midsummer_fic

for Lynn: Ashes to Ashes (Last Night) by serialkarma

Tue, 30 Aug 2005 00:06:27 GMT

Title: Ashes to Ashes
Author: serialkarma
Recipient: lynnmonster
Fandom: Last Night
Character(s): Craig Zwiller
Summary: Craig thought it was understandable that he was surprised when he heard himself say, "I--I can’t. Sorry. Gotta go," to the guy who was crouched over him with his dick in his hand

Ashes to Ashes
by serialkarma

After the news broke, there were the riots. And after the riots, there were the parties. Days, weeks-long parties. "Orgies," sniffed the talking heads. "It’s a disgrace, it’s disgusting, why can’t people meet the End with dignity, with self-respect, with their pants on?"

Craig didn’t see the problem. He figured having a lot of sex in the face of death was a pretty understandable thing to do.

He went to a few of the parties. But after a whil--and if someone had told him this he’d have laughed in their face--it started to get kind of monotonous. For a bunch of people intent on fucking as much as possible before the end of the world there was a disappointing lack of variety in the fucking itself.

(Craig was best man at Patrick’s wedding. He was been kind of surprised to be asked, but not really when it came down to it. Patrick was, well, odd, and kind of reclusive, and even though he and Craig could go for months without talking--eighteen in a row was the record--eventually one of them would ring up the other and they’d go for a beer and talk about cars and hockey, and politics if they felt like arguing, which they usually didn’t. Craig kind of got the impression Patrick didn’t have a whole lot of other friends. But then again, he seemed to get everything he needed from his wife, so maybe he didn’t want any more.)

After the third morning in a row waking up sandwiched between two naked women--and the memories of last night already merging with those of the night before, and the night before that--Craig realized he needed a plan--something with structure, organization. Maybe a schedule.

First, he tried a spreadsheet, but that got too unwieldy. By the time he got to number 50 (handcuffs) he couldn’t remember if he’d already listed "blind woman," or "natural redhead." Besides, did he really need to cross-reference this stuff? No.

So he went out, picked up some beer, a carton of smokes, and some permanent markers, and spent an entire Sunday covering the kitchen walls, the cabinets, inside and out, with anything that came to mind. Everything. By the time he’d covered every last inch of available space he was drunk, his lungs felt like they were threatening to secede, and he was so horny he laid down on the floor and jacked himself while reading the inside of the cabinet under the sink. It took about three hard pulls on his cock, and he got to "fuck identical twins (at the same time)," and then he was coming in hard, hot spurts all over his chest and stomach.

(Craig had never been interested in marriage, when it came down to it. If he’d been asked, he would have said something about waiting for "the right woman," and how she was so hard to find these days, and he wasn’t ready to settle down, and all that was kind of true. But mostly, he just couldn’t imagine having sex with only one person for the rest of his life. Cliched, but there it is, he’d told Patrick the night Patrick told him he was getting married. Patrick had just smiled.

"What?" Craig asked, putting his pint glass down on the table. "You think I don’t know what I’m talking about, right? That I just need to meet the right girl and that’ll be it, I’ll be all, ‘oh, love is the answer, love is all around, let’s have babies and then sex will be this nice memory and I won’t care, because my life will be so fulfilled’?" He was irritated, all of a sudden.

"Actually, no," Patrick said. "I was just thinking that I can’t imagine you ever getting married anyway."

"Oh." Craig took a sip of beer, feeling kind of silly.

"I was going to ask you if you’d be my best man," Patrick said.

"Oh," said Craig again. "Okay.")

He started out with the easy stuff, nothing too exotic. He put "threesome" on the wall, but crossed it out immediately--that way it seemed like he was farther along. He put "have sex while stoned" up there, too, which he’d done on a pretty regular basis at university.

He did it again, though, when he fucked the redhead, just for old time’s sake.

Sex with a blind chick turned out to be pretty fucking amazing. She was just average in the looks department (would probably have been really pretty with some makeup, but Craig figured it was kind of tough to put makeup on if you couldn’t see your face), but she did things with her tongue that made his spine melt and his toes curl until they cramped. Then, while he was still kind of shaky with the aftershocks, she gave him a wicked smile, reached into her bag, and grabbed a scarf.

So hey, cross "have sex while blindfolded" off that list, too.

For two weeks he was like a machine, a fucking machine--a fucking machine. He slept with identical twins (at the same time), had sex on the subway at night (so he’d watched Risky Business a lot at university), spanked someone (didn’t do much for him), been spanked (did way more for him than he’d expected), fucked a girl up the ass (pretty good, but he didn’t really see what the fuss was about. Neither did she, as it turned out), and he was only about a third of the way through his list. He started to prioritize.

(The only time Craig ever, briefly, reconsidered his stance on marriage and how it was Not For Him, was at Patrick’s wedding, when he watched the bride and groom dance. They didn’t move, much, just a small circle in the center of the floor under the tent, foreheads touching, eyes closed. It looked…nice, he thought.

Five minutes later, he wound up trapped against the bar by Patrick’s great-aunt whose name he’d blocked out, trying to fend off her drunken paws and getting splashed with crème de menthe.)

A month into it, then, and given the amount of stuff he’d done, Craig thought it was understandable that he was surprised when he heard himself say, "I--I can’t. Sorry. Gotta go," to the guy who was crouched over him with his dick in his hand.

On the street outside the guy’s apartment, he ran a shaky hand through his hair, lit a cigarette, and then tried to figure out what had gone wrong.

It wasn’t the kissing. That part had been fine. Better than fine, actually. Soft at first, then harder, wet and fast and way more aggressive than most women were--at least in Craig’s experience (except lately, come to think of it, and he wondered, for the first time, how much of that maybe had to do with what was coming. People kissed like it meant everything, now, whether they’d known each other for years or minutes.) So that part was no different, when it came down to it.

Except then it was, because the guy backed Craig up until he was against the wall and put a hand on his chest and held him there, and Craig could have pushed him off, could have gotten away if he’d wanted to, but it would have required some effort, and he was kind of surprised to feel himself getting hard at the idea having to work for it.

Huh.

The guy--John? Jim? No, John--fumbled at Craig’s hip and he tensed slightly, until he realized John was just opening the door to the apartment. He let himself be backed in the door and down a dim-lit hallway, the two of them kissing the whole time, John’s hands sliding from the door to Craig’s waist and then up under the tail of his shirt to his bare back. The feel of skin on skin sent a shudder through him and he opened his mouth on a gasp, and the kiss was suddenly deeper, hot and hard. John was taller than him; there was a crick in Craig’s neck, so the feel of a couch behind his knees was welcome and he let himself sink back, John bending over him and pushing him into the corner, still kissing him.

Then he was kissing his neck, and Craig’s shirt was unbuttoned and John was kissing his chest and then his hand was on Craig’s crotch and his hips were bucking up. It was good, it was really good, and then it was great, because John’s mouth was on his dick and damn, people were right, guys really did give better blow jobs. Or at least this one did, because it felt like every nerve ending Craig had was oriented toward his cock and his spine was liquefying in a way that put the blind chick to shame and then he was coming, right into John’s mouth, shouting he had no idea what and seeing nothing but blinding white light.

And hell, his pants were still mostly on. Nice.

John moved up and kissed him, and okay, that was weird, he’d never been a big fan when women tried to kiss him after a blow job either. But John was a really fucking fantastic kisser, and Craig kind of forgot that he was supposed to be grossed out and got into the kissing again. He put his hands on John’s hips and John ground his hips down, and Craig could feel the guy’s dick, still hard, against his leg, and it was weird, too. But the kissing was still really hot and he didn’t want to stop that just yet.

So he wasn’t really paying attention when John lifted his lower half up and fumbled at his fly for a minute. Craig was sucking on John’s tongue and running his hands over John’s smooth back under his sweater and he didn’t realize until the kissing stopped that John’s fly was open and his dick was out.

John knelt up and loomed over him, suddenly big and dark, blotting out the light from the table lamp. Craig felt his hackles rise. John ran a thumb over Craig’s mouth and tugged on his lower lip and whispered, "Suck me."

And Craig took one look at John’s face, shadowed with desire, and John’s cock, good-sized and red and strangely alien--which made no sense, he thought later--and then he was saying, "I--I can’t. Sorry. Gotta go," and a few other meaningless babblings, and he was getting up off the couch and John was sitting back and staring at him and Craig was bolting.

He walked briskly--he wasn’t running, he would not run from this, what was he, a pussy?--and tried to figure out what had gone wrong.

It had been good, better than he’d thought. John was…well, hot still wasn’t a word that Craig really got when it came to guys, but he didn’t make his stomach turn and he’d given head like Craig had never even thought to imagine. He felt kind of bad--actually, he felt like shit, that was a shitty thing to do to a guy. He knew what that was like, and it was never good, and the entire had, what, three weeks left? He hoped the guy managed to get properly laid before the end. It just wasn’t going to be by Craig.

Nope, gay sex was clearly not Craig’s deal. Which was fine, he had more than enough on his list to get through anyway. Maybe if he had time he’d come back to the whole blow job deal, but in the meantime he had to have priorities. He had a schedule.

(Two weeks and six days later, sitting next to Patrick in front of the fireplace, Craig thought he maybe knew what he’d been missing, that night with John. He didn’t have it with Patrick either, not really. He’d never really had it with anybody. But he remembered Patrick’s wedding, and the way Patrick and his new wife danced together, and thought that maybe if at least one of them had had it, once, that would be enough.

It almost was.)

**end**

Note: With deepest apologies to lynnmonster for the lateness of the story. Last-minute unavoidable RL craziness—capped off by an oh-this-is-beyond-farce moment when my spacebar DIED (My email to brooklinegirl: "Okay,soiwasjustabouttoemailandsayyes!iwasalmostfinished!andthenmyspacebarCEASEDTO
WORK.ATALL.Asyoucansee.") all resulted in the appalling lateness. I'm so sorry, sweetie! And I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Midsummer Fics are Up!

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 22:55:16 GMT

And now! The moment you've all been waiting for! I present to you the 20 (with one more waiting in the wings - it'll be posted tomorrow night, due to unavoidable RL difficulties) brand new Midsummer Santa fics! All the posts are unlocked to everyone now! Go to midsummer_fic to see them! If you click on the memories of midsummer_fic, all the fics are sorted by both recipient and fandom(s) for easy access.

You guys did a truly wonderful job on these fics. Thank you so much for participating. People, go read - you will be overwhelmed by the obscure Canadian goodness! The authors will be revealed next Monday, August 29th.

for mousewrites: "Navi (Niv Sefatayim)" (Battlestar Galactica) by lyra_sena

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 19:05:16 GMT

Title: Navi (Niv Sefatayim)
Author: lyra_sena
Recipient: mousewrites
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Character(s): Kara Thrace, Leoben
Summary: There is a lone prophet, with the fruit of the earth in his palm.

Navi (Niv Sefatayim)

for Sprat: "Lures" (Wilby Wonderful)

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 14:23:00 GMT

Title: Lures
Recipient: sprat
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Author: misspamela

HUGE beta thanks go to brooklinegirl and kageygirl!

Lures

Dan never was a morning person. That is to say, he liked mornings just fine, as long as he didn't have to get up for them.

He loved opening his eyes a crack, seeing the sun, then rolling over to tangle himself in his cotton sheets and big, soft quilt. Sometimes he even tangled himself around his wife, their limbs entwining and neither of them quite awake.

Mornings had been the best part of their marriage. Things didn't start to go badly until lunchtime, and by bedtime they tried to avoid each other. Beds were dangerous ground unless they were both asleep.

Duck, on the other hand, barely slept in the bed they shared. Their bed was for falling on, for twisting their hands around the damp sheets, for creaking and groaning, and for hundreds of quick kisses before they left for work.

But when Dan woke up on Saturdays, Duck was always gone. He'd come back around eleven with fresh bagels and the paper and a big, shining grin on his face. Getting up to hot bagels and a quietly jubilant Duck wasn't anything to complain about, but Dan sometimes missed his mornings.

One morning, when Dan opened his eyes, he noticed that that sky was pink, not gold, and he shivered deeper into the blankets. Something else was registering, pushing in at the edges of his mind.

Coffee. Fresh coffee.

He rolled over to find Duck sitting at the edge of the bed holding a silver travel mug with steam rising gently from the top. He was wearing a dark green Henley with a quilted plaid button-down shirt over it. He smiled, his eyes crinkling gently.

"Want to go for a ride?" he asked.

"Um," Dan scrubbed his eyes with his hand, "Sure."

He took the coffee and gulped down two quick swallows. He could feel the caffeine rushing to his brain, like it was carried by the steam instead of in his bloodstream.

Stumbling to the dresser, he found some jeans and a worn brown sweater to throw over his t-shirt. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see. Come on." Duck jingled the truck keys gently in his hand

They walked outside and Dan shivered as the cold, damp air hit his face and ears. Duck noticed and grinned. "I love September." Their shoes crunched loudly on the damp, pebbly rocks on their way to the truck. Dan took another sip of his coffee, enjoying the heat of the mug in his hands.

Duck drove them out past the Watch, to a part of the island that Dan hadn't noticed before. There was a small jetty, covered in smooth, almost perfectly round grey stones of varying sizes. Duck pulled over on the side of the road, into a soft, sandy area that had obviously been used a lot, judging from all the tire tracks.

Rummaging under a tarp in the back of the truck, Duck pulled out a tackle box, two camp chairs, and two fishing poles. "You ever bait a hook?" he asked, handing one of the poles to Dan.

"Not since I was seven," Dan said. His dad used to take him out sometimes when they stayed at Lac Mephremagog. Dan never really got the hang of fishing, but he always liked going out on the boat and talking to his dad about stupid things, like movies and gum flavors and which were the best kinds of rain boots.

They walked out to the end of the jetty and sat on one of the larger rocks. It wasn't as uncomfortable as Dan thought it would be. Duck opened the box and took out a jar filled with some kind of dried bugs. Dan shuddered.

"First one's on me." Duck winked at him. "But next time, you're touching the worms."

"Is this where you go in the morning?" Dan asked.

"Yep." Duck skillfully baited the hook and checked the line. He handed it to Dan. "Do you remember how to cast?"

"I think so." Dan flicked his wrist back, then forward, and plunked the hook in at a respectable distance from the shore.

"Not bad." Duck grinned at him and cast his line with a smooth snap.

Despite the damp cool of a mid-September morning, Dan could see why Duck liked this so much. The waves lapped gently against the stones, grey on grey, rivulets running down the cracks and back into the sea. Winging across the sky, a gull circled above and landed with an ungraceful squawk further down the coast.

After a few minutes, Dan glanced over at Duck, marveling at how relaxed he looked. Sometimes Dan was a little shocked at how little he really knew about Duck. Most days, his old life – his wife, the suicide attempt – was another world, and he couldn't remember what it was like not to have Duck. Other days, Dan would stare at Duck and think, what the hell am I doing with this stranger?

"I didn't think you were the fishing type," Dan blurted out.

Duck looked at him in a way that said, kindly and gently, of course, that he was a total moron. "I was raised on an island."

"Of course." Dan fidgeted in the chair and Duck reached out to touch his hand. "Why…why do you like it so much?" Dan asked.

"Because, when I'm out here I feel like I'm the only person in the world." Duck grinned.

Dan nodded in agreement. The only sounds he could hear were the muffled crash of waves, and the screeching of the gull, who was now fighting with another gull for the rights to a fast-food wrapper. The angle of the jetty was such that the cars on the access road were reduced to a dull hum of background noise and the occasional flash of silver. It was incredibly peaceful.

"Why did you bring me out here, then?" Dan shifted his eyes downward and the out to sea. He hated asking Duck to talk about this…whatever it was that they had. It was better to let good things stay as they were and not question it.

Duck gave him that look again, sad and amused and slightly annoyed. "Because," he said slowly, enunciating every word, "now I feel like we're the only people in the world."

"Oh." Dan could feel the grin spreading across his face.

"It's a good thing you're so pretty." Duck reached out and gently touched Dan's face. Dan shivered with happiness. "Because you're not that bright."

"You're just using me for my good looks?" Dan kissed Duck's fingers, one by one.

"I'm a leg man. What can I say?" Duck stared into his eyes, intense, a promise of more to come later.

"You know what?" Dan asked. He was breathing a little harder, his body thrumming happily.

"What?"

"I think we've fished enough."

Duck turned and cocked his head thoughtfully. "You know, I think you're right. Home?"

"Yeah," Dan reached out and skimmed his hand over the back of Duck's neck. "Home."

for cmshaw: "Your Guide to a Safe eXistenZ" (HCL/eXistenZ/Highlander)

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 14:08:24 GMT

Title: Your Guide to a Safe eXistenZ
Author: dayse
Recipient: cmshaw
Fandoms: Hard Core Logo/eXistenZ/Highlander (minmial)

Author's notes: Words can not express how much gratitude I have towards my betas on this fic. I gave them so much bloody WORK to do and they spent literally hours with me in IRC and MSN, checking over paragraphs and scenes as I wrote them, telling me what worked and what didn't work. And being my beta is NOT fun. I am whiney and neurotic
and insecure and they not only gave me great advice, but great support as well. Not to mention, _divya_ and visionshadows totally called on their friends’ lists to help me with my Highlander questions, and jcjoeyfreak probably had to listen to my bitching and head-desking more than anyone.

So thank you so much, girls. jcjoeyfreak, visionshadows, and _divya_, I could not have done this without you <3.

And a shout-out to www.highlander.org/FAQ/ as well, for resource-y greatness.

Your Guide to a Safe eXistenZ

for AuKestrel: "Waking Up Tired" (Buried on Sunday)

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 14:03:26 GMT

Title: Waking Up Tired
Author: aerye
Recipient: aukestrel
Fandom: Buried on Sunday/Hard Core Logo

Many thanks to Kat Allison, ~~even if she did make me rewrite the story~~. She provided exemplary beta services, and when I say she made this story infinitely better--really, y’all have no fucking idea.

Thank you to Lynn, who beta'd an earlier, happier draft. All of the angst, despair, and general desolation came later. Lynn beat as many “ands” and commas out of the story as she could. I snuck a few back in when she wasn’t looking.

Thank you to China Shop and Queue, who helped brainstorm story ideas. Not this story idea, you understand--happy story ideas. Buy me a drink someday and I'll tell you all about them.

And finally, thank you to Brooklinegirl, who extended my deadline and put up with all of my whining. She is a peach.

Waking Up Tired

Are you still, still breathing?
-- Tattle Tale, "Glass Vase Cello Case"

Winter blew in with the ferries the night before, and now the cold wind rattled the shutters on the windows and made music singing through the narrow passageways under the roof. Gus marked another night of insomnia with resignation and the last of the whiskey, and from his place on the sofa watched the fire burn down to coal. Around three a.m. he heard Bunsy moving around up in the loft, shuffling and coughing, and his heavy steps on the stairs. Gus rolled over as the light from the lamp in the kitchen spilled over the back of the sofa, and nodded in return to Bunsy’s hoarse greeting; Bunsy’s mouth twisted in the grimace that he used in place of a smile and he went to make the coffee, leaving Gus to leverage himself up and fight his way out of the layers of blankets and sheets. Sitting up, Gus rubbed his hands over his face and arched his back, feeling the snap of vertebrae realigning, and contemplated shaving and dismissed the notion all in the same thought.

"Fish cakes or bacon with your eggs?" Bunsy asked, and appeared to take Gus’s grunt to mean either was fine. He lifted the large iron skillet from the hook on the wall. "You going to get to that motor today, Gus? Sil’s been harping on it something grand."

Gus shivered as he stood and stumbled over to the counter where he sloshed cold water into the basin, and then over his face. He was moving slowly, heavy all over with the weight of sleep that wouldn’t come and a persistent itch that crawled under his skin. He didn’t answer Bunsy’s question, burying his face in a towel instead.

"Gus?"

The bacon had started to sizzle in the pan and Bunsy was quartering tomatoes as the smell of coffee percolated into the room, but Gus’s hunger didn’t have anything to do with food. He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink--red eyes and unshaven cheeks and wild hair--and looked away again, not sure what he was seeing, or what he was looking for. He slung the towel he’d used on his face around his neck and went over to the hooks by the door, where he’d hung yesterday’s clothing. He shed the thick flannels he’d slept in, tossing them over a chair, and dressed quickly, thermals and trousers and sweater and vest, wool close to the skin and in layers. His collar.

"Gus?"

"I’ll get to it, Bunsy. I’ll get to it," he said, pushing off the irritation and putting on his coat and muffler. He pulled open the door, meeting a blast of frigid air that hit him full in the face.

"Don’t you want your breakfast?" Bunsy called to him, turning with a pan full of fried bacon and eggs and tomatoes, but Gus shook his head and stepped out into the dark morning, shutting the door without a word. He took a cigarette from his pocket and cupped his hands to light it, then stood quietly smoking, watching the smoke and his breath get blown away by the wind. After a moment, he tucked the cigarette between his lips, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and started to walk.

It was a path he could find in his sleep. Uneven and badly paved, and full of cracks. He walked slowly, looking over the mini-putt golf park, the painted grass and make-believe house. Leaves followed the wind to gather at the sides of the road, crowding the fence posts and curling up next to the tree roots. Further up the hill, into town, he could see lights coming on in other houses, where other men were getting ready to go out on the water. He could see the bright windows in the diner, and the café. Some things had changed about Solomon Gundy, himself included, but there was always the sea, would always be the sea, the sea and the waves and the fishermen.

His boots and the cuffs of his trousers got wet as he walked and smoked, past the church that needed painting, the graveyard.

Dexter.

Does it matter, in the end, what we do in this life?

Solomon Gundy’s fifteen minutes of fame had come and gone, leaving behind unlikely heroes. Death had changed Dexter Lexcannon from a lawyer into a hero, a cult icon. A Judas who had flung back the thirty pieces, like St. Paul, Dexter was a Pharisee who became a saint. When Bucky Haight recorded "Battle of Solomon Gundy," Dexter’s story spread on the wings of thrash guitarists, and now every summer and fall brought tourists with green and blue and orange hair to visit his grave, singing songs and carrying flowers, paint and trinkets, and pink plastic pigs named "Hamlet" to decorate his grave. The city council didn’t like it at all but soon figured out there was profit to be had, and now Dempster’s wife kept a booth on the road outside the cemetery entrance, selling Russian nesting boxes bearing Dexter’s face, and temporary tattoos, and brochures that told "real" story of Dexter Lexcannon and the Freedom Fighters of Solomon Gundy.

Gus wound his way through the graves to stop at Dexter’s, and leaned against the tombstone to light another cigarette. The name of Dexter Lexcannon was almost lost now beneath the graffiti, the peace signs and the anarchy symbols, the quotes from Shakespeare and Nietzsche and Twitch City. Messages from Tim from Chicago and Gary from Vancouver, and Graham from Christchurch. From Patsy and Darla, and Betty, who loves Sue. And Joe Dick--Singer, Songwriter, scrawled along side the rest. Gus had never noticed that one before, but it’d been pointed it out to him recently.

He lit another cigarette off the one he had just finished.

Dexter wasn’t the only one who’d gotten famous in the aftermath of the Victory Against Ottawa, as the locals tended to refer to it. Zita wrote a novel, Big Pigs Eat First, that climbed to number 73 on the New York Times Bestseller list, and was praised in its Sunday Book Review as a "post-modern allegorical tale of redemption." Zita just smiled and took the twenty thousand, and sold her rights to the movie.

Rumor was they had Bruce McDonald lined up to direct.

Other changes had happened on a smaller scale. Sure enough, they’d had to give back the sub, but Luba Fedorova--former Cook and De Facto Senior Officer of Submarine K-672--did, in fact, defect, and was granted asylum as part of the reunification deal. After a long courtship, she married Sil last summer, and they bought a fishing boat, and another pickup. Luba applied for citizenship and opened a café that sold boats carved out of shark bone, and boats in bottles, and lattes, pashka and borscht.

Most things didn’t change, of course. Dempster Millard ran for the Senate again on a United Alliance ticket, and lost again when the Liberals won a majority. Zita still kept the library on top of the hill, and still lectured Gus on his appearance, his slovenly ways, and his drinking. Sil still violated probation and found himself in jail most Monday mornings, and most Friday nights still found someone telling the story of the Teaser.

It turned out Noel was right the first time--she could never live on an island. Turned out Gus couldn’t live anywhere else. Noel packed up about three months after she'd arrived and went back to Ottawa and the Minister of Social Development, leaving Solomon Gundy with a smile and a commemorative key chain. She still sent Gus the occasional letter, and a holiday card every Christmas.

And Augustus Knickel?

Gus smiled and put out his cigarette. Nobody wrote songs about Augustus Knickel, who lived, and stayed on Solomon Gundy. Augustus Knickel, who was still Christ's representative on Earth and who gave sermons every Sunday, sometimes even good ones; he was still the Mayor of Town, and still the best person to see about parking tickets, snow removal and dog licenses. He still ran the only mini-putt golf park on the island, and sometimes, lately, he believed in God.

Oh. And he’d fallen in love. With a rock star.

But that was another story.

Gus took the flask out of his pocket and took a long, long drink. Then he closed it back up and turned back toward home.

***

The sun was just breaching the horizon, the sky grey and pink and orange--and maybe just a bit blurry around the edges--when Gus rounded the side of the house. All his cigarettes were gone; his flask was empty. The first rays of light caught the silver in the grey of the ocean. Just like in the movies, when God appeared. Gus closed his eyes to feel the salt air on his face and felt a shiver dance down his spine, like the touch of cold fingers, and he turned, and opened his eyes.

He knew what he would see. It was Billy, leaning up against the door jam as if he belonged there, looking just like he did the first time Gus saw him, blond and black and blue. The long coat he wore was buttoned from neck to knee, and the tails flapped and fluttered in the strong morning breeze. He had a couple of scarves around his neck, wrapped up almost to his ears, and a cowboy hat on his head that obeyed different laws of physics--barely tipping in the strong wind. His hands were jammed in his pockets and he had one foot behind him, boot resting on the clapboard wall, balancing himself as he leaned back. He was smoking a cigarette, and blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed, and he was smiling like he was dreaming, but Gus knew Billy knew he was there, and knew that Gus was looking, and Billy opened his eyes, and turned, and smiled.

Blue. The eyes were the same, the bluest eyes Gus had ever seen, and that same smile that had twisted something up inside him every time he saw it. His breath was cold coming into his lungs and it didn’t matter that he knew what this was, or wasn’t, and then Billy was using that booted foot to push off the wall and come toward him. Billy took one hand out of his pocket, took the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it away, even as his other hand wound its way through Gus’s hair, stroking and petting, and then grabbing a handful at the base of his neck to reel him in.

Gus followed. The tug on his hair pulled him in close, and he could smell Billy, could recognize him in the stink of stale cigarettes and dried sweat that meant he’d jammed last night in some dive of a club, the onions that meant all night diner, and the beer that said he’d fallen off the wagon once again. And then Gus could taste him, could taste the beer and the onions and the cigarettes. The women, the other men. The blow. Gus opened his mouth; the kiss was aggressive, hard and wet.

"Billy," he whispered, when Billy gave him a second to breathe, but it was only a second and then they were locked together again. Both of Billy’s hands were in Gus’s hair now, and Gus wrapped his arms tight around him, holding on and pulling him closer, struggling to feel hard muscle and bone through his clothes. Gus reached blindly for the buttons on Billy’s coat, unfastening just enough to get his hand inside and down between Billy’s legs, and he swallowed Billy’s sudden moan as Gus grasped warm denim and hard dick in his hand.

"Fuck," Billy whispered, a hiss between clenched teeth, sibilant tongue, and he stumbled back as Gus pushed forward, stumbled back up against the clapboard wall again. Gus kissed him again, pushing his tongue into Billy’s mouth, and everything was cold, everything was freezing except the inside of Billy’s mouth and the heat between his legs, where Gus’s hand worked feverishly, rubbing hard. Billy started to moan steadily, his hips jerking, and then he pushed Gus away and looked at him, irises large and dark, lips red and wet, and he wasn’t even breathing hard as he ran a hand over his own bristled cheeks and jerked his head towards the door. "Bunsy gone?"

Gus was breathing hard though, harsh and ragged, like he’d just run twenty kilometers, and his hands were shaking and he didn’t trust his voice, but he nodded and turned and walked to the door like he was in control, like everything was under control.

Until they were through the door and Billy touched him again, hands on his arms and chest pressing against his back, and Gus could feel Billy’s dick again, hard against his ass. He moaned, turning, and pulled Billy into his arms again. Billy’s mouth fastened on his, and they pulled at each other’s clothing, peeling off heavy coats and sweaters, shedding shirts and thermals and t-shirts, and Gus reached behind his neck to unbutton the collar and Billy stopped him, "no, no, no, leave it on," whispered in his ear. Gus shivered, and nodded, and wrapped his arms around Billy, resting his forehead against the ball of his shoulder, then used his tongue to follow the hard muscle down Billy’s arm to his tattoo, sinking his teeth in. Billy smiled and shivered in turn, but he didn’t stop undoing the buttons on Gus’s trousers, and when he was done he pushed the trousers down Gus’s legs.

And then Billy was taking charge again, shoving and pushing and pulling until he had Gus in front of the sofa, and then down on the sofa. Gus lay back in the muddle of blankets he’d left earlier, and watched as Billy stepped back and shucked his own trousers, torn black canvas that had seen better days. Gus could really see him now, all of him, pale skin over a jungle of hard muscle, flushed face and chest, aroused genitals jutting dark from a thatch of brown hair. Gus reached for him, open handed, reaching, reaching, and Billy came to him, smiling, always smiling. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Billy whispered, grinning, and then he was falling to his knees, spreading Gus’s thighs, and Gus’s dick was in his mouth. Billy was sucking and swallowing, one hand working Gus and the other his own dick, and Gus’s head fell back with a shout.

"Ah, god, Billy--"

"Missed you," Billy whispered, looking up at him through blue, blue eyes, and went back to working him with mouth and hand, and Gus twisted fingers in his hair, stiff with dried sweat and gel. He missed Billy, too--missed you, missed you, miss you--missed the noise and the music, which were sometimes one and the same, and the pissy attitude in the mornings and defiant glare he sometimes threw in Gus’s direction. The skittishness and the passion, the dirty laugh and the way he sometimes got, late at night, when his voice got soft and low, and he smiled up at Gus through his lashes, talking about everything and anything, almost as if he were telling the truth. “--I love him, loved him, like I’ve never loved anyone--”

And Gus laughed, his laugh high and breathless, giddy, tortured, and he spread his legs and pulled Billy’s head down, feeding him dick, feeling his cock slide against the roof of Billy’s mouth and into the back of his throat. Billy was swallowing, and Gus could feel his balls tighten up and his hips started to thrust frantically, to push in, in, in, and then Billy’s mouth was gone, the warm, wet suction was gone, and Gus groaned.

Billy sat back, his hair slipping away between Gus’s grasping fingers, and Gus gasped an apology as Billy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning. He climbed up into Gus’s lap, sliding sweat-drenched arms and legs around him, and Gus groaned again and pulled him in and down, grinding up against him, frantic with lust.

"Billy…"

"Shut up and fuck me," Billy groaned, and Gus could feel his dick sliding against his belly. "God damn it, just fuck me alrea--" and he groaned, Billy’s head fell back and he moaned as Gus penetrated him with two fingers. They ought to have lube, he really should be using lube, except that Gus couldn’t wait, couldn’t take the time to stop and find the tube, couldn’t wait one more minute to be inside him. Billy was panting, open-mouthed, and working himself on Gus’s fingers, and he moaned when Gus added a third.

"You okay?"

Billy shook his head, and then nodded, and then groaned. "Fuck, stop fucking around, Gus, and just--"

And Gus pulled his fingers out and reached down between their bellies to grab his dick and guide it in. Tight, god, it was tight, and then Billy moaned and pushed down, and something inside him relaxed and let Gus in. He looked down at Gus and Gus could see the heat in his eyes, the fire that always burned close to the surface, and Billy was grinning again, leaning down and kissing him, biting and licking. He started to ride Gus’s dick, lifting himself up and sinking back down again, slow, slow, and Gus tightened his grip on Billy’s hips, fingers digging into the flexing muscles as Billy laughed softly above him.

He let Billy set the rhythm--and it was like the first time, just like the first time--until he thought he’d lose his mind with the need to move--shitty little bar in Montréal, four o’clock in the morning--and he rolled them over, flipped Billy onto his back--blue, blue eyes, hot blue eyes--Billy’s ankles over his shoulders--they stayed in that hotel room for days, talking and fucking--and Gus returned the favor, riding him faster and faster--“Fuck me--“--until Billy was laughing--“--gotta get back to LA--”---smiling, smiling, goddamn him, that smile--“You live on a fucking island in the middle of nowhere, Gus--“-- and Gus was crazy with it now, blood and heat and need--“I’m sorry, Mr. Tallent isn’t available at the moment. May I take a message?”--and he couldn’t keep it going, couldn’t keep the rhythm--and he was sobbing, and Billy was moving under him, rocking up into every thrust and, god, he was dying, he was dying, he was coming…

Bless me Father, for I have sinned, sinned, sinned…

Silence. Except it was never really silent, there was always the sound of the sea. The blanket he had collapsed onto was wet underneath him. His hand was down the front of his pants, the back of his wrist raw, abraded where the teeth in his zipper had scraped back and forth against his hand. There was mud on his boots, drying now and caking off in clumps.

“Gus.”

He could still smell frying bacon.

"Gus."

And he turned his face away, and closed his eyes, felt the wetness on his cheeks. He imagined the bed dipping and the warmth of a body that wasn’t there, and he rolled into sweet arms that wrapped tight around him. Billy was talking, Billy was whispering, and Gus buried his face in the curve of his neck, and tried to focus. Billy was saying something about end of the tour, and down time, and sticking around for a few weeks, and Gus was so, so tired--it felt like he hadn’t slept in a long, long time--and he felt the ache in his throat and tried to talk around it, tried to say "that’s great, Billy, that’s great" but he couldn’t get the words from his heart to his mouth. And Billy was laughing--grinning, grinning--and kissing him, and the last thing Gus remembered was Billy telling him to go to sleep.

for ALL OF YOU: "Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School" (Twitch City) by brooklinegirl

Thu, 18 Aug 2005 00:30:13 GMT

Title: Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School
Author: brooklinegirl
Recipient: all of you midsummer_fic folk
Fandom: Twitch City

Many thanks for inspiration, beta, and several key lines from the wondrous ms. pearl_o Apologies to estrella30 for, uhm, Don McKellar's existence.

Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School
by brooklinegirl

The music in the store had been a good idea. The job had been a good idea. Hope wasn't stupid; she knew this was a dead-end job. It was, in fact, a job a trained monkey could do - a poorly trained monkey, even - but it felt good. It felt good and happy and like living. This dumb job in this dumb store felt like she was living her life, and she liked that.

"Turn it up," she called to Newbie, who was up front, leaning on the counter in his yellow and black checked shirt, reading the latest gossip rag. She stood up on her toes so she could see him over the boxes of dishwasher detergent on the shelf in front of her. "Turn it up!" she said louder. He reached up and back, nudging the volume up louder without ever taking his eyes off of the magazine.

"We'll dance in the garden, in torn sheets in the rain," Hope sang out loud as she finished pricing the sponges and stacking them neatly on the shelf. She twirled the price gun around with a flourish, and picked up the empty cardboard boxes. She headed up front, doing a little shimmy to the music on the way.

"Wild girls and boys going out for a big time," she sang, dropping the boxes in front of the counter and leaning forward over it, nudging Newbie out of the way so she could snag the box cutter from the drawer. He moved aside, and she noticed his lips were moving as he read.

She grinned to herself and set to work cutting the boxes down flat.

"Hey!" said Newbie all of a sudden, startling her. "Did you know that Malcolm-Jamal Warner was named after Malcolm X and legendary jazz pianist Ahmad Jamal?" he asked her intently in his rapid-fire tone.

Hope blinked. "No. I did not know that."

"Yeah, me neither," said Newbie, tossing the magazine aside and grabbing a couple of boxes of canned cat food from the pile of product they had been slowly shelving all night long. Tuesdays were Hope's late night at the store - they stayed after work for two hours, ostensibly straightening, shelving, and cleaning, but more likely gossiping and chatting and haphazardly putting products away.

Newbie hefted one box to his shoulder, awkwardly picking up the other one under his arm, and headed down the aisle. Hope finished cutting down her boxes, and tossed the box cutter aside. Hopping up on the counter, she and swung her legs to the music. She watched his high-spiked, brilliantly-blond hair as he bobbed down the aisle.

"That reminds me," Newbie called out. "Don't let me forget to give you the tape to give to Curtis."

"What, of the Cosby show?" Hope called back doubtfully. She jumped off the counter and trailed him down the aisle.

"No, of Klanfrontation." Newbie was bobbing and weaving, a can of cat food in each hand, boxing with the boxes of dry cat food, apparently.

"Klanfrontation," Hope said hesitantly.

"Yeah, you know, the long robes, pointy hats, marshmallow roasts." Newbie paused. "Something like that. It's the-"

"Rex Reilly Show," Hope finished with him. Of course it was. What was she thinking? "Okay. Remember the tape," she said dutifully. "Only, wow, Curtis is actually missing an episode?"

Newbie looked at her and scratched the back of his head. "He said you taped over it."

Hope stared at him, outraged. "I don't tape anything! I don't watch anything, because Curtis always has the remote."

Newbie shrugged and ducked his head, pricing more cans and tossing them on the shelf. "That's what he said, is all."

"Yeah, well." Hope angrily straightened the cans. "He's lying."

Newbie stopped and leaned against the shelf, looking at her curiously. "Does it matter?"

"I just mean - Curtis doesn't - I -" Hope blew out her breath, and stared at Newbie. "You know what?" she said.

"No," he said, grinning. "What?"

"It really doesn't." She grinned back.

"Except to Curtis."

"Except to Curtis," she agreed.

"So don’t let me forget the tape." Newbie ripped open the second box. "Oh, hey!" He looked up, a delighted smile spreading across his face. "This is my favorite song! The Ramones!"

He twirled in the aisle, tossing a can of cat food from hand to hand, and Hope looked on, giggling. He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, twirling her in against him, then out. She banged against the shelves, but was laughing too hard to care. Newbie was grinning widely, his arms flailing as he danced, looking like a totally adorable dork. He pulled her close again, and stepped on her foot, and spun them both around, like they were ballroom dancing to the Ramones.

She tripped over his feet, and he grabbed her to keep her from falling, and the two of them stumbled against the shelves, sending several cans of cat food rolling down the aisle. Hope laughed breathlessly up into Newbie's face, and he sang, "She's a punk, punk, a punk rocker," and leaned in and kissed her.

Hope froze, startled, the shelf digging into her back. He was - Newbie was - they were kissing, and that wasn't - she shouldn't -

Newbie pulled back a little and his eyes were wide and amused and a little concerned. "Is this okay?" he asked. "I could -" He pulled back a little more, then leaned back in, one eyebrow going up. "Do you want -"

"I - yeah," she said, putting on hand on the back of his head and pulling him forward again. "Yeah," she said, kissing him, and he made a happy, enthusiastic noise, and pushed his tongue into her mouth. He tasted like pink bubble gum and he kissed with his whole body, pressing against her, one arm sliding awkwardly around her, while his other hand slid down to her ass, no hesitation.

Hope moaned against his lips a little - because my god, how hot was this, just - it was the enthusiasm he put into this, he wanted this, wanted her, and they were friends, sure, but being wanted like this was good, it was great, it was - different. Really very different, having the entirety of someone's attention, and she thought she maybe needed to take advantage of that.

"God," she murmured against Newbie's lips.

"Yeah," he breathed. She pushed forward against him, turning him around so she was the one who had him pressed back against the shelves.

"Yeah," he said again, looking at her, wide-eyed and pleased, "Yeah, okay," and then he was kissing her again, missing her lips the first time, but that was okay, because he kissed his way to her neck, sucked there sloppily for a second - God, that made her toes curl - before working his way to her mouth again, muttering, "Sorry" against her lips before slipping his tongue into her mouth again.

She thought it was a good thing he had his arm wrapped around her tight, because he was kissing her so hotly, she couldn't feel her knees.

She pressed against him, kissing him back the best she knew how, one hand wrapped in his truly tragically-patterned shirt, the other on his hip, hanging on. His hands were in constant motion, stroking her ass, her back, her hair. She was dizzy with it, and barely realized when he slid his hand to the front of her shirt, undoing the buttons clumsily. "Yeah," she moaned, as he slipped his hand inside and stroked her breast, "God, I - yeah."

He was rocking forward against her, and she could feel him, hard against her hip, and realized with a start that she was wet, really wet, more turned-on than she'd been in ages. This was - he was - god, Newbie -

He ducked his head, and pushed her shirt aside with one hand, nudging the cup of her bra down and running his tongue over her nipple. And that was good, great, it was -

"Oh god," she said, opening her eyes, and staring up at the fluorescent lights. "Curtis."

"Newbie," said Newbie, not even looking up from her breast before taking her nipple in his mouth again.

"No," she said, pushing him away. He stopped, giving her nipple one last disappointed lick.

"I can't do this to Curtis," she explained, tugging her shirt closed. "I just - it isn't fair to him, he trusts me."

"Okay," Newbie sighed, nodding and adjusting himself in his pants. "You sure?"

She noticed she still had one hand clutching at his shirt. "Um, yes," she said, letting go abruptly and patting the wrinkled fabric back into place. "I'm sure."

He shrugged, and sighed. "Okay. I get that." He grinned at her. "That was fun though, huh?"

She grinned back helplessly. "Yeah," she said, grabbing the empty box from the floor and heading up to the front of the store. "Yeah, it was."

She glanced back once as she headed up the aisle, and he was leaning back against the shelves, tossing a can of cat food in one hand and still grinning at her.

*~*~*~*~*

Okay, Hope thought as she tugged her coat closer around her on her walk home. Okay. She could do this. No problem. It was just a kiss. Or - okay. Some kisses. A few kisses. Not a big deal. No deal at all, really! This was Newbie, after all. Newbie! They'd be fine. Newbie was cool. Newbie was -

Newbie was Curtis's friend. Curtis's only friend, really. And Hope had just made out with him in the cat food aisle.

Hope sighed, and stood outside their apartment building, the plastic bag with Curtis's Frooty-O's in it dangling from her hand. She gazed up at the dim windows of their apartment, and thought about Curtis sitting there, innocently watching his show, and not even knowing that his girlfriend had just randomly - though, Hope thought to herself, sniffling, not maliciously - made out with his only friend.

She was an awful person, Hope thought, as she trudged up the stairs. And she'd even forgotten to get the Klanfrontation tape from Newbie.

She sucked.

*~*~*~*~*

Curtis was on the couch when she walked in, and she waved nervously to him from the door to the living room and scurried to the bathroom. She pushed her coat off and hung it on the doorknob, and was brushing her teeth in front of the mirror when she heard Curtis yelling her name.

She brushed harder and ignored him.

"Hope."

She turned on the water full blast and kept brushing.

"HOPE," Curtis bellowed.

She sighed, and spat, and trudged to the living room, wiping her mouth on a hand towel. "Yeah?" she said, peering at him through the door.

"My tape?" Curtis asked, not looking away from the TV.

"Oh." Hope drifted into the room, and sat down on the chair, twisting the towel nervously in her hands. "I was just - Newbie and I were - he told me to remind him but - " She took a breath. "I forgot."

"Oh," said Curtis, glancing at her. "Tomorrow, then?" he asked, shifting back to sprawl out more on the couch.

"Yeah, I'll - yeah," she said. "I'll bring it home tomorrow."

"Okay," Curtis said agreeably. "Did you bring the Frooty-O's?"

"Yeah," she said, sighing and getting up. "They're in the kitchen."

"Get me some?" he called as she headed down the hall.

"Sure," she called back miserably. It was the least she could do.

*~*~*~*~*

It took her three days to drive herself crazy enough that she had to tell Curtis. Work had been normal enough - Newbie was so caught up in his own little world that she didn't even have a chance to feel uncomfortable before he was telling her some long and involved story about garden gnomes that she didn’t completely understand, but was grateful for regardless, since by the time he was done, they were into the routine of work, and the We Can't Make Out In the Cat Food Aisle Anymore conversation never even had to happen.

But at home, she was making herself nuts, and finally, she sidled into the living room close to midnight one night. Curtis was enthralled with his third watching of Klanfrontation, and didn't even seem to notice when Hope sat down beside him, her legs pulled up, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She politely waited until the closing credits started to run before saying, "Curtis?"

"Shh," he said, holding up one hand. "Barney Shuster, Alvin Crain, Sylvia Zimmerman," he muttered to himself as the names zoomed by up the screen. She waited, chewing on her thumbnail and staring at the side of his face. Finally, it finished, and he nodded, and smiled, and pressed Stop.

"Curtis," she said again.

"Yes, what?" he said, half turning toward her, keeping his eye on the blank TV.

"I just have to -" She stopped, breathed. "Curtis," she tried again, going for a firm, yet gentle, tone. "I have to tell you something."

"Mm-hmm," he said, fondling the remote, his fingers obviously itching to start flipping through channels.

"Curtis," she said once more.

"What," he said, finally focusing on her. "I'm right here, I'm listening. What, Hope?"

She closed her eyes tightly. "I - I sort of kissed Newbie in the cat food aisle," she said all in a rush.

"You sort of kissed who?" Curtis asked vaguely. She opened her eyes. He was still looking at her, and not the TV, which was good. Or - maybe it was bad.

"Newbie," she said again, cringing.

"You mean Craig."

"Um. Yes. Right." Hope leaned forward and grabbed both of Curtis's hands. He looked down at where she was touching him like he didn't even know her. "Listen to me, Curtis, it wasn't on purpose, I didn't mean to, it just happened."

"It just happened," Curtis repeated, looking right at her now.

She nodded several times. "It did. I didn't - and he didn't - we didn't mean to - It was a mistake." She took a breath, and put her hand on Curtis's face. "It was a mistake, Curtis," she said softly, desperately. "I love you. I didn’t - I'm so sorry."

"A mistake," he repeated, still just looking at her.

"Yes," she said. "I’m sorry."

"Oh." He stared at her, and she gnawed on her lower lip nervously. "Well." He tilted his head a little. "Now I get a free one, right?"

She blinked. "What?"

He gestured at her with his hands. "You know, you cheat, I cheat."

Hope stared at him. "Curtis, what? No! It was a mistake."

"Right!" he said, still looking at her persuasively. "And now I get a free mistake."

Hope stared at him, horrified. This was not going anywhere near the way she had planned. She was going to throw herself on his mercy, admit she was wrong, beg his forgiveness, and offer him sex and Frooty-O's until he couldn’t refuse. This was - not going the way she thought it would. This was crazy. This was -

"Do you have one?" she asked doubtfully. "A mistake, that you want to tell me about?" Had he cheated on her? Was that what this was, that now he could tell her, and not have to feel guilty? But with who? Who did he even see? Not that Meals on Wheels Lady. No. Right?

"No," he said, sounding completely reasonable. "But now I can make one. If the opportunity presents itself. Right?" He reached forward to snag the box of cereal from the table, and shoved a handful in his mouth, looking at her. "It's only fair."

She stared at him, confused, all turned around, just - "I - guess?" she said.

"Right!" he said. He flipped the VCR back on, and settled back on the couch. "There you go. Even steven."

"Even…steven," she said slowly, sinking back and staring at him as he slouched there on the couch. Sure. Right. An eye for an eye and all that. She couldn't exactly argue, right? And besides - she took a deep breath, and relaxed a little bit. This was all hypothetical. Curtis didn't leave the house. Who would he kiss? She smiled a little to herself, settling back further on the couch, and slipping her feet under his leg. He patted her knee vaguely as he flipped through the stations. Who else would want him besides her?

There was something very comforting about that thought.

*~*~*~*~*

Two weeks later, Hope was coming home from the laundromat with a huge bag of clothes slung over her shoulder. She shoved the door open with her head and staggered right into Newbie. He reeled back, hitting the wall and almost going down.

"Oops!" said Hope. "Newbie, I'm sorry, I - "

"That's okay," Newbie said, hopping a little as he finished - doing up his pants? "No problem." He had his coat shoved under one arm, and it fell to the floor as he tried to shrug into his work shirt.

Hope dropped the bag of laundry on the floor with a thud. "I - Newbie, what are you - where's Curtis?"

Newbie gestured with his chin towards the living room. "Watching TV, what do you think?" he asked with a grin. He scooped up his coat from the floor, and headed out the door, careening off the jamb and stumbling down two stairs before he caught himself. "You're in at six tonight, right?" he asked.

"Yes," Hope said vaguely, staring at him.

"All right." He flashed her a smile. "See you then." He waved as he headed down the stairs, and Hope just stood there, staring after him for several moments. Finally she kicked the laundry bag out of the way, shoved the door closed, and went to the living room.

"Curtis," she said from the doorway. "Curtis, what was Newbie doing here?"

Curtis looked up at her for a second before returning his attention to the television. "Nothing. He was just - here."

Hope stood in front of the TV. "Curtis. This is important." He didn't look like he'd been doing - well, whatever it was he might have been doing. He wasn't any more disheveled than usual - though that was hard to tell - and his shirt was buttoned wrong, but then, it often was. She blew out her breath and said again, "Curtis."

He was leaning sideways, sprawled over the arm of the couch, craning to see the TV around her body. "What?" he said crossly.

Hope snatched the remote out of his hand and shut off the TV. He looked at her, aghast, and tried to grab the remote of out her hand as she slapped him away before finally settling back on the couch with his arms crossed petulantly across his chest. "Fine," he said, then reached forward and snagged his bowl of cereal from the coffee table.

Hope put one hand to her face where a headache was starting right behind her eye. "Were you and Newbie just -?"

Curtis stared at the blank TV and said, around a mouthful of cereal, "What?"

"Were you and he - you know?" He stared at her blankly. "Was that - your 'mistake''?

"Oh," he said, eating some more cereal. "Yeah, we were - " He made a vague gesture with the spoon.

"You and - I just - oh." Hope sat down, overcome with confusion. "Just - listen to me, okay, Curtis?" she said calmly. Very, very calmly. "Will you just please tell me, exactly, what you were just doing with Newbie?"

He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. "What, you want it in detail? I didn't know you were so kinky, Hope."

"That's not - no! I just -" She could feel herself blushing, it felt like her face was on fire, and now, great, she was picturing it, the two of them together here on the couch, and what they might have just been doing, apparently right before she came in, and - She put her face in her hands.

She felt Curtis's hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Hope," he said. "A lot of girls find the idea of two men together very attractive. There's nothing to be ashamed about."

"Curtis!" She smacked his hand away, and then got up and smacked him in the head. "Kissing and - and - whatever you two were doing are two different things entirely," she yelled over her shoulder as she stormed away.

"Oh," he called after her. "Well, how was I to know that?"

Hope moaned and slammed the door to her room. Curtis made everything in the world impossible.

*~*~*~*~*

Much later than night, Curtis must have crawled into bed with her, because she woke up to him curled around her in the tiny bed. He was asleep, and she pushed herself up on her elbow and brushed the hair out of her eyes, and looked at him in the dim light. Maybe she had overreacted. Maybe he was just yanking her chain. He and Newbie couldn't have… Really, they obviously both liked girls, in general - they obviously both liked her, in particular - and that was just -

Ridiculous, was what it was. Just something Curtis was saying to get her all worked up. Definitely.

She lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin, then lay there staring at the ceiling. Only. Curtis wasn't one to let an opportunity pass, ever. He was the textbook definition of opportunist. And she'd given him free reign, really. And Newbie - well, Newbie didn't owe anyone anything. He was a free man. If he chose to do - well, whatever, then he could, and it would be nothing but really great for him. Why the hell would he say no?

And it wasn't like he and Curtis didn't have a lot in common. Curtis - up till the TV contest, at least - had really gotten along with Newbie. More than any other person she'd ever see Curtis interact with. So maybe, given the opportunity -

She sat up again and stared down at Curtis. "Curtis," she hissed, nudging his shoulder. "Wake up."

"Wha - ?" he said, pulling the corner of the pillow down over his face.

"Wake up." She poked him in the side of the head until his eyes opened and he was hazily focusing on her.

"What? Hope?" he said vaguely. "Sex? Okay," and he rolled on top of her.

"No, Curtis, just - oh." He was sleepily nuzzling at her neck, and his hand was stroking her thigh. It was - wow, the one thing about Curtis's total lack of a schedule is that he was ready for sex at pretty much any time. And regardless of any other failings, he was good at it.

"Wait a second," she said breathlessly at the ceiling.

"Hmmph?" Curtis was already working his way down her body, and his breath was hot against her stomach as he pushed her shirt up.

"No, just - " What, again? Oh, it was - "You and Newbie - you didn’t really - ?" She lifted up the covers and peered down at him.

He looked up from between her thighs. "Oh, uh, yeah, we did. Wow, you're really interested in this." He propped himself up on his elbow, canting to one side. "Did you want to try a threesome?"

"What! No! I just - I didn't - "

"Okay, well, you think about it, all right?" he said agreeably, and headed back down between her legs.

Which wasn't something she was about to argue with. Because he was good at that, too. And if she liked it, then surely Newbie would like what Curtis did with his mouth, and -

No. No. She blushed desperately up at the ceiling and told herself firmly that she was not thinking about it - not even a little bit, not even at all - as she arched herself up against Curtis's tongue.

Still. Should the opportunity arise -

"Oh god," she muttered to herself, and closed her eyes.

~end~

for akite: "Venn Diagram" (Wilby Wonderful/Double Happiness/HCL/Mutant X) by lilac_one

Thu, 18 Aug 2005 00:26:22 GMT

Title: Venn Diagram
Author: lilac_one
Recipient: akite
Fandoms: Wilby Wonderful/Double Happiness/Hard Core Logo/Mutant X
Pairings: Duck/Dan, Mark/Jade, Billy/Joe
Rating: NC-17

Many thanks to the incomparable brooklinegirl, without whom there would be no story, and if there was a story, there would be rampant comma and period confusion, and really badly written, clichéd sex. Also, too much exposition.

Venn Diagram

~*~

Ding, ding.

Dan looked up from his desk as Sandra backed into the store, a coffee caddy in one hand and a grease-stained paper bag in the other. He realized that she was bringing him breakfast, which was really very kind of her. He and Duck had been running late that morning, and hadn't had time to stop in at Iggy's for breakfast like they usually did.

Dan felt his face warm at the reminder of why they'd been delayed. His mind flashed on slick, wet skin under his hands, hard porcelain under his knees, warm water sluicing down his back, and Duck in his mouth.

Dan rinsed the last of the shampoo out of his hair and let the water beat down on his shoulders as he tried to wake up. He could hear Duck brushing his teeth at the sink.

"Turning on the water now," Duck called, giving Dan time to step out of the spray to avoid the sudden scalding temperature.

A few seconds later, Duck peeked around the shower curtain inches from Dan. He was naked, waiting for the shower, and had a speck of foam in the corner of his mouth. "Done now."

Dan wanted to lick off the spot of toothpaste. A moment later it dawned on him that there really wasn't a reason not to, so he did.

"Mmm."

Duck licked him back. It was a bit awkward, the tub giving Dan just enough height advantage to make kissing Duck uncomfortable, so Dan opened the shower curtain and tugged at Duck. He backed up until the cool tiles of the wall were at his back, Duck plastered down his front. They kissed lazily, tongues tangling and tasting.

Duck pulled back and reached for the soap. "We're going to be late," he said, more a statement of fact than protest.

"So we'll skip breakfast," Dan replied, taking the soap from Duck and making lather. He nudged Duck until he was the one leaning against the wall and began to wash Duck's chest, caressing the muscles there before moving down to his stomach. When he had mapped every inch with his fingertips, he lifted Duck's right arm and pressed it to the wall, clasping Duck's hand in his. He spared a glance at Duck's face. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, with a soft smile on his lips.

Dan ran the soap down Duck's arm with his other hand. When he reached Duck's armpit, he nuzzled it, licking and nipping just the way Duck liked. Duck moaned and started to come off the wall, but Dan gently leaned on him, holding him in place. He could feel Duck's growing erection pressing into his leg.

Dan trailed his tongue from Duck's armpit across his shoulder. He stopped just below the tan line on Duck's neck and sucked hard. Above him, Duck gasped, his hips jerking up once. Dan didn't stop until he'd left his mark on Duck's skin. He licked the purple bruise to soothe it, then found Duck's mouth in a deep, lewd kiss. Duck thrust again him again, and Dan was suddenly aware of his own erection. He adjusted so they were lined up and let Duck move against him, momentarily reveling in the sensation. When he felt Duck's free hand grip his shoulder, Dan broke the kiss.

Still clutching the soap, Dan prodded Duck's left arm so he lifted it against the wall, too. Dan washed it slowly, marveling at the definition there, so much sexier from being earned in hard work in life, not at a gym. He traced the line of Duck's bicep, sucked at the crease of his elbow.

Duck bucked again, eliciting a groan from Dan. He dropped the soap, tangled his other hand with Duck's, and returned to Duck's mouth. Dan loved kissing Duck this way, bodies pressed tight from arms to chest to groin, cocks languidly rubbing together, but this morning he wanted to taste more.

He released Duck's hands and slid to his knees. He sampled the line of leg into hip, Duck's cock rubbing against his cheek. He pulled back and looked up at Duck. Duck was watching him, his breath coming in shallow pants. Without breaking eye contact, Dan braced one hand on Duck's hip, wrapped the other hand around the base of Duck's cock and slowly swallowed him down. Duck closed his eyes then and seemed to lose himself in the sensation of Dan's mouth even as his hands barely gripped Dan's hair. Dan loved bringing him to this place, loved that he knew just the rhythm to set, just how to touch him to bring him the most pleasure.

Dan let go of Duck's hip and moved his hand to Duck's ass. He paused to appreciate how the muscles moved, so strong under his hand. He could feel Duck's breathing change, knew he was close. He squeezed Duck's ass, let his other hand drop to stroke Duck's balls. With a shudder and a softly moaned, "Oh, Dan," Duck came.

After Dan swallowed away the last spurt, Duck grabbed Dan under his arms and hauled him to his feet for another nasty kiss. Reaching between them, Duck ran a finger down Dan's cock. Dan groaned when Duck's hand left him to settle on his shoulder, turn him around, and pull him close. Dan braced his feet apart, dropping his head back to rest on Duck's shoulder, and let Duck take over.

Duck licked his ear and traced Dan's nipples, pinching first one, then the other, until Dan's moans echoed off the tiled walls. Duck ran a hand down Dan's chest, over his stomach, and down to his cock. Duck began to stroke him, still playing with his nipple. Dan thrust, groaning, into the tight circle of his hand. Duck nipped Dan's ear and murmured, "I love you. You're so beautiful. Love you," a warm litany that pushed Dan over the edge.

When Dan recovered sufficiently to stand without support, Duck gave him one last kiss and let him go. He bent over to retrieve the soap.

"I want to fuck you in the shower tonight," Dan blurted out.

Duck laughed. "You like the view, eh, cowboy?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Then it's a date."

Now, Dan smiled to himself, and went to greet Sandra. He held open the door so she could turn around, and relieved her of the coffee caddy.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, letting the door close behind her.

"It is," Dan smiled. "Thanks for bringing breakfast. It really wasn't necessary." It had surprised Dan how easily he'd adapted to chatting with Sandra in the mornings. In the past, he had held himself apart in so many ways. He was far more relaxed and happy now than he could remember being since he realized in gym in grade four that he wasn't like the other boys because he liked the other boys.

"It was actually just a good excuse. I figured you didn't have time to stop in today and since school starts next week, I thought I'd take advantage of my last week of freedom with Emily around to cover at the restaurant," Sandra said.

Dan tried not to blush. "We were just, um, running late."

Sandra stared at him speculatively and then her face broke into a knowing grin. "Running late, huh? Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Before he could respond the bells rang again and Duck poked his head in. "Are the rumors of coffee and egg sandwiches true?"

Sandra waved the bag. "They are. Come on in."

Duck smiled. "Thanks. This is a nice surprise. We ran out of time to eat this morning."

"So Dan said." Sandra raised her eyebrows. "Some things are more fun than breakfast."

"You know it," Duck grinned, then turned to Dan. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Dan answered. If they had been alone, he would have been able to kiss Duck hello. It had been almost two years since Dan moved from the guest room to the master bedroom of Duck's house, but he still got a thrill from knowing he was allowed to kiss Duck, that Duck wanted to kiss him back. Duck shot him a look then, his eyes crinkling the tiniest bit, and Dan knew Duck was thinking about kissing him, too.

Instead, Duck took the bag from Sandra. "So how's Emily?"

"Great. I can't believe she's going off to university. I'm not old enough to have kid in university." Sandra pulled a face.

Duck smiled. "You'll both be fine."

Sandra shrugged. "I know. She's going to love it, and Iggy's will keep me too busy to miss her. Much."

Dan had seen a fairly new, fairly expensive car parked in front of Sandra's apartment quite a few times lately. He hoped whoever the guy was, he'd do right by Sandra. For all her brash exterior, Dan had seen the way she watched Duck and him when they came into Iggy's in the mornings, the same way she was watching them now. He hoped she'd find someone as good for her as Duck was for him. Still, it was nice to know that there was someone else out there who recognized that he and Duck were right together.

"Well, we'll certainly continue to do our part. Especially with service like this. How much do we owe you?" Duck replied, reaching for his wallet.

Sandra waved him off. "Don't worry about it now. You can take care of it tomorrow. And now I'd really better run."

"Thanks again. We really appreciate it," Duck said.

"Yeah, thanks," said Dan.

"See you tomorrow," said Sandra as she walked out the door.

"Come on back," Dan said to Duck, leading the way to his office. He set the coffee caddy on the corner of his desk, and closed his ledger and checkbook, moving them and the small stack of bills to one of the desk drawers. "Our table is ready."

Duck set the bag down on the desk. "C'mere."

Dan walked into Duck's arms, kissing him on the mouth once, twice. The third one lasted just long enough for a quick touch of tongues.

Before it could go anywhere, the bell on the door rang. Dan hastily stepped away from Duck and looked out to see an attractive Asian woman enter, followed by a man with floppy blond hair and dark plastic-framed glasses.

Dan took a moment to meet Duck's eyes.
"Love you," Duck whispered.

"Love you, too."

Then Dan went to meet his customers. "Hi. Can I help you?"

~*~

Mark and Jade walked hand in hand, trailing behind Pearl and the kids. June picked something up from a pool of water among the rocks and chased Nathan with it. Suddenly, Nathan turned around, pushed his glasses back up, and roared something that sent June fleeing back toward Pearl as their gales of laughter carried back to their parents. Eight years old and already turning gawky. He was flapping his arms now, and Jade couldn't help but laugh.

"You have a mini-Me, Mark," Jade said, bumping him with her shoulder.

"Poor boy," Mark sighed. "I can only hope he's as lucky as I am."

"Sap."

"I prefer obnoxiously sweet, thank you."

Jade grinned. "It was sweetly obnoxious."

They stopped and watched the waves hit the rocks. "It's really beautiful here," said Jade, trying to absorb the wild beauty, store it up for the weeks ahead when she'd be on a soundstage for eighteen hours a day.

"It is. Someone in the diner mentioned The Watch is the only undeveloped bit of coastline left on the island."

"I'm not ready to go back," Jade sighed, leaning into Mark.

He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. "I know. I'm not either. I got so much more writing done here than I expected."

She twisted around to look at up at him. "Does that mean that when you come to visit me in Toronto you won't have to hide away the whole time while the kids and I have all the fun?"

"Hopefully. This time I really do want a set tour. It's going to be something else," Mark said.

"I think I can arrange it." She paused, then continued teasingly, already knowing the answer, "Are you sure you don't just want to give up your job? I think I can support you in the style to which you've become accustomed."

Mark laughed. "Yes, but it's so amusing to hear all the undergrads whispering incredulously about how a spaz like me could land a babe like Jade Li." Mark cleared his throat. "Actually, I was thinking. I, um, talked to the department about maybe taking a sabbatical spring semester to finish my book. And it looks like they're going to let me. If you want, uh, we could probably come with when shooting moves to Scotland."

Jade turned around in his arms, feeling like her smile might actually split her face. "Nothing would make me happier."

She stood on tiptoes, his mouth readily opening to hers, only to be interrupted by a high pitched, "Eeww. Stop it, Mom and Dad. That's gross."

Jade felt Mark's laughter on her lips as they broke the kiss. "June, that's no way to talk to your parents."

But June wasn't listening to Jade, she was listening to Pearl, who was having a hasty huddle with June and Nathan.

Jade and Mark exchanged a glance. "Uh-oh," Jade said.

The three turned and started to chant, "Mom and Dad, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

Jade charged after them, Mark next to her. She caught up with Pearl and grabbed her into a hug from behind. Mark had tackled the children and the three of them were wrestling in the grass.

"Nice job, sis. You're corrupting my kids," Jade said, releasing Pearl with a squeeze.

Pearl laughed. "That is my job. Besides, I'll totally make it up to you."

"How?"

I'll take them to that Iggy's place for brunch so you and Mark can have some time alone together. Pick up where you left off back there." Pearl grinned. "I've been wanting another niece or nephew…"

"Ha ha. I'm not promising you that, but we'll definitely take you up on your offer." Jade stepped over Nathan and picked June up off of Mark, setting her on her feet. "Okay, guys, this round is over. Time to get something to eat."

They tramped back to the car and piled in. Shortly thereafter, Mark and Jade left Pearl and the kids at Iggy's and set off on foot for the video store to pick up a movie for that night. "What are you in the mood for?" Jade asked. "Nothing I'm in," she qualified quickly.

"How about we wander around and see if anything catches our eye?" Mark suggested.

"Sure."

When they arrived at their destination, Mark held the door for her. She couldn't stop herself from brushing a kiss across his cheek as she walked past him into the store.

A moment after they walked in, a man appeared from the back. "Hi. Can I help you?"

"We're just browsing, thanks," Jade said.

He said, "Okay then. I'm just gonna, um, go on back. Give a call when you're ready to check out."

"Thanks," said Mark. Jade went to peruse the Comedy section; she was fairly certain Mark would go for the Classics. The store was quiet, except for the murmur of voices from the back room. Jade eyed the small collection but nothing caught her fancy.

"Hey, look at this!"

Jade went to Mark, who handed her a black video case with white writing and a red anarchy sign. "It's a documentary about Hard Core Logo! That was some show!"

Jade instantly flashed back to the small club in Vancouver. It was about a month after she'd moved out on her own. Robert knew a band and Lisa promised it would be a wild time. The four of them had been able to stake out space near the stage. It had been one hell of a performance, one of the most intense musical experiences Jade had ever had. The music was a perfect anthem to the upheaval in Jade's life. After, Robert took them back to meet the band. When they got back to Jade's place that night, they couldn't even make it to the bed; she'd blown Mark up against the wall by the front door.

She'd listened to their tape until it had broken.

Jade grinned. "Guess this is it. I haven't thought about their music in so long." They looked at each other and sang in unison, "Rock and roll is fat and ugly, rock and roll is fat and ugly," and cracked up.

The video store man and another man came out of the back. "See you later, Dan," said the second man. He nodded at Jade and Mark and left.

"We're ready now," said Jade, and handed the man the video.

~*~

Vancouver, 1994

Joe came off stage, dripping sweat and flying. He pulled Pipe into a headlock and rubbed his head roughly, released him to punch John on the shoulder, and then settled in step with Billy, one arm draped loosely around Billy's neck. He leaned toward Billy and shook his head, sending beads of sweat into Billy's face.

"Fucker," Billy laughed, twisting away and pressing his smelly armpit into Joe's face.

"Fuck you," Joe said, at the same time trying to get a good whiff and push Billy away without him knowing. Getting off on how someone smelled was for pussies.

Billy knew him too well, though. He darted around Joe and jumped on his back, wrapping his arms around Joe's neck so he couldn't smell anything but Billy. "You know you love me," Billy smirked.

"Lucky me," Joe grumbled. He wrapped his arms around Billy's legs to keep him from falling, then galloped off to the dressing room.

"We are here. The party can start," Joe announced as they burst into the room. He dropped Billy and went to check out the food. Playing always made him hungry. And horny. But food was right here, and sex was going to take some effort. He filled a plate, got a beer and settled onto the couch next to a cute Asian girl. Billy was over in a dim corner talking to a tall, leggy blonde wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass. It was a nice ass.

"That was so hot!" the girl on the couch sort of squealed.

"Yep," said Joe. She was pretty cute, small rack, but it looked squeezable.

"You guys were totally on." Joe looked up and saw that guy Robert handing a beer to squealy girl. "Joe, this is my girl, Lisa. Lisa, Joe."

Joe gulped down half his bottle of beer. "Hey, Rob, Lisa. Lisa, you got any cute friends who might want to suck my dick?"

She made a face and got up. "You should be so lucky."

Joe finished his food in peace and then looked around. Billy was still talking to the same girl. Now she was leaning toward him, no doubt giving him a great view of her big, fake tits. He'd bet money she wasn't wearing a bra under the tight little shirt of hers.

It was too shadowy in the corner for Joe to be able to keep track of what was going on there, so he sauntered over and leaned against the wall behind her. She was telling Billy some stupid story. Billy looked over her shoulder at Joe. Joe could tell he wasn't listening to her at all. He licked his lips; Billy licked his and leaned down to whisper something to the chick. She laughed softly and ran her hand over Billy's crotch. Billy was laughing. At Joe.

Joe pushed off the wall and stood directly behind the whorey little girl. He put his hands on her hips and said, "Hey, babe. You wanna play with the big boys?"

She looked over her shoulder at him, and he could feel her relax when she realized who it was. "I like to play," she answered.

Joe slid his hand down her hip, then up under her skirt. She wasn't wearing anything under it. She was already wet; two of his fingers slid right in. She leaned into him, spreading her legs a little wider.

"Ooh, kind of slutty. That's perfect for you, Billiam. Join me," Joe said tauntingly.

Billy slid his first finger into her, twining his others with Joe's so they were holding hands while they finger-fucked her. Joe watched Billy get hard in his jeans. Sick fuck.

It only took a minute until she gasped and pulsed around their fingers.

Joe pulled their hands out, but kept a hold of Billy's hand. "It's been real, babe." Then he tugged Billy out of the room, down the hall, and out the back door into the alley behind the club.

Joe pushed Billy against the wall and pressed their bodies together, then sucked Billy's first finger into his mouth.

"You're a class act, Joe," Billy said.

Joe slowly pulled Billy's hand from his mouth. Billy was trying to play it cool, but Joe heard how his breath hitched. "You know it," Joe said. He wrapped his fingers in Billy's sweaty hair, the way he'd been thinking about doing since halfway through the show, and pulled their mouths together. Billy fought him for dominance, tongues jabbing, teeth nipping. When he needed air, he held Billy's head in place with his hand still in his hair, and moved to Billy's neck, sucking until he left a purple bruise just below the neck of Billy's t-shirt. He moved back up to force his tongue in Billy's mouth again and slid his free hand under Billy's shirt to pinch and roll his nipple. Billy, that fucker, kept his hands loose at his sides.

When they finally separated to catch their breath, Billy said mockingly. "That the best you can do?"

"Lucky for you, no," Joe answered, roughly unbuttoning Billy's jeans and pulling them just far enough down his ass for his dick to be free. Joe jerked him twice, then sank to his knees and swallowed him. Joe knew he gave great head. He could deep-throat like a pro. He slipped a finger in his mouth, too. When it was good and slick, he pulled it out and reached between Billy's legs to push at his hole.

Above him, Billy moaned, canted his hips forward, and then pushed back onto Joe's finger. Joe held onto Billy's hip with his free hand and let Billy do the work, rocking forward into his mouth, backward onto first one finger, then two. When Billy's panting turned harsh and Joe could feel his stomach muscles start to tremble, Joe shoved in a third finger. He was rewarded with Billy exploding in his mouth. He swallowed the first two spurts, then held the rest in his mouth until he was sure Billy was done.

He stood up, undid his pants, and freed his dick. He turned Billy around with one hand, spit the come from his mouth into the other and used it to lube himself up. "You ready?" he whispered.

Billy braced his arms against the wall. "Do it, fucker."

Joe lined himself up and pushed forward. At first there was resistance, but then Billy shifted back and muttered, "I said, do it."

Joe shoved in until his balls were touching Billy's ass. He grabbed Billy's hips and pulled out slowly, and immediately moved back in equally as slow. "Come on, you pussy," Billy hissed.

Joe laughed. "Well, if you insist." Joe bit the back of Billy's neck, and drove himself into Billy, who leaned his head on the wall and started to move against him. It felt so fucking good Joe wanted to stay there forever, surrounded by Billy's smell and Billy's body. Too soon, Billy clenched his ass and twisted and Joe felt the top of his head blow off.

"How long are you going to stay on my back panting in my ear?" Billy asked.

"Fuck you."

"You just did."

Joe stood up, yanking up his pants and tucking himself back in while Billy did the same. He leaned in and kissed Billy hard with lots of tongue.

Joe slung his arm around Billy's shoulders as they headed back inside. "So, you think if we find that slutty chick she'll let us fuck her at the same time?"

~*~

Zach Lockhart stepped out of the storage room into the hall. He could hear the band partying in the dressing room a few doors down. Their show had killed; he was still pumped from it, but it was time to fly.

He was pretty sure the two guys fucking in the back alley had moved on. He was also pretty sure the damn Mountie wouldn't follow him to the big city. Mutants like him didn't do well in the crowds and filth of places like this. Still, it would suck to get caught now just because he was careless.

Checking to ensure no one was around, he placed his left hand on the wall to the outside. A blue aura glowed around his hand. He slowly swept his right hand in front of him. In the air, a blue image of a dumpster and some trash flickered into sight. Zach examined it for a minute and dropped his left hand. The image vanished.

Zach confidently strode out the door and down the alley. The door thudded closed after him. He rounded the corner and made his way down the street.

Behind him, unseen, a flash of wolf-shaped white streaked out of the alley to continue the chase.

finis

for Lyra: "Past and Present" (Wilby Wonderful) by stormymouse

Thu, 18 Aug 2005 00:22:57 GMT

Title: Past and Present
Author: stormymouse
Recipient: lyra_sena
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Author's note: My RL was pretty weird as the due date for midsummer_santa got closer and, to be honest, my mind wasn't really on it. But I wanted to write something and so this developed rather quickly and when I sent it off it hadn't been read by a beta and the person I usually test my stories on wasn't anywhere near me. And I was absolutely not satisfied. I let it rest and didn't think about it too much and when my partner-in-crime returned I gave her the story and she liked it a lot and that was the first time I read it again - and I liked it, too! Funny how things change with time and when you can get a bit of distance between you and the object at hand.

Past and Present

Buddy slows down the car and brings it to a stop as he approaches the red traffic light.

He looks over at Carol, takes her hand and smiles tentatively. There are still a lot of unsaid things between them but it seems like they are getting there.

People are crossing the street now and Buddy's attention is drawn to a particular couple.

Dan Jarvis looks good, happy, even relaxed. His hand is resting on Duck MacDonald's back. They are laughing, joking, seemingly oblivious of the way people are staring at them.

Duck looks up and his eyes meet Buddy's. His expression becomes serious for a moment and he nods curtly, then turns his attention back to Dan, smiling fondly.

Buddy gnaws on his lower lip. Dan deserves some joy and the feeling of normality, God knows that he didn't have much of it lately.

And still ...

Duck and Buddy had never walked around Wilby like that, cheery and carefree, even though Duck had asked him for it.

It was the one thing Buddy hadn't given to him and it was the one thing that had torn them apart.

--:--:--

Buddy closed the door behind them and wrapped his arms around Duck. "Thank God it's Friday. Another day at school and I'd go mad!"

"You say that on Mondays, too," Duck chided playfully and kissed him.

"Well, it's true. Only you keep me sane." He winked.

"I overheard Jake asking you to come to the movies with him and the others," Duck said casually, rubbing his eyebrow.

Buddy cleared his throat and scratched his neck. "Yeah. What about it?"

"Come on, Buddy! I've been wanting to watch that movie for ages." Duck stood in front of him, his green eyes shining. He was practically bouncing and toyed around with the leather strap around his wrist.

"Let's stay here, okay, Duck? Just the two of us." Buddy tried to sound casual as he planted a kiss on Duck's lips. He sat down on the bed, unsuccessfully trying to pull Duck with him.

"Just this once, Buddy, please!" Duck remained standing, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Buddy flashed him his most gorgeous smile. "I don't feel like hanging out with the others. I don't want to share you." His fingers traced the outside of Duck's thigh.

"You just don't feel like hanging out with the others when I'm with you." Duck said calmly, taking a step back, out of Buddy's reach.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Buddy sighed. He had known that this subject would come up one day, he had just hoped that he would have had more time.

"Buddy, don't you think I know? Don't you think I feel it? I may be dyslexic but I'm not stupid." Duck sounded disappointed and Buddy pinched the bridge of his nose.

Of course Duck knew, Duck knew everything about him.

Duck knew that Buddy was secretly smoking in his room even though his parents had not allowed it, he knew that Buddy hated the attention that being a French offspring in Wilby brought along with it, he knew that Buddy liked to be kissed behind his right ear and he also knew that Buddy would start to purr if he could whenever Duck tickled the hollow of his left knee.

Why shouldn't he know this, too?

"Duck, really, I only want to be alone with you, the oth...." he tried to explain but Duck cut him off.

"Don't start, Buddy."

Buddy raised his arms. "What do you want from me, Duck?"

"I've always been the odd one out, Buddy, I can handle people talking about me. It's been like that my entire life. And you knew that when we started this."

The dispassion in Duck's voice hurt Buddy more than an upper-cut to his jaw could have.

"So?" Buddy swallowed hard.

"What are you telling them when you come to see me? That I'm helping you with your homework? No, I guess it's more likely that they think you are helping me with my homework. Is that about it?"

Buddy blushed and jumped up, taking Duck's hands into his. "Please, Duck, you know how it is. My dad ..."

Duck pulled away his hands. "Buddy, I'm not a toy. Not for the French boy nor for anyone else. You either take me and fuck the consequences or you don't take me at all."

The silence between them seemed to last a lifetime.

"Are you willing to walk out of that door with me holding your hand, Buddy?" Duck's eyes were dark.

Buddy couldn't say it so he just shook his head, hoping the gesture wouldn't hurt Duck as much as words would.

The fact that Duck didn't seem to be surprised brought a lump to Buddy's throat and a knot to his stomach.

"I think you know your way out, Buddy," Duck said matter-of-factly and turned around to his desk. He grabbed a pencil and a pad, sat down and started drawing.

--:--:--

"Buddy, it's green, you can go," he suddenly hears Carol's voice and someone behind him is honking.

He rubs his hand over his eyes and sets the car in motion. Maybe there are a few more things he needs to tell Carol if he wants to set things straight.

for Dayse: "Beware of Pretty" (Aspen Extreme/Hard Core Logo) by shrewreader

Thu, 18 Aug 2005 00:19:54 GMT

Title: Beware of Pretty
Author: shrewreader
Recipient: dayse
Fandom: Aspen Extreme/Hard Core Logo

Beware of Pretty

for shrewreader: "Born on Monday" (Whiskey Echo/Buried on Sunday) by akite

Thu, 18 Aug 2005 00:03:59 GMT

Title: Born on Monday
Author: akite
Recipient: shrewreader
Fandoms: Whiskey Echo/Buried on Sunday

Thank you to my beta readers, c_regalis and livenow.

Born on Monday

A thick, wet morning fog shrouded the island of Solomon Gundy as the ferry bearing Roland Saunders approached. As unappealing as that might sound, it suited Rollie just fine. He was back from South Sudan and on an enforced sabbatical. All World Medicine refused to send him on another mission. After fourteen of them, Rollie guessed they had a point. He was tired; tired, world-weary and in sore need of a quiet place to mend. One of the people at AWM's Toronto headquarters had recommended Solomon Gundy and so, here Rollie was.

The first thing Rollie saw as he stepped off the ferry, onto what looked like a new pier, was an arch over the pier that said: Welcome to the Republic of Solomon Gundy. A smaller sign in English, French and what looked like Russian directed all visitors to a small brick building nearby. Over the building flew a white flag that featured a leaping red fish where Rollie was used to seeing a maple leaf.

Rollie wondered about the Russian as he walked over to the building designated Ministry of Customs and Immigration. How many immigrants could an island this size get? And ones that spoke Russian? That was strange. What Rollie couldn't see were the big docks on the other side of the island where freighters from several countries were docked and loading their hulls with fish.

Rollie opened the door and was greeted by a stout, round woman with curly red hair. "Identification, please."

"Here you go." Rollie handed over his passport.

Edna Swinnimer's, her nametag said, eyebrows rose when she saw all the stamps from different countries in Rollie's passport. She stamped it too with a seal that had the same fish as the flag. Mrs. Swinnimer smiled as she looked up. "Are you visiting, Mr. -" she looked down at the passport again and continued, "Excuse me, Doctor Saunders. It's not likely you've come to work the boats or at the cannery, eh? Nothing to declare either, I take it."

Rollie shook his head and smiled. It'd been a long time since he'd heard an 'eh' like that. "No, I'm only staying for few weeks on holiday. Could you give me directions to the hotel?"

"Certainly, doctor. It's just up the main street there." She pointed out the big window to the right. "Just past the Public Library, you can't miss it." Mrs. Swinnimer gave him a big smile as she handed Rollie back his passport. "Welcome to Solomon Gundy. Enjoy your stay."

"Thanks." Rollie picked up his bag and before the door could close behind him, Mrs. Swinnimer was dialing the telephone.

Rollie lit a cigarette and headed down the main street. Everywhere he looked he saw signs of peaceful prosperity. There were people going in and out of the shops, hardy, sturdy people, most wore rubber boots on their feet. They were fishermen, naturally, and fisherwomen too. Rollie almost bumped in to a couple coming out of the bakery. They were arguing about something, in Russian. He excused himself and walked around them. That explained why there were signs in Russian, if nothing else.

Rollie walked past the library, then paused and went back. There was a glass display case on the front of the building. Inside was an old document. The document itself was in some language he thought might be Dutch. A plaque explained that the document was a side letter to the Treaty of Utrecht granting the island of Solomon Gundy the right to be its own republic. There was a story there, and Rollie was sure when he found a bar, someone would tell it.

As Rollie stood there, a very stern looking woman came out of the door to the library and locked it. Rollie thought she must be the librarian. As she came down the steps she looked sharply at him and his cigarette and said, "You will dispose of that properly, won't you, young man." It was an order, definitely not a question. Rollie nodded, and the woman bustled past him.

Not wanting to antagonize the residents just yet, Rollie snubbed out his cigarette in the receptacle provided outside and entered the hotel. Apparently, news traveled very fast here. He was greeted by name at the check-in desk. Dempster Millard, the owner, came out of hurrying out of his office to greet Rollie personally. "Ah, Dr. Saunders! Welcome to Solomon Gundy."

Rollie was skeptical. These people seemed very happy to see him. He shook the innkeeper's proffered hand. In his experience, people that fawned over you had their other hand in your pocket. Rollie filled out the check-in forms and handed over his credit card, reluctantly. He watched Millard closely to make sure everything was on the up and up.

"Rita!" Mr. Millard snapped his fingers for the clerk. "Show Dr. Saunders up to 102." He turned back to Rollie and said, "It's one of our newly remodeled rooms. Tobacco permitted, not to worry. 102 overlooks the harbor, I'm sure you'll be delighted with it. If we can do anything at all to make your stay more pleasant, please don't hesitate to let us know."

It was starting to creep Rollie out. He hadn't been on the island fifteen minutes yet, and everyone knew his name and the fact that he smoked? It was a nice room, though. Rollie had to give them that. All the modern conveniences: big, modern bathroom that was all his, color TV with satellite, even a refrigerator stocked with Molson. It looked like heaven. Rollie didn't bother to unpack. He shrugged off his jacket and slid off his shoes. After that, he nabbed one of the ales and kicked back on the soft, king size bed. Lord only knew how much they'd charge him for drinking one, but he thought to hell with it; I'm on fucking vacation.

Rollie never even knew that he'd fallen asleep until a knock on his door woke him. Who the hell it might be, he hadn't a clue. He'd met exactly three people on this island. Four, if you counted the scary librarian lady. Unless it was that oily hotel manager guy, and Rollie didn't want to talk to him again. "Go away!" he called out, "I'm sleeping here!"

"Dr. Saunders? Please, may I talk to you?"

Well, it was a new voice at least. Rollie rolled off the bed and opened the door. "Yeah? Who the hell are you and what do you want?" Standing on the other side of the door was the best looking man he'd ever laid eyes on. He stood there open-mouthed and stared. He took it all in, the long, messy hair that was graying just a bit at the temples, the lines around the eyes and mouth that did nothing to detract from the sheer beauty of the man, wide shoulders, clerical collar, tight pants... Rollie backtracked, clerical collar? That shocked Rollie out of his stupor.

If Rollie was caught out staring, the same could be said for the man at his door. It took several more seconds for him to shake himself all over and respond to Rollie's gesture to come in. "Excuse me, please, it's just -" he trailed off and rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. There was a flush on his cheeks. "Damn, let me try this again. Dr. Saunders, I'm Gus Knickel. Welcome to Solomon Gundy." Gus held out his hand. There was nothing Rollie could do but take it, and if he lingered longer than usual with the handshake, who could blame him?

One thing did strike Rollie. Gus' hand was rough and calloused. Unlike any clergyman's that he'd ever met. That was enough for Rollie to put his cynicism aside for the moment and decide to listen to what Gus had to say.

"Have a seat." Rollie waved his hand at the small seating area and got his beer from the nightstand. He took a sip and grimaced. It was flat. "Can I get you - uh, I'm not sure what else is here."

"What you're drinking is fine," Gus assured him with a laugh. "I'm a Lutheran minister, among other things. You won't be corrupting me."

Rollie got two more ales from the refrigerator and opened them. He severely pushed any thought of other ways he might like to corrupt Gus Knickel out of his head. Rollie brought the beer over and took the chair on the other side of the small table where he'd directed Gus to sit. Gus tipped his bottle in salute and took a healthy gulp.

"So, Reverend -"

Gus held a hand up to interrupt. "Please, Gus is fine."

"All right then. I'm Rollie, by the way. Whenever people say Dr. Saunders, I look around for my dad."

Gus smiled. "I have a similar reaction when people call me Prime Minister. I want to look behind me and see if someone important is there."

Rollie almost spewed beer all over the room. Once he swallowed, he croaked, "Prime Minister?"

Gus nodded. "I can't seem to find anyone that wants to take the job except old Dempster downstairs. We've tried holding elections, but even if he's the only one on the ballot, I get it back on write-ins."

Rollie looked at Gus with skepticism. Then shrugged, it was probably true. He looked at Gus and remembered Dempster Millard, and he knew which one he'd vote for.

Gus sighed with a weariness that Rollie was only too familiar with. "I've been Prime Minister for over 12 years. Since we declared independence and broke with Canada."

Rollie got up and got them each another ale. "Tell me about it," he asked quietly.

Gus quirked one side of his mouth up and said, "You sure? It's a long story."

"Yeah. I've been wondering since I stepped off the ferry. I figured I'd find a bar and get someone to tell me, but you're here, the beer is here, why go out?"

"Ah, a practical man. I like that." Gus sat back in his chair and told the story of the day Dexter Lexcannon and Noelle Denoyer came from Ottawa to tell the islanders that their fishing quota had been cut to nil. He told Rollie about the Russian submarine that came ashore, the shooting spree that cost Dexter his life and the accidental firing of the missile that knocked Theodore Roosevelt's nose off Mount Rushmore.

"We buried Dexter on Sunday." Gus sighed and shook his head. "It hasn't been easy. The first couple of years were rough until we got cannery built, but now all of our taxes stay here on Solomon Gundy. Every time the government changes in Halifax and Ottawa, we get officials out to try to persuade us to repatriate. My people still fish, and the ships still come. There are consequences to all this prosperity, though. Young people are leaving the island to go to university now. Most of them don't come back. Which brings me to why I'm here, Rollie, old son. We need doctors."

"Hold on, now. I'm just here on holiday," Rollie protested. "Besides, I have a job."

Gus nodded. "I know, but don't turn us down just yet. In fact, let me take you to lunch and show you around."

Not one to pass up a free meal, Rollie found his shoes and jacket while Gus cleared up the beer bottles. Gus led him to the dining room downstairs. "The best seafood in town unless there's a clambake," Gus told him.

"I'm not dressed for anything fancy," Rollie cautioned.

Gus just laughed and looked down at his own clothing, "Me neither, Rollie, old son. What you're wearing is fine. Don't worry about it."

If Gus' eyes lingered a bit as they swept over his form, Rollie figured it was only his imagination. The appreciative look Rollie thought he saw when Gus brought his head back up was more of the same, and if Gus caught him looking - well, it'd been a long time. Medical missions and sex didn't mix. Rollie had learned that lesson well, the last one being the perfect example.

Rollie had a lobster as big as a Buick. Okay, maybe only as big as a Volkswagen Beetle, but it was one considerable lobster. He managed to get it all down through sheer perseverance. Rollie wasn't used to eating that way. It was surprisingly cheap too. Not that he paid for it. No, Gus insisted on picking up the tab.

All through the meal, Rollie looked up and found Gus watching him. Once, he'd actually asked, "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Gus just shook his head no and kept looking at him. They didn't talk much as they ate, for which Rollie was grateful. On the missions, mealtime was discussion time and one of the reasons he stayed so thin. It's hard concentrate on eating when everyone is looking to you to tell them what's what, and he never learned to keep his mouth shut. The food was never anything to write home about, either. Not that Rollie had anyone left to write to.

Afterwards, Gus took Rollie on a tour of the island. The earlier fog had burned off, and the sun was out in the waning afternoon. First they had a look around the shopping district, such as it was. Rollie had already seen most of it. Gus did point out the two bars in town.

They walked on until they reached Luba's Little Moscow, and Gus said, "Come on, you have to see this." It was half cafe, half something Rollie had never seen before. There was a bar, and behind it a large, clear fronted refrigerator with more types of vodka than he even knew existed.

Luba, herself, came out of the kitchen as they walked in. She broke out in a big smile and dropped the dishcloth she was using to wipe her hands. "Gus!" She ran over and threw her arms around the Prime Minister. When she released him, Gus said something to her in what Rollie guessed was Russian. She spoke back then switched to English as she turned to him with her face wreathed in smiles, "You the new doktor?"

"Luba, nyet," Gus told her sharply. "Dr. Saunders hasn't decided if he's going to stay yet or not."

Luba laughed. "I know what will make him stay." She walked behind the bar, opened the refrigerated case and pulled out a bottle. "You will drink with me, Doktor!"

It wasn't a question. She poured three shots before Rollie had a chance to refuse. "This is best vodka in world. You drink. It is, how you say? On the house."

Gus leaned over and whispered, "She's poured it now. You have to drink it."

Rollie didn't want to offend her, so he picked up the glass as Luba made a toast. "To Solomon Gundy." She threw the vodka back. Gus and Rollie repeated, "To Solomon Gundy," and did likewise. It was like liquid fire going down and spread a pool of warmth in Rollie's stomach.

After three more just like it, Rollie loosened up and asked, "So, you're from Moscow?"

"No," she answered, "Luba born in small village on sea. I leave there when I was old enough. Become cook for Russian Navy until I come here and open restaurant. I call it Little Moscow for tourists."

Rollie looked at Gus and asked, "You get a lot of tourists here?"

"A fair amount. Most come over on day trips for the novelty of it, and we get sailors in off the ships."

Luba poured them all one more. After they drank that one down she slammed her glass on the bar and announced, "Luba must get back to kitchen. Doktor, you stay. Solomon Gundy is good place."

When she marched herself away, Gus turned to Rollie and asked, "Are you up for a walk, Doktor? I'd drive us, but it wouldn't look good for the Prime Minister to be arrested for driving under the influence."

"I'm not sure I can walk, but yeah. Some fresh air would be good."

If Gus weaved a bit going out, Rollie didn't notice. He was more concerned about keeping his own balance. Once outside again, the cool air cleared Rollie's head a bit. Still intrigued about the Russians, he asked, "Well, that was interesting. Did all the Russians here come off that sub?"

"No, thanks to Luba, Solomon Gundy has steady flow of immigrants. I bet half of her old village is living here now. It helps the economy. They pay a modest fee, which is waived for certain needed occupations," Gus told him. The look on his face was so hopeful that Rollie was tempted to say yes then and there just to see Gus smile.

"Some fish, some work at the cannery and the stronger of them work here," Gus continued talking as they walked by the big docks. There was a big crane lowering cargo into the hold of the one ship in port.
The crane operator waved at them. Gus waved back and said, "That's Ivan, one of Luba's brothers."

They walked on to the beach and down where the houses were now further apart. The sun was setting. It was a beautiful sight. A loud sort of barking noise as they passed one of the houses stirred Rollie from his appreciation of nature.

Gus walked toward the house and gestured that Rollie should come along. There at the back was a pen. Inside was a huge pig. The pig had its front legs on the fence, and Gus was scratching it behind the ears.

"There's a good girl. Did Sil come by and feed you?" The pig grunted, and Rollie could swear that it sounded like it was answering Gus back. "Rollie, come meet Ophelia."

Rollie was curious enough to come closer. Tentatively, he reached out and scratched the pig on its snout. "You know a lot of pigs by name, do you?" Rollie teased.

Gus laughed and said, "I do when it's my own pig."

That took Rollie back. "You're joking, right? This is your house?"

"Well, it was my grandfather's first, but he left it to me when he died," Gus explained with much amusement in his voice.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Rollie was getting irritated. He didn't like practical jokes. "You're the fucking Prime Minister, you've got a big, official residence somewhere, right?"

"No, actually I don't. What kind of example would that be for my people?" Gus was serious. "Come on then, let's go inside. That should prove it's my house."

Gus walked up the steps and opened the door. It hadn't even been locked. The inside did confirm a few things for Rollie. First of which was, Gus was certainly a bachelor. The house was a mess. No woman that Rollie ever knew would stand for it.

Gus lit an oil lamp and took Rollie over to the mantle where several framed photographs stood. "This is me and my grandfather the day I graduated from Evangelical College." He pointed to the next one, "My parents and me, taken about six months before they drowned at sea during a storm." The next one was of Gus and a woman with brown, curly hair with their arms around each other looking very happy.

"And this?" Rollie asked.

"Her name was - is, I don't suppose she's dead, Noelle Denoyer. She was one of the people that came out from Ottawa. I told you about it," Gus answered quietly. "Well, obviously not all of it. She stayed on after," Gus tilted his head in a gesture that Rollie interpreted as meaning after the missile incident.

"How long?"

Gus' eyes filled with pain. "Two years. She spent two years trying to change things that aren't meant to change, me mainly." Gus shook his head. "Noelle never understood what this island means to me. I did this, and I have to see it through."

Gus had his head down trying to regain his composure. Rollie stepped closer and gently touched Gus' face down the jaw and under the chin, drawing it back up to meet his eyes. "She left you, didn't she?"

Gus nodded and tried to smile. "She left, vowing to never set foot on this stupid, God-forsaken island again."

"Stupid bitch," popped out of Rollie's mouth before he realized he'd spoken it out loud.

"And you, Rollie Saunders, will you leave me?" Gus asked as he leaned toward Rollie to kiss him.

Rollie slipped his fingers back into Gus' hair and met the kiss barely before he jerked back. This was going altogether too fast. "What the hell is this, Mr. Prime Minister? A part of your sales pitch? I stay here and I get you?"

Outrage clearly showed on Gus' face as he pushed Rollie back and stalked away. "Is that what you think? Is that really what you think?"

"I don't know!" Rollie shouted back at him. "I come here, and you know fuck-all about me, and suddenly you're taking me out for lunch, try to get me drunk on Russian vodka, then try to seduce me here in your own house? What am I supposed to think?"

"Good Lord." Gus pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and said, "I never - I didn't mean it that way. Damn."
Gus shook his head and started again. "I'm sorry, Rollie. I never would have dreamed you'd see it that way. I do know fuck-all about you."

Most of the belligerence Rollie had been feeling faded away. "Yeah?" he asked. "What do you know about me?" he challenged.

Gus took a deep breath and began. "You're Roland Michael Saunders, born in Calgary, Alberta on September 14, 1960. You graduated from the University of Alberta Medical School in 1985, and you worked in your father's practice until your parents were killed in an auto accident in December 1988. You married Anne Marie Falco shortly after that. When your marriage ended in divorce in 1990, you left Calgary and joined All World Medicine. You've been on fourteen medical missions to places like Bosnia, Afghanistan and Sudan. And now you're here."

Rollie didn't know what to say.

"You're here now, and we need you. I need you." Gus moved as he spoke until he was in front of Rollie again. "And whether you stay or go, if I don't kiss you again right now, I might explode."

Rollie laughed. He felt the same desperation. Had felt it since Gus knocked on his hotel room door. It wasn't all wishful thinking on his part. "Can't have that, can we? Where'd your people be if their Prime Minister exploded?" Rollie moved closer, putting Gus' back against the wall. He kissed Gus long and hard. Then he pulled back minutely to trace the seam of Gus' lips with his tongue. The unspoken request was answered when Gus opened his mouth.

Sweet, Gus' mouth was so sweet. Rollie thought he'd never get his fill of it, but breathing became a necessity and he had to stop. As soon as he let Gus' lips go, Gus was moving, reversing their positions to where it was Rollie's back to the wall.

Gus let Rollie gasp for air while his mouth went wandering. He slid his lips slowly over Rollie's cheek and over to his ear. Rollie let out a small sound as Gus' tongue traced the whorls of his ear and flicked the lobe. Rollie arched his hips out and met Gus'. The evidence of arousal was unmistakable. Gus was hard too. Gus moved one hand down between their bodies and stroked Rollie through his pants and whispered, "Bedroom or here?"

Rollie's head was swimming. How was he supposed to answer a question like that? He could only moan as Gus cupped his cock tighter. Gus chuckled just a bit and said, "Here then," as his fingers went to work at the fastenings of Rollie's trousers. "Been a while, eh?"

Rollie let out a gust of air and nodded, even though Gus couldn't see it. It had been a while, since his second mission with All World Medicine. The repercussions of having an affair with a fellow member of the team even of the opposite sex could last for years. In Rollie's case it was worse. It left him cynical and more inclined to putting his heart into the work and less into relationships with others. It gave him a reputation of being a hard-ass, but he wasn't. Rollie merely learned his lesson well, sex was something best left to other times and places, not on a mission.

Gus had Rollie's pants open, and he made a surprised sound of his own when he found that Rollie wore no underwear. Rollie had gotten out of the habit from working in places where underwear was one more thing that stuck to you. Gus worked Rollie's cock with his hand as his mouth found Rollie's again. He kissed and thrust his tongue in the same rhythm as his hand. Such wonderful hands, Rollie thought. Gus pulled away from Rollie's mouth abruptly and sank to his knees.

Gus held Rollie's hips tight to the wall as he shoved the interfering pants down to Rollie's knees. He leaned forward, taking the tip of Rollie's cock into the wet warmth of his mouth. It was good. So good. Gus flicked his tongue at the sensitive spot just under the head. Rollie whimpered. He wasn't going to last two minutes this way.
Gus rocked forward, taking Rollie in all the way to the root before backing off and using his hand to hold Rollie steady as he moved up and down while his tongue flicked back and forth on each upstroke.

Rollie made one last inarticulate noise that signaled he was going to come. Gus pulled completely off and used his hand to finish Rollie off. Rollie watched as his semen caught Gus on the chin and neck, even onto the white collar Gus still wore around his neck. If he wasn't sure that he was going to hell before, Rollie was now. The sight was so wicked.

Rollie sank down the wall and joined Gus on his knees. He pulled Gus to him and licked the come off his face and neck as he panted. Rollie got a hand down between them and opened Gus' pants. He gave Gus' cock one hard stroke, and that was enough. Gus moaned low in his throat and came all over Rollie's hand.

***

Rollie woke up the next morning with three things on his mind. First, he was in bed with someone. Secondly, he needed to pee. Urgently. Lastly, he had a bad case of cotton mouth. Rollie eased himself from under the arm Gus had thrown around him. Gus made a little sound of protest at that but settled back down into sleep quickly. Rollie found the bathroom and took care of the second and third needs.

Rollie came back into the bedroom unsure of what the protocols were in this situation. He needed a shower, a change of clothes and some breakfast, but he didn't want to wake Gus if he wasn't used to getting up this early. Rollie gathered up his clothing and stood by the bed, and watched Gus sleep as he tried to make up his mind whether to wake him or slip out quietly and walk back to the hotel. He really didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. It'd be pretty tacky of him to sneak out after spending the night. The decision was made for him when Gus' eyes fluttered open.

Gus smiled at him. "Rollie? Wha' time is it?"

Rollie sat down beside Gus on the bed and answered, "Shhhh...it's early yet. Go back to sleep, and I'll see you later."

Gus woke up a little more and protested. "No, come 'ere." He pulled Rollie back down with him. Gus rolled until Rollie was under him. He kissed Rollie and rubbed the palm of his hand over the bristly hair on Rollie's skull. Gus thrust his morning hard on into the hollow of Rollie's hip. It didn't take Rollie long to get with the program. Soon he was as hard as Gus was. He grabbed Gus' ass and pushed his cock up into greater contact. They kissed and rocked together. Slowly at first, before they succumbed to the need and rocked faster and faster.

Afterwards, Rollie only wanted to curl up with Gus and go back to sleep, but it wasn't to be. Gus hopped up and held out his hand. "Let's get a shower. Then we'll head over to the hotel for breakfast. I'm starved." Rollie groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. Not one to be thwarted, Gus continued, "It's free. Included in the price for the room. After that I'll take you over to have a look at the hospital."

Rollie peaked out from under the pillow. That got him moving.

Three weeks later:

Rollie's first duty on his very first day at his new job at Solomon Gundy's small hospital was to deliver a baby for Luba's brother Ivan's wife. It was a boy, born on Monday.

End

Notes: When I got this assignment and came up with an idea, the first thing I did before writing a single line, was to contact Kellie Matthews. I knew anything I wrote about Gus Knickel and the island of Solomon Gundy would be heavily influenced by her story, Crossroads. Kellie very graciously gave me permission to proceed. Thank you, Kellie.

for sageness: "Around the World" (Men With Brooms/Hard Core Logo) by cmshaw

Wed, 17 Aug 2005 23:53:15 GMT

Title: Around the World
Author: cmshaw
Recipient: sageness
Fandoms: Men With Brooms/Hard Core Logo
Pairing: Chris Cutter (Men With Brooms)/Joe Dick (Hard Core Logo)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Fucking curling.

Notes: Thanks to merryish for the beta.

Around the World
by cmshaw

The bar was dark and hot and smelled like the bottom of Jimmy Lennox's stationwagon. It made Chris' dick twitch a little in his sweat-stiffened work jeans as he stood to the side, nursing his beer. It was his third, and he couldn't afford many more; he might have to follow the old company to Liverpool after all if he didn't get a new job soon. Beer was cheaper at the old crew's regular bar, but after he'd walked out of there the music had drawn him in off the street here. Punk wasn't his usual thing, but it damn well matched his foul mood tonight.

Maybe it would be better to get out of the country, go somewhere that only played football in the sports bars. At least this bar looked like the kind of place where he might find a guy wasted enough to fuck him, because he really needed something to take his mind off of goddamned sports.

As if in answer, the door next to the now-empty stage slammed open and the band staggered out. The guitarist was in the lead, and Chris' dick stood the fuck up. This guy's blond hair still stood up in mean spikes where it wasn't plastered to his skull with sweat, and he walked and stood and grinned like he owned the whole fucking bar even down here on the floor instead of up on stage.

Fuck, yes. Chris grinned.

The guy caught him staring and started toward him. Chris jumped as someone's arm landed around his shoulders. The guitarist saw him and laughed in a flash of white teeth and stubble, and Chris turned to see the band's singer saying to him, "It is so good to see the working man here with us. Hey, working man, was the hockey bar closed?"

"Curling bar," Chris snapped. "Everyone is watching the damn Brier."

The guitarist laughed. "God, curling is for fucking pansies, ain't it?"

He didn't even think about it. The fucking asshole laughed, and then his fist was swinging. The arm around his shoulders tightened and then clamped down around his throat, yanking him back and off-balance. His fist swung wildly through the air and a foot caught him in the back of one knee and he was falling down onto the sticky floor.

Asshole number two leaned down and offered him a hand. Chris stared at it a moment, and then took it and hauled himself up to his feet. The guy's hand was stronger than he'd thought a singer's would be, and it wasn't as unpleasantly sweaty as the rest of him. He laughed and slung his arm around Chris' shoulders again. "Nobody hits Billy," he said cheerfully. "I'll buy you another beer. Hey!" he yelled into the crowd, "beer over here! We're thirsty."

Billy sneered, more at his bandmate than at Chris. "You're a pig, Joe."

Joe leaned toward him and poked his chest with one finger. "You insulted curling," he said. "That's the great Canadian sport." Chris couldn't tell if he was serious or not, but Billy's eyes rolled and Joe smacked him on the side of the head.

"Fuck you," Billy said. He stalked off.

Chris snorted. "I thought nobody hits Billy?"

"Except me," Joe said. Chris looked over at him and thought for a moment that he'd been watching Billy's ass walk away, too. "Fuck, I've got to piss already. Get the beer, will you?" He peeled himself off of Chris and staggered away again.

Chris stared after him. That guy was definitely wasted -- he stopped that thought. Billy the guitarist was much hotter and reminded him a lot less of Jimmy Lennox. He wasn't here to give a fucking backseat blowjob to a fucking high school buddy, after all. He scuffed his boot irritably through the puddle that had been his beer and glared at the crowd, looking for Billy.

Billy was feeling up some scrawny blond chick next to the bar.

Fuck it, Chris decided, and went looking for the men's room.

When he found it, two wide-eyed punk boys were leaving. The place was less filthy than it could have been, or at least with half the lights busted he couldn't see much filth, and the only guy in it with him was Joe. Joe was standing in front of the urinals and grunting in relief as a stream of piss hit the porcelain. Chris leaned against the one next to him. Yup, Joe's dick was cut.

"What the hell are you looking at?" Joe growled, and shook his dick off in Chris' direction before tucking it back in his pants.

Chris rolled his eyes. "What do you think I'm looking at?" he said.

Now was the time when if rejection was coming, the fist could start swinging. Joe just looked him up and down. "You see something you need, curling man?"

Chris winced. "My name's Cutter."

"Ooh, cutter!" Joe laughed. He chopped his hands through the air like some kind of movie ninja. "Very dangerous."

"It's my name," Chris said.

"Yeah? And my name's Dick. You want some of Dick's dick, Cutter?" Joe made a kissy-face.

"Yeah," Chris said.

Joe pulled his dick back out of his pants. "Okay. Here you go."

Maybe he wasn't wasted; maybe he was just nuts. "Here?" he said.

"Who's going to care?" Joe said.

"It's--" Chris started, and then stopped. Hell, he was leaving the goddamned country, wasn't he? Who the fuck was going to care? He got down on his knees. "Yeah, all right," he said.

He scrubbed his hands on the thighs of his jeans and wrapped one fist around Joe's dick. It twitched in his hand, and Chris closed his eyes and licked the head of it fast. "Shit, yeah," Joe said. At least he was reasonably clean, Chris thought, and he closed his lips around the head of the dick and started sucking. He smelled good, like sweat and cigarette smoke and dark beer, and Chris shifted his knees around until he didn't need his other hand for balance, and pressed it to the seam of his jeans.

(The locker room at the club smelled less like smoke and more like wet wool, but Jimmy Lennox always had a pack on him somewhere. He was the only kid Chris knew who smoked in junior high, except when Jimmy gave a cigarette to Chris himself, and he was the only kid Chris sucked off after school. And damn it, even when Chris gave it up and announced he was going to marry the coach's daughter, even then Jimmy Lennox was his best buddy, his vice-skip, his partner that he didn't fucking deserve.)

Chris opened his eyes. This guy, this Joe or Dick or whatever he called himself, he was someone new. New taste, new feel, new fuck. Chris was on his way to making something new for himself; he'd left the whole thing behind and wound up --

-- Christ! He pushed back, coughing, and held Joe at arm's length as best he could, with Joe's fingers tangled painfully in his hair.

"Hey, what's the fucking idea?" Joe snarled.

Chris coughed until he could speak. "That's my line, asshole," he rasped. "Let the fuck go of my hair."

"Oh, sorry, did I mess up your curls?" Joe said.

"I said I'd suck you," Chris said. "I didn't say you could fucking fuck the back of my throat."

"Suck faster," Joe said, but he let go of Chris' hair, which was the important thing, so Chris put his hand back on Joe's dick and put his lips around it again. He bobbed his head faster this time, and jerked his hand in time. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Joe's hand coming back at his hair, and he slapped it away with his other hand.

"Okay, okay!" Joe said. "Fuck!" Chris pulled back and licked across the head of Joe's dick again. Now he definitely tasted like sex, and Chris put his hand back on the bulge of his own dick before sucking Joe's in deeper again. Joe's panting grew heavier and heavier until he groaned and grabbed at Chris' head once more.

He didn't grab Chris' hair this time, and Chris, seeing what was coming, let Joe hold his head still while he shook and came in Chris' mouth. Fuck yeah, that was what he wanted. Dick, mouth, climax: nice and honest. Chris pulled back, lifting Joe's wet dick off of his lips, and looked around at the not entirely filthy bathroom, then shrugged and swallowed. Didn't taste half bad, either.

"Oh yeah, baby," Joe gasped. "I like your style." He let go of Chris' head and grinned down at him. With a groan, he dropped onto one knee and then the other, kneeling with Chris on the floor beside the urinals. He reached out and wrapped his hand around Chris' hand, the one that was still frantically rubbing at his dick through his jeans. "Pop the fly on that and let's see you," Joe said.

Chris stared down at their hands and nodded. He leaned back and pulled his belt open, leaving Joe's hand on his crotch, and then unbuttoned the fly and lowered the zipper, he hand sliding back down underneath Joe's again. Joe grinned and pushed their hands inside Chris' jeans, working his dick through one thinly stretched layer of cotton. Chris' hips jerked and he groaned before he knew that he was going to make any noise.

Joe laughed and pulled his hand away. He pushed Chris over backwards; Chris caught himself on his hands, and Joe yanked roughly at his jeans to pull them down onto his thighs. Chris lifted up his hips to help out and sighed happily when Joe bent down and sucked on the side of his dick. "Hang on a sec," he said, and rolled onto his side to get his legs free. When he rolled back he was flat on the linoleum, grinning in anticipation as he looked down the length of his body at Joe's smirk.

Joe pumped his dick slowly in one hand. "You're a long way from home, curling man," he said, and, when Chris frowned, he added, "You could have had the fucking Golden Broom, man. What was up with that?"

Ice cold, Chris floundered backward, his naked ass dragging on the floor and his legs trapped in the damn jeans. Behind his head, the bathroom door started to open, the bottom edge of the door scraping against the knuckles of one outflung hand. "No!" he yelled, and lurched far enough to slam the door shut and hold it there with his boots braced on the piping.

"Fuck off!" Joe yelled. "We're closed!"

"Fuck you!" yelled a deep voice through the door, but the pressure eased off. Chris slumped to the side.

"Jeez," Joe said. "I'm only messing with you. Do I look like I care about fucking curling?"

Chris glared up at him. "Do I look like I care about fucking curling?"

Joe showed his teeth. "You look like you care about getting that blowjob."

"Damn right," Chris said. "How about it, then?"

Joe's mouth was incredible. He knew how to give head even if he was an asshole about getting it, and Chris felt like he was getting whiplash from the terrified-to-horny corner he'd just turned. Joe hummed around his dick and spat on it to lube him up and smacked his lips when he came up for air. Chris arched back and stared up at the underside of the sink as Joe's mouth sank down, hot and wet, around what felt like the center of the universe. It was the hardest he'd come in a long time, flopping around there on the floor like a fish out of water, and he was pretty sure that Joe swallowed, too.

He sat up when Joe stood and rinsed his mouth out at the sink. Pulling his jeans back up and buckling his belt again felt really good. When Joe held out a hand to him, he took it right away and let Joe haul him upright. "So," he said, "you were going to buy me another beer before I ship out of here."

"Where're you headed?" Joe said.

Chris laughed. "Anywhere but here, you know?"

Joe's arm landed on his shoulders again and steered him out the door. The noise and heat hit him all over again. "You and Billiam, huh?" Joe said. "Hell. You'll be back. You always come back. Come on, we'll drink to that," he said.

for Serial Karma: "Groupie" (Hard Core Logo) by cesperanza

Wed, 17 Aug 2005 02:03:48 GMT

Title: Groupie
Author: cesperanza
Recipient: serialkarma
Fandom: Hard Core Logo

Groupie

For some reason, Joe always attracts the skanky goth chick in the ripped Ramones t-shirt and the skinny Japanese girl who speaks no English at all. He stands there, black jeans clammy with sweat, leaning across the bar and snapping his fingers for a beer, a beer, maestro, fucking please!--while the goth chick bitches about how HCL never got the fuckin' respect they deserved (okay, yeah, but that's his fucking song, ain't it?) and the Jap girl stares at him in silent fucking awe.

Master William, on the other hand, draws from two entirely different and opposite types: virgin teenyboppers (straight from whatever fucking high school, all dressed up and no one to blow), and older women--tall, slinky, often 'with the organization'; patrons of the arts wearing gold watches against their magnificently bronzed skin. They tuck their carefully manicured fingers into the belt loop of Billy's dirt-crusted jeans, and Billy shows them a million dollar smile--though Joe would bet that nobody's ever given the Billiam more than a hundred bucks, if even that much. Still, there's no chance that he's gonna get in on any of that action; the slinky chicks take Billiam back to their fancy hotel rooms, where Billy steals the towels, the coffee, and those little bottles of shampoo.

Still, he can usually horn in on the teenyboppers, who come in your two basic varieties: nearly-or-almost-virgins, who, despite their mamma's clothes and makeup, are in it totally over their heads; or your do-anythings, who sometimes manage to shock even him. Either way, the teenyboppers are fertile ground for a threesome, either because they're too naïve to complain when Joe crawls onto the mattress with them, or because they're wearing that "bring it on" smile.

Ironically, Joe likes the slutty ones less, even though he's often inspired by their cleverness and flexibility: the girl who sucked him off while Billy fucked her, the girl who sat on his face while she made out with our Billiam. They're good girls, these girls--they're the ones willing to put on a show for him and Billy by making out with their perfectly straight girlfriends--but they know too much, they've seen too much, and so when they're that kind, he has to keep his hands off Billy.

But not with your gen-u-ine almost-virgins, who've never had anything but vanilla sex with their pathetic, pimply boyfriends. The fun here is in pushing them past where they've been, and sometimes that’s as easy as Joe sitting behind them and holding their slim, smooth thighs open for Billy's tongue, or tag-teaming them, muttering dirty words of encouragement to each other ("Oh yeah, Billy. Give it to her. Fuck her inside out,") or having Billy lick their tits and say, with that shit-eating grin of his, "Hey, this is Joe. Suck him off for me, willya?" They're not used to being passed around, these girls, but then again they're not used to any of this, and so what does it matter if Joe reaches out with a thick, clumsy hand to turn Billy's head toward his? So what if he kisses Billy with more passion than he's ever had for any girl: goth, Jap, slut or virgin? It's all rock'n'roll, and they don't know the difference between Billy fingerfucking them in the van and Joe humping Billy's leg. It's all perverse to them, it's all dirty, and Billy seems to take it in that spirit, too, with his long-standing and committed Billy-position of "Yeah, whatever."

* * *

The girl in Vancouver changes it all.

He probably wouldn't even have noticed her, except they're on home turf and so when he sees Billy talking to the girl he does a doubletake, thinking it's maybe one of Billy's sisters or someone they both knew from high school. The girl has that vibe to her, like she might be somebody's cousin--preppy blonde haircut that must have cost real cash, and she's wearing khakis for God's sake, though her tight-sleeveless t-shirt reveals an elegant scribble of a tattoo on her upper arm. He veers past and sizes her up just long enough to determine that she's nobody he knows or needs to pay attention to, and then he shoots Billy a "sorry, chump!" look before going to fuck a goth girl in the back of the van.

He doesn't think any more about it--except she's at the next gig, wearing a white mini-dress with purple flowers on it, and oh-my-fucking-God there is Billy talking to her, all smiles and let-me-get-you-a-beer. He squints to see if she's maybe industry after all, because they're only getting older and the fuckheads in power are getting younger all the time--but not that young. Because the girl can't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three, so even if she is with a label she's probably the Junior Assistant's assistant's intern, which means she isn't even worth fucking over, let alone fucking. But Billy's talking to her anyway--really talking to her, because he's using his hands, those long elegant fingers painting pictures in the air, illustrating whatever-the-fuck passes for thought in Billy's head these days. He debates whether to go over there and fuck it up. Pros and cons: Billy can be fucking stubborn if he senses a contest, so maybe better to just let it be. On the other hand--

Twenty seconds later he hears her suppressed little scream as he flings one sweaty arm around her neck, and another across Billiam's shoulders. "Hey! Billy! Whatcha doin', who's your girlfriend?" and that's a joke, because guys like them, they don't have girlfriends--well, except maybe Ox, and he's nuts.

But Billy doesn't act like it's a joke; he just shrugs and tosses a cigarette from his pack up to his mouth and says, the cancer stick bobbing, "This is Kelly. Kelly, this is Joe."

"Hi," Kelly says with a smile. "It's nice to meet you; you were amazing up there," --and she looks straight at him with her blue eyes and--what the fuck?--offers him her hand--for what, shaking? He's seriously tempted to unzip and say, "Okay, if you want: I like a good, solid grip," but Billy's looking bored at his parlor tricks and she's probably a champion dyke anyway.

So he says, "Why, thank you kindly," in his most fluting voice. "I'm delighted you enjoyed our humble entertainments," and she's still smiling, but she's glancing nervously at Billy. Meanwhile, Billy's looking at him, and he knows that look well: "Anytime you're ready, please shove the fuck off." This only makes him smile wider. "And you? What's your contribution to Canadian culture?"

"I'm a student, actually. UBC. Pharmacology," and wow, there's just nothing to do but lean in to ask, "So, uh, can you hook me up with some quality speed?"

"C'mon," Billy says, lacing his fingers in hers, "I'll buy you a coffee. I know a place--"

"Caffeine's a killer fucking drug," he says sanctimoniously, "almost as bad as that damn devil weed," but Billy's already tugging Kelly toward the exit, Billy and Kelly, Kelly and Billy, so he gives them a giant, double-middle finger and yells: "Have fun, Billy and Kelly! And Bobby and Suzy and Cathy and Sneezy and Dopey and gee whiz, assholes, can I go to the fuckin' hop?" but the door to the club is slamming behind them, and mother of God, he hopes Billy's in it for the speed.

* * *

Billy goes missing for a couple of days, though that's nothing unusual. He convinces himself that it's just one of Billy's stray cat things until Ox says something about having run into Billy at the fucking UBC art cinema, which, okay, what the fuck? When he wants Billy to see a movie he slaps him upside the head and takes him down to the Forum, because Billy knows even fucking less about cinema than he does about anything else, which is saying something. Billy wants to look like a hipster but he doesn't know Jarmusch from Scorsese, and while Ox might obliviously wander onto a University campus to go to some meeting of psychotics or a late night writers' group, he always figured Billy'd just go up in smoke, like a vampire in the sun.

He grits his teeth and focuses on the next gig, like he always does; they're booked for a couple nights in Calgary, a couple nights in Edmonton. He changes the oil in the van, checks the tires. A couple of days on the road, Billy will snap back to normal. Billy can be an A-1-Champion-Flake in a lot of ways, but if there's a gig, he'll show up: he's reliable like that, anyway.

Sunday night Billy does show up, wearing a long leather duster, guitar in one hand. Relief isn't the beginning of what he feels, and so he slaps Billy hard, too hard, on the back and says, "Get in the fucking van." Billy shoves his guitar at him, nearly pushing him onto his ass, but that's good, that's just fine, and he tilts his head back, spits his gum ten feet into the air, and grins like a lunatic.

It takes fucking forever to drive to Calgary, and then there isn't even a band house, just two small rooms and a bathroom above the club. He and Billy take the back room and leave Pipe and Ox to make camp in the outer area with its threadbare rug and cigarette-scarred couch. The house is packed, though, which boosts up everyone's mood, and he sees his own cocky smile mirrored on Pretty Billy's face. The crowd fuckin' freaks when they take the stage, and the feeling is better than speed, purer. He's flying, high on oxygen and heat. Sweat comes flying off the ends of Billy's hair when he flings his head back. The feeling lasts well past the fwannng! of Billy's last chord, well past the cheers and the hands grabbing at his soaking wet shirt as he makes a beeline for the bar, the dizzying chorus of "Killer show!" and "You rock!" and "Fuckin' A!" A healthy array of goth girls and leggy putanas are waiting for him--and one in particular, a heavily-eyelined Japanese girl wearing a tiny leather miniskirt and boots, implacably latches onto his arm. She's pretty enough, and he admires her determination, so he decides that, yeah, okay, he'll lay her--maybe even suggest a foursome with whatever teenybopper Billy's hooked himself up with.

He finds Billy in the back room, locking the equipment in the club's storage room. His pale skin is shiny with sweat, and there are dark circles under his eyes, but he looks oddly satisfied with himself.

"C'mon already," he says, as Billy wipes his sweaty hands on his sweaty shirt. "Grab a girl and do-si-do." He tilts his head toward the girl still locked on his arm and waggles his eyebrows. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Billy's grin is huge and amused but he's already shaking his head. "Nah, man; I'm wiped," he says, and rubs at his eyes. "Gonna grab a couple of beers, maybe smoke a little." His eyes drift briefly but appreciatively to the kamikaze girl. "Room's yours if you want it."

But that's not what he wants at all. A hot fury is burning inside him now, but he tamps it down. "Nah." He closes his hand around the girl's tightly crooked arm and hears her soft hiss of pain. "Sounds like you've got the right idea. Gonna grab a bottle of Jack and join you," and then he shoves the girl away. She flees. Billy watches her go, then flicks an indifferent eyebrow. Yeah, whatever.

They steal a bottle from the bar, passing Pipe who's practically beating his chest, he's having so much fun, and head up the back stairs. Billy knocks twice, hard, in case Ox is there, but there's no answer and they step inside. It's fucking hot in here, and they're hot already, so Billy kicks off his boots, skims out of his t-shirt and tight black jeans, and, still smoking, takes his skinny, flat ass off for a cold shower. He watches Billy go, then takes off his t-shirt, towels down his chest, and unscrews the Jack. A couple of swigs later and the fire in his belly is cooling. He sits down on the floor near the mattress, pulls over an ashtray, and starts searching Billy's stuff for drugs.

Billy's got nothing good, just the promised weed and some rolling papers tossed in with his shirts and socks and spare pair of jeans. Sighing, he takes another swig of Jack and rolls up a joint, and by the time Billy's out of the shower, a stolen motel towel wrapped tight around his narrow hips--well, he's not relaxed, but he can see it from here.

Billy slides down the wall without getting dressed and reaches for the joint. He looks like something out of a cave painting, a skinny warrior; he should be covered in war paint. Billy takes the joint from his fingers, inhales deep, and holds the smoke down. When he blows out, he lets his head thunk back against the wall. They sit there for a while, smoking and drinking, not talking until he decides it's time.

"So, you're seeing this girl Kelly?" he asks, and follows the question up with a swig of Jack.

Billy shoots him a quick look, but apparently judges that they're cool. "Yeah, maybe. It's unclear," he says, and takes another long drag of smoke. "Magic 8 Ball says: Try again later."

"What's your other ball called?" he asks, and Billy laughs his clear, pure, stupid laugh up at the ceiling. "Oh, wait, I forgot you only have one--"

"Hey, suck it and I'll let you name it," Billy says, and grabs himself through the towel.

It's a joke, the way Billy having a girlfriend is supposed to be joke, the way "Joe Dick" was a joke that he's still stuck with, all these years later. But right now it's more temptation than he can stand. He grabs Billy's dick--small and still faintly damp from the shower--and plants a big, sloppy kiss on Billy's mouth. Billy laughs and shoves him away and says, "You dick," so pushes back harder, locking one hand on Billy's neck while the other tightens on his dick, to show that he's serious. Billy struggles a little, and so Joe shoves him down hard and crawls on top of him.

He is serious, he is really fucking serious, and maybe Billy catches it, because after a while he stops struggling and opens his mouth. He always forgets what a lightweight Billy is, because there's usually a girl in bed with them for perspective. But there's no girl now. Billy's built so damn slight, and he's got these pale eyelashes, these high cheekbones. But Billy's cock is thickening in his hand, and his forearms are hard with muscles from years of guitar-playing, and Joe really wants to fuck him, has always wanted to fuck him, and that's the beginning and the end of the truth of it.

Billy fights him every step of the way before giving in, and isn't that just Billy all over? Billy struggles to pull away, and then sucks tongue like a whore. Billy thrashes the first time Joe touches his ass, but after he's jerked Billy off, Billy lets his thighs splay apart. By the time he's got two fingers shoved up Billy's ass, Billy's gasping and panting at the cracked ceiling. Finally, he flips Billy over onto his hands and knees and shoves into him--and Billy gasps violently and convulses hard--god, sweet--around him before shoving back against him, fucking himself with ragged gasps.

But it's way too late to let Billy drive now. "You think you're straight, Billy?" he whispers into the soft shell of Billy's ear. "You think you're ever gonna be straight? You think things are ever gonna be normal, with a house and a kid and a steady job--?" and he barely hears Billy's whispered, "No," before Billy comes again, shuddering and jerking into the palm of Joe's hand.

END

for Estrella:"Scenes from the Tragical, Comical, Historical, Pastoral, Implausible Life..." (S&A)

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 21:54:49 GMT

Title: Scenes from the Tragical, Comical, Historical, Pastoral, Implausible Life of Geoffrey Tennant, Actor
Recipient: estrella30
Fandom: Slings & Arrows
Author: shayheyred

My gratitude to aerye for being a quick, wonderful and very supportive beta. This is for Nancy, who has a Comical, Whimsical, Implausible life of her own.

Scenes from the Tragical, Comical, Historical, Pastoral, Implausible Life of Geoffrey Tennant, Actor

Cue
1. Lights up to full

The Sequel
All's Well that Ends Well
October 2003

"I have fixed the toilet!"

Cue applause.

Act V
Comedy of Errors
July 1997

So London, as it turns out, does in fact swing. And now that he's arrived here -- bloodied and somewhat bowed -- apparently so does Geoffrey.

"Canada? Canadian?" the young punk grunts, tugging at Geoffrey's trousers.

"Uhhh, Canadian, yes. . ." Geoffrey manages to pant out between gasps. The punk has an almost impenetrable accent, but he speaks the language of sex fluently. At least Geoffrey is sure he can't be mistaken in the fellow's intent, since there's a hot hand, not his own, wrapping itself around his penis. "I'm not gay," Geoffrey points out, though he lacks conviction. These days he's not really sure of anything. He's not actually sure how he ended up here, for example, in this seedy dive of a pub, in the bathroom, getting a blowjob from a stranger. Or how he found himself in London, for that matter. He just needed to get away, and Vancouver wasn't far enough, and he didn't have the fare for Australia. "No, really, I'm not gay."

"Uh-huh." A wet mouth descends on his tumescent flesh, and really now, that doesn't require an answer, does it?

Unless, like Mr. Geoffrey Tennant, late of the New Burbage Festival (founded 1953, New Burbage, Ontario), late of the Happy Knolls Sanitarium (December 1996 – July? Is it already July? 1997, Toronto), you're never at a loss for words no matter what your mental state. "'Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,'" he orders his misbehaving dick, perfectly aware that in this context it makes absolutely no sense. Which seems oddly appropriate, as not much has made sense to Geoffrey recently.

The man on his knees in front of him has dark eyes, even darker hair and skin as pale as milk. He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black, and now I am remembered, scorned at me— "Oh, shut up!" Geoffrey exclaims bitterly at the voice inside his head, the voice that at the moment belongs to Ellen Fanshaw (Phoebe, As You Like It, New Burbage 1986 season, director Oliver Wells.)

"Oi!" protests the punk angrily, pulling his mouth off Geoffrey's cock. "I din't say nuffink!"

"No, no, of course you didn't. Sorry. Sorry. Please. . .carry on." Geoffrey smiles winningly, loath to disturb his benefactor from finishing what he's decided is a rather pleasurable activity. Pleasure's been in short supply too, of late. Maybe that's how he ended up being blown by a man, something he hasn't done since university, when Darren Nichols—

Oh no, no, nonono, that's something, someone, he definitely refuses to think about; when it comes to never wanting to think of something again, Darren Nichols is right up there with Ellen and Oliver and Hamlet and—

Geoffrey staggers back against the tile wall, hands over his ears, bellowing, "'Enough! No more! 'Tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon!'" which, oddly, he also hears echoed by Ellen (Rosalind, As You Like It, New Burbage 1994, director Oliver Wells).

So the young punk stops, angrily shows him two fingers and staggers out of the loo cursing him soundly and colorfully. Leaving Geoffrey to bang his head against the wall in frustration -- "No! Not you! Sorry! Come back, come—aaaaah, fuck! Fuck! FUUUUUCCCKK!" --having just discovered several painful truths: One, that just being told you're no longer crazy doesn't make it true, and Two, no matter how far away you run, your baggage always comes along for the ride.

And apparently so does the entire New Burbage Festival.

Act IV
Tempest
January 1997

"Now Mr. Geoffrey, you got to take your pills."

"No!"

The big man folds muscular arms. "Please, Mr. Geoffrey, doan be makin' me have to call dah seestah."

"'Angels and ministers of grace defend me!'" The orderly leaps but Geoffrey's too quick, clever with the skill of the anticly disposed. He slides away, posing melodramatically in the doorway, one hand pressed to his chest, eyelashes fluttering in the manner of Ellen Fanshaw as Lydia Languish (The Rivals, New Burbage 1990, director Oliver Wells). "Not the sister, mister, for God's sake!" he titters. "For God's sake. . ." His eyes roll left and go vague and the voices in his ears start up again: For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings— (Stephen Ouimette, Richard, Richard II, New Burbage 1992, director Oliver Wells), Cry God for Harry, England, and St. George!— (Paul Gross, Henry, Henry V, 1994, director Oliver Wells), Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man!— (Ellen Fanshaw, Viola, Twelfth Night, 1992, director Oliver Wells)—

"Mr. Geoffrey," sighs the orderly, a perfectly unflappable African named Adimbo Matakimbo, "you not goin' strange on me again, ah you?"

"'I shall be strange, stout, in yellow stockings and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on—'" (Leslie Nielson, Malvolio, Twelfth Night, 1992) —"'Though this be madness, yet there's method in it'. . . Wait, wait, wait--" Geoffrey's face screws up "--that's Polonius, isn't it? Who was my Polonius? 'That he's mad, 'tis true, 'tis true 'tis pity, And pity 'tis 'tis true!' but who the hell was it? Why! Can't! I! Remember! Can't, fuck, can't can't--" He bolts for the door, but there's a strong black hand on his arm and he struggles in vain. "'By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!'" (Geoffrey Tennant, Hamlet, director, Oliver Wells, Hamlet, Oliver Wells, Hamlet, Geoffrey, Oliver, Ellen, Oliver, oliveroliveroliveroliveroliveraaaaaaaaaaaaaa--)

"What in Hell is going on?"

"Hell. . .hell indeed, hell, hell, hell, ha ha, ha, 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,' 'Words, words, words,' fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--"

"Ah, Seestah Margaret," says Adimbo, stepping back deferentially (and not without a certain trepidation),"Seestah, Seestah, Mr. Geoffey, he—"

"'A sister, you are she!'" Geoffrey announces delightedly, bowing with a flourish, flashing the hallway a slice of pale naked ass. "'Get thee to a nunnery!'" He peers down at the diminutive head nurse. "'My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun'. . . Hmm. Nope. Not like the sun at all. More like the bulging eyes of a goldfish. Or maybe a Pekinese, wouldn't you say, Adimbo? Some kind of animal. Piggish. 'With foreheads villainous low—'"

"Matakimbo," says Nurse Margaret evenly, "set up the ECT room. It seems Mr. Geoffrey needs a little more shock therapy today."

Act III
Much Ado About Nothing
December 5, 1996, 9:52 pm

Geoffrey Tennant's first experience with a classic Actor's Nightmare came during his first year at university, on the eve of his opening as Marc Antony in Julius Caesar. Though the coveted role of Brutus went to a visiting artist, among the students Geoffrey was clearly the designated Director's Favorite, much to the chagrin of some and the particular fury of Darren Nichols (who had been shuffled off into the role of Lepidus). Geoffrey was always the favorite; he showed "marked potential" (M. Henry Pugh, Chairman, Theatre Department), was "an inspired actor, even at this young age," (Jacques-Guillaume Lalongue, director, Julius Caesar), and was clearly "well on his way to a successful career" (Christopher Plummer, visiting artist). He was also considered "eminently fuckable" by Calpurnia, Portia, the Soothsayer, Jane the stage manager, Cinna the poet and Brian the costume designer).

As Actor's Nightmares go it was fairly tame; in it Geoffrey found himself naked and alone on stage with the curtain rising on a full house. He could remember only one line, and babbled "Friends, Romans, countrymen" over and over until the shock of it all woke him up. Thinking back on it later, he found the dream comical in its innocence; at the time it wrenched him out of his bed and kept him pacing the floor for the rest of the night.

The next evening's opening was a success. He was a success. The actress playing Portia learned at the cast party that Geoffrey was, indeed, fuckable.

Later nightmares were neither as simple nor as benign. They became mean-spirited, Technicolor movies Starring Geoffrey Tennant! Directed by Geoffrey Tennant! A Geoffrey Tennant Production! based on the secret insecurities that contributed to his brilliance.

There was Geoffrey's fear-of-exclusion dream: in this nightmare Geoffrey arrives backstage for opening night to discover he's missed every rehearsal because he was never informed of time or place. The other actors avoid him, look daggers at him. And there, on the backstage callboard, someone has posted a note: Don't trust Geoffrey Tennant – he doesn't know his lines.

Horrible. Embarrassing. Unfair.

There was Geoffrey's betrayal nightmare: Geoffrey arrives at the theatre, again opening night, to find someone else in his role, someone already on stage in the part he loves. Someone has stabbed him in the back and stolen his starring part. But no one backstage will believe he ever had the role, and so he rushes on stage, rapier in hand, to confront the thief, but just as the betrayer starts to turn, to reveal his face –

-- Geoffrey wakes, frustrated, angry. Hurt.

Then there was the fear dream, which thankfully he suffered only once, following a drunken, debauched, discussion-filled night, Ellen and Oliver sprawling next to him on Oliver's ancient couches, speaking of nothing but Hamlet, Hamlet, Hamlet. A glorious night. A terrifying realization: I am going to take on Hamlet next season.

In the dream he is performing How all occasions do inform against me while massive steam engines repeatedly hurtle towards him from the wings. He cannot finish a thought, nor grasp the meaning of his words, for fear of being obliterated--

--and he's naked.

That one would have been good for a few rounds of therapy, if Geoffrey had believed in therapy back then.

But nothing, nothing compares with this nightmare, the one he's in the throes of right now. It's the ultimate actor's fear of going up on his lines mid-scene with no lifeline in sight, but it's so much more than that. Time stretches into infinity as the audience stares, aghast, at the nothingness happening on the stage. The nothingness he, Geoffrey Tennant, Hamlet, has caused to occur.

Sweat pours down his face and breaks out on his clammy hands. There is a remote buzzing in his ears, a rumble of unease from the audience, lines thrown haphazardly from the actors impotently trying to spur him to his intent. Nothing. Nothing in his brain. He turns away from the actors, away from the embarrassment of the audience, his eyes unable to focus on anything except his own emptiness, and then he sees it again, the pale face staring at him from the shadows of the wings. Only one word forms in his mind, not a word that will help him, but one that expands to fill every last centimeter of his empty mind.

Why?

There is no reply. There is nothing. Nothing. Nothing will come of nothing. . .

Please, he screams, please just let me wake up, let me wake up, please, please—

But he doesn't wake up, and the nightmare doesn't end, because it's not a nightmare at all, it's really happening, to him, to the great Geoffrey Tennant, in the middle of the greatest play ever written, while playing the greatest part that can be given to an actor. And not only are there no words in his mind, but there's nothing left in his soul but anguish, because she has sucked out his soul, she, the succubus, Ellen, the betrayer, the beloved, she who watches from the wings, watches him drown in nothing, nothing, nothing, she whose grave he stands above. The grave. . .the empty pit, crawling with the maggots of his imagination, calls him, urges him forward to escape this nightmare-reality. So Geoffrey lets himself fall, down, down, down, down I come, down like glist'ring Phaeton, down to nothingness. . .

. . .aaaaaaaand –

Curtain.

Act II
Love's Labors Lost
December 5, 1996, 4:42 pm

RING!

RING!

RING!

"Yes?"

"'Ah! The fair Ophelia!' I'm back! Oh dear Christ, you would not have believed it. It was fucking horrible. These TV executives—gahhhh! I've been through hell, really I have. You have no idea-- the show? A fucking cop show, and it's fucking awful, they have no fucking clue how to—"

"I slept with Oliver."

"—do anything with integrity, and. . .what?"

"I slept with Oliver."

"You. . .huh. . .I'm sorry -- what?"

"You heard me, Geoffrey. I. Slept. With. Oliver. While you were in Toronto."

"Hahahahaha, you slept with. . ."

". . ."

". . .Ellen. Ellen?"

". . . I'm hanging up now, Geoffrey."

"No, no, come on, Ellen. You didn't. You. . .did not. No. No. Why. . .Ellen! You did not sleep with Oliver! Not Oliver--"

CLICK.

"Ellen. . ."

The rest is silence.

Act I
December 4, 1996

One thing Geoffrey has learned in this business, and yes, though it pains him to admit it, acting is a business – is that success generates buzz. His Hamlet opens to success.

Buzz follows.

Buzz is why he's in Toronto on the dark Monday following his brilliant debut reading for a new television series, something about a crusading detective fighting for justice in the gritty streets of New York City-as-played-by-Vancouver. "We think you'd give it, you know, an edge." (Myron Krystal, Vice-President, ABS Entertainment Development Division).

"A legit edge." (Barry McKenzie, Partnership Pacifica Productions).

"What does that mean, exactly?" Geoffrey inquires, smiling a professional smile. His mind is still on the scene he'd played with Ellen earlier, where she'd hurled Yorick's skull at him, screaming Fine, move to fucking Vancouver! Do a fucking TV show, forget me, that's what you do best, isn't it, Geoffrey? Forget the people who love you! The people like me, and Oliver, yes, Geoffrey, Oliver loves you too, and-- And he'd shouted back Don't be so fucking dramatic, Ellen! Christ, I can't bear you when you're like this. If you really loved me---

"You know, Geoffrey, legit," McKenzie says, "you being a serious actor and all. We'd like to take this show out of the usual shoot-'em-up, bang, bang, good-guys-vs.-bad-guys cops and robbers stuff, and turn it into something more. Something different--"

"Different how?" --Love? Love? you don't love anyone but yourself, Geoffrey. You don't love me -- Oliver, even Oliver loves me more than you do! And he'd turned in the door, shouting Fuck Oliver!

"How?" Krystal leans forward. "Well, Geoff -- may I call you Geoff?"

"I prefer Geoffrey, actually—"

"Great. See, Geoff, the title character is 'Johnny Hamlet' – a private detective, an ex-cop who carries a gun in one hand and a volume of Shakespeare instead of a badge. He's always quoting stuff, to, you know, comment on the action, like, 'to be or not to be,' after he has to shoot a guy, or 'it was the best of times, it was worse than that' when he gets knocked out -- you know, Shakespeare."

Five minutes later, when he's been hustled out of the office for shouting I'd rather muck out toilets in experimental theatre for the rest of my life than play Johnny Fucking-Hamlet! Geoffrey has time to reflect, between bouts of semi-hysterical laughter, that at least Ellen will be happy.

Prologue
Hamlet
April 30, 1970

FORTINBRAS: Go. . .bid the soldiers shoot.

Cue
119. Lights fade to half.
120. Cannon F/X.
121. Spotlight, center right, follows body.
122. Fade out.
123. Drums out.
124. Curtain.
125. Applause

BOY IN SECOND ROW STARES, TRANSFIXED.

126. House lights up

BOY'S FATHER: So. What did you think of it?

BOY: Dad. . .is Hamlet crazy?

FATHER: Well, now that's the big question, Geoff, isn't it?

HE TURNS TO FACE US

What do you think?

for Stormymouse: "Islander" (Wilby Wonderful) by sageness

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 21:47:34 GMT

Title: Islander
Author: sageness
Recipient: stormymouse
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Rated: R
Summary: Buddy's still looking at his hands, or maybe the old worn-out rug at their feet, but then he turns his head toward Duck and says, "What was it like to get out?"

Islander

On the mainland, the cannery is always hiring. Duck does that for a while and it's mindless work, not near as good as putting fishing boat engines back together, like he used to in shop class. He comes home stinking on the ferry every evening after wading through nets and nets of fish before they get fed into the intake. He pulls out tires, rubber boots, squid, a child's naked plastic doll half-covered in barnacles. There are other things in the bycatch, too, worse things, that he does his best not to think about. Sea turtles that he knows are endangered. A dolphin calf once, more than once, mortally wounded and bleeding everywhere.

He stays until his mother dies and isn't surprised that she doesn't get to see summer. She doesn't have any last words. He sees her the night before, says "Bye, Mum" when he leaves and strokes her papery white hand with a calloused finger. She's wasted away almost to nothing. The next day he gets a telephone call at the cannery that she's gone. He cleans up and stands in the bow of the ferry and lets the hospital staff tell him what to do about the arrangements, which they have to because he's still not quite eighteen yet, and when it's all over, he doesn't feel any different at all. Bewildered, perhaps, that he doesn't have any better idea now of what to do with himself than he did the day before.

He walks around the island. Some of it is dense forest. Old Wilby is boring and residential and looks like any established coastal settlement in eastern Canada. He hikes out to the Watch and watches the fog bank up thick over the sea. He knows in a couple of hours they'll all be enshrouded, and that feels good.

He doesn’t say anything when Buddy sits down on the rock to his left. He'd wondered how long it would be before someone found him and who it would be. He hadn't really bet on it being Buddy.

"Hey," Buddy says.

Duck nods to him and turns his face back to the sea.

Buddy doesn't say anything else for a long time, which is fine. There isn't much of anything Duck wants to talk about with Buddy, except maybe who he thinks will make it to Stanley Cup finals next month, but it's not that kind of day. They sit in silence watching the waves and fog roll in, and after a while Buddy digs a battered pack of Camels out of his coat and lights up. He hands a cig to Duck and Duck leans in for Buddy to light it. Their shoulders brush together and Duck takes a deep drag. He's really fucking missed this. Buddy always liked auto mechanics better than marine mechanics, but that's okay. There'd been plenty of afternoons like this where they'd sat outside the classroom's open garage door and had a smoke while waiting for Coach to inspect their tune-ups.

Eventually Buddy asks, "You okay?"

Duck doesn't know. He ponders the cigarette. The cherry's glowing bright amber against the dark grey rock and the grey-blue ocean and the lighter-grey sky. He glances over at Buddy, gives him a sheepish smile. "Never dreamed I'd miss shop."

Buddy snorts and bumps their shoulders together. Duck doesn't pull away.

~

He can run a boat. He can fix an engine. He can run a fish grinder, drive a truck, load and unload semis and shipping containers. At the end of the day he goes and has a drink. Sometimes he has a lot of drinks. At the end of the night he staggers home, and at the end of every second week, or fourth if money's tight, he goes up the road from the docks and catches a ride into the heart of the nearest city to find the places where the faggots cruise. At first he's eighteen and then twenty-four and then thirty's only a memory and he's still doing the same thing, more or less, week after week, with his time. The jobs change. The ports change. But the routine remains.

Except when he falls in love.

Not that he'd ever call it that.

Sometimes it feels like more. Sometimes there are regular meet-ups in department store men's rooms and in the basement of the public library, down amidst the old musty newspapers. Sometimes the hook-ups lead to dinners and friendships and furtive nights together fucking in crazed silence, in abject fear of discovery. And sometimes, more and more often as he gets older, the dates break off without warning. A suspicious wife. A jealous boyfriend. Younger, cuter competition. All too often it's just the shine worn off, especially early on, with the age of easy-come, easy-go calling the shots for him, whether he likes it or not. And then he's back to cruising bathrooms and seedy bars and getting his face punched in half the time because who can fucking tell when a drunk and flirting straight guy is going to decide he's not into cocksucking after all.

He tries to have boyfriends sometimes. He feels like it's something he should try. Some guys can do it, even long term. But, always, they each need so much and there's never enough whisky or vodka or beer to shut the need down, the loneliness down, the whining down when he can't tell them why he's so quiet, because he doesn't really know. It's just better this way. Especially after the dying starts and he's scared shitless to get tested but he's also scared shitless not to, but he does it as soon as they start the free anonymous blood draws and he's so relieved when he gets the results that he gets drunk and fucks a stranger in the bathroom of the first bar he finds. And he's careful of the condom, so careful, until somebody walks in on them, threatening to call the cops at the top of their lungs, filthy perverts.

They get thrown out and Duck pretends not to care, either about getting tossed or the awful look he gets from the guy he'd picked up before he turns and runs away into the night. Duck shrugs it off, goes to another bar, picks a fight, and gets his nose broken for the third or fourth time, both eyes blacked, a rib or three cracked, and a weird shallow gash that starts on his cheek and bisects his left ear. He walks out of the emergency room around dawn, looks at the sun climbing out of the waves, and thinks maybe, just maybe, this isn't how he wants his life to be.

~

He joins the crew of another fishing boat after his face heals. The seiner is peaceful and quiet and they're all a strange lot, so they don't bother each other much. Duck spends a lot of time beating the engine with a large wrench. The rest of the time he's hauling fish, like everyone else. It's hard work, but it's honest work and there's a good feeling to it. It's good for a long time, until they get caught in a storm they can't outrun, and Duck's only grateful they're not more than a half-day out of port. Still, he gets hurt on his way below, trying to get aft to the engine room. He's on a ladder when the hardest wave hits and his body goes one way, the ladder another, and he swings out by the elbow, torquing his back and shoulder in directions neither was meant to bend. He falls to the steel deck, cursing, but that's before the crates break free and bury him.

He only spends a couple of days in hospital afterwards, but that's all she wrote for the job.

He doesn't have anywhere to go. Portside flophouses and clapboard rooming houses exist for guys like him, but not for guys like him in the shape he's in. The hospital has a nun assisting the discharge nurse and she takes it upon herself to get his back pay cleared and get him wherever it is that he needs to be. It's an odd feeling to be helped and he wonders if she'd still do it if she knew he was going happily to hell on account of sodomy, wrath, drunken resentment, and a whole host of other mortal sins. He decides knowing the answer is less important than getting himself someplace to recuperate, and he surprises himself a little when he answers, "Wilby Island, ma'am." The house is still there, after all, all boarded up against the weather, but still his.

It isn't home. He's knows now that he never really had one, even when he still lived there, but maybe it'll do for now. He watches her open a bus schedule and begin to jot down numbers in a tiny, immaculate hand.

~

When he gets off the ferry, Duck can't believe how much and how little the place has changed. Cell phone towers, all the way out here. He shouldn't be surprised. He finds the Wilby taxi outside the little diner next to the ferry platform and Hank gives him a ride for free being as how Duck looks like eight-year-old shit warmed over. Duck promises to buy him a beer after he heals up a little and they call it even. The house is cold and musty and damp but intact enough for now, especially given the pittance he's sent Al McIntyre each year for basic upkeep. Duck hurts too much to relight the damned pilot light, so he puts mothballed sheets on his old bed, takes a pile of quilts out of the cedar chest, dry-swallows another pain pill, and goes to sleep.

It's two and a half months before he discovers the Watch has become what it's become.

It's another five before Buddy lets on that he's been following him while on his supposed patrols of the island. Not even following, really, as much as hiding in a dense thicket of brush and watching them all, but especially Duck.

One twilit evening Duck comes into another man's mouth, head back and gasping for air, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Buddy staring at him, mouth part-way open, body obscured by underbrush. In front of him, the guy is spurting onto the pine needles between Duck's feet, bracing himself against Duck's thigh. With a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, Duck murmurs, "Thanks, man," and then his eyes are back on the place where Buddy's crouching in the dimness. Duck tucks himself away and jerks his chin toward the road home.

He's been home more than thirty minutes when he hears boots on his porch. Duck pushes open the screen door with one splayed hand and waits. Buddy's pink in the face, but he scrapes the mud off his boots and shoulders through when Duck points him toward the battered old couch in the front room.

They don't say anything. Duck looks at Buddy and the boots and the coat and his disheveled hair. Duck hopes that Buddy creamed himself and feels just as clammy and uncomfortable as he should.

"What do you want me to say?" Buddy says, finally.

Duck hasn't sat down. He hasn't sat down since he got home. He's pissed, and the fucked up thing is that he's not pissed at being watched. He's pissed that it's Buddy. He wanders into the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers, and stares hard at the bottle of vodka in the freezer before turning his back on it with a promise of Later. After Buddy leaves.

He goes back out to the living room and sees Buddy sitting there, looking guilty. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Duck spits out.

"I don't know," Buddy mumbles.

"You're a cop for god's sake."

"Don’t you think I know that?" Buddy's eyes flash. He's almost snarling.

Duck absorbs the look and wonders what the fuck happened to Buddy. The anger is mostly out of his voice when he says, "I don't know what you know, Buddy. It's been a lot of years."

Buddy scowls at his hands and says, "I know it has, believe me."

Duck listens to the way Buddy's voice breaks, watches the way he sits, hunched over, with a nameless, desolate expression on his face. They're not kids anymore. Duck takes a deep breath and drops onto the sofa next to him. "This is serious stuff," he says.

Buddy's still looking at his hands, or maybe the old worn-out rug at their feet, but then he turns his head toward Duck and says, "What was it like to get out?"

~

Duck knows he isn't asking about leaving the island. This is a bigger thing than that because everyone knows Buddy's never gotten out from under his mother's thumb. Back when they were kids, Buddy used to be the one with the crazy dreams of moving away to Toronto or Ottawa and changing the whole freakin world, but year by year the scope of Buddy's world has narrowed itself down to the length and breadth of Wilby Island.

So Duck tells him, sort of. He isn't good at telling stories; he's a hands-on kind of guy, always has been. He gives it a shot, though, because if he's learned anything in the last nearly-twenty-years of wandering, it's that freedom's a lot less scary than people like Buddy make it out to be. So he tells him a lot. He tells him things he's never told anyone.

When he stops talking, Buddy's lips are parted and he says, "Do you think we could do that?"

Duck thinks he must've heard wrong, but the hopeful look in Buddy's eyes isn't wrong and so Duck starts to protest that Buddy doesn't know what he's talking about.

Buddy flushes and shifts on the sofa. After a second he says, "Fuck…I'm sorry," and gets to his feet. "Forget I said anything, okay? I'll just go."

But then Duck's on his feet between Buddy and the door and he's watching Buddy, really seeing the turbulence clouding his face and thinking about what Buddy's whole entire life consists of: taking care of his ailing mother and driving in circles around Wilby. Buddy's still of a mind to push past Duck and get out, but now it's Duck stopping Buddy because he's been in that place and he can see what's going on in Buddy's eyes. "It's lonely, huh?" he says, and his hand curves around Buddy's bicep.

Buddy bites something back and makes a face. "Yeah."

"Yeah, okay," Duck answers.

"Okay?" Buddy asks, confused.

Duck says, "Yeah, come back here," and turns Buddy away from the door.

~

Duck gets out the vodka, wishing vaguely that it was more than just a third full, and they do shots while Buddy tells embarrassing stories about himself and catches him up on twenty years of fucked up Island life. It's really not all that different from the stupid shit people do in any of the places Duck has lived, and he takes a few minutes to ponder that. It makes him feel less like a transient here. It makes him want to finish moving the crap out of his mum's old bedroom, weed through what might be worth keeping, and reclaim the house for his own.

Then he catches Buddy's eyes on him and they're black with lust and he can practically hear Mrs. French lecturing Buddy on why that girl couldn't possibly be good enough for her sweet boy.

"It isn't nice to watch your friends get off," Duck says, letting some of his anger resurface.

Buddy blushes and takes another swig from the bottle. Then he looks up at Duck, a smile quirking his lips. "What about strangers?"

Duck's laughing despite himself and then Buddy's leaning his way, not to kiss him, though. He feels Buddy's tongue move warm and wet around the edge of his ear and then Buddy's whispering close, "I want…to know what you taste like. Can I?"

Duck can think of a dozen reasons not to, but none of them override the memory of Buddy's face watching him while he got blown under the tree. It's a stupid choice and Buddy's still a cop, which makes it even stupider, but then Buddy's hand is cupping him through his pants and he can't pretend he isn't already hard again. So he lets him. Then he returns the favor, more out of a sense of fairness than any real desire to suck Buddy off, but he doesn’t really mind.

Afterwards, though, Buddy looks shell-shocked, so Duck puts the last of the vodka back in the freezer and piles a few heavy quilts on top of Buddy. He could offer him his mum's room, but that seems wrong somehow. And if Buddy throws up, it'd be easier to clean up out here anyway.

It doesn't even occur to him to share his own bed.

~

In the morning, Duck wakes Buddy with the smell of coffee percolating in the kitchen. Buddy lurches in and Duck sees that he's got creases from the pillow, the quilt, and the sofa upholstery all pressed into his face. His hair is sticking out in all directions. He looks stricken.

"Umm…" Buddy waves a hand vaguely at the wall behind him and Duck says, "Help yourself." A minute later he hears water running in the bathroom.

He's set out a second paper plate of toast and bacon next to a fresh cup of coffee when Buddy decides to come back. "Eat something," Duck says over the lip of his own mug and stares at Buddy until he pulls a chair back from the Formica table and sits down, stares at the toast and butter and jelly and bacon, and finally takes a sip of the coffee.

Duck doesn't say anything. Buddy doesn’t try to fill the silence.

Duck waits until Buddy finishes eating and clears the trash. When Duck's back is turned, Buddy says in a low voice, "This didn't happen."

Duck snorts and puts the skillet in the drainer. Turning around, he looks at the way the light falls through the kitchen window on Buddy's face. He looks like hell and Duck is more than a little glad.

Leaning back against the sink, Duck thumbs the belt-loops of his jeans and says, "It did happen, but the thing is, Buddy, it means a hell of a lot less than you think it does."

Buddy shoves his chair back. "Duck—"

"I don't want to see you down at the Watch anymore." He doesn't like being followed, and he's already had his fill of confused straight guys. He's had his fill of cops, too.

"I, um…" Buddy flushes with embarrassment and tugs at his collar.

"You can tell your mum we killed a bottle talking about old times and you passed out on my couch."

Buddy whines, "She won't—"

Narrowing his eyes, Duck tilts his head and lets all of his disgust show on his face. "Do you enjoy being treated like an overgrown ten-year-old?" Duck can be a prick when he's pissed. Maybe Buddy forgot.

Buddy's glaring as if to say that if he weren't so hung over, he'd knock some of Duck's dental work out, so Duck thinks maybe Buddy remembers what a prick he can be just fine. Maybe he'll also remember that he isn't like Duck, he doesn't actually like guys. Maybe he'll grow the balls to ask out that Asian painter-chick who just moved to the Island, the one that everyone knows he's got his eye on.

Or not. Buddy glowers for a moment and stalks out the kitchen door toward the living room.

A minute later, Duck hears the front door slam shut. He pours himself another cup of coffee, but doesn't do more than stare at it. He doesn't have to work today; he only made breakfast for Buddy's sake, for the sake of the friendship they used to have back before Buddy knew Duck was a queer. Now the coffee-stench makes Duck want to hit something, so he gets up and pours it down the drain.

He isn't thinking about anything at all as he takes the bottle from the freezer, that one last syrupy inch offering itself to him as promised. It bites Duck's throat going down, and that suits him just as well as anything.

for Shay: "Disconnecting" (Battlestar Galactica) by mousewrites

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 21:02:17 GMT

Title: Disconnecting
Author: mousewrites
Recipient: shayheyred
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Summary: Leoben didn’t look so good when they found him at Ragnar Anchorage.

Disconnecting

[ LC649 Connecting ]

[ Connecting ]

[ Conntecti-]

[ Connection dropped. Radiation interference. Try again in 52345 cycles. ]

Nothing. Again. He looks around, the flickering light painting odd shadows
in the corners. Alone here, alone again. He isn’t restless, he doesn’t get
restless, but his body wants to move, wants to feel the smooth slide of
muscle under skin over bone, and he pushes upright, swinging his gun over
his hands. His face is scratchy; he can feel the hairs move under the skin.
He pulses a bit more electricity to the skin-surface, makes the hair a bit
longer, less itchy.

He tries again, even though it’s only been 52341 cycles.

[ LC649 Connecting ]

[ Connecting ]

[ Con-]

[ Connection dropped. Radiation interference. Try again in 90321 cycles. ]

Damn it. He paces, his boots scraping at the ground. The sound is muted
here, as if he’s got water in his ears, and he shakes them irritably.

No, not irritably. He’s not irritable, and he’s not restless, and he’s not
afraid.

He crouches against a wall, rusty water trickling down the pitted surface.
He rubs a finger through the trail, watching it break and bead over the new
path he made before spilling over, the light glinting momentarily off the
disrupted flow.

Disrupted flow. That’s what’s wrong, just not used to this…
disconnectedness. He sighs, shutting his eyes. The rust is gritty against
his fingers as he rubs his hands together. He can do this; he’s doing it,
its done.

He arrived hours ago. Hours and hours by the human’s reckoning, and it
couldn’t be long now before they figured it out, before they came here
looking for weapons that would not help them. He’s explored every inch of
this place, mapping it firmly in his mind. The environmental controls are
close to breaking down, and the air is hot, wet. Moisture slicks everything.
It didn’t bother him at first, but he’s sick of being damp, of being hot.
He’s dropped his body temperature as low as he can without causing damage to
his systems, and still he feels too hot. He’s exuding moisture at an
alarming rate. He’s already drunk two of the six canteens he has in the
ship. He’s thinking about drinking the third, but is trying to slow down. He
can smell himself; sweat and dirt and the iron from his hands.

He’s here, waiting for the humans to come. They will come, they have no
choice. No choice, no plan, and no real hope. They have forsaken God, and
God has smiled upon a new era, chosen a new people. His people. His era.

He tries to find that place inside him, the place full of God, but it feels
empty, and he flings his hand out, clanging it against the metal wall. Water
splashes in a glittering arc over his face.

[ LC649 Connecting ]

[ Con-]

[ Connection dropped. Radiation interference. Try again in 6580 cycles. ]

[ LC649 Connecting ]

[ Connection dropped. Radiation interference. Try again in 6221 cycles. ]

[ LC649 Connecting ]

[ Connection dropped. Radiation interference. Try again in 5758 cycles. ]

He glares up into the darkness overhead, watching faint drops of water catch
the light as they fall. This place is a pit. A stinking, rusting, rotting
pit, and he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He wants to be back on the
ship, in the smooth cool confines of the pod, or, or… somewhere.

The itch on his cheek has spread to his nose, but he resists scratching at
it. He’s got rust under his nails, and he doesn’t want to introduce that
much iron into his system if he breaks the skin-surface. Not that it would
really hurt him, but it’d throw off the balances, and he doesn’t want that.

He’s off balance enough.

He stands up, brushing his hands clean. He props his gun on the wall, not
caring that the strap is trailing in the water. He shakes out his hands, his
arms, rotating them through full motion ranges. If he can’t connect, he’ll
just pray. Praying is good. Praying is calming, and focusing, and makes him
feel beautiful.

He’s beautiful in the eyes of God.

He moves through the first Hymn, his bones and skin and muscle moving in
harmony, his face still. He can’t do this as well as some of the other
models can, not with his very human shaped body; his stops aren’t sharp
enough, aren’t precise enough. It’s the sacrifice they’ve made.

The dripping water in the background is almost the right tempo for the
second Hymn, and he slows his time perception a hair, matching up the steady
dub, dub, dub of the water with the deliberate beat of the Hymn, his heart
and feet falling automatically into place, and the Hymn holds him for a
while, directing and commanding and soothing him in its beat. Step, turn,
step, breathe, heart and hands and head and whole, step, turn, step,
breathe.

He casts his mind out again, wanting that spark, that feeling of God.

[ LC649 Connecting ] dub, dub

[ Connecting ]

[ Connecting ]

[ Connected. ]

Bliss. His steps fall into thousands of others, measured, perfect.

LC-whole absorbs his experience as he tightbeams it, and they all look at
the strangeness of the thoughts. Alone, and afraid, and empty. Alien, human
thoughts. His brain feels hot, swollen.

[ Not what we need, ] say the whole, and LC649 opens his eyes, pulling out
of the Hymn.

“Not what I want,” he says, “How long?”

[ not long now. Wait. Wait. Stay strong, be human for them. ]

He looks at his body, soft and pink and fleshy, his hands like thick coated
wires. His nose itches. His eyes hurt.

“I will. I will tell him.”

A pulse of duty love unity comes over the link, and he smiles, his eyes
sliding shut, his mind as much theirs as his, and long cycles go by. They’re
thinking about God, about love and the plan, and about eternity-

[ Connection dropped. Radiation interference. Try again in 1456378345
cycles. ]

He staggers against the wall, a low noise coming out of him. His skin feels
too big to operate alone, and he moves his hands shakily to his face. His
fingers come away wet, and he stares at them, the rusty water dark against
his skin.

Is this how the humans feel, alone in their bodies, forever cut off from
each other? Inefficient, and so… lonely.

Lonely. Lone. A lone. Alone.

Communicating with only their voices, trying to guess the nuances of each
other’s speech with only their eyes and ears to guide them. They are so easy
to deceive. They depend so much on their senses, and they trust them. If you
can convince their eyes you were telling the truth, then they’d believe you,
no matter how fantastic your tale. They were limited, out dated, obsolete.

A faint, echoing noise rolls down the hall, and he grabs his gun, inching
forward. He hadn’t seen any animals on the station, and there’s no way the
ship could have docked without him hearing it.

There, to the left- He spins, the gun up, his ‘human’ face on, mobile and
expressive. “Who’s there?” he calls softly. Perhaps they missed someone on
the scan.

His voice bounces down the hall, splintering in the air vents, and he hears
it echoing back at him a hundred times, a thousand. “Who’s there, who’s,
who, who there?” and it’s all his voice, and he automatically tries to open
to the voices, the self.

Nothing. It’s like opening a porthole into space, just cold, sucking
nothing, and he closes it again, gasping. He presses one hand against his
chest as if the coldness inside of him could be rubbed away, as if it
actually sat under his skin. A laugh bounces back down the hall, and he’s
spinning to face it before he realizes it’s him. He sets the gun down before
he ends up shooting himself with it.

Stupid station. Stupid humans and their inability to realize their time had
passed. Stupid, stupid, stupid… and the chant becomes the dubdub, dubdub,
dubdub of the sixth Hymn. He can't quite bring himself to move, just wedges
himself into a side room, hands wrapped loosely around his gun, thinking
about the face of God and the sound of rain.

[ LC649 Connecting ]

[ Connecting ]

[ Conntecti-]

[ Connection dropped. Radiation interference. Try again in 52345 cycles. ]

[ LC649 Connecting ]

[ Connecting …]

for Dira: "Trajectory" (Men With Brooms) by sprat

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 20:53:34 GMT

Title: Trajectory
Author: sprat
Recipient: dsudis
Fandom: Men With Brooms

Beta thanks go to gurrier for her many excellent suggestions and for being incredibly patient with me throughout the process of writing this story.

Trajectory

Lennox is washing dishes. He's wearing his mom's pink rubber gloves and has his hair tied out of his face in a ponytail. His mom is sitting at the kitchen table with her Star Weekly, supervising--this whole scene is her idea of punishing Lennox for stealing a pack of cigarettes from her purse the day before. Every time he stops to try and itch his nose or take a breather, she looks up at him over the tops of her reading glasses and says, "ah ah ah!"

It's Sunday evening. In the living room, Lennox's dad has the TV tuned to the CBC, where the Long Bay curling team is playing in Edinburgh, Scotland, at the Worlds. Lennox doesn't even like curling, not really, but it's killing him to be missing this game. It's still just a semi-final, but nobody from Long Bay ever competed in the world championships of anything before, and it is not likely that they ever will again. Besides, Cutter's dad is up there. Somebody Lennox actually knows.

"Come on," his dad says from the living room. "Come on...oh."

His mom clucks her tongue as she turns the page of her paper, which is her way of reminding him he's missing this for a reason. Lennox grits his teeth and scrubs harder at the roaster.

They both look up when the doorbell rings. Lennox's mom narrows her eyes at him. "I'll get it," she says, and pushes herself to her feet. Lennox sighs and goes back to his scrubbing.

He hears her voice change when she opens the door, going all kind and sweet and motherly, and fuck, that means it must be Cutter out there. And does she give Lennox time to get the stupid rubber gloves off before she brings Cutter into the kitchen? No, she does not. She is heartless.

"...hungry?" she's saying as they come in. "I've got plenty of roast left from dinner--it'd be no trouble to heat it up." She's giving Cutter this shiny-eyed look, like at any minute she might try to hug him. A lot of people's moms look like that around Cutter these days, and Lennox knows he hates it. There's no avoiding it, though--everybody knows what's going on with Cutter's mom. Everybody knows everything around here.

Cutter shrugs uncomfortably. He's got his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, his eyes on the kitchen floor. "No thanks," he says.

In the living room, there's a sudden roar from the television. Lennox's dad shouts something inarticulate at the screen, his socked foot pounding the floor.

Cutter's shoulders tighten. "Can uh, can James come out?" he says.

Lennox lets the roaster slip into the soapy water and turns a pleading look on his mom. She scowls, but her eyes settle on Cutter's face and the scowl slips away. "Oh for god's sake," she says. "Fine. But don't think you'll get out of this tomorrow, mind."

*

It's quieter outside, and cooler too. They kick through the wet grass in Lennox's back yard and step over the rusted metal fence to the lane. Lennox starts down toward town--it's Sunday night, the Husky's the only thing still open--but Cutter doesn't follow, so he stops and frowns at him.

"Come this way," Cutter says, jerking his head uphill.

Lennox's frown deepens. The only thing that way is Pickerel Road and then the highway. But Cutter doesn't offer any explanations, so Lennox shrugs and follows him.

Gravel crunches beneath their feet. Lennox hears the tinny noise from other people's television sets, all of them tuned to the CBC. He hears the distant moan of metal on metal from the train yard by the mine; the rumble of a big truck on the highway. It's nearly dark. When they get out to Pickerel Road, the wind is cold and wet, coming straight up off the lake. It smells like skunk.

"Where the fuck are we going?" Lennox asks finally.

Cutter stops walking. They're almost at the on-ramp--Lennox can just make out the sign at the junction: King's Highway 17.

"I'm leaving," Cutter says. He's squinting out at the highway, his hands still shoved in his pockets. Lennox can't read the expression on his face at all. "I'm going to Calgary, I think. You want to come?"

Lennox blinks. "When?"

"Now," Cutter says, like Lennox is an idiot.

Lennox takes a breath. Lets it out. He looks at the highway, at Cutter's face. "You are not," he says.

Cutter shrugs and starts walking again. When he gets to the end of the on-ramp, he stops and sticks out his thumb.

Jesus Christ. Lennox takes a step toward Cutter, stops and looks back toward town. He has school in the morning. He's still got French homework to do, for god's sake. But Cutter's clearly gone mental with stress; Lennox can't just leave him out there.

A long-hauler speeds past on the highway, followed by a string of three cars in a row. The last one slows and then stops and Cutter spits on the gravel shoulder, gives Lennox a look and then jogs up the road toward it.

"Jesus Christ," Lennox says out loud. He has to run flat out to catch up.

*

That first ride turns out to be Bucyk's Uncle Piotr, on his way home from the Legion. He drives 40 miles an hour with his right-hand wheels on the shoulder. He tells them about hopping trains in Poland, makes them listen to a bunch of really dirty limericks and leaves them at the end of his road a mile out of town.

"Fuck," Cutter says.

Lennox wraps his arms over his chest and shivers. Cutter's face still has that same weird expression, though, so he doesn't say anything.

The sun finishes setting. The wind gets really cold. They walk for a while, then spend a while sitting on a flat rock sharing Lennox's last smoke. Four cars go by in all that time. Nobody stops.

"What's so great about Calgary?" Lennox tries, after a while.

Cutter just shrugs.

By the time a car actually pulls over for them, they're both so cold and sick of waiting, they just get right in. The driver is a grim-looking guy with a bushy mustache and a denim jacket that has a half-naked girl painted on the back. He tilts the rear-view mirror so he can look at them, nods a greeting, and steps on the accelerator. The car lurches onto the highway with a squeal of rubber on pavement. The guy doesn't say anything at all.

Lennox gives Cutter a sidelong look. Cutter pretends not to see him. Lennox pinches him. Cutter thumps Lennox's thigh with his fist.

"You boys want to do some drugs?" the guy asks.

Lennox glares at Cutter. "No, that's okay," he says. "But thanks, though."

The guy is fumbling in the glove compartment. He seems not to have heard. He also seems not to be looking where they're going much, which is bad because they're fucking speeding, and there are high walls of cut granite on either side of the highway here. Lennox widens his eyes at Cutter again. Cutter is flushed and staring at his own fists where they're clenched in his lap, and he doesn't look up, and Lennox fucking hates him.

The guy sits up again. He tosses a little bag of something to Lennox. "Coke," he says. "Or I got pot if you boys want. Or meth. Or heroin. Bunch of stuff--you take your pick."

Lennox holds the bag between two fingers like maybe it'll bite him. "This, uh. This is great," he says. "Thanks."

"Cool." The guy puts both hands on the steering wheel again. He's bobbing his head like there's music playing. But there isn't any music playing.

Lennox holds the bag of coke out to Cutter. Cutter shakes his head. Lennox puts it in his lap. Cutter throws it back.

"Oh!" says the driver. "My friend lives up there." And then bam, they're turning off the highway and onto a little trunk road that climbs up into the darkness between a bunch of trees.

"Well," Lennox says. "We're uh, we're going that way, so you could just let us out. If you want."

The guy grins underneath his bushy mustache. "Nah--this'll only take a minute."

They rumble over the gravel for what seems like forever. Then the car lurches over the top of a rise and pulls up to a stop. The sudden silence seems really loud. When his eyes adjust, Lennox sees they're parked in front of a double-wide trailer. Otherwise it's just trees all around.

The guy gets out of the car, then stops and pokes his head back in again. He grins at them. "You boys aren't gonna try to steal my car, now, are you?"

Lennox and Cutter laugh, breathlessly. Lennox shakes his head.

The guy smiles and pats the roof of the car before he straightens up again. They watch through the windshield while he walks across the gravel lot and bangs on the trailer's front door. Lennox takes advantage of the guy's turned back to kick the bag of coke under the passenger seat.

"Should we try and steal his car?" Cutter whispers.

Lennox gives Cutter a look. "Um, no?" he says.

Cutter scowls. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know," says Lennox.

They look out through the windshield at the trailer, where the driver is bouncing up and down in front of the door. After a moment, he seems to get tired of waiting for somebody to answer it, because he lifts a cowboy-booted foot and kicks it in.

Cutter shoves the car door open. He grabs Lennox's arm and pulls him out too. They're halfway to the road by the time the yelling starts.

*

It takes them twenty minutes to get back out to the highway, and all that time, Lennox keeps expecting the sound of that engine behind them, maybe a bullet in his back. But nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then there's the highway stretched out in front of them like a miracle of civility and not-getting-shot and Lennox feels like he could kiss the fucking pavement. Hell, he does kiss it. He needs an excuse to let his trembling legs collapse anyway, right now.

But when he straightens up, Cutter's not even looking. He's walking backward up the highway with his thumb stuck out again, his cheeks still flushed and his jaw set. Lennox closes his eyes for a moment, then he heaves himself to his feet and starts after Cutter.

"Come on," he says, once he's caught up.

Cutter sniffs and wipes the sweat from his face with his shoulder. "I'm still going," he says.

"Cutter. This is stupid. You don't even have any money. You're going to get killed."

Cutter doesn't answer. There's a muscle jumping in his jaw. He looks pissed off enough to cry. Lennox doesn't know what to say to him.

A car passes by on the highway, the wind in its wake blowing up into their faces. Lennox shivers. "Cutter," he says again.

Cutter swallows. "So go home, if you like it there so much. You probably wouldn't make it on the road anyway." He flicks his gaze to meet Lennox's, just for a second.

Lennox narrows his eyes. "I wouldn't make it?"

"Yeah," says Cutter. "Because you're soft." He spits into the ditch.

"Oh, right. So what are you--Clint Eastwood?"

Cutter shrugs. "At least I don't have to ask my mom's permission before I leave the house at night."

"Yeah," Lennox says, "Well, at least my mom still knows if I'm even in the house or not."

There's a moment of silence. Lennox feels his neck heat up, and then his face. It's times like this that make him suspect there's something really wrong with him--like, maybe he's going to turn into a serial killer one day, develop a liking for really sharp knives and a taste for human flesh. "Sorry," he says to Cutter's chest.

Cutter sniffs and shrugs again. It sounds like maybe he's crying. Lennox is afraid to look.

In the woods, an owl hoots, long and low. The wind stirs the tops of the trees. A van passes by on the highway, and then a motorcycle, trailing guitar rock into the night.

"Look," Cutter says. "I just...I can't be there. I can't be there when it happens." He takes his other hand out of his jacket pocket and uses the heel of it to scrub viciously at his eyes.

Lennox takes a breath and then just lets it out again. He lowers his gaze to the gravel at their feet. They've stopped walking, he notices.

"You could stay with us," he says, even though he's sure that isn't what Cutter meant.

Cutter laughs, but he sounds like he's still crying. "You live two blocks from me. I want to be in, in California. Or Mexico, maybe." He takes a breath, wipes at his eyes again. Another car passes them on the highway and doesn't stop. Cutter sniffs and stoops and comes up with a rock. "Or fucking Edinburgh," he says, and he throws the rock hard at the car's retreating tail-lights.

And because this is the kind of night they're having--because this is Lennox's own personal brand of hellish luck--there's a crunch of breaking glass, followed by a squeal of brakes and then the sound of the engine reversing.

Cutter looks at him, his face pale and damp, his eyes wide. Lennox swallows. That's about all they have time for, though, before the car stops beside them and a uniformed person gets out of it. The light pooling from the open door is just bright enough to let them make out the O.P.P. insignia painted on the side of the car. Then a high-beam flashlight hits Lennox in the face.

"Well, shit a brick," says Constable Price, after a moment. "That was easy."

*

At the station, Lennox's folks are already waiting. Constable Price releases Cutter to them, because there's nobody else to release him to. She didn't say anything all the way back to Long Bay, but she isn't blind. Lennox figures she saw Cutter's face. And she lives here, too. She gets the same gossip as the rest of them. At any rate, she doesn't mention the broken tail-light.

Back at home, Lennox's mom looks at them with her arms crossed over her chest. "Bed," she says finally. "Go on."

They know better than to wait around for her to tell them twice. Cutter leads the way through the living room to Lennox's bedroom. The TV's still on in there, though the sound is turned low. It's a news broadcast. There's a story about the game in Edinburgh today.

Cutter's already pulled the sleeping bag out of Lennox's closet and spread it out on the floor. Lennox gets undressed and gets into bed. Cutter lies down on the sleeping bag. Lennox turns off the light. He hears his mom moving around, locking the doors and shutting off the lights. The clock by his bed says it's not even midnight. He can't make himself believe it.

He rolls onto his side and looks at Cutter. Cutter's eyes are open too; he's watching the sky through Lennox's open window. "What was the score?" he says.

Lennox swallows. "8 to 7. After an extra end. Long Bay won."

Cutter laughs, and shakes his head, and squeezes his eyes closed. "Jesus," he says.

Lennox reaches a hand off the edge of his bed and closes it gently on Cutter's shoulder. Cutter doesn't shrug him off so he leaves it there for a while.

"Want to try to get to Halifax tomorrow?" he says finally.

This time when Cutter laughs, it sounds better. Real. "Fuck you," he says.

Lennox grins and rolls onto his back again. The furnace rattles into life in the basement. Eventually, they fall asleep.

The End

for Pearl-o: "You Bring the Floats, I'll Bring the Confetti" (Wilby Wonderful) by lynnmonster

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 20:49:49 GMT

Title: You Bring the Floats, I'll Bring the Confetti
Author: lynnmonster
Recipient: pearl_o
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Pairing: Duck/Dan

You Bring the Floats, I'll Bring the Confetti

"...and today Mrs. Margot Mozer of Clam Cove celebrates her 111th birthday. Now, for WLBR weather, it looks like we're going to have a rainy weekend..."

The banner proclaiming Happy Birthday, Margie! snapped and rustled like a sail in the shifting breeze. Duck juggled the two plastic cups of lemonade and two overflowing paper plates he was trying to carry, and headed over to the edge of the grounds where Dan was sitting propped against a tree. Dan's eyes were shut, and either the shadow of his lashes or the shadow of the leaves darkened the skin over his cheekbones into something thin-looking and tired. Duck pressed one of the cups against Dan's wrist, and Dan started into wakefulness. "Finally cooling down a bit, huh?" Duck said, smiling just enough to let Dan know he'd done it on purpose. "Brought you some lemonade."

"So I noticed," Dan informed him dryly, and took the cup.

"Come on, drink up. We haven't even wished Margie a happy birthday yet."

"Mmm." Dan hummed in agreement. Duck eased down next to him and passed one of the plates over. They ate quietly. The noise of the picnic was muted; only the occasional thwack of a ball connecting with a bat or loud peal of laughter broke through the sound of the leaves rustling overhead. Duck watched the people milling about, loading paper plates with potato salad and barbeque and shrimp cocktail, chattering, and ducking the occasional wild ball. The Henderson's youngest raced past, pursing a cat with stray bits of streamer wrapped around it like a half-mummy.

Duck let an amused breath escape and Dan turned to face him.

"You're having fun, aren't you," Dan said.

"I like picnics. And birthdays."

Dan cupped the back of Duck's neck and squeezed briefly. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go," he said, and let his hand slide away, skating slowly over Duck's shoulder.

"Now you're making me want to get out of here as soon as possible," Duck said. Dan just smiled at him and stood, grabbing the used plates and cups. Duck levered himself up off the ground with one hand and walked with Dan back to the main party.

Irene gave them a reluctant nod as they passed, although her pinched look of disapproval had never changed. Duck raised his hand in greeting, but Dan ignored her. "A woman that sour, she must be poisoning herself with all that bitterness," Dan muttered.

"Leave her be, Dan. She's happiest when she's got something to complain about."

"She must be ecstatic we never moved away, then."

Duck snorted. It was true, they'd never moved off-island, although they'd talked about it years ago, around the time they'd decided to live together. They did visit Texas once, though.

"Texas was too hot, anyway," Dan added.

"We really must be married. You always know what I'm thinking," Duck said.

Dan smiled and knocked his knuckles lightly against Duck's temple. "You're just easy to read," Dan said softly, and brushed his thumb over Duck's eyebrow. Duck closed his eyes.

"Hey, you got a light?" an impatient female voice interrupted.

"Mackenzie, hi." Dan said, as Duck scrambled to fish out his Zippo and light Mackenzie's cigarette. She wobbled slightly as her high heels sunk into the grass.

"Careful of the hair!" she snapped, inhaling smoke and adjusting her designer suit.

"How's New York been treating you?" Duck asked.

"The smokes are even more expensive than they are here, but at least the packaging isn't entirely obliterated by these moronic warning labels."

"Mackenzie--" Duck started to say.

"Oh, it's fine. I'll be running the magazine within the next five years, and my boyfriend is a personal trainer. Plus, I'm making tons of money. Thanks for the light, I'm going to go rub my good fortune in Irene's face now."

Dan turned aside as Mackenzie teetered past them, but Duck could still see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. The plaid cloth of his shirt looked like a twisted grid, wrinkled and quivering with the force of Dan's amusement and tilted with the list of his customary posture. Dan's left shoulder was always a little higher than his right -- the slight difference became more pronounced with every passing year.

Duck's throat felt thick. He pressed his forehead against the back of Dan's still-shaking shoulder.

"Hey, wha--?" Dan twisted his head around and half-reached for Duck. "You okay?"

Duck lifted his head. "I'm fine, I'm great." He really was. "I'm just glad we came."

"Yeah, me too," said Dan.

On their way over to Margie's wheelchair, Carol swooped down upon them. "Duck, the banner looks great! Oh, and, Dan -- did you get my message? We'll be needing three more of those chairs for council room. I hope you guys can get them made on time."

"Carol, we can't possibly --"

"We'll pay double for the rush job."

"Well, maybe by November?" Duck suggested.

"Done. Sorry, can't talk, gotta go, the committee heads are waiting for me." Carol bustled off with a backward wave.

Duck turned to Dan. "You grew up on the mainland. Tell me, our women are just special, aren't they?"

Dan nodded solemnly, and Duck bumped him with his elbow and started walking. Dan loped alongside him, tall and broad and quiet like always. He still looked like everything Duck had ever wanted.

The breeze died down, and the sun worked at baking them with double the intensity of before. Dan's forehead was shiny, and Duck felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. They drew closer to Margie, who had a yellow paper crown perched on top of her wispy hair, and a small trickle of drool leaking out of the corner of her mouth. Dan approached her and lifted his chin, the way he always did whenever he was about to raise his voice. "Happy Birthd-- oh, she's asleep."

"Let's make sure she doesn't get sunburnt out here," Duck said, and he grabbed the handles as Dan lifted the footrest off the ground. They situated Margie at a table with a big umbrella and plenty of shade. Margie snored a little. Dan patted her hand. Duck pecked her on the cheek, and jumped as a heavy hand thumped him on the back.

"Do I have to arrest you for taking advantage of little old ladies?" Buddy asked.

"You caught me, mayor," Duck said.

"Don't remind me," said Buddy. "I'm pretty sure I preferred being a cop."

"Carol sure looks happy," Dan said.

"Oh, and tell her I think Deena's actually going to buy that painting hanging up at Iggy's," Duck added. "I saw her staring at it and looking at her checkbook last weekend."

"Why do people think that you're not as much of a horrible gossip as the rest of us?" Buddy asked with a smile.

Dan cleared his throat.

"Yeah, so, uh, take care," Duck said, and waved. Buddy left. "You're not still on about that, are you?" Dan scowled. Duck laughed. "You are so cute when you're jealous. Especially when it's all in your imagination. Come on, let's go home."

Duck linked their fingers together and rubbed at Dan's wrist with his thumb. They ambled past the long table piled high with presents, past the ballfield, past clusters of chatting friends and neighbors, past Irene's permanent scowl. "Well, if it isn't a parade of two," she said as they walked by.

"Yeah, I guess it is," said Duck, pleased with the notion.

"You don't react like a normal person," said Dan, shooting Irene a killing look.

"I'm luckier than a normal person," Duck said. "Who wouldn't want to have a parade?"

for Ces: "When There's Nothing Left to Burn..." (Twitch City) by pearl_o

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 20:47:07 GMT

Title: When There's Nothing Left to Burn, You Have to Set Yourself On Fire
Author: pearl_o
Fandom: Twitch City
Recipient: cesperanza

When There's Nothing Left to Burn, You Have to Set Yourself On Fire

Hope said, "How do I look?"

"Great," said Curtis.

"Curtis, you're not even looking."

Curtis looked away from the television and looked her up and down. "You look great." He turned his attention back to the show.

"It's just, I'm a little nervous, you know?" Hope smoothed the fabric of her bridesmaid's dress down her thighs worriedly. "I mean, all my friends are getting married now and having babies and now Sara's getting married and it's just going to be me left -- and I don't even have a date to the wedding, so I'm going to be stuck dancing with her brothers and cousins all night -- not that I blame you, Curtis, I don't expect you to go to weddings with me, I understand -- oh god, this dress is hideous, isn't it?" Hope stared down at the giant bow across her bodice.

"I think you look great," Curtis repeated.

"It's seafoam green, Curtis. Nobody looks good in seafoam green. And I have enough make-up on to stop a truck."

Curtis glanced at her for a second. "Yeah, but it makes your ass look good, though."

"Really?" said Hope. She twisted her head, trying to get a good look over her shoulder.

"Oh, yeah," Curtis said. "Really great. If Rex Reilly wasn't coming on in five minutes--" Curtis blew out a long breath, shaking his head. "Whoa, boy."

Hope beamed. "Thank you, Curtis." She crossed the room and kissed his forehead. "I left phone numbers on the fridge, and there's food inside that should last you till I get back. If you need anything you can call Newbie or my dad or the church. Have fun."

"Uh-huh," said Curtis, his attention back to the dancing animals on the television screen. Hope was halfway out the door when he called after her. "Hey, can you throw the Frooty-O's in here?"

"Curtis, I'm going to be late--" Hope said, halfway out the door.

"Fine," said Curtis, "no need to get all huffy and irrational about it, Hope. I'll get the things myself. Just go."

Hope sighed and marched down the stairs in her dyed heels.

Sara's husband's brother James returned to their table at the reception with two glasses of champagne. Hope restrained herself from downing hers all in one gulp.

"Thank you."

"No problem." He smiled at her widely -- he had what seemed like an abnormally large amount of teeth -- and sat down next to her, awfully close. "So, Hope. What do you do?"

Oh, wonderful; time for 20 Questions. "Oh, I, uh, right now I'm working in a pet supply shop part time? We sell, um, food and treats and toys and clothes and things."

James nodded at her like that was actually fascinating. Hope took a sip of her drink and and felt the bubbles tickle her throat. "And you? What do you do?"

"I'm a pediatric oncologist."

"Oh," said Hope.

"I work with babies with cancer," James explained seriously.

Hope gave him a tight, close-lipped smile and didn't say I know what pediatric oncology is, jerkwad. "How interesting," she said instead.

James scooted his chair in a little closer. "So, I hear you live in the city?"

Under the table, he set his hand down firmly on Hope's knee, and Hope jerked.

"Ah -- yes, my boyfriend and I have a really nice apartment in Kensington Market," Hope said quickly. James raised his eyebrow and Hope said, "He, um, he couldn't make it today."

The hand let go of her leg, and James leaned back slightly in his chair. "I see," he said. "And what does he do?"

Hope had been dating Curtis for more than a year now. You would think that was plenty of time to figure out a decent answer to that question. "He's ... in between jobs right now," Hope said weakly, trying not to let the sentence turn into a question.

"Mmm-hmm," James said.

Hope took a long sip of champagne.

Curtis was asleep on the couch when she got home. The TV was blaring still, playing some infomercial about vacuum-sealing your food. Curtis was still wearing the clothes he'd had on when she left in the morning, jeans he'd been wearing for three days and an ugly yellow t-shirt that Hope had accidentally shrunk in the hot water last time she did laundry. His mouth was half-open and one cheek was smashed down into the couch cushion.

He looked kind of ... sweet.

Hope stood in the living room for a minute, frowning and watching him, trying to decide whether she should bother turning off the TV, or maybe at least throw a blanket over him or something.

She decided he probably wouldn't thank her anyway, though, so instead of doing either she just kicked off her ugly uncomfortable shoes and went to her room. She was too tired to even take care of the dress, so she just left it crumpled in a pile on the floor while she put on her nightshirt and crawled into her bed to collapse.

Hope woke up with all of the covers kicked to the end of the bed and Curtis pressed up all along her backside. It was hot, uncomfortably so -- it felt like her hair was sweating -- and she squirmed a little away from Curtis's warmth. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate him, didn't appreciate the thought -- she thought it was nice and all, and she loved him, but -- she turned onto her back and pushed Curtis's hand off her stomach.

Curtis stirred a little next to her and said foggily, "What are you doing?"

"Go back to sleep," Hope said. She started to sit up to get out of bed, but Curtis grabbed her arm suddenly, and pulled her back down with him without opening his eyes. He rolled halfway over to her and started kissing and nibbling her neck.

Hope stared up at the ceiling. "Curtis, it's -- I'm not in the mood."

"Oh?" Curtis said against her skin. "Are you sure? Because it's no problem for me or anything." He had slipped his hand up underneath her nightshirt, all the way up her legs, till his thumb was making slow circles on her inner thighs, just below her panties.

"Curtis--" Hope said helplessly.

"Yeah, Hope?" Curtis said. He raised his head and looked at her. His hair was messy from sleep, his eyes were dark, he was half-smiling -- god, Hope had no idea why she was so attracted to Curtis, but it didn't change the fact that she was. It was just all so infuriating sometimes.

Hope twisted out from underneath Curtis and got up from the bed. She raised her nightshirt over her head and dropped it on the floor, on top of the dress from last night, and then slipped her panties off, too. Curtis was still sitting on the bed, watching her eagerly. Hope crawled back onto the bed, pushing Curtis down onto his back, and climbed on top to straddle him.

Hope closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she gazed down at Curtis; he was grinning back up at her.

"You going to sock it to me?"

"You bet I am," Hope said, and she leaned down to kiss him.

Hope rang up the last of the items and said, "That'll be twelve sixty-five."

The old lady peered at her suspiciously. "The sign says fifty percent off."

"Um, yes," said Hope.

"You charged me full price for that cat collar," said the old lady. She was glaring now, full out, and Hope felt her smile crumble a little bit.

"Yeah, the half-off sale is for, um, the items with green tags only," Hope said. "See, you got the ball with the bells on sale? But the collar has a red tag, so it's full price."

"How do you live with yourself?" The old woman's voice wavered as she raised her voice louder and louder. "Cheating a poor old woman? I'm on a fixed income, missy!"

Other people in the store were looking over at them now; Hope tried to keep herself from wincing. "Honestly, I'm not cheating you--"

"I want to speak with your manager," the old woman said coldly.

"I don't think that's--"

"Now."

Hope swallowed back the words in her throat and smiled. "All right, ma'am."

Her brother had picked out the restaurant for dinner; it made Hope want to scream. Just the decor was bad enough -- it was dark and stodgy and reminded her of some sort of evil Victorian men's club. The food wasn't any better, either. Dad and Brian might be grunting in pleasure of their steaks, but Hope's pasta tasted like buttery glue.

Hope picked and poked at her plate slowly.

"Well, Hope," Dad said, putting down his fork. "How are things at the pizzeria?"

Hope had to look up from her dinner to answer where he could see her lips. "I'm not working there anymore."

Dad frowned. "What happened?"

"It didn't work out. I'm working at a pet supply shop now."

"I thought you didn't like dogs," Brian said, giving her a curious look.

"I like dogs fine," said Hope.

"Hmm," Dad said. "Well, how's Curtis?"

Hope tried to smile. "Oh, well, you know Curtis. Same as always."

"Speaking of Curtis," Brian said, in a voice so hearty it made Hope want to stab him with her fork, "how come you didn't drag him along tonight?"

Hope's sister-in-law Chelsea leaned over the table and said in her tiny whispery voice, "He's certainly welcome! We'd love to get a chance to meet him."

"My treat," Brian added, grinning.

"Curtis doesn't leave the house," Hope said wearily.

"What, at all?" Brian looked surprised. "I thought you were exaggerating."

Hope looked back down at her plate. Her dad said, "Curtis isn't a man of action like you, Brian. Curtis is a philosopher." He sounded proud.

"Uh-huh." Her brother sounded less impressed.

"So what's going on with you two?" Hope said. She was trying to sound cheerful but it might have just been kind of desperate.

Chelsea beamed. "We have such exciting news!"

"Actually," Brian said, puffing up, "we asked you two out for dinner so we could tell you in person."

"What's that?" Dad said.

Chelsea wrapped her arm around Brian's and squeezed. "We're going to have a baby!" she squealed.

Hope raised her eyebrows.

"Wow," she said flatly. "That's great."

When she got home Curtis was watching something on the international channel. Hope went straight to the kitchen. She filled up Lucky's food dish, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped up the milk Curtis had spilled on the counter while she was out.

The last beer was still in the fridge where she'd hidden it behind the orange juice. She sat down at the table and drank slowly while she stared out the window. When she was done she rinsed out the bottle and put it in a paper bag under the sink.

She walked back down the hall to the living room. Curtis's position hadn't changed an inch.

Hope walked over to the couch and lay down, scooting until her feet were hanging over the edge and her head was resting in Curtis's lap. She took Curtis's hand and set it down against her collarbone. Curtis didn't object to her moving him around -- it was like playing with a ragdoll, almost.

"Hi," Hope whispered.

"Hey, Hope," Curtis said distractedly.

"Whatcha watching?"

"Um, it's called El Corazon del Fuego?" Curtis said, glancing down at her. "It's a telenovela. A Latin American soap opera," he explained.

"That sounds nice," said Hope.

Curtis was done talking; he was watching the show again, and Hope watched him. After a while Lucky jumped up to join them and lie on Hope's stomach, and sometime after that Hope fell asleep.

"Curtis," Hope yelled as she walked down the hall to the bathroom. "When are you going to rent the room out again?"

Curtis's voice was muffled from inside his room as he answered. "I thought we were waiting for that weird smell to go away?"

Hope kneeled down and peered under the bathtub -- there were her favorite earrings. She lay flat and stretched her arm out as far as she could. "The smell's fine, Curtis. Can you just, please, do something with it?" Her fist closed around the earrings; Hope let out a deep breath as she pulled them out and stood back up.

"Uh, okay," Curtis called.

Hope shoved the earrings into place and walked to the mirror. Her hair looked shitty, but she was already going to be late for work, there was no time to fix it, so she just ran the faucet and patted the worst parts down with water. "Okay?"

"Yeah, I'll take care of it today!" Curtis sounded far enough away that he could have been across the country.

"Thank you!" Hope yelled back, and she slammed the bathroom door shut.

During her lunch break, Hope got bitten by a German shepherd three feet away from the shop's front door.

"It's not even -- it's not even like I want kids, I don't. It's just that sometimes it feels like everybody else's life is moving forward and meanwhile, I'm still right here."

"Uh-huh," said Newbie. He was leaning forward, resting his elbows on the counter, looking at her with an expression she thought might be trying for calm and soothing. Hope wasn't sure when Newbie had become her surrogate psychiatrist, but he was easy to talk to.

Hope bit her lips. "I don't know what I want, but I know I want something. And I, I don't think Curtis does. Curtis is perfectly satisfied with how things are. I don't think he even has goals."

"Oh, Curtis has goals," Newbie said, straightening up so suddenly it took her off guard, and she stepped back a step from the counter. "Curtis has plenty of goals, he just aims low. I admire Curtis for that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Newbie, "Curtis doesn't need any more goals, because he's figured out everything he wants already. Look at him. Food, place to live, TV all day, hot girlfriend--" Here, he gestured to Hope almost shyly. "Curtis's got everything he needs. Any more goals would just be redundant at this point."

Hope hesitated for a long moment. "But ... that's stupid," she said finally.

"Yeah, well." Newbie shot her a quick grin. "That's the way it is. I think we could all learn from Curtis, actually. If you like what you have, you're always happy."

There was a flaw in that logic. "But Curtis doesn't seem that happy," Hope pointed out.

Newbie just shrugged. "What are you comparing him with?"

Hope opened her mouth, and then closed it again. "I don't know."

The new roommate was about the size around as one of Hope's thighs. Hope only saw her in the hallway for a split second before she scuttled back to her room, but that was long enough for Hope to decide she reminded her of a scared gerbil. Hope blinked after her for a few seconds. Apparently she had put up a shiny glittery sign on the door -- it said "Ming-Juan" in sparkly pen and had lots of small cute cartoon animals drawn on it.

Hope wandered into the living room and sat down in the chair near the window. Curtis was watching an episode of Rex Reilly that she had seen at least three times before. Curtis had probably seen it at least ten.

"Curtis, do you ever think about kids?" Hope said. She curled her hand tightly around the hem of her blouse and gazed over at him.

"Uh, think what about them?" Curtis didn't look over at her when he talked, just straight back at the TV.

"About having them. Not now, I mean," Hope rushed to clarify, "but, you know. Someday. In the future."

"Oh," said Curtis. "No."

"No? Just no?"

"No, I don't think about having kids."

"No," Hope repeated.

"Um, are we still speaking English?" Curtis said -- and it was weird, but just making him finally look at her sent a really mean thrill of victory down her stomach.

"What do you think about the future, Curtis?" Hope folded her arms tightly across her chest.

"Uh, I don't know," Curtis said, looking at her like she was insane. "Is this like some kind of test?"

Curtis sounded some strange combination of bored and annoyed. It made Hope want to smack him.

"Do you think about it at all?" She could hear her voice raising, but she didn't care. "Do you think about anything? Are you happy like this? Nothing ever changes here, Curtis! Everyone I know is living their lives right now, and what are we doing? People are getting married, and having kids, and having real jobs, and, hell, I don't know, going out on dates, going dancing or restaurants or just the movies! Is this -- are we just going to be like this forever?"

Hope paused to suck in a breath; Curtis was staring at her like she was some new and particularly bizarre species of insect. He seemed to have totally forgotten about the existence of "Mommy and Me Alcoholics" in the background.

"You're mad because I haven't proposed to you?" Curtis said, his forehead furrowing.

For a couple of seconds, Hope was completely dumbfounded.

Curtis continued, "Is that why you're throwing a hissyfit? You want to get married?"

"That's what you got out of this argument?" Hope said.

"I mean, I think it's stupid," Curtis said, "but if you want to get married, we could do that. I don't care."

"Curtis, what are you talking about? You--" Hope flailed a little, trying to figure out where to start with the stupidity of that. "You don't even leave the property," she said finally.

"I don't leave it often," Curtis said, and Hope rolled her eyes.

"Whatever, I'm -- I'm going to bed," Hope said. She got out of the chair and halfway across the room before Curtis called down her name. When she turned around, Curtis was off the couch and walking toward her.

He stopped in front of her and looked down into her face. "You're really not happy?"

Hope hesitated. "I'm not not happy."

"Huh," said Curtis thoughtfully.

"I just -- there should be more than this, Curtis."

"What more is there?" Curtis said. He wrapped his arms around her, and Hope leaned into him instead of pulling away, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I don't know," Hope said. She felt tired, and confused, and something she didn't even know. "Maybe there isn't. Shouldn't there be?"

Curtis's hands drifted down until they were cupping Hope's butt. "Look, if you want a kid, we can have a kid. If you want to get married, I could do it. If you want to get rid of Lucky or have a threeway or, I don't know, start a cult, whatever, I don't care, all right?"

Hope turned her face against Curtis's t-shirt and said, "What if I asked you to give up TV?"

Curtis went stiff against her. After a moment he said, "I don't really think that's a very funny joke, Hope."

Hope couldn't help giggling against his chest, and once she started, she couldn't stop, not even when she was out of breath and almost crying from it.

"Hope?" Curtis said uncertainly. "Hope, are you okay? Hope? Come on, sit down." He pulled her across the room and sat her down on the couch. "Rex Reilly will make you feel better," he said, and he sat down next to her again, and Hope giggled to herself all the while as Curtis returned to watch the ten-year-old alcoholics baring their souls to a live television audience.

Hope woke up in Curtis's bed, half-smushed against the wall. Curtis was still sleeping, sprawled out on his back and snoring faintly. Hope lay still, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then she kissed Curtis gently on the forehead and climbed off the mattress.

She went into the kitchen and phoned her work. "I can't come in today. I think the bite from yesterday got infected or something. Sorry," she said, and hung up.

Hope whistled all the way down the hall to the bathroom. Her favorite cucumber melon bubble bath was jammed into the overflowing medicine cabinet. There was probably enough for two or three more baths if she scrimped and saved with the rest of it.

"What the hell," Hope said out loud, and she dumped the rest of the bottle under the faucet.

The water was hot enough that she had to lower herself down inch by inch; when she finally got all the way in and rested her head back against the tub, bubbles sloshed out the sides. Hope soaked until her fingers all got pruny.

She combed her hair out and put on her bathrobe and wandered down the hall to the kitchen. Curtis was eating cereal.

"Morning," said Hope.

"Mmmfflee," said Curtis.

Hope opened the fridge and all the cabinets. She was in the mood for cookies. "Curtis," Hope said idly, "are you happy?"

"Uh, yeah," Curtis said. He squeezed past her to stick the milk back in the fridge. "Duh."

Hope grinned to herself as Curtis left the room. They were out of flour, she noticed; she could run down to the store and pick some up, and maybe some chocolate chips and nuts. Yummy.

She went to her room and put on her favorite sexy black underwear and her yellow flowered t-shirt and her paint-splattered overalls and a pair of flip-flops. Her shoes and bridesmaid's dress were still on the floor from Saturday night, and she picked them up, too.

"I'm going out, Curtis," she called, and didn't wait for an acknowledgment from the living room.

Out in the street, she stopped and picked the lid of the trashcan, and then let the heels and dress fall in with a flourish. She stood there in front of the can for a minute, hands on her hips, and then she starting walking down the block, still smiling to herself.

for lilac one: "Double Take-Out" (MWB/HCL) by estrella30

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 14:49:43 GMT

Title: Double Take-Out
Author: estrella30
Fandom: Men With Brooms/Hard Core Logo
Recipient: lilac_one
Rating: NC-17

Double Take-Out
by estrella30

Another five nights; another three thousand miles. Another shitty club in another shitty town, and Billy was fucking tired.

Tired of all the bullshit, tired of touring. Hard Core Logo fucked him up, Jenifur fucked him over, and this new group of guys was probably no better. The most Billy had to hope for was that no one decided to pull a Joe Dick and blow their fucking brains out in the middle of a dirty alley in Edmunton.

It wasn’t much but it was something.

The show tonight sucked; bunch of prissy, sporty faggots in the audience, all too busy watching curling on the bar TV to pay any attention to the music. When they were done playing Billy collected his share of the money and took off without even telling the other guys where he was headed, winding up in front of a nice, little, homey fucking bar in the middle of nowhere.

Billy pushed the door open and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the place wasn’t packed to the walls with underage bimbos and loud-mouthed assholes trying to pick them up. Kind of a quiet place: pool table, long bar stretching across the middle of the room. He strode over and grabbed a seat, jerking his head toward the beer taps when the bartender walked over.

There was only one other guy at the bar with him, probably about his age, maybe a little older. Dark hair, pretty face. The guy turned and caught him looking, and Billy ignored him, pulling out a wad of cash and peeling off a few bills when the bartender came back over with his beer.

“You guys got a TV in here?” Billy asked, taking a sip of his drink. The beer was cold and the foam fizzed against the back of his throat. He drained half the mug in one swallow.

The bartender snickered and slid a look at the guy sitting next to Billy at the bar. “Used to,” the bartender said, slowly drying a glass with a dingy rag. “It broke.”

Billy turned his head and saw the shell of a TV hanging on the wall, the inside wires and guts hanging out and glass all over the floor.

“I broke it,” the guy next to him said. Billy flicked his eyes over and watched as the guy took a long pull of his beer, his eyes staring straight ahead.

Billy shrugged and turned back to his drink. “Congratulations.”

The bartender shook his head and took the other guys now empty glass. “Another one, Cutter?”

Billy finished his drink and pushed his glass across the bar for a refill.

Cutter nodded and the bartender grabbed both their glasses. “You needed a new TV in this place anyway,” Cutter was saying as the bartender walked back over and dropped off a new beer for the both of them. “I did you a favor.”

The bartender laughed and him and Cutter started talking about – Jesus Christ, curling? and Billy rolled his eyes. Just another typical night in some stupid-ass hick town. Billy snickered to himself, and pulled his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He stuck one between his lips and was patting his jeans looking for his lighter when he felt Cutter looking over at him.

“What?” Billy said shortly. He found his lighter and lit the cigarette, the first sharp blast of smoke stinging his throat.

“You have an extra one of those?” Cutter asked, raising his eyebrows.

Billy narrowed his eyes for a second, then pulled a cigarette from the pack and held it out. Cutter slid off his stool and walked over, taking the cigarette and slipping it between his lips. From this close Billy could see the tired lines around Cutter’s eyes, and something twisted low in his gut as he stared at Cutter’s mouth.

Cutter was just standing there, waiting, and Billy leaned back and barked out a laugh, handing over his lighter. “What, you want me to light your cigarette for you? Are you my fucking date or something?”

“Not hardly,” Cutter mumbled, lighting the cigarette and tossing Billy’s lighter back on the bar. The plastic hit the wood and slid across the bartop, and Billy watched it for a second before turning his back on Cutter.

“Well. It’s been nice talking to you too,” Cutter said sarcastically, wandering back over to his seat. He lifted his hand and gave Billy a mock salute. “Name’s Chris Cutter. Nice to meet you.”

Billy shifted his eyes and saw Cutter sit back down but said nothing. He took another pull of his beer and stared straight ahead.

“You know, I always think it’s so nice when out-of-towners just come waltzing in here, acting like they own the place,” Cutter said. His voice had a sing-song tone that was giving Billy fantasies of how his fist would feel smashed into Cutter’s nose. “It just – gives me a real sense of community or something,” Cutter continued.

Billy slammed his mug onto the bar. “Listen,” he said, sliding off the stool and onto his feet. “I don’t know what your fucking problem is. Maybe your favorite fucking water polo team lost the big game or something, but I need you to shut the fuck up and I need you to do it now.”

One side of Cutter’s mouth curved into a slow smirk. “Really,” he said quietly.

The bartender walked over and sighed. “All right. Settle down, Cutter,” he said, half-chuckling. “Isn’t the TV enough damage for one night?”

“Really,” Billy said looking directly at Cutter, ignoring the bartender. “Shut your fucking mouth, pretty boy.”

“All right, that’s it,” the bartender said, waving his hand around. “Both of you. Enough.”

Cutter took another step closer and Billy could see the way his hands were balled into fists so he did the thing he figured would piss Cutter off the most. “I think I’m done here anyway,” Billy said, laughing. “You yuppies have yourself a good night.”

He could feel Cutter’s eyes on him while he tossed more money on the bar and finished his beer. He knew Cutter was watching him as he walked slowly through the bar, taking his time to look around at the pictures on the walls, the other customers sitting quietly at tables watching them.

Billy pushed the door open and walked out into the cool night air, taking a deep breath and holding it until his chest hurt and his lungs burned. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and when he heard the door open a few feet behind him, he knew it was Cutter without even turning around.

The truck Billy was using was parked over in the corner of the lot, half-hidden behind a tree and in front of a dumpster. He wandered over to it, walking slowly, taking his time, and when he felt the back of his jacket get pulled sharply, he spun around swinging.

His first punch landed short and only clipped Cutter’s jaw, but it was enough to throw Cutter off balance and the next punch Billy landed was right against his mouth. Billy felt Cutter’s teeth rattle together against his knuckles just before a trickle of blood was dripping from his mouth and onto Billy’s fingers.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Cutter grunted, reaching up to wipe the blood off his lip. He looked down at his hand, his eyes wide and surprised, before whipping his head up and shoving Billy hard against the truck. Billy’s head snapped back and hit against the side window and he blinked slowly, trying to bring things back into focus. The next thing he knew Cutter’s fist was smashing into his nose and he could hardly breathe.

“Motherfucker,” Billy muttered, shoving Cutter hard against the chest. Cutter stumbled back and Billy shook his head; his nose was bloody but not broken and he twisted his fingers in Cutter’s pretty fucking leather jacket and spun him around, banging his head back against the truck.

“Watch your fucking hands,” Billy ground out. Cutter was breathing hard and he licked his lip, blood staining the tip of his tongue. He panted and dropped his eyes, staring at Billy’s mouth, and his breathing slowing. He looked back up at Billy’s face, then down at his mouth again, licking his lips slowly.

Billy closed his eyes and leaned in, pressing his mouth hard against Cutter’s. Cutter tasted like blood and beer and he reached up and knotted his fingers in Billy’s hair, pulling him closer. Cutter panted into his mouth, pushed up off the side of the truck, and Billy slid his thigh between Cutter’s legs, feeling the hard press of Cutter’s cock against his leg.

“Jesus,” Cutter moaned, shoving his hips hard against Billy’s. “Jesus fuck.”

Billy pulled his head back and slowly opened his eyes, watching Cutter’s face as he reached down to palm Cutter’s cock through his jeans. Cutter bit his lip and let his head fall back, and Billy took a minute to sink his teeth into his throat as his fingers worked the button and zipper on Cutter’s jeans.

Cutter’s skin was soft and Billy licked across the teeth-marks he'd left before dropping to his knees and pulling Cutter’s jeans down his hips.

“What the fuck—“ Cutter grunted. Billy reached up with one hand and shoved him back against the car when Cutter tried to move.

“Shut up,” Billy said, licking across the head of Cutter’s cock. “Just shut your fucking mouth.”

Billy dimly heard Cutter’s head thunk back against the car as he sucked his cock into his mouth. Cutter’s fingers were grabbing onto Billy’s hair, and he tugged against them, stopping only to moan, “Harder,” when it felt like Cutter was going to let go.

The button on Billy’s jeans popped easily, and he reached down and grabbed his dick hard in his hand, jerking it sharp and fast as he sucked Cutter’s cock deeper down his throat. He kneeled up and felt his jeans slide down his hips and he closed his eyes, his lips kissing the fist he had around Cutter, already tasting the salt of his come.

Cutter let out a long, low moan, his fingers knotting even tighter in Billy’s hair. He could feel Cutter trying to hold back so he held still, forcing Cutter to move, to fuck his mouth to get what he needed.

“Jesus Christ,” Cutter panted, thrusting his hips harder, slicking his cock against Billy’s tongue over and over again. He let one hand fall from Billy’s hair down to his face, and pressed his thumb against Billy’s hollowed cheek, and Billy jerked his hips and squeezed his own cock harder.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s—“ Cutter’s body stilled and Billy heard his head hit the truck again as he came down Billy’s throat, his cock pulsing against Billy’s teeth and tongue. Billy pulled his head away and spit onto the ground as Cutter reached out and hauled him up by the arm.

Cutter’s fingers were warm around Billy’s cock, and he dropped his head against Billy’s neck, his breath humid and wet against Billy’s skin. Billy closed his eyes, bit his lip, and came against his belly and Cutter’s shirt and fingers.

Billy slouched there against Cutter, trying to get his breathing under control, and after a minute he took a step back and pulled his jeans up. Cutter gave him a small smirk before fixing himself and clearing his throat.

“That’s not what I came out here for,” Cutter said. Billy laughed and shook his head, turning to lean back against the car. He dug his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit two, taking a long drag before handing one to Cutter.

Cutter took it before coming to lean against the truck next to Billy. They smoked quietly, and then Billy was done and he tossed the butt onto the ground and stepped on it with his boot.

“So. Take care, Cutter,” Billy said, giving him a small nod.

Cutter stepped away from the truck and actually smiled, lifting his hand in a wave. “Yeah. You take care too.”

*

Six weeks later Billy was in a hotel room in the ass end of nowhere, flipping through the channels on the TV and smoking a butt. He came across some big-time deal for curling, of all things, but the name highlighted on the bottom of the screen caught his eye and he felt his mouth curve into a smile.

Billy leaned back in his chair and put down the remote. He chuckled softly and shook his head before reaching over to grab his beer. “Chris Cutter,” he said slowly. “How the fuck have you been?”

for Miss Pamela:"Chansons de marin" (Buried on Sun./My Life as a Dog) by AuKestrel

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 14:39:16 GMT

Title: Chansons de marin
Author: aukestrel
Fandom: Buried on Sunday/My Life as a Dog
Recipient: misspamela
Rating: NC-17

Thanks to theamusedone for amazing intellectual honesty beta, Värttinä, knowing Hildegard von Bingen, and introducing me to my latest passion, Nordic music. There's no way I could have done this without you.

Thanks also to Denise Raymond for insisting that I take every Tom Waits song she had in her collection last time I visited her. Tom’s The Man, and I don’t mean that in the School of Rock sense. shrewreader soothed me with pithy common sense and brooklinegirl put up with my hysteria and came up with the idea of midsummer secret santa and the deadline that my inner type A apparently needed as an incentive to write again.

imkalena deserves co-author credit for her exquisite writing and imagery, and for getting me over a major hump.

Chansons de marin

If you have a password to my site, the corrected and (possibly) typo-free version is up there: Chansons de marin. Stop laughing, theamusedone. I am not OCD.

For aerye: "The Evening and the Morning" (Wilby Wonderful) by Dira

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 14:27:21 GMT

Title: The Evening and the Morning
Author: dsudis
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Recipient: aerye
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The second day.

The Evening and the Morning
by dsudis

The nurse was so polite as to mumble something about the required observation period, but from the way her eyes didn't meet his Dan concluded that they just wanted to wait for the cover of darkness before releasing him from the hospital.

He stepped out the front door alone, into the falling dusk. It was so much like the light out at the Watch the last night he'd been there that he wasn't in the least surprised to see Duck McDonald standing there waiting for him, though he felt a moment's instinctive panic at the sight of Buddy French beside him. But they were only standing together because they'd been talking; Duck looked up and took a quick step toward Dan, wearing the same bright, charming smile he'd always worn on the Watch.

Buddy seemed to fade away, and when Dan tore his gaze from Duck after a few dazed, grinning seconds, he realized it wasn't just because Duck had taken up all of his attention. Buddy, all six feet two hundred pounds of him, seemed to be doing his best to melt backward into the twilight. He couldn't have looked more different than he had that afternoon, when he'd visited Dan in his official capacity, solemnly informing Dan that he'd be within his rights to press various charges against Mrs. French. He'd been uniformed and proper and apologetic about the clear conflict of interest, and had looked about like Dan felt.

Buddy was wearing jeans and a faded sweatshirt now, and seemed embarrassed to be there, though that afternoon he'd been almost excruciatingly professional. Dan thought it was that he didn't want to be caught watching out for the island's two most recently outed queers in his spare time, but as Dan walked up Buddy squared his shoulders and said quietly, "Mr. Jarvis, I just wanted to thank you again. Carol--"

"Saved my life," Dan said, not wanting to repeat the whole discussion. The words came out a broken whisper; he'd rushed to speak, not preparing his voice.

Buddy flinched, turning his face ever so slightly away, and Dan realized that one thing hadn't changed since that afternoon: Buddy still hadn't gotten any sleep. He looked old and exhausted for just a second, and then he gathered himself and nodded formally, nearly a bow. "Thank you," he repeated firmly, and then nodded briefly to Duck--if he'd been wearing a hat, he'd have tipped it, maybe said something like all in a day's work, gentlemen--and walked away in the direction of the faded sunset.

Dan stood still for a minute, watching him go in helpless appreciation of Wilby's very own living white-hatted cowboy, and then Duck said softly, in his ear, "I had a crush on him since I was eight years old."

Dan turned his head to meet Duck's eyes, bringing their faces kissing-close as he grinned. Duck grinned back and gestured to his truck as he stepped away. "Come on."

They'd agreed earlier that Dan would come home with Duck--he didn't have anywhere else to go, not even a motel room to call his own tonight. And they were definitely something to each other now, more than just two guys fumbling around in the dark, or two guys waiting for the same lynch mob. Duck had brought him flowers, after all. Nobody had ever brought anything but booze out to the Watch. Dates brought flowers, boyfriends brought flowers. Dan just wasn't sure where they were on the continuum between the two, and Duck was still wearing the same flashing-bright smile that had never told Dan so much as his name, out there under the trees at night. He didn't think now was the time to ask.

But when they were both in the truck and Dan was looking down, adjusting the seatbelt that had clearly last been used by someone a hell of a lot shorter than himself, Duck cleared his throat and said in the low, steady voice that Dan had only heard from him in the last day or two, "I just... since I was eight, y'know? I'm not real used to getting what I want."

Dan hesitated for a second--remembered to swallow first this time, testing the words on his lips, unsure he'd be able to say them for all sorts of reasons, and then said carefully, "I was married. For six years."

Duck didn't make a sound, and when Dan looked up at him he was smiling just a little, a quiet kind of smile that would have been invisible at the Watch in the dark. A daylight smile. "Yeah, okay," Duck said, turning the truck on, "you win."

***

The truck's radio played the same station Duck had turned on at the motel the night before. They didn't talk; they were past the need to make awkward conversation, and Dan couldn't think of anything he wanted to say badly enough to try. Beside him, Duck just drove. Nobody threw anything at the truck, or yelled as they went past, but then it was dark; maybe they didn't know who was going by. Something small and optimistic and bruised almost beyond recognition, somewhere down inside of Dan, said that maybe they just didn't care. He couldn't tell whether that was a better thing to hope for than that they wouldn't know, but it was all he had left now.

Duck pulled the car up at a house with its porch light on, and Dan opened his mouth to ask where they were, who they were visiting. Before he'd forced the words out, Duck looked over at him and said, "I figured it might be dark before we got back. I put your car in the garage."

To hide it? To keep it safe? Dan just nodded and got out of the truck and followed Duck up to the porch. He fumbled with the keys as he unlocked the door; he could have been nervous, but Dan would bet he just wasn't used to unlocking it. What islander on Wilby ever locked their damn door?

When Duck finally got the door open and stepped inside, Dan followed on his heels. He took a breath, and the thought that the place smelled just like Duck, but concentrated, was cut off when the air hit his throat, thick with the smell of paint and cigarette smoke. He grabbed Duck's shoulder, tried too late to hold his breath, to hold still enough not to cough, but once he started coughing Dan couldn't stop, and it hurt like dying.

He felt Duck turn under his grip, breaking it, and then Duck's hands were on his arms, hustling him back out the door to the porch, pushing him to sit down on the step. He kept coughing in the clean cool sea air, his eyes hurting and his vision darkening and his lungs straining for air that was never going to come. But Duck said, "Come on, breathe, you can breathe, you can do this," and he gasped in one breath and then another. Not dying, just coughing. He stared down at his feet with watering eyes, and realized he had a whole new kind of nightmare to look forward to. One of the drawbacks of almost dying.

He wiped his eyes and then his mouth with the back of his hand and finally looked up at Duck, who was crouching over him, still holding tight to Dan's arms. Duck glanced back toward the open door with an unreadable expression and then said quietly, "Shit." It was the first thing he'd said since they got out of the truck.

Dan opened his mouth, then smiled weakly and nodded his agreement; he didn't want to think about trying to talk right now. Duck's hands released him, but he trailed his fingers across Dan's bruised throat, and said "You good now? I'll be right back."

Dan nodded again, more firmly this time. Not dying at all. Duck stared into his eyes, searching for something, and then smiled a little, and Dan smiled back. If he could have spoken, he'd have tried to make a joke about what great starts they kept making. Duck seemed to get it anyway. He set his hand on Dan's shoulder as he pushed himself up, and Dan listened to his footsteps retreating through the house, losing them in the creak of the trees and the sound of water--not the ocean, but the river, rushing along somewhere nearby. It wasn't a big island, but Duck had still found a place to be lonely on it.

Duck said "Hey," and a glass, clear but for a faded figure he thought might have once been a hockey player, appeared before his eyes. Dan took it from Duck's hand, sipping the cool water cautiously.

Very quietly, Duck said, "You scared me."

Dan held still, wondering whether Duck meant just now, or... or everything. He nodded slightly, a motion as slight as Duck's words were quiet. He'd scared himself. But that fear was a cold twist in his gut, and the idea that Duck had been scared for him, last night or just now or ever, that was... that was better. That meant not being alone.

Duck cleared his throat and said, "I'll go open up some windows. You just sit a minute." Dan felt Duck's hand touch the top of his head, not even enough to mess up his hair, and Duck was gone again.

Dan listened for the scrape of the sashes--the windows ought to have been open anyway, in July. Duck had probably closed them all right before he locked the door. The sound of the windows opening faded into other, less identifiable noises from inside the house, Duck making whatever last-minute preparations he needed to, or just avoiding coming back outside. Dan drank some more of his water and shifted forward on the porch step, looking up at the clear night sky. The stars on Wilby were like the ones he'd read about as a kid, cowboys lying awake on the prairie with the sky stretching huge above them.

He'd thought Wilby would be like that when they first moved here, a wide-open new start for him and Val. But there had been nothing new, and nothing open, on this little island. He'd gone right on waiting, for Val to realize, for the perfect pose they'd held for years to finally break. And he'd broken it himself, in the end, only it hadn't been the end at all.

***

When Duck came outside, he flashed Dan an apologetic smile and kept walking, halting several feet away at the corner of the house to light a cigarette. Dan watched, baffled. Duck was standing in shadow--the flare of the match lit his face for an instant, and then the brightest thing about him was the tip of the cigarette--and then Dan saw Duck exhale a cloud of smoke and realized that he was standing carefully downwind of both Dan and the now-open windows.

Duck, Dan thought, not for the first time, would have made a great cowboy if he'd only been born in the right century--not the movie-star kind, tipping his hat and kissing the cowgirls, but the real kind, with callused hands and a tanned face, who didn't say much because cattle don't give a man much practice in conversation. The kind who might be thoughtful in funny ways, like knowing where downwind was, and standing there to smoke.

Dan set his water glass down on the porch and pushed himself to his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked over to where Duck stood, stopping a little short--and upwind--and slouching against the house so Duck wouldn't have to look up at him.

"Sorry," Duck said, holding his cigarette behind his back like a kid caught smoking. "I just--"

Dan hadn't smoked since he was fifteen, but if he thought he could have managed a cigarette right then, he might have wanted one too. And Duck--it struck him all at once that it was Duck who was nervous this time, Duck who'd brought some potentially-crazy near-stranger maybe-boyfriend home with him, and what did cowboys know about dating anyway? Dan shook his head and smiled. "No, I--I like it."

Duck grinned, teeth bright in the porch light over Dan's shoulder, and took another drag. "Yeah? All right then." He glanced around and then said, "We're right near the river here," and nodded across the narrow road.

Dan glanced that way and nodded, looking back to Duck to see that Duck was studying him intently.

"Mainlanders always want to live near the ocean," Duck said, in a tone that suggested he was explaining something. "Closer to home that way, or they like the pretty view. The old families all settled near the river, though. You can't drink the ocean."

Dan nodded again, studying Duck right back, sparing a sideways glance for the house he leaned against. He couldn't guess its age in the dark; had Duck been born here? Was this some ancestral homestead? "How old?" he managed.

Duck raised his eyebrows and then waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, well, my mum's dad was a French on his mum's side."

Old family, right. "French?"

Duck grinned. "Buddy and I are half third cousins once removed," he said, "although the Frenches will tell you we're fifth cousins, because they count," his hand briefly sketched branches in the air between them, and then he dropped it, looking a little embarrassed. "Anyway, the thing is--my mum's mum, she was born on Cape Breton and she'd wash your mouth out with soap if you called her a mainlander. She said anybody born on this island was an islander, and so was anybody who died here."

Dan raised an eyebrow, beginning to see where Duck was going with this. "Died, huh?"

Duck nodded. "She's been an islander twenty years now, but I figure--maybe she would've approved of you."

Dan did laugh a little then, at the thought of Duck's sainted grandmother approving of any of this, and the sound came out rough-edged, but at least it made Duck smile. "M'not quite an islander," he managed.

Duck shrugged. "No," Duck said, his smile shrinking but not quite disappearing. "But you're close enough to last you a while."

Dan nodded, and Duck said, "A long while, right?"

Dan shifted sideways, so the light would fall on his face, so Duck could see when Dan met his eyes. "Rest of my life," he whispered, as firmly as he could. He had no intention of scaring Duck again.

Duck held his gaze for a moment, and then looked away, tossing his cigarette down and conscientiously grinding it out. "Come on, let's go inside. You must be tired."

***

Duck's bed was neatly made, covered with a faded quilt striped in red and yellow that looked old enough to have been made by his grandmother. Dan wondered whether he kept it for sentimental reasons, or inertia, or because it appealed to the sense of aesthetics boasted by the assortment of dog-eared books on art he'd spotted on shelves and stacked here and there around the house. It was too complicated a question to try to force past his throat right now, and he tucked it away for the future.

Duck smiled and turned the quilt down, folding it into neat thirds over the foot of the bed and smoothing it invitingly, the patter he'd kept up as he showed Dan the small house apparently exhausted. Dan smiled back, wondering whether he should say something, or if Duck would take the initiative, or if they could carry out such delicate negotiations as "which side do you sleep on?" and "shake me if I start snoring" entirely by gestures. Duck's smile faltered, and he stepped toward the door, finally looking away as he muttered, "I'll just--"

"Wait!" Dan's whisper sounded nearly panicked even to his own ears, and Duck turned back, looking concerned. "Where you going?" His voice failed, the last word coming out a hollow breath. Duck winced, but didn't move any further away.

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and said slowly, "I was going to sleep on the couch, I thought you might--"

Dan shook his head. He'd never wanted time or space less than he did right now. If they were going to be here, in this little house, in this lonely place on this little island, Dan wanted to be here together. Duck had brought him here; Dan hadn't agreed to come so he could be a guest who got the comfortable bed. All the words clogged in his throat. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times under Duck's gaze--watchful and still, too genuinely interested to seem patient--and finally shook his head again and said, "Please."

Duck met his eyes for a moment and then looked around, seeming more uncertain than Dan could ever remember seeing him. It wasn't, Dan realized, that he wanted to escape; it was more like he was trying to figure out where downwind was in this room, and how to stand there.

Dan saved him from his dilemma, taking two quick strides to close the space between them, reaching out to cup his cheek. Stubble scraped against his palm as Duck smiled, looking up at him with that same stillness. He didn't move at all as Dan leaned in, slowly and cautiously, and kissed him.

For a moment neither of them moved, holding the press of mouth to mouth. Dan could feel the tickle of Duck's breath, could feel his own heart beating faster and the faintest tremor under his fingers on Duck's cheek, belying that cowboy stillness. Then Duck's hand settled on his hip, pulling him closer, and Dan caught a handful of Duck's shirt. The contact of body to body was electric, even through their clothes, with the promise of more so close, and Dan broke the kiss, gasping in a ragged breath. Duck settled a hand on the back of his neck, grinning open-mouthed as he drew Dan back down, and this kiss was wet and hot and going places.

Duck moved against him, hips pressing in, and Dan could feel him getting hard in his jeans. He pushed back, his own growing erection mirroring Duck's. This part was more familiar than the kissing; their bodies knew each other already. There had never been time to risk kissing, out on the Watch. Duck's hand slid around to his ass, pulling him closer still, the kiss breaking up into brief contacts of lips and tongues, punctuated by gasps for breath. It crossed Dan's mind that they didn't have to do this quite this way--even out at the Watch they'd unzipped, and there was a bed right behind them--but having gotten this close to Duck he didn't want to move away, not for anything.

But Duck whispered, "You wanna--is this--" his voice gone as husky as Dan's, and Dan nodded quickly, not trusting his own voice at all. His breath burned a little now, but he didn't care. He was alive, and he was here with Duck. Duck's hand left his ass, catching his elbow and steering him backward until he could feel the bed against the backs of his legs. Dan started unbuttoning Duck's shirt with clumsy fingers, and Duck helped him along, their progress only a little slowed by more kisses. Dan kept his hands scrupulously off Duck's skin, his eyes averted--if he looked, if he touched, he didn't think he could stop. Duck got Dan's shirt off and shrugged out of his own, and suddenly Dan was down to getting Duck out of his pants or getting into the bed, and froze in indecision.

Duck took over this time, warm hands on his bare arms pushing him onto the bed, following him down. Duck held himself over Dan and kissed him, and Dan let himself relax into it, the novelty of all of this, bare skin and lying down and being able to see, for God's sake. Duck raised his head and looked into Dan's eyes as his hand moved lower, covering Dan's erection. Dan pressed up, arching into the touch, his head sinking into the pillows. He had to close his eyes under Duck's gaze, and Duck's hand began to move, flicking open the button on his jeans, easing down the zipper. He murmured in Dan's ear, "Someday, we are going to do this right."

Dan didn't think there was anything so wrong with the way they were doing it now, but he nodded, inspired to reach for Duck, his hands landing on denim and sliding around to find the bulge of Duck's cock. Duck ground against his hand, and his breath was harsh in Dan's ear, his tongue flicking against Dan's skin. His hand joined Dan's, undoing his own jeans, and he whispered, "Someday we are going to do this slow, and nice, and--" Dan opened his eyes again, struggling out of his jeans and boxers and kicking them off as Duck knelt up and got free of his own. It was weird, wasn't it, that his cock was a more familiar sight than his nipples, or the slight softness of his belly?

Dan reached for him, and Duck moved into his hands, all bare skin and hot, avid gaze, looking down at Dan like he was every bit as gorgeous, every bit as much worth seeing by lamplight. "Someday," Duck said again, settling himself over Dan, finally skin-to-skin. Dan forgot to breathe entirely until Duck's lips brushed the tender skin of his throat, the raw spot just under his jaw, making him gasp. "But for right now, I'll settle for naked."
Dan laughed breathlessly, and it was a small rusty sound, but Duck raised his head and smiled. Dan managed to say "Deal," as he thrust up against Duck's hip, spreading his legs wider to let Duck settle between them. Duck pushed up instead, wrapping his hand around Dan's cock, and Dan had to close his eyes for a second and focus on breathing. Duck's touch was fast and almost rough, familiar enough to bridge the gap between there and here, then and now, rocks and a double bed. Dan raised one hand from clutching the sheets, reaching for Duck. He caught his shoulder, and worked from there to the back of his neck, his hand sliding on sweat-slick skin as he pulled Duck down for another kiss. Duck's tongue traced his lip as Duck's thumb teased his cock, and Dan thrust up into his hand, his breath deserting him as he came.

He did see stars for a second, as Duck's hand slowed and Duck's lips brushed his ear, and then he remembered to breathe. Dan squirmed over onto his side, throwing one leg over Duck's in case he came down with another attack of chivalry, and reached for Duck's cock, sweat-damp and splattered with his own come. Duck made the same soft sound in his ear that he remembered, almost startled, like he didn't expect anybody to give him so much as a fair shake. He shuddered even as Dan closed his hand, and Dan turned his head for another kiss as he stroked Duck in quick brisk motions, spurred on by the tightness of Duck's hand on his hip, the tension he could feel in Duck's thigh under his. Duck didn't last much longer than Dan had, jerking under his hand. Dan watched his face, eyes tightly closed, mouth working soundlessly; he'd seen Duck come before, but he'd never been able to see his face. He forgot to breathe again, entranced, until Duck's escaping breath touched his mouth.

Duck sank back against the pillows, and Dan looked down at his hand, still wrapped around Duck's cock, softening now in his grip. No hasty zip-up this time, no watching for flashlights, no listening for a warning shout. He rubbed his thumb idly against Duck's skin, and Duck shivered. When Dan looked back up at his face, Duck was smiling sleepily. "Think you can get used to this bed thing?"

Dan took his hand away, smiling back sheepishly, and wiped it on his own hip. "Think so," he said, and Duck leaned in and kissed him once more before he reached back and shut off the light.

***

Dan woke up half a dozen times in the night. The first time, Duck was getting back into bed--he muttered, "Had to shut off the lights," and Dan thought muzzily that that probably meant "lock the door," but he only nodded and shifted back to his side of the bed as Duck laid down.

The second time, and the third, and the fourth, he woke up as Duck tossed and turned, and Dan tried to help detangle them, to make sure he was on his side and that the covers were shared properly. The sky was turning grey with morning when he rasped out, "It took me a long time to get used to it."

Duck went abruptly still, a grey shape against the pale sheets. The whole world was a black and white movie. "Used to what?"

"Sharing," Dan murmured, and reached out to pat Duck's arm, though he miscalculated and found himself patting his collarbone instead. "Takes a while."

When he went to take his hand away, Duck caught it and held it where he was, and after that Dan slept undisturbed.

***

When he woke again, color had returned. The red and yellow quilt was pulled up over him, and he was alone in the bed. He couldn't hear Duck anywhere in the house, but after a minute he detected faint thumping noises and footsteps crunching on the gravel drive. Dan flipped the quilt back and got up, taking a moment to catch his breath. He pulled on yesterday's boxers and jeans, draped neatly over the foot of the bed, and a clean t-shirt from his duffel bag, and headed for the front door.

When he stepped out onto the porch, Duck looked up from what he was doing, attaching something to the garden hose. His smile was a little tense, and he nodded toward the garage. "Had visitors last night."

Dan winced, and stepped down onto the walk to see. Sure enough, someone had scrawled FAGS in black spray paint on the garage door. "Huh," Dan said. He searched for some feeling--hadn't he been waiting for this? Wasn't this what he'd been afraid of?--but the only thing twisting his guts this morning was hunger. It was just paint. He glanced toward Duck, raising an eyebrow in question.

Duck's smile was a little easier this time, and he shrugged. "Would've been me, when I was seventeen." He glanced toward the garage door, squinting critically, and added, "Should've used pink. Pink really gets the message across."

Dan snorted, and Duck's smile widened.

"Here," he said, holding up the hose attachment. "Wanna try the power washer?"

Dan took it from him with a nod. The washer had a pistol grip that fit his hand easily, and Duck loosened the coil of the hose. Dan walked gingerly onto the gravel, chose his target, and fired from the hip.