many ficlets!
Happy Valentine's Day! Today I am celebrating by eating some of the (frankly alarmingly large amount of) ice cream we have stockpiled in the freezer, remembering and appreciating that I have friends who love me, and giving a little something back. Here are a truly ridiculous number of kissing ficlets for your reading pleasure. (NB: I couldn't get to everyone's prompts, and for that I am sorry! I got to as many as I could, though, and I hope you'll enjoy some of those I did write.)
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northeto: Sinclair/Delenn
This was the last goodbye.
Delenn was not unhappy. There was no cause to be, knowing what she knew now: she, and indeed all Minbari, were closer to Commander Sinclair than most of them knew. It was her privilege to stand on the bridge of Babylon 4, witness to the history she had a hand in making, and know it for what it was.
The others had gone up ahead. Delenn lingered for a precious moment, taking in Sinclair's dear, tachyon-ravaged face. He sensed her watching him and turned away from the stars, smiling his wry smile. "Delenn. You don't have much time."
"I know." But she didn't move. Tonight she would recite Valen's teachings in meditation before sleep, and she would be content; but in the face of this goodbye, she discovered a thousand things she wanted to say, while Valen was before her and could answer back. "You remember the teachings?" she asked.
"I think I'll be able to muddle along," Sinclair said, in that delightfully ambiguous tone of voice he could employ, with a subtle undercurrent of laughter that could equally be at himself or his listener. Delenn was comforted. She smiled, nodding once, and turned to go.
"Delenn."
She turned back. Sinclair had left the window; he came to the doorway, took her shoulders, and pressed his forehead to hers. Delenn's human tear ducts, without her permission, began slowly filling her eyes with water. She made no move to dash them away, having learned that certain solemn occasions were not altered for weeping.
Then Sinclair turned his head a little and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. It was something halfway between a benediction and a message. He pulled back, and they smiled at one another.
"Now," said Delenn, "don't you have a war to fight?"
He gave her a very speaking look. She laughed through her tears and ran for her shuttle and the future.
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polarisnorth: Giles/Remus
In the fall of 1988, Remus was living in London. He had a shabby flat and long work hours, but there was enough to eat and he didn't have too much trouble getting up in the mornings. Life was for the most part a not-unpleasant monotony, and Remus quite liked it that way.
On the weekends he would go poking about secondhand bookshops looking for new things to read. One crisp, bright afternoon he went into a bookshop with interesting titles in the windows, and discovered that the selection was a bewildering array of Muggle fiction and quite up-to-date wizardly texts on everything from magical creatures to speculation on recorded prophecies. Remus shuffled through one of the books in bewilderment.
"May I help you?" someone asked.
The someone turned out to be a man about Remus' own age, wearing a tweed jacket and glasses; he was a little poorly dressed for a Muggle, but blended in rather too well for a wizard. Someone Muggle-born, probably. "You might," Remus answered; "that is, I'm curious about the books. Where are they from originally?"
"Most of them are prints from the Council of my employers," the man said, "but a few of them come from a shop in Diagon Alley." He said it in a casual, testing sort of way.
"Are you Muggle-born, then?" Remus asked, relieved to find them speaking the same language.
"Well," the man said, and hesitated. "Not exactly."
What he was, it turned out, as one Rupert Giles, a junior member of one of those organizations of Muggles who had come across wizard ways and, rather than making a fuss, had chosen to stay quiet and observe. Their order of magic guardianship was one that was separate from organized wizarding society, though, and Giles seemed a bit close-mouthed about it. Since Remus learned this over an impromptu lunch with him at a nearby sandwich shop, though, he didn't much mind.
To his surprise the next day seemed brighter. It was a weekday, of course, so he had to go into work, but when next Saturday came around, he went back to the shop. Giles seemed just as happy to see him as Remus was to be there, and somehow this turned into a habit. The best bit was that both of them lived on the fringes of magical society, so they could talk about it and still keep a safe distance. Remus came to have the impression that Giles had had some kind of run-in with magic, and a past he didn't much want to talk about; but since Remus also had a past he didn't much want to talk about, and was a werewolf besides, this worked itself out very well. Their conspiracy of silence was a mutual one.
Just after the new year, though, when Remus came into the bookshop, Giles wasn't his usual attentive self. He was entirely out of sorts. Remus didn't ask, though, and let Giles come to it in his own time. It was only when they were finishing up lunch that Giles said, "I'm being transferred to America. To California, of all places."
"Oh," said Remus, and tried hard to feel like he hadn't just been punched in the gut. "I'm sorry."
"So am I," Giles said. "Of all the bleeding stupid --" and cut himself off, looking abashed. Remus didn't even blink. He'd certainly heard worse. "Well," Giles said. "I'd rather hoped -- but there's no point now."
"Hoped what?" Remus asked.
Giles glanced around, but no one else was in the bookshop just then. "Sod it," he said, and leaned over, kissing Remus, a swift hard kiss that was unfamiliar and frightening and delightful all at once.
"Oh," Remus said. "Well." He came to his senses. "It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Really, it's for the best."
"Yeah," Giles agreed. Then for a moment his face transformed itself in a quick, cocky smile. "I knew you liked me."
Remus' heart broke a little. But he smiled back. It really was for the best.
Forjolly_utter: Carmilla/Laura
On the night we received the restored paintings at the schloss, and I so marveled at the likeness of Carmilla to the Countess Karnstein, there are one or two particulars which I have glossed over. Indeed it would have hardly been appropriate to that telling, but now I think it safe to bring to light some omitted details.
We were out walking the moonlit grounds after Carmilla had tired of looking at the paintings. We went slowly, with arms around one another's waists, and I was struck quite silent by the beauty of the night, and the beauty of the girl beside me.
"Are you glad I came?" she asked.
"Delighted, dear Carmilla."
"And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room," she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder.
"How romantic you are, Carmilla," I said. "Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance. I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on."
"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you." Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.
Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. "Darling, darling," she murmured, "I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so."
I have said before that when she talked like this it frightened me, chiefly because it was so strange. On this night, however, the moonlight and her beauty caused her words for the first time to translate themselves for me. I do not say that then I would have died for her; I was still very young, and despite my infatuation with my friend, I was not given to her excesses. But I understood that all her talk of love and its particulars came chiefly when I was admiring of her or talked of romance, and for the first time I did not suppose wild fancies to explain her behavior. I did not think of disguised lovers or of fevers of the brain; I saw clearly what my dear friend was telling me.
"Carmilla," I said, turning and pressing my free hand to her lovely, feverish cheek. "I do adore you. But sometimes, when you talk like this, it frightens me."
When I spoke this way she was wont to disengage herself, and apply herself to another subject until the moment had passed. But I think she sensed the words I was struggling to speak without yet having the language for them. "My dear, dear Laura," she whispered. "You needn't be afraid."
She turned then and kissed me, full on the mouth, with a devouring hunger. I was still afraid, but I had caught something of her ardor, and though I did not yet know how I should behave, my body reacted instinctively. I wrapped my arms about her dear form and held tight while something new and hot unfolded inside me.
Looking back, it seems now that in many of the most important ways that moment was when my new life began.
Forfilia_belialis: Doctor/Master
Of all the people the Doctor expected to see again -- well, ever, although if he'd learned anything in his nine-hundred-and-some years, it was to never think in absolutes, and to expect the unexpected, especially where certain old enemies were concerned -- the Master was one of the last.
In fact, the Doctor had nearly missed him. Amy and Rory were on one of their stopovers home, catching up with relatives and showing off all the photos Rory had taken, which left the Doctor a bit at loose ends for the afternoon. The perfect thing right now would be a certain kind of sherbet served only in the Andromeda Galaxy, but the Doctor knew better than to take off without Amy. It made her rather out of sorts. Instead he wandered the village green, watching the people. Old man walking his dog. Nurse off-shift from the hospital going for lunch. Master sitting on a bench and sipping at a soft drink. Harried mother with three overexcited children running about her.
Hang on.
The Doctor couldn't help his exaggerated double-take. Yes, all right, impossible things had a way of turning up in Leadworth, but that didn't mean the Doctor couldn't get in a good moment of shock. Right. There was the Master, in what appeared to be faded thrift-store castoffs, his hair sandy-brown again but his face much the same, drinking through a fun curly straw and looking as though he wasn't up to anything remotely nefarious.
There was only one sensible thing to do, so the Doctor did it. He went over and folded himself onto the bench next to the Master. The Master glanced over at him. They eyed each other warily.
"Nice day for it," the Doctor said at length, indicating the soft drink.
Surprise flickered across the Master's face. "You look ridiculous," he said.
"You usually say that," the Doctor pointed out. He considered mentioning that bow ties were much cooler than celery, and the Master hadn't made fun of that. He considered asking what the Master was planning this time, for all the good it would do. He considered asking how the Master had escaped the War again, and with that old body of his still intact too, but the sun was shining, and the ducks in the duck pond were quacking contentedly, and the Doctor decided that he didn't mind living with a good mystery for a few minutes. "It's good to see you," he settled on.
"Yeah." The Master stretched his legs and squinted up at the sky. "Funny how that works out." He tilted his head and smiled at the Doctor, a tired, rueful, sane smile that the Doctor hadn't seen in centuries, and the Doctor returned it readily.
"I thought I might get something to drink too," he said. "Just before I saw you I was remembering those sherbets they have in the Andromeda Galaxy, you know the ones, with those swirls that look a bit psychedelic, but you think you might as well try it just this once, and they don't taste half bad. Frankly if they have hallucinogenic properties they don't work on --"
He broke off in surprise, because the Master was full-on grinning now, as though the Doctor was saying something truly delightful. This did seem a bit much when it was only sherbet. Then the Doctor forgot all about sherbet, because the Master leaned forward, grabbed his lapels, and kissed him.
It was a good kiss. It tasted sweet and familiar, and felt, as always, like coming home, which had used to bother the Doctor quite a lot, but today seemed like the best present in the universe. The Master was the first to pull away, rather reluctantly.
"Get something to drink, then," he said. "We have a lot of catching up to do."
"So we do," the Doctor agreed, but he didn't get up. It seemed too much to hope for that this might finally be the right place and the right time for both of them, but the world could wait a few minutes while he found out.
Forskipthedemon: Doctor/River
Sometimes River was really disconcerting. No, that wasn't right: River was always disconcerting. If it wasn't that niggling feeling that she knew more about the Doctor's life than he did, it was the other niggling feeling that he knew more about hers, and the only reason that she could be so high-handed with her knowledge was that he'd probably done it to her first, only he hadn't yet, and only would because she'd done it to him. It was enough to drive a lesser man to distraction.
On a train in thirty-second century neo-Czarist Russia, the Doctor and Professor Song triumphantly saved the train from running off its tracks, neutralized the amphibious aliens behind the plot, and took back the shipment of precious metals, which River assured the Doctor would be returned to the museum. The Doctor wasn't so sure, but he didn't argue. They stood on the platform together in gently drifting snow, and River turned to the Doctor with a smile. Then she hesitated. "Have we had our first kiss yet?"
"What?" said the Doctor. "Well, um, no. Isn't that a spoiler?" It certainly felt like one. He was a little ruffled. Not that there was anything wrong with kissing River -- he had his suspicions about her, each more absurd and therefore likely than the last -- but it did seem a little obvious. Anyway, she just smiled that secret smile she had.
In a failing state-of-the-art bubble above the molten river of Uenforn V, Dr. Song, newly released on good behavior, stripped out of another layer of clothing. When the Doctor politely looked away, she laughed at him. It was all well and good of her to be in a fine mood; she was in explorers' short trousers and a very nice bra, not that the Doctor knew anything about the quality of ladies' underthings, whereas the Doctor had got down to wool trousers and shirtsleeves and braces before realizing that he'd look completely absurd if he took anything else off. Even removing the bowtie had been a wrench, but it was much cooler with his collar open.
"There's nothing to hide from," River told him, which was probably true; modesty was not much in vogue in River's home century. Still. She rolled her eyes at him. "Honestly, is this early on for you?"
"Yes," the Doctor said. "Relatively. There hasn't even been kissing."
"That's just as well," River said. "We don't have time for that now," and seized the nearest guardrail as the lava below roared.
Then there was the haunted castle. The Doctor quite liked haunted castles: they usually had interesting reasons for being haunted, and this one was no exception. River, who was quite young and sniped at the Doctor in a way some of his other companions did when they weren't entirely sure of themselves, was still her clever self and had deciphered a lot of the ominous writing on various of the castle's stones. She and the Doctor stood together outside the big imposing doors of the inner sanctum, and her eyes shone just as brightly as the Doctor's did.
He was about to push forward through the doors when River said, "Doctor! Wait."
When he turned to her, she looked unaccountably nervous. "For luck," she said, coming forward, and kissed him, the earnest, determined kiss of someone completely unfamiliar with what he liked but happy to learn. He kissed her back, more from surprise than anything, and when they broke apart he couldn't stop smiling foolishly. He hadn't known how delightful it would be to do something with River for the first time, both of them in it together.
Formergatrude: Fraser/Kowalski/Vecchio
The great thing about having two boyfriends at the same time was the variety.
Actually, there were a lot of great things about having two boyfriends, especially when they were Fraser and Vecchio. And not all the great things were about variety, either: both of them could cook meals Ray and even Stella could only have dreamed of, and after some coaxing Vecchio could yell at hockey games with the best of them, and of course both he and Fraser were good cops. But in Ray's opinion it really was their differences that made this relationship thing golden.
Fraser liked making beds and tidying up, so Vecchio never got to yell at Ray for leaving clothes around, and on top of that he'd commiserate with Ray about how Fraser was a neat-freak. An all-around freak, actually, except Vecchio and Ray agreed that this was one of Fraser's best qualities. Vecchio understood some of Ray's hang-ups in a way that only a guy who'd grown up in the same city could get them, and Fraser had been around Ray long enough by now that he always knew what Ray was trying to say, even when Ray wasn't too good at finding the words. Both of them, and Ray too, had a way of taking turns being bad-tempered or worn down, so at least one of them could pick up the slack when things got rough. The point was, three people looking out for each other did a lot better than two, or at least Ray had never felt so ... secure before in his life. So much like things were okay and would continue to be.
This was all great, of course, this was greatness, but if Ray was being honest, the best part of the variety was the kissing.
Maybe it should have been the sex, and hey, the sex was wonderful, it was one of Ray's favorite things, but none of them had had much serious sex with other guys before they all fell into bed together, and when you all learn to do something at the same time, there is a sameness to it. That wasn't to say that Ray wouldn't have been able to know which of them was giving him a blowjob even if he was tied up and blindfolded at the time (he could; they'd tested this out), but even so. It wasn't like the kissing, which both Vecchio and Fraser had been doing for decades before locking lips with Ray.
Fraser kissed like a movie star. Not that Ray had kissed any movie stars for comparison, but it made sense in his head. All of Fraser's really serious kisses were firm and deep, with lots of tongue, like he was trying to memorize Ray from the inside out and nothing in the world was more important. Fraser's kisses made Ray kind of breathless every single time. And if Ray'd had only Fraser to kiss, that might have eventually gotten to be seriously overwhelming.
But there was also Vecchio, and Vecchio, a little to Ray's surprise, kissed like romance. Sure, he could do deep and enthusiastic with the best of them, but what Vecchio was good at were soft-mouthed exploratory kisses, more comforting than breathtaking but still just as addictive. If Ray'd had only Vecchio to kiss, that might have eventually gotten boring, but being passed back and forth between Vecchio and Fraser -- there was nothing better in the world. Nothing.
Foricepixie: Fraser/Thatcher
Sometimes, Meg Thatcher reasoned, a kiss could only happen in a certain place under a particular set of circumstances. For instance, when she was on a train heading for thermonuclear disaster, full of sleeping Mounties and terrorists, it was an appropriate time to share a kiss with Constable Fraser. This seemed to be sound, lucid, and entirely sane reasoning until Meg hit one little snag: she could suddenly think of a lot of other places it would also be appropriate.
While throwing eggs at criminals, Fraser beside her half-undressed and throwing eggs himself. The only reason they hadn't, really, was that Detective Vecchio and his sister were also present, which made it a very inappropriate time indeed. Or just after she had helped Fraser and Vecchio successfully escape being blown up in a courthouse by the aforementioned terrorists. But Fraser had been on the roof and she had been on the ground, so the appropriate course of action involved Morse code, and then the moment had passed.
The real problem, though, was that Meg wasn't just thinking of appropriate situations that had already taken place. She was also thinking of hypothetical situations. Not all of them involved trains, horses, eggs, or Morse code, but most of them did involve criminals, explosives of some sort, and the joint heroics of herself and Fraser culminating in a day saved and at least one kiss at a crucial moment.
Meg did try thinking of less fraught scenarios, but she couldn't think of many. Adrenaline was a key factor; it made them momentary equals, leveling out the responsibility and the duty, and those liminal moments made the act permissible. Which should have made this the end of things: a series of adrenaline-fueled moments did not make any sort of successful romantic relationship. And the thought of genuinely talking it through filled Meg with dread. She and Fraser were far too much alike to get through a conversation intact.
Except ... after the incident with Cloutier, she'd visited Fraser at his apartment. They had talked then. Fraser had assured her that she wasn't a thing like Cloutier, and for once she had called him Ben, and they had been two people, understanding one another. Meg thought of that moment just as often as she did of the kiss on the train.
So one evening, when Turnbull had gone home, Meg went to relieve Fraser of guard duty and said, "Constable Fraser, if you might go pick up the Chinese takeout I ordered. There's enough for two."
Fraser looked at her, down at the takeout menu's address, back up at Meg, and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
He was back in twenty minutes, and officially off-duty. Meg made sure that she was sitting not behind her desk but to one side, using it obviously as just a table. Fraser got the message; he helped her unpack the takeout, and they sat eating together in a silence that was more companionable than awkward. So far so good. Meg knew that when she opened her mouth she was likely to say something ill-phrased and then keep chasing it because it was better to talk than to stop, but as always she was willing to soldier ahead.
"Ben," she said, hoping to take herself back to the other moment she'd called him that, and it seemed to do the trick. "I know I said certain things could only happen again in certain circumstances. But trains are no basis for anything, and of course I don't want to take any kind of professional advantage, but if you were interested I would be too. In something that had a basis that was not trains. Or eggs, or explosions. Normal." And she looked at Fraser rather desperately.
Fraser was looking back, and after a moment he nodded, carefully. "I think I'd like that," he said, in the clear, measured way he had.
"Good!" Meg said.
They kept looking at each other for a long moment, stretching to awkward. Then at the same time they leaned forward and kissed one another, and it was a thousand times better than any specific moment on a train.
Forgehayi: Methos/Alexa
After Alexa turned away from him in the rain, Methos didn't try to kiss her again. He loved her, in that terrifying and wonderful way he sometimes fell for mortals, but he'd lived more than long enough to know that the love didn't have to be selfish. This journey was for her, in all its particulars, and he would be whatever she needed him to be.
From Seacouver they drove through the Rockies, stopping at all the magnificent views. Methos was almost sorry he couldn't show Alexa the Grand Canyon, but if they were going to get to Egypt and the Mediterranean too before she faded, they didn't have time for that kind of detour. It didn't seem to matter; Alexa drank it all in with rapt delight, holding his hand on their short walks and snuggling up against him at night in wayside inns. Methos breathed the clear air and sat quietly among peaks a literal hundred million years, and he was happy.
He avoided Rushmore when they passed through the Dakotas. When Alexa asked him why, Methos responded without thinking, some absurd ramble about a lack of respect for ancient things. But Alexa took him seriously, so as they drove through the endless plains and on into lake country, Methos found himself transcending Adam Pierson: the history student talked archeology and mythology with a depth that Adam never could have achieved, and Alexa sat next to him, asking intelligent questions and listening closely to his every word.
They went through Chicago, of course; Alexa stoically pronounced Seacouver still the best city on the planet, but she loved it there. They took a ferry across the bottom of Lake Michigan, and in hotel rooms planned their itinerary for the rest of America. Alexa wanted to see Niagara Falls and New York City, and she fell asleep smiling. Methos stayed up half the night memorizing the fall of her hair and the little freckles on her nose, and couldn't remember loving anyone as much as he loved her at that moment, which was exactly how it should be.
They reached Niagara Falls at the end of their second week. They arrived at night, and once Methos was sure Alexa was comfortably settled, he walked up the road from their hotel to the Falls. The park was still open, and the Falls themselves were illuminated by bright floodlights, making them look unreal. Methos leaned on the railing, letting the sight and the great roar of the water fill up the world, and wondered idly if he could ever get away with going over the Falls in a barrel without attracting too much attention. Probably not. A pity; it might even be fun, and he could certainly think of worse ways to spend an afternoon than being crushed to death by thousands of tons of water.
He was sure Alexa would have hit his arm if he'd said that aloud.
The next morning he took her to the Falls. For a long time Alexa just stood there, staring at them with that same great attention to detail that she gave Methos' stories. When she finally turned back to Methos, her eyes were shining with delight and unshed tears. They were much too near the Falls to be heard properly, and when Alexa spoke, Methos couldn't be sure whether she said, "Oh Adam, thank you," or "I love you," but it made no matter, because Alexa then flung her arms around him and kissed him as though she'd remembered she was going to die, as though she'd remembered she was alive, and Methos' heart nearly broke with the joy of it.
Forsophia_sol: Methos/Kronos
It was a very long time before Methos kissed Kronos.
He did a lot of other things first. He found a way to turn Kronos' raids into precision-strike stratagems of terror. In the beginning he did this kneeling by Kronos' side with his neck bare, and feeling the knot of some unexplainable want in his belly when Kronos settled a heavy hand there and squeezed lightly. He made Kronos great, and feared, and in doing so, made himself unafraid of his creation. There came a time when he would no longer kneel to Kronos when anyone else was there, but would stand beside him, a trusted lieutenant, and only the subtle gleam in Kronos' eyes when he looked at Methos would tell that they both knew where Methos belonged.
But for all that, Methos did not kiss him. They touched in clasped hands, and sometimes in Kronos' hand against Methos' throat, and that was all. Methos had proven himself too valuable to be treated like a slave, and Kronos, who understood fear and cruelty, also understood respect. As long as Methos planned successful raids and shared his mind with Kronos, he was given his due and not made to share his body.
So it went for dozens of years, though still a short time by either of their reckoning. Caspian became Kronos' new project, Caspian, Kronos' dear savage dog. Methos had a sword by then, and dealt with Caspian harshly until Caspian would listen to him almost as readily as to Kronos, and Kronos did not task Methos for it. Here was where the change began; trust was something powerfully attractive.
And so one night while Caspian sat among their spoils, wrapped in new furs and feasting on lamb, Methos went to Kronos with no new plan, but only the honest desire for his company. They sat in Kronos' tent, Methos sitting at Kronos' feet out of long habit, and Kronos touched Methos' hair, a light and alien touch. "I usually know what you're thinking," he said. "But not tonight. You're not plotting. I didn't know you could turn it off."
"I didn't either," Methos admitted, leaning into Kronos' hand. "I've only just realized: I think I like this. I think I like this life as much as I've ever liked anything."
Kronos laughed. "It took you long enough! I wouldn't want you to be unhappy."
Methos looked up at him, and saw that Kronos meant it. What a very strange bond to have, he thought, and what bonds we forge for ourselves. He came to his knees, so that his face was level with Kronos'. And here was the important thing: Kronos did not begin it. Kronos did not take anything from him that Methos would not give. So when Methos leaned forward and kissed Kronos, and when Kronos responded with possessive passion, Methos didn't do it because he was forced, or out of despair, or even from misguided loyalty. He did it because he liked it.
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kinglets: Edmund/Caspian
It was after the storm that things began to change. Of course with their supplies running short and no new land in sight, things were bound to be difficult: they were all thirsty, and very tired in the sun, and Eustace, little beast that he was, didn't have the sense to turn Lucy down when she was good enough to offer him sips of her own water. But the real difference was in Caspian, or at least that was what Edmund thought to begin with. Later he began to suspect that the change was in him.
Of course Caspian was three years older than he'd been when Edmund had last seen him. He was much more kingly now, both in his bearing and in the handling of his state; Edmund was very sorry that he'd only heard secondhand about Caspian's dealings with Gumpas back in the Lone Islands. And under the endless sea and the hot late-summer sun, everyone seemed to be becoming much more themselves. Reepicheep was fiercer, Lucy kinder, Eustace more unpleasant (and Edmund himself quicker of temper and sharper of tongue, though he did his best to curb it), and Caspian became a wonder. He was solemn and earnest all through the day, and when night fell, if he and Edmund were off watch together, they would lay in their hammocks and talk for hours, comparing notes on kingship and sometimes on less serious matters too. These conversations were some of the best Edmund could remember having, and they made the long landless weeks much more bearable.
Then at last they did reach land, a wild wooded mountainous country rounded with glassy harbors. Edmund liked it very much; it was a quiet and mysterious country, and when he was not working as hard as any of the sailors at repairing the damage the storm had made to the Dawn Treader, he would often walk a short ways off and sit alone, stilling his mind and enjoying the silence. Of course he could not do this at first: besides repairs to the ship, there was the problem of Eustace going missing, followed by the much bigger problem of Eustace returned to them as a dragon. Edmund had some fellow feeling for the poor chap, but Reepicheep had taken it upon himself to talk to Eustace and cheer him up, so Edmund was released from that obligation -- which was just as well, since Reepicheep was much better at it.
It was during this time that Edmund began to discover what his admiration of Caspian meant. The wonderful thing about Narnia is that, once you have been there for a time, you become much stronger and more alive, and begin to remember more clearly all the things you have done there before the way you couldn't in England. Edmund already knew this, having gone from Narnia and come back once before, but that second time he was only in Narnia for a week or two at most, and now on this voyage it had been more than a month. Besides his old battle-readiness and the joy of being in this world, Edmund was beginning to be grown-up again in other ways.
Sometimes Caspian would go out walking with Edmund, though never very far from the others, and they would talk the way they had in their hammocks. On one of these occasions, Edmund decided to bring up the thing he had discovered.
"Caspian," he said, "among the Telmarines -- that is, the way you were raised -- was it all right for two men to be together, the way men and women are?"
Caspian looked a little surprised at this. "It wasn't unheard of, I don't think," he said. "I mean, it must have happened among the soldiers now and then."
Edmund hadn't known he was holding his breath, but he must have been, because his next came in a great relieved gasp. "It isn't all right where I come from," he explained. "In our day in Narnia it was, of course, because it's our own business. But I wondered."
"Yes," Caspian said, giving Edmund a close look. "Did you wonder because --?"
"Well, I rather thought --" Edmund began.
"Oh, thank the Lion." Caspian was very quick to understand things, Edmund discovered, because the next moment Caspian's hands were in his hair, and his were somehow tangled in Caspian's tunic, and they were kissing as though they had had to ration kisses instead of water.
"It can't last, you know," Edmund said against Caspian's mouth.
"So let's have this now," Caspian replied; and this seemed such good sense that Edmund kissed him again, and again, and again.
Forepershand: Clark/Lex
The first time Clark kissed Lex, it didn't count. Kissing-to-rescue should never count as real kissing, and that was true even if Clark's stupid teenage brain kept replaying it on loop and adjusting the memory until Clark hardly knew what the real event had been like, because if it had been a real kiss, it would have been warm and reciprocated.
It was nice when he got some data on what kissing actually felt like. But it didn't seem very fair to think of Lana as data, especially not data for Clark's weird fantasy life. (He did try making Lana part of his fantasy life too, but he always felt guilty about it, like Lana might object if she knew, even after they were dating. On the other hand, he always sort of felt that Lex wouldn't object, so Lana turned him on in person or in idle daydreams, and Lex turned him on in the deliberate ones. Clark knew that was pretty weird.) So he didn't try kissing Lana and imagining it was Lex. That wasn't good for anyone.
Eventually he gave up on ever kissing Lex again. Either Clark was with Lana, or Lex was with a girl or in the middle of a short-lived marriage, and the few times they were both available, Clark always chickened out and just gave Lex lots of hugs. Manly hugs. And then there was college, and then Lex got stupid, or maybe Clark did, but either way, Lex did things and Clark said things and none of it could be taken back, and Clark had to live with that leaden feeling in his stomach that was the knowledge that Lex was a bad person.
Maybe he felt a little responsible, though. He still knew Lex better than anyone, so it was Clark's job to stop him.
More than a decade after the first not-kiss, it occurred to Clark that things might not be as awful as he'd decided they were when he was young and inexperienced. By then Clark had the cape, and the kind of embarrassing public name Lois had fed the press. He'd also fought a handful of genuinely evil people, and Lex -- yeah, Lex had killed people too, and done some questionable experiments, and done some awful stuff to Clark personally, it wasn't like Clark was letting him off the hook here -- but he was also a hundred percent certain that Lex knew who Clark was, and he hadn't used that knowledge against Clark. Clark's mom and friends weren't being threatened. Lex hadn't sold insider tips about Superman to anyone. It was enough to give a guy hope.
Of course, when they had their occasional confrontations, Lex would act like nothing was there but Superman. It was actually a little depressing.
Then came a day when Clark had to rescue Lex from one of his own plots. It mostly involved a building blowing up spectacularly, and since no one else was in danger, Clark didn't have any problem with grabbing Lex and flying him to safety. Lex held on pretty hard midair, but then, so did most people. And when they landed on a roof, and Lex had let go and stumbled back the way lots of people did, he started laughing.
"Wow," Lex said. He stared at Clark. "That wasn't what I was expecting."
Clark folded his arms. Classic pose. "What were you expecting?"
Lex just shook his head. "Maybe that," he said. "That feeling of freedom. I've almost died more times than I care to remember, but the only time I flew ... was right before you brought me back." He met Clark's eyes. Something really important was happening here. Clark held his breath; he could hold his breath for as long as it took. But it turned out to not be very long, because Lex's open-mouthed delight at the flight was becoming something more serious. "Neither of us are what we expected each other to be, are we," Lex said.
"No," Clark agreed. "We're not."
Lex tipped his head, a shrug acknowledging and dismissing fate. "There's something I've been wanting to do for a while," he said. "But I imagine lots of people do this after you've swept them off their feet."
Clark's heart began pounding too hard. "Oh?"
"Uh-huh." Then Lex walked right up to him, grabbed his hair, and pulled him down into a kiss.
It wasn't like kissing Lana. It wasn't like kissing anyone else. It wasn't like any of the ways Clark had imagined it, either; it wasn't the yield it had been on the riverbank, or the sort of demanding take-control kiss Clark had thought would be natural to a Luthor; it was gentle and thorough and exploratory. Lex the scientist. And Clark didn't care, because it was one of the best things he'd ever felt in his life.
But maybe for all that it was a little like the first kiss, too. Clark had no idea how this was going to work out, but for all that it did feel like a rescue, and a new beginning.
Forinnocentsmith: Geoffrey/Ellen/Oliver
"She doesn't like that, you know. It makes her feel as though you're trying to dominate her."
Geoffrey froze. Ellen blinked up at him, with wide, questioning eyes. "Geoffrey?"
"Sorry, thought I heard something," Geoffrey said. He didn't look around for Oliver. Instead he resumed kissing Ellen. Actually, it was entirely mutual kissing. And yes, he did have his arms wrapped around her, but it wasn't as though Ellen was protesting. She was hanging onto Geoffrey's shirt and kissing him back with all the enthusiasm they'd both pent up with seven years' estrangement.
"Actually," Oliver went on, somewhere behind Geoffrey, "you're both going about it all wrong. You're only giving yourself an illusion of control, and that's not really what you want, is it?"
"Geoffrey," Ellen said again, pulling back. She frowned at him, more puzzled than accusing. "Is something going on?"
"Yes, I just -- I just had another idea for the play." Ellen didn't look very happy about this, but in a burst of inspiration Geoffrey said, "It's about Lady M! And if I don't write it down soon I'm going to lose it, so -- I'm very sorry, Ellen, this is lovely, but --"
"But you're having a moment of inspiration, I know, I know," Ellen said, disentangling herself. "Well, it's almost dinnertime, anyway. I'll just be down in the kitchen."
"Thanks," Geoffrey said, giving her a last quick kiss. She smiled at him and went off downstairs. Geoffrey ground his teeth and turned to Oliver. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Oliver assured him, with perfect guilelessness.
"Jesus, why don't you just stay at the theatre? I thought it was the show you were interested in, not whatever's going on with me and Ellen! Which, by the way, everything has been going wonderfully without your directorial notes!"
"Oh, come on, Geoffrey," Oliver said. "We've known each other for ages now. You don't think I know your motivation? Or Ellen's? Frankly I think you could use some advice from an objective third-party observer."
"Objective --" Geoffrey threw up his hands, despairing. "We're not actors in a fucking play, Oliver! I'm going downstairs to Ellen, and you're going back to the theatre. I don't need a voyeur or a peanut gallery."
"Well, your loss, I suppose," Oliver said, but he didn't look too hurt. It was probably foolish to hope that he really would just go back to the theatre, but Geoffrey decided it wouldn't hurt to hope, and left him there, going to join Ellen downstairs. Oliver didn't seem to follow him, or pop up in any unexpected corners.
Whatever Ellen was making for dinner, it was already starting to smell delicious. "That's heavenly," Geoffrey told her, coming up behind her at the stove and wrapping his arms around her. "You know I love you, don't you?"
"Of course," Ellen said, half turning and smiling up at him. "That didn't take you too long. So what was the brilliant thought?"
Geoffrey hadn't bothered to come up with one. He probably could, given another fifteen minutes and some food. So he just kissed the side of her neck. "I'll tell you after dinner. Not mixing work and home, remember?"
Ellen beamed at him, and Geoffrey relaxed. It was going to be all right.
Forchina_shop: Neal/Peter/Elizabeth
Neal knew he was getting somewhere the first time Peter and Elizabeth kissed in front of him.
On the surface, it wasn't a big deal. Neal had come to the Burkes' for breakfast, in part to go over the case with Peter, but also because El made truly phenomenal pancakes, and Neal was willing to occasionally trade off Italian Roast for good home cooking. When they were done, Neal thanked Elizabeth for the wonderful breakfast and got his hat; Peter picked up his briefcase, gave El a kiss goodbye, and went to the door with Neal.
That was huge.
These days Neal wasn't treated to a lecture or even a cursory warning when Peter took off his tracking anklet for an undercover assignment, and that was pretty big. These days Moz and Peter compared notes -- Neal was given to understand that sometimes this happened even when he wasn't around -- and that was kind of a big deal too. But Peter actually forgetting to hustle Neal outside before kissing his wife goodbye? That was, in its way, as crazy and enormous as it had been when Neal admitted he wanted to stay.
The kiss itself was nice too. Neal's thing for Peter was old news, but the better he got to know El, the more he appreciated everything about her too. And seeing Peter and El together, even -- or maybe especially -- in a quick moment of domestic affection, well, there was a lot to appreciate.
The most intriguing thing about it was that it wasn't a one-time incident. It became part of the normal routine: when Neal went to the Burkes' for breakfast, he would catch up with Elizabeth, they would talk shop, El would usually pitch in, and, before they left, she and Peter would kiss each other goodbye with Neal standing right next to them.
Twice was a coincidence, but three times or more became a pattern. Neal would almost have suspected Peter of doing it on purpose, except that wasn't Peter's way of doing things. If he'd known what was going on, he would have been straightforward about it. This left Neal with only one suspect.
He arrived early one morning. El was already down in the kitchen, making omelets this morning, but Neal could hear the shower running upstairs, and Peter was nowhere to be seen. Perfect. He let himself in (and since when had he been the guy who knew which flowerpot they kept the spare key under?) and went to keep El company, slicing mushrooms for her as directed.
"So," Neal said. "Has Peter caught on yet?"
"Uh-oh," El returned, smiling. "I should probably be worried that I have a few things to choose from when you ask that question. Okay, I'll bite. What could he have caught onto?"
These things had to be done a certain way. Neal smiled, a casual, open smile that said he knew exactly what he was talking about, but that it was no big deal if Elizabeth didn't want it to be. "The fact that you're showing off a little," he said. "When you kiss Peter goodbye, you always make sure I'm in your line of sight."
"Do I," El said. "Okay, the mushrooms can go in now. Thanks." She gave Neal a considering look over the sizzling pan. "So what is it you notice?"
Here came the adrenaline spike of running a good con. This was much more important, of course, but that didn't make it any less fun. "You're still very much in love," Neal said, "which I appreciate. That's rare, and it's good to see. You're also easy on the eyes. Both of you."
"Hm. I thought so." Elizabeth flipped the omelet over. "Maybe I am showing off a little. It's nice to know the effort is appreciated."
And that was the end of the conversation. Peter came downstairs, and they proceeded with breakfast as normal. Neal focused on the case. When they got up to leave, El was no more or less subtle in her goodbye kiss than she'd been on previous occasions, and Neal spent the day feeling unusually light and happy. Things weren't different, but he and Elizabeth hadn't broken anything by talking about it.
Work was harried for a few weeks after that, and Peter didn't have any time for leisurely breakfasts. They didn't meet outside of work at all until the case was closed, and when it had been, both Neal and Peter were happy to take a few days to themselves. Then it was an open-and-shut case, just tax fraud, and Neal hated paperwork. Peter invited Neal over for breakfast in what sounded a lot like an apology.
This particular morning things did seem different. It was nothing specific, just a tension in the air, but Neal didn't mind. It had been a long time since he'd felt wary around either Peter or El, so he bided his time, eating and griping good-naturedly about the case. When it was time to go, they went through the usual dance of dishes, hat, and briefcase. Then Elizabeth said, "Have a good day, honey," and kissed Peter. Kissed Peter, long and deep, wrapping her arms around him, and after a moment Peter responded just as enthusiastically as if he'd completely forgotten Neal was in the room, or didn't mind that he was.
By the time El pulled away, Neal felt just as dazed as Peter looked. He was pretty sure there had been more air in the room a minute ago.
Then El turned to Neal, looking very innocent except for the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "And you have a good day too, Neal," she said, and before he'd quite realized what she was going to do, she was kissing him too, a sweet, exploratory kiss that tasted a little of coffee and mostly of El. It was perfect. Neal held on, and fell a little bit in love with her too.
When she pulled away, Neal looked at Peter. Peter was standing very still, flushed around the collar. He met Neal's eyes and swallowed. "Wow."
For a moment Neal couldn't find his voice. "Since we're going into work together," he said, "it's probably redundant for me to give you a goodbye kiss too."
The silence went on long enough that Neal started to think he might have been wrong, that maybe El hadn't cleared this with Peter, and that things weren't going to be okay. But then Peter said, quiet and sure, "I don't think we should worry about redundancy," and took a step toward Neal.
Neal met him halfway, and when they kissed, Peter tasted a little of coffee too, but mostly of the hundred mistakes and right decisions that had landed Neal in this moment. It was perfect and insane, and Neal felt so safe he was sure he had to be conning himself, but he didn't care, because Peter was kissing him and everything was all right.
"Okay," Peter said, a little shakily. El stepped up to them and he put an arm around her too, and beamed at both of them. "Good. This is good. And now we go to work."
For
northeto: Sinclair/DelennThis was the last goodbye.
Delenn was not unhappy. There was no cause to be, knowing what she knew now: she, and indeed all Minbari, were closer to Commander Sinclair than most of them knew. It was her privilege to stand on the bridge of Babylon 4, witness to the history she had a hand in making, and know it for what it was.
The others had gone up ahead. Delenn lingered for a precious moment, taking in Sinclair's dear, tachyon-ravaged face. He sensed her watching him and turned away from the stars, smiling his wry smile. "Delenn. You don't have much time."
"I know." But she didn't move. Tonight she would recite Valen's teachings in meditation before sleep, and she would be content; but in the face of this goodbye, she discovered a thousand things she wanted to say, while Valen was before her and could answer back. "You remember the teachings?" she asked.
"I think I'll be able to muddle along," Sinclair said, in that delightfully ambiguous tone of voice he could employ, with a subtle undercurrent of laughter that could equally be at himself or his listener. Delenn was comforted. She smiled, nodding once, and turned to go.
"Delenn."
She turned back. Sinclair had left the window; he came to the doorway, took her shoulders, and pressed his forehead to hers. Delenn's human tear ducts, without her permission, began slowly filling her eyes with water. She made no move to dash them away, having learned that certain solemn occasions were not altered for weeping.
Then Sinclair turned his head a little and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. It was something halfway between a benediction and a message. He pulled back, and they smiled at one another.
"Now," said Delenn, "don't you have a war to fight?"
He gave her a very speaking look. She laughed through her tears and ran for her shuttle and the future.
For
polarisnorth: Giles/RemusIn the fall of 1988, Remus was living in London. He had a shabby flat and long work hours, but there was enough to eat and he didn't have too much trouble getting up in the mornings. Life was for the most part a not-unpleasant monotony, and Remus quite liked it that way.
On the weekends he would go poking about secondhand bookshops looking for new things to read. One crisp, bright afternoon he went into a bookshop with interesting titles in the windows, and discovered that the selection was a bewildering array of Muggle fiction and quite up-to-date wizardly texts on everything from magical creatures to speculation on recorded prophecies. Remus shuffled through one of the books in bewilderment.
"May I help you?" someone asked.
The someone turned out to be a man about Remus' own age, wearing a tweed jacket and glasses; he was a little poorly dressed for a Muggle, but blended in rather too well for a wizard. Someone Muggle-born, probably. "You might," Remus answered; "that is, I'm curious about the books. Where are they from originally?"
"Most of them are prints from the Council of my employers," the man said, "but a few of them come from a shop in Diagon Alley." He said it in a casual, testing sort of way.
"Are you Muggle-born, then?" Remus asked, relieved to find them speaking the same language.
"Well," the man said, and hesitated. "Not exactly."
What he was, it turned out, as one Rupert Giles, a junior member of one of those organizations of Muggles who had come across wizard ways and, rather than making a fuss, had chosen to stay quiet and observe. Their order of magic guardianship was one that was separate from organized wizarding society, though, and Giles seemed a bit close-mouthed about it. Since Remus learned this over an impromptu lunch with him at a nearby sandwich shop, though, he didn't much mind.
To his surprise the next day seemed brighter. It was a weekday, of course, so he had to go into work, but when next Saturday came around, he went back to the shop. Giles seemed just as happy to see him as Remus was to be there, and somehow this turned into a habit. The best bit was that both of them lived on the fringes of magical society, so they could talk about it and still keep a safe distance. Remus came to have the impression that Giles had had some kind of run-in with magic, and a past he didn't much want to talk about; but since Remus also had a past he didn't much want to talk about, and was a werewolf besides, this worked itself out very well. Their conspiracy of silence was a mutual one.
Just after the new year, though, when Remus came into the bookshop, Giles wasn't his usual attentive self. He was entirely out of sorts. Remus didn't ask, though, and let Giles come to it in his own time. It was only when they were finishing up lunch that Giles said, "I'm being transferred to America. To California, of all places."
"Oh," said Remus, and tried hard to feel like he hadn't just been punched in the gut. "I'm sorry."
"So am I," Giles said. "Of all the bleeding stupid --" and cut himself off, looking abashed. Remus didn't even blink. He'd certainly heard worse. "Well," Giles said. "I'd rather hoped -- but there's no point now."
"Hoped what?" Remus asked.
Giles glanced around, but no one else was in the bookshop just then. "Sod it," he said, and leaned over, kissing Remus, a swift hard kiss that was unfamiliar and frightening and delightful all at once.
"Oh," Remus said. "Well." He came to his senses. "It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Really, it's for the best."
"Yeah," Giles agreed. Then for a moment his face transformed itself in a quick, cocky smile. "I knew you liked me."
Remus' heart broke a little. But he smiled back. It really was for the best.
For
jolly_utter: Carmilla/LauraOn the night we received the restored paintings at the schloss, and I so marveled at the likeness of Carmilla to the Countess Karnstein, there are one or two particulars which I have glossed over. Indeed it would have hardly been appropriate to that telling, but now I think it safe to bring to light some omitted details.
We were out walking the moonlit grounds after Carmilla had tired of looking at the paintings. We went slowly, with arms around one another's waists, and I was struck quite silent by the beauty of the night, and the beauty of the girl beside me.
"Are you glad I came?" she asked.
"Delighted, dear Carmilla."
"And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room," she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder.
"How romantic you are, Carmilla," I said. "Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance. I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on."
"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you." Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.
Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. "Darling, darling," she murmured, "I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so."
I have said before that when she talked like this it frightened me, chiefly because it was so strange. On this night, however, the moonlight and her beauty caused her words for the first time to translate themselves for me. I do not say that then I would have died for her; I was still very young, and despite my infatuation with my friend, I was not given to her excesses. But I understood that all her talk of love and its particulars came chiefly when I was admiring of her or talked of romance, and for the first time I did not suppose wild fancies to explain her behavior. I did not think of disguised lovers or of fevers of the brain; I saw clearly what my dear friend was telling me.
"Carmilla," I said, turning and pressing my free hand to her lovely, feverish cheek. "I do adore you. But sometimes, when you talk like this, it frightens me."
When I spoke this way she was wont to disengage herself, and apply herself to another subject until the moment had passed. But I think she sensed the words I was struggling to speak without yet having the language for them. "My dear, dear Laura," she whispered. "You needn't be afraid."
She turned then and kissed me, full on the mouth, with a devouring hunger. I was still afraid, but I had caught something of her ardor, and though I did not yet know how I should behave, my body reacted instinctively. I wrapped my arms about her dear form and held tight while something new and hot unfolded inside me.
Looking back, it seems now that in many of the most important ways that moment was when my new life began.
For
filia_belialis: Doctor/MasterOf all the people the Doctor expected to see again -- well, ever, although if he'd learned anything in his nine-hundred-and-some years, it was to never think in absolutes, and to expect the unexpected, especially where certain old enemies were concerned -- the Master was one of the last.
In fact, the Doctor had nearly missed him. Amy and Rory were on one of their stopovers home, catching up with relatives and showing off all the photos Rory had taken, which left the Doctor a bit at loose ends for the afternoon. The perfect thing right now would be a certain kind of sherbet served only in the Andromeda Galaxy, but the Doctor knew better than to take off without Amy. It made her rather out of sorts. Instead he wandered the village green, watching the people. Old man walking his dog. Nurse off-shift from the hospital going for lunch. Master sitting on a bench and sipping at a soft drink. Harried mother with three overexcited children running about her.
Hang on.
The Doctor couldn't help his exaggerated double-take. Yes, all right, impossible things had a way of turning up in Leadworth, but that didn't mean the Doctor couldn't get in a good moment of shock. Right. There was the Master, in what appeared to be faded thrift-store castoffs, his hair sandy-brown again but his face much the same, drinking through a fun curly straw and looking as though he wasn't up to anything remotely nefarious.
There was only one sensible thing to do, so the Doctor did it. He went over and folded himself onto the bench next to the Master. The Master glanced over at him. They eyed each other warily.
"Nice day for it," the Doctor said at length, indicating the soft drink.
Surprise flickered across the Master's face. "You look ridiculous," he said.
"You usually say that," the Doctor pointed out. He considered mentioning that bow ties were much cooler than celery, and the Master hadn't made fun of that. He considered asking what the Master was planning this time, for all the good it would do. He considered asking how the Master had escaped the War again, and with that old body of his still intact too, but the sun was shining, and the ducks in the duck pond were quacking contentedly, and the Doctor decided that he didn't mind living with a good mystery for a few minutes. "It's good to see you," he settled on.
"Yeah." The Master stretched his legs and squinted up at the sky. "Funny how that works out." He tilted his head and smiled at the Doctor, a tired, rueful, sane smile that the Doctor hadn't seen in centuries, and the Doctor returned it readily.
"I thought I might get something to drink too," he said. "Just before I saw you I was remembering those sherbets they have in the Andromeda Galaxy, you know the ones, with those swirls that look a bit psychedelic, but you think you might as well try it just this once, and they don't taste half bad. Frankly if they have hallucinogenic properties they don't work on --"
He broke off in surprise, because the Master was full-on grinning now, as though the Doctor was saying something truly delightful. This did seem a bit much when it was only sherbet. Then the Doctor forgot all about sherbet, because the Master leaned forward, grabbed his lapels, and kissed him.
It was a good kiss. It tasted sweet and familiar, and felt, as always, like coming home, which had used to bother the Doctor quite a lot, but today seemed like the best present in the universe. The Master was the first to pull away, rather reluctantly.
"Get something to drink, then," he said. "We have a lot of catching up to do."
"So we do," the Doctor agreed, but he didn't get up. It seemed too much to hope for that this might finally be the right place and the right time for both of them, but the world could wait a few minutes while he found out.
For
skipthedemon: Doctor/RiverSometimes River was really disconcerting. No, that wasn't right: River was always disconcerting. If it wasn't that niggling feeling that she knew more about the Doctor's life than he did, it was the other niggling feeling that he knew more about hers, and the only reason that she could be so high-handed with her knowledge was that he'd probably done it to her first, only he hadn't yet, and only would because she'd done it to him. It was enough to drive a lesser man to distraction.
On a train in thirty-second century neo-Czarist Russia, the Doctor and Professor Song triumphantly saved the train from running off its tracks, neutralized the amphibious aliens behind the plot, and took back the shipment of precious metals, which River assured the Doctor would be returned to the museum. The Doctor wasn't so sure, but he didn't argue. They stood on the platform together in gently drifting snow, and River turned to the Doctor with a smile. Then she hesitated. "Have we had our first kiss yet?"
"What?" said the Doctor. "Well, um, no. Isn't that a spoiler?" It certainly felt like one. He was a little ruffled. Not that there was anything wrong with kissing River -- he had his suspicions about her, each more absurd and therefore likely than the last -- but it did seem a little obvious. Anyway, she just smiled that secret smile she had.
In a failing state-of-the-art bubble above the molten river of Uenforn V, Dr. Song, newly released on good behavior, stripped out of another layer of clothing. When the Doctor politely looked away, she laughed at him. It was all well and good of her to be in a fine mood; she was in explorers' short trousers and a very nice bra, not that the Doctor knew anything about the quality of ladies' underthings, whereas the Doctor had got down to wool trousers and shirtsleeves and braces before realizing that he'd look completely absurd if he took anything else off. Even removing the bowtie had been a wrench, but it was much cooler with his collar open.
"There's nothing to hide from," River told him, which was probably true; modesty was not much in vogue in River's home century. Still. She rolled her eyes at him. "Honestly, is this early on for you?"
"Yes," the Doctor said. "Relatively. There hasn't even been kissing."
"That's just as well," River said. "We don't have time for that now," and seized the nearest guardrail as the lava below roared.
Then there was the haunted castle. The Doctor quite liked haunted castles: they usually had interesting reasons for being haunted, and this one was no exception. River, who was quite young and sniped at the Doctor in a way some of his other companions did when they weren't entirely sure of themselves, was still her clever self and had deciphered a lot of the ominous writing on various of the castle's stones. She and the Doctor stood together outside the big imposing doors of the inner sanctum, and her eyes shone just as brightly as the Doctor's did.
He was about to push forward through the doors when River said, "Doctor! Wait."
When he turned to her, she looked unaccountably nervous. "For luck," she said, coming forward, and kissed him, the earnest, determined kiss of someone completely unfamiliar with what he liked but happy to learn. He kissed her back, more from surprise than anything, and when they broke apart he couldn't stop smiling foolishly. He hadn't known how delightful it would be to do something with River for the first time, both of them in it together.
For
mergatrude: Fraser/Kowalski/VecchioThe great thing about having two boyfriends at the same time was the variety.
Actually, there were a lot of great things about having two boyfriends, especially when they were Fraser and Vecchio. And not all the great things were about variety, either: both of them could cook meals Ray and even Stella could only have dreamed of, and after some coaxing Vecchio could yell at hockey games with the best of them, and of course both he and Fraser were good cops. But in Ray's opinion it really was their differences that made this relationship thing golden.
Fraser liked making beds and tidying up, so Vecchio never got to yell at Ray for leaving clothes around, and on top of that he'd commiserate with Ray about how Fraser was a neat-freak. An all-around freak, actually, except Vecchio and Ray agreed that this was one of Fraser's best qualities. Vecchio understood some of Ray's hang-ups in a way that only a guy who'd grown up in the same city could get them, and Fraser had been around Ray long enough by now that he always knew what Ray was trying to say, even when Ray wasn't too good at finding the words. Both of them, and Ray too, had a way of taking turns being bad-tempered or worn down, so at least one of them could pick up the slack when things got rough. The point was, three people looking out for each other did a lot better than two, or at least Ray had never felt so ... secure before in his life. So much like things were okay and would continue to be.
This was all great, of course, this was greatness, but if Ray was being honest, the best part of the variety was the kissing.
Maybe it should have been the sex, and hey, the sex was wonderful, it was one of Ray's favorite things, but none of them had had much serious sex with other guys before they all fell into bed together, and when you all learn to do something at the same time, there is a sameness to it. That wasn't to say that Ray wouldn't have been able to know which of them was giving him a blowjob even if he was tied up and blindfolded at the time (he could; they'd tested this out), but even so. It wasn't like the kissing, which both Vecchio and Fraser had been doing for decades before locking lips with Ray.
Fraser kissed like a movie star. Not that Ray had kissed any movie stars for comparison, but it made sense in his head. All of Fraser's really serious kisses were firm and deep, with lots of tongue, like he was trying to memorize Ray from the inside out and nothing in the world was more important. Fraser's kisses made Ray kind of breathless every single time. And if Ray'd had only Fraser to kiss, that might have eventually gotten to be seriously overwhelming.
But there was also Vecchio, and Vecchio, a little to Ray's surprise, kissed like romance. Sure, he could do deep and enthusiastic with the best of them, but what Vecchio was good at were soft-mouthed exploratory kisses, more comforting than breathtaking but still just as addictive. If Ray'd had only Vecchio to kiss, that might have eventually gotten boring, but being passed back and forth between Vecchio and Fraser -- there was nothing better in the world. Nothing.
For
icepixie: Fraser/ThatcherSometimes, Meg Thatcher reasoned, a kiss could only happen in a certain place under a particular set of circumstances. For instance, when she was on a train heading for thermonuclear disaster, full of sleeping Mounties and terrorists, it was an appropriate time to share a kiss with Constable Fraser. This seemed to be sound, lucid, and entirely sane reasoning until Meg hit one little snag: she could suddenly think of a lot of other places it would also be appropriate.
While throwing eggs at criminals, Fraser beside her half-undressed and throwing eggs himself. The only reason they hadn't, really, was that Detective Vecchio and his sister were also present, which made it a very inappropriate time indeed. Or just after she had helped Fraser and Vecchio successfully escape being blown up in a courthouse by the aforementioned terrorists. But Fraser had been on the roof and she had been on the ground, so the appropriate course of action involved Morse code, and then the moment had passed.
The real problem, though, was that Meg wasn't just thinking of appropriate situations that had already taken place. She was also thinking of hypothetical situations. Not all of them involved trains, horses, eggs, or Morse code, but most of them did involve criminals, explosives of some sort, and the joint heroics of herself and Fraser culminating in a day saved and at least one kiss at a crucial moment.
Meg did try thinking of less fraught scenarios, but she couldn't think of many. Adrenaline was a key factor; it made them momentary equals, leveling out the responsibility and the duty, and those liminal moments made the act permissible. Which should have made this the end of things: a series of adrenaline-fueled moments did not make any sort of successful romantic relationship. And the thought of genuinely talking it through filled Meg with dread. She and Fraser were far too much alike to get through a conversation intact.
Except ... after the incident with Cloutier, she'd visited Fraser at his apartment. They had talked then. Fraser had assured her that she wasn't a thing like Cloutier, and for once she had called him Ben, and they had been two people, understanding one another. Meg thought of that moment just as often as she did of the kiss on the train.
So one evening, when Turnbull had gone home, Meg went to relieve Fraser of guard duty and said, "Constable Fraser, if you might go pick up the Chinese takeout I ordered. There's enough for two."
Fraser looked at her, down at the takeout menu's address, back up at Meg, and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
He was back in twenty minutes, and officially off-duty. Meg made sure that she was sitting not behind her desk but to one side, using it obviously as just a table. Fraser got the message; he helped her unpack the takeout, and they sat eating together in a silence that was more companionable than awkward. So far so good. Meg knew that when she opened her mouth she was likely to say something ill-phrased and then keep chasing it because it was better to talk than to stop, but as always she was willing to soldier ahead.
"Ben," she said, hoping to take herself back to the other moment she'd called him that, and it seemed to do the trick. "I know I said certain things could only happen again in certain circumstances. But trains are no basis for anything, and of course I don't want to take any kind of professional advantage, but if you were interested I would be too. In something that had a basis that was not trains. Or eggs, or explosions. Normal." And she looked at Fraser rather desperately.
Fraser was looking back, and after a moment he nodded, carefully. "I think I'd like that," he said, in the clear, measured way he had.
"Good!" Meg said.
They kept looking at each other for a long moment, stretching to awkward. Then at the same time they leaned forward and kissed one another, and it was a thousand times better than any specific moment on a train.
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gehayi: Methos/AlexaAfter Alexa turned away from him in the rain, Methos didn't try to kiss her again. He loved her, in that terrifying and wonderful way he sometimes fell for mortals, but he'd lived more than long enough to know that the love didn't have to be selfish. This journey was for her, in all its particulars, and he would be whatever she needed him to be.
From Seacouver they drove through the Rockies, stopping at all the magnificent views. Methos was almost sorry he couldn't show Alexa the Grand Canyon, but if they were going to get to Egypt and the Mediterranean too before she faded, they didn't have time for that kind of detour. It didn't seem to matter; Alexa drank it all in with rapt delight, holding his hand on their short walks and snuggling up against him at night in wayside inns. Methos breathed the clear air and sat quietly among peaks a literal hundred million years, and he was happy.
He avoided Rushmore when they passed through the Dakotas. When Alexa asked him why, Methos responded without thinking, some absurd ramble about a lack of respect for ancient things. But Alexa took him seriously, so as they drove through the endless plains and on into lake country, Methos found himself transcending Adam Pierson: the history student talked archeology and mythology with a depth that Adam never could have achieved, and Alexa sat next to him, asking intelligent questions and listening closely to his every word.
They went through Chicago, of course; Alexa stoically pronounced Seacouver still the best city on the planet, but she loved it there. They took a ferry across the bottom of Lake Michigan, and in hotel rooms planned their itinerary for the rest of America. Alexa wanted to see Niagara Falls and New York City, and she fell asleep smiling. Methos stayed up half the night memorizing the fall of her hair and the little freckles on her nose, and couldn't remember loving anyone as much as he loved her at that moment, which was exactly how it should be.
They reached Niagara Falls at the end of their second week. They arrived at night, and once Methos was sure Alexa was comfortably settled, he walked up the road from their hotel to the Falls. The park was still open, and the Falls themselves were illuminated by bright floodlights, making them look unreal. Methos leaned on the railing, letting the sight and the great roar of the water fill up the world, and wondered idly if he could ever get away with going over the Falls in a barrel without attracting too much attention. Probably not. A pity; it might even be fun, and he could certainly think of worse ways to spend an afternoon than being crushed to death by thousands of tons of water.
He was sure Alexa would have hit his arm if he'd said that aloud.
The next morning he took her to the Falls. For a long time Alexa just stood there, staring at them with that same great attention to detail that she gave Methos' stories. When she finally turned back to Methos, her eyes were shining with delight and unshed tears. They were much too near the Falls to be heard properly, and when Alexa spoke, Methos couldn't be sure whether she said, "Oh Adam, thank you," or "I love you," but it made no matter, because Alexa then flung her arms around him and kissed him as though she'd remembered she was going to die, as though she'd remembered she was alive, and Methos' heart nearly broke with the joy of it.
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sophia_sol: Methos/KronosIt was a very long time before Methos kissed Kronos.
He did a lot of other things first. He found a way to turn Kronos' raids into precision-strike stratagems of terror. In the beginning he did this kneeling by Kronos' side with his neck bare, and feeling the knot of some unexplainable want in his belly when Kronos settled a heavy hand there and squeezed lightly. He made Kronos great, and feared, and in doing so, made himself unafraid of his creation. There came a time when he would no longer kneel to Kronos when anyone else was there, but would stand beside him, a trusted lieutenant, and only the subtle gleam in Kronos' eyes when he looked at Methos would tell that they both knew where Methos belonged.
But for all that, Methos did not kiss him. They touched in clasped hands, and sometimes in Kronos' hand against Methos' throat, and that was all. Methos had proven himself too valuable to be treated like a slave, and Kronos, who understood fear and cruelty, also understood respect. As long as Methos planned successful raids and shared his mind with Kronos, he was given his due and not made to share his body.
So it went for dozens of years, though still a short time by either of their reckoning. Caspian became Kronos' new project, Caspian, Kronos' dear savage dog. Methos had a sword by then, and dealt with Caspian harshly until Caspian would listen to him almost as readily as to Kronos, and Kronos did not task Methos for it. Here was where the change began; trust was something powerfully attractive.
And so one night while Caspian sat among their spoils, wrapped in new furs and feasting on lamb, Methos went to Kronos with no new plan, but only the honest desire for his company. They sat in Kronos' tent, Methos sitting at Kronos' feet out of long habit, and Kronos touched Methos' hair, a light and alien touch. "I usually know what you're thinking," he said. "But not tonight. You're not plotting. I didn't know you could turn it off."
"I didn't either," Methos admitted, leaning into Kronos' hand. "I've only just realized: I think I like this. I think I like this life as much as I've ever liked anything."
Kronos laughed. "It took you long enough! I wouldn't want you to be unhappy."
Methos looked up at him, and saw that Kronos meant it. What a very strange bond to have, he thought, and what bonds we forge for ourselves. He came to his knees, so that his face was level with Kronos'. And here was the important thing: Kronos did not begin it. Kronos did not take anything from him that Methos would not give. So when Methos leaned forward and kissed Kronos, and when Kronos responded with possessive passion, Methos didn't do it because he was forced, or out of despair, or even from misguided loyalty. He did it because he liked it.
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kinglets: Edmund/CaspianIt was after the storm that things began to change. Of course with their supplies running short and no new land in sight, things were bound to be difficult: they were all thirsty, and very tired in the sun, and Eustace, little beast that he was, didn't have the sense to turn Lucy down when she was good enough to offer him sips of her own water. But the real difference was in Caspian, or at least that was what Edmund thought to begin with. Later he began to suspect that the change was in him.
Of course Caspian was three years older than he'd been when Edmund had last seen him. He was much more kingly now, both in his bearing and in the handling of his state; Edmund was very sorry that he'd only heard secondhand about Caspian's dealings with Gumpas back in the Lone Islands. And under the endless sea and the hot late-summer sun, everyone seemed to be becoming much more themselves. Reepicheep was fiercer, Lucy kinder, Eustace more unpleasant (and Edmund himself quicker of temper and sharper of tongue, though he did his best to curb it), and Caspian became a wonder. He was solemn and earnest all through the day, and when night fell, if he and Edmund were off watch together, they would lay in their hammocks and talk for hours, comparing notes on kingship and sometimes on less serious matters too. These conversations were some of the best Edmund could remember having, and they made the long landless weeks much more bearable.
Then at last they did reach land, a wild wooded mountainous country rounded with glassy harbors. Edmund liked it very much; it was a quiet and mysterious country, and when he was not working as hard as any of the sailors at repairing the damage the storm had made to the Dawn Treader, he would often walk a short ways off and sit alone, stilling his mind and enjoying the silence. Of course he could not do this at first: besides repairs to the ship, there was the problem of Eustace going missing, followed by the much bigger problem of Eustace returned to them as a dragon. Edmund had some fellow feeling for the poor chap, but Reepicheep had taken it upon himself to talk to Eustace and cheer him up, so Edmund was released from that obligation -- which was just as well, since Reepicheep was much better at it.
It was during this time that Edmund began to discover what his admiration of Caspian meant. The wonderful thing about Narnia is that, once you have been there for a time, you become much stronger and more alive, and begin to remember more clearly all the things you have done there before the way you couldn't in England. Edmund already knew this, having gone from Narnia and come back once before, but that second time he was only in Narnia for a week or two at most, and now on this voyage it had been more than a month. Besides his old battle-readiness and the joy of being in this world, Edmund was beginning to be grown-up again in other ways.
Sometimes Caspian would go out walking with Edmund, though never very far from the others, and they would talk the way they had in their hammocks. On one of these occasions, Edmund decided to bring up the thing he had discovered.
"Caspian," he said, "among the Telmarines -- that is, the way you were raised -- was it all right for two men to be together, the way men and women are?"
Caspian looked a little surprised at this. "It wasn't unheard of, I don't think," he said. "I mean, it must have happened among the soldiers now and then."
Edmund hadn't known he was holding his breath, but he must have been, because his next came in a great relieved gasp. "It isn't all right where I come from," he explained. "In our day in Narnia it was, of course, because it's our own business. But I wondered."
"Yes," Caspian said, giving Edmund a close look. "Did you wonder because --?"
"Well, I rather thought --" Edmund began.
"Oh, thank the Lion." Caspian was very quick to understand things, Edmund discovered, because the next moment Caspian's hands were in his hair, and his were somehow tangled in Caspian's tunic, and they were kissing as though they had had to ration kisses instead of water.
"It can't last, you know," Edmund said against Caspian's mouth.
"So let's have this now," Caspian replied; and this seemed such good sense that Edmund kissed him again, and again, and again.
For
epershand: Clark/LexThe first time Clark kissed Lex, it didn't count. Kissing-to-rescue should never count as real kissing, and that was true even if Clark's stupid teenage brain kept replaying it on loop and adjusting the memory until Clark hardly knew what the real event had been like, because if it had been a real kiss, it would have been warm and reciprocated.
It was nice when he got some data on what kissing actually felt like. But it didn't seem very fair to think of Lana as data, especially not data for Clark's weird fantasy life. (He did try making Lana part of his fantasy life too, but he always felt guilty about it, like Lana might object if she knew, even after they were dating. On the other hand, he always sort of felt that Lex wouldn't object, so Lana turned him on in person or in idle daydreams, and Lex turned him on in the deliberate ones. Clark knew that was pretty weird.) So he didn't try kissing Lana and imagining it was Lex. That wasn't good for anyone.
Eventually he gave up on ever kissing Lex again. Either Clark was with Lana, or Lex was with a girl or in the middle of a short-lived marriage, and the few times they were both available, Clark always chickened out and just gave Lex lots of hugs. Manly hugs. And then there was college, and then Lex got stupid, or maybe Clark did, but either way, Lex did things and Clark said things and none of it could be taken back, and Clark had to live with that leaden feeling in his stomach that was the knowledge that Lex was a bad person.
Maybe he felt a little responsible, though. He still knew Lex better than anyone, so it was Clark's job to stop him.
More than a decade after the first not-kiss, it occurred to Clark that things might not be as awful as he'd decided they were when he was young and inexperienced. By then Clark had the cape, and the kind of embarrassing public name Lois had fed the press. He'd also fought a handful of genuinely evil people, and Lex -- yeah, Lex had killed people too, and done some questionable experiments, and done some awful stuff to Clark personally, it wasn't like Clark was letting him off the hook here -- but he was also a hundred percent certain that Lex knew who Clark was, and he hadn't used that knowledge against Clark. Clark's mom and friends weren't being threatened. Lex hadn't sold insider tips about Superman to anyone. It was enough to give a guy hope.
Of course, when they had their occasional confrontations, Lex would act like nothing was there but Superman. It was actually a little depressing.
Then came a day when Clark had to rescue Lex from one of his own plots. It mostly involved a building blowing up spectacularly, and since no one else was in danger, Clark didn't have any problem with grabbing Lex and flying him to safety. Lex held on pretty hard midair, but then, so did most people. And when they landed on a roof, and Lex had let go and stumbled back the way lots of people did, he started laughing.
"Wow," Lex said. He stared at Clark. "That wasn't what I was expecting."
Clark folded his arms. Classic pose. "What were you expecting?"
Lex just shook his head. "Maybe that," he said. "That feeling of freedom. I've almost died more times than I care to remember, but the only time I flew ... was right before you brought me back." He met Clark's eyes. Something really important was happening here. Clark held his breath; he could hold his breath for as long as it took. But it turned out to not be very long, because Lex's open-mouthed delight at the flight was becoming something more serious. "Neither of us are what we expected each other to be, are we," Lex said.
"No," Clark agreed. "We're not."
Lex tipped his head, a shrug acknowledging and dismissing fate. "There's something I've been wanting to do for a while," he said. "But I imagine lots of people do this after you've swept them off their feet."
Clark's heart began pounding too hard. "Oh?"
"Uh-huh." Then Lex walked right up to him, grabbed his hair, and pulled him down into a kiss.
It wasn't like kissing Lana. It wasn't like kissing anyone else. It wasn't like any of the ways Clark had imagined it, either; it wasn't the yield it had been on the riverbank, or the sort of demanding take-control kiss Clark had thought would be natural to a Luthor; it was gentle and thorough and exploratory. Lex the scientist. And Clark didn't care, because it was one of the best things he'd ever felt in his life.
But maybe for all that it was a little like the first kiss, too. Clark had no idea how this was going to work out, but for all that it did feel like a rescue, and a new beginning.
For
innocentsmith: Geoffrey/Ellen/Oliver"She doesn't like that, you know. It makes her feel as though you're trying to dominate her."
Geoffrey froze. Ellen blinked up at him, with wide, questioning eyes. "Geoffrey?"
"Sorry, thought I heard something," Geoffrey said. He didn't look around for Oliver. Instead he resumed kissing Ellen. Actually, it was entirely mutual kissing. And yes, he did have his arms wrapped around her, but it wasn't as though Ellen was protesting. She was hanging onto Geoffrey's shirt and kissing him back with all the enthusiasm they'd both pent up with seven years' estrangement.
"Actually," Oliver went on, somewhere behind Geoffrey, "you're both going about it all wrong. You're only giving yourself an illusion of control, and that's not really what you want, is it?"
"Geoffrey," Ellen said again, pulling back. She frowned at him, more puzzled than accusing. "Is something going on?"
"Yes, I just -- I just had another idea for the play." Ellen didn't look very happy about this, but in a burst of inspiration Geoffrey said, "It's about Lady M! And if I don't write it down soon I'm going to lose it, so -- I'm very sorry, Ellen, this is lovely, but --"
"But you're having a moment of inspiration, I know, I know," Ellen said, disentangling herself. "Well, it's almost dinnertime, anyway. I'll just be down in the kitchen."
"Thanks," Geoffrey said, giving her a last quick kiss. She smiled at him and went off downstairs. Geoffrey ground his teeth and turned to Oliver. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Oliver assured him, with perfect guilelessness.
"Jesus, why don't you just stay at the theatre? I thought it was the show you were interested in, not whatever's going on with me and Ellen! Which, by the way, everything has been going wonderfully without your directorial notes!"
"Oh, come on, Geoffrey," Oliver said. "We've known each other for ages now. You don't think I know your motivation? Or Ellen's? Frankly I think you could use some advice from an objective third-party observer."
"Objective --" Geoffrey threw up his hands, despairing. "We're not actors in a fucking play, Oliver! I'm going downstairs to Ellen, and you're going back to the theatre. I don't need a voyeur or a peanut gallery."
"Well, your loss, I suppose," Oliver said, but he didn't look too hurt. It was probably foolish to hope that he really would just go back to the theatre, but Geoffrey decided it wouldn't hurt to hope, and left him there, going to join Ellen downstairs. Oliver didn't seem to follow him, or pop up in any unexpected corners.
Whatever Ellen was making for dinner, it was already starting to smell delicious. "That's heavenly," Geoffrey told her, coming up behind her at the stove and wrapping his arms around her. "You know I love you, don't you?"
"Of course," Ellen said, half turning and smiling up at him. "That didn't take you too long. So what was the brilliant thought?"
Geoffrey hadn't bothered to come up with one. He probably could, given another fifteen minutes and some food. So he just kissed the side of her neck. "I'll tell you after dinner. Not mixing work and home, remember?"
Ellen beamed at him, and Geoffrey relaxed. It was going to be all right.
For
china_shop: Neal/Peter/ElizabethNeal knew he was getting somewhere the first time Peter and Elizabeth kissed in front of him.
On the surface, it wasn't a big deal. Neal had come to the Burkes' for breakfast, in part to go over the case with Peter, but also because El made truly phenomenal pancakes, and Neal was willing to occasionally trade off Italian Roast for good home cooking. When they were done, Neal thanked Elizabeth for the wonderful breakfast and got his hat; Peter picked up his briefcase, gave El a kiss goodbye, and went to the door with Neal.
That was huge.
These days Neal wasn't treated to a lecture or even a cursory warning when Peter took off his tracking anklet for an undercover assignment, and that was pretty big. These days Moz and Peter compared notes -- Neal was given to understand that sometimes this happened even when he wasn't around -- and that was kind of a big deal too. But Peter actually forgetting to hustle Neal outside before kissing his wife goodbye? That was, in its way, as crazy and enormous as it had been when Neal admitted he wanted to stay.
The kiss itself was nice too. Neal's thing for Peter was old news, but the better he got to know El, the more he appreciated everything about her too. And seeing Peter and El together, even -- or maybe especially -- in a quick moment of domestic affection, well, there was a lot to appreciate.
The most intriguing thing about it was that it wasn't a one-time incident. It became part of the normal routine: when Neal went to the Burkes' for breakfast, he would catch up with Elizabeth, they would talk shop, El would usually pitch in, and, before they left, she and Peter would kiss each other goodbye with Neal standing right next to them.
Twice was a coincidence, but three times or more became a pattern. Neal would almost have suspected Peter of doing it on purpose, except that wasn't Peter's way of doing things. If he'd known what was going on, he would have been straightforward about it. This left Neal with only one suspect.
He arrived early one morning. El was already down in the kitchen, making omelets this morning, but Neal could hear the shower running upstairs, and Peter was nowhere to be seen. Perfect. He let himself in (and since when had he been the guy who knew which flowerpot they kept the spare key under?) and went to keep El company, slicing mushrooms for her as directed.
"So," Neal said. "Has Peter caught on yet?"
"Uh-oh," El returned, smiling. "I should probably be worried that I have a few things to choose from when you ask that question. Okay, I'll bite. What could he have caught onto?"
These things had to be done a certain way. Neal smiled, a casual, open smile that said he knew exactly what he was talking about, but that it was no big deal if Elizabeth didn't want it to be. "The fact that you're showing off a little," he said. "When you kiss Peter goodbye, you always make sure I'm in your line of sight."
"Do I," El said. "Okay, the mushrooms can go in now. Thanks." She gave Neal a considering look over the sizzling pan. "So what is it you notice?"
Here came the adrenaline spike of running a good con. This was much more important, of course, but that didn't make it any less fun. "You're still very much in love," Neal said, "which I appreciate. That's rare, and it's good to see. You're also easy on the eyes. Both of you."
"Hm. I thought so." Elizabeth flipped the omelet over. "Maybe I am showing off a little. It's nice to know the effort is appreciated."
And that was the end of the conversation. Peter came downstairs, and they proceeded with breakfast as normal. Neal focused on the case. When they got up to leave, El was no more or less subtle in her goodbye kiss than she'd been on previous occasions, and Neal spent the day feeling unusually light and happy. Things weren't different, but he and Elizabeth hadn't broken anything by talking about it.
Work was harried for a few weeks after that, and Peter didn't have any time for leisurely breakfasts. They didn't meet outside of work at all until the case was closed, and when it had been, both Neal and Peter were happy to take a few days to themselves. Then it was an open-and-shut case, just tax fraud, and Neal hated paperwork. Peter invited Neal over for breakfast in what sounded a lot like an apology.
This particular morning things did seem different. It was nothing specific, just a tension in the air, but Neal didn't mind. It had been a long time since he'd felt wary around either Peter or El, so he bided his time, eating and griping good-naturedly about the case. When it was time to go, they went through the usual dance of dishes, hat, and briefcase. Then Elizabeth said, "Have a good day, honey," and kissed Peter. Kissed Peter, long and deep, wrapping her arms around him, and after a moment Peter responded just as enthusiastically as if he'd completely forgotten Neal was in the room, or didn't mind that he was.
By the time El pulled away, Neal felt just as dazed as Peter looked. He was pretty sure there had been more air in the room a minute ago.
Then El turned to Neal, looking very innocent except for the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "And you have a good day too, Neal," she said, and before he'd quite realized what she was going to do, she was kissing him too, a sweet, exploratory kiss that tasted a little of coffee and mostly of El. It was perfect. Neal held on, and fell a little bit in love with her too.
When she pulled away, Neal looked at Peter. Peter was standing very still, flushed around the collar. He met Neal's eyes and swallowed. "Wow."
For a moment Neal couldn't find his voice. "Since we're going into work together," he said, "it's probably redundant for me to give you a goodbye kiss too."
The silence went on long enough that Neal started to think he might have been wrong, that maybe El hadn't cleared this with Peter, and that things weren't going to be okay. But then Peter said, quiet and sure, "I don't think we should worry about redundancy," and took a step toward Neal.
Neal met him halfway, and when they kissed, Peter tasted a little of coffee too, but mostly of the hundred mistakes and right decisions that had landed Neal in this moment. It was perfect and insane, and Neal felt so safe he was sure he had to be conning himself, but he didn't care, because Peter was kissing him and everything was all right.
"Okay," Peter said, a little shakily. El stepped up to them and he put an arm around her too, and beamed at both of them. "Good. This is good. And now we go to work."
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"I don't think we should worry about redundancy,"
PETER! *is ded with glee*
(OMG, you wrote me White Collar! *showers you with hearts and ballooooons*)
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Also WRITING EL IS SO FUN, HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS, I WANT TO DO IT ALWAYS.
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And while I'm at it, the other fics are awesome too! (And I was going to list which ones were my favourites, but it ended up being a list of EVERY SINGLE FIC that was in one of my fandoms, so that became a bit redundant....)
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And I am curious about which ones are your fandoms! I am so bad at keeping track of friends' fandoms, so I ask.
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I'm not sure I have the words for my love of the White Collar bit!
And now, I'm going to read the rest!Oh, the Doctor/Master one! Oh! (Though why does the thought of a sane Master, in command of his faculties, scare me more than a crazy one?)
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Oh, that was just perfect! I immediately began to think of ways to make you write nothing but F/K/V kisses.
My nefarious schmeing was however, undermined by reading your ficlet for
Of course, then I went on to read Edmund/Caspian and now I want MORE OF THAT, THANK YOU! Also, the idea of a sane Master and the Doctor heading off for (possibly psychedelic) sherbets filled me with much \o/! And I delighted in the idea of the Doctor and River's first kiss being sweet and awkward and God! I want to see that so badly.
Finally, I have to admit that the Remus/Giles made me slightly teary, so I must abandon my plans to trap you in my tiny world, and instead expand to encompass yours. Thank you!
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And I love all the others too. Neal and Peter and Elizabeth are adorable together, and Fraser and the two Rays are sweet and hot, and I think you just wrote the first believable Edmun/Caspian EVER, and the Laura/Carmilla could be straight out of the story itself!
Great great job. What pairing would you like for your thank you story?
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And eee, thank you! Especially re: writing believable Edmund/Caspian; that's quite a compliment, and I am smiling all over the place now. <3
Oof. If you would, I would be delighted about any story with Methos in it, pairing entirely up to you. I will ship Methos with EVERYONE.
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Which is all just a prelude to my incredible joy over the beautiful happiness that is Eleven/Master - I've been dying for someone to write that fic, the one where they meet up again and the Master is sane but not in the slightest bit guilty and the Doctor is his giddy self - I feel like Eleven would be just like this, too; he's so much more levelheaded in his own silly way than Ten, I can see him actually bothering to listen to the Master, and being aware that he's actually been completely besotted since they met, which some Doctors seem to have trouble accepting even as they make it perfectly obvious that it's true, and Rory taking pictures! And they show them to Amy's folks! Psychedelic sherbert!
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Re: the Eleven/Master fic, it is actually sneakily part of something much longer that is ... still mostly in my head (and in
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And I completely love the idea of there being plenty of Muggles who know about the wizarding world and just accept it as different from but not better than their own. :D
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Harry Potter is actually difficult to cross over with other magical universes, actually, just because the HP world is so ridiculously detailed. But I like doing it anyway. :D
here via china_shop
Re: here via china_shop
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I definitely want more of your Eleven. Lots and lots.
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And since you also asked for Doctor/Master, you certainly don't have to think the Doctor/Master one isn't also for you. :D I'm delighted you enjoyed them.
I want to write more Eleven too! I wasn't sure I could, but man, he's fun to write. (And a bit of a relief after Ten, to be honest; he isn't quite so INTENSE all the time.)
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Carmilla/Laura is perfect and lovely- that's exactly how is happened. And Eleven/Master, and Doctor/River, and Fraser and the Rays, and White Collar, and Remus/Giles, and Edmund/Caspian- you had the voice for that just right, as in I may have been tearing up slightly from sheer Narnia love. I can't even pick a favourite, though. They are all wonderful, and so are you! <33333333
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I am delighted with all your comments, of course, but especially with the Edmund/Caspian one -- you know, if I'm not paying attention, I start writing in that sort of Lewis-esque style without even meaning to. It is ridiculous until I get to Narnia fic, and then I could keep going for hours. (You don't even know how hard I'm trying to not just rewrite Dawn Treader as an Edmund/Caspian epic. And I'm only not doing this because I have a different Edmund-is-queer story to write first. /o\)
<333333!
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Thank you so much!
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Thus, I am sitting here with an enormous, stupid grin on my face, trying very hard to not to vocalize my delight, because I think that might alarm the people near me. And I am sending you a giant hug and a thank you through the internet.
I shall return later with more coherent comments. <3
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