clairol walked away from the scene, not looking as happy as I might after an encounter like that. I decided to tail her. There was a lot going on here in Sunnydale -- after seeing her fight, I was willing to bet she was part of it.

I kept myself hidden. I watched her take on another vampire, and a pair of demons I'd last seen as woodcuts in a Puritan leaflet. Go figure. She was following a route, probably one she'd figured a long while back; it took her to every cemetery and the few out-and-out dark and nasty bits of town. Finally she headed for the residentials, and I had her address. Something for morning, though -- it was 0300 according to my watch.

Morning came too soon, and the continental breakfast only had decaf. Not promising. I went back to my room and dressed for the gig. Top on the list was a temporary tattoo -- shield and starburst, right above my eyes. Most religious orders stick with shirt pins and secret handshakes, but I guess nothing's too obvious for the Byzantine Buckaroos.

I wasn't planning to leave caffeine to chance, so I put on my mundane clothes and hit the streets. The diner from last night was open, and it'd been pretty decent. I got a cup of coffee and eggs, sunny side up. The saucer that came with my coffee cup was a different make than the rest of my whiteware; it had Greek lettering around the rim, invoking Abrasax, the year-god, to boost the caffeine's effect to my system. I looked up; the waitress winked at me in a lascivious fashion. I decided to skip breakfast. The coffee tempted me as I stood to leave, but I really didn't need favors from the waitstaff that could imperil my immortal soul.

I left -- and had two men beside me. Both were wearing baseball caps and leather boots. "You've come a long way," said the one on my left. Not an auspicious beginning.

I decided to take a chance. "I've farther still to travel," I said in my best heretic voice. I turned to the one who'd spoken to me and lifted the brim of my cap. Leftie took one look at my tattooed forehead and nodded to the man on my right. I let out a breath.

Leftie smiled. "You're almost home, brother." He started walking east, toward the docks, and Rightie and I followed. "We were wondering about your presence on the train. It was... unexpected." I bet. "But it's good to know the Lord continues on our side. We won't be getting more reinforcements for another week yet." Leftie smiled again -- I was starting to get bugged by it. "It's good to see you, Brother...?"

I could've given the name I liked to use, but I'd've liked to be able to use it again in the future. "Rasyphus," I said. He nodded.

"Brother Rasyphus. I am Bernardo."

The man on the right finally spoke up. "And I am Gregory." We took a quick turn -- we were in the warehouse district. They stopped outside a door. "Welcome home, brother."

A series of knocks, a bit of muttered Latin, and we were in. My eyes took a second to accustom to the dark. The space, as close as I could tell, was seperated into work stations. I saw weapons being smithed, with ventilation flues leading high to the ceiling, in one station, while men were sleeping in another. One station had knights training -- one had a shrine set up, with a ring of praying men washing out from it -- one had healers tending to the wounded.

There were a lot of wounded.

"This is the new fortress of Byzantium," Brother Gregory murmured at my side. I took a quick look at his face. By the expression on his face, this wasn't just a "fortress" -- it was Heaven made on Earth. Or a sinner's last chance at Heaven.

Better and better, I thought. The Masters are going to be thrilled.

"Come," said Brother Bernardo. He gestured, and his hand encompassed the warehouse, the atmosphere, and another of his smiles. "There is much we've to acquaint you with."

I nodded, and smiled my own smile back. "Show me."

--

--
Moritura Snippet
--
by parsnips

[...] "Are you going to keep looking for the Key?"

"For the Byzzies? No. On the grand scale of things, you're closer to fighting the good fight than they are. If you're hiding it, then I'm not going to help them find it."

"And what about yourself?" She looked hard at him. "Are you going to keep searching for yourself, or for the Templars? Because I can't let you do that. The Key means too much for me."

"Why?"

"That is none of your concern. The Key is mine, got it? Whatever you or the Byzantines think the Key can be used for, I don't know, and I don't care. But--"

"If I told you, would you care?"

Buffy sat back. "What?"

Crossman stirred the remaining coffee around in his cup. "If I told you what the Byzantines think they found, would you show me the Key? Give it to my care, to... not dispose of, but take away from here? Keep it safe? Only the Byzzies want it destroyed. To the rest of us... it's loss would be too great."

"I... can't promise that." Buffy swallowed -- her mouth felt dry. "What did the Byzantines find?"

"The synechdemoi have been searching for a way to end this eternal conflict of theirs for centuries. A year ago they found a spell, a theurgy, in the unearthed Greek papyri, magical texts." He fastened his sharp gaze to hers. "They found a spell that would tell them the true name of God. And the only part missing is the Key."

And that's all, folks!

"Moritura"

2007-10-12T18:51:37Z

So many moons ago, I started a Buffy crossover with the as-yet-unfanfic'd "Peter Crossman" universe. (Hardboiled-detective novel stuff, where the hardboiled detective is a Knight Templar -- there are a few short stories and a novel, and that second link has an excerpt of the first chapter.)

Anyway. I started writing one version, realized I didn't like the Crossman I was portraying (too talky), then started writing a different version, really didn't like the Buffy & Co. I was portraying (too crap), and the whole thing went tumbling into a dark and unseemly corner of my hard drive. Around a month ago, though, I found it again, and discovered that actually, I quite liked my first version, particularly if I paired it up with the Crossman first-person narration of the second version. I played around briefly in my head with the idea of starting the story up again, but I realized that (1) I've already taken elements of the story and started messing about with them in other, more saleable fiction (the Eighth Book of Moses and the Battle of Thermopylae, for the win!), and (2) as much as I would love to read the rest of this story, I'm not sure I want to spend the time writing it.

So this is an abandoned work-in-progress. The first cut tag has the first version, and the link at the bottom takes you to a second cut tag that has version 2.0. I love a lot of it, and if anyone wants to finish it they are welcome to it (provided they mention where the idea popped up, and the ownership of any of the lovely words used). I have a couple murder-your-darling snippets that got cut early on; I've included one in the second post, all the way at the bottom, because it got cut for later use (rather than because it didn't work in the story). But anyway. Check it out, and enjoy what you can.

Title: [Latin: Slayer] (several of the versions are titled "Moritura")
Author: parsnips
Fandom: Buffy/Peter Crossman crossover
Rating: was eventually going to be an R; this is at most a PG-13
Spoilers: up to and including "Intervention" in season five, but goes swiftly AU from there (so, Spike got his ass kicked by Glory-the-Hell-God, but Tara's brain has not yet been turned into turnip cakes)
Warnings: violence and religion, yay!

Summary: The Knights of Byzantium aren't as successful as they should be. It's time for a different tactic. Favorite lines from the WIP that I wish I could use elsewhere:

"Three books," Crossman called from the kitchen.

"Thank you," Buffy called back, "still trying to figure out whether I need to kick your ass, please shut up."

--
Moritura
--
by parsnips

"You know, there's a lot of slayage type things that can really make cemetery visits happy," Buffy said, and punched one knight mid-chest, sending him crashing back against the side of the Donald family's crypt. She turned on her heel, ducked, and snapped out a kick at a second knight whose sword had been getting a little close for comfort.

"I mean, there's the vampire dustiness, which you gotta admit, looks way cool." A third knight swung at her feet with his quarterstaff, and she jumped to avoid it, all the while moving her hands up to catch the top of his staff in the upswing of its arc. "Sloppy," she said, pulled the top of the staff down toward her and used his own grip as a fulcrum -- the bottom of his staff slammed against his knee, and she rabbit-punched him as he fell forward.

Two more were circling her still. "And then there's the demons," Buffy said, "they're made of, like, three different colors of goo, and sometimes, it glows. But you guys--" The two knights attacked simultaneously, fighting in tandem with broadswords, and these two at least knew enough to stay out of each other's arcs. Buffy saw their opening move before they made it -- one swinging from below and cutting up, one from above and cutting down. She still had the quarterstaff, though.

She leveled the staff and punched it to either side, supernaturally quick. The swords dropped as the two knights bent over, gasping and near paralyzed from the hit to the gut she'd dealt. She lifted the staff higher, and spun it; it slammed against their heads, and the knights dropped.

"You guys," she said with a sigh, "are just no fun."

Buffy looked around and did a tally of the new homesteaders in unconscious-land. Seven, and it looked like no more for tonight. She dropped the quarterstaff and starting doing a spot-check on the faces.

She pried the faceplate off the one she'd thrown against the crypt. Tattoo on the forehead, in shield-and-starburst pattern -- yep. One she recognized -- nope. Next one, crumpled next to the late Carolyn Fitzgerald's headstone. Tattoo -- yes. Recognition -- no.

"They weren't kidding about the whole 'legions' thing, were they," she muttered, and then went onto the third, sprawled on the grass. She hadn't thrown anybody over here--

The faceplate came off just about the same moment the blunt feel of a gun muzzle pressed into her ribcage.

"Hi," said the knight beneath her. He smiled like he was being told a joke that wasn't particularly funny.

Okay, thought Buffy, I could knee him now -- and get my chest blown out -- I could punch him now -- and get my chest blown out --

"Get up. Slowly."

-- or I could get up and actually have a chance at kicking his ass.

Buffy went to her knees, then stood up, hands in the air and backing away slowly. The knight stood up as well, the gun aimed steadily at bits of her that could do without air holes.

And then there was silence. He watched her, she watched him watching her... This wasn't getting anywhere useful. Buffy stepped forward, wary of any movement that would signal his firing the gun. "We gonna stand all night like this, or are you going to tell me something that might make me not drop-kick you into the Hellmouth?"

Whatever sign the knight was waiting for, he must've gotten it, because something in his arm, his hand, something moved, tightened, and she knew he was pulling the trigger. She jumped up, tucking into a roll mid-air -- gunshot, god, those things were loud, but the bullet missed her -- and she landed less than a yard from him. She moved into fighting stance and kicked at his wrist; the gun dropped as the knight's hand was stunned from the impact. He turned to catch it with his left hand, and there was an opening for her to punch his head--

And instead of pausing for the gun, he kept turning, and the hand that should have been low and on the right, open to catch a gun, was instead up high and to the left. He caught her fist, then shifted his grip to her wrist and held on as he dropped to the ground, rolling onto his back and pulling her over him. The knight lifted his foot and pressed at her abdomen, and momentum rocked her forward and threw her to the ground behind him. Her breath went out in a painful whoosh when she landed.

Not painful enough. Buffy immediately pushed herself to her feet, in time to see the knight roll over and reach with his left hand -- the right was possibly sprained, possibly broken, or maybe he was faking for an opening later -- for the gun. He saw her rise, and his expression flickered with surprise for just a second -- and then his leg was sweeping beneath hers, and this guy, whoever he was, was fast, she'd known that, but the leg was still a surprise. She jumped, but his foot caught at her ankle and she was going off-balance--

And she'd really have to start being a grateful Slayer one of these days, because she twisted, and the foot that hadn't been tripped smashed down on his shin, stepping stone, follow-through, the tripped-leg suddenly wasn't caught by a mistake, she spun and kicked and--

The knight dropped.

Buffy stepped back, still balanced on the balls of her feet, in position to continue fighting. When no attack was made, she backed carefully over to where the gun had landed during all this. She picked it up and stuffed it into her jacket, then approached the knight. A quick check confirmed it -- unconscious, not dead, probably wouldn't die soon. The leg she'd used as a stepping stone wasn't so much smashed as heavily bruised, and his head didn't feel the bad kind of squishy. Or the good kind even. Solidity, that's what there was.

"Good," Buffy murmured. "That means you can explain yourself to Giles." She hauled him up, set his arm around her shoulders, and began the long drag to the exit of the cemetery.

--

Giles took a swallow of newly-made tea and set his cup down on the counter. "I believe I have mentioned at least once before that my flat is not the most ideal place for strange bondage scenarios."

"Whereas normal bondage scenarios are a-okay in your book." Buffy tied another knot around the knight, then stood back to examine her handiwork. "Is there some way we could wake him up?"

"Well," Giles murmured, and lifted his glasses a little to rub his eyes, "you could wait until morning. That's generally the time people wake up."

"Oh--" Buffy looked at the clock on the wall. Three twenty-two AM. "Morning. Sleep. Right. Things people who are not named Buffy usually get."

Giles gave a tired smile. "Don't worry yourself over it. Why don't you explain, uh," Giles gestured vaguely, "him."

Buffy sat on the back of the couch and watched the knight breathe. "Seven of those Knights of Byzantium kinda decided to throw me a party. They were waiting for an ambush in the cemetery -- I'm not sure if they were going for a kill or a capture. Anyway, I fought, I won, and I started checking faces. I mean, I was pretty sure they weren't copycat vamps like the last bunch, but..." She shrugged. Giles picked up his cup again, and took another sip. "Then suddenly there's a butt I don't remember kicking, and Mr. Friendly here is skipping the 'well met, dread foe' stuff for a plain old gun-waving 'whassup'."

Giles swallowed hastily. "Well, that's certainly, um... to the point." He squinted at her. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Her smile went sour. "Nothing that talking to the Sundance Kid couldn't fix." She rubbed her hand, the one the knight had caught. "I want to know who he is, what he was doing with the Byzantines, and where he got off pointing a gun at me. The experience doesn't rank high up on my 'Buffy's most fun moments' list."

"Have you encountered this sort of problem with the other knights?"

"No," Buffy said -- and something changed about the knight in the chair. She stood up, started circling, watching, without changing her light tone. "I think I would've mentioned it before now."

"Buffy..." Giles looked at her, looked at the knight, and back to her -- he raised his eyebrows, and she nodded. Giles continued, "Did you find out anything else?" and gently put down his cup.

"Some stuff." Buffy was at his back. "Like, for one, he's fast. In fighting, I mean. I didn't expect it." He was breathing slowly, evenly, his body was still limp within the bonds, and his eyes were closed. "But what he's really fast at is figuring out when to keep his head down." Buffy came around to his front again, and leaned against the back of the couch. She waited a moment, folded her arms, and said, "So you gonna keep up the unconscious act all night, or can we skip to the question-and-answer section sometime before dawn?"

The "unconscious" knight didn't move a muscle. Buffy sighed and leaned forward, put her face even to his. "I don't kill humans; it's not big on my list of What Good Guys Do. If you've been with the Knights for long, you know I let them go when they stop trying to kill me. The only reason you're tied up right now is to keep you still long enough for us to have a conversation, okay? The second this is cleared up, I'm letting you go."

There was a short pause, and then, "No," the knight quietly said, "I haven't been around long enough to find out."

The knight opened his eyes -- a nondescript brown -- and lifted his head. "So, you going to lose these ropes or what?"

"That all depends," Buffy said. She leaned back again. "If you try anything, I hit your head, and you get all unconscious and I have to tie you up until you leave the land of Nod. Again. It'd be a lot easier if you just didn't try anything. That good for you?"

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Works for me."

"Good enough," Buffy said. "Giles, get that crossbow and watch my back, huh?" The knight twisted his head to follow Giles's movements, and something that didn't quite look like a wince passed over his face. "You need an aspirin or something?" Buffy asked as she stepped forward to untie the first set of knots. She could feel Giles at her side, angled to have a direct shot at their hostaged knight. Backup was definitely a happy thing.

The knight shook his head slightly. "I've woken up with worse." He didn't elaborate, and a moment later the ropes dropped free. The freed knight rolled his shoulders and worked other minor kinks out of his muscles -- Giles raised the crossbow slightly, and Buffy stepped back and watched the knight for strange movements. Well, stranger movements. His idea of stretches were kind of familiar, but otherwise just looked weird. Or weird compared to what I do, thought Buffy; let's try to remember that not everyone tries to get knots out of their vamp-stabbing muscles.

Finally, the knight seemed to finish whatever he was doing -- if it were me, I'd be stalling for time, she thought -- and settled down into the chair. He looked up at her expectantly.

"So," she said, and folded her arms again, "who are you?"

"Peter Crossman."

Sure. "That your real name?" He just looked at her. Buffy shrugged. "Whatever. I'm not that great at the super-sneaky fake name thing either. Wanna tell me what you're doing with the Knights of Byzantium?"

Crossman raised an eyebrow. "I am one."

"No," Buffy said, "you're not. Your moves are completely different. And none of them have ever drawn a gun on me. I've checked a lot of knocked-out bodies -- no guns."

"None that you found, anyway," Crossman said, and looked angelic. Prick.

Something of her opinion must've come through, because he gave her a look that seemed to suggest he'd tell her exactly how much he wanted to, when he wanted to, and in whatever language he wanted to. It was familiar. She didn't like it.

"Okay, Mr. Crossman, then let's go on to exhibit B." She pointed at his forehead. "Your tattoo rubs off."

Score one for the Slayer.

Crossman was a sore loser. He didn't say anything. After a moment, she continued. "You're better trained for modern combat than the knights. You carry modern weaponry. You're also wearing kevlar under your tunic instead of chainmail, which isn't kosher with your average Knight of Byzantium, and the last time I saw your moves, I was sparring with a member of the military. So either the Initiative's decided to re-form and take over weird knight cults to ruin my life some more, or..." She cocked her head, and her voice turned hard. "Hey, there is no 'or'. That's sounds like a theory to me."

Crossman didn't blink. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Buffy leaned forward and looked Crossman dead on. "What didn't you guys figure out last time?" He looked back at her, a calmness surrounding him that was plain annoying. "The commandos weren't cut out for the job. Who had the save the day? Me. There's one person who can fight the evils of the night, and it's me." Still nothing. In exasperation, she said, "What part of 'Chosen One' have you people not figured out yet?"

And that got him. A slight widening of the eyes, and he seemed to sit straighter in the chair. "Chosen One?"

Finally. "The one and only. Heard of me?"

He nodded slowly. "The Slayer."

"Good for you. The government still waving my file around like I'm personally to blame for all their demon wackiness, or do you actually remember me from when I saved all your asses?"

"Neither that I know of. I'm not with the government."

"Uh huh," Buffy said. "And I know you're not with the Knights of Byzantium."

He looked at her for a moment, muttered something under his breath -- a spell? -- and said, "No, I'm not."

Giles cleared his throat. "Buffy, could I speak with you for a moment?"

"Sure." She backed off from Crossman and stood beside Giles. He glanced down at her and then refocused his attention on the non-knight, who watched the far wall very calmly while no doubt straining his ears. "What is it?"

" 'It' is what he just said."

"What, the 'fessing up to his lousy makeup job?"

Giles shook his head. "No, what he murmured a moment ago. Latin, church Latin if I was to make a guess."

"So... what did he say?"

"Well, that's not the point really--"

"Giles."

"Something rather rude." She looked at him for a moment. He fidgeted, but otherwise, remained closemouthed.

"So what is the point, Giles?"

He relaxed, but not much. "The point is, people with enough knowledge of church Latin to, uh, speak it in a colloquial sense generally... well, they generally are related to the church somehow. Either lessons at a parochial school, or priesthood, or, or..."

"Or by being a Knight of Byzantium," Buffy finished, remembering some of interesting Latin phrases Giles had translated for her in the past. She nodded, and stalked over to Crossman, who was all but twiddling his thumbs. "So Pete, let's you and me work this out right now. You say you're not military. I say you're not a knight. You talk like a knight, but you fight like a soldier. Want to clear this up, or do I need to demonstrate what having Slayer powers can do for a girl's 'convincing the hostage' skills?" He didn't answer. She took a deep breath and said, "Explain."

"You're the Slayer," Crossman said after a moment. "You were probably Called in your teens; your life expectancy is lower than a blonde in a slasher flick; you have powers that let you jump over bullets like you have your own personal trampoline." He nodded to Giles. "And you're her Watcher, right?"

Giles glanced at her; she shrugged. "Yes, that's right."

"Ten'll get you twenty that all the information I've given you is listed somewhere where someone really determined could find it." He looked at them both, first at Giles, then at Buffy. "But this isn't." And then he changed languages -- I knew it! she thought -- and said, "[Latin: In every generation there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.]"

"Giles," Buffy said quietly, "what did the strange man say?"

"He said..." Giles came up beside her, staring at Crossman. "He said, 'In every generation there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons..."

"The forces of darkness," Crossman said. "She is the Slayer." Very slowly, he leaned forward in his chair, set his hands on his knees. "Now either tell me that that prophecy can be found by anybody with an ID card and Uncle Sam's permission, or let me make a pot of coffee so we can talk like civilized good guys."

Giles blinked at Crossman, and, much to Buffy's consternation, lowered the crossbow. "Second cupboard on the right, first shelf. There should be a coffee pot somewhere in there as well." Crossman nodded, stood, and walked over to Giles's kitchen.

Buffy grabbed Giles's arm and dragged him to where they could both keep an eye on Crossman through the pass-through window. "Okay, Giles," she said, "tell the girl with the personal trampoline what's going on."

"That's the original prophecy, Buffy, the one concerning the Slayer. The only people who know it in the original are Watchers, or people otherwise affiliated with the council."

"Or bad guys, Giles. Lots of bad guys know it too. Why have we discounted the bad guy factor here?"

"Because while many of your enemies know of it, the actual wording of the prophecy is knowledge restricted to Watchers and their Slayers. No one else knows it; it is written in only--"

"Three books," Crossman called from the kitchen.

"Thank you," Buffy called back, "still trying to figure out whether I need to kick your ass, please shut up."

Crossman looked out through the pass-through. "Three books," he repeated.

"No, um..." Giles reached up to remove his glasses, but simply resettled them instead. "There are only two books."

"Three." He set the pot of coffee on the sill and disappeared from view for a moment. "Two are owned by your Watcher's Council, and one copy of the text is kept by the Society of Jesus, and they," Crossman said, walking back out of the kitchen with a large steaming mug, "let me borrow it."

Giles moved to walk toward Crossman in what Buffy could only assume to be academic stupidity, but she held him back. "The Jesuits have a copy? Why has no one--"

"Because you never asked," Crossman said. He drank his coffee straight down and poured himself another. The man must have an iron throat, Buffy thought. He took a swallow from the fresh cup and looked at her. "[Latin: Slayer]," he said, "I'm not a bad guy, not by the popular definition anyway. I'm Peter Crossman, Knight of the Temple, and if you're the one protecting the Key, then I have to wonder why I was hired by the Byzzies to find it."

---

Sunlight came through the window. Buffy woke up and carefully stretched. The fighting from the night before had been medium-level strenuous, but dealing with Crossman had taken up way too much time -- she'd fallen asleep the moment she'd gotten home, without doing any cool-down exercises to calm her muscles.

She slid out of bed and started her stretch routine. She looked at the clock as she tipped herself backwards -- seven AM. Three cheers for minimal sleep. And Dawn would be getting up soon, even though it was a Saturday. Saturday had become pancake day in the Summers home after... after there wasn't a Mom to make pancakes any day her daughters wanted some. Saturdays were almost sacred, now. Which meant Buffy needed to get downstairs.

Buffy left her room and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Pulling ingredients out of various cupboards, she thought about last night.

Shortly after Crossman had made his interesting declaration -- and explained that by "Byzzies" he was referring to the Knights of Byzantium, and no, they did not collect pollen to make medieval-man honey on the side -- Giles muttered something about the time, sleep, and research to be done in the meantime. Buffy had been leery of leaving Crossman to sleep on Giles's couch, but neither Giles nor Crossman seemed to have a problem with it -- after Giles had asked Crossman for his word.

Crossman swears not to kill, maim, or otherwise damage or endanger Giles or me for the next few days, and Giles believes him, Buffy thought. She cracked the eggs. Something Crossman said last night made Giles trust him. But if my Watcher is "otherwise damaged" when I show up, I will not be happy.

Thumps were coming down the stairs. Dawn.

Crossman had come to Sunnydale looking for Dawn.

"Here," Buffy said to Dawn as she entered the kitchen, "stir." She shoved the bowl toward her sister and went to the phone.

"Yeah, hi, good morning," Dawn muttered. Buffy made a face at her and dialed Giles's number.

Two rings, and "Hello?"

"It's me. What's happening?"

Giles sounded tired. "Our knight friend woke up about half an hour ago and has proceeded with a diligence unknown to modern man to drain my entire store of caffeinated drinks." Tired and peeved. "Buffy, his level of consumption cannot in the least be healthy. And he's threatening the scotch next."

"Uh huh." Buffy looked over at Dawn, who stirred the pancake batter with enough sorrow and pained helpfulness to win herself an Academy Award. "Can you keep him busy for a bit longer? Call over the gang -- I think we'll all need to hear this."

"What about...?" Buffy could hear the rest of the question: 'What about Dawn?' It wasn't something she could answer in front of her sister, though -- she'd want to tag along the moment she knew she couldn't. Buffy turned away from Dawn and spoke to the kitchen cabinet.

"Don't worry. I'll see you soon. Remember: We still don't know what he wants. Even if he's made a promise... that doesn't mean he'll keep it."

"Right," Giles said. "See you soon." And then he hung up.

Buffy pressed her phone off and set it down. She turned back to her sister. "So, do we want blueberries in this mix or chocolate chips?"

"I think today's chocolate day," Dawn replied. She gave the bowl back to Buffy. "Was that Giles?"

"Yep."

"Who does he have over?"

Buffy blinked. "Nobody." She went and got down the chocolate chips.

Dawn sat on her hands and watched the pancake mix and Buffy, her gaze flicking back and forth. "So who made a promise?" She pulled out a hand and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Was it Spike?"

Buffy handed the bag of chips to Dawn. "Here, you get to pour them in." Dawn held the bag shut. Buffy sighed. "And no, it wasn't Spike." After a moment, she added, "Spike's... Spike's okay again. Not that Spike's gonna win any Good Behavior prizes anytime soon, but-- he's okay."

Dawn smiled a bit and poured in the chocolate. Buffy gave it one final stir and went over to the range. "Want to make super-cakes?" Dawn's half-smile blossomed into a full one, and Buffy covered the frying pan with a giant layer of mix.

No time for singles, Buffy thought as the scent of Mom's pancakes rose from the stove. I wanted the whole gang there, and that means I'll have to make a stop along the way.

--

"Knock knock."

The mausoleum was surprisingly well-lit in the mornings. As Buffy entered she saw a figure pull itself upright. Still bruised and beaten, but better looking than two days ago -- which wasn't that difficult. He'd actually looked like a dead body two days ago. Spike coughed and said, "Who's there?"

"The Slayer."

"Slayer who?"

"The joke got old, Spike."

"Shouldn't have started it then, should you?"

She gave a tight smile. "Can you make it to Giles's apartment without turning into dust?"

Now that she was closer, she could see that Spike's eye had become noticeably less swollen, but it looked like his ribs were still healing. He'd had to lever himself up in order to greet her, and he still hadn't gotten off his stone bed. He looked weak, unhealthy, and generally in no condition to move.

He shrugged, and hid the wince. "The flat? No problem. Now?"

Buffy nodded. "Now."

"Give us a moment, then." He inhaled carefully, then pulled himself completely upright. He got off the sarcophagus, stood, wavered, then seemed to strengthen long enough to walk over to his chair and grab his coat and wool blanket. He gave the blanket to her. "Meet me at the manhole cover closest to there. I'll try not to keep you waiting."

He turned from her, but she felt compelled to say, "Spike... don't kill yourself trying to get over there fast." He looked back at her, puzzled, hopeful-- had to kill that emotion quick. "I'm still holding out for staking you myself."

And he smiled at that. "If I don't get you first, love," he said, and climbed down into the sewer system.

The bastard's going to beat me there, Buffy thought, just to prove he can.

Buffy nodded, and left the mausoleum. Good. Mopey Spike is not a helpful Spike. But... She began to run. Damned if I'll let him win.

--

Spike had beat her there, but only by a few seconds -- and he never found out, because while he'd still been audibly struggling on the ladder leading up, she'd put on a practiced expression of boredom and readied the blanket.

There was a solid rap from the manhole cover. "You up there, Slayer?"

"This blanket is disgusting. Has it ever been washed?"

"Ah, sweet siren," he muttered as he pushed the cover up and back. Buffy held the blanket in such a way as to shade him from the sun, and the moment he was completely out she tossed it over his head. She pushed the cover back in place and then -- gently -- shoved him toward Giles's.

"Ow," he said, hurrying as quickly as possible to the semi-shade of the nearby trees.

"Wimp."

"Who said I was talking about you?" he wheezed. They continued on, moving swiftly to the arch leading to the apartment complex. "The sun's bleedin' hot. Do you prefer charbroiled or rotisserie?"

"Spike? Shut up."

They reached the arch, and temporary coverage. Buffy kept walking, but Spike paused a moment, still keeping mostly covered, and leaned back against the wall. "Buffy." She stopped, came back over to him. "Hang on a moment. Need..." He exhaled slowly. "Need to ask you something."

What he needed was to rest and heal some more, but he wouldn't admit it. "What?" She tried to keep the suspicion out of her voice. Spike had just pulled himself out of the doghouse; she needed his help, not some icky puppy love, and she really didn't want to make this clear by beating him even further into the ground.

"Why am I here?"

Okay, unexpected, but not the question she was worried about. She almost relaxed. "I caught a guy last night, posing as a Knight of Byzantium." Spike still looked confused. Had he been told about the knights? Figure it out later. "Spike... he was hired to find the Key for them."

Enlightenment. "And you want me in the loop, in case this bugger shows up after the little bit."

She nodded. "There's some other things about him too... he's weird. I need someone else watching him. Someone who can keep the others safe if needed."

"I'm in no condition now, Slayer," Spike said. He tried to stand on his own again, but something hurt. Either that or his admission got his pride somewhere tender. He grunted softly, closed his eyes. "Give me a few days, then we'll see." She nodded, and carefully helped him stand up right again. He swallowed, then added in a tone she would have punched him for a couple months ago, "Can't say I'd try too hard for Harris, though. If you need me later this afternoon, what say I just protect sis and let him take the grief?"

"Spike."

He chuckled, took a breath, and then left her steadying arm to make a dash for Giles's door.

Buffy followed after him, knocked sharply on the door and pushed in. The gang was all there, gathered on the couch and the arm chairs, and all watching the seated Crossman, who, aside from
moving the chair from behind the couch to in front of it, seemed not to have moved at all during the night. He had a cup of coffee, and held it protectively against his chest.

In the light of day, Crossman looked to be somewhere in his thirties, with a dull shade of brown hair cut in a low-maintenance style, a light tan, and what appeared to be a medium height. He had an accent she couldn't place, but would dip into different regional accents every third word -- first Brooklyn, New York, then some unidentifiable southern accent, then some version of Californian. He could be from anywhere. And while he was good-looking in an older-guy kind of way, he was... normal. Forgettable. He could blend in to a crowd, and not because he had super-sneaky vamp abilities. He would just... fade.

If he disappeared tomorrow, Buffy would have a tough time remembering what he looked like, and she'd have no clue as to where he might go. And there was a voice niggling at the back of her mind that said he cultivated that trait for all it was worth.

Giles had stood up from his leaning position against the kitchen doorway to greet her, but his voice died, and his eyes turned hard. "Get out."

Buffy stopped. "Huh?"

Giles looked puzzled at her, then made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. "Not you. Him."

Buffy turned to see Spike pressed hard against the entrance to Giles's apartment. It looked like he was leaning against the invisible barrier, letting it take his weight. "Summers, kindly get him to invite me in," Spike said, his voice one of barely controlled pain. "I'm smelling smoke out here."

"That's nice," a voice spoke up from the couch. Xander got up and walked around to stand slightly behind Buffy. "Hey, when you catch fire... I'm thinking marshmellows, maybe some Vienna saugages. Anyone else want in on that?"

"Guys. Behave. Let him in." She turned her head to look back at Giles. He looked obstinate. Buffy turned around completely and crossed her arms. "He's been through enough for this. Let him in. Now."

It looked as if Giles would hold out, but after a moment more he said querously, "Come in, Spike."

There was a loud thump behind Buffy. Giles rolled his eyes. "Oh... damn."

"Wow," said Anya, peering over the couch to get a better look at Spike's entrance. "I think Giles killed him. Good job, Giles. You killed a completely beaten and pathetic vampire. Not even Buffy did that."

Buffy hauled Spike to his feet and kicked the door shut behind her. He coughed, muttered, "Not bloody pathetic. Or dead. Damned if I let some ponce kill me. Just out of sorts. Soon be right as rain."

"Yeah, sure," Buffy said. She brought him to the end of the couch, to the empty space beside Anya. "Anyone sitting here?"

Xander raised his hand. "Actually, ah--" Buffy gave him a look. "Nope. Not me."

"Good." She lowered Spike down, letting him drop the last few inches. He made a noise -- she looked over him quickly. No fresh bleeding visible. She couldn't check the rest of him without feeling him, and there had to be a limit to how grateful she was for Spike's protection of Dawn.

When Spike didn't collapse into a pain-induced coma, she nodded and walked over to Crossman. "So, Pete. How's the hand this morning?"

"Wrist," he said, and flexed the hand that wasn't holding his coffee cup. She hadn't been sure last night whether she'd broken it when she'd kicked the gun out of his grip. "And it should be fine in a day or less."

"Okay," she said. "Now tell me why you were hired to find the Key."

If the change of subject startled him, he didn't let on, but there was a Willow-like gasp behind Buffy, and she could hear Xander begin to pace. "The Knights of Byzantium are looking for it. They've been having a hard time, so they called for outside help. The Crusades, and all its attendant woes, weren't exactly great for the early Byzantines. The Knights Templar owe them a small favor, so I was called here." Crossman took a meditative swallow of coffee. "I was told they'd encountered some difficulty with locals, ones who were protecting the Key. But not that they'd been facing a Slayer." He drained his mug. "Bad intel is worse than no intel."

Intel. There he was doing the military thing again. "You said Knights Templar. I thought you said you were a Knight of the Temple."

Anya spoke up before Crossman could. "Knight of the Temple, Knight Templar, Knight of the Temple of Solomon -- it all comes to the same thing. But officially, there aren't any more Templars. They did some dealings with demons," she added innocently.

"Not proven," Crossman said immediately.

Giles came forward with a book from the table. It seemed he had done research after she'd left -- shocker, there. "At any rate, that's not entirely the story as history shows it. The Knights Templar were disbanded in the 1300s for heretical tendencies and corrupt dealings. The Pope dissolved the order, and the King of France claimed all their wealth. As Anya said, officially, there are no more Templars."

"Officially," Buffy repeated. "What's the real story?"

"The Knights of the Temple aren't as dissolved as people think," Crossman said. "We still fight for the Lord. And we still win."

"Yes," Giles said. "If he is a Templar, then he's part of a rather famous order of Catholic knights. Crusaders, priests, essentially warrior monks."

"Wonderful," muttered Spike. "Yet more people to kick my ass."

Buffy was distracted, but hadn't missed that. "What, Spike?"

Spike hooked a thumb over at Crossman. "Well, he's a priest, in't he? Templar. Besides assorted bits of weaponry, half of which I bet you didn't get off him, he's probably carrying a cross, a rosary, a bottle of holy water and the body of Christ besides. I can't go near him, but he sure as hell can fry me thoroughly."

"I also carry silver, iron," Crossman murmured, "and blessed garlic."

Tara smiled from an arm chair to the left. "The garlic. That's holy moly. Instead of regular garlic which is just," she looked around, "um... moly. But still, you know, bad for Spike."

"No killing Spike," Buffy said to Crossman. "I don't care how annoying he is, or whether you think it's your duty to knock him off. He's a vampire. I'm the Slayer. My jurisdiction."

Crossman nodded. "Got any more coffee?"

"Ye gods and small fishes," Giles said lowly, and went into the kitchen.

Buffy pulled up a low foot stool. "What do the Byzantines know about the Key? How did they find out about it? Why do they want it?"

Crossman thought for a moment. Stalling again, Buffy thought. I wonder whether he's trying to come up with a lie, or to rearrange his truths. "Like most Knights, the Byzzies are related to an order of the church. But unlike the Templars, or the St. Clairs, or even the Johnnies, the Knights of Byzantium are affiliated with a heresy of the church, instead of a sect: Paulicianism. In its heyday it was based in and around Byzantium. Annoying as hell, and not that powerful -- their strong arm is the Knights of Byzantium, and even the St. John's have more advanced weaponry and training. They have a dual-deity system -- one god for destruction and chaos, and one god for all that is good and pure. Think the Satan versus God story, and you've pretty much nailed it. They're in favor of the good pure one, which wins points, but not enough."

One god for chaos and destruction. If Buffy was going to make a guess... Right, a guess. Forget that. Bet me the nasty god is Glory. Which means that if this Paulician thing is right, there's another good god floating around-- Worry about it later.

Crossman kept talking. "Their knights aren't priests, because Paulicians don't have priests -- they have synechdemoi, or 'fellow-workers'. And for centuries now, they've all been the next thing to nonexistent. But about half a year ago, the synechdemoi discovered something that they think will win the battle between the two gods in favor of the good one -- or worse, make them lose utterly. And since even the possibility of losing is worse than the stalemate they've worked against, they want to destroy any chance of it happening. And that chance is the Key."

There was silence. Giles stepped forward with the newly made pot of coffee and filled Crossman's mug. "Do you think they have a chance at winning their battle?" he said.

"Me? They're a heresy -- I don't even believe in their religion, let alone the specifics of their cause." He took a swallow of coffee. "But they were being... noisy about their need for the Key. And it was decided that someone from the outside needed to keep tabs on them."

Willow spoke up then. "I thought you said it was the Byzantines's idea to ask the Templars for help."

"It was."

There was silence. Crossman drank his coffee and said nothing else.

"So now what are you going to do?" Buffy asked quietly.

He shrugged. "I haven't tried to kill you since I met you. You said you let Knights go. Make the leap."

"Why did you pull a gun on me?"

"You'd just fought and beaten seven grown men in armor. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Spike stood up and walked around the couch, hacking up what sounded like vital organs. He stumbled into Giles, who caught him with an obvious look of distaste. Spike wheezed beside Giles for a moment, then pushed himself away and into the kitchen. "Don't suppose you have any blood bags left?" he called, no doubt crouched in front of the fridge.

Giles looked oddly after the vampire. "I burned them all."

"Bull. There're behind the mustards, aren't they? Seven different types of mustard, Giles, why the hell does anyone need that many?" There was a sigh of satisfaction. "Found one. Is there a mug you don't mind me desecrating?"

"Any of them," Giles said, sounding a bit out of it. Buffy couldn't blame him. This was... odd. Giles shook his head and came forward. "Look, it's past lunch now, and very shortly will be dinner." Giles formally turned to Crossman. "I'd be honored if you'd break bread with us this evening before you left."

Crossman froze, then set down his coffee. That's the first time I've seen him drop it since I brought him here last night, Buffy thought. Crossman closed his eyes for a moment. "Sure," he said. "I'll break bread with you."

Giles looked mildly surprised -- What the hell is going on? Buffy thought -- but pleased.

Without a care for any of the characters or story going on around her, Buffy followed Giles into the kitchen. Spike sat on the floor, legs splayed out and cradled a cup of blood in his hands. "Worked, din'it," he said smugly.

"Yes," Giles said, puzzled. "How did you--"

"I used to be Anglican, remember? Next thing over from Catholicism. The only thing that would've stopped him deader in his tracks is if you asked him for confession."

"That works?" Buffy asked.

"He's a priest, love. And not just any priest. He's a Templar. I've heard of how they work these days. They know more about where their souls are headed than any of the rest of us, and they want it as far from hell as possible. Deny confession -- that's going to hell. Deny anything that looks like a mass, or a last supper -- that's slippery territory, but a good chance."

"Wow," Buffy said. "You were a choir boy, weren't you?"

"Stuff it, Summers, before I start quoting choice bits of Ave Gloria."

Buffy hid her smile. Giles said, "But why did you tell me to ask him in the first place?"

"If he's stuck here, he can't dodge out to make phone calls or join up with those Byzantine bastards or whatever until after dark. And after dark," he said, took a sip from his cup, and smiled with bloody teeth, "I can follow."

--

See next post for the version 2.0.

"The Coffee"

2007-10-11T20:43:51Z

Title: The Coffee
Author: parsnips
Rating: PG
Warnings: mild language

Buffy the Vampire Slayer short story, originally posted under the name Lennart, in 2001, on Fanfiction.net (oh yes, and you can tell). Riley, long after he heads off on the helicopter. "The smell -- decay, mud, shit, and stagnant water -- you can't wash that off in one shower here."

--
The Coffee
--
by parsnips

There's this trick I thought I'd never have to use, back when I was part of the Initiative team; you know, that time when I thought I was strong and moral and upright and doing a great service for God and country. I thought this trick was cheating. And I didn't cheat back then.

Make hot chocolate from powder, but use coffee instead of water. Make one cup, and drink it straight down. More than one and you'll go into a jittery high that won't leave for about fourteen hours, and you're more likely to crawl out of your skin than be useful in the coming action. But one cup'll leave you awake, aware, and ready to do -- anything, at any time.

I heard about this during training, years ago. Never thought I'd try it, because I never thought I'd need an extra boost to get the job done. Sleep? If whatever I was doing was really important, I'd live without a couple extra hours. Just for that night, or the next. And enthusiasm I'd have by the bucket, just ready to dump over the unsuspecting enemies -- they'd drown in my machismo when I stood heroically against the setting sun, with my weapon held at the ready in one hand, and I'd say something threatening while at the same time witty and highly memorable.

I tried that the first time I went out on a training scenario, and got shot at the second I stood up for the sunset-pose. I can't remember what I was planning to say.

The coffee, mixed with the hot chocolate, is some big nastiness. We're talking syrupy gunk that tastes three days old and like chocolate should be outlawed for health reasons. But the rush it sends down you when you drink it... it's worth the taste, and the feel, and the little warning that says, "Don't drink any more." Sugar and caffeine, and adrenaline just comes along for the ride. You wake up.

I try to follow the guidelines when it comes to that coffee, the one drink rule. But there're mornings when that's a tough rule to follow. The mornings when I know I'll need more than one cup to get up. South America, the tropics, jungle, it's something you think about when you visit the zoo and see the environments and think, so this is what it's like.

Except it isn't.

The air is a wet, steaming towel pressing against my face, always, and I can't breathe. Sweat coats, and coats, and I can make trails through the filth with my nails because I haven't gotten nearly enough showers on a daily basis to keep cool (ha) and clean. Rain is hot. There're diseases here that require parasites to transmit them, to live under your skin and in your body, and those parasites are way too easy to get. Plants rot while they're growing.

The smell -- decay, mud, shit, and stagnant water -- you can't wash that off in one shower here.

The work they brought me for... it's standard. Same as the Initiative, except minus the inhumane torture and experimentation by evil doctors on powertrips. No jungle, though, so the program couldn't have been all bad. (I can get funny after a cup of this coffee. Watch me.) And what the group is having me do now... it really isn't that bad.

But it happens here, in the jungle, and it's becoming a hell (outside and different from all the hells I've lived before this Buffy shadows college Iowa) I can't handle. You slow down in the jungle, the heat and the wet slow you down, and there are days when only that coffee'll wake you up, keep you moving, let you pick up your weapon and point it at the enemy. Whoever the enemies are. I've forgotten all the dozens of colors I've killed by now, even if, in the beginning, I was checking each demon for ones I'd seen back home, back in Sunnydale, when I'd watch her fight them...

The coffee makes the bite marks burn like a son of a bitch, but it's something else to keep me going. I never drank this coffee back in Sunnydale, because I had a five foot blonde to do the equivalent. The insects here are scarier than the subterrestrials, and in the wild those zoo animals are mean bastards. On the upside, the fruit is fresh. And I don't have to make friends.

I want to stop drinking this goddamn coffee; it's rotting my head, like the plants rot in the rain.

I don't want this any of this anymore. I'm tired. I want to go home. I want to sleep.

Neither's gonna happen real soon.

END

"On Certain Habits of Werewolves"

2007-10-11T02:15:33Z

Title: On Certain Habits of Werewolves
Author: parsnips
Rating: a light R, humor
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Warnings: language, wereanimal/animagus sex, slight voyeurism, and terrible puns
Summary: Sirius asks a question of a specialist; or, the poet travels quite a distance for a dirty joke.

Poem, originally posted 4.14.07 at pornish_pixies. Though I didn't know it when I wrote it, this poem is certainly dedicated to thamiris, who in a roundabout way brought me to pornish_pixies. Goodnight to you, dear lady.

--
On Certain Habits of Werewolves
--
by parsnips

The good doctor Horn was a scholar of lore
and to students he spoke quite a bit;
his spellwork -- when done -- was revealed as a bore
but on stage there were none to his wit.

As the eminent wizard of mythical thought
to be given strange questions was par;
when stood then two young men more silly than not,
he braced for a dose of bizarre.

"Black is my name, and my friend here is Lupin;
we've a question for you that might suit.
Pray pardon the wording," he said with a grin,
"and be sure that our shame is acute.

"A werewolf is mating," Black started right off,
"with a creature akin to itself;
there's rumping and pumping and then-- a small cough!
from a human? a mirror? an elf?

"Let's say it's a human, for sake of the game;
and the werewolf is caught unawares.
A dastardly fellow with no ounce of shame
is watching from half-hidden stairs.

"The werewolf in question is nearly at peak
but the cur he is fucking looks up;
he barks to his friend that they've caught them a sneak
and now surely must punish the pup.

"But quite at the same time the moon sinks below
the edge of the skyline for dawning;
it's time for the werewolf to start his fast grow
from Canis to sapien's spawning.

"So here is the question we've brought here for you:
Will this werewolf still cum in his mark?
A good fuck's been startled from out of the blue
by a shapeshift, a cough, and a bark."

The professor sighed then and he looked in the air.
He said, "Though I fear I am mocked,
the answer is clear so I feel I must share:
Your werewolf would go off half-cocked."

"Marked, Defiled"

2007-10-11T02:09:32Z

Title: Marked, Defiled
Author: parsnips
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Warnings: chains, but no whips; not terribly cheery; perhaps a shade of non-con; dystopic AU

Poem, originally posted 11.20.05 at pornish_pixies. "False tears helped shade a liar's eyes // and brought to Voldemort the prize."

--
Marked, Defiled
--
by parsnips

I. In the land of the enemy

You're awake.

          I'm glad to see that
your trust in fairness in combat
makes you open to pleasant lies.
Your heart is soft for mournful cries;
'I did what must', 'I feel regret'--
My talent comes when under threat.
False tears helped shade a liar's eyes
and brought to Voldemort the prize.

Don't struggle here. The wall is rough
and yes, I fear each hand is cuffed.

II. It's locked I am and with no key

...the night is pleasant, dark and deep,
and filled with children sent to sleep
away their daytime works and fears.
It's men who spend these nights in tears,
struck by shades of actions done--

          Don't.
Don't cross me, boy; you think I won't
take what the Lord has claimed from me--
Or, no, you wish that He might see
a failing here, a break from him,
my willful touch of your chained limbs,
to constitute a broken vow
to Him that owns the Hero now.

Christ, listen close, you fool, you toy:
You're nothing but the Chosen Boy,
and chosen not for saving grace
but as a gift for spies' embrace.

You're mine to do with as I will
until the next man with a kill
and then the next, and further on
until the Light is dead and gone
and none but spies and dark men breed
within this land, this land, this...

          Heed
me, God, as you did not before:
This is the finish of the war.
Your friends are dead, your army gone,
and like in chess when marching pawns
are made to knights: you rose, you fought
and still your precious king was lost.

Do you listen? Or can't you hear?
I tricked you, stole you, seemed sincere
and brought you to our Lord the Dark.
It's over.

          Look and see your Mark.

III. And now I am a villain too

The barracks here seem full of fools.
Little talent, lackluster tools,
fit only for scant circle use
where we might of their magic juice
to feed our spells.

          And what of you?
No better than the children there.

But I-- I see no faces where
names should--

          But I know I knew them
before I left the school condemned.
I see their names and yet can't see
the children that I taught; surely
before my fall I gave some good?
It haunts my dreams; I feel it should;
what spy can't teach the other side?

Your face is pale, your eyes grown wide,
your lips are cracked, your fingers bleed--
and yet with you my sight succeeds.

IV. So in a world all bent askew

You dreamt. I heard you call. You thought
in dreams I was the man who'd taught:
mean and bad and... but evil, no.
How did I look to you, my boy?
A scourge, no doubt, and best annoyed
or ignored, as case may be; was
I pitied by you also? Does
that equal what I thought of you?

You were beautiful to my view.

V. I dreamt a touch that held no pain

hot against my skin you taste of
night and sin and death and love
and not for me which makes it sweet
and sweeter still the midnight heat
in shadows which my mouth can touch
thin lips wet tongue hard man in such
rough chains here that no move can halt
this suck this lave this rush of salt
into my soul and 'cross my chin
so feeling power rise within
and eyes that glow in darkness dim
from Green to green to him to hymn
for all the lost ones of this war
i kiss your hair your mark your

          Whore.

VI. And woke to find a demon's reign

Sweet master. Lord. Quick pass the hours.
I find that even chained his powers
are strong; he is not broken yet.
Had I more time--

          I'm in your debt.

END

"Moon-mad Dancin'"

2007-10-11T01:58:30Z

Story Title: Moon-mad Dancin'
Author Name: parsnips
Fandom & Pairing: Firefly -- River, Simon, non-shippy
Rating: PG
A/N: Words and definitions from the Encyclopædia Britannica, because River likes books with a-e ligatures in their titles.

Short story, posted 10.9.05, in response to a challenge in the_avril_game. "There's no sound in space, but she hears him anyway. She turns her headset on. 'I'm very busy, Simon.'"

--
Moon-mad Dancin'
--
by parsnips

"Aberration, alienation, derangement, distraction, insaneness, lunacy, madness, psychopathy, unbalance."

River is hanging from a support strut outside the ship, her legs thrown over the metal like she's a girl on a set of monkey bars. Her suit is one size too big, she's looking at the stars, and when she isn't murmuring lists of words to herself, she's whistling.

There's no sound in space, but she hears him anyway. She turns her headset on. "I'm very busy, Simon."

The other end of the radio connection clicks and whirs and is filled with mechanical breaths. Simon needs repairing. His needle's not staying even on the wax. "River--" he finally chokes, and then goes silent again.

"You should get that looked at," River says. "You're skipping."

The stars are myriad, infinite -- except not, obviously, and she hasn't made a mistake like that since kindergarten. Still, she likes the quiet. Simon is exactly three-point-two meters behind her and forty-six degrees compass-rose south-southwest. And he's noisy.

"River." He's trying again. "Please come back inside the ship. The captain isn't happy that you left it."

She sighs and unbends her legs. The movement pushes her slightly off the strut, and she begins to float away from the ship. "I'm still going through the definitions, Simon, so he's just going to have to go to the party without me."

A thick-gloved hand catches her ankle and turns her around. Simon's wrapped himself around a support strut of his own, but he looks very strange upside-down. He arranges himself carefully and then uses both hands to pull her up to face him. Simon looks even stranger with his nose in the wrong place. The radio is breathing for him, she's glad to note, because otherwise Simon might not breathe at all. He doesn't like the quiet that much.

He looks at her for a moment. His chin is where his eyes should be, but she probably shouldn't mention it. He gets upset by things like that. "What definitions, sweetheart?" he asks her gently, and she wishes she could punch him.

"She's got moon-mad written all up and down her, and I ain't sure how long it can be stood before we have a handful of trouble upon us," River says in Mal's farmer's accent. She smiles, but only because it will look like a frown and Simon won't know which is which. "Function: noun. Text: grave disorder of mind that impairs one's capacity to function safely or normally in society. Synonyms: aberration, alienation, derangement--"

"Oh, God, River, he wasn't-- I mean--" Simon sighs. He often does. "He was worried about you. Like I am. Not like he used to be, mei mei. We-- we're all worried about you. And it doesn't look very good when you sabotage the engine and then... then play outside."

"The word is the definition, Simon. If I don't know the words, I can't know where my brain is, and I can't fix it. Related words: acromania delirium frenzy hysteria delusion hallucination illusion irrationality unreasonableness. See?"

He doesn't see. She takes his breath and makes one of his sighs. "Simon," she says, "look behind me." He closes his eyes, and the machine goes faster. "You have to look, Simon. I need you to look." He opens his eyes.

Simon is her brother, and River loves him very much. So it's good that he did what she asks, because otherwise she'd have to hurt him until he did. "I'm going to name every star," she says slowly. "And I want you to watch. You have to watch, okay? Because it's important."

And then she wrenches his hands from her suit's headpiece and uses his position on the ship to shove away from him, not bothering to use any of the force to rotate -- just use all the power she can to get out of reach.

"Contrasted words," she says. "Judiciousness, sageness, sensibility, wiseness. The engine will take six hours to repair. Rationality, reasonableness. I cut all the manual propulsion systems on all the suits except mine. Healthiness, soundness, wholesomeness. You can't follow me, and really, I don't think you should."

She gestures around her, and while she can't see the stars from this position, he must see her dancing in an ocean of them. Currents of light to partner her. "Antonyms, Simon. Saneness. Sanity. Leaving before the Alliance kills you for good." She smiles, and turns off the headset. He's too loud -- she can be loud right back. That's how all their games go. "There's an Alliance cruiser in stealth mode behind the third moon we passed. I bet I can hold my breath until I get there."

The suit's propulsions are slow, but she's fast. The stars gather their names to themselves, and she heads toward those grateful definitions.

END

"Again, but Different"

2007-10-11T01:46:49Z

Huh. Things just slosh out when you're trying to write something else.

Harry Potter/Discworld short story, posted 9.11.06. G. "He felt a hand, small and steady, pressing against the back of his filthy robe. // 'Live better,' she said, and pushed him."

--
Again, but Different
--
by parsnips

Severus woke to the sound of his chains being split.

Azkaban's Dementors had long since fled the island, but the prison was still miserable, and dark. He opened his eyes and saw a fading spark from where his manacles used to connect to the wall. Someone said, Lumos. Hermione Granger stood over him.

"Professor."

"Yes," he said, but weakly.

She nodded, and Stunned him.

---

Severus woke again, this time to the whisper of Enervate.

It was still dark, but he didn't know if it was the same day or not. The air smelled different, though -- cleaner, drier. He was indoors. There was a breath of cold air moving.

Lumos. The light came from behind him this time. When he stood (weakly, still too weakly), he cast a shadow over the veiled portal before him.

Granger said, "You killed Dumbledore. You've killed a great many people. But you betrayed Voldemort to Harry, and Harry told me so."

The veil moved. Severus could see to the other side of the portal, could see there was no generator to make the wind, no second wand-wielder to create the feel of Otherness drifting toward him. There was just this thing, and whatever lay beyond it.

Severus had collected, and cherished, all the reports on Sirius Black's death.

"They've overruled my testimony. Harry's dead, and neither he nor Dumbledore have returned as ghosts. There's no one else to speak for you. I don't think you're evil, though you may deserve to die. Either way, I don't believe the Ministry deserves the publicity for performing the sort of stunt they've got planned for you tomorrow."

He hurt. He'd rather die than say so, rather die than live like this.

He didn't turn around to face her.

"I've studied the Veil, Professor. And I've been in the Ministry records. I think I know what it does. I've set it for somewhere you'll survive, I think, though there's no way for me to change the portal's rules. You'll be young again, barely adolescent; you'll retain your memory for the most part, though I don't know for how long. You may consider one or both a curse or a tool -- I leave that entirely up to you."

He felt a hand, small and steady, pressing against the back of his filthy robe.

"Live better," she said, and pushed him.

---

The third time he opened his eyes, he was lying in a cobbled street. Rain was pouring from the sky. He was naked. And the world felt so much better, stronger, sweeter, and alive.

A lantern swung before him.

"'Ere now. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Severus pulled himself upright. He was... small. So small. He looked up at the man who'd woken him, took in the chainmail, leather, hourglass and cosh on the beltloop, and tried to remember every set of manners he'd ever learned and dropped to the wayside.

The man looked meditatively at Severus. Severus's eye caught the dull copper light of a small badge hanging beside the man's cosh. The badge seemed to say, I am the law, and I work quietly. The bloody great stick beside me is another matter.

"I was trying to go home," Severus said. His voice was too young to even crack, though he tried to make it do so. He did manage to shiver without artiface. He could make this work. "I think I slipped and hit my head. I can't remember where I live."

The man -- guard? -- sighed and unhooked the hourglass from his belt and peered at it, at Severus, and then at the streets around him. "Time o' night... banging on doors..." he muttered under his breath, and added more strongly, "Stay here," before marching to the door immediately to Severus's left. It opened almost instantly, and a black-clad warder who looked barely sixteen leaned against the doorjamb.

There was a conversation Severus couldn't hear. They both looked over at him a number of times. The warder tugged gently at his cuffs; the guard's hand lightly brushed his cosh. They both smiled with every evidence of friendliness before the guard came back toward Severus (never turning his back to the warder, Severus couldn't help but notice), and said, "I've found you a room. They owe me a favor. Orphan's cell, but better than the street. They'll find you some, ah, clothes as well. See that you don't make a problem. If you don't fit in, try the next door down, it's all guilds on this street." The guard shifted on his feet. "Come by the Watch tomorrow if you really did want to find where you live. And don't go walking around at three in the morning by yourself anymore unless you want to lose more than just the clothes off your back." The guard sighed again. "Right. Go on, then."

Severus went on.

At the door, the warder looked down at him, threw a dry linen at his head, and said, "So what do they call you?"

He could do this. No one knew him. A fresh start. No tattoos marred him, no scars, no history, no rage, no Potters, no fear, nothing. He could breathe, he could fight. He could win.

Histories could be forged; memories could be magicked. He said the first lie that came to mind as he toweled himself off. "Vetinari."

And he set himself to conquer.

END

"Breathless Baby-doll Baby"

2007-10-11T01:43:07Z

I don't think I can really believe the ending of The Music Man. The inveterate liar, cheat, and womanizer settles down with the naive-but-romantic small-town librarian? It'd be nice, but I'm betting something different happened after the credits rolled.

Short story, Harold Hill/OC, implied Harold Hill/Marian Paroo, posted 10.15.05. R. "This man's all slick and smooth until you get up close and count the lines on his face, one for smiles and one for frowns and a baker's dozen for emotions he's never felt. 'Cept maybe this one, you'll give him that, he certainly seems to be feeling something now."

Story Title: Breathless Baby-doll Baby
Author Name: parsnips
Fandom & Pairing: The Music Man - Harold Hill/Marian Paroo, Harold Hill/OC
Rating: R
A/N: For the_avril_game's Mobile challenge.

--
Breathless Baby-doll Baby
--
by parsnips

He doesn't like virgins. He'll say it straight out, not fuss with definitions, just tell it like it is: he doesn't like 'em. Take too long to train to the saddle, if you don't mind his saying so, and you certainly shouldn't, pretty girl like you in a dirty old place like this. You've been paid five dollars on the horn, no questions asked, no looking over his shoulder to the next man in line, because for the next fifteen minutes, girl, your name's Marian Paroo and you'll like it.

He says he's from Indiana, but you used to sneak off to see the baseball games against Gary when they played your town and you don't remember an accent like his, a voice like his, hands like his. This man's all slick and smooth until you get up close and count the lines on his face, one for smiles and one for frowns and a baker's dozen for emotions he's never felt. 'Cept maybe this one, you'll give him that, he certainly seems to be feeling something now.

"Marian," he says, and you wonder about that, wonder about the girl she's supposed to be, the girl he wants enough to buy a replacement for. You pretend you're gonna ask him when he comes, when words sink into men's brains without them knowing it, and maybe you will ask, maybe you will, 'cause you ain't half the actor he must be, and some things just pop out whether you plan for the saying or not.

But it's not time for that yet, not time by half, and you're feeling every breath of him pressing up inside you. He said he was a music man and you can almost believe it with his rat-a-tat ways, playing you like Billy Hawthorne played his fiddle last week at the county dance hall. You don't dance, never have, you're the most perfect Methodist there ever was except for the one little thing you ain't.

This fella likes it, though, likes what you do, likes how you look and the moment's comin', you can feel the speed of it racing toward you like a train heading out of here, out of town, out of this life except for this one last man, this one last time, running away right to the heart of you. You've got the words ready, too, you've decided to say 'em, you're gonna say, "Who was she?" until he comes back down to earth and doesn't even realize you spoke.

And the moment you open your mouth, words forming, Who-Who-Who, he stops on a dime, shudders like the fires are upon him, and he pulls away. He breathes heavy, sits on the edge of the bed, face to the ground for a long moment before he looks up again, mouth all smiles that don't reach his eyes, and he calls you an owl, asking questions in the night no man was meant to answer. It's a different kind of wording than he used when he first saw you on the street, whispered in your ear, talked your ear off as you lay on the bed and lifted your skirts for him. Patter that went beyond the pale, a salesman without a pitch to give because he's not the one selling something.

You ask if you've done something wrong, and the smile drops as if it'd never been. "Pretty lady," he says just then, "you're too good for the likes of me."

When he leaves, he puts twenty dollars on the table, a train ticket to anywhere. You say it ain't fair, but he's gone without hearing your reason, leaving the door to swing shut and a whistle to mark his passing.

END