If You Could See As I See

P/Q fic

2008-05-15T02:13:20Z

Right. Jen wrote me Q a while back, and since then I've been kind of sniping at this thing in snatches in between ... well, all the other crap, and it's about as good as it's gonna get, so ...

Title: Thank you
Colloquial Title (because how could I resist?): Mind your P's and Q's
Rating: PG. A kiss involved, though.
Summary: an evening chat leads to revelations
Warnings: Slash. The kiss. And the fact that this pair make me absolutely, irredeemably SOPPY. So be warned.
Word count: something in excess of 4000
Disclaimer: don't own, don't sue.

Thank You

((or colloquially - Mind Your P's and Q's))

"Mon Capitaine?"

Jean-Luc closed his eyes in silent frustration as the quiet drawl sounded behind him. He really didn't want to deal with Q right now, not after trawling through twenty Anossian diplomatic reports, with as many left to go. Anossians and sanity did not mix well, and the omnipotent trickster was hardly likely to help matters. But there was a peculiar ... hesitancy ... to the words that stopped the instinctive snarl, and he settled instead on a heavy sigh.

"Q." He turned in his seat to look at the entity standing nonchalantly by the window, posed deliberately for maximum effect against the vast backdrop of space. But that was nothing new, and Jean-Luc rather suspected that Q did it automatically rather than out of any real desire to impress him. They had passed that point some time ago. Mostly. "What do you want?"

Q flicked him a small grin, but it lacked his usual lusture. "A moment of your time, Jean-Luc, nothing more." He unfolded one arm to wave airily at nothing. "I'm feeling in the mood to wax poetical."

Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows, already mildly exasperated not two minutes after the entity had appeared. As per usual. "Q, I'm a little busy right now ..." He trailed off and gestured pointedly at the paperwork, more for the principle of the thing than any expectation that Q would actually listen to him. Q frowned.

"Mon Capitaine, you wound me," he complained. "A moment I said, and a moment I'll be. My word that when I leave you the clock will be but a second from where it is now, and you'll be as rested as if you'd had an hour!"

Jean-Luc rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. Watching Q mess with time was not his favourite pasttime. Things rarely went right once that started. "Q ..."

Q held up an impatient hand, and looked ironically at him. "Come now, Jean-Luc. It's not as if I could be any worse." Said with a pointed look at the reams of nearly illegible paperwork, and Jean-Luc had to concede the point. He sighed again, for good measure, and nodded.

"What is it, Q?"

The entity frowned at him for a moment. "I had hoped to tell you a little story," he murmured, looking Picard over critically. "But I didn't intend for it to be a bedtime story. You look far too tired, Mon Capitaine. Here you are." He raised a hand to snap his fingers, and Jean-Luc braced himself for the rush of enforced awareness that should have followed, but all that appeared out of the signature white flash was a cup of tea at his elbow. Jean-Luc blinked at it, and then at Q. That was ... an uncharacteristically tactful gesture on the entity's part. He nodded at his benefactor, and Q smiled a little, an odd look in his eyes. Then the captain took a sip, pleasantly surprised by quite a tasteful blend of flavours. Not one he knew, or would have chosen, but tasteful nonetheless.

"Thank you," he murmured, warmed and perhaps a little lulled by the unusual gentility of this particular encounter. Q stared at him, his eyes shuttering for a moment as something Jean-Luc only half recognised as a mix of pleasure and sadness passed over him. Before the surprised captain could comment, however, Q adopted his more usual flamboyantly sinister expression, and leaned in as if to tell a naughty secret.

"Cosy, Mon Capitaine?" he asked, adding just a hint of leer to it, and Picard sighed, shaking his head with a slight smile. Q was still Q, after all.

"As I suspect I'm going to be, Q," he answered, reproachfully. "You had something you wanted to tell me?"

Q straightened, nodding, and then seemed to hesitate again. Jean-Luc frowned in curiosity, and Q shifted uneasily at his questioning look, shrugging artistically to cover himself.

"You've expressed an interest in learning more about the Q in the past?" the entity asked, faux-casual. Jean-Luc nodded.

"You've never seemed particularly inclined to answer," he observed wryly, and Q shrugged, this time properly. He waved a dismissive hand and sneered.

"Q politics," he said, waving the issue away. "Secrecy and preserving the sanity of lesser beings, and all that. Petty, if you ask me."

Picard's mouth curved. "Indeed," he murmured, and there was not a hint of polite mockery in it. Q looked at him sharply.

"Don't be rude, Mon Capitaine," the entity chastised, huffily. "You know I've had nothing but your best interests at heart!" And Picard nodded. He did know, for the most part, even if it had taken him over a decade to figure it out. But that was all right. He suspected it had taken Q equally as long.

"My apologies, Q," he smiled, a little playfully. "I'm tired."

Q looked at him, and grinned. "All is forgiven, Mon Capitaine!" he declared generously, executing a flourishing little bow, and Jean-Luc laughed, oddly at ease. Q's smile widened, and something that looked a little like hope slipped for a second into his dark eyes. Jean-Luc stared at it in awe.

"Q?" he asked, and the entity shook himself hurriedly. When he looked back at Picard, the glimmer of emotion had gone. Jean-Luc frowned, strangely disappointed by that.

"I promised a story," Q said abruptly, and fell easily back into his dramatic persona. "Sit back and be enthralled, your Highness! Tonight I am your Scheherezade!" Though it was playfully said, a tiny frisson of shock went through Jean-Luc. Such an odd comparison to make. Scheherzade, beneath her sultan's power, spinning tales to save her life. Why that story?

Q watched him, seeing the sleepy parade of expressions that he made no effort to hide, and it seemed the lack of rejection meant something more to Q than Picard really understood. The entity tipped his head to one side, a curiously soft expression on his mercurial features.

"Shall I spin you a tale of my misbegotten youth, captain-mine?" Q smiled, and waggled his eyebrows in comic suggestiveness. Picard grinned openly.

"What tale is this, Q?" he teased. "Of conquests past? Old games? Old girls?"

Q dipped his head so he could look flirtatiously up at him. "And if it is?" he asked, oddly serious.

"If it is," Jean-Luc mused. "I would consider it turn around fair play, for the little traipse we took through my misbegotten youth. Which I trust you haven't forgotten?"

Q pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. "Forget! How could I? Young Johnnie, so brave, so bold, so dashing! Oh, be still my beating heart! Mon Capitaine, 'twas a sight I'll not forget as long as I live!"

Jean-Luc laughed at his antics. "One way to immortality, I suppose," he mused, and frowned at his teacup. "Q, is there something about this tea I should know?"

"Like what?" the entity asked, oh-so-innocently.

"Like anything in it to ... relax me?" Picard wanted to inject a little more sharpness into the question, but the sensation of ease was rare enough, and not exactly unpleasant. And Q had so much power over him anyway, this little weakness was nothing much. Although he suspected that whatever Q had slipped him might have helped him reach those conclusions.

Q shook his head slightly. "It's only a tiny, tiny thing. An anti-caffeine, I suppose, and affects you no more than the amount of caffeine in your usual Earl Grey would, if in the opposite direction. You're very tired, Mon Capitaine, and I thought this way was ... a little fairer, perhaps, than many others at my disposal. This, at least, another human could give you. Well. Provided they'd been to Bland IV, of course."

Picard shook his head. "I'll probably be angry at you when this is done," he warned, and Q nodded resignedly. Picard allowed his lips to twitch a little, then. "Bland IV?"

Q grinned. "I kid you not, Mon Capitaine. That's the direct translation. A rather ... sleepy people, you see."

"Shall I guess why?"

Q pouted. "Don't be mean. You know I wouldn't hurt you. Not unless you needed ..." He stopped, but Jean-Luc remembered anyway, and still hated that he couldn't really deny the truth of it. But in the end, he supposed it had been worth it.

"I know," he said softly, and Q slumped a fraction, as if relieved. Somewhat to his surprise, that made things easier for Jean-Luc to accept. At least what he thought of Q seemed to actually mean something to his omnipotent shadower. "Spin me a tale, Q. I'm tired."

Q smiled, and stood to sketch a courtly bow, suddenly dressed in jester's motley, a madcap grin flashing over his mobile features. "As my lord sultan commands," he leered, and Jean-Luc knew a moment of sudden horror, followed by profound relief, as he realised what other form Q could have chosen to illustrate that statement. Q as Scheherezade was most emphatically not something he wished to see.

"You remember that little incident with Vash?" Q asked, something like distaste in his voice, and Picard wondered if he was actually incapable of getting to the point without at least four random asides. He nodded briefly, and Q smiled. "May I say you looked rather good in tights, Jean-Luc? But I digress!" he added hurriedly, as Picard glared. "Do you also remember what I said about you?"

"Which part?" Picard asked gruffly. Nothing Q had said during that particular episode had been all that flattering.

"That you were impossible to buy a gift for?" Jean-Luc grunted. Oh, that. Q shrugged placatingly. "Well, I might admit -under protest, mark you!- that you may not have been entirely, solely to blame. For that, at least."

Picard raised an eyebrow, and Q pointedly looked elsewhere until he stopped. Jean-Luc laughed. "Go on, Q. I'm listening."

The entity huffed a bit, then perched himself on the corner of the desk and folded his arms. "If you insist," he muttered, warning in his tone. "But you could at least be more appreciative!"

"Q." He shouldn't have been enjoying this little game quite as much as he was. Q huffed a bit more, then acceded.

"I'm not good at giving gifts," he said, very quickly, as if the words were ugly things he wanted to be rid of as fast as possible. Jean-Luc blinked. Q, admitting a fault? Maybe there'd been more in the tea than he'd thought. But no. No hallucinogen he'd ever come across could have manufactured the image of Q's chagrined face. And strangely, the thought made him gentle.

"I had noticed that," he said quietly, and not without humour. "I simply assumed the Q don't like giving gifts. And to even the score, I will admit to not be the most gracious of recievers." He rather liked the smile Q gave him for that. Worth the price of admission.

"You're all but impossible, Jean-Luc," Q rejoindered, with a certain humour of his own. "But the Q are not prone to giving gifts, as you guessed. But I did try, once, if you want to hear the story?" Picard couldn't shake the impression that Q was almost hoping he would refuse, but his curiosity was piqued. He waved Q on. Q sighed. "You would take me at my word, wouldn't you?"

"It's usually been good," Picard commented lightly, and Q nodded.

"You have to understand, this was back in the early days, eons and eons before humanity came on the scene. The Q weren't quite ... fulfilled ... yet, and we were still learning about things. About the universe. About powers. About who and what we were. The universe was a lot more ... interesting, then. Newer. Still riddled with unknowns, even for us." There was a wistfulness to his tone, then, and Picard allowed himself a moment to wonder if there were any greater defeat in the search for knowledge than ... finding it. "Most of us picked specific things to study. Fields of expertise, as it were. Except me, but that's beside the point, really."

"No, it isn't," Jean-Luc cut in, curious and unwilling to allow him the evasion. "What did you want study?"

Q frowned. "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me," Picard stated firmly. "Indulge me. I'm curious."

Q blinked at him. "You know what they say about curiosity, don't you, Mon Capitaine?" he muttered, then shrugged irriatably. "I wanted to study everything. Anything. Whatever I came across. There was so much, back then, and they wanted me to pick only part of it? Ridiculous. I took a look at whatever I came across, and picked up bits and pieces of everything along the way. And then, of course, life started really blooming, and things got ... interesting. But that really is beside the point, Jean-Luc!" Picard didn't think so, but he nodded anyway.

Q went on. "One of my ... well, I suppose she'd probably be a female human, if she had a preference, so we'll go with 'sister' ... had a fascination with the mechanics of the universe, as it were. She liked figuring out what exactly made it physically tick. Not exactly the most riveting of topics, in my opinion, but I'm not one to begrudge anyone their hobbies." Jean-Luc blinked at that, but let it go. "Thing was, the mechanics of the universe are not all that difficult to figure out, after the first couple of millennia, and quite frankly, she was getting rather bored. And a bored Q is a dangerous thing."

"Tell me about it," Picard murmured softly, and Q shot him an affectionate glare.

"Mon Capitaine, allow me to assure you that you have been positively blessed by my attentions! Believe me, it could have been a lot worse." Which was undoubtedly true, but not something Picard wanted to think about. "So ... I decided to give her something. Something that might challenge her for a while, if I was lucky. And stop her moping around the Continuum in an endless funk, making it difficult to concentrate."

Picard snorted at that. "An altruistic reason if I ever heard one," he pointed out, and Q huffed.

"It was! I wasn't the only one trying to work, you know. And I didn't snap at her, so there!"

Jean-Luc deliberately straightened his face, and motioned for Q to continue. The entity glared at him.

"Anyway," Q drawled, pointedly, and then paused. When he spoke up again, there was almost a dreamy air about him. "It was fun, you know? It was a challenge, to make something perfect, to outwit another Q. I was very careful with it. It was one of the most delicate pieces of work I've ever done, and in my time I've made some very intricate pieces. One of my first real works of art, if I don't say so myself."

"And you do say so yourself," Jean-Luc murmured, but there was no malice in it. This was a different side of Q, one he hadn't considered. Oh, he knew Q took pride in his genius, he trumpetted that for all to hear, but this ... This was the pride of a craftsman, an artist, someone who genuinely enjoyed making things. He wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Because Q had enjoyed the worlds he made in their past encounters. The details he put into it. Will had even commented on their second encounter that the scenery was a bit below par, for Q. All that effort, for ... well, for them. "What was it, Q?" he asked softly, curious as to what a Q would make for another Q.

The entity smiled at him absently, still considering his past triumph nostalgically. "It was a universe in miniature, Mon Capitaine," he murmured. "Created from a minute amount of every single thing that makes up this universe, except life. A tiny, tiny model of what the universe might be. And flawed. I was very careful about that. It was a puzzle, you see. Everything in it was just that little bit off perfect, just enough so that you knew it would work, if only you could figure out the key flaw. Just find that one kink in the rules to tweak, and it would start moving. Living. A puzzle-box of stars."

Jean-Luc stared at him in awe. He wondered exactly how much this other Q had meant to his companion, to have created a gift like that simply to allieviate her boredom. Of course, Q was given to extravagance, in everything he did, but still ...

"I was careful about giving it to her, too," Q went on. "You've got to be careful, giving things to a Q. Nobody does it, you see. We can call up anything we can imagine. Why would we need gifts? It might even be an insult, a criticism of our imaginative capabilities. So I had to go about it the right way, so as not to offend her pride. I presented it as a cry for help, pretended I'd made it for myself and just couldn't get it to work. I can be very good at pretending to be stupid, Mon Capitaine. Do you believe that?" Q smiled at him, bitterly, and Picard frowned. He hadn't noticed anything, but something had soured Q's wistful mood.

"Of you, my friend? I'd believe almost anything. But you're not a fool." He offered the assurance as best he could. Q's mouth twisted.

"Oh, but I am, Mon Capitaine. The prince of fools. Eternity's jester."

Jean-Luc shook his head. "I don't understand, Q. What happened?"

The entity looked away, out over the stars. "She accepted it. Anything to help her silly little brother, of course. And she went away with it, and for a couple of hundred years or so, we said nothing more about it. She'd tinker with it in her spare time, and go black-hole diving with the rest of us again. It was fine."

Picard sighed. "But?" he asked, and Q turned back to smile wryly at him.

"That obvious?" he asked. "But you're right of course. It didn't end well, or there'd be no point to this story, would there?" Jean-Luc frowned, and Q looked away again. "She came back with it one day. Tossed it at me, and said she couldn't be bothered with it anymore. It was a useless project, flawed beyond repair. I'd do better to turn my interests to something I was better suited for, because astromechanics obviously weren't where my talents lay."

Jean-Luc stared at him. "What?" he asked, appalled. Q shrugged.

"That's what she said. I checked it, of course. It was perfect, exactly as I'd left it, the flaw and the key still in place. She hadn't been able to do anything with it. I'd made my challenge to well, Mon Capitaine. I'd made my puzzle so intricate, she couldn't solve it. So she threw it away." He turned back to the captain, his mouth twisted in a bitter challenge. "And then, Mon Capitaine? Can you guess what I did then?"

Jean-Luc swallowed. He could, of course. He could just see what young Q would have done, angry and hurt and betrayed, and malicious in his vengence. "You solved it, didn't you?" he said softly. Q sneered.

"Right in front of her. Easy as that. I took particular care to reveal that I'd known all along, that for me it was ridiculously simple. I made it clear that she was an absolute fool who could never hope to match my genius." He smiled bitterly. "We haven't spoken since. I don't think she's ever really forgiven me. Not that I would blame her."

Picard shook his head, an oddly pervasive sadness sitting in his chest. How easily we wound those we care for. "Why ...?" he started to ask, and stopped. Q looked at him steadily, unaffected by his own story except for the faint aura of bitterness. "Why are you telling me this, Q?" Jean-Luc finished softly.

Q was silent for a moment, just watching him. Then he hopped off the desk, and came slowly around it until he was standing over Jean-Luc's chair, staring down at him with a kind of intense consideration that worried the captain a little. He craned his head to look questioningly up at the entity.

"Do you know," Q said softly, "that you were the first person, Mon Capitaine, to ever thank me, and mean it?" Picard started, and blinked up at him in confusion. Q went on, a strange intensity to his voice, but no threat. "The very first person to ever say those words in genuine gratitude, however reluctantly. Do you have any idea what that meant, Jean-Luc?"

Picard shook his head. "Q ...?"

The entity backed away suddenly, retreating to the window, still watching him. "You have no idea, do you?" he asked. "How much those two words made me happy. How much they made me want to give you more things, any things, if you'd say them again. It's frightening, Jean-Luc, how much they make me want to give you something. But ... I'm afraid I don't know quite how."

Jean-Luc tried to interupt, to stop him, but Q held up a hand to forestall him.

"I'm not good at giving gifts, Jean-Luc. You know that. And everything I've ever done for you has been a test, or a challenge, and even my attempt at a gift went wrong. And I know!" he held out a hand quickly. "I know that was my fault! That's the problem, Jean-Luc. I've no idea what you want, or how to go about giving it to you without ... without driving you further away. I've tried asking, I've tried just giving, I've tried challenging ... I don't know what to do, and I thought ... Well, I hadn't tried explaining yet, and it couldn't hurt ... But it can. Oh, Mon Capitaine, it very much can."

"Q ..." he said, more than a little desperately, but stopped before the look in the entity's eyes.

"She has never spoken to me since, Mon Capitaine. Billions of years, for one mistake, and she has never come near me. I do not have that kind of time with you. I don't have anything close. And I can't, I cannot, make that mistake with you. Tell me, Jean-Luc. Please, tell me what you want. Anything at all. A cup of tea, a good night's sleep, an empire, your very own star ... anything you can imagine. Anything you want. Tell me, and it's yours. Tell me!"

Jean-Luc stopped. He just looked at Q, at the quiet, forceful desperation of him, and suddenly all he could feel was awe. This was what he meant to Q? All these years, he'd thought he was an amusement, a pet, maybe, at the last, something like a friend. But here, this, it was so much more. It looked almost like ...

"Never look at me like that again," he said softly, and Q flinched outright. Jean-Luc stood up, feeling a faint buzz of lassitude through his restful body, and shrugged it off. He walked up to Q, reached out to rest a hand on the arms the entity had folded before him like a shield. "That's what I want. Never to see you ..." Q closed his eyes. "... look this hopeless ever again. You're not meant to be that way, Q."

The entity ... No. Q. His friend. Q opened his eyes to look at him, and that wavering hope was back in his wary features, and the sight of it clenched like a fist around Jean-Luc's heart. He squeezed Q's arm gently.

"Jean-Luc?" Q asked softly, and Picard leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead against Q's as the entity froze.

"I'm sorry, Q. I didn't know ... I'm bad at telling when people are hurting. As bad at it as you are with gifts, at least. I meant that. I don't want ... You're Q. You're not supposed to flinch when I talk to you. I don't want you to ever do that again."

Q's eyes peered up at him from centimeters away, confused and wondering. "As you wish, Mon Capitaine," he murmured. Picard smiled.

"Thank you," he whispered, and as the shock of joy moved across that mobile face, he leaned all the way in, and kissed Q.

And the universe exploded.

***

He was never afterwards quite sure exactly what had happened at that instant. He was sure that he hadn't been conscious for it. It was entirely possible that he hadn't been alive for it, as he wouldn't put it past Q to have literally exploded, and taken Jean-Luc, the Enterprise, and quite possibly the entire neighbouring bit of universe with him. But he didn't mind. Whatever Q had done, he'd fixed it, and Jean-Luc had to allow that he'd given the poor entity quite a shock.

Q agreed with that assessment. Emphatically.

"So," he murmured, resting easily in the crook of the still-stunned entity's arm. "Now that that's been sorted out ..." Q snorted quietly. "What do we do now?"

Q turned his head to look at him, something of his old, challenging self in his smile. "Why are you asking me, Mon Capitaine? As I said, you have only to ask. Anything you can imagine."

Jean-Luc grinned. "I thought you were Scheherezade, not the genie of the lamp." Q shrugged fluidly.

"I'm easy."

"No," Picard stated, firmly. "You're anything but. But ... you might just be worth it, despite it all." Q smiled deeply at him. "Alright then. Anything I want?"

"You have but to name it, Jean-Luc."

He looked up at Q for a long minute, just seeing him, what he was, what he offered, and why. And then he smiled. "The sultan had 1001 nights with Scheherezade," he murmured. "How about that? For starters? I think I deserve at least that much."

Q's face lit up. "Anytime, my lord sultan!" he declared grandly, hugging Jean-Luc close to him. "You have but to call."

Jean-Luc sighed, and nestled closer into him. "Thank you, Q." I love you, Q. That's what the words meant, after all.

"You're welcome, Jean-Luc. Always."

I love you too.

icarus_chained @ 2008-05-14T20:39:00

2008-05-14T19:45:10Z

Right. I finished two ridiculously long and horrible exams today, and I'm dead-beat. If there's a word that means more than exhausted, that's me. BUT, on the bright side, once I collapse today, I've tomorrow off to rest, and I *might*, just might, actually get some stuff done. *cross fingers*

And completely unrelated, and apropos of nothing, I found a couple of lines of G.M. Hopkins poem 'The Windhover' that are awesome, and for some reason fit with DCAU Hawkgirl in my head:

"My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,--the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here"

Brute beauty and valour and act ... damnit, that's just ... Hats off to the manic-depressive little Jesuit, but he sure had a way with words! That line is going to stick in my head forever. More than just Shayera. That is so many of my favourite people ... just six words that perfectly encapsulate an ideal. Damn the man. It's gorgeous!

Vegeta snippet

2008-05-13T21:22:29Z

Okay. I'm tired and snarly and cranky, and I've two exams tomorrow and I've barely studied, and somehow ... this leads to Vegeta fic. *Snarly*, savage, Vegeta fic. He's such a good muse, that way. Anyway. Don't expect anything impressive. I've got to go pull my hair out some more, and panic about tomorrow.

Title: The Triumph of Blood
Rating: At least PG-13, for maybe rather disturbing content
Pairing: None. Just Vegeta
Summary: If you could go back in time, to a critical point in your life, to tell yourself *one* thing ... what would it be?
Warnings: Not mine. Violent. Again, rather savage. He just comes that way! Not my fault!

The Triumph of Blood

If you could go back to the past, to a critical point in your life, just long enough to tell yourself one thing, what would it be?

Vegeta spat. What kind of stupid question was that? And what kind of idiot quest was this? He stared down at the huddled ball of his younger self, tucked away in a corner of his quarters, battered and bloody and shaking in silent agony. A critical point in his life. Oh, yes. He remembered. The night Frieza had broken him for the first and only time, the last night of true weakness he had ever known. The night he had become more than just the brat prince of a dead people. The night he had become Vegeta, warrior, killer, Saiyan no Ouiji. Everything he had been when he arrived on earth for the first time. And he was supposed to say something, to this half-formed child-man, to this thing he had been? What?

A noise interrupted his snarled musings. The child-man wasn't yet aware of his presence. Of course not. He wasn't even really there, just a solid shadow clinging vaguely to the edge of this time, only real when he opened his mouth to say whatever inane insight they wanted him to say. The noise the young prince made was not directed at him. But he remembered it.

There is a sound, that people make when they have been hurt just enough to realise that it's never going to stop, that pain is going to be all they will ever know. A sick, dull, nauseating whine of pain and fear and misery, half-strangled by the wall of tears that they have begun to understand they can never shed, made into a low hollow keening. It is an ugly sound, a sound that has no meaning beyond an expression of dumb, pulsating despair, a sound that is hideous beyond power to explain. That was the sound the young prince made.

And it ripped through Vegeta in a thunderbolt of fury like nothing he had felt for a very, very long time. He hated that sound, hated it all the more for remembering that he had made it, for remembering being hunched over, huddled around that hideous noise as if it were the last real thing in the universe, hated it with a violent passion only matched by his hatred for the one who'd caused it.

It was the last straw. With a violence that was rare for him now, but never quite as far from him as they hoped, he lunged at the smaller figure, seized it roughly by the shoulders and yanked the young saiyan upright, viciously pulling him away from that sound. He moved before he really thought, entirely on instinct, and froze as he stared down into the confused features of his younger self, twisted by fear and pain and confusion.

If you could tell yourself one thing, what would it be?

He didn't know. Kami, but he didn't. He stared down into the ugly, stupid features of his younger self, the child-thing that for an instant, this night, had truly belonged to Frieza, the first and only time. The one time he had truly been defeated. He looked down at those blind, hateful features, and wondering what you could say, what anyone could possibly say.

He thought about what he had now that this creature didn't, about everything he had learnt that this boy had never known. He thought about Bulma, and the incredible strength he had found in her beautiful, stubborn fragility. He thought about Trunks, his glorious, powerful son, his son who had come from the future to avenge him, to kill Frieza and lay the path for his strength. He thought of Kakarott, of the strength and glory of their strange, hah, friendship, of fights won and lost and power gained together. He thought about their families, of Kakarott's boys, of Gohan on Namek, of Goten playing with Trunks. He thought of the strange collection of people who had inexplicably gathered around him, of snide exchanges with the Namek, of asking and trusting the monk to wound him, of sneers and fights and wrested understandings.

He thought of every desperate thing he had learned on this long, bloody journey of his, everything he had learned in his life that this pathetic brat had no chance of understanding no matter how much he explained. Because this child-man knew only pain and hate and violence, and in this moment of defeat could no more hope to understand the safety he had learned than he could hope to convince Kakarott to hate him. At this moment, in this place, there had been no hope for him. None at all.

His younger self stared up at him, terrified, confused, sneering, and whimpered in pain beneath the clench of his hands on the thin shoulders. That small sound infuriated him all over again, and he slapped the already bruised features harshly, decision made.

"No!" he commanded, bitterly forceful. "Do not make that sound again, do you understand? Do you?" He shook the brat, hard, and for a second the fierce pride he remembered feeling burst to the fore, and the young prince shrugged his hand away to land a vicious, if ineffectual, punch to his stomach. Vegeta grinned fiercely, and snapped his hand down to grab the retreating wrist and clench his hand painfully around it. The boy snarled in pain, fear bright in his eyes. Vegeta sneered at him.

"Look at you!" he spat, contempt dripping from his tone, and watched as the child flinched. "Look at what you've become, Saiyan no Ouiji." He loaded as much mockery as he knew how into those words, wrapped them and delivered them with intent to wound. "Look at what you've let him take!"

The child screamed at him, pouring all of his tiny, useless strength into an attempt to wrest his arm free, to strike at Vegeta. "You don't understand!" his young self panted, that damned sound hovering in the back of his throat, beneath panicked anger. "You don't know what he did!"

Vegeta snarled at him. "I don't care," he spat. "I don't care what he is, what he did, what he made you do. Do you get it? I don't care! It doesn't matter! All that matters is what you did, what you have allowed! What you have become!" He twisted his hand on the small wrist, pressing until his nails gouged into the skin and bright blood flowed from between his fingers. The boy howled, and fought to get away from him. "Listen to me!" Vegeta bellowed at him, and the frantic struggles instantly ceased as his younger self stared at him in awe.

"Listen," Vegeta continued, more softly. "Look." He lifted the boy's torn wrist, spread his fingers so the prince could see the bright pulse of blood as it flowed out of him. "This is what matters. This is what counts, Saiyan no Ouiji. This blood. Your blood. The blood of our people."

The young prince stared at him with a mix of confusion and revulsion, watching in fascination as his own blood welled and flowed. "All that matters is that I'm hurt?" he asked, bitterly, and Vegeta repressed an urge to hug him, as if he were Trunks instead of just a bad memory.

"Baka," he snarled, oddly gentle. "No. You don't understand. This is your blood. It's your father's blood, your mother's blood, the blood of all saiyans, the blood of a prince. It's your blood, the blood of our people pounding through your veins, the indelible blueprint of who and what you are! Your blood, to be shed on their behalf. Your blood, to spatter the ground in your every battle, to signify every wound that makes you stronger. Your blood, that can never be taken!" His voice rose, ringing with pride and power. "He can never take it away. No matter how much he spills, no matter how much he takes, there is always more blood. As long as you live, to your last breath, he cannot take that. He can never take from you who you are. We are Saiyan! We are born in blood, we live in blood, we die in blood! We are who we are, Saiyan no Ouiji, the best, the strongest, and it is more than any stupid lizard can steal from us!"

He stopped himself with a snarl, every instant of pride and rage and passion pouring back through him in fierce remembrance, and damn them all, it was magnificent! What he was now was greater, gentler, more powerful, but there had been a kind of stark and brutal glory to what he'd been then that still resonated with something inside him. He was still, deep inside, the man this child would become, the black warrior, the slave prince. He was still in part the man that had done his damnedest to destroy Kakarott. Everything he said struck a cord, deep inside him, of remembered pride.

He looked down again, at the harsh features of the boy, at the expression of arrogant resolve that slowly formed on them, and smiled bitterly. With something that might be called tenderness, with the closest thing to that wonderous gift that this child would recieve for many years to come, he lifted the torn wrist to his lips and bit down, gently, without quite knowing why. He grasped the boy's head between his hands, and the gleaming eyes stared up at him with solemn awe, and Vegeta smiled fiercely, leaning forward to press his bloody mouth to the boy's forehead, in the manner of kings, a searing benediction.

"Saiyan no Ouiji," he whispered, as he pulled back, and looked down into the angry, determined pride that crystallised on those cold young features with a kind of sad pity. It was all he could give. Of everything he had learned, that pride was the only thing he could give that was strong enough to survive what was coming. The only thing he could tell him. But that was all right. There would be others to teach him the rest. There would be Kakarott, and Bulma, and the brats, and the Namek, and earth. Sooner or later, he would learn to become everything they had taught him to be.

But here and now, in Frieza's hands, there could only be what he had taught himself. What he had learned in pain and despair and battle. In this moment, he could only be what he had made himself, with that fierce and desperate pride that was the only thing he knew to give in order to survive to see the rest. But it was enough. It would be enough.

As the past faded around him, as whatever stupid wish they had asked faded away, completed, he smiled. The old smile, proud and bitter and magnificent. He was who he was, Saiyan no Ouiji, and no-one had ever succeeded in taking that from him. They couldn't.

It was in his blood.

Apologies!

2008-05-11T01:40:42Z

Okay, first and foremost I want to apologise to everybody for being absent for ages, and being completely antisocial and not talking to anyone ... I'm truly sorry, and I don't mean to ignore anyone.

Secondly, the reason for this, and the bad news (for me, anyway) is that this is not likely to change, owing to my triple-damned EXAMS. May is the cursed month. My last exam is on the 30th, and if the past week is anything to go by, I'm not going to enjoy it.

This isn't meant to be a moan-post, and I apologise for it coming across as such. All I wanted to say was sorry for not talking to everyone, and that if you've anything you want me to read, or if you're feeling incredibly charitable and lovely, and want to point me towards something that'll cheer me up, could you send me a heads-up? Because I've absolutely no energy left to go looking. And during the week, I've barely time to turn on the computer.

In short, I'm going to be a very *dim* presence for the next month. Forgive me.

Short fic. I think.

2008-04-30T17:30:14Z

Another short, because it's all I've time to write these days. But ... I'm tempted to say "Nobody kill me!" for this one. It lodged in my brain, and refused to leave, but ... it's so, sooo wrong! Really, incredibly screwy. But anyway. Here you go.

Title: True Deceptions
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: ...... Alfred/J'onn. Young!Alfred / female!J'onn, but still. Help!
Summary: One of J'onn's disguises is someone Alfred recognises. From a long time ago, in a different world.
Disclaimer: The madness is mine. The characters aren't.
Warnings: Aside from the obvious? Cliches. Also, anyone know what you call it when it's het on one side of the equation, and slash on the other?

True Deceptions

Alfred sighed lightly as he rounded the last turn of the Batcave stairs, listening to the quiet, emphatic statements that signified what counted for a raging argument for these particular people. He could only assume that the undercover operation hadn't going quite as well as Oracle had led him to believe, then. Which was rather surprising, considering that one of the people involved was a shapeshifter, another a reporter, and the third ... well, Master Bruce. Unless egos were involved, in which case he could see numerous sources of conflict, but he would have thought their professionalism would outweigh that.

He allowed his features to slip into well-schooled impassivity as he moved out over the walkway towards the island of light containing the three combatants. It was best not cut in while the argument was still ongoing, unless it was absolutely necessary. A few choice comments when tempers had cooled were usually sufficient to sort things out, unless people were being particularly stubborn, and if Master J'onn was involved that wasn't likely to be the case.

When he saw the three of them, though, he had to struggle to maintain the calm demeanor. Oh, Masters Bruce and Clark were exactly as he'd expected them to be, a little battered and a lot icily angry. It was the third figure that caught his attention.

Master J'onn had gone for a feminine disguise this time around, apparently. A rather well put together one, if Alfred was permitted an opinion on the matter. A compact, robust figure, her auburn hair caught back in a loose band, with that stubbornly beautiful Eastern European cast to her strong features and eyes that were as much rusty red as they were brown. It was a perfect profile for the job they were undertaking. And one that he remembered, rather clearly considering the years separating them, with considerable affection.

He had gathered himself before Master Bruce caught sight of him, which alone indicated the vehemence of their little conflict, and stepped forward calmly to lay his tray on the small worksurface next to the console. He pointedly took his time fixing it, allowing them time to start shifting a little in embarrassment. Not that they actually moved a muscle, but the faint aura of shame that rose unbidden at his interuption was plain to anyone who knew them. Only once it had set in did he turn.

"I've taken the liberty of informing Master Dick of the remnants of the ring heading his way," he said dryly. "Miss Barbara has seen to the other matter, I believe. The security recordings detailing Master Clark's little accident have been erased, as per usual." He allowed his tone to become a little pointed at the last, and Bruce nodded stiffly, ignoring Clark's smug look. As far as he was concerned, and if pushed Alfred might have agreed, a mistake was still a mistake.

"Thank you, Alfred," he murmured. Alfred nodded politely, and moved to head back upstairs, but paused at the edge of the light to look back.

"And may I say," he offered, with a slight smile, "that it is a genuine pleasure to see you again, Ms Katerina." The other two merely looked confused, but the shock of shamed recognition through J'onn was enough to let Alfred know he'd been right. He smiled gently, and moved away upstairs.

He'd been back in the kitchen about two minutes, the kettle just starting to settle on the ring, when the knock sounded softly on the doorframe. Alfred looked up from where he sat, and smiled at J'onn's shamed expression on Katerina's face. He stood and pulled out a second chair by the table, gesturing for his companion to sit. After a moment, J'onn stepped hesitantly over, and sat down.

"The tea should be ready in a few moments, if you'd like some," Alfred offered politely, hiding a tiny grin at the Martian's discomfort. "Or I believe I can find some cookies, or even a spot of vodka, if you'd prefer?"

"No," the Martian assured him quickly, his voice the deep and sombre tone Alfred associated with a far more masculine, and greener, form. "I'm fine. I wished ... to explain ..."

Alfred returned to his own seat. "It's quite all right, Master J'onn. It was some time ago, after all, and the world was ... different, then. It's only fitting that we should have been as well," he said softly, and then added with a gentle nod: "And if that form is making you uncomfortable, you may drop it if you wish."

The Martian looked at him for a second, consideringly, and then Katerina's proud features shifted slowly into the more typical green ones. Alfred suppressed the tiny hint of regret as she slipped away again, and smiled.

"It was not intended as a deceit," J'onn tried to explain. "Or, at least not one directed specifically at you. I did not intend ... I had forgotten. It's been ... so long. But I did not intend to decieve you, even then. I ..."

Alfred held up a hand, a wry smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. "Those were different days, Master J'onn. Deception was the name of the game, I do understand." He paused, looking at the still-uncertain expression in those compassionate red eyes. "I'll tell you what," he offered suddenly. "I'll forgive you for hiding the fact that you were male, and an alien, if you'll forgive me for disappearing on you once my shoulder wound had healed."

J'onn looked at him for a moment, and then smiled back, genuine humour in the wry expression. "Well, I suppose you did pay for the hotel room," he teased. "And the first class ticket to Nantes. Not that I needed it, but it was a lovely gesture, and the train was an ... intruiging experience."

Alfred chuckled. "After you'd put up with me for four days, with the temper I was in, it was the least I could do."

J'onn laughed lightly. "You were not a problem, I assure you. A trifle stubborn about not being badly wounded ..." Alfred did not quite glare at him for that. "But as polite and considerate as ever. And a perfect gentleman, even if I may have ... regretted that, a little."

Alfred nodded, his eyebrows creasing in sympathy. "I apologise for taking up so much of your bed. I must have seemed rather a tease, to you, but I fear I am not nearly so neat sleeping as I am conscious."

"Indeed. And you snore, too," J'onn deadpanned, grinning slightly at the snort Alfred couldn't quite repress, before sobering. "But it was ... pleasant ... to lie with someone again. To be close enough to share their dreams, if I'd wished. Not that I did," he added hurriedly. "But it was ... comforting ... to pretend that I could."

Alfred couldn't stop the gentle ache of sympathy inside him. "I remember," he nodded softly. "You seemed so lonely, then. I used to spend all the time you were out thinking how I was going to make you smile when you returned. I'd be waiting for when the door opened, and then you'd come in, push you hair back behind your scarf, and smile at me anyway." He shook his head ruefully, shining a little in remembered warmth. "I think I was more than a little in love with you, to tell the truth." And he had been. It had been what drove him to run as soon as it was humanly possible. He couldn't have afforded her.

J'onn smiled sadly. "You were in love with Katerina, you mean."

Alfred frowned at him. "Please don't start that. I get enough of divided personalities as it is. You are Katerina, as far as I'm concerned. Everything she felt came from you, true?"

J'onn blinked, but nodded. "Yes," he said softly, with a look of vague surprise. Alfred nodded decisively, as if that settled it. And as far as he was concerned, it did. Masks were a way of life, then and now, and it was what lay behind them that counted.

They sat in silence for a moment, neither quite sure what to say after that. The kettle's whistle nearly had Alfred jumping uncharacteristically, and he could see the tremor of movement in his companion that indicated a similar problem. He smiled slightly then, shaking off his malaise to stand and fix himself a cup.

"You want some?" he queried, still smiling faintly, and J'onn shook his head, enough humour in his gaze to let Alfred know that he too was laughing at the pair of them, and what they'd come to. Sitting back down with his cup of tea, Alfred couldn't resist patting his hand conspiratorially, and was rewarded with a returning brush of a powerful thumb.

"Do you mind if I ask why you were in Kiev in the first place?" he asked lightly. "I understand if it's still a secret."

J'onn shook his head, a momentary cloud of disgust filtering over his features. "I was on a case. A kidnapped child. There was a group of men in Kiev who ... specialised in that kind of thing."

Alfred allowed his own lip to curl at the thought. "I remember. The child-slavery ring." He shook his head. "I had not realised I was distracting you from something so important."

"You did not," J'onn murmured, a touch reproachfully. "My part was done, by then. I was resting."

Alfred smiled ruefully. "Then I apologise for having interrupted your holiday."

J'onn laughed. "You were a welcome diversion, I assure you. And I could hardly ignore you when you crashed bleeding through my window, and apologised to me for the inconvenience!" Alfred winced. That was not the part he liked to remember. "Though I will admit to some curiosity as to how that happened ...?" J'onn raised an enquiring eyebrow.

Alfred sighed. "Not much I can say, even now. But ... the Cold War was in full swing, at the time. Let's say I had a part to play, small though it was." He winked in delight as J'onn's eyes widened slightly.

"You mysterious man, you," the Martian laughed. "How very James Bond."

Alfred stiffened in affront. "Certainly not! The man was a crass imitation at best! And not even very good at his job, if you ask me. Why ..." He stopped as he realised that J'onn was struggling manfully to restrain a laugh, and huffed silently to himself. "That was entirely unnecessary, Master J'onn."

The Martian sobered a little. "Just J'onn, please. Alfred. And I could hardly resist. Though I will admit that you had rather more skill with the ladies than that fictional philanderer. This lady, at least." Alfred could swear he winked, and allowed himself the echoing grin.

"Well," he murmured softly, "I've always thought simply treating someone with the consideration they're due is far more effective than petty flattery. Though flattery has its place too. You were very beautiful, after all."

J'onn blushed a little. "That was ... not exactly what I was aiming for," he confessed. Alfred's smile broadened.

"Beauty achieved without thought is truer than beauty painstakingly prepared," he admonished. "And you achieved it. I believe my heart stuttered for a moment, when I saw you again just now."

J'onn looked at him wryly to hide how truly affected he was, but Alfred wasn't fooled. Nonetheless, he allowed the deception. As he had allowed many others. "Is that wise, at your age?" the Martian asked innocently, and Alfred only barely restrained himself from flicking a biscuit at him in annoyance. They grinned a bit at each other, content for a few moments to simply sit in warm silence.

Then J'onn tipped his head to one side, and Alfred sighed.

"Master Bruce, I take it?" he asked, knowing the answer. J'onn nodded.

"We are needed on the tower, but I gather he wants Kal-El and myself to leave as civilians rather than via the teleporter. Apparently we have someone waiting at the gates."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Ms Lane? She works faster every time I meet her. I begin to wonder if there is, indeed, something a little superhuman about her. Then again, considering her choice of companion, it is hardly surprising, I suppose." J'onn only looked at him, and Alfred supressed a grin as a terrible idea occured to him. "Though, if you are to accompany Master Clark, might I suggest a less ... beautiful ... disguise? We wouldn't want to give the wrong impression, after all."

J'onn narrowed his eyes, but Alfred had mastered his poker face a long, long time ago, and returned the look innocently. It fooled the Martian about as well as his earlier dissembling had fooled Alfred. "I can sense you're up to something, you know," he commented lightly, and Alfred shrugged.

"Might I suggest something in a tie," he murmured by way of response. J'onn looked at him for another minute, then shrugged and shifted smoothly to his usual John Jones shape, complete with tie.

"Will this suit, do you think?" J'onn asked, just the right flavour of sarcasm in the tone. Alfred smiled.

Standing, he walked over to the taller man and raised a hand to touch the knot at the top of the tie. He tutted gently. "As I expected. Even when you can call it up fully formed, you don't know how to tie a tie."

J'onn blinked at him, but Alfred focused on the feel of the Martian silk as he pulled it gently free of the coat, and neatly undid it. He knew J'onn was shifting slightly to allow it, bemused by his actions. He smiled sadly as he carefully retied the knot, wondering how the sensation of his aged, cautious fingers would feel to his Martian friend, and was careful to smooth the ersatz tie gently as he laid it back down. "I'm glad you are no longer quite so lonely, my friend," he murmured softly, without looking up.

J'onn was still for a long minute, looking down at him, and then he bent suddenly to kiss each of Alfred's wrinkled cheeks in turn, as she had done on that last morning before going out to return to an empty room and a first class ticket to Nantes. Alfred's face creased at the gesture, half a smile and half regret, and he patted J'onn gently on the chest.

"I'm glad you have found the family you deserved," the Martian rumbled, and although it was sincerely meant, Alfred frowned at the hint of gentle humour floating beneath the words. Then he reconsidered them, and poked J'onn stiffly in the ribs in retaliation.

"I'll have you know I was never as bad as Master Bruce!" he huffed, and J'onn laughed.

"Of course not." Then mischief drifted over his features. "I feel I should say something like 'We'll always ...'" Alfred cut him off hurriedly.

"If you quote Casablanca at me, I shall not be responsible for my actions! A simple goodbye will do nicely, thank you." J'onn chuckled.

"Goodbye then. Until the next alien invasion or undercover operation, at least."

Alfred nodded as he watched him leave. The world was certainly a different place, now, he reflected. The masks people wore were different shapes. But the feelings behind them? Those were always the same.

He shook his head, and went to sort out the mess Master Bruce had undoubtedly left in the Batcave.

Meme from Blackrosebard

2008-04-29T23:18:38Z

Leave me a comment and:
1. I'll tell you why I added you to my f-list.
2. I'll tell you what I most associate with you.
3. I'll tell you what I like about you.
4. I'll state a favorite memory of you.
5. I will tell you about a character or a pairing that is similar to you. (keep in mind that I'm not exactly the best judge of character going)
6. I'll ask you a question about you that I've always wanted to know.
7. I'll tell you which of your user pics I like the best.
8. In return, post this meme on your journal, if you want.

Kal/Bruce/J'onn fic for Jen_in_japan

2008-04-27T23:10:52Z

Because she wrote me Q. And just in general deserves it.

Title: Pas de Trois
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Clark/Bruce/J'onn, Lois
Summary: another charity event at Wayne Manor. Lois finds out a few things.
Disclaimer: don't own.

Pas de Trois

Clark watched the dance contentedly, leaning back against the groaning buffet table and smiling quietly at Alfred as the frazzled older man passed by on his way to politely eviscerate an unfortunate waiter. Clark knew he didn't actually mind. It did the old man good to see Wayne manor alive and sparkling again, if only once in a while. A reminder of, if not better, then certainly noisier days. The attendant problems of catering staff, event management, stocking the kitchens, cleaning the dance hall, disguising the latest evidence of Bruce's batarang practice, and all the rest of it, were insignificant details that quailed before a politely raised eyebrow and a few words uttered in quiet, even tones.

In another life, Alfred had been a general of considerable ability.

Few people were sampling the fruits of Alfred's labour at the minute, though. Most of the guests were on the dance floor, swaying to something slow and smoky. Clark had begged off on the grounds of big feet and fundamental incompatibility, which had Lois huffing and Bruce sneering gently. But Clark had wanted to let J'onn have a chance. Their partner had gone to some effort with his disguise, after a few days of Bruce's silent nagging, and Clark had wanted him to have the full experience. As the society columns were wont to say, you hadn't lived in Gotham until you'd danced in Bruce Wayne's arms, after all.

They were circling gently near the foot of the stairs at the minute. J'onn's long and quietly beautiful form was curled into the broad clasp of Bruce's arms, his elfin cheek resting lightly on his partner's shoulder as sparkling green eyes shone up into fierce blue ones. The pre-Raphaelite beauty J'onn had gone for looked perfect with Gotham's prince.

But to Clark, it was more than that. He could see the protective curl in Bruce's arms, the surprised joy in J'onn's eyes, the easy grace Bruce's body and mind imparted to the learning telepath as they circled. He could see Bruce's hand rubbing gently at the strap of J'onn's dress, an inoffensive move until you considered that J'onn's dress was no more an actual dress than his cape was an actual cape. That tiny intimate touch spoke volumns to anyone who knew how to look. In it, Clark could see his lovers' quiet joy and adoration.

It was a beautiful sight.

*Clark, if you do not stop the romantic maunderings, I will be forced to take steps*

Clark stiffled a chuckle at Bruce's testy telepathic instruction, knowing it for the vague embarrassment it was, and shot back. *I'm jealous, my love. Can't you tell? There's J'onn, dancing in your arms, and here I am, standing beside Alfred's feast, all lonesome.*

He felt a sudden flash of J'onn's amusement, and then a wave of sensation poured over him. He could feel Bruce's arms around him, smell his perfectly toned cologne, hear the muffled laughter in his easy breathing. He felt himself moving with the slow rhythm, the heat and sounds of the dance. He could feel the strong shoulder beneath his cheek, the warm weight of a hand on his slender waist, the press of tuxedo against his ... breasts ...

*J'onn! Stop that!* He could have sworn the Martian sniggered. *That wasn't nice.*

*I concur,* Bruce commented in mock severity. *It's not nice to tease, J'onn. You're sending him mixed signals, and his poor Kryptonian brain can't handle it.*

Clark readied the returning salvo, but before he got it off, something caught his eye. *Don't look now, but something's on its way I doubt even you can handle, Bruce.* He absolutely did not admire the instant shift to Batman as Bruce's eyes cooled and hardened and his body deliberately relaxed to let him move once he'd identified the threat. J'onn, humming slightly through the link, absolutely did not admire it either, though Clark had to concede that the Martian probably had the better view. It was hard to begrudge him it, though, when he also got a better view of Lois' icy smile as she appeared at Bruce's elbow.

"Mind if I cut in?" she asked, through clenched teeth. J'onn blinked at her, but Bruce shifted automatically from Batman to billionaire and shot her a thousand-dollar smile.

"Certainly, Ms Lane," he murmured pleasantly, smoothly whirling J'onn into the crook of his left arm as he took Lois' hand with his right. "If your fellow reporter would like to take Ms Jones in my stead?" This last as Clark came to a clumsy halt beside them, and nodded. J'onn slipped into his arms with maybe a little more haste than necessary, and Bruce caught up Lois without a further word and shimmied them away out over the floor.

Clark and J'onn stared after them as they belatedly began dancing again themselves. Clark paused for a moment in surprise as he felt J'onn move expertly with him, and smiled as he felt his lover's wry reproach.

*I was taught by the best, after all. No-one can doubt Bruce's ability to move.*

*No. It's his ability to handle Lois I'm worried about,* Clark murmured, manouvering them so he could keep a wary eye on the other couple. Bruce was oozing charm, but Lois' cool grin was more than a counter for it. *Was it ethical of us to leave him alone with her?*

*Better him than me,* J'onn whispered. *My hair was standing on end, and I don't even have real hair. I get the impression we have done something badly wrong.*

*No. Not us. I think it's just him.* Clark didn't bother to deny his worry. The Martian could read Bruce when their stubborn lover was hurt and locked tighter than a calm. Clark's meager shields didn't stand a chance, and he'd never liked blocking J'onn anyway. Sensing the thought, J'onn ran a hand down his arm half in gratitude and half in comfort. Clark smiled at him.

*He will be fine.* J'onn murmured. *He has been fighting off angry women for years now, after all.*

Clark laughed lightly, and spun him around. *Maybe you're right. He'll be fine. He's Batman!*

***

On the other side of the floor, Bruce wasn't so sure of that. There were sharks with less intimidating grins than the one Lois currently sported, and he was sure she was deliberately trying to step on his toes. It took every ounce of his combat skill to avoid her neat little heels, and at every near miss she gave him a sweet little smile.

"Ms Lane, have I offended you in some way?" he asked politely, frowning slightly as a flash of raw fury poured over her features. "If I have, I apologise, but I don't recall ..."

"Cut the crap, Bruce," she hissed, stamping a little harder than necessary as they turned. "What do you think you've done!"

He shook his head, frowning. "I don't know, Lois. What have I done?"

She stared at him in amazement, before sheer contempt took over. "Are you that heartless?" she spat. "Or just stupid? Did you think I wouldn't notice?" He blinked, and shook his head in honest confusion, and she snarled. "Bruce, you were more than just dancing with that woman!"

It was a rare thing to see Bruce actually gobsmacked. "What?" he spluttered, and Lois paused.

"Bruce, did you honestly not realise. You looked ... smitten. And you didn't notice? Oh, that just takes the cake! That makes it five times worse, you idiot!"

He shook his head. "Lois, what are you talking about?"

She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Bruce, you're in love with her, you idiot. You're cheating on Clark! And as soon as I get you alone, I'm going to take you to little tiny pieces for it, you blue-blooded bastard! Bad enough you go and seduce him, but now ...!"

Bruce had had enough. "Lois! Shut up!" She did, but only long enough to glare. "Firstly, who seduced who is entirely another issue, and not one I intend to get into here. Secondly, I would never cheat on anyone, let alone Clark. And thirdly, I would have thought you'd know better than to jump to conclusions without checking your facts!"

She paused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

His voice softened, and he turned them so she could see where Clark and J'onn were dancing. "Look," he commanded gently. Lois followed his gaze, in time to see Clark lift J'onn through a turn, and smiling at the Martian's startled laugh. J'onn put his arms around his partner's neck as his feet hit the floor again, still laughing as he nestled back into Clark's arms. It was obvious to anyone watching how they felt about each other. Lois stared in awe, and turned back to Bruce.

"Both. You're in love with both of them? And Clark too?"

Bruce smiled softly. "It's ... complicated. But in essence? Yes."

Lois looked thunderstruck. "But ... who? Who is she?"

Bruce shifted for a moment. "Ah. Give me a second, would you?" He ignored her shrewd look, and sent a rapid query towards his lovers. *J'onn. In the interests of potentially saving our collective skins, I need to tell Lois who you are. Any objections?*

*None whatsoever.* The response was ever so slightly breathless. Of course, technically telepathic conversations did not require breathing, but that was definitely the impression given. Bruce smiled slightly.

"Telepathy?" Lois asked, watching his face carefully. He nodded, and her eyes widened. "No. You're not serious?"

He paused, features becoming suddenly grave. "I have never been more so, Lois. About both of them." It carried all the gravity of a life-oath. She stared up at him for a long moment, weighing the promise in his voice, and nodded solemnly. Then she laughed.

Bruce blinked. "What's funny?"

Lois shook her head. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Only you, Bruce. Only you could manage to fall in love with two of the most powerful and alien beings on this planet. And manage to make them fall in love right back." She looked at him slyly. "One of these days, I'm going to have to ask you how you managed that."

He shook his wryly. "Damned if I know," he murmured, and she laughed again.

"But how are you going to manage it?" she murmured. "How do you plan to keep up with both of them?" He looked at her, and then out across the floor to where J'onn was dipping low in Clark's arms, a small smile on his feminine features as he gently traced Clark's cheek, and smiled sadly. Lois looked up at him in sudden concern. "Bruce?"

He looked back down at her. "I don't," he answered softly. "I don't plan on keeping up with them at all." He smiled at her look of blank confusion. "Man may not walk among the gods forever, Lois. He's too fragile for that. All I plan to do is love them while I can, and make sure they're safe for when I go." He could feel the sudden concern and aching love that poured into him from the two men across the room, but it didn't concern him. They were smart enough to have known, and it was nothing save the truth. The swell of love in his chest when he saw them together was reward enough for a thousand lifetimes, and he had it all in just the one. He had no regrets.

"How do you do that?" Lois asked him softly. He blinked at her. "Just when I think you're the worst possible man anyone could ever fall in love with ... you go and say something like that."

He shrugged uneasily. "Well, I am a world-renowed playboy, after all, using my skills to make women swoon."

She smiled gently at him, and patted his cheek as she stepped back suddenly. His eyes followed her in confusion, before he felt Clark's warm hand on one shoulder, and J'onn's lighter one on the other. "No," she said softly. "You're not." And she nodded to J'onn, who nodded back gravely, gave Clark a tiny smile that was quickly returned, and turned on her heel.

Leaving his partners to lead him silently outside and into the air. Leaving them to show him that for them, there were no regrets either.

Leaving them to show him how much they loved him.

Grey King Chapter 2

2008-04-26T23:42:10Z

I shouldn't but here you go.

Title: In the Hall of the Grey King
Chapter: 2
Rating: PG-13
Characters: J'onn, Charon
Chpt summary: The Shores of the Lost and the River of Tears
Warnings: ghosts

In the Hall of the Grey King

Chapter 2

The Shores of the Lost and the River of Tears

The tunnel was long and dark as night, but that didn't worry J'onn. He'd never been afraid of the darkness, and since Bruce ... the night was a friend and his lover's playground. It held no fears for him.

The emptiness, however, was a different thing. He had not often walked in such utter silence. On Mars, there had been the warmth of the communion around him, and on Earth and many other planets, there was a constant wall of sound in every direction. A dull, chattering roar of unnamed voices. It was overwhelming at times, but he had grown almost to like it. The only places of silence were the depths between the stars, and ... Mars had been silent, afterwards. Like this place. The underworld. Where only the mute souls of the dead walked. But not yet. He had not yet come to that place.

It was a long time, he thought, before he finally emerged from the darkness. It was hard to tell. Time here did not seem to mean the same thing. But he did emerge, eventually. Though not to sunlight. Sunlight is not grey, and there can be no sun underground anyway. It wouldn't have made sense.

J'onn smiled a little at Bruce's memory in the thought, and paused to look around.

The grey plain stretched in every direction. Even, impossibly, behind. The tunnel sat blackly in it's midst, and even though you knew it should look so very out-of-place, it seemed natural. It was a part of the fabric of this place, though that sat uneasily with mortal senses. J'onn didn't mind it, though out of curiosity he reached out to try and touch the edges where the two things met. As expected, he couldn't grasp it, and smiled a little. That must have frustrated Bruce no end.

Suddenly, he turned his head, as if catching some far off sound. And it was a sound, a physical one. Like the lapping of waves against a shore, except not. Beneath those watery noises, there was something else. A kind of wailing that was almost human in tone, a hollow keening just on the edge of hearing. J'onn stared in its direction, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was the sound of raw misery. And it was exactly where he knew he had to go. Diana had been specific.

To the Acheron. The River of Tears, and the Shore of the Lost that lay alongside it, where those who could not pass into the next realm waited in vain for the Dark God's mercy. His path lay through the ranks of ghosts that lined that grey shore.

For one moment, he hesitated. He could not hear the thoughts of the dead, could not feel their emotions. But he could feel the influence of that river. It's wailing pierced beyond his defenses, straight into his empathic core in a hollow singing of endless grief, and touched every echo of every loss he had ever suffered. The thought of stepping closer was ... abhorent.

But even as he stared at the grim horizon in trepidation, he felt it. The warmth of hands clasped gently around his heart, a liquid weight of love in his chest. A fierce and adamantine fire poured slowly through him, the compass needle of his heart aligned without pause on some distant thing beyond that wailing barrier. J'onn sighed then, a smiling exhalation. Bruce lay on the other side of that river. Against that knowledge, the tears of a million lost souls were quiet between them. He started to walk, into the funeral swell of their keening, and wasn't afraid.

They came upon him soon enough. The serried ranks of the forgotten. Those spirits who could not pay the fare across that impenetrable barrier. They watched him as he passed among them with grey faces empty of hope, and J'onn's heart faltered at every pale and longing stare that rested on him. But he kept walking.

The throng grew thicker as he came down to the shore itself, and he flinched beneath the weight of their regard. Who knew how long some of these souls had stood here, staring in longing despair out into the mists towards the peace of the other side. There were children among them, lost and orphaned souls, pale eyes blankly confused. J'onn ached to help them. But he had only enough for his own fare.

He came to the pier, a rotten ediface of crumbling dark wood stretching out into the crying mists. The ghosts were thickest here, and newest. Faces still in some small way animated turned towards him as he strode through them. Pale hands brushed his chest hopefully, hunger in their milky eyes. His hand closed tighter around the small coins Diana had given him. He was two feet from the first black plank of the jetty, when two children stepped in his path, and opened their mouths to pour a silent scream at him. He staggered to a halt.

He couldn't hear them. The dead do not speak. But their smalls mouths shaped the word please, over and over again, and their desperation was clear in every spare and insubstantial limb. That soundless plea hit J'onn like a fist in the gut, and he found his hand instinctively loosening, extending forward.

"I would not, were I you, mortal."

J'onn started, hand refirming around his only link to the next world. He turned his head out towards the river, and finally saw it. The boat, floating in eerie silence on the lapping waves, it's dim lantern bobbing in the mists beside the jetty. And inside it, barely visible, the bent and gnarled figure of a man. Charon. The ferryman of Hades.

"What?" the Martian asked, his voice a harsh slap in the weeping silence. The figure cackled, the motion hunching it over, twisted limbs shaking spasmodically in glee. J'onn frowned at it, and said nothing.

"I said, mortal," the figure answered, with hitching breath, "that I would not hand away my fare if I were you. Not unless you wish to walk these shores for the next hundred years. That is your fare, is it not?" J'onn nodded warily, walking out onto the swaying jetty to stand beside the boat and stare down at it's occupant, who held out a filthy hand imperiously, head still bowed in grim himour. "Give it to me, then," Charon demanded, and looked up at him.

The shock that passed through the dirty little god at the sight of the Martian set his skeletal limbs jerking with a hollow crackle of abused joints. The filthy beard swung as the scrawy throat gulped in revulsion, and Hades' ferryman snapped his hand away from the one J'onn stretched out in offering. J'onn froze.

"Get away!" the boatman snarled, disgust thick in his aged voice. "Alien get, begone! Your kind are not for here!"

J'onn shook his head. "I can pay my fare," he said, softly but firmly. "You may not turn me away."

"I can!" He was spitting in anger, but there was something like fear in his burning eyes. "Your gods are old and distant, alien, and have no authority over me! This is not for you! You may not pass!"

J'onn only stared calmly at him. "My gods are not here, it is true. I am. I may pass. I must pass, ferryman. And by your oath and your duty, you must bear me across." He put no threat in his tone, only simple certainty.

Charon stiffened, staring at him with something like loathing, and drew himself up to a chorus of snapping joints. His lined and greasy face twisted with hate. "Do not try me, alien," he warned softly. "I know my duty, and I know my powers. I have ferried the black souls bound for Tartarus. I have borne their ranting, suffered their abuse, rejected their offers of violence. I will not bow before your strength, alien. Do not think to try me."

J'onn nodded gently. "And yet, I must pass," he explained softly, and held out his coins once more. Charon paused in his rant, and looked at him properly for the first time.

"You ... are searching for someone, aren't you?" he asked shrewdly. "You hunt one of the dead."

J'onn shook his head. "Not hunt. But I seek someone, yes. I was told he passed this way. I must find him."

The boatman frowned up at him warily. "What's he like?" he asked suddenly. "Might have seen him. If he's not in that lot, that is." He gestured contemptuously towards the lost souls on the shore.

"He is not," J'onn answered, without hesitation. "His name is Bruce. He ..." But Charon held up a hand with a sudden cackle.

"Him!" the little god crowed, lined face splitting with renewed glee. "That one, yes. Oh, I saw him, alright. Proud as a prince. I remember. Proud as the ancient kings, and as worn as their statues in the lands of the living. He passed, alright. And left pieces of his heart littered along the shore for that pack of vultures to taste!" He gestured out at the grey throng. "He looked at their faces, the fool."

J'onn looked back out at them, the forgotten dead, left waiting on the shores of eternity, and wondered how many had died in Gotham alleys. How many of their shattered faces had the Batman stood over, their features etched forever in the trained memory of their belated guardian. No wonder it had hurt Bruce.

He turned back to face the burning, curious eyes of the sordid little god, and held his gaze as he stepped, slowly and calmly, into the ferry. Charon bared his rotten teeth, but made no move to reject him.

"Your fare buys you passage," he snapped, abruptly. "But I do not ferry the children of foreign gods." He stepped slowly to one side of the tiller, his sleeves pulled back to bare his grubby knuckles where they were clenched around the worn wood. "If you want to reach the other side," he sneered, "you'll have to ferry yourself."

J'onn walked slowly towards him, halting on the opposite side of the tiller. He reached slowly towards the wood, and Charon's sneer of anticipation widened. Then the green hand halted, a bare inch away, and the god looked up in sudden fear into J'onn's wry little smile.

"I do know who you are," he admonished gently. "I know the price of letting my hand touch the wood. I do not wish to spend eternity ferrying souls across this accursed river."

Charon's face crumpled.

J'onn looked down in sudden pity on the dirty figure. The ferryman's disappointment, his utter weariness, were all too apparent. The old man shrank into himself, tucking his sharp chin into his bony chest, and sighed. And J'onn let his hand fall the rest of the way, to rest gently on top of the worn knuckles, carefully not touching the wood. The god's head snapped up to stare at him in shock, and J'onn smiled gently.

"I am," he murmured, "willing to help you carry my own weight, however. I owe you that much, old one."

The boatman looked up at him with wary awe for a long moment, something like gratitude flitting over his twisted features. J'onn didn't flinch from the stare, and did not lift the careful weight of his hand. And finally, Charon looked away, nodding huffily.

"This doesn't mean I like you, alien whelp," he snarled halfheartedly. J'onn smiled.

"Of course not," he murmured, and the old man cackled sharply.

"Hang on, whelp. The Acheron may not take kindly to you."

"I trust your skill." And J'onn could have sworn a tinge of red stained those cracked cheeks. "But wait a second. I need to do something."

The ferryman looked up at him blankly as he removed his hand long enough to step up to the prow of the boat, and stare back at the silent ranks of the dead. He paid no heed to the god's confusion, and focused on paying them the last service the living could grant the dead,

"I will remember you," he said softly, and his voice carried in sonerous promise through the mists. "You are not forgotten."

And they stared after him as he helped Charon pull the boat out over the River of Tears, and there may have been a shade more life in their pale and haunted eyes.

Drabble for stalinglim

2008-04-24T22:29:31Z

It's a really crappy. Tim and Cass discuss Bruce's love life, and scary-Alfred. PG rating. Old-school Batfamily.

Tim frowned, adjusting the magnification again, trying to sharpen the resolution just a little more so he could see what he was dealing with. He knew what it looked like, but Bruce never set tests this easy. There had to be a trick somewhere, and he wasn't going to rest until he figured out what it was.

Suddenly, he stiffened, the hairs stirring on the back of his neck. He very carefully didn't raise his head, instead listening closely to the background noises of the Cave, and letting one hand edge closer to one of the spare batarangs on the workbench. He knew he wasn't alone. He just had to pinpoint the threat ...

There! He spun, arm whipping up and ready to launch. Something dark and lithe darted across the intervening space, catching his arm on the upswing, and he turned into the pull automatically to counter it, trying to swing his opponent away from all his painstaking work at the same time. The hand around his wrist let go as the intruder darted back, and Tim followed through on his turn to drop into a ready crouch, raising his hands defensively.

And dropping them again as soon as he saw who it was.

"Damn it, Cass! Can't you ever warn people before you sneak up on them like that!" he grumbled, straightening up. The girl opposite him echoed the move, exactly, and smiled coyly.

"Do warn," she tutted, wagging a finger in a frankly creepy imitation of Alfred. "You don't listen."

Tim rolled his shoulders in annoyance. "I was busy! I've nearly cracked this thing of Bruce's. You couldn't have waited five minutes?"

She shrugged. "Bad up there," she offered, by way of explanation. Tim huffed a little.

"What's Clark done now?" he asked, turning back to the workbench to check that nothing had been damaged. That was a far more pressing concern than whatever new row Bruce had started with the boyscout upstairs. Ever since Clark had moved in, it was getting to be practically a hobby for them. Dick was of the opinion that it was so they'd have an excuse to make up afterwards, and since Barbara agreed, and Tim wasn't 100% sure Bruce had managed to find all her hidden cameras, he figured it was as good a guess as any.

But Cass shook her head. "Bad," she repeated. "White-out bad." Tim shifted uneasily. White-out was when Bruce was actually mad or hurt enough to pull the whole stoic, frigid, nothing-you-said-or-did-could-possibly-have-hurt-me act. White-out was when Bruce Wayne could out-Bat the Batman. It usually didn't end well. The first time he'd pulled it, properly, Clark had actually been hurt and angry enough to leave. Like end-of-relationship leave. It had taken some fancy footwork on Alfred and Oracle's parts to fix that one, and they'd still had to cope with the fallout for weeks afterwards.

"How bad?" he asked, not at all sure he actually wanted to know.

Cass shrank a little, indictating something really bad. "Alfred mad," she said quietly, and Tim almost dropped the petri dish, repressing the urge to squeak with difficulty.

"Ah. Um. How mad is mad?"

Cass perched herself on the end of the workbench, her hands between her knees braced on the corner of the bench and her shoulders hunched defensively. "He brought tea in mugs."

Tim winced. Oh, Alfred was pissed, alright. Tea in mugs meant a lot of things. It meant 'You're in a mood to break things, and I am not in the mood to clean up yet another set of priceless porcelain'. It meant 'You are being incredibly childish, so I shall treat you as one until such a time as you should choose to grow up'. It meant 'Since handling any situation with any delicacy is so obviously beyond you at the moment, you'll forgive me for not trusting you with the finer china'. It was the tea-service equivilant of a raised eyebrow and a quiet, polite discussion, without necessitating Alfred to actually stay in the room and put up with you. It was a warning sign on a level with the bomb disposal squad making a sudden and very hasty exit. Which didn't sound like a bad idea, right now.

Tea in mugs meant trouble.

He looked at the workbench, with all its detritus and half-finished work. He looked at the Batcave stairs, somewhere at the top of which lurked a pissed-off Superman, a white-out Bruce, and an Alfred hovering gently just below Defcon-1. He looked at Cass, who watched him from her perch with an air of wary camraderie.

"Uh, didn't Oracle say she wanted someone to look at the security monitors for your cave?" he asked, not at all hopefully. He didn't need to hope. There was nothing wrong with staying right here, after all.

But he couldn't quite disguise the sigh of relief when her face brightened at the idea.

Grotesquerie - Faces

2008-04-24T18:23:53Z

I've come to realise that I have something of a morbid fascination with the grotesque, the lurid and the unusual. The normal things vaguely exaggerated to become strange and slightly horrible. So, bearing in mind that I'm a horrible, horrible person, I've got a sort of hobby of describing, in properly caricaturised fashion, the normal grotesques I seen every day.

Today's are faces. And please keep in mind that I am a terrible person, and exaggerating things a bit.

She had a pretty enough face, save for an unfortunate nose. It was recessed a little into her face, and didn't curve outward, as noses typically do. Rather, it ran in a sheer vertical line down her face, pulling heavily on her brows so that she seemed to wear an expression of perpetually frowning disdain.

He had a weighty face. By that, I do not mean that it was fat, or even fleshy. It was simply that the bones of it had obviously been built to last, firm and heavy, and nature had seen fit to clothe them accordingly. It was not a big face, though it looked like it ought to be. Nor even an overdone face, although you might think so at first glance. It was simply, and rather immovably, there.

She only caught a glimpse of his profile, but it was arresting. What a forehead! Above the clear, bushy line of his eyebrows, it rose in gentle ridges where worry had scored deep lines into his skin, up to a rapidly receding hairline. It was like one of those hills you see, where the soil has begun to slump gently towards the base in those little rippled steps, a slow, gradual slide into despair.

She had an oddly disquieting face. Oh, it was normal enough, young and round, save that there was a dent, at the outer corner of each of her eyes, as if they were trying to curve back inside her head so that she might better see her own thoughts. It gave her a curiously elongated look, and it gave you the uncomfortable impression that there was more of her there than you could see, folded up inside her skull.

Dresden Fic.

2008-04-24T09:46:26Z

I just finished Small Favour. OMG. Awesome. And with all that happened to John, I had to write this. WARNING! SPOILERS! MAJOR SPOILERS.

Title: Momentary Understanding
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: sort of Harry/Marcone, but only preslash at the most
Summary: even crime lords need a moment of comfort
Warning: I repeat, SPOILERS. Of the kind that ruin the reading experience if you read this before the book. I am not joking. You are not allowed to look at this unless you finished the book, for your own sake!

Momentary Understanding

I walked out of Madame Demeter's office. I was hungry, and exhausted, and just plain sick of it all. Of the intricacies. The manipulations. Of being bullied into doing things I'd never wanted to do. I didn't want to see hide nor hair of Marcone or his minions again. Not for a long, long time. It was done, and I liked it that way. But as I hit the lobby, for some reason, I couldn't leave. I stopped, unable to walk out just yet. And I wasn't quite sure why not.

It was no magical reason. No geas or trap. Just ... something didn't sit right with me. It was the thought of him, sitting up there in his fresh, empty office. It was the hollow, bruised look of his eyes, something so wrong, so out of place on Gentleman John that the sight of it sent vague murmurs of disquiet through you, made you feel that all was not right with the world. Although these days, that all was not right was pretty much a given. But still. It bugged me.

I've been where he was. I've been down in the dark places, helpless while the monsters played their games, alone and hurting and trying not to show it. Don't think I've ever been as convincing as he was, on that island. I've never been so calm as he'd been back there. But I knew what it was to hurt like that. And I knew that afterwards, more than anything, I'd wanted someone to be there. Someone to comfort me. I'd wanted, so very desperately, to be warm and safe, just for a moment.

And who could give John that? Here, in this place full of hollow beauty and empty affection? The one woman here John thought he might trust had just betrayed him. Not that he knew it. Or at least, not that he showed he knew. But it meant something nonetheless. They couldn't help him, here. They could give him pleasure. They could maybe take the pain away. But could they give safety? Even for a moment?

I shook my head. I didn't want to be there. I really didn't want to be there. I didn't want to see him. Hells bells, I just gone and saved his life! Damn it, wasn't that enough? I was sick and hurt and I had Anastasia to think of. I didn't want to be there. It wasn't my responsibility. I didn't have to do a damned thing!

With a heavy sigh, I turned around and got back in the elevator. One of these days, I'm going to wrap my conscience up in a bag of catnip, and leave it for Mister to beat into submission.

He was alone when I appeared at his door for the second time. Hendricks must've gone for a potty break, or something. It must have been serious. The great bear of a man had been so jumpy after the kidnapping, so afraid of another loss, that it was a wonder Marcone hadn't found himself glued to the bodyguard's chest for safekeeping.

Hendricks wasn't the only one jumpy. The instant my shadow crossed his threshold, Marcone knew I wasn't one of his people. A gun appeared in his hand so fast, it was like magic, and his head snapped up from where he'd been resting it in exhaustion on his arms. I really wished I hadn't seen that. I didn't want to see him any more vulnerable than I already had. But it was too late for that, I supposed.

He stared at me for a second while he thought real fast, the small but undoubtedly deadly weapon held steadily pointed at me. I had no reason to harm him. Hell, I'd just saved his life. But I also had no reason to be there, and he wasn't exactly in the mood to take any chances. Not that I blamed him there. For my part, I held me empty hands slightly raised and out from my body, and very carefully made no sudden moves. And after a very tense couple of minutes, he lowered the gun.

Not very far, mind you. It stayed cautiously in his hand as he rested it on the desk, not threatening but definitely ready. He raised one tired eyebrow at me.

"Forget something, Mr Dresden?" he asked, and I may have detected just the tiniest hint of hostility in his urbane tone. I shrugged.

"Not really. I just wondered ..." And I stopped. Because what the hell are you meant to say? I just wondered if maybe being captured and tortured for a couple of days had, you know, upset you? I just wondered if you wanted a kiss and a snuggle to make it all better? Who was I kidding! It was Gentleman John, for crying out loud! If I said anything of the sort, he'd shoot me on general principles! And I wouldn't blame him for it.

I shook my head, and took a hesitant step back, my confusion obvious. He watched me warily, uncertain where this was coming from or going to. And the stillness of him sparked a flare of recognition in me. It was the stillness of someone trying to brace themselves unobtrusively. Someone ready for a blow, ready to have to fight. I looked at him, and I realised in one horrible moment that John was afraid.

Of me.

I stopped, and stood frozen as a wave of absolute hatred roared up through me. It was familiar, the liquid rage that had lunged up through my veins on seeing Ivy in that damned construct, on seeing those kids in the cave back in New Mexico, and far too many other things I never, ever wanted to see. For a minute, I wanted to be back in that boat, with my hands on the noose around Nicodemus' bloody throat. I wanted to throttle him all over again, and this time I wanted to damn well make it stick! For all the innocent people he'd hurt. For all my friends.

Marcone wasn't innocent. And I highly doubted he considered himself my friend. But he was, I think, a good man somewhere beneath it all. He did care about the innocent. He had wanted to save Ivy first. It had hurt him, to watch her be hurt. He was criminal scumbag, but he was honourable in his way, and he had guts to spare, and to me he was worth a billion times what the scum who'd hurt him were.

The gun had come back up again, and he was on his feet now, his face taut and wary as he studied my grim expression. There was no fear apparent in that assessing gaze. There never was. No matter where he was, no matter what threatened him or what condition he was in, John was not given to showing weakness. He did not panic. The sheer courage of him was one of the few things about him that consistently impressed me.

I didn't want to think about what they'd have done to him to try and remedy that.

I raised my hands as slowly and inoffensively as possible. His aim did not waver, and his eyes did not soften. He was fully alert now, and he was still hurt and scared enough to maybe want to take a few precautionary measures which I'm sure I would not have enjoyed in the slightest. I did my level best not to flinch.

"I'm sorry, John," I said softly. His eyes flickered briefly, an aborted blink. He was wondering if I'd meant that as a warning. "I'm sorry we weren't quicker in coming for you." And I was. Hells bells, but I was.

He blinked at me. "What do you want, Dresden?" His tone was about as revealing as Victorian swinwear, but there was a tremor in his hand as he pointed the gun at me. Only barely, but it was there. I closed my eyes briefly, readying myself. Going toe to toe with a jumpy mobster was not exactly my idea of a good time. But if he could be that brave, then so could I.

I opened my eyes, met his uneasy gaze, and took a step towards him.

The gun jerked. I froze, swallowing hard, but he didn't shoot. He didn't move, after that initial flinch, and I wanted to say something, just to ease the tension. But there was nothing to say. Somehow, I didn't think 'I'm not going to hurt you' was really gonna cut it. So I just bundled up what was left of my courage, and took the next step. And the one after it, when he didn't immediately move to perforate my chest. I moved slowly and warily into his office, until I stood right in front of him, the muzzle of his weapon wavering gently a couple of inches from my nose, and there I stopped. And held out my hand.

I did it slowly. I really, really didn't want to startle him. And I made sure that it didn't look like a spellcast, keeping my fingers lax and loosely open. I held out my hand to him as if asking for a handshake.

He looked down at it. Just a quick flicker of his eyes, and then his focus was back along the barrel of the gun towards my face. I didn't blink. "I repeat, Dresden," he murmured, so softly I could feel the chills crawling up my spine, "what do you want?" And I answered him, equally softly.

"I've been alone."

Then he really did flinch. The gun jumped in his hand, and for a moment I absolutely forgot what lungs were meant to be for, but he didn't attack. He just looked at me, pale beneath the bruises, as if I'd kicked him in the gut. I couldn't help the ache of sympathy from showing on my face, and for a second enough of the old Marcone resurfaced for him to look angry and insulted, but it faded quickly. He'd been hurt. A lot. And it was still too raw and fresh for him to completely deny the fear of it happening again. Or the longing for something to make it go away. Or someone.

I raised my hand, a little bit more confident now. If he'd been going to shoot me, that was the moment. I raised my hand and gently, very gently, pushed his gun aside. His eyes never left mine as he let the hand holding the weapon drop to his side. And he still showed no fear. I shook my head slightly, the rage bubbling back up, but I shoved it away quickly. He didn't need to see that. Not again, anyway.

He stood in front of me, breathing shallowly as if trying not to hyperventilate, but his gaze never faltered. I bit my lip, suddenly a little unsure what I was meant to do next. But then, in a fit of sudden humour, he did it for me. A tiny, phantom smile playing over his abused features, he reached carefully behind him, and laid the gun on the desk. He put away his weapon. I blinked at him, and something of his usual smirk flitted back into place.

"Well, it's not as if it would do me all that much good anyway, wouldn't you say?" he muttered softly, and I twitched.

"I wouldn't ..." I began, but he held up a still-shaking hand to stop me.

"I ... am aware of that." He looked away a little. "You, at least, are honourable, Mr Dresden. I'm sure you would have warned me had you intended otherwise."

I nodded gently, surprised. "Yeah. About half a second before I shot you, but yeah. No offense, but fighting fair with you doesn't exactly seem the best bet, survival-wise." That faint smile flitted over his features again, and he nodded back.

"What do you want ... Harry?" he asked. And third time is the charm, after all. I reached out and gently took his left hand in my right, like kids holding hands in school. He looked at me, and I shrugged.

"I've been there," I started, trying to explain. "Too many times. Same guys, even, once. It's incredibly stupid of me, I know. But I remember what it was like to want ... to be warm. Safe. Even just for a second. And I thought ..." I trailed off, but he was studying me now, and whatever it was he saw had a swift burst of surprise darting across his face. Surprise, and warmth. And then, as if not quite sure what he was doing, but just following what seemed to fit, he moved into me. Hesitantly, uncertainly, but he did it. Resting his free hand lightly on my chest, he stood there, trembling a little, an inch from me.

Sighing suddenly, whether just in relief or something more, I felt tension slip from my shoulders, and I reached out to wrap my other arm around his shoulders and draw him in the rest of the way. He stiffened at the motion, but I just let him rest there against me, my arm a warm weight and not a threat. And after one taut moment, he allowed himself to sag into the hug, the hand on my chest clenching convulsively in my shirt. I squeezed gently in answer.

I'm not exactly sure how long we stood there. He was quiet, and very still in my arms, and I saw no need to break the silence. I was content to let him do as he wished. He needed it. And if I was honest, so did I.

But it had to end sooner or later. I felt more than heard Hendricks come in behind me, and the electric shock of tension between him and John was rather hard to miss. A meaty paw landed heavily on my shoulder, the bodyguard's low growl vibrating through it in a way that really shouldn't have been possible, but quite successfully got his point across. Before he could illustrate it more definitively, by bodily throwing me out the window, for example, John stepped back out of my embrace, and waved a calming hand in his direction. Hendricks let go.

Reluctantly.

"It's alright," Gentleman John murmured, suddenly as calm and in control as ever. I blinked at him a bit, my tired mind not quite up to this kind of about-face just yet, and he smiled slightly. "It really is alright, Hendricks. Harry was just ... helping me with something, that's all." I nodded rapidly. I could have taken offense, but with Cujo behind growling deep enough to transmit through his muscle mass, it didn't seem worth it, somehow.

John stepped back a little more, resting himself on the edge of the desk, weariness hanging over him like a dull cloud. I frowned. He needed more than just what I'd given him. I've been under Nick's thumb. It takes a while to come back, and I don't think I could have done it alone. But when John looked up and caught the concern in my gaze, he only smiled tiredly.

"You should go home, Mr Dresden," he suggested softly. "You look like you could use the rest."

Well, that was a dismissal, alright. I nodded stiffly, and turned to go, sidestepping around the bulk that was Hendricks. I didn't look back as I walked out. I was suddenly very tired myself.

But John, as always, was not content without the last word. Ignoring Hendricks, he moved quickly to my side, catching my arm gently at the doorway. I looked sideways at him, and he hesitated for a second. But you don't fluster John for long, and throwing aside caution, he pulled me into a brief and oddly powerful hug of his own. I stiffened in shock, then relaxed enough to put my own arm back around him.

"Thank you," he murmured, so quietly I almost missed it. Not trusting myself to speak, I could only pull him that little bit closer in response. "I will not forget."

And, as I reflect on finally making out the door, leaving a pale but calmer crime lord behing me, neither would I.

Ever.

Nostalgia

2008-04-22T22:13:55Z

Just looking back, now I've half a second to breathe, and I was wondering how many fandoms I've ever written in, in my internet career. And I've just realised that, in various incarnations of myself, I've written for *24* fandoms. Which maybe isn't much, but I never really mastered the art of the drabble, so most of those are actual fics. And the range ... I'm a very flighty person, you know that?

Put the list under the cut. Mostly just to remind myself, but if anyone's interested in seeing how random and occasionally weird I've been, you can have a look. Be warned. I'm dredging up baaaad history. Crimes against fanfiction and humanity in general. Things that should never, *ever* have seen the light of day.

Harry Potter. 1st, and typically worst. Back in the bad old days when I was writting childish, melodramatic semi-pr0n. ... wait a second ...

Yu-gi-oh. My sister and I had a thing with fics here. We used to bounce them off each other. Still pretty crap.

Les Miserables. Never finished any of these, really. But they weren't too bad, I guess

Great Mouse Detective. Only one, unfinished, and I did mouse-slash. No. Not even that. I did mouse/rat slash. Oh gods preserve us.

ST:TNG. A few. Mostly Q. Not bad, here or there, I guess.

Blake's 7. Only 2, and they're on LJ. Shaky.

DBZ. *grin* Only one, plus Ilyena's drabble. Am getting back into it.

ST:TOS. Just the x-over with DC. Will probably come back around to this fandom sooner or later.

ST:VOY. The x-over with B7.

DC. *grins* Now hands up who hadn't guessed.

DCAU. A couple.

Gundam Seed. Only one, for my sis, who used to be obsessed. A murderous Rau poem. Shudder.

Van Hellsing. Only one. Melodramatic, but thankfully not slash.

Fushigi Yuugi. Hotohori accidentally tries to pick Nakago up in a bar. Drunken bemoaning. Was kinda fun, actually.

Phantom of the Opera. *sigh* One song-fic, back in the day.

Xiaolin Showdown. Don't ask. Chase/Omi slash. Yikes!

Howl's Moving Castle. 2 shorts, 1 book, 1 film.

Ronin. The movie. In x-over with HP. Don't ask.

Good Omens. One. Slash. I got a little ... religious.

Dr Who (Classic) A couple doctor/master fics.

Bab5. Ilyena's drabble.

Dresden Files. One so far, plus the drabble. Will probably keep going here.

Holmes. One, unfinished. Slash. My dad, purist, hates and disowns me for it.

Glass Books. No fandom. Just my one fic.

Oh lordy lou. I have be a sad and twisted little girl, for so very long. And the scary thing?

I've enjoyed every minute of it.