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Nov. 19th, 2009

New Fic: Long-Distance Flirting (tentative title)

Story Title: Long-Distance Flirting
Author's Name: cestmoi01
Rating: PG-13 for implied sex
Character/Pairing: Peter/Elizabeth, Neal/Peter pre-slash
Spoilers/Warnings: none
Challenge: a prompt on the White Collar anonymous kink meme, [info]collarkink
Notes: This story is my first time writing in the present tense, so any constructive criticism on that is especially welcome. I didn't manage to fulfill all of the prompt, either, so there may be a sequel to get to that. We'll see.
Archive: [info]wc_fanworks, [info]caffrey_burke, [info]whitecollarfic, and fanfiction.net.
Summary: the part of the prompt that I managed to fulfill - "Before Neal got caught, he made it a game to give Peter little gifts to show he was thinking about him - cuff links that showed up wrapped in Peter's personal safe; tie claps that appeared in Peter's office desk drawer (locked office desk drawer); funny postcards from places Neal had been appearing in Peter's inbox (not mailed, but "delivered"). Nothing too big or expensive - Neal wanted Peter to keep the gifts, not turn them in."



Long-Distance Flirting
by cestmoi01

The first time Agent Peter Burke finds a gift left for him by con artist Neal Caffrey, he freaks. Of course, he doesn’t call it “freaking,” but that’s what it is. It’s only been a week or two since he was assigned the case, but he’d immediately dug into it, trying to get a feel for this Caffrey character.

He may not pay a lot of attention to what goes into his personal safe – mostly exciting things like the really important bills, social security cards, marriage license and birth certificate, etc. – but he knows for a fact that he hadn’t left those cufflinks there. (Does he even own cufflinks?)

He knows even after just two weeks’ worth of research that this is just Caffrey’s style. At least, cufflinks are. The rest, though?

Peter freaks. If Caffrey had gotten in, did he take anything? (No.) Did he get anywhere else? (Peter checks his bank account, his gun safe, even the loose floor board under the hope chest in the master bedroom.) And what does it mean? Why him? (None of the previous agents on the case have mentioned receiving anything from Caffrey.)

Of course, there’s no proof that it’s from Caffrey. There are no fingerprints, no DNA evidence, no photos of him in the area – just an elderly woman’s remark about “that charming young man” who’d so “gallantly helped [her] across the street,” to quote from Peter’s interview notes. The cufflinks hadn’t even been bought with stolen money or a fake credit card; they’re legit, and as such are returned to Peter after the battery of tests he’d ordered on them have been completed.

Peter is entirely bewildered about what to do with them, and so the cufflinks are tossed in a drawer and forgotten about.

*****

The second time Peter finds a gift from Caffrey, he’s on a case that has taken him across the country (Not Caffrey’s – he does work other cases, you know.) But he and the other agents are staying at the local Marriott Inn when they’re not working, and it’s the last place he expects to find Caffrey.

The tie clip laid precisely on his pillow suggests otherwise.

His indignant fury at Caffrey’s brashness carries him all the way down to check-in, where he questions the receptionists at length about anyone who might have been asking about his room or who seemed suspicious, though he knows almost as he’s begun that he won’t get anything helpful.

Eventually, he gives up, resolving to focus on the case at hand and to ponder Neal Caffrey when he gets back to New York.

Again, he sends the gift in for testing, and again it comes back clean.

This time, though, the gift remains on his bedside table – and if he never wears it, at least it isn’t locked away. Elizabeth sometimes finds him staring at it, often after the Caffrey case takes a puzzling turn.

*****

The third time, it is Elizabeth who receives the gift.

It is one of those rare days that Peter has off but Elizabeth has to work, and he is standing bleary-eyed in the too-bright kitchen, waiting for his coffee to be ready when she bursts back in, all happy smiles and kisses. He quickly forgets about the small box she had clutched to her as they make their way back to the bedroom.

Afterwards, when their breathing has slowed down and Peter’s brain has engaged, he glances down at the dark-haired beauty he holds in his arms, and questions, “Not that I’m complaining, but what brought that on?”

That was a thank you, Peter,” Elizabeth says as she shifts a little to be able to look her husband in the eye.

Peter is confused. “For what?”

Elizabeth smiles a little at the adorable crinkle that appears on Peter’s forehead and rolls away to produce the box she had been holding when she entered the house; it was just like him to buy her a gift and then forget all about it.

Peter opens the box to find a small bottle of expensive perfume – Elizabeth’s favorite, but not one she can afford to wear often. A suspicion begins to grow in his mind, but he says nothing and waits until Elizabeth has returned to work from her “lunch break” to examine the box further.

Eventually, he succeeds in finding a short note from Caffrey: “I know what it’s like to want your woman to have the finer things in life. Hope she enjoys it, and happy anniversary to you both, NC.”

Perhaps it’s not the smartest move on Caffrey’s part, as it eventually leads to the FBI discovering Kate. And although Peter’s pretty sure the gift is legit like the cuff links and the tie clip, he can’t decide between being grateful or chagrined that Caffrey remembered his wedding anniversary when he’d forgotten.

He decides he must be more grateful because he never sends the perfume to be tested as he did the other gifts, and he begins to refer to Caffrey as “Neal” – as least in the privacy of his own mind.

He promises himself that he’ll tell Elizabeth who the perfume is really from someday – perhaps when she and Neal meet each other. Yeah, like that would ever happen.

Six years later, he regrets that thought.

*****

After that, Peter receives all sorts of trinkets from Neal – postcards from cities in which he’s been suspected of running a con, a cup of coffee in his car after a particularly long night… There’s a pair of crystal goblets for his next wedding anniversary, but they’re mostly small gifts, recognizable only by the flourishing initials “NC” – and none of them arrive in the mail.

Some of the other agents in his department accuse Neal of taunting Peter, but Peter rather thinks it’s something else. Neal is old-fashioned in some regards, and it feels like he’s courting Peter – as if the con man is afraid of losing the agent’s full attention. Those times that Elizabeth catches him staring at the tie clip, Peter is often wondering if it’s loneliness or boredom that drives a man like Neal Caffrey to court the FBI agent in charge of catching him.

Then Peter does catch Neal, and the gifts stop, of course. Peter thinks he should probably be relieved, but he feels oddly like he’s lost something instead. He wonders if he hasn’t grown to crave Neal’s attention as much as Neal craves his.

He is inordinately pleased, then, when he receives a Christmas card with only the words, “Happy Holidays, NC.”

fin
TBC?

Nov. 14th, 2009

le journal de cestmoi01


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Oct. 28th, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


Many thanks to [info]maisontvfor the quick response to my first "White Collar" fic request!  And it was an amazing response.

Read about Neal bothering the FBI here!


Oct. 27th, 2009

New Fic: "What Doesn't Itch"

 
Story Title:  "What Doesn't Itch"
Author's Name:  cestmoi01
Rating:  PG for one very slightly bad word
Spoilers/Warnings:  none
Challenge:  a prompt from [info]jamjar:  "Neal has to pretend to be an FBI agent-- cheap suit and all."
Notes:  This story could be considered a companion fic/sequel to my first "White Collar" fic, which has recently been titled "A Well-Dressed Man."  As before, it's unbeta'd, so any constructive criticism is welcomed, especially in regards to characterization and the ending. I feel like it might be little out of character on Neal's part (although perhaps that could be attributed to slightly crackish humor?), and I’m not sure the ending is solid. Like I said, this hasn’t been beta’d, so I’m really relying on reader input here.  And I’m afraid a little threesome of Neal/Hat/everything else crept in there somehow.  Oh, and the title comes from Gilda Radner’s quote, “I base my fashion sense on what doesn’t itch.”
Archive:  [info]wc_fanworks, [info]caffrey_burke, [info]whitecollarfic, fanfiction.net, and possibly whitecollared.
Summary:  from the prompt - "Neal has to pretend to be an FBI agent-- cheap suit and all."  Humorous angst ensues.



 
"What Doesn't Itch"
by cestmoi01

Neal cringed once again as he regarded his reflection. It was practically...criminal, really, the things he was forced to endure for the FBI some days. He was eyeing his reflection - almost warily - and wondering if there was anything he could do to improve the situation when he heard a knock on the bedroom door.

"Neal?" It was Peter. "What's taking you so long in there? It's only a suit - you wear one every day."

Only a suit? Only a suit? He stood frozen in silent horror at Peter's ignorance, the words stuck in his throat.

"Neal?" There was another knock. "I'm coming in - you had better be decent, Caffrey!"

Despite his seemingly harsh words, the FBI agent entered slowly - one might say almost cautiously - as if afraid of what he might find. He was obviously surprised to see Neal Caffrey, poised and statuesque - and completely dressed - staring wide-eyed at his own reflection.

A Neal Caffrey who wheeled around as soon as the other man entered and began speaking immediately – “C’mon, Peter, can’t you get me out of this? I can’t do this, really. How do you stand it?” He plucked at the clothes he was reluctantly wearing in a forlorn manner.

Peter couldn’t help it – he began to chuckle in amusement at Neal’s perceived predicament.

Neal spared a moment for a glare before stalking across the room to retrieve his hat. Returning to the mirror, he placed the hat on his head with his usual flourish. A look of dismay crossed his face, and he promptly took it off again.

“Peter!” his voice was full of righteous indignation. “I absolutely cannot wear this thing! It doesn’t go with my hat. Everything goes with my hat!”

Peter was still chuckling as he limped further into the room. Neal eyed his injury almost hatefully.

“You are not allowed to get shot ever again,” he muttered.

“Hey! I give the orders around here,” Peter said, “and the orders are that you will take my place at this meeting. That means having to look the part, and that means having to wear that suit.”

Neal seemed to be thinking this over. “Have you ever considered that you might be so grumpy and irritable because of the suits you wear? I really think that if you wore proper clothes, you’d—”

Peter frowned at being called “grumpy and irritable,” then gave his head a sharp shake and interrupted. “Neal, you won’t distract me. You will wear that suit – don’t give me that look! And besides, FBI agents don’t wear Armani hats, or whatever the heck this is, so you can’t wear it anyway.”

That said, he snatched the hat away from Neal, placed it on his own head – he’d always secretly wanted to do that, but he wasn’t ever going to admit it out loud – and ambled back out of the room.

Neal’s shout followed him into the hallway. “I expect to get that back in pristine condition, Peter!”

fin
 

Oct. 26th, 2009

New Fic: A Well-Dressed Man


Story Title:  A Well-Dressed Man
Author's Name:  cestmoi01
Rating:  G/PG
Fandom:  White Collar
Spoilers/Warnings:  None, except vague ones for the show's general plot.  (If you know Neal's a criminal and Peter's and FBI agent, you're good.)
Challenge:  a prompt from [info]verselle:  "I had this thought last night about Neal dressing Pete in a snazzy suit and doing his tie all crowded into Pete and maybe ending with a slow kiss? Perhaps even just on the cheek?"
Notes:  This was actually written in about half an hour in-between classes.  So at the moment it's not been beta'd.  And since we've only had one episode so far, I'm not confident on the characterizations.  Any polite suggestions on that subject or for a title are quite welcome.
Archive:  [info]wc_fanworks, [info]caffrey_burke, [info]whitecollarfic, and fanfiction.net
Summary:  "It was Neal's turn to sigh, in fond exasperation at Peter's fashion sense - or lack thereof."  Peter has to get dressed up; Neal helps.  Not as racy as it sounds - just a little bit of humorous fluff that could be defined as friendship, pre-slash, or slash, depending on your lenses of choice.



A Well-Dressed Man
by cestmoi01

Peter sighed once more; Neal had given up on counting them a week before, there had been so many.

"How did I get myself into this again?" he asked as he stared at his reflection in the floor-length mirror.

Neal hovered - if he could be described as doing anything so mundane - scrutinizing the FBI agent whom he had dragged out and forced to try on various suits of different cuts and shades.

"It's the price of being the best, Peter, people are going to recognize you." If there was a hint of pride in his voice - well, he did consider Peter to be his FBI agent.

"I know-" another sigh "-but why couldn't I have worn my usual suit? I like that one. I'm comfortable in it."

It was Neal's turn to sigh, in fond exasperation at Peter's fashion sense - or lack thereof. "Because. You can't wear the same suit to a formal dinner with the head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation that you wear every day to catch criminals. It just isn't done."

"And you would know, would you?" A raised eyebrow.

A smirk.

Another sigh, "Fine. This one will do."

"'Will do?' That's it? All my hard work, hours of searching - made difficult by you - and that's all you have to say?"

"Why? What else should I say?" He just loved riling the conman up, and took pleasure in the younger man's blank stare.

But, in his mercurial fashion, it passed quickly, and Neal was grinning again, fingers deftly twirling that damnably distracting hat.

Peter had only a moment of confusion before Neal leaned in, placed a quick peck on the agent's cheek, hat back on his head, hands in his pockets, and strolled casually out the shop door. The bells' soft jangling as he left snapped Peter out of his momentary stupor.

"Hey, wait! Come back here! You're gonna set off the alarm!" he cried out sternly as he realized that he couldn't let Neal get too far away.

He took a few short steps to follow, realized he was still wearing a suit that hadn't been paid for, turned around again, checked the tag, did a double-take and swore.

Then he smiled evilly.

This was going to come out of Caffrey's $700-allowance for months.

fin
 

 (This ficlet can also be read here, where it was originally posted in response to the prompt.)

Sep. 2nd, 2009

New Fic: Tea & Compromise


Story Title:  Tea & Compromise

Author’s Name:  cestmoi01

Rating: G

Character/Pairing:  Kirk&Spock gen or Kirk/Spock pre-slash

Fandom/Universe:  Star Trek/TOS

Spoilers/Warnings:  none

Challenge:  [info]trek_exchange, round one
Notes:  This was written for round one of [info]trek_exchange, for [info]wren10514. The prompt was "Kirk/Spock; tea, sympathy, compromise." I had intended for this to be just the beginning of a much larger piece, but it was already so late that I decided to just post this. I'm afraid that as a result, I didn't quite get to the slash aspect that the prompter requested, but that may be fixed with a series of sequels. For now, though, this can be read by itself as gen or Kirk/Spock pre-slash.
Word Count:  718
Archive:  [info]kirkspock,[info]spock_kirk, [info]tosfic, [info]trekfics, ksarchive.com, fanfiction.net; any others welcome, just please ask
Summary:  He waited for a moment, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed against his chest, watching, and fancied he could almost see the cogs turning in the Vulcan’s sharp mind, weighing the pros and cons of such an action.”  The beginning of a legendary friendship.  Jim’s POV, somewhat introspective, pre-series.




 

 

 

Tea & Compromise
by cestmoi01

Captain James T. Kirk strode – because he never could get the hang of simply walking – down the hallways of the Enterprise, a soft, contented smile hanging at the corners of his lips and hovering in his eyes. Remaining connected to his lovely lady, his beautiful Enterprise, by a finger or two gently brushing along her sturdy walls and bulkheads, Jim’s obvious preoccupation with his new rank and the acquisition of his dream ship – and he doubted he would ever get over the fact that she was finally his! – was an excellent mask for his covert glances at the man keeping pace beside him.

Spock, his new Science and First Officer, who walked alongside him with his hands clasped behind his back, bore the serene countenance, pointed ears, and angled eyebrows distinctive of the Vulcan race. From this, Jim knew that the other man was probably frustratingly logical, and possibly deathly, incessantly, serious. Jim, however, preferred not to judge someone on the stereotypes of his, her, or its species – no matter how often such stereotypes held true – hence his observation of the other man. From his file, he already knew that Spock was not quite your average Vulcan, having a human mother and being one of the first to join Starfleet, and Jim was curious to see if these differences manifested themselves in the other man’s actions – if Spock would be discernably different from the, admittedly few, other Vulcans he had worked with.

Jim hoped so. The two of them would have to work closely together, after all, and while he knew that theoretically, Spock’s logic and his own gut instinct would play off each other well, he also knew that if both of them were unbending in their attitudes, tensions would be high. And Jim wanted to run a tight ship, not an uptight ship. Well, he was willing to compromise, at least, to try to meet the other man halfway so that they could get along. Command was a lonely thing, and there were few people the Captain could let his guard down around. The First Officer being one of them, Jim hoped that he and Spock might do better than get along – might, in fact, become good friends over the course of the five-year voyage. Well, time would tell, but there was no reason he couldn’t start now.

Spock had conveniently ended the tour of the Enterprise outside the Captain’s quarters, and there the two of them stood – alone in the corridor, each with an arm outstretched to press the button that would open the door, staring at each other as though momentarily frozen in time. Then Jim blinked, Spock withdrew his hand, and Jim pressed the button. He stepped through the doorway, paused, and turned back.

“Would you like to come in for a drink? Perhaps a game of chess?”

Spock blinked.

Jim took it as an expression of surprise – or at least as much of a one as you could ever get from a Vulcan – and was inordinately pleased with himself. He waited for a moment, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed against his chest, watching, and fancied he could almost see the cogs turning in the Vulcan’s sharp mind, weighing the pros and cons of such an action.

“C’mon, Mister Spock.” He gestured, grinning, towards the interior of his quarters – which he hadn’t even seen yet – with a toss of his head. “I don’t want to make it an order, but I do want to get to know my First Officer.”

And… there. Jim could see it – the lift of an eyebrow, the slight downturn of the lips, and a lightly furrowed brow; the moment when the Vulcan compromised. Humor the strange human, he imagined Spock thinking. Perhaps he will not bother me later if I give him this now.

Not likely, Jim thought as he ushered the Vulcan inside, still grinning. He wasn’t going to let this potential friend get away.

So. His turn to compromise, then. Spock wouldn’t want anything alcoholic to drink, and he didn’t have any Vulcan beverages on hand. However, there was that package from his mom…

“How about a cup of tea?”

fin

Jul. 22nd, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


Alright, there's been a response to another one of my requests, thanks to the awesome pathstotread!

Check out Jim and Bones being outed by the cute Joanna right here!


Jul. 10th, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


Yay, another st_xi_kink prompt has been answered, this time by the awesome flit_st_fanfic!

Click here for sweet Jim/Bones dancing...

ETA 7/12/09:  There's been a second answer to this prompt from the awesome kain_was_here!  So far, it's incredibly sweet.

Jim and Bones ballroom dancing.


Jul. 8th, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


I've lost track of how many requests I've made over at st_xi_kink, but another one was filled recently by some lovely anon.

Click here for some Enterprise-as-family humor!



Jun. 30th, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


I'm up to about 10 requests now, I should think, and my most recent one was filled, almost immediately, by dagnirovanaliel!

Click here to read Jim/Bones with angst about Kirk's scars.


Jun. 29th, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


So this makes 3 requests filled with 4 answers.  Thank you very much to the lovely anon who filled prompt of Jim angsting because he thinks he's losing Bones' frienship!

Get your angst here.


Jun. 19th, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


I've racked up at least 8 requests over at st_xi_kink by now, and my second one was filled today by the lovely hope_calaris!  It's exactly what I asked for:  Jim Kirk name/rank/serial number and h/c.

Go ahead and check it out.


ETA 6/25/09:  There's been a second answer to this prompt by t_hy_la!  There's some pretty powerful imagery.

Click here to read.


Jun. 8th, 2009

Fic Request Filled!


So, over at st_xi_kink, I've made somewhere around 3 or 4 fic requests, and I had my first one filled today!  It was very exciting.  Especially since the talented author managed to fulfill all of my suggestions in one awesome fic.  So I give many thanks to the talented raphaela667, and link to the awesomeness.

Read about K/S being outed here.  Now.


Jun. 6th, 2009

New Fic: Four Vulcan Words Spock Taught to Captain James T. Kirk (and the One He Didn't)

Story Title: Four Vulcan Words Spock Taught to Captain James T. Kirk (and the One He Didn't)
Author’s name: cestmoi01
Rating: G/PG
Pairing: Jim Kirk/Spock
Universe:  TOS and xi
Spoilers: "The Menagerie" of ST:TOS
Warnings: character death in the last part, but it was necessary for the word I chose
Challenge
st_xi_kink
Notes: So this turned out waaay longer than I thought it would! It's kind of a blend of TOS and xi influences, 'cause I love them both. And I went with the cliche t'hy'la for part iv, and my formatting is probably really bad 'cause lj doesn't like me... Um, I hope you like it anyway?  All Vulcan words are taken from this site.
Word Count: 2,818
Archivekirkspock
, startrekfic, spock_kirk, trekfics, st_xi_kink, ksarchive.com, fanfiction.net; any others welcome, just please ask
Summary: The story of Jim Kirk's life aboard the Enterprise and his relationship with Spock in five words - vitaya, t'hy'vaj, t'zaled, t'hy'la, and p'pil'la'ai.




 

Four Vulcan Words Spock Taught to Captain James T. Kirk (and the One He Didn’t)

 

i. vitaya

The first time Spock played chess with Captain Kirk was not the first evening that Captain Kirk came aboard the Enterprise. It wasn’t even in the first week and in fact just barely made it into the first month. The time was, of course, very busy for Starfleet’s youngest captain as he settled into the rhythm of the starship, became accustomed to his duties, and found a balance with the crew between the way things had been done before him and the way he preferred to run things.

Spock watched as the young Human charmed those around him, concerned that the man’s informal attitude would eventually become detrimental. His new captain had made it a point to spend some time individually with each of his senior officers, getting to know them on a personal level. He shared a drink with Scott and McCoy, whom – for some unknown, probably illogical, emotional reason – he had taken to calling “Bones.” He fenced with Sulu in the gym on occasion, despite having little technical skill with a blade. He even spent one evening dancing with Uhura in Recreation Room 3, while many other crew members were present to watch.  Spock could see that the two were smiling and talking as they danced, although he could not hear what they said.

It didn’t make any sense to Spock; surely a captain needed respect from his crew. But how could they, when he refused to remain separate from them? When he was seen to be a little tipsy, or a melancholy drunk? When he lost in combat to an inferior officer? When they saw him smiling and laughing and dancing and not all distant and aloof and detached?

On the other hand, the Captain merely seemed to watch him from a distance. They had a fine working relationship, but that was it, and aside from feeling the Captain’s gaze lingering on him often, that was exactly how Spock preferred keep it. It was disconcerting, though, being unable to discern what it was that the Captain was trying to learn by watching him.  Did he dislike Vulcans or other aliens? That was illogical, though – he could not have made the rank of captain or gained his own starship if that were the case. Did he expect him to react in the same way as the rest of the crew to his informal attitude? That also was illogical.

It became apparent towards the end of his first month on board that the Captain was merely pondering in what manner to approach the Vulcan, when one day as their bridge shift was ending, the Human invited him to his quarters for dinner and a game of three-dimensional chess. Spock hesitated at first, unsure of his response, but the Captain simply said, “Don’t force me to make it an order, Mister,” and then left before Spock could warn him that he was extremely proficient at the game of chess.

It was a much more pleasant evening than Spock had expected it to be, for although the Captain managed to draw him into conversation, he also seemed to be accepting of the natural lulls and silences and did not attempt to fill them with useless small talk as so many other Humans would have. He was also pleasantly surprised to discover that they were well-matched in chess skill, despite the Captain’s illogical manner of playing. Thus, after studying the game long and hard, he was forced to admit to vitaya, or stalemate.

The Captain agreed with him, suggesting, “Perhaps a re-match later in the week?”

“As you wish, Captain,” was his response.

Spock conceded to himself that he began to understand the Captain’s desire to be closer to his crew when the man grinned brightly at him and asked, “Call me Jim.”

 

ii. t’hy’vaj

Jim was not with the Enterprise long before Spock – and indeed, practically everyone – began to notice the man’s propensity for getting into trouble. It should not be possible that a person could actually attract trouble, and yet it seemed to be true in Jim’s case. And more often than not, this trouble came with at least the threat of physical damage.

After yet another such encounter, Spock was – as usual – left standing by the bedside of his injured Captain who was also, although he doubted he would ever admit it out loud, his friend. The man was sleeping currently, due to one of Doctor McCoy’s shots, and Spock watched with some measure of relief as his chest steadily rose and fell as he drew in and expelled breath. The Captain had sustained multiple cracked ribs, broken two of the fingers on his right hand, and his left eye was swollen shut, surrounded by ugly purple-red bruising, but he would live.

Nevertheless, Spock was not pleased with the situation. He had been startled by the range of emotions he had felt when he realized what had happened to his Captain – the depth of his concern, the strength of his rage and his desire for revenge. He needed to meditate to clear his mind, but instead he was here, gazing down at the battered body of his best friend.

Sooner than it should, the body began to stir – a slight catch in the throat, the twitch of fingers, the flutter of eyelashes – as Jim woke up. He blinked and squinted against the light a few times before the figure standing beside his bed came into focus, though he already knew who it was.

“Spock?” Jim asked groggily. “Y’alright?”

He was obviously still in need of rest if his words were slurring together, Spock thought, but he nonetheless answered with a placid, “I am well, Captain.”

“Jim...” the man in the bed corrected absently, before squinting again. “Y’sure? ‘Cause y’look like somethin’s bothering you.”

Spock studied the Human silently for a moment before accepting the fact that he wasn’t going to rest until he knew that his First Officer was alright. “Captain—” The man’s brows furrowed slightly, and he corrected himself, “Jim. I was merely wondering if you would like me to teach you t’hy’vaj. It is a sub-form of the Vulcan martial art a’sum’i which—”

“What, you don’t think I can take care of myself?”

The Vulcan stiffened almost imperceptibly. “I did not mean to imply that at all, Captain. I only meant—”

“Relax, Spock, I know what you meant,” the Human interrupted him again, with a yawning grin to show that he had only been teasing and waving a hand to dismiss his concerns. “So why t’hy’vaj?” he asked, sleepily stumbling a little over the foreign pronunciation.

“As I was saying, t’hy’vaj is the practice of a common Vulcan martial art in a special partner form. I have not had a qualified partner in a long while, and I thought you might like to learn.”

“Yeah, that sounds good, Spock,” he answered softly. “I think I’d like that.” He yawned again. “Sorry, I think I’m gonna go back to sleep now…”

“That is quite understandable. Sleep well, Jim.”

But the man was already too out of it to answer, and Spock watched as his breathing once again deepened and evened out. He told himself that he was only pleased that Jim had accepted his offer because the Captain could never know too well how to defend himself and he was in need of a partner anyway. It certainly wasn’t because he was glad to have another excuse to spend more time in close quarters with Jim.

 

iii. t’zaled

When Spock learned of what had befallen Captain Christopher Pike, he knew that he was the only one who could help him. He knew also that he would have to break many of the strictest of Starfleet’s rules and regulations to do so. Most importantly, though, he knew that he would probably end up hurting Jim by his actions. But Captain Pike had been good to Spock, even if they had never been friends; more than that, he was a good man who did not deserve his fate. If Spock could help him – and he could – then it was his duty to do so.

The only thing truly holding him back, therefore, was Jim. Spock was sure that if he told Jim what he had planned and why, he would have a willing partner. Jim was a compassionate man and a loyal friend, after all. But if he didn’t tell Jim, then the responsibility for his actions would be his alone, and Jim could not be dragged down with him. Though Pike was a good man, Jim was a better one, and he didn’t deserve to be court-martialed for helping out a friend.

It seemed, then, that Spock had to choose between destroying Jim’s career or the trust between them, and it was a painful decision that he meditated on for as long as he could before finalizing his plans. Eventually, though, he had decided.

Spock pressed the chime outside of the Captain’s quarters and waited a few short moments before the door slid open. “May I come in, Captain?”

“Of course, Spock. You don’t need to ask. What can I do for you?” He set aside the reports he had been reviewing and stood up to welcome his friend.

Spock stepped inside, let the door slide closed behind him, and placed the knife he had brought with him on the Captain’s desk. He watched as Jim eyed it but said nothing.

“I would like to swear t’zaled to you, Captain.”

T’zaled? I don’t understand, what is that?”

“It is the ultimate oath of loyalty, Captain, a blood oath that cannot be broken. With it, I would swear to be loyal to the end, to protect your life until death.”

Jim looked confused. “I already know you’re loyal, Spock. You don’t have to swear an oath for me to believe that.”

“Nevertheless, I wish to swear this oath to you, Jim.”

Jim looked into his eyes, startled at the unprompted use of his name. The blue eyes stared hard at him for a long moment before they glanced away again. Spock waited patiently, standing impossibly still while Jim paced back and forth, making his decision. Finally, the man came to an abrupt halt and looked back at Spock.

“Very well, Spock. I can’t say I understand, but if you must—”

“I must.”

“—then I will accept your oath of...t’zaled, right?”

“Correct.”

“What must I do?”

“You have already done what you must do by accepting. All that is left is the binding. Hold out your hand.”

Without hesitation, Jim did so, although he suspected what was coming next. He was not surprised when Spock took up the knife he had brought with him and made a shallow slice on each of their right hands before pressing them together and chanting some words in what he assumed must have been Vulcan.

A week later, when Spock committed the unpardonable sin of commandeering Jim’s Enterprise, he hoped that Jim remembered, understood, and trusted in the oath he had made, because he had chosen to risk Jim’s feelings rather than his career.

 

iv. t’hy’la

There had surprisingly been no particularly life-threatening events for some time, so Spock was quite at a loss to explain Jim’s distraction during their ritual game of chess. He watched as Jim absent-mindedly twirled a captured bishop between his fingers and stared through the chess board instead of at it when he was supposedly contemplating his next move. Spock let a few more minutes pass in which Jim still stared unseeingly before bringing his friend’s distraction to his attention.

“Is there something on your mind, Jim? We can always postpone this game if you wish to talk instead.”

Jim noticeably came back to the present time and place. “What? Oh! No, Spock, we can continue playing. I’ll try to keep my concentration on the game.”

Spock said nothing, but watched as Jim re-focused on the board only to begin mentally drifting away again. This time, though, Jim realized what he was doing and brought himself out of it.

“I’m sorry, Spock, I do have something on my mind,” he said, sighing as he set down the chess piece. “I haven’t been sure if I should bring it up or not, but it’s become obvious that I have to.”

“You know you may speak to me about anything you wish, Jim.”

“I know, I just… I haven’t known how to talk about it, and it’s something pretty big and important, and I don’t want to screw it up by miscommunicating it.” There was silence for a time as Jim gathered his thoughts.

“Spock, have you ever... have you ever felt like... like maybe you were missing a part of yourself? And you had no idea what it was, so you didn’t think you could ever find it? But then you met someone, and they always felt like home and safety to you no matter what and you couldn’t picture your life without them, and you began to realize that you’d been missing a part of your soul all along and they had it?”

Jim tensed minutely after he gave this short speech, as if afraid that Spock would suddenly renounce their friendship for having such illogical human emotions, but he needed to get that off his chest, and he really hoped that Spock would say something soon because he was beginning to worry—”

“Indeed, Jim. I hardly know why you feared to miscommunicate that, I understood you perfectly.”

Jim let out a big sigh of relief before he realized that Spock hadn’t answered his question. “So – have you?”

Spock appeared to be contemplating something for a moment, before he extended his hand towards Jim’s face, and Jim knew what he was asking when he said, “May I?”

So he nodded and they melded and Jim was awash with the feeling that he had just described to Spock and for a moment he though that it was his feeling but Spock’s voice echoed in his mind, //It is how I feel about you, t’hy’la.//

Jim didn’t get a clear definition of t’hy’la but instead impressions and ideas all jumbled together inseparably. There was home and safety as he had said, but there was also friendloverlifelongcompanionbloodbrothersoulmate.

And Jim’s response was an exultant, reveling, adoring agreement. //Yes! T’hy’la, yes.//

 

i. p’pil’la’ai

Captain James T. Kirk was the best officer Starfleet had ever seen, but death comes for everyone after all, and finally he couldn’t put it off. He was grateful, though, for the death he had been granted – not the slow, heartbreaking death of old age for James T. Kirk, he had no wish to go that way. Instead, he would die in battle, in the service of the Federation, his ship, and his crew. He had always known that.

And it was time, he could feel it. He knew.

But it was not time for the rest of them, and he thumbed the ship-wide intercom on and ordered them all to escape pods and the nearest starbase, including his loyal bridge crew.

P’pil’la’ai. It ran through Spock’s head when he realized what was happening. The severing of a mind-link between bonded couples either due to divorce or sudden death of a spouse. It was the one Vulcan word he had promised himself that he would never teach Jim, that they would never need to know because he refused to allow either one of them its experience.

No. There might be death, but he was resolute; there would be no p’pil’la’ai, no breaking.

And so when everyone else had gone, there were just he and Jim, staring at each other across the bridge of the Enterprise.

“I thought I ordered you off this ship, Mr. Spock.” Jim’s voice was stern, but his eyes glittered in that happy, determined way of his, and Spock knew that he wasn’t truly mad.

“So you did, Captain,” he agreed.

“Thought you were going to mutiny at last, hunh?”

“Indeed.”

Then Jim abandoned the pretense, grinned, extended a hand, and they met in front of the Captains’ chair and wrapped their arms around each other.

“I know I should tell you to go on without me and find happiness again, but I cannot. I would do the same in your place,” Jim murmured.

“We are one. There can be no life without the other.”

“It seems there can be no death without the other, either.”

“So it would seem.”

“That’s alright. I can’t think of a better way to die.”

“Nor can I, Jim.”

“Let’s take these bastards out with us, then.” The grim determination of the starship captain was back.

And so they did. Each with one hand on the helm and an arm around the other, they kissed, and entered death victoriously together.



Feb. 22nd, 2009

New Fic: Simple Complexities


Story Title: Simple Complexities
Author’s name: cestmoi01
Rating: G/PG
Pairing: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan
Spoilers: none, really
Warnings: none
Challenge: 
Flashslash 94 Set 2
Notes: Eh, I’m not sure how I feel about this one, but I’m posting it since I actually finished it within the time requirement.

Word Count: 250
Archive: 
flashslash, master-apprentice, quiobisupport, fanfiction.net; any others welcome, just please ask
Summary: Obi-Wan had at first thought that his Master was a simple man…but he learns differently.

 

 

 

Simple Complexities

 

Obi-Wan had at first thought that his Master was a simple man – not just in the way he lived his life, for his Master’s quarters were indeed sparsely furnished, but also in his motivations: heed the will of the Living Force, and do always what you believe to be right. Even if you must ignore the dictates of the Council.

 

After living with the man for many years, though, he was glad to affectionately admit that Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn was much more complex than he had first thought. Certainly he believed in doing right and following the Living Force, and certainly he went against the Council’s wishes in order to comply with his own sense of right and wrong more often than they would like, but that was not all there was to the man. Nor did his strong convictions diminish the great inner conflicts that he sometimes struggled with to reach them. He was intensely private – very rarely did Obi-Wan catch a glimpse of his Master’s occasional inner turmoil and the great depth of his emotions – and much of him still remained a mystery to his Padawan – the little quirks to his personality and habits that Obi-Wan would never understand but had come to love nevertheless.

 

But gazing into his storm-cloud eyes as they lay sated and joined after passionate love-making, as they whispered their hearts’ vows to each other, Obi-Wan knew that Qui-Gon’s soul – whether it be simple or complex – would never be a mystery to him.



New Fic: Yellow is the Color of Love


Story Title: Yellow is the Color of Love
Author’s name:  cestmoi01
Rating:  PG/PG-13
Pairing:  Han/Luke
Spoilers:  none, really
Warnings: none
Challenge: 
Flashslash 94 Set 1
Notes:  So I didn't really stick to the time limit with this one (it took me 20 instead of 8), but once I started writing, I just couldn't stop...
Word Count:  500
Archive: 
flashslash, mark_harrison, fanfiction.net; any others welcome, just please ask
Summary:  Han may not think that his holiday with Luke starts off so great, but it sure ends pretty well.



Yellow is the Color of Love

 

Han sighed and leaned his head against the sunflower-yellow wall of the cantina, smoking his cigarette and wondering what had possessed the owner to paint it such a sickly bright color. It was giving him a headache. And honestly, cantinas were supposed to be dark places, suitable for doing shady business. Everyone knew that, except obviously the owner of this horrid place.

 

Of course, it was just the sort of place that Luke would take him on their well-earned holiday – the sort of place that appealed to his fair spirit and would have seemed to him to be a great compromise of their tastes. He glanced down at the young man seated across from him, who was apparently giving him some speech on something or other – probably the importance of unity with the Force, for all Han knew or cared in his current uncomfortable state.

 

“Han? Han, are you listening to me?” a voice interrupted him, just a hint of irritation escaping the otherwise calm words.

 

“Huh? What?” he answered distractedly. “Oh, of course, kid…something about the importance of the Force, or something like that…” He trailed off, knowing he was wrong, and took another drag from his cigarette.

 

The young Jedi opposite him gave him a shrewd look that Han understood to mean that he knew the other hadn’t been listening but wasn’t necessarily going to push the issue just now.

 

Instead, he rose from his seat, crossed to stand in front of Han, then plucked the cigarette from his fingertips and stubbed it out on their table. Gracefully, every movement smooth and calculated, yet somehow natural, he wrapped his arms around Han’s neck and settled himself into the other man’s lap, one deceptively strong thigh on either side, and leaned forward to whisper breathily into Han’s ear.

 

“I said – whaddaya say we get outta here and christen that new bed you got for the Falcon, space pirate?” He punctuated his offer with a short nip to said pirate ear, and drew back to look deeply into Han’s eyes.

 

Han’s hands automatically went to Luke’s hips to steady him and hold him close, and as he gazed into the other’s face, he realized that the sunflower walls made a soft halo around the mischievous face of his little devil of a Jedi Knight, the bright sky-blue eyes standing out clearly in the handsome visage.

 

Han pulled the young man forward for a thoroughly passionate kiss that left Luke swaying and gasping for breath, before dragging him off with a roguish grin to make love as often as possible in that new bed of his.

 

At the end of their holiday, the two appeared again at the disgustingly bright cantina for a last meal and there shared a kiss filled with deep, soul-binding love that would sustain them through the pressures of the real world to which they would soon return.

 

And ever after, Han was partial to a particular shade of yellow that reminded him of sunflowers and love.

Feb. 7th, 2009

New Fic: Storm


Story Title:  Storm
Author's name:  cestmoi01
Rating:  PG
Pairing:  Jack/Daniel
Spoilers:  none
Warnings:  Deathfic.  Or at least most of the characters believe that one of the characters is dead.  You don’t have to agree, and I haven’t yet decided if I’m going to leave him that way.
Challenge:  February 09
Notes: Um, this was written in half an hour and no beta has seen it.  Sorry guys, but this is the result of my own bad relationship.  I’m sorry for making Jack and Daniel hurt, too.  I might fix them later, but that kind of depends.
Word Count:  482
Archive:  Soon to Pepe's Place Website and Area 52. All other sites please ASK before taking.
Summary:  "Daniel flung himself, stumbling, outside into the harsh air and the tumbling, wind-driven snowflakes...It wasn't true."  DEATHFIC  Mild J/D slash.



 

Storm

 No.

 No, no, no, no.

 No!

 Daniel wouldn’t believe it.  He would.  Not. Believe it.  It couldn’t be true.  It absolutely could not be true.  He clung to that thought; it could not be true.

 But Daniel could hardly think straight, could hardly see straight.  He chanted over and over in his head:  not true, not true, not true.

 He had to get out.

 Not true, have to get out, not true, have to get out, not true, get out, not true, get out!

 He ran.

 He ran past a sea of swirling, grief-filled faces, past comforting hands, past soothing voices.  He had to get out, it wasn’t true, he wouldn’t believe it.

 Daniel flung himself, stumbling, outside into the harsh air and the tumbling, wind-driven snowflakes.  He sank to his knees, gasping.  He would show them.  It wasn’t true.

 Jack would come get him.  Jack always made sure that he ate and slept.  And was warm.  Jack would come get him.  He’d show them.  It wasn’t true, the liars.  It wasn’t true.  They’d see.

 He knelt there, shivering, hands tucked into his armpits, as the snow got into his eyes and ears and dampened his hair and made it stick to his forehead and drip down his shirt.  He knelt there as the blizzard’s raging wind buffeted him about and tried to rip his shirt off.

 He was cold and wet and freezing, but that was ok because they were all lying, and Jack would come get him any minute now.  He’d wake up, and ask for Daniel, and berate them all for letting him go outside in this weather, and then he’d come and gently pull Daniel up by his elbows and wrap him up in his strong arms and take him inside and they’d have hot chocolate and laugh about how everyone thought he was...

 No, he wouldn’t even think the word.  It wasn’t true, he didn’t need to think it.  They’d see.

 A hand softly touched his shoulder, and he squinted up through the blurring snow, but even without his glasses he could tell that the eyes were blue instead of brown and the hair was blond instead of grey and it was Sam instead of –

 “Jack,” he croaked brokenly.  But Sam’s eyes filled with sad compassion, and he couldn’t look any longer, he couldn’t –

 “No, no, no.  Jack,” he cried, shoving Sam’s hand away.  “Jack!”  He stumbled a few more paces before falling to his knees again.  Heedless of the wind and the snow and the cold, he rocked himself back and forth, back and forth.

 “Jack,” he whispered lovingly, “Jack, no...Jack.”  His voice broke, and he sobbed out the name.  “Jack!  No, no, no, no!  JACK!!”  The inhuman cry of grief and pain at a soul being torn in two was not quite lost to the storm.

 Jack was dead.  And Daniel wished to join him.

Dec. 21st, 2008

New Fic: Change of Habit


Story Title:  Change of Habit
Author's name:  cestmoi01
Rating:  G?  PG?  I’m not sure
Pairing:  Jack/Daniel
Spoilers:  none
Warnings:  none
Challenge:  December Challenge, Elvis song titles – “Change of Habit”
Notes: I’m pretty proud of this one, actually.  It just seems to have come out right, in my opinion.  But I’d appreciate knowing what y’all think, too!  Thanks to Annie for the beta.
Word Count:  259
Archive:  Soon to Pepe's Place Website and Area 52. All other sites please ASK before taking
Summary:  "There wasn't so much a public change of habit to mark their transition from friends to lovers as there was a private one."  Mild J/D slash.

 

Change of Habit

 Things didn’t change much when Jack and Daniel became lovers.  Not the big things, anyway.  They already spent so much time together that stacks of Daniel’s books had migrated to Jack’s place, and Jack’s flipper-fingers had memorized the numbers for A&E, the History Channel, and the Discovery Channel.  Daniel’s VCR was already pre-programmed to record The Simpson’s and Jack’s hockey games when they were off-world, and his fridge was already stocked with beer.  They had already been through so much together that when it came to each other, they had very little personal space, physically – Jack already ruffled Daniel’s hair and pushed his glasses into place – or mentally – Daniel already knew how to finish Jack’s sentences.  They had already cried into each other’s shoulders more than once.

 There wasn’t so much a public change of habit to mark their transition from friends to lovers as there was a private one.  Before, they had shared a couch while watching TV together.  Now, Daniel might rest comfortably with his head in Jack’s lap, the older man’s fingers affectionately combing through his hair.  Before, they had taken turns using the bathroom when they had spent the night under the same roof.  Now, Jack might bump casually past a Daniel who was brushing his teeth while on the way to his own toothbrush.  Occasionally, if they had the time, they might indulge in shaving each other.

 Before, each knew that he would die for the other, if it came down to that.  Now, they had vowed to live for each other.

Dec. 15th, 2008

New Fic: A Big Hunk o'Love


Story Title:  A Big Hunk o’Love
Author's name:  cestmoi01
Rating:  PG, for a few maybe bad words
Pairing:  Jack/Daniel
Spoilers:  none
Warnings:  none
Challenge:  December Challenge, Elvis song titles – “A Big Hunk o’Love”
Notes:  Wow.  This one really escaped from me in length; it just kept getting longer and longer.  I hope you find it a worthwhile read, though.  And MANY thanks to Toasted Toad for the excellent beta, despite my doing my best to make it difficult.
Word Count:  1,944
Archive:  Soon to Pepe's Place Website and Area 52. All other sites please ASK before taking.
Summary:  "All of a sudden, his vision went gray and weird little colored sparkles danced around behind his eyes, and he swayed, off-balance."  Daniel is very sick, but Jack can take good care of him.  Mild J/D slash.
 

     
     

A Big Hunk o’Love
      

God, but he felt awful!  His nose was running so much that it was red and sore from all the tissues he’d had to use.  His throat was also sore and swollen, not to mention dry, and swallowing was a painful chore.  His brain felt like it was trying to pound its way out of his skull, and he was alternating between burning up and shivering with chills.  Thank God he didn’t have to go into the Mountain today because he didn’t think he even had enough energy in him to make the required call for a sick day.  All he really wanted to do was stay in bed for the entire day and hopefully sleep in blissful ignorance of his illness.
      
 Knock, knock, knock.
      
 ‘Oh, God.  Go away,’ Daniel thought.  He pulled the covers up over his head.
      
 Knock, knock, knock.
      
 “Daniel, you in there?”
     
 ‘Jack?  Why is Jack here?’  Realization dawned.  God, how could he have been so out of it that he’d forgotten it was his turn to host Sunday breakfast?  They never spent Saturday nights together, unless one or both of them were injured, in an effort to waylay suspicion about their relationship, but the Sunday breakfast was a different matter. It was a tradition which had started with the two of them long before they were lovers, back when Daniel had first returned from Abydos in desperate need of a friend and Jack had taken him home. It was a great excuse to spend the day together doing... well... each other.  And if, after a classy Italian dinner of pasta and wine, one of them was a little too sloshed to safely drive home... why then, spending the night was clearly the responsible thing to do, and no one could fault them for that, right?  And now Daniel had overslept and felt sick and was in no way prepared to make – let alone eat – a big breakfast with Jack.
     
 He vaguely registered the sound of a key sliding into the lock of his apartment door, and Jack’s voice as he entered, going on about traffic and OJ and pancakes.  He supposed he should get up and try to be a good host.
     
 Quickly, so he wouldn’t have any time to rethink his choice, Daniel swung his legs out of bed and stood up.  All of a sudden, his vision went gray and weird little colored sparkles danced around behind his eyes, and he swayed, off-balance.  After a moment in which he wasn’t sure whether he was going to continue standing or fall down, he regained his balance.
     
 He was trembling, and his legs felt too weak to hold him up.  Nevertheless, he opened his eyes and took a step forward, arms out to steady himself, and was very surprised to find himself nose-to-nose with what appeared to be a very concerned USAF colonel.
     
 He reared backwards in shock, and would have fallen over had not the other man caught him by the shoulders and steadied him again.
     
 “Jack?” He peered through hot, dry eyes that wouldn’t open more than half-way and tried to pull his brain out of the thick fog in which it was currently residing.  “What are you doing here?”  He winced; talking hurt.
     
 “It’s Sunday, Daniel.  I came over for breakfast.  Looks like we won’t be doing that, though.  Why didn’t you call and tell me you were sick?  I’d’ve brought the fixin’s for some nice, home-made chicken noodle soup.”
     
 Daniel had been going to protest that they could still have breakfast, but he got distracted by Jack’s question; it seemed his mind couldn’t focus on more than one thing at a time.  Why hadn’t he called?  He knew he’d had a reason.  He tried to search his brain while Jack loosely held him there, but he was so out of it that questions just slid right by any answers he might’ve had.  Scratch that previous statement – it seemed that his mind just plain couldn’t focus at all.
     
 All thought fled, though, when his knees finally buckled beneath him, and Jack had to actively support his weight.
     
 “Geez, Daniel!  Ya okay?”
     
 Daniel nodded sloppily and hummed what must have been an agreement.
     
 “Okay, Danny, let’s see about getting you back into that bed.”  Jack shifted Daniel around so that his right arm was supporting Daniel’s neck and his left was under Daniel’s knees before lifting him up and gently placing him back on Daniel’s wide, rumpled bed.  Carefully, he worked the covers out from underneath Daniel and gently tucked them in around the now shivering man.
     
 “Sleep, Danny,” Jack whispered softly.  “I’ll see what there is for you to eat when you wake up.”  He bent to kiss the archeologist, but jerked backwards the moment his lips touched Daniel’s forehead.  “Shit, Daniel!  You’re burning up. We need to get your fever down a bit.”
     
 Jack rushed about, more than a little worried that his linguist hadn’t responded with anything but a blanket-muffled groan.  He retrieved Daniel’s thermometer from the bathroom medicine cabinet, shoved it between Daniel’s lips, then got out some Tylenol and poured a glass of orange juice for his lover.
     
 By the time he was done with that, the thermometer had beeped, ready for Jack to check on it.  He paled a little when he read “102.7 degrees Fahrenheit” – not life-threatening (yet) but still waaay too high in Jack’s book.  “You never do things halfway, do ya, Dannyboy?” he sighed, shaking his head as he turned the thermometer off again and placed it on the bookcase by Daniel’s bed.  Then he sat on the edge of the bed and slid an arm under Daniel’s shoulders to help him sit up.
     
 “C’mon, sit up for me, Daniel,” he murmured to the other man, “I need you to take this.”  Jack pressed the Tylenol into Daniel’s hand. Daniel automatically placed the pills in his mouth.  Jack then held the glass of orange juice to Daniel’s lips and coaxed him into taking a sip, “C’mon, open up, Danny.  Just a little swallow.  Help me out here, just a little.  C’mon, c’mon, almost done, swallow...”  Finally Daniel had taken the Tylenol and a couple sips of orange juice, with much help from Jack.
     
 “Good, Danny.  Alright, just hold on a sec, and I’ll be right back.”  Daniel just squinted at the older man as if trying to understand what he was saying, and that disturbed Jack.  For a long time, the two of them had not needed even words to communicate, and now Daniel’s light-speed brain was having difficulty processing normal English. Jack was sure they were in trouble.  So he pressed a hand to Daniel’s cheek and repeated himself, looking into Daniel’s eyes, “I’ll be right back” before hustling out of the room.
     
 He filled a large bowl with lukewarm water, gathered as many washcloths as he could find (which was probably more than he was going to need, but dammit, he wasn’t going to take any chances with Daniel), and pulled a chair up next to Daniel’s bed. The bowl he settled onto a nearby foot-stool, then soaked the washcloths in the water it held.  He wrung one out and laid it gently across Daniel’s forehead, fingers lingering a moment, brushing strands of damp hair away, caressing.
     
 Next, Jack undid the buttons of Daniel’s pyjama shirt and pushed it mostly off his upper body.  With another washcloth, he bathed Daniel’s chest, neck and shoulders, wiping off the sheen of sweat that Daniel’s fever had produced.  He washed Daniel’s torso again with a clean washcloth and replaced the one on Daniel’s forehead.  Always, his eyes flicked between the task his hands were performing and Daniel’s face, watching him closely.  He was encouraged to see that, by the end of his ministrations, Daniel began to appear at least comfortable and relaxed.
     
 “Okay, I’m sorry to make you move, Daniel, but I think you’ll feel even better in a clean pair of pyjamas and with clean sheets on the bed.”  With great care and concern for his lover, Jack helped Daniel maneuver himself into the chair Jack had just vacated, then helped him out of his used pyjamas and into a fresh pair; Daniel was weak and tired, and his fingers had difficulty grasping the buttons.  Quickly, Jack also stripped the bed and replaced its sheets and blankets with a softer set.  Finally, Jack supported Daniel back into bed and tucked the covers lightly around him, bestowing another affectionate kiss on Daniel’s forehead.
     
 Daniel sighed. It was so good to be clean and comfortable, and he knew it would not be long before the Tylenol began to do its work.
     
 “You’re doing great for me, Danny. Now just rest, and I’ll take care of things.”  He stood up, intending to leave Daniel to his sleep, but felt a hand loosely grasp his wrist.
     
 “Stay,” Daniel pleaded.  “Jack, stay.”
     
 “Okay, Danny,” Jack acquiesced, pleased that he was wanted.
     
 “Stay.”
     
 “I will, shhh, I will.”  Jack sat back down on the edge of the bed and returned to rubbing Daniel’s back.
     
 “Stay...” Daniel’s voice drifted off as his eyes finally slid closed.
     
 “Don’t worry, Danny, I’m staying,” Jack whispered.  He watched the rise and fall of Daniel’s chest for a short while, comforted by the steady movement.  Then – he couldn’t say why – he started to sing softly, a lullaby he thought he had forgotten with Charlie’s death, all those years ago...
     
 When he was sure Daniel was slumbering deeply, Jack smiled affectionately and slipped out of the bedroom to prepare some warm broth for his love.

*          *          *          *          *

 The next day, Daniel was propped up in bed, many pillows stuffed behind his back as he wrote in his journal with only somewhat shaky hands:
 
 “I’m still not completely recovered – I feel weak and writing is more tiresome than it should be, so I think this will just be a short journal entry – but I feel a whole lot better than I did yesterday. My fever has finally dropped below 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and my headache has receded to a dull throb.  My nose is still runny, but at least it’s no longer Niagara Falls, and Jack had the idea of rubbing Vaseline into the sore skin around it.  My throat is still sore, but I can deal with it now that everything else isn’t so awful.
 
 “Right now Jack is on the phone with General Hammond, explaining that I’m going to need a couple of sick days and that he’s going to stay home to take care of me.
 
 “And I know I will be.  Taken care of, that is.  A lot of yesterday is hazy, but I remember Jack was here, and that he helped me out.  A lot.  In fact, he probably did most of the work himself, including a load of laundry, and he heated up some chicken noodle soup I didn’t even know I’d had in my cupboards, and which he then spoon-fed me.
 
 “I think he sang to me, too, but I can’t be sure.  I’m really sorry to have missed that if he did!
 
 “At the same time though, I didn’t really miss out on anything important.  Most of my memories of yesterday are vague notions of great discomfort, but throughout it all, I remember Jack’s caring presence.  He pretends to be a tough old colonel, but he’s really a big hunk o’love.
 
 “Heh – I wonder what he would think if I told him that.  Probably say I was crazy.
 
 “It doesn’t matter, though – because he is a big hunk o’love, and he’s all mine.
 
 “And of course, I love him too.”

Dec. 10th, 2008

New Fic: Blue Christmas


Story Title:  Blue Christmas
Author's name:  cestmoi01
Rating:  PG
Pairing:  Jack/Daniel
Spoilers:  none
Warnings:  none
Challenge:  Pepe's Place December Challenge, Elvis song titles – "Blue Christmas"
Notes: Not sure what I think of this one, I hope it turned out amusing.  Thanks go to Toasted Toad for the beta.
Word Count:  867
Archive:  Soon to Pepe's Place Website and Area 52.  All other sites please ASK before taking.
Summary:  Jack's the one touching something he shouldn't for once, and boy is Daniel enjoying the consequences!  Very mild J/D slash.

 

Blue Christmas

 When they took the team pictures at the annual SGC Christmas party that year, Jack was blue.  And not in the sad, melancholy, depressed sort of way but in the "my-skin-is-dyed-the-color-of-a-smurf" sort of way.  It had been all Jack’s fault, too, and his lover was thrilled; for once, Daniel had not been the one touching things he shouldn’t have.  And payback was great!

*          *          *          *          *

 They had been off-world (of course).  Daniel was keeping Carter company as she collected the usual soil samples, the two of them chatting happily away while Teal’c and Jack kept an eye out for any hostiles.  The planet seemed peaceful enough, and they weren’t expecting any trouble...But then again, they were SG-1.

 Jack was bored, or at least pretending to be and the plants near the edge of the forest had looked interesting – unlike anything he had seen in his garden at home, or anywhere else on Earth, for that matter.  So Jack was examining them – bending down to get a closer look through his sunglasses, pushing the leaves around and poking at one with his P-90.

 It was when he leaned in even closer to see if they smelled at all that it happened.  There was a loud POP! and a short shout of surprise from Jack. Something on one of the plants had burst open, and Jack was drenched in some sort of dark blue liquid.

 The rest of his team immediately rushed over, and when it became apparent that Jack wasn’t injured in any way except for his pride, they had a hard time containing their amusement.  Well, except maybe Teal’c, who merely stated, "You are blue, O’Neill," giving Jack the distinct impression that the Jaffa was making a joke at his expense.  Carter had a hand plastered tightly over her mouth to hold the snickers in, but she couldn’t stop the laughter from showing in her bulging eyes.  Jack glared at his second-in-command, which only sent her into a paroxysm of giggles that had to be stifled with a fist.

 Daniel was the only one who laughed outright (of course), holding out his handkerchief – which was snatched away by blue-spotted hands with ill grace – and wiping the tears away from the corners of his eyes.  He then snuck out the video camera that he kept in his pocket for archeological finds and surreptitiously started filming as Jack tried to wipe the blue stuff off his face and sunglasses.

 Unfortunately, it appeared to have dried on and stuck there fairly quickly and would not be wiped off.  Finally, Jack had to take his sunglasses off in order to see anything, and the sight he made was hilarious:  graying hair streaked blue, blue spots on his usually impeccable uniform, a blue coating on his P-90, and a face which was almost completely blue except for circles around his eyes and a single line of clean flesh leading away from each one.

 "You look like some weird raccoon, Jack," Daniel gasped between bursts of hearty laughter.  Sam finally let out the great whoops of laughter that she had been holding in, and even Teal’c’s lips twitched a little.

 And that was how they entered the Gateroom a few minutes later – a smirking Teal’c and a giggling Sam leading the way, followed by a scowling Jack who had obviously been shoved through the wormhole by the grinning and laughing Daniel, who was catching the whole thing on tape.

*          *          *          *          *

 In the infirmary, Janet also tried to clean the blue liquid off Jack’s face, to no effect.  Soon enough, she had determined that it was pretty much like any berry juice on Earth, just a little more potent when it came to staining things.  It would wash off eventually, but Jack should be just fine – if a little blue – until then.

 Daniel was having a blast, of course – this provided the perfect opportunity for payback for all the times Jack had told him not to touch anything.  As they cooked or cleaned or even just sat about together, he delighted in humming the song "Blue Christmas" and seemed to take particular enjoyment in singing the line, "But I’ll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas" and overemphasizing the word "blue" while wearing a smug grin.  On the same day that a picture of Jack’s blue face was taped to every tray in the commissary, Elvis’ "Blue Christmas" mysteriously started playing over the SGC’s PA system.  Daniel’s documentary of Jack’s life with a blue face was a hit at the Christmas Party (especially with Feretti and SG-3), and not only that but someone had convinced Hammond that this was the year to make team Christmas photos mandatory.

*          *          *          *          *

 To Jack’s relief, his face faded to a pale blue by New Year’s Eve and was back to normal a week later.  Daniel wouldn’t admit it either, but he was a little pleased, too; it was decidedly disconcerting to be kissing the blue face and lips of your normally-not-blue lover.

 That didn’t mean, however, that Daniel didn’t have multiple copies of that year’s team photo hidden away somewhere, saved up for the day when he could put them to good use again...

 

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