December 19

CRIME:

Crossing Jordan - Bug/Nigel/Woody

Author: Caliadragon
Title: Getting the Job Done
Date: December 19
Fandom: Crossing Jordan/Crime
Pairing: Bug/Nigel/Woody
Rating: PG
Summary: Bug’s ready to get the job over with.
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Feedback address: Caliadragon1@myself.com
Advertisement: Part of the SAC-2004 at: http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2004/SAC-2004.htm
Note:
Beta: Edi the Wonderful

GETTING THE JOB DONE

Bug walked through the morgue on his way to his lab; he needed to finish getting the samples together for Jordan so that he could leave on time. Tonight he had a date and he did not intend to let work get in his way. For most of his time at the morgue, Bug had worked over time and he very rarely missed work, mainly because he had had no life to live outside of work.

Now though, he not only had a life, but he had to insatiable lovers as well. Garrett had made it a point to set Nigel and Bug down when he found out they were dating and remind them to do their jobs, and not one another. Nigel had been vastly amused, while Bug had been embarrassed.

Jordan had been the only one that Bug had been worried about when it came out that they were also dating Woody. Bug could tell that Jordan had deep feelings for the young cop, even if she wanted to ignore them. However, Jordan had been happy for them, not just going through the motions, but truly happy for them.

She had later told Bug, that she was glad that Woody had people who could love him for who he was, but not destroy him like she could. Jordan knew she was poison and though she was getting better, she wasn’t someone that would be good for Woody in the long run.

Tonight would be the first night that the three of them spent together in their new apartment and it would also mark the beginnings of their first Christmas together. Bug was looking forward to it, which was why he was speed walking to his lab to get his work done. He had presets to unwrap and a living room carpet to christen.

The End

CRIME:

NCIS - Gibbs/DeNozzo

Title: Wonders and miracles
Author: Stacy L.A. Stronach
Fandom: NCIS/Crime
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: NC 17
Email: slashgirl@gmail.com
Date of Publication: December 19, 2004
Beta: Wy-lee
Disclaimers: Not mine, unfortunately. If they were, we'd be seeing a much different show relationship-wise. They belong to Bellasario and CBS and whomever else. No infringement intended, no money is being made.
Advertisement: Part of the Slash advent calendar
Notes: This story was written for the slash advent calendar.
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2004/SAC-2004.htm  Please note this story is exclusive to that site until Dec 30, 2004. After that if you want to archive this, just ask me first. Thanks.
Summary: Christmas time in DC with Tony & Jethro…

Wonders and miracles
by Stacy L.A. Stronach

Jethro Gibbs hated parties; well formal parties such as this one, anyway. It was the annual NCIS "holiday" party. Hell, they couldn't even call it a Christmas party these days. Taking another sip of his bourbon, he reflected on what an idiotic waste of time this was. However, the Director, Tom Morrow, expected all of his agents to show up; after all, he had a boss he needed to impress, too.

Having already made the rounds and speaking very briefly to those he had to Jethro now sat in a darkened corner watching everyone else make merry. Jethro looked at his watch and figured he could leave in another 45 minutes without upsetting the director.

Looking around for his team members, he spotted Ducky and Gerald talking to the SecNav. Gibbs snorted quietly, it looked like Ducky was mid-stream in one of his stories. He hoped it was a long one—payback, in a way. Jethro eyed Gerald critically, the young man was scheduled to come back to work in early January. He'd fully recovered from the gunshot to his shoulder and probably could've been back to work in December, but Ducky was being a mother-hen and wanted to be sure his lover was fully recovered.

His gaze moved over to where Cait and Abby were flanking McGee, next to the food table. McGee was looking around nervously and fussing with his bowtie and suit. Jethro laughed when Abby swatted Tim's hand and obviously told him to stop fidgeting. Abby was looking very pretty tonight, she had on a fitted midnight blue gown that while strapless, had beaded threads going from the top of the bodice to the collar at her throat and she was wearing matching, elbow-length gloves. Cait looked stunning tonight, too. She was wearing a red and gold Chinese style dress with her hair up in a bun with what Gibbs thought looked like chopsticks holding it together. Sighing, Gibbs wished his life were simple enough for him to be attracted to either woman but since he never took the easy road in life….

Then Jethro's attention was caught by the entrance of his other agent, Tony DiNozzo; the younger man had just walked in, fashionably late. Jethro was surprised to see that Tony was here alone, no pretty girl hanging off his arm. Tony looked gorgeous tonight, wearing a tuxedo that looked as if it were made for him. Jethro snorted, it probably had been. Watching as Tony made his way around the room, schmoozing all the right people and being honestly friendly with the other agents. He was comfortable doing this sort of thing—more so than Jethro would ever be.

When Tony made his way over to where Cait, Tim, and Abby were, Jethro idly considered going over and joining them. He discarded that idea; he knew Tony would find him and come over to see him. The way Tony always sought him out sometimes made Jethro wonder if Tony might have deeper feelings for him. He quickly dismissed those thoughts when they popped up; DiNozzo was most definitely a ladies' man. Besides even if Tony did go that way, what would he want with someone like Jethro?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Tony walked into the ballroom he immediately, although discretely, looked for and found his Boss. Gibbs was sitting in a corner by himself, sipping on a glass of bourbon. Tony knew the other man was most likely counting the minutes until he could gracefully duck out of the party. Grinning, Tony looked around for the other members of the team. He almost laughed when he saw Gerald and Ducky talking to the SecNav. Actually, it looked like Ducky was mid-story—SecNav was doing his best to look interested and Gerald was watching his lover, smiling at the older man's antics. Tony was very glad that Gerald would be back in January, not just because he was a friend but because it would put Ducky in a better mood.

Tony's gaze darted around the room, until he found the rest of the team. Cait and Abby were leading McGee over to a table to sit down. Both of the ladies looked beautiful tonight and McGee…well, McGee looked really nervous and uncomfortable. He could sympathise with the young agent; pressing the flesh at parties wasn't Tony's idea of fun and if his father hadn't taught him how to do it, Tony knew he'd probably be as bad as McGee.

Making his way around the various people in the room, Tony could feel Jethro staring at him. Tony fought the urge to stare back. He'd stop and speak with Jethro later. He was speaking with Gerald and Ducky about Gerald's return to work when Ducky became distracted.

"Oh, dear," Ducky said, looking over where Gibbs was now standing.

Tony also looked over and saw a buxom redhead speaking with his boss. "Who's she?"

"That's ex-wife number 3. She wrangles herself an invite to this party almost every year then proceeds to try and convince Jethro they should get back together," Ducky explained. "I should go help him."

Tony grinned. "That's okay, Duck. I'll go rescue him." He made his way across the room to where his boss was, hearing the last part of the conversation between the ex-spouses.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Wondering how in the hell he was going to get away from Victoria, Jethro scowled more deeply than he had been. He'd heard her tirade before and nothing had changed. Finally, he'd had enough and hissed at her, "Vic, nothing's changed. I don't want you back, I'm sorry Christmas sucks for you but if you'd try and get on with your life, it might help!"

"Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Jethro. I can see you've really gotten on with your life. I don't see your date hanging around! Why can't you admit you miss me like I miss you. I know we could make it work!"

Tony grinned as he walked up next to his boss. He slid an arm discretely around Jethro's waist. It was all Jethro could do to not react in surprise, especially when Tony said, very silkily, "Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

At the look in his ex-wife's eyes it was all Jethro could do not to burst out laughing. "Nothing at all. Victoria was just leaving, weren't you?"

The redhead was so angry, she was almost sputtering. "You're with him? No wonder…you…you bastard!" she hissed, turning around and stomping off.

"That's what the second 'b' in Gibbs stands for," Tony called after her pleasantly before turning and grinning at Gibbs.

Jethro laughed, shaking his head. "Thanks for the save, DiNozzo. I think. You know she'll have that rumour all over the place before the night is out," he said. He noticed that Tony hadn't moved his arm but Jethro wasn't about to say anything; he liked the feel of it.

"Worse things in life, Boss," Tony replied with a little shrug.

"Really? Worse things than being romantically linked to your male boss?"

Tony's green eyes flashed with heat. "Yeah, much worse." Before Jethro could muster a response, Tony moved his arm but slid his hand across Jethro's back. With that movement, it felt like something changed between them; there was a tension that hadn't been there before. He wanted more of it. "What's say we blow this pop stand?" Tony asked, turning to leave.

"I'd rather blow you," Jethro muttered under his breath, surprising himself. He winced, hoping Tony hadn't heard.

Turning around and moving very close to Jethro, Tony stared at him and Jethro met his gaze. "Jethro, don't say something like that if you don't mean it," he said huskily.

Jethro stared at Tony for several moments, wondering if Tony was serious about this, about what it could mean. He decided to take the risk that Tony was. "Wouldn't have said it, if I hadn't meant it," he said, watching in delight as Tony's eyes dilated and darkened while a slight flush spread across his face.

Tony stared at him. "Then I suggest we get the hell out of here and go someplace where you can do what you want," he said. He turned and strode across the room, hoping that Gibbs was following him.

After a couple seconds, Jethro followed Tony out of the room. He caught up to him at the front doors. "Your car or mine?"

"Yours, I took a taxi tonight."

Once outside, Gibbs handed the valet his parking ticket. Jethro and Tony stood there, side by side, neither speaking but both feeling the tension between them.

Once they were in the vehicle, Jethro gazed at Tony. He reached over, sliding his hand to the back of Tony's neck, urging him closer. Tony complied, putting his hand on Jethro's shoulder as their mouths met.

When their lips touched, Tony moaned, opening his mouth to Jethro's searching tongue. He slid his hand up to cup Jethro's head, his fingers trailing along the edge of his hair. Tasting Tony as he slid his tongue into Jethro's mouth, he moaned. It had been a long time since Jethro had felt anything like this for someone else, if it had ever been this deep.

The sudden blaring of a car horn from behind them made the two men jump apart, almost guiltily. They both smiled as Jethro put the car in gear and pulled out into the road at a slower than usual pace.

"You okay?"

"Peachy. Why?"

"You're not driving at your 'bat out of hell' speed. It's more like a bat out of, oh, 'gosh-darn'," Tony teased.

"Maybe I like keeping you in suspense longer."

"Well. Ya know. The faster we get to your place the faster I can be naked on your bed," Tony flirted, grinning deeply.

Jethro laughed as he put his foot down on the accelerator.

He made it to his house in record time, or so it seemed. Neither man spoke as they walked into his house, but as soon as the door was closed, Jethro found himself pressed against the wall. Tony claimed his mouth for a deeper, more passionate kiss than they'd shared in the car earlier.

Jethro responded by opening his mouth to Tony's insistent tongue, moaning at tasting him again. He put his hands to good use and pushed Tony's jacket off his shoulders. He then went to work on the tiny buttons of the dress shirt, growling when he couldn't get them undone fast enough.

Tony pulled back, afraid Jethro just might rip his shirt off. "Bedroom?" he suggested.

"Good idea," Jethro said turning and walking down the hallway.

Tony followed, undoing his cufflinks as he walked behind Jethro, admiring the view. Once they were in Jethro's bedroom, Tony stripped off his shirt, whipping it off over his head. He grinned at the appreciative sounds from Jethro.

Jethro quickly took off his own shirt, tossing it on the floor next to Tony's. He gasped when he felt Tony's fingers trailing gently over his abdomen to stop and rest at the top edge of his pants. He was surprised to hear Tony's murmured, "Gorgeous."

"You're the gorgeous one, Tony. Not me. I'm just old," Jethro said. He allowed his fingers to gently slide down Tony's chest and stomach, heading for his pants.

"You're sexy as hell, Gibbs…and, I must say… ," Tony whispered huskily as he reached into Jethro's now undone pants, grasping his hard cock through the boxers covering it, stroking it. "… you're hard in _all_ the right places," he finished, grinning mischievously.

Jethro made a noise between a laugh and a moan while he managed to undo the buttons and zipper on Tony's pants, shoving them down roughly. "Has anyone told you that you talk to fucking much, DiNozzo?" Jethro asked. His gaze raked over the younger man's body, staring hungrily at Tony's nakedness.

"Ah, well, you're the first person to mention it tonight…"

Jethro's blue eyes filled with mirth. "I think you need to find something to keep that saucy mouth of yours busy."

Stepping out of his pants and kicking them aside, Tony dropped to his knees in front of Jethro. "I think I can mange to think of something, " he said. He pushed down Jethro's pants and boxers, smiling as Jethro's erection bobbed in front of him. Tony licked his palm, then firmly grabbed Jethro's cock and started stroking him.

Jethro closed his eyes, moaning. Then he opened them and looked down at Tony. "Not using your mouth," he gasped.

Tony laughed. "I know, just thought I'd 'talk with my hands', you know, sort of like sign language. I know how much you love to use sign language." Before Jethro could focus enough to form a coherent reply, all rational thought was driven from his mind as Tony slid his mouth down to the root of Jethro's cock, deep-throating him.

"Oh, fuck, yes!" Jethro's head fell back as he relished the feel of the warm wet mouth surrounding his cock. It was all he could do to not thrust forward. He slid his fingers through Tony's hair, holding on to his head as Tony slid his mouth up and down his cock. Tony slid his hands around to cup Jethro's ass cheeks, caressing them.

A few minutes later, the only sound in the room was the noise of their breathing, Jethro's heavy and laboured as he felt his release nearing. "I'm gonna…soon, oh, fuck, fuck, Tony!" he screamed his lover's name as he came.

Tony swallowed all that Jethro gave, licking him clean before standing up. He pulled Jethro close, kissing him.

It was odd, tasting his own essence in Tony's mouth and on his tongue. While they kissed, Jethro walked them over to the bed, releasing Tony to push him down onto the bed. He sprawled on the bed, raising one arm over his head, spreading his legs, while his other hand lazily stroked his leaking cock. His gaze as he stared at Jethro was wanton, almost lewd.

Jethro watched Tony for a few moments, relishing the pure sensuality that was his lover. Then he knelt on the bed beside him, surprised when Tony dragged him down on top of him, kissing him. Reaching down, Jethro took hold of Tony's cock, stroking him at the same time he was kissing him. Jethro pulled his mouth away from Tony's and watched his face while he fondled Tony's cock. The nearly ecstatic look, combined with the half moaning, half mewling noises Tony was making, Jethro found it all extremely erotic.

Nuzzling his face against Tony's neck, Jethro kissed, licked, and nipped his way down one side of Tony's throat and up the other. From the tension in his body, Jethro could tell the other man was getting close. Moving his mouth so it was right next to Tony's ear, Jethro licked it, then whispered, "Come for me, baby. Come in my hand."

Arching his back, his head moving side to side on the pillow, Tony yelled as he came, spurting his seed all over Jethro's hand. When he opened his eyes, Tony watched as Jethro brought his hand up, licking Tony's come off each of his fingers, slowly. Tony moaned, then pulled Jethro down for another soul-searing kiss.

After a few minutes, Jethro moved away from Tony, smiling down at the almost sleeping man beneath him. He climbed out of bed, going to the bathroom to grab a washcloth. Jethro returned to his bed, where he cleaned Tony off and then himself before chucking the cloth on the floor. He got back into bed and grinned as Tony curled up behind him, wrapping his arms around Jethro. Secure in Tony's embrace, Jethro followed him into sleep.

The next morning, Jethro awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of someone behind him, arms around him in a close embrace. He sighed as memories of last night came back to him, clearly and rapidly.

"Hey, Boss, you awake?"

"Mm, yeah," Jethro replied. His mind was racing—what the hell had he done, had _they_ done? What would happen now? How did Tony feel about him…how exactly did he feel about Tony. Jethro groaned, this was too much.

"Stop thinking so much," Tony teased, placing a gentle kiss on the back of Jethro's neck, taking it as a positive reaction when he didn't stiffen or move away. "Let me guess, you're wondering what the hell we've done, aren't you? And you want to know what's going to happen next…you're wondering what I feel for you. And what exactly you feel for me. Am I anywhere near right?"

Jethro rolled over, surprised to see some doubt and uncertainty in Tony's green eyes. He smiled, gently. "What, you're psychic now?"

Tony returned the smile. "Nah, I've just been thinking pretty much the same things since I woke up about a half hour. Want to hear what conclusions I came to?"

"Sure."

"Well, first of all, we had mind-blowingly good sex last night, if I do say so myself," Tony said almost shyly. "And what's going to happen next, I think that depends on both of us, but I'd really like to try the sex thing again. I…I really liked it. I'd like to be in a relationship with you, Jethro. As to what I feel for you, well…that's kinda complicated. I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love with you—I do know I like you an awful lot—I respect you and think you're probably the best man I've ever had in my life. The final thing, how you feel about me? I haven't the faintest. I know talking isn't really a strong suit for you, but, well, I'd like to know," Tony finished, staring directly into Jethro's eyes.

Jethro didn't speak immediately, but brought his hand up to cup Tony's face, leaning in for a gentle, chaste kiss. "I kinda suck at the relationship thing, you know, Tony," he said. "But…yeah, the sex was mind blowing. And I do know that I love you and have been for a while, I guess. I want to be with you. To try this…I'm not the easiest guy to be with, just so you know," Jethro said quietly, unable to look away, lest Tony think he wasn't serious.

Tony grinned. "Like I didn't know that after three years of working for you. Yeah, I want to try…I think we can do it," he said.

The two men looked at each other for several minutes, awe and wonder on their faces; each realising he just might have found the one person that he needed, both of them thinking and hoping that miracles still happen on this earth. Finally, they kissed again: deeply, passionately, hopefully.

//**the end**\\

SCIENCE FICTION

Star Trek - Kirk/Spock

Author: Korey
Title: 12 Days
Date: December 19
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/ Sci-fi
Pairing: K/S
Rating: PG
Summary: Jim doesn’t appreciate the classic 12 days.
Disclaimer: All belongs to Paramount, except for a small piece that belongs to Diane Duane, because I love her. Nothing belongs to me. I make no money. Not even when not writing.
Feedback address: bluecrabnebula@yahoo.com  
Advertisement: Part of the SAC-2004 at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2004/SAC-2004.htm
Beta: JillFish

12 Days

Note: The original version had Day 10 including such celebs as Lord Voldemort, the Lord of the Rings, Lord Baltimore, and The Lord, but was cut because much as it amused me, it made no sense. The final version, while less funny and admittedly mostly filler, at least makes sense. Additionally, I started work on this for last year’s SAC, and only finished it partway through December. It probably didn’t help that I didn’t look at it from Jan until November. Cheers!

*On the first day…*

Jim was reading over his schedule for the day when a soft fluttering sound made him raise his eyes.  A small, varicolored hunting bird of some sort had just landed on the floor in front of him and was clucking nervously.  Jim glanced around the bridge, but no one else seemed to have noticed the arrival of the winged creature.  He and the bird – a quail, or partridge, or something, he thought – stared at each other for a long minute, both seeming confused.  Jim was wondering how in hell the bird had gotten onto the bridge, and the bird, Jim suspected, was wondering much the same thing. 

Finally, the bird seemed to come to some sort of conclusion (though what that was, Jim hadn’t the foggiest), and it turned to cluck and bob its way across the bridge.

Jim watched it for another minute, wondering what to do with it.  This was not the sort of thing they told you about in command training.  Strange aliens being beamed onto your bridge, yes, but not apparently harmless birds simply appearing there. 

*Intruder alert?*  He wondered, and bit back a smile.  No one else seemed to have even noticed the bird yet, and so the captain stood up, prepared to go boldly… where no one else seemed to think there was a need to go.  He grabbed the bird just before it jumped up to the next level of the bridge, and it let out a terrified squawk.  Only Chekov even turned around lazily to see what the noise was, and then he turned back around as if it were nothing unusual.  Jim sighed, wondering if it were some sort of practical joke, and walked over to the yeoman, thrusting the bird at her. 

“Get it off the bridge,” he said emphatically.  Her hands closed automatically around the soft, downy body.  “I don’t know how, why, who, or what, and I don’t want to.  Just get it off my bridge.”

“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged, bowing her head and hurrying out.  Jim shook his head as he returned to his seat and quiet once again took the bridge. 

*On the second day...*

Jim was eating lunch with McCoy the next day, and had almost forgotten about the strange incident with the bird.  He was listening to the doctor’s story of a med school prank, involving a very old and respected statue, paint, and some very drunk med students.  The captain was listening and eating a BLT when a flash of white caught his eye and he looked up.  Jim swallowed his sandwich. 

Two doves were preening on a pipe stretched across the ceiling. 

Jim looked back at McCoy, and tried to ignore the doves, hoping they’d just go away, but he looked up once or twice more, and they were still there.  One of the doves looked back at him and cooed. 

“Bones?”

McCoy blinked, impatient to continue with his story.  “Yeah?”

“Why are there two birds on the ceiling?”

McCoy craned his neck to see them, appearing not at all surprised. “I dunno.  Maybe they’re someone’s pets. Birds make good pets in space.”

Jim nodded slowly.  Sure.  That made sense.  Even explained the one from yesterday.  He went back to his sandwich, planning on getting the birds taken care of after he’d finished lunch.  Of course.  Simple explanation. 

The partridge squawked at him from across the room, and he blinked. 

*On the third day…*

“So your project’s coming along?” Jim asked conversationally. 

“Quite well,” Spock replied.  “It should be complete within three more days, barring unseen difficulties, of course.”

“Of course.”  Jim’s eyes twinkled.  “Will you be free tonight after dinner then?”

Spock gave him that warm, almost-smile.  “Of course.”

The hall was empty, and Jim was moving closer to his first officer when the sudden, all-too-familiar sound of clucking caught his ears.  He stiffened, and jumped much closer to Spock.  “Do you hear that?”

Spock glanced at Jim sideways. “Sir?”

Jim glanced around furtively.  “The clucking.”

Just then, three chickens, small and brown, dashed through the intersection of the corridors just ahead.  Both men stopped short, one nervously, one in puzzlement.

“Where are they coming from?” Jim whispered, flinching when one of the chickens looked his way.

“I do not know,” Spock replied, perplexed.  He walked over to the intercom.

“Spock to maintenance.  There are three chickens in corridor D9. Please come and deliver them to their rightful place.”

“Ay, sir,” a voice came back immediately. 

“Spock!” Jim hissed.  “The partridge!”

“Correction.  Three chickens and one partridge.”

“Yes, sir, on our way.”

Spock and Jim continued down the hall, Jim glancing behind him every few steps until the clucking had faded from earshot. 

*On the fourth day…*

Jim had followed Scotty into the engine room as they were talking, and was now leaning against a wall panel.  The engineer was describing some tests they were running to maximize engine output when Jim noticed a high, round whistling. 

“Scotty, shh,” he hushed, holding up a hand.  “Do you hear that?”  He peered around, trying to place the sound. 

Scotty, too, turned in place, obviously concerned that there might be an engine problem.  Suddenly, he broke into a grin.  “Captain! Will you look at that?”

He directed Jim’s attention to the upper level, where four songbirds were perched on the railing, singing cheerily to each other and the partridge, perched beside them. 

“I can’t have them flying around the engine room, but that’s a nice sight anyway, isn’t it?  Captain?”  Scotty looked around, but the doors were just sliding shut behind Jim.  Scotty shrugged, and turned back to his plans, whistling along with the birds under his breath. 

*On the fifth day…*

Jim had been on edge all day, but so far, no birds had shown up.  He sat tensely in his seat on the bridge. 

“Captain,” Spock said, making Jim jump a little.

“Yes,” he managed calmly. 

“We appear to be approaching some sort of anomaly.  Mostly carbon, silicon, and some nitrogen.”

*Birds!*  Jim thought in panic.  *Birds are made of carbon!*

“It appears to be the remnants of some celestial body, likely a meteor or small moon that was destroyed.”

*Thank God.* “How?” Jim asked, curious now.

“Unknown.  Most likely simple collision with another body.” Spock bent into his viewer again. 

“Put it onscreen,” Jim ordered. 

The view screen switched from the schematics they had been working on to the star field, and the humans’ eyes widened. 

Uhura gasped in awe.  “It’s beautiful.”

The *Enterprise* was flying straight through the anomaly, clouds of glowing dust, rubble, and gases that had spread out to form five concentric rings of gleaming gold. 

Jim smiled, tension forgotten.  Even after all they’d seen, the beauty of space could still surprise him sometimes, and for that he was grateful.

Spock’s arm brushed his captain’s as he moved down to stand beside Jim’s chair.  Jim glanced over at his first officer to see an appreciative peace settling onto his face. The captain relaxed, settling back into his chair.  He wished all of their days could be like this one.

He didn’t even notice the partridge scurry across the floor behind him.

*On the sixth day…*

Jim was in a good mood. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, things were going smoothly, and this was the second day without a –

The partridge flew out of the lift, straight at Jim’s face.

Jim threw up his arms and froze, looking around suspiciously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Sure enough, within seconds a gaggle of geese came pouring around the corner, honking and waddling in a rush to get somewhere.  An egg rolled across the floor.

Jim jumped into the lift before they could follow him, slapping the “door close” button and the intercom.  “Will someone please get the geese out of the hall in E29?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir.  I’ll get on it right away,” the calm reply came through immediately. 

Jim closed his eyes for a minute, and then hit the intercom again.  “I know we see some strange things, but doesn’t anyone think a flock of geese running around the hallway is a bit bizarre?”

“Gaggle, sir.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed, voice growing dangerous.  “What?”

“Ah… a flock of geese, sir.  It’s called a gaggle?”

“Get.  Them.  Away.”

“Aye, sir,” he muttered, abashed. 

Jim shook his head, leaning against the turbolift wall.  This had to end.

*On the seventh day…*

This was never going to end.  Jim sank into the captain’s seat wearily. 

“Captain?” Spock asked, voice concerned.  “Are you well?”

Jim raised his eyes testily.  “No, I am not.  I was just chased from my room to the lift by a flock – a gaggle – a whole bunch of swans!”  His eyes glinted strangely.  “Have you ever been chased by swans, Spock?  They’re evil.  They may be poetic and pretty, and supposedly sing beautifully when they die, but until then they’re evil.  They run at you, wings up –“ Jim raised his arms in what appeared to be more an imitation of a zombie than a swan.  “ – necks out – “ He craned his neck. “- and they hiss and snap at you!”  His hands made biting motions at Spock’s arms until the Vulcan edged away, frowning at him.  

“Captain, swans are not dangerous animals.”

“They’re still vicious!”

Spock tilted his head quizzically.  “Do you mean to imply that these swans upset you more than being pitted against the Gorn commander?  Or being forced to meet your shipmates in an alternate dimension?  Surely the swans cannot be worse than tribbles?”

Jim glared at Spock. “Your point is made.  But swans are still on the top ten list.”

Spock opened his mouth to reply, but the turbolift doors opened then, and a sound of clucking could suddenly be heard. 

“Put the bird back in the lift,” Jim said calmly but loudly, “and send that lift to the other side of the ship.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him, but Jim just shook his head. 

*On the eighth day…*

Jim was resigned by this point.  He had no idea what was coming next, but he was somewhere between dreading it and looking forward to it.  It was a challenge now.  One he would face like the starship captain he was. 

The turbolift stopped partway to the bridge, and he stepped back from the door, prepared to battle an enraged flock of ostriches, or to let an ensign step inside.  Or, as it turned out, both, more or less. 

The idea about the ensign proved mostly true, but Jim decided to give up on even imagining what the next day would bring.

When the doors opened, they did so on complete pandemonium. Over half a dozen young women – they were moving around too quickly to count, but Jim thought there were eight – were chasing after an equal number of cows - Jersey, the farm boy in Jim recognized - clanging their buckets and incredibly antiquated milk stools along behind them.

Chekov threw himself into the lift.  He was out of breath, his hair was mussed, and he had manure on one of his boots. 

“Captain!” he exclaimed.  “There are cows! Why are there cows?!”

Jim shook his head.  Kids these days. So excitable. 

He hit the intercom.  “Security, see to the cows outside the mess hall, and the girls that are with them.  And have maintenance take care of cleaning up the area.”

“Yes, sir.”  Now there was the kind of officer Jim could respect.  That man was fazed by nothing.

*On the ninth day…*

Spock studied his captain as they ate dinner.  He had been behaving very oddly of late.  First, it was a strange paranoia about various kinds of fowl.  Yesterday, he had muttered something about cows when Spock questioned him, and now he was watching everyone in the room suspiciously.

No, Spock’s keen observance noted.  Not everyone.  All the women.  While not surprising in itself, Jim seemed to be paying special attention tonight.  Spock frowned.  He had long since come to terms with the fact that Jim Kirk would always stare after and chat up anything female if her skirt was short enough or her face pretty enough.  And Spock was quite comfortable with that, provided that the encounter lasted no longer than a long stare and some flirting, and that Jim always returned to their bed after the party.  And so it always went.  But something was odd tonight.  Spock decided to ask his captain.

“Captain, are you observing a problem?”

“Hm?” Jim’s eyes snapped back to Spock.  

“Your attention is wandering.”

Jim blinked and shook his head quickly.  “Sorry.  I know you think I’m acting crazy lately, but I swear something’s up.”  He leaned in. “Do you see those two girls dancing over there?”

Spock nodded. They were swing dancing to music only they could hear. 

“When was the last time you saw people dancing in the mess hall when there was no music?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, considering.  “It is not common, but it does not appear totally unlikely.  Jim, it has been a long time since our last shore leave.  They are human, and no doubt working off tension.  You are the human at this table; surely you understand this?”

Jim sighed in frustration.  “You do think I’m nuts.  I know it’s not weird in itself, but today when I walked onto the bridge, Chekov and Sulu were teaching Uhura and Rand ballroom dancing.  Nurse Chapel was twirling through sickbay when I went in to talk to Bones, Lt. Holmes was doing ballet down the hallway on my way to lunch, and I saw three of those milkmaids from yesterday doing the Can-Can in Engineering!”

“Certainly that is not the best place for dancing, but-“

“Why were they dancing at all?” Jim exclaimed.  “I have nothing against dancing, but why all of them, today?  There’s no dance on the schedule, no reason for it!”

Spock reflected, and the partridge landed on the back of an empty chair at their table. 

Jim let out a yell, grabbing his knife and hurling it at the bird.  Fortunately for the bird, it was dull knife, Jim was a suck shot when angry, and the knife only hit the chair before falling to the floor with a clatter.  Spock looked at him in alarm, and Jim dropped his head into his hands. 

“It’s one of those weeks, Spock.  It’s just one of those weeks.”

*On the tenth day…*

Jim positioned himself on the transporter pad, and looked over to Scotty.  “Energize.”

The captain, Spock, and two of Spock’s leading science officers materialized on the transporter platform of Di’Chlara’s World Science Building, and quickly stepped aside for the other visitors.  Di’Chlara was holding a convention that was technically a Fleet science meeting to discuss scientific advancements in the past year, but that was usually treated more like a celebration of the “Best ______ of the Past Year,” the blank being filled by whatever most interested the majority of the scientists present.  Spock would certainly have enough technical science to keep him occupied, but the humans were more likely to spend their time at the convention catching up with colleagues and advocating more interest – and funds – for their own chosen field of study.

Jim was there to enjoy the party-like atmosphere and to catch up with other captains who were in the area for the same reason he was. Fleet meetings always drew interesting crowds, and there was never a dull moment. 

For instance, Jim was currently taking his seat for the opening ceremonies led by the governing council of Di’Chlara.  Spock was seated to his left, and there was an empty seat to his right, which was suddenly filled by a rushing jangle and too many glassy limbs.

“J’m!” the chiming resolved into words.  “I saw your ship listed on the register, but I hadn’t seen anyone yet.  It’s nice to see you again!”

“K’s’t’lk!” Jim grinned in delight, reaching out a hand to one of her appendages.  Somehow, an appropriate hand or claw of some sort always appeared.  “It’s good to see you too.  What have you been up to?”

“Turning the conservatives on their heads, as usual.  It’s very limiting to explore physics only in the dimensions that can be proven to exist.”

“Yes, I can see where that would be a problem,” he laughed.  Another captain might have found it unnerving or perhaps just odd to find himself speaking to a giant glass spider with too many eyes, but Jim was delighted to see the physicist again. 

“And Sp’ck!” K’s’t’lk sounded pleased.  “Will you be supporting my advancements, or finding holes in the logic this year?”

Spock inclined his head to her.  “Madam.  Logic has little to do with your particular brand of physics.  I find it more enlightening to listen, and ignore any things as paltry as the physical laws.”

K’s’t’lk laughed, a merry chiming.  “And they say Vulcans don’t joke.  You underestimate yourself.”

The Hamalki settled into her seat as the crowd hushed and an elderly Di’Chlaran stepped up to the podium. 

“Di’Chlara welcomes all her visitors from across the Federation to this year’s Starfleet Ank’har Science Convention. All attendees should have received an itinerary and list of expected guidelines for the duration of the convention.  Today’s ceremony will contain a series of brief presentation on some of the larger events to take place later in the week. 

“For now, the Council of Lords, governing council of Di’Chlara, would like to introduce one piece of advice that should be remembered throughout the convention.”

The speaker looked back at the other nine men seated along the back of the stage, and they stood up to join him at the front.  They were old men, mostly, gray-haired and slow moving with age. 

Jim was watching calmly, relaxed and unwary in his chair when suddenly all ten men leapt into the air and exploded in flaming pieces that rained down into the crowd and somehow burned no one.

There were cries and shouts of alarm across the audience.  Jim jumped out of his seat, and Spock jerked in surprise beside him.  K’s’t’lk stayed in her seat, a wash of color across her body her only reaction. 

And then the Council of Lords was seated again at the back of the stage, all ten men perfectly sound and most definitely not in flames.

“Your lesson,” the original speaker said loudly over the din.  The crowd quieted slowly, murmuring their questions in a restless whisper that would not hush.  “All is not as it seems.  Especially when dealing with a species not your own, do not become alarmed at the unfamiliar.  Sometimes the unexpected yields the most interesting result.”

Jim looked at Spock in amazement, and then down at K’s’t’lk. 

She chimed agreeably, not disturbed in the least.  “Wise words.  So, gentlemen, where do you go first?”

Jim looked at Spock again, still wordless, and the Vulcan shrugged slightly, seeming to think it better to follow T’l’s lead than argue with the obvious.  “I believe that whatever session you attend will surely be one of the most thought-provoking.  I am not scheduled until the third round of presentations begin, so the choice is yours.”

K’s’t’lk got out of her chair.  “Well enough.  J’m, will you be joining us?”

Jim shook his head.  “I think I’m going to get a drink with some of the other captains.” 

He said his goodbyes, and headed off to the bar, nearly tripping as he left the auditorium.  He could have sworn something small and feathered had run between his legs.  He could have sworn it was a bird.  He found the bar, already crowding with people, and found some friends he needed to catch up with. 

He settled down with his first drink in satisfaction.  There was never a dull moment at a Fleet event.



*On the eleventh and twelfth days…*

Jim and Spock were walking along the corridors when Jim touched Spock’s arm.  “Hold up a minute.  I want to stop here, and you need to see this.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and followed his captain into Rec Room 4, to be greeted by about two dozen crew members, off duty and out of uniform, and making quite a racket. 

They stood in the doorway for a minute, taking in the sight and sound of busy men and women making… something approaching music. 

Finally, someone looked over and, seeing Jim and Spock, jumped up, grinning.  “Captain! Mr. Spock!  Come to see our band?”

Jim laughed, rubbing his mouth in amusement.  “A bit of a motley crew, isn’t it?”

The woman – Chandra, her name was, from Medical – looked around the room ruefully.  “We’d hoped to have more of a traditional band, and maybe some strings, but it’s a mixed bunch on this ship, and you take what you can get.”

Jim smiled, looking around again.  “I can’t even imagine what sound you make.”

There were many kinds of pipes.  Jim couldn’t even name them all, and more than half weren’t even human in origin.  And then there was Scotty off in a corner with a look of intense concentration, seriously adjusting his bagpipes. 

Then there were the drums.  “Isn’t that a lot of percussion for one band?” he asked.

Chandra raised her hands in an elaborate shrug.  “Captain, none of them play the same instrument! We couldn’t refuse them.”

And it was true.  There were bongos and a full orchestral drum set, Vulcan aakiras and Rigellian kanths, and quite a few more. 

“I’m impressed,” Jim said finally.  He shook hands with Chandra.  “Looks like your band is coming along well.”

“We’re a little rowdy sometimes,” she admitted, “but we’re making headway.  We’ll be performing at the Christmas Party in two weeks.”  She smiled at him suddenly.  “Would you like a preview, sir?”

Jim smiled, inwardly a little dubious.  It was an *odd* combination of instruments.  “Sure,” he said gamely anyway.  “Why not?  Spock?”

“I would be most interested to hear the sound this ensemble makes,” Spock admitted. 

Chandra clapped her hands, gathering the musicians, and after a few loud minutes of tuning and page turning, they broke into a very loud, somehow in-pitch version of “The Little Drummer Boy.” 

“It only seemed right with all the drums,” Chandra had explained before they started playing. 

Jim smiled, enjoying his crew’s good humor, and smiled over at Spock.  Over behind the seated drummer, who was playing some instrument Jim had never even seen before, he thought he saw a flash of a brown wing.  Jim looked over to Spock.  It was almost Christmas, and he was reminded that as gorgeous as the *Enterprise* was, the ship was nothing compared to her crew. 

And he was the captain. 

The partridge could go to hell.   



THE END

SCIENCE FICTION

Andromeda - Harper/Tyr

By Moonloon

SCIENCE FICTION

Andromeda - Harper/male

Author: McJude
Title: SECRET SANTA
Pairing: Harper/male character
Rating: R
Series: Andromeda
Summary: Who is Harper’s secret Santa. Why the ugly stocking. Will the contents help figure it out? Who put lube in the toe?
Date of publication: December 19, 2004
Disclaimer: I don’t write for money, I write for fun.
Feedback address: McJude@sbcglobal.net
Beta: My husband Uber-Dylan. It takes a real man to beta slash.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar of 2004 at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2004/SAC-2004.htm

SECRET SANTA

For the past six years there occurred in the life of Seamus Z. Harper recurring cycles of his hating Dylan Hunt – or maybe his hating him more. He would kid himself and pretend that it had to do with the Captain’s annoying cheerfulness – or was it perfection – and maybe because the hot women always ended in Dylan’s bed and not his; but really it was just that imprinted in his DNA seemed to be a sensitivity to Earth holidays. It didn’t help that the one he hated the most – Christmas -- was also Dylan’s favorite.

Still Dylan couldn’t be blamed for the fact that his perfect mother had insisted they celebrate this Earth holiday with all the festivities of a Scandinavian heritage that was obviously from Dylan’s appearance buried in his genes. Generations of living in extra-terrestrial worlds had not dimmed the memories of glögg and lutefisk. Dylan would wax poetic about tiny cookies full of nuts that smelled of ammonia while they baked. Hell, Dylan Hunt even liked fruitcake.

Christmas in Boston had been different. His family and friends had tried to celebrate. Mostly Harper remembered trying to scrape together enough money to buy gifts. He never had enough. Hell, he never had any. Some of his friends would make gifts, but he wasn’t very creative. Some of his friends would steal them. That struck him as just wrong. Even though there wasn’t much he could do about it, he felt depressed and guilty at Christmas.

He knew that despite the time warp and reoccurring loops they had experienced living in the Seefra system Christmas was coming again – at least in Dylan’s head. He had already gathered those who were formerly his crewmembers – and now nominally his friends – together to discuss holiday plans. Harper was quite surprised when the Captain suggested that because it had been a bad year, instead of trying to come up with gifts for everyone, they would “draw names” and prepare a Christmas stocking for just one person. You were supposed to make the recipient believe the gift had come from a “Secret Santa.”

Harper had breathed a sigh of relief when he drew Beka’s name. He had stockpiled a lot of small items which he knew she would like. It certainly appeared that the Christmas gift exchange was going to be a no-brainer this year – until he found the stocking hanging on the door to his bar.

He remembered the heavy knit wool socks from winters in Boston. He hated them even if they were warm. They were grey with red heels. Somehow the homespun feel of the socks reminded him of his oppression in Boston, and the oppression of people everywhere.

He took the bulging sock inside and placed it on the bar. Fortunately no one had arrived for the lunchtime meal, or their daily drinks, so he could look through the stocking in privacy.

Sticking out of the top of the sock was a large wrinkled green fruit. As children they had called them Paw Paw’s but the correct name for them was Osage Oranges. They were hard and fun to throw at other kids and the Dragons, but other than providing food for squirrels who loved to eat them, they were totally worthless. Furthermore where each fruit attached to the branch there was an inch long spike which could produce a nasty cut if you weren’t careful picking them. The thrill of tossing Paw Paw’s was something that was quickly outgrown.

Harper wondered if whoever gave it to him realized that this was not the traditional orange that was usually found in a Christmas Stocking. Trance would certainly know that as would Beka. Perhaps Dylan thought that this was as close to an orange that he could get on Seefra One. He wondered if Doyle even knew about oranges and Christmas fruits. Was Rhade making some comment about the fact that kluges threw these “fruits” at their dragon captors? Harper put the orange aside and continued to empty the stocking.

Next he extracted five red and white candies with a spiral pattern. They were wrapped in plastic but had the appearance of items that had been tucked away somewhere, like in a pocket, a purse or a back pack, for a very, very long time. That would leave out Doyle. She wasn’t that old. If you couldn’t get it on Seefra, she wouldn’t have it. Still Doyle was smart, he had made her that way, and she might have researched this candy and traded for it. He knew it wasn’t from Beka, love his as she did, she still would never give him her candy. Still he could see Beka having candy tucked away for a long time possibly Doyle had had something better to trade her for it . . it got a little complicated. Trance wasn’t much for candy, but the same reasoning applied. Rhade and Dylan both might have mints tucked away. He was no closer to an answer.

Next there were several assorted nuts. He wasn’t sure what any of them were, they seemed different from those he remembered on Earth. Years of Vedran horticulture had made them easy to crack between the palms of your hands and probably made them quite tasty. Dylan loved to talk about nut cookies. Beka or Rhade might just be making a snide comment on his personality. Trance was interested in plants and probably would pass on anything she thought was good to eat to her friend for Christmas.

Then he pulled out a small plastic pocket protector in which were a collection of tiny screwdrivers. Someone might think it was a fitting gift for an engineer – or a nerd; someone who didn’t realize that he had almost every tool ever known to man at his beck and call on the Andromeda. It would seem that only Doyle would be uninformed enough to give him small worthless tools. Still again anyone of his so-called friends might just be trying to throw him off. Dylan or Beka might have had these tucked away. He checked them for tell-tale advertising or manufacturer’s marks. Nothing.

The next item was a complete shock. He was almost to the toe of the stocking and there was something soft folded inside. He carefully drew it out and realized it was the mate to the wool sock. Christmas stockings did not have mates. Even in Boston you never included the other sock. Was someone being thrifty or foolish? Did anyone even think he would wear these socks? He’d rather go barefoot than to put them on his feet. It had to be Doyle. No one else knew so little about Christmas or his past.

There was one final item in the toe of the stocking – where the orange was supposed to be. It was a small plastic bottle, blue in color with writing in some language he couldn’t read. He opened it and squirted a little on his hand and rubbed it between his fingers. It was slick and smelled really good. It was lube. Lube for an engineer – made sense, but it wasn’t THAT kind of lube. Giving someone lube had a definite sexual connotation but the only crew member who had shown any sexual interest in him recently was Trance, and he doubted if she would know about lube. Dylan and Beka would know about it, but it would be the last thing they would give him. Rhade? Nietzscheans never used lube; they just beat you up and raped you. He shook his head and slipped it back into the stocking. He returned everything to its place except for one mint that he unwrapped and stuck in his mouth.

* * * * *
The day passed uneventfully. One by one his former crewmembers came by and some of them commented on the stockings they had received. Beka gave him a big huge kiss to thank him for the music and story flexies he had given her. He was certain that she was not the one who was his Secret Santa. By the end of the day he had narrowed it to Doyle who knew no better or Dylan who might just be trying to confuse him. Still Dylan was usually overly sentimental, so the strange stocking full of gifts didn’t seem like him. Doyle was excited about her stocking full of soaps, scents and fruit gels that obviously had come from Trance. Dylan’s stocking had contained a bottle of good scotch. That could have been from Beka who might have picked it up on the Black Market cargo run, or from Rhade who could have got it in trade from one of his clients. Didn’t matter much to Dylan, he was getting drunk and happy. Christmas was his favorite holiday.

The as the evening ended even the last few stragglers found their way out the door. Only Rhade remained in the bar. Sometimes Harper thought that this huge hunk of Nietzschean manflesh just stayed around to taunt him. Wearing his always too tight leather pants, sometimes forgoing a shirt, he emphasized everything Harper wished he had, and was missing. He sure did look hot with the longer hair. Still, unless he left with some woman – who was probably paying for his company– Rhade was usually there to the bitter end. Tonight he had ordered several shots and carefully piled the glasses in front of him, making a rather unstable and breakable tower. He sat back on his stool and admired his handiwork.

“Did Santa come for you, Harper?” He asked with a twinkle in his dark eyes.

“Of course.”

“What did he bring you?”

“Things. . . gifts . . . little things . . . odd things?”

“Useful things?”

“Some.”

“You aught to see what my Santa gave me?”

“Maybe I did?”

“No, everyone knows you were Beka’s Secret Santa. You and Trance were the easy ones. You gave gifts like you really cared for the person you were giving to. Or in Trance’s case -- thing.”

“Don’t talk about my Doyle Doll like that. She’s as real as Rommie.”

“And . . . “ The conversation stopped. Rhade had had too much to drink to discuss the humanity of A.I.’s. Harper was still working on that. He thought he had it figured out with Rommie, but Doyle had made it more difficult. They were different. They should have been more alike. But he wasn’t sure what the difference indicated in the great scheme of things.

“So what did you get, Rhade?” Harper didn’t want to think about his creations anymore.

“Really strange things. A small primitive explosive. A painted egg. A small Cucurbita – probably from Trance’s garden with a face drawn on it.”

“That’s a jack-o-lantern. Don’t you know freaking anything?”

“Sorry. I thought since most of these things had vague references to Earth holidays, that you were my Secret Santa. Then I talked to Beka. Even she couldn’t explain this.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside, freshly killed and covered with clotted blood was . . .”

“It’s a heart. A real heart. From some poor creature. Who would be demented . . . “

“Doyle?” They both said together.

“She knew about earth holidays but her processing of its symbols was just off. Came close, but missed Christmas entirely.” Rhade said.

“Probably not a bad idea. I never liked Christmas.” Harper lamented.

“You don’t. I hope it’s not because of what your Secret Santa gave you.”

“Secret Santa put a freaking Osage Orange in my stocking. We used to throw them at the Dragons to get their attention.”

“And . . .”

“Well I sort of liked the candy and nuts.”

“What kind of candy?”

“Mints. The kind you use to hide bad breath.” Harper paused and sized up the look on Rhade’s face. He could read nothing.

“Do you think someone is trying to get your attention? Ply you with candy and nuts?” Rhade must have been drunk to be talking so much. Harper believed this was the longest conversation the two of them had ever had.

“And if my Secret Santa thinks that I am going to screw with . . .”

“That IS the kind of lube you like? Water based. Lightly scented.” Rhade’s eyes twinkled like the lights in Dylan’s Christmas in Tarn Vedra stories.

“I was going to say with those cheap little screwdrivers. How did you know I got lube?”

“Merry Christmas, Harper.” Rhade looked around and when he realized that he was the only patron left in the bar, he walked over and put his arms around Harper and pulled him into a hug. Harper couldn’t believe it, but hugged him back.

“You don’t know how hard I looked to find mistletoe but no one here – with the possible exception of Good King Hunt – had any idea what I was talking about. I wanted to give you a Christmas you’d remember.”

Harper was fairly certain he was not going to forget this.

“Come on, let’s go to your room and see if we can put some of your bounty to use.”

“I’m pinching myself to make sure you’re not kidding.”

“I’m not kidding, Harper, get your ass in gear.”

“Just one question. Why the socks?”

“You, my earth friend have obviously never watched any Nietzschean porn videos. The men in them always wear those ugly socks.”

Harper had to restrain himself from jumping up and down with glee like a child on Christmas morning in the stories Dylan Hunt always told.

McJude
November 22, 2004

FANTASY

Smallville - Clark/Lex

Author: Anna
Title:  Molestation By Mistletoe
Date:  December 19
Fandom: Smallville
Pairing:  Clark/Lex
Rating: I don't know....I guess an R
Summary:  Lex is molested by Clark
Disclaimer:  Not mine---but Santa I'll sit on your lap if you give them to me for Christmas
Feedback address:  Zenabal@cs.com
Advertisement:  Part of SAC-2004 at: http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2004/SAC-2004.htm.
Note:  Poor Lex
Beta:  Angelee.  All final mistakes are my own.

Molestation By Mistletoe

"Lex"

*Oh Shit*

"L.....E.....X"

*Maybe I could jump out the window.  Damn, can't jump.
 To high.*

"Lex, come out and P....L....A....Y"

*Shit, what is this?  A scene from "The Warriors"*

"Lex, you know you can run, but you can't hide."

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK

"Come on, Lex I know you're in the closet....I thought you'd already come out.  Why'd you go back in?" 

"Damn it, Clark.  Leave me alone."

"Come on, Lex.  I just want to play."

"No!  Go away!"

"Don't make me break the door down, Lex.   I'm getting angry and you won't like me when I get angry."

"Shit!  That's the last time I'm going to let you watch those old shows on tv,  Clark."

"Lex, come on...........I just want to play with my favorite Santa."

"Clark........No!  Last time you got near any Mistletoe.  I couldn't walk straight for 2 weeks."

"That was a different kind of Mistletoe and you know it."

"Clark,  how was I suppost to know those red rocks made you horny."

"This Mistletoe does NOT have red rocks around it, Lex.  I just want to play with my favorite toy.  Now
Come OUT right now or I will break down this door."

"Did we not have this discussion, Clark?''

"What discussion?"

"About your Caveman act?"

"I am not acting like a Caveman."

"Oh yes, you are."

"NO, I'm Not."

"Now come out or I'm going to come in and get you."

*SIGH*

"Lex, I just want to kiss you under the Mistletoe.
Come on."

"Clark, you know how I feel about Mistletoe."

"Tell you what, Lex.  I'll put the Mistletoe away and we can spend our first Christmas together quietly.
Okay?"

"Really?"

"Yup."

"You won't attack me and make me walk funny for 2 weeks."

"Nope."

"Oh, Okay."

WHAP!

"Damn it,  Clark.  You promised."

"No Lex, what I promised was that I wouldn't make you walk funny for 2 weeks.  I'm going to make you walk
funny for 3 week.... this time."
 
The end.

MOVIEVERSE

Independence Day - David/Steven

Title: Christmas Out of Order
Author: BuffyAngel68
Rating: R -- language and content
Pairing: Cpt. Steven Hiller/David Levenson
Category: Movies/Independence Day
Date of publication:
Summary: What develops in the aftermath of Hiller and Levenson's return. (I could see this happening if the character of Hiller hadn't married his girlfriend before the two guys left on that delivery gig.... so let's make this an AU and those few moments never happened...)
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Feedback address: buffyangel68@yahoo.com
Advertisement: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar of 2004 at http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2004/SAC-2004.htm
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christmas Out of Order

"Dave?"

"Yeah, Steve?"

"Merry freakin' Christmas and Happy freakin' New Year."

David Levenson gazed at his new friend through the drifting smoke of his second cigar in three hours and frowned in mild confusion.

"Uhh... you're a little off, there, Captain. In case you haven't noticed, it's summer and almost a hundred degrees out there." He reminded the other man, gesturing vaguely at the near twilight outside and trying to ignore the devastation that the military crews were only beginning to clear away.

"Did we not just save the whole damn planet?"

"Well..."

"Did we?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose we did."

"Then we get to say what holiday it is. Besides, ain't you never heard of Christmas in July?"

"Actually, I have. Alright. It's Christmas."

"Damn right. Merry freakin' Christmas." Hiller repeated, toasting with the stub of his cigar. Levenson toasted back.

"Happy freaking New year."

"That's the way."

After a few moments of silent contemplation, Hiller rose to his feet and began to stride away, halting only when he realized Levenson wasn't following. "You coming?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere but here. I'm gettin' a little tired of looking at what those bastards did." He admitted in a quiet tone, continuing his escape. David paused, then stood and trailed behind his fellow reluctant astronaut. As he walked, he contemplated the fact that people might soon be calling him a hero, despite the fact that he wasn't at all sure he deserved the title.

After a few convoluted twists and turns and near collisions with hurrying, harried personnel, the two men eventually ended up at a men's room. Hiller pushed on the door and entered and, after a brief hesitation, David chuckled and did the same. He joined the other man, dropping to sit on the floor, leaning back against the tiled wall and closing his eyes.

"Do you feel like a hero, Steve?"

"Hell, no. I did what I had to do... what they taught me. I'm not sayin' parts of it weren't damn invigoratin', now. Not knowin' if you'll ever see Earth again... that'll get a man's heart pumpin'."

David blushed heavily and turned away abruptly. "You okay, man?"

"Hmm? Yes... or, I will be. I just... have to use one of the... stalls." David replied tensely, rising again, a little awkwardly.

"Hey, you gotta go, don't worry about me. I'll plug my ears *and* turn my head if that'll help."

"Yes... well...."

Hiller raised an eyebrow as understanding dawned.

"Oh. You got over invigorated?"

"Unfortunately."

"Sit back down."

"Steve... you're deeply involved and I'm a good Jewish boy...."

"I'm not proposin', Dave. Nothin' but a cure for blue balls, anyway. I got a touch myself, to tell the truth... wouldn't mind a little help."

When David still held back, Hiller smiled thinly. "We both need somethin' good to remember about this day, my man. Specially you. You're not used to all this... shit."

"No... no, I'm not. Death and destruction are not part of my normal routine. I wonder if the chess boards are even still there... if they aren't, we'll have to find somewhere else to play... It... It'll be damned inconvenient, too. Those boards were only a few blocks from work..."

David started to shake slightly and found himself unable to go on speaking. Steven sat forward, holding out a hand. The other accepted the offer and allowed himself to be drawn back in. When his knees gave out, he would have fallen had Steven not been anticipating his collapse.

For a long time, the younger man simply held the older while he shivered violently. No tears ever manifested, but David shuddered and trembled until he thought he might have to race for the stalls, this time to empty his stomach. When his fear and shock relented, he accepted Steven's other offer. His first contact with flesh so like his own startled David. He looked down at his hand, sliding up and back as if it had been doing this all its life, and was more surprised by the beauty of Steven's darker skin than by what he was doing for his new friend. To the surprise of both men, there was little embarrassment and when they came, both were breathing harshly, but otherwise remained quiet.

As they cleaned themselves and the room, the silence held. By the time they were finished, however, David had found the courage to speak.

"Steve.... thank you. I... this day... I was so afraid..."

" 'Course you were. So was I, man. That's how it goes. You acknowledge the panic then shove it down and do what needs doin'. Hell, if I wasn't afraid I would've ended up in a rubber room years ago. I'm gonna go find Jasmine. You'll be alright?"

"Much better now. Hey... do you play chess?"

"Matter of fact I do."

"We should play sometime. I've been looking for a more patient opponent than my father. And one who's a better loser."

"You got it."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

END

REALISTIC SHOWS

Wild Wild West - Jim/Artie

Author: Lis
Title: Give Until It Hurts
Pairing: Jim/Artie
Series: Wild Wild West/Realistic
Rating: NC17

"You what?" Artie asked stupidly, looking from Jim West's face to the paper in his hand. Jim's face displayed an expression he knew too well—determined, stubborn, set on his own course and heedless of advice to the contrary.

"I've inherited my family property," Jim repeated, with unusual impatience. He could hardly not have known the effect his words would have on Artie. "I'm going to move back there. I'll stay on the job through the end of the year, but then I'm going home."

"But why haven't you said anything . . . " Artie trailed off in miserable incredulity. Jim had been quiet lately. Distant, even. But he'd given no hint of something like this.

"I'm not going to argue with you over it, Artie," Jim said, not unkindly. "I know it's a shock. But I've made up my mind." The finality in his voice was like a slap.

So bewildered that he could find no words, Artie just turned away. "All right," he said, in someone else's voice. "It—it'll take that long to break in someone new." That much was all he was capable of at the moment. Any more and he'd be on his knees, begging.

Jim's face held an odd expression when Artie looked back. Startled, he would have said. But that vanished immediately, leaving only the same pleasant courtesy that Jim bestowed on strangers. "I'll be going out tonight," Artie said, almost as hurt by this impersonal civility as by Jim's intention to leave. Dammit, they could still have remained friends, couldn't they? "We can talk about this later," he added, as though it was a mere afterthought.

He couldn't believe how calm he sounded. He should be yelling. He should be demanding answers, wearing down Jim's resolve. But was it fair to do that? If Jim wanted out of their shared life, should Artie really try to make him stay? Not, he supposed miserably, if he cared about Jim. Which he did. At least, he thought he did. At the moment, he was so torn between despair and anger that it was hard to make any sense of his feelings at all.

An hour later, well lubricated with scotch, and with a pretty girl adorning each arm, he decided he didn't give a damn whether he ever spoke to James West again. He had other friends, after all. He didn't need the two-faced bandy-legged arrogant little bastard who had taken his heart and broken it into a thousand pieces.

In the morning, of course, he regretted the excess of both drink and companionship, since the considerable purse he'd been carrying had disappeared with the girls, and the whiskey was taking off the top of his head. He also had to retract his opinion of his soon-to-be ex-partner, because it was Jim who had slung him over the saddle of his horse, led it back to the train, and deposited him more tenderly in his bed than Artie had any right to expect. His memories were vague and disjointed, but he could feel Jim's arms around him, and he recalled very clearly the brush of Jim's lips against his own . . . no. He had imagined that.

He opened his eyes and tried to move. Waves of nausea instantly swept over him, but there couldn't have been much in his stomach to throw up. In spite of his hazy recollection of details, he did remember that he hadn't eaten since Jim's revelation. He hadn't eaten much before that either, as he had intended to take Jim out to dinner. He closed his eyes again and held himself very still, and the bile retreated.

"Don't get up," said Jim's voice, somewhere very close. "I'll get anything you need."

Artie's eyes flew open again. Jim sat next to him, leaning over him. His hair was mussed, he was wearing the same clothes as the evening before and he looked tired. He looked, in fact, miserable.

"I have to piss," Artie said rustily. He cleared his throat and tried again to sit up, with approximately the same results as before.

Before he knew what was happening, Jim's arm dug into the mattress under him and lifted him up, turning him to sit up on the edge. Jim's other arm gently supported his legs as his feet swung off onto the floor. He relaxed into those arms, and the nausea faded again.

There was a brief moment of awkward writhing, and Artie heard the chink of the chamberpot. Jim must have maneuvered it out from under the bed with one foot, as both his arms were occupied with various portions of Artie's body. Artie wasn't certain he could get himself out of his pants, but there was no need, he discovered. Jim was doing it for him. There was nothing sexual in the efficient handling, and he relieved himself gratefully, his head lolling against Jim's shoulder.

The room receded and he slid into the darkness, marginally aware of the heat of Jim's body. He woke again in the late afternoon, he guessed, judging by the angle of the sunlight through his little window. He was stiff, sore in some odd places and ravenously hungry. A heavy weight lay aginst his side. It stirred and lifted away from him as he moved—Jim.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped.

Jim shook his head and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Just fell asleep," he said blearily. "Sorry." He was certainly not his usual alert self.

Artie sniffed. There was a definite odor of liquor.

"Are you . . . drunk?" he demanded in disbelief.

"Of course not!" Jim snapped back at him. He rolled out of the bunk and made his way to the door, holding on to anything in reach. A moment later, Artie heard the door of Jim's sleeping compartment slide shut with a distinct and meaningful thud.

Artie let him go. He'd been lying, and Artie didn't understand why. Jim seldom drank enough to get even mildly tipsy, but there was no mistaking a hangover. Had he been celebrating his imminent departure? Artie clenched his jaw and staggered out to the parlor.

He needed food, coffee and a bath, but in addition, his ear had caught the faint rattle of the telegraph sounder that preceded an actual message. By the time he pulled it out of its box and retrieved pen, ink bottle and paper, it was already clicking. He copied the message, asked for a repeat so he could be certain he'd gotten the first part correct, and sent back the standard acknowledgement.

The message was unusually long, and he speculated with grim amusement on its contents while he dug out the codebook. A rant from Colonel Richmond about Jim's departure? Perhaps even from the President. Jim hadn't said in so many words that he had officially resigned, but he would surely have given their superiors at least 30 days notice, and it was only a week now before his stated time of departure. He hadn't told Artie until the very last moment. Perhaps he wouldn't have said anything at all if he hadn't been afraid Artie would hear about it from Washington. He might have just disappeared one day, leaving nothing but a note behind. Maybe he wouldn't have bothered with that much—Artie caught himself before his morbid imagination ran on to even more unlikely scenarios. He was being maudlin and stupid.

He let out a gusty breath and started decoding the message, but before he got more than a paragraph into it, he'd already had to stop twice to confirm that he was translating correctly. It made no sense. He and Jim were to disguise themselves in whatever way they thought appropriate and attempt to infiltrate a group that was counterfeiting Canadian banknotes and converting them on the American market to dollars. The Christmas season was thought to be the best opportunity to inveigle themselves into the gang, because two of its members were going east to spend the holidays with their families. "We will ensure that Thompson and Black do not return to Denver," said the message. "They will recommend you as replacements for themselves, thus easing your entry into the gang."

Artie read over the remaining text in growing bewilderment. This was a long-term deep-cover assignment, something that could easily take months to complete. It was not, in fact, the sort of thing he and Jim were usually sent to do. Long periods under cover, and the slow painstaking progress that went with them, were not their style, or at least not Jim's. He got his answer near the end of the telegram. Robert Fuqua, one of the agents who worked out of Seattle—the office that normally handled anything related to western Canada—was dead, cause unspecified. His partner, William Byrne, wouldn't accept the assignment alone, and Washington agreed with him. This job needed two people, backup for each other. Thus Jim and Artemus: sorry, we know this isn't your normal kind of case and you might prefer not to take it, but your country needs you. Worded more officially, of course, but boiling down to the obvious fact that Washington didn't know James West was about to leave its employ.

So what the hell was he supposed to do now? Reply that he didn't think he could take on the assignment by himself either, since Mr. West was leaving at the end of the year? It would serve Jim right if he did exactly that. But, asshole or not, Jim was still his partner. He put away the codebook, gathered up the sheets of paper and went down the hall to pound on the door of Jim's sleeping cabin.

"Christ!" he heard from within, and smiled thinly. Jim didn't swear much, but the raging headache of a hangover probably qualified as sufficient provocation. Artie eased the door open, letting light flood into the room.

"God damn it, Artie!" There was convulsive movement on the bunk, a blanket flying over light-seared eyes.

Artie sat down on the edge of the bunk, shoving Jim out of the way. "When," he asked pleasantly, "were you going to inform our employer that you were leaving?"

That got him a long moment of dead silence, and then Jim's face appeared over the edge of the blanket. His eyes, what Artie could see of them, were bloodshot, and there was a bruise on his cheek.

"Drunk and disorderly," Artie observed.

"I wasn't fighting," Jim said sourly. "I tripped over something."

Artie let that pass. "We have an assignment," he said, waving the sheaf of papers at Jim's reddened nose. "If you're not planning on hanging around, I'll have to turn it down."

Jim was curious—that was obvious from his sudden intent expression, but he didn't ask for details. Artie decided to turn up the heat a bit. "It'll take too long to train someone else to work with me," he said, as though explaining why he couldn't accept the mission. When Jim still didn't respond, he added, "I should let Washington know to send a replacement out, since you apparently didn't notify them."

Jim muttered something that he didn't catch. "What was that?" Artie asked.

"I meant to give notice, of course I did!" Jim pushed him aside and lurched out of the bed. "I just kept forgetting. We were busy and I kept putting it off."

He could have said he really didn't want to leave, Artie thought resentfully. Could have admitted to some degree of indecision about a step that would irrevocably change both their lives.

"Better take care of it, then," Artie said shortly. "I need to make plans myself, you know." That was as poker-faced a bluff as he had ever pulled. He had no plans for a life without Jim, couldn't imagine making any.

He couldn't believe how calm he was. The alcohol seemed to have burned his feelings away, leaving only a deep icy reserve. Jim seemed taken aback as well. He stood uncertainly in the doorway, reeking of stale alcohol and sweat, until Artie pushed past him, and then followed Artie into the parlor.

"I'll make some coffee," he said, edging past the table where the telegraph key sat waiting.

"Then I'll send our reply back to Washington," Artie told him coldly. He retrieved the codebook, leaning close to Jim to open the cupboard where it was kept. Jim flinched away from him, pressing back against the wall to avoid any contact, a reaction so incongruous that it gave Artie pause. They had never been formal with each other. Touching came naturally to Jim, and though his casual familiarity had startled Artie at first, it had soon become not just expected but desired. He'd certainly had no inhibition about physical contact when he put Artie to bed the previous night. So what the hell was going on now?

Artie very deliberately brushed against him as he took the codebook out of the cupboard, flesh against flesh, the back of his hand sweeping along Jim's arm. Hair stood up in his path. Jim's fist clenched and he noticeably shivered.

Fear? Not possible. James West feared nothing and no one, a fact that Artie had despaired over more than once.

"What is going on?" Artie demanded in a low voice. "What the hell is all this? We've worked together for years, and you're going to just walk away?" Jim swallowed hard and wouldn't look at him. "Not until you tell me why, you're not," Artie went on implacably.

Jim still wouldn't meet his eyes. Artie took his chin and forced his face up. "Tell me, damn you!" he said grittily. "You think you can break up a six-year partnership with some fool story about an inheritance?"

A most extraordinary expression swept over Jim's face. In anyone else, Artie would have called it yearning. There was uncertainty, fear, desire, and most unbelievable, a flush of pink. "Artie—" Jim said, his voice cracking. "Artie . . . "

Anyone else who looked up at him like that would have gotten kissed. Artie shook his head, consigned his future to fate, and bent to Jim's lips—sour alcoholic breath and all. What the hell, he thought. He's leaving anyway. The worst he can do is punch me.

It didn't appear that Jim was going to hit him; he slipped his arms around Artie's waist and hung on like a drowning man. Artie had fantasized about kissing Jim West. He had imagined how the soft lips would feel against his—warm and firm, brushing sensually against his own. He hadn't expected this flood of passion. Jim kissed him the same way he did everything else—full gallop and no holds barred, with none of the genteel delicacy he displayed toward women. Artie staggered, caught himself, took a firm hold on the nearest solid object—Jim's ass—and kissed back.

That degree of intensity couldn't last long. Jim quivered, and Artie, feeling his aroused phallus through all the layers of their clothing, relaxed his grip and let Jim ease away.

Jim was trying to smile and not succeeding. "I guess you aren't going to deck me," he said finally. "Or demand satisfaction."

"Last I heard, duelling was illegal," Artie told him, doing his best to keep his face sober.

"Kissing another man is, too," Jim said wryly. "Most places, anyway."

Artie grunted. "It's a lot easier to get away with, though. Doesn't leave bodies behind."

"Just hearts," Jim said, with a twist of his lips. He took a deep breath. "You wanted to know why I was leaving. Have I made it plain enough, or do I have to put it into words?"

Action always came more easily to Jim than words, Artie knew. But he had to hear the words this time. Too much was at stake to gloss over what might still be insuperable differences between them.

"Yes," he said. "I think you have to tell me." He beckoned to the sofa. "Sit down, and tell me what the hell this is all about."

Jim shot him a rueful look. "I guess you've got a right to be be put out with me," he allowed.

"I'm not angry," Artie said with resignation, then added. "Not unless you're still planning on leaving."

Jim shook his head. "I don't want to. I don't ever want to leave you."

"Then what is going on?" Artie demanded. Echoes of his earlier despair, resentment, anger and loss still resonated in him. "One minute everything's fine, the next minute you want to take off and never see me again, and then all of a sudden you're kissing me. You've been acting like a nervous bride, for heaven's sake."

Jim flushed and kept his eyes averted.

"Yeah, something like that," he mumbled. He took a deep breath, still looking anywhere but at Artie. "When I got the letter about the inheritance . . . " he began, and stopped. Another breath. "I thought maybe I should rent the homestead to someone until we were ready to retire. Then we'd have a place to go home to." His face twisted in a painful grimace. "I had my mouth open to suggest it when I realize how presumptuous that was, that I had any right to decide our longterm plans, or even make suggestions." He glanced back at Artie, the lamplight making long shadows on his face. "But then I thought about you leaving to go back to the theater, or get married and settle down somewhere, and it was like—like the end of the world."

Artie knew how that felt, but kept his mouth shut.

"I couldn't understand why I felt that way," Jim continued more slowly, his words measured and deliberate now. "It was like the first time I thought I'd fallen in love. Everything seemed ten times as intense as before. A hundred times as significant. When your horse threw you and I thought you'd been hurt, it seemed as though my heart would stop."

He looked back at Artie with the most endearing bewilderment on his face. Artie remembered the incident. Jim had come flying out of his saddle to kneel at Artie's side, his face like parchment. Artie had been so embarrassed at falling off when his horse stumbled that he hadn't really taken in the intensity of Jim's concern at the time, and when he did wonder about it later, everything seemed to be back to normal.

"That was when I knew I had to leave," Jim went on. "I could hardly tell you how I felt. I didn't understand it myself. We're two grown men—how could I say that I thought I'd die too if something happened to you?"

That too was something Artie knew all too well. "So you decided to just . . . go away," he said. "Not tell me how you felt."

"It seemed like the only decent thing to do," Jim said. "Let you have your freedom. If I" —he stopped and then said the words. "If I loved you, the best thing I could do for you was to let you go."

Artie thought about that for a moment. "We're a couple of idiots, you know," he said finally. "You were going to leave, because you loved me, and I was going to let you . . . " He trailed off, swallowed, and said, "because I love you too."

He was watching Jim's face. Jim's mouth twitched, the corners turning up. But his voice, when he spoke, was serious. "What does that mean? If I said that to a woman, she'd expect a proposal of marriage. I don't know what you want." His shoulders shrugged. "Hell, I don't know what I want."

What did he want? Artie felt like a boy with a silver dollar in his pocket, staring at the penny candy jar. "I want to kiss you again," he said, his voice cracking. "And then I want to do everything else that lovers do together."

There was a long list of other things he wanted, beginning with those plans for living together. He wasn't certain how he felt about the family farm, but hell, it must be somewhere near civilization. But he could hear Jim swallow. "You've done this before, haven't you?" Jim asked. There was no condemnation in his voice, but the words themselves were an accusation.

"Not with anyone I love," Artie said simply.

When Jim didn't answer, Artie brushed a finger over his cheek. "You wouldn't expect a woman you loved to turn down marriage because she wasn't your first, would you?" he asked gently. "I can't change my past. All I can do is promise you the future."

"The future," Jim said musingly. "Pretending we're just friends. Living together under the eyes of nosy people who will be constantly trying to match us up with women." He paused, but then added, "And gossiping about us when we refuse."

Artie could hear apprehension in Jim's voice, but no real reluctance. He told himself that Jim wouldn't have allowed matters to proceed to this point if he weren't willing to make that final commitment. Jim wasn't a tease. Artie had to believe that, or his jangled nerves, still quivering from that unexpected kiss—not to mention certain other portions of his quivering anatomy—were going to send him right through the roof of their parlor car.

As often before, Jim seemed to be wholly attuned to his mood. He snorted softly, and turned to Artie. "Even if you've done this before," he said with a lopsided smile, "you've got to be almost as terrified as I am right now."

"Petrified," Artie assured him, with a shaky laugh. It was queer that he should feel so . . . bashful, almost. As though this were his first time as well as Jim's. His actual first time was not an encounter he wished to remember, and he thought to himself that he might just let go of that one altogether, let it disappear into the mist of unrecalled personal history. "I might have done this before," he said, almost shaking with the intensity of his feeling, "but I'm not what you would consider to be terribly experienced." In light of Jim's great breadth of experience, that was hardly any stretch of the truth.

"No?" Jim asked him softly. "Then I guess we'll have to figure this out together, won't we?"

He turned to Artie with his face lit up in the brilliant smile Artie loved. "You wanted to kiss again, I believe?" Artie sighed with the deepest satisfaction and joy he'd ever known, and gathered Jim to him greedily. They kissed on the sofa, twined rather awkwardly around each other, until Artie's hand burrowed under Jim's shirt and Jim stood up to divest himself of it, and managed somehow to trip over the small side table. He was normally so agile and athletic that Artie wondered later whether he had intentionally sprawled on the floor. In any case, there he lay, endearingly amazed at his own bumbling. Artie's breath caught in his chest, and he flung himself down at Jim's side.

"Are you all right?" he asked rather breathlessly, just to be sure nothing really was broken.

Jim turned a devilish smile on him. "I think," he said, "that I've got a bruise." He turned slightly and patted the spot where the bruise was alleged to be. It was certainly not where Jim had struck the floor, but Artie wasn't in any way inclined to argue.

"You'd better let me see that," he said, matching Jim's tone of sultry insouciance as best he could.

Jim's fingers went to his buttons, and he loosed them deliberately one by one, watching Artie's face as he slowly undid himself. When his trousers were open, he lifted his hips from the floor in obvious invitation. Artie held his breath and eased the heavy fabric down his legs. He thought about pulling Jim's boots off so the pants could be removed completely, but there was something so erotic and suggestive about them lying in rumpled folds around Jim's ankles that he left them there.

He had ignored Jim's prominent erection when he pulled down the trousers, but it was poking out the front of the drawers so dramatically that he could hardly take no notice. "You've got another problem there too, haven't you?" he asked.

Jim looked down at himself. "That?" he asked, as though unsure what Artie meant. "Oh, that's no problem at all." His hand slipped inside the open placket, and though Artie couldn't see where his fingers curled around the heavy firm flesh, his mind supplied vivid details.

"It's not a problem for me," Jim whispered. "But maybe I should get it out so you can see if anything is wrong with it?"

Artie's mind flashed back to that morning, when Jim had handled him with such easy familiarity, and he grinned suddenly. "You got mine out," he reminded Jim. "I think it's your turn now."

To his surprise, Jim flushed a bright scarlet. "That was different," he protested, but he'd given himself away.

"Mmhmm," Artie said smugly. "You liked it, didn't you?"

"Of course I did!" Jim still sounded flustered, and Artie wondered, with momentary discomfiture, whether Jim had any idea how appealing this was, this unpredictable shift from accomplished flirtation to choirboy innocence. The level of deception it required was entirely within Jim West's competence, despite his avowed dislike of diguises. But it didn't seem feigned, and Artie told himself it was consistent with everything else Jim had said tonight. The blush hadn't entirely faded, and he didn't think Jim was capable of faking that.

"Why don't you show me how much you liked it, then?" he offered, with silky suggestiveness. If Jim wanted to play, he was perfectly capable of raising the stakes.

The flush returned, but only for an instant. Jim West was a fast study, if nothing else. "Oh," he purred in turn, "I thought I was supposed to be getting mine out." He raised on an elbow and glanced down at his groin, where his hand still hid what Artie was now avid to see.

For Artie, the game was over. Jim had won, as he invariably did. "Please," he whispered. "Please do."

All sultry tease now, Jim eased out his cock. It lay in his hand, the head glistening wetly in its reddened coat of flesh. Artie breathed in convulsively and bent to touch it with his lips and tongue. It leaped and quivered at the first brush of his mouth, and Jim's breath caught in a surprised little gasp. Artie smiled around the mouthful of cock and proceeded to show Jim just how exquisite fellatio could be when performed with love and skill. Jim groaned under him. He rewarded every touch with shivers and moans and soft urgings, and when Artie finally took him full and deep, he gasped and swelled impossibly, and burst into Artie's throat.

A strangled, "Artie!" had come from Jim's lips at the moment of climax, but the floor was growing hard by the time he said anything more. He lay with an arm over his eyes, and Artie lay next to him, silent and rigid in growing fear. Jim was going to be one of those men who craved other men's loving, but who couldn't bring himself to return it. He was going to break Artie's heart after all. This was worse than if he had just left, and by the time he finally spoke, Artie was shaking in wretched dismay, ready to get up and walk away forever, throw on his clothes, grab a few essentials, and depart for good.

"Artie?"

Jim moved his arm, and his blue eyes pinned Artie and held him still. Jim's expression changed to concern, and then to something like anger.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, not the sort of question Artie was used to hearing from him.

"That you're sorry you let me do that," Artie blurted out, and then, having irretrievably committed himself, added, "And that you'd probably better leave after all." He could hear his voice shaking.

To his enormous relief, Jim's jaw dropped, and with the greatest loss of composure Artie had ever seen in him, he sputtered, "Leave? Leave? What do I have to do to prove I don't want to leave?"

He hauled himself up from the floor, and with his always astonishing strength, grasped Artie's hand and pulled him up too. All the love Artie could ask for shone in his eyes. "I know what I'd want if I were you right now," he whispered. "I had to think about it for a minute, but it's what I want too." Artie couldn't answer him, torn between such urgent desire that he could almost have bent Jim over and fucked him on the spot, and simple admiration for Jim's courage and generosity.

Jim lauged at his confusion. "Not on the floor, though," he said, kicking himself out of his trousers and boots, and throwing off his shirt and vest, and then pulling Artie with him down the hall to Artie's bedroom.

With his tongue and lips, he fulfilled every lustful fantasy Artie had ever imagined, and then, turning serious, he shifted around on the bed and lay quiet and ready on his stomach. "We need something to make the way easier," Artie told him, shivering all over again with anticipation. "Lotion, or oil."

"Butter?" Jim suggested, and sat up again as though to go after it.

"Don't, I have something," Artie told him, and slid around him to stand up and rummage in the overhead compartment. He found the olive oil he used on his hands after he'd had them in something inimical to skin. It would normally have been in his laboratory, but he had brought it into his bedroom late one night as an aid to self-stimulation, and had forgotten to return it. Since the subject of his masturbatory fantasy had been Jim, of course, there was certainly some cosmic righteousness in the oil being at hand now.

He tipped the bottle with a trembling hand, and pooled the oil in his palm for a moment to warm it. Jim turned on his stomach, his head resting on his crossed arms, and smiled up at him. "Don't take too long now," he said, and though his voice was teasing, there was enough apprehension under the bantering tone to bring out all of Artie's protective impulses. The recollection of his own first experience in this position rose up in his mind one final time before he quashed it forever, determined that Jim would never have anything like it to remember.

"Come up on your knees a little while I put some of the oil on you," he whispered. Jim complied, and knelt there without any more reaction than a brief hiss when Artie eased one slick finger, and then another, into him, and then slid them slowly in and out. "Is that hurting you?" Artie asked him, unsure what the sound meant.

"No," Jim said tightly. "Not pain, just . . . different."

Artie chuckled softly. "Yes, it is different." He smoothed more oil over himself, enjoying the look on Jim's face as he handled himself. "Turn on your side now," he said. "It will be easier for you that way."

Jim complied obediently, and lay there with his legs drawn up a little. "That's right," Artie breathed. "Relax as much as you can. You'll feel some discomfort at first—everyone does, but I'll try to go as easy as possible."

Jim said jerkily, "I suppose it's hard for a woman the first time too," but if he'd been planning to add anything else, it broke off into an unsteady gasp as Artie slowly penetrated him.

They moved with little indrawn breaths and murmurs toward their goal, with a choked, "Wait!" once from Jim, and with such rising urgency in Artie that he wasn't sure he was going to last until he was fully sheathed. Jim's ass clenched around him fiery hot, while the sweat that broke out on Jim's back chilled his chest and abdomen. Between the two extremes, and the throbbing in his balls, he felt disconnected from the world, drowning in a sea of erotic sensation.

Jim trembled all over, bringing Artie back to himself. "Do that again," Jim demanded, writhing back against him, and Artie thrust willingly into him, feeling the slight resistance against the head of his prick.

Jim gasped again. "God, touch me, something, anything."

The only place Artie could easily reach was Jim's nipples. He had no idea whether Jim was as sensitive there as some men, but Jim had said, "Anything," and he pinched the nearest little peak of flesh in happy compliance. Jim's hand was already tight on his own cock, pulling at himself in out-of-control frantic need. Artie let his own control slip away, and thrust into Jim with all the lust he was feeling. Almost instantly, Jim convulsed, bucking against him so fiercely that they nearly fell off the bed. Jim cried out his name, and Artie spent himself so violently that he thought his heart might stop. They lay there together gasping and heaving, gradually getting their breath back, and on Artie's part, at least, reluctant to break the perfection with mere words. But he softened and slipped away from Jim's body eventually, and Jim turned over to look at him in the now dim, shadowy light.

"Is that what everybody gets so upset about?" he asked, an ear-to-ear grin spreading over his face. "I think they just all need to try it once, and we'd hear no more about perversions and abominations!"

Artie laughed at the notion, but nodded and saluted Jim with a hearty, "Amen, brother!"

Jim was languid and kissable after sex, Artie found, but he made him get up and go into the privy and clean himself, and checked carefully for tears or abrasions. They fell into heavy dreamless sleep almost immediately, and waking the next morning to the scent of coffee and the brilliance of warm sunlight, Artie looked around him in great confusion. Colored glass balls hung all round the room, reflecting the sun in a thousand glittering sparkles of light. They were dangling from map tacks, he discovered, stuck into the thin wood partition walls, and he realized in amazement that they were Christmas ornaments. His Jewish childhood had not been surrounded with the trappings of Christmas, and in any case, no one had decorated with as much extravagance then as they did nowadays.

At a sound, he glanced over his shoulder to find Jim in the doorway holding a pot of coffee in one hand and two mugs in the other. "Merry Christmas," Jim said, joy crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Do you like them? I was afraid you were going to wake up before I got them all on the walls."

"They're magnificent," Artie breathed. "Where on earth did you get them?"

"They belonged to my grandmother," Jim said. "I brought them back after my father died. I didn't know what was going to happen with the property, and I wanted to make sure these were saved, even if everything else had to be sold." He glanced around and said a little wistfully, "My mother loved them. The only real memory I have of her is watching her put them up on our Yule tree the year before she died."

"Thank you for sharing them with me," Artie said solemnly. "And Merry Christmas to you! A very merry Christmas!" He grinned expansively. "The merriest Christmas I've ever had, by God!" He hesitated, wondering whether Jim was in sufficiently good form to pick up a not very subtle hint. "I'm afraid, my boy, that I don't have a gift for you." That wasn't true, of course, but he said it for effect anyway, and watched to see where Jim might go with it.

To his great pleasure and joy, Jim drew himself up and surveyed Artie from head to toe. "I gave you your Christmas present last night," he murmured suggestively. "I think you might return the favor today, don't you?"

In fact, they exchanged "presents" several times that day, lying together afterward in lazy post-coital languor and making plans for the future. It wasn't until the next day that Artie remembered the never-answered telegram, and sent back their regrets and their joint notice of resignation. Someone in Washington, he reflected, was going to have the very un-merry job of conveying that message to their superiors, but he was far too happy to care, and when Jim asked why he was chuckling, he said, "I told Washington we wanted to leave the Service because we were getting married." Jim's momentary blank stare, and then the flood of riotously amused comprehension on his face, was a memory he carried with him through all the rest of their years of life together.

END

BOOKS

Harry Potter - Harry Draco

Erised Dreams by Cyane Snape
Due to length the story has been given its own page

ORIGINAL SLASH

Jem/Blair

Author: Eppy
Title: Honest Woman
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Original
Pairing: Jem/Blair
Summary: Christmas is different with a twelve-year-old.
Date of publication: Dec. 19
Feedback address: LizzyPaul@aol.com
Advertisement: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar of 2003 at http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2004/SAC-2004.htm 
Beta: Thanks to Phen, for a quick and thorough beta.

HONEST WOMAN

“Mom! Blair! Wake up!” Ashley pounded on their door. Blair sat straight up, adrenaline hitting her hard and leaving her with a pounding head and a racing heart.

“Jesus,” she said.

Jem sat up easier and rested against the headboard for a moment. “Poor baby,” she said sarcastically. “Not used to kids on Christmas morning?” She leaned over and gave her lover a kiss.

Blair pulled back and made a face. “Ew. Morning breath. And no, for your information, I haven’t been around kids on Christmas morning since I was a kid on Christmas morning.” She looked at the clock and groaned. “Five-fucking-AM. I didn’t even know five had an AM.”

Jem slid out of bed and pulled on her slippers. She grabbed a robe and knotted it loosely. “You’re not going to get dressed?” Blair asked.

“Are you kidding?” Jem chuckled. “Ashley would freak. She’ll be back here in a couple of minutes if we don’t get out there.”

“Your kid is psycho,” Blair commented, but there wasn’t any real ire behind her words. She pulled on a large sweater and some fluffy socks. She didn’t think Ashley could handle her skimpy lingerie, much as her mom appreciated it.

“Your kid, soon,” Jem reminded her. “Get used to it now. She’s like practice for our next one.”

Blair patted her stomach, smiled, and leaned over to kiss Jem, forgetting all about morning breath. They had just touched lips when Ashley pounded on their door again. Blair jumped away like a teenager caught necking by her father. Jem rolled her eyes and said, “We’ll be out in just a minute, babe. Be patient. Why don’t you go start breakfast?”

“Whatever,” Ashley said, the universal catch phrase of twelve-year-olds everywhere. They heard her stomp down the hall. Exaggerated rattling could be heard in the kitchen.

“How is she making that much noise?” Blair mused. “All she has to do is open the package of cinnamon rolls.”

Jem laughed and grabbed her hand. She pulled her to the living room, where Ashley was already sitting with three plates of food. Blair took hers with a smile, and Jem ruffled her daughter’s already messy hair. Blair wondered if she would ever feel comfortable casually touching Ashley. It had been over a year since she’d begun her relationship with Jem, and she still felt awkward around her almost-stepdaughter.

Of course, the majority of presents under the tree were for Ashley, and she dove into them, gleefully squealing with each package. She actually ran and gave Blair a hug when she discovered the bag she’d been admiring from Hot Topic.

“How’d you know?” she exclaimed.

“Duh,” Blair said. “We went there a couple weeks ago, and you couldn’t take your eyes off it.”

“You’re the coolest,” Ashley said, sincere, and Blair smiled.

Thirty minutes and sixteen packages later, the tree was empty. Ashley was admiring her various gifts, Blair was trying to decide whether to wear the new sweater over to Alex and Lucas’s, when Jem pulled something out from the tree. It was a small gift, simply wrapped. She gave it to Blair.

Ashley stopped looking at her new CD and glanced up. Blair was startled by the sudden solemnity that settled over the room. “What’s up?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

“Just open it,” Jem said, sounding just as nervous.

Blair took her time opening it, watching both Jem and Ashley squirm with impatience. “You want I should do it?” Ashley demanded finally. Jem tried to shush her.

Blair laughed and tore open the package the rest of the way. A small jewelry box lay in her hand. Her heart sped up. It couldn’t be…

She opened it up. A ring twinkled back at her. “Oh my God,” she gasped.

“Thought it was time to make an honest woman out of you,” Jem said.

“Oh my God,” she said again. “Jemmy. It’s…” she pulled the ring out. It was a simple band, but the rock was huge. Not gaudy, but pretty fucking obvious. She slipped it on.

“You guys aren’t going to, like, kiss or something, are you?” Ashley asked.

“I think we will,” Jem said, and then she kissed Blair.

“So, do I have to call you mom now?” Ashley asked, interrupting them, but Blair could tell she was joking. “Cause, like, you’re only ten years older than me, and that would be weird.”

“Hey, don’t sass your mamma,” Blair said. She turned to Jem with wet eyes. “I can’t believe it. I thought you said it was a stupid, hetero institution.”

Jem shrugged. “Well, it’s legal now. At least if we continue to live in Massachusetts. And besides, Ashley’s been nagging me.”

That was the last thing she expected to hear. She looked at Ashley. “Really?”

“Well, duh,” Ashley said. “I want to be a bridesmaid. And, like, you two are having a baby. So you either have to marry mom or marry Alex,” she said with the assurance of twelve-year-old logic.

“Makes perfect sense,” Blair said. She leaned over and kissed Jem again.

“Ew,” Ashley commented.


END

ANIMATED

Slam Dunk - Hamamichi/Kaede

Hunting the Red Monkey by witch
Due to length the story has been given its own page