ADVENT STORIES FOR
DECEMBER 8

CLARK/LEX

Title: On the Eighth of December
Author: alee
Rating: PG
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Fandom: Smallville
Spoilers: none
Summary: The holiday season isn't always full of cheer.
Disclaimer: DC Comics and the WB have ownership of Clark and Lex. They are not mine, though I wish they were. If someone wants to give them to me for Christmas, well… *g*
NOTE: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar, experience the entire month at http://www.kardasi.com/Adven t
Feedback: Would be a wonderful gift, at GothPhyle@aol.com 
Thanks to: MOSS, for another fantastic Beta-- thanks for knowing just what needs to be changed, and for sharing my affection for Comfort!Lex.

ON THE EIGHTH OF DECEMBER

MORNING

It was that time again. The streets of Metropolis were lined with garlands and holly, a soft fall of snow lined the walkways with powder, and store windows blinked a dazzling display of gilt, and red, and green. There was a hum in the air, the heady mix of excitement and frustration that marked the inevitable encroachment of gift-giving zeal, and most of the frowns carried a current of holiday cheer. In short, it was “the most wonderful time of the year”.

He hated it.

Despised it with a fiery passion, loathed it with a fervor usually reserved for sadists and murderers.

Oh, he put on a good front-- Christmas dinner with the family, gifts and genial conversation all around, smiles of thanks in exchange for another sweater or jacket that was utterly unnecessary to keep him warm-- but inside he was aching, emotions awash in turmoil. Every year more of the same, more despair dropped on his doorstep, both literally and figuratively. Because despite the prevailing wind of popular myth, the holiday season did not lift the spirits of the poor or the oppressed, or lighten the dark depression that enshrouded so many of the city’s tortured souls. Quite the contrary.

Every year he grew more attuned to the hum of his city, to the near-silent cries of its saddest members, and each year he felt the pain more sharply when he failed to save them from themselves. The dagger in his soul was especially sharp today, this moment, as he cradled the limp body in his arms, reaching to carefully disentangle the crudely knotted sheet from the rafters before gliding to the floor to lower his burden onto the lace-covered bed.

She was so pretty, her budding beauty dimmed by death’s discoloration. The planes of her face were still fluid beneath her skin, the emerging adolescent loveliness still very much a work in progress. She would have been stunning. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, closing stiffened lids over cloudy gray eyes, their true color leached along with her life. He tucked the folds of the lavender dress around her soft form, its dry fabric testament to her careful planning and preparation, and clasped her hand briefly before stepping back from the bed, eyes blurred with his own grief. He sniffed, sobbing harshly as the sheer waste overwhelmed him, the senseless destruction of life.

Turning away, he made his way to the phone across the room, dialing the precinct number he knew all too well. It was a far less publicized duty he now performed, but one that regrettably found its way onto his shoulders more and more often these days. He was too late to save her, too late to save all of them, but he could at least spare her family the shock of discovery. Moments later he left, a red and blue clad figure weighted by the silent grief of defeat.


NOON

“Kent!” The bellow sounded above the din of the newsroom floor.

Saving the opened file on disc, he rose from his desk and walked to Perry’s office, shoes squeaking softly on the newly waxed floor. Reaching the open door, he was gestured to enter and did so, closing the door behind him before taking a seat.

“I’ve got an assignment for you, Kent.”

“What kind of assignment?” he asked, mild curiosity making its way through the malaise he’d been feeling all morning.

“There’s been a death… well, a suicide, really… and we need to have a small piece ready by tomorrow. Now, I know Lois is out of town for the rest of the week, but I thought you could handle this one on your own.”

“I don’t know what to say, sir,” reluctant distaste coloring his words despite his best efforts, “this really isn’t my area, but--”

“To be blunt, Kent, I don’t really have the luxury of caring. Councilman Yves' daughter is dead, the public’s need to know has to be appeased, and I want to have a paper to run come next week. So, *you* will take the assignment, you will read all about this girl’s life, and you will find a tasteful way to spin the situation. Today.” He reached across the desk, tossing a thin folder with implacable determination.

Clark rose, the file clasped between his thumb and forefinger like the poisoned serpent it was, and turned to leave.

“Five p.m., Kent.”

With a nod, he closed the door behind himself once more, returning to his desk before opening the folder. He stopped short, frozen, as the photograph of the smiling girl met his gaze with cheerful accusation. It was her, the girl he had been too late to save that morning. Her face was lit with light from the rising sun, her sunny profile highlighted by laughing hazel eyes and a wide, berry-bright smile. The flipped ends of her dark blonde hair made him think of Chloe, of the short, sassy style she always preferred, and the sparkle in her gaze just reinforced the comparison. She was exquisite, gorgeous in the way that only youth can achieve.

Turning the photograph over, he read a summary of her academic and extracurricular activities: straight A’s for five years running, president of Student Action for Education, secretary of the Honor Society, member of the Science and Chess clubs, active in school plays and choral club, taught the two-and three- year old Sunday School class at her church… on and on, each entry another stab at his soul.

The last item in the file did it, breaking the control he clutched to his chest like the sturdiest of armor. The essay was brief, no fancy or flowery language, but the simple emotion, the purity of prose describing her love of life, and her plans for the future, was more eloquent than the most elaborate storytelling could ever be. It was unbearably poignant to read of her plans for life, for a family, for love, knowing that fate had held a much darker plan than she imagined.

The soft spatter caught him by surprise. He stared uncomprehendingly for a moment at the droplet staining the middle of the page, soon joined by another. Reaching to touch the tiny puddle, he was stunned to feel another scalding globe strike the back of his hand. With a will of its own, that hand crept to his cheek, trying to dam the slow river flowing down his face to no avail. Staring at her picture once more, he felt his eyes burn with sorrow that the tears could never ease. Her face blurred beyond recognition as he rose abruptly, grabbing his coat and darting from the building before anyone noticed, his one thought that of escape.


EVENING


He watched the sun set, the sky painted in shades of crimson and violet. Up this high, the sounds of the traffic below were muted, his attention turned resolutely away from the hum of the city. He had no idea how many hours had passed, how many minutes he had spent huddled on this balcony, back slumped against the glass panes of the sliding door. For sure, his five o’clock deadline had long passed, and he spared a brief moment of concern over his job before lapsing once more into numb contemplation of the Metropolis skyline.

The pigeon alighted so recently on the banister regarded him with avian inquisitiveness, cooing gently to the still, silent man with the snowflakes dotting his ebony hair. He spared a slight smile for the plump bird, decked in thick iridescent feathers for the winter season, before closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the door. It would be so easy to stay here forever, to turn into a human statue, or the cold, unfeeling stone of gargoyle legend, immune to the pleas for help, the cries of agony he could never fully eradicate. So enticing to just give up…

The maudlin train of thought was interrupted by the soft clatter of keys on the foyer table, the sure steps that detoured to the bedroom before striding purposefully towards the balcony door. He frowned, the vague recollection of late meetings nagging at the back of his mind before one of the doors slid open, leaving him undisturbed as another figure joined him outside. A thick blanket was draped around his shoulders. Gentle hands brushed the snow from his hair. A warm, firm body pressed to his side as strong arms pulled him close, drawing the blanket around their shoulders to wrap them in a cocoon of warmth. Chilled lips pressed a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, as a slim, strong hand urged his face into the hollow of neck and shoulder, a gentle croon of praise and encouragement his reward for a neck gone limp, docile to the bidding of that hand which now tunneled soothingly through his hair.

He opened his mouth, intent on asking what had brought Lex home so early, but found his words lost in a heaving sob. The arms draped around him tightened, drawing him closer in a resolute embrace as he cried, the grief shuddering through his form and wetting the fine wool of the coat beneath his face. They stayed that way for what could have been minutes or hours, an endless stream of murmurs breathed against his temple, the soft rocking and tightly wound arms the only things keeping him from shattering beneath the wailing grief.

Finally he stilled, the last sob dying away on a ragged exhalation, and those same strong arms urged him to his feet, guiding his blind progress to the plush sofa facing the cheerfully roaring fire. He dropped into its soft folds with bone-dissolving fatigue, offering no resistance to the tugging that stretched him supine on the brushed velvet surface, his head resting atop lightly muscled thighs. One hand draped his chest, clasping his hand over the ragged rhythm of his heart while the other traced the angles of his face, trailing soothing comfort over cheeks, and lips, and nose. He drifted to sleep basked in the warmth of the fire, and the even warmer blanket of love.


NIGHT

He opened weary eyes, blinking against the stinging pull of lids sealed by matter and brine. Clearing his throat against a dull, clenching ache, he tilted his head to meet the steady gaze of the eyes that had been trained unblinking on his face since he stirred. A soft smile tilted the corner of Lex’s lips, and he leaned forward to press a slow kiss against Clark’s mouth.

“Hi, Sleeping Beauty.” The words puffed across his lips.

Grimacing in distaste, Clark sat up, running a hand through his hair and twisting his neck against the tension coiling the muscles there.

“I don’t think Disney would agree with your assessment, Lex. ’Sleeping’, sure, but ’Beauty’…” self-deprecating humor laced his hoarse words.

“You know what they say about ’beauty’ and the ’eye of the beholder’; I stand by my statement.” Leaning towards Clark, Lex aligned their mouths once more, bathing his lips in a series of slow, open-mouthed kisses before skirting across both cheeks. Warm blue eyes scanned Clark intently for long moments, then, satisfied with what they saw, crinkled at the edges in counterpart to the smile that curled his lips. Rising to his feet, Lex extended a hand to Clark, tugging him to his feet and leading him towards the cavernous bathroom that adjoined the master suite.

Shuffling along behind him, Clark stopped suddenly, the clock on the nightstand reading 7:18 and catching his attention.

“Lex, why are you home so early, I thought you had a late meeting…”

Turning to face him, Lex shook his head chidingly as a rueful smile quirked across his face. “Do you really have to ask? I knew what had happened about five minutes after Councilman Yves left our lunch meeting, and when you didn‘t answer you office phone I knew something was wrong. I‘m just sorry it took me so long to wrap things up.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry; I’m sorry I ruined your plans. I should have called and--”

A warm finger pressed against his lips stopped the flow of words as a sharp voice further interrupted his speech. “Don’t ever apologize for being who you are! Business is just that -- business, a job. YOU, on the other hand, are my family, my love, my life. It’s no contest; I’ll choose you *every* time, and never regret it.”

A quick, hard kiss pressed to his palm, and they were moving once more, Lex leading him into the bathroom and seating him on the side of the tub as it filled with steaming, fragrant water. Soon the ceramic tub was half-filled, the waterline rising sharply as two sleek, naked bodies were lowered into its depths. He was tugged back to recline against Lex’s chest, a thick rag lathered with rich soap before it was stroked along his arms and hands. Lex swiped the cloth between each finger, caressing his palms and wrists before moving back to his torso, trailing a soapy film along his chest and shoulders. His arms were lifted, draped back around Lex’s neck as the cloth was rinsed and re-lathered, its light pressure ghosting teasingly beneath his arms before dipping below the water’s surface, cleansing his sex with gentle, thorough strokes.

The rag was discarded, and Lex raised handfuls of water in his cupped palms to rinse the soap from his skin, pouring the liquid in a languorous cascade before following its trail with caressing hands. Over and over the pattern repeated, until the warmth of the water and the heat of Lex’s hands blended into a seamless, hedonistic delight. He relaxed completely, lulled near sleep once more by the hypnotic rhythm, until Lex urged him up and forward, leaning him against the side of the tub while Lex completed his own, hurried bath.

The drain was opened, the water flowing quickly from the tub as they stood, a lush towel retracing the path of the washcloth as Lex dried the moisture from his flesh. He stood with eyes half-closed, too drained to do more than follow the bidding of those careful hands as they urged him into the bedroom and beneath the soft sheets and comforter. A quick check of the thermostat, a dimming of the bathroom lights to a soft glow that illuminated the room unobtrusively, and Lex joined him, snuggling their naked flesh together in a tangle of limbs.

He drifted to sleep listening to the steady rhythm of the heart he *had* been able to revive, immeasurably comforted by the arms clasping him so tightly. Tomorrow he would go out once more, would try to save another soul. Maybe this time he would succeed.

Maybe he already had.

END

HARRY/SNAPE

Title: Happy Christmas
Rating: PG-13 and S for Silly
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: It all belongs to JK Rowling and Scholastic Inc. No money being made don't sue.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent   
Feedback: diana-wolf@wolfenet.com

HAPPY CHRISTMAS

Harry Potter moved quickly to the Gryffindor table in the main hall. He was a few minutes late for the last feast before the Christmas holidays began due to an... incident in the bathroom.

He avoided looking at the teacher's table since he knew Sev -- Snape would not be there, and it was likely that McGonagall and Dumbledore would be disappointed about their lack of discretion. He quickly sat down between Hermione (ignoring her eye rolling) and Ron (ignoring his furious blush) and began to eat.

Moments later, the doors came crashing open as Sev -- Snape stalked into the hall, long black robes billowing behind him. He had barely taken two steps before the gasps started, another two before heads turned, and 4 more before total silence overtook the hall, except for the squeak of Snape's footfalls and the subsequent *pop* that followed. A very soft pop it was, like the pop of bubbles that become too full and explode -- green, red, and gold bubbles to be exact.

Sev -- Snape, being Snape, kept going until he took his customary place at the head table. Once he noticed that the entire student population was staring at him, he snarled, and as a whole, the students all straightened their backs and resumed eating, ignoring the trail of popping bubbles that Snape had left.

Hermione whirled around to face Harry and whispered vehemently, "What did you do to him?"

Ron groaned on his left side, "I don't want to know. I just do *not* want to know."

Harry grinned. "You know how Dumbledore changed all the soap to festive Christmas colors?"

Ron covered his ears. "I don't want to know la-de-da-"

Hermione nodded and Harry continued. "You know how I was late?"

All the color drained out of Hermione's face, "Oh Harry, you didn't --"

"-LA-DE-DA-"

Harry shrugged helplessly. "It was all I had for lube --"

If it was possible, Hermione turned whiter. "But you didn't? Didn't that STING? Why didn't you use a charm or --"

"Hermione, I wasn't exactly --"

"-LA-DE-DA-"

"-thinking?"

"Yes," Harry replied underneath Ron's escalating voice. "And well... But I don't know how that happened." Harry gestured to the trail of bubbles on the floor.

"Oh Harry..."

He smiled sheepishly.

"I hate to know what he's going to do to you in return --"

- He wanted to know, in fact, Harry was counting on knowing just as soon as they got out of this feast -

"But I'm going to wish you a Happy Christmas anyway, and hope that you make it out alive."

Harry smiled at her; Ron stopped singing and asked, "Are you two done?"

"Happy Christmas, Hermione." He snuck a glance up at Snape. "And Happy Christmas to me."

The End

SPIKE/XANDER

Title: Midnight Clear
Author: Kayla
RATING: PG-13
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Fandom: Buffy
Disclaimer: Sadly, I have yet to talk their current owners into parting with them. So they still aren't mine. (Dear Santa, I have been a very good girl this year. My Christmas list is as follows: Spike, Xander, any other assorted Buffy boy, chocolate, handcuffs, rope, anything in leather...)
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at: http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Feedback Email address: kayla6978@aol.com

Midnight Clear
by Kayla

Spike was worried.

Not that he'd ever admit to it, at least not in public and definitely without some type of significant (and preferably sexual) bribe. But still...

As December progressed, he watched in concern while Xander grew ever more withdrawn and depressed. Nothing seemed to help. Sex on the couch wasn't working, sex in the shower had been a bust, and sex on the kitchen table...well, *that* incident was better left unmentioned.

Spike briefly entertained the thought of trying something other than sex to cheer Xander up, then decided it was time to lay off the JD.

Another couple of days passed, and Spike grew more and more frustrated. He'd been forced to add sex against the wall, sex in the car, and sex in the back room of the Magic Box to his list of failures. The situation was becoming rather emasculating. In sheer desperation, Spike did something he'd sworn he'd never do.

He asked for help.

~~~~~~

Buffy shrugged. "He gets like this sometimes. Every couple of years around Christmas he just seems to get...sad." She gave Spike a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, he'll snap out of it soon. It's just holiday blues."

Spike scowled. "This is serious! This isn't holiday blues, this is *celibacy*!"

Buffy shuddered. "And yet again we begin to venture into the area clearly labeled TMI. How many time do I have to tell you that I *really* don't want to know about your sex life?"

"What sex life?!" Spike shouted. "I'm. Not. Getting. *Any*!"

"Well with an attitude like that, I'm not surprised," Buffy muttered. "Get a grip, Spike. I mean, it's not like your entire relationship with Xander is based on sex."

Spike blinked. "Er...um...right."

"Look, why don't you talk to Willow? She's known Xander since they were kids, maybe she can come up with something to snap him out of his funk."

~~~~~~

"I really don't know what to tell you," Willow said. "He used to get like this all the time when we were younger, but the last couple of years have been pretty good. I wouldn't worry, though. He always seemed to bounce back after Christmas."

"But...why? Why'd he get all angsty around Christmas, and what made him feel better?"

Willow shook her head. "I'm sorry, I just don't know. It's not something he ever shared with me, and I didn't want to pry."

Spike snorted. "That'd be a first," he mumbled inaudibly. In a more normal tone he said wryly, "Well thanks. Fat lot of help you chits turned out to be. Guess it's up to me to figure him out." 'As usual,' he thought but was wise enough not to speak aloud.

"Hey Spike!" Willow called as he began to walk away. When he turned, she smiled. "Good luck. If anyone can pull him out of it, you can."

"Thanks, Red," he replied softly.

~~~~~~

Spike fidgeted on the sofa, watching as Xander wandered listlessly through their apartment. Finally, he worked up the nerve to speak. "Xander?" he ventured tentatively.

"Hmm?"

"We...we need to talk." Spike was proud of himself for managing to say that without choking on the words.

Xander paused, worry flooding his face. He groped his way towards the sofa and collapsed into it. "Well that can't be good," he said weakly. "It's never good when someone says that."

Spike hastened to reassure him. "S'not bad, luv. Just...look, I noticed things have been a bit...*off* lately."

Xander chewed on his lip in concern. "Is this about the table thing? Because I explained about that, right? It was just--"

"No, it's not that. Well, sort of. But not really. See, it's more..." Spike stuttered to a halt, groping for the words.

"Are you mad at me?"

The softly spoken question, asked in a forlorn tone of voice that made Spike want to wrap Xander in cotton and hid him from the world, seemed to free Spike's vocal chords. "Never, pet," he stated firmly. Deciding his 'big bad' image could just bugger off for a bit, he pulled Xander to him and cuddled him close.

They rocked gently for a few minutes, then Spike continued. "Something's bothering you, Xan. I dunno what it is, and I dunno how to fix it. But you've been sad and moping and generally depressed and...I just want to make it better, damn it!"

Xander sighed. "I know," he admitted after a moment. "I can't explain it, Spike. And it hasn't happened in years, so I really wasn't expecting it again. I don't know why, but it started when I was about 10. December just started to kind of...wear me down. It's like nothing would ever be right, no matter how good things really were. Like there was this thick fog smothering me and making me...dull."

"What made it stop?"

Xander gave a half-hearted grin. "Being away helped."

Spike froze. "You want to leave?" he asked gruffly.

"No! No," Xander said quickly. "That's not what I meant. See," he looked a bit sheepish as he made his confession, "I used to go outside on Christmas Eve and set up a little tent in the yard. And I'd have my thermos of hot chocolate, and I snuggle down in my thick, warm sleeping bag and watch the stars. Watch the night." He closed his eyes in remembrance. "It was always so beautiful. So big. So *there*. It made me feel..." He struggled for the right word, then shrugged. "It made me *feel*."

"Oh." Spike continued to hold him, then frowned when he realized something. "So you'd stay out there all night?"

Xander wondered at the slight hint of growl in the question. "Um, yeah."

"Were you *insane*?!" Spike shook him. "This is the *Hellmouth*, you could have died doing that! Bloody hell, how'd you manage to survive to adulthood?"

"Just lucky I guess." He grinned. "What can I say, I was young and stupid." He kissed Spike's chin. "Besides, I have you to watch out for me now."

"Damn right," Spike snarled as he held Xander even closer. He sighed when Xander snuggled down with a yawn and dozed off. His head dropped back and he stared at the ceiling, willing his thoughts into a semblance of order. He had some planning to do.

~~~~~~

Spike surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction. It wasn't exactly a suite at the Ritz - or even a room at the Motel 6 for that matter - but it wasn't half bad.

"Spike? Are you out here?"

Bounding to his feet, Spike called out, "Over here!"

Xander rounded the corner, still talking. "Why are we on the roof, Spike? It's freezing out here! You said you--oh!"

Spike smiled nervously. "Well?" He spread out his arms, awaiting Xander's judgment.

Xander stared in amazement at the setup. Somehow, Spike had managed to almost perfectly recreate the setting in which Xander had spent many a Christmas Eve. Granted, the tent was a bit bigger and fancier and the air mattress was a new addition, but the downy sleeping bag looked as comforting as ever, and the two gleaming silver thermoses promised chocolaty warmth.

"Xan?" Spike silently cursed the squeak in his voice and cleared his throat. "Is it...good?"

Eyes misty, Xander beamed. "It's perfect Spike. Why...how...what...?"

"Said it always made you feel better, didn't you?" Spike shrugged and looked away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Quickly, Xander stepped up to Spike and hugged him tight, kissing him deeply. "You," he finally said breathlessly, "are a big softie."

Spike scowled. "Am not," he retorted petulantly, lip poking out in a pout.

"Are too," Xander retorted. Shivering slightly, he eyed the sleeping bag. "I like the mattress."

"Can't have you coming down sick from lying on the cold hard cement," Spike said, trying to sound nonchalant. He took Xander's hand and led him into the tent.

They knelt on the mattress and worked to open the sleeping bag. Xander laughed. "Spike, this thing is only made for one person."

"I know." Spike leered. "Cozier like that, innit?"

Still laughing, Xander kicked off his shoes and slid into the bag, holing the edge up for Spike. The vampire squirmed in quickly, and the two lay there quietly for a while, pressed tightly together. Spike watched in fascination as Xander's breath made plumes of wispy smoke in the cool night air. He was so fascinated by it that Xander's voice startled him.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Xander tore his eyes away from the stars and awarded Spike another of his bright smiles. "Thank you," he said, voice thick with emotion.

"No big, pet." He reached for on of the thermoses and handed it to Xander. "Here, gotta stay warm."

Xander opened it and took a long sip, then set it aside. "I can think of a better way to keep warm," he whispered.

"What's that?"

With a grin, Xander zipped up the tent flap, blocking out the faint light of the moon. "Come here, you," he growled as he wriggled enough to put Spike under him.

As their groins pressed together, proving just how interested they both were, Spike let out a heartfelt groan of relief. "'Bout time, Xan!" he gasped out, twining his legs around Xander's.

"I know," Xander replied. He kissed his lover once more, ghosting his lips lightly over Spike's. "Merry Christmas, Spike."

"Mmmm, Merry Christmas, Xan. Now shut up and kiss me again."

Xander obeyed.

Finit
Happy Holidays!

KIRK/SPOCK

Title: Awakening
Author: kira-nerys
Feedback: kardasi@kardasi.com 
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS
Rating: Mild R
Summary: Waking up one Christmas morning.
Disclaimer: Spock and Kirk do not belong to me.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar at http://www.kardasi.com/Advent  

AWAKENING

Spock stretched and turned over slowly, so he wouldn’t jar his companion. The bed was rather narrow for two grown men to lie in, but it was warm and comfortable. Spock did not wish to leave it and a subtle sense of satisfaction enveloped him as he realized he actually did not have to.

It was one of those rare occurrences when he and Jim actually had some time off. Christmas Day. And despite the fact that the season seldom allowed them to take time off for any longer stretches of time – especially not together – they had managed to schedule this because they were travelling through well-known territory. A milk-run as Jim often put it, transporting diplomatic dignitaries from one planet to another. Usually these missions had Jim on edge, impatient, but not this time.

Jim still appeared to be asleep, and he was so beautiful, long eyelashes resting against sleep-warm skin.

“You’re awake,” a slurred voice whispered into his ear, proving Spock wrong.

“Indeed.”

“Go back to sleep,” Jim continued. “We don’t have to get up for another ... uh–”

“Two point five-four hours.” Spock interrupted.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Jim turned around and buried his head into the pillow and Spock felt the threatening smile. For once, he did nothing to try and suppress it, and though it felt odd, it wasn’t unpleasant.

Jim was so beautiful like this. His skin shone golden in the faint light from the night-lamp they always kept lit for Jim’s sake. Spock’s smile widened as he remembered the curses that came out of his lover’s mouth every time he bumped into something when he headed for the lavatory in the darkness.

“Are you certain you wish to spend those hours asleep, t’hy’la?” Spock whispered into Jim’s enticingly round ear.

“Hmm? You want to go again?” Jim lifted his head from the pillow, blinking at first, and then sent him a drowsy look. The slow smile that crept onto his face spoke of interest.

“Not if you are too ... worn out,” Spock teased, knowing that was a sure way of getting Jim to respond quickly.

“I shouldn’t have gotten myself a Vulcan lover,” Jim surprised Spock by saying. “Vulcans have such stamina.”

But the telltale glint in Jim’s eyes gave him away. Desire – albeit sleepy – shone from them.

“I love it when you smile,” Jim whispered and Spock’s smile widened without his consent when Jim’s hand buried in his hair, pulling him closer for their first kiss of this beautiful holiday morning.

It was soft, somewhat sleepy, but very sweet.

“Tell me if my morning breath bothers you,” Jim said. “I can brush my teeth.”

“It does not.”

And it didn’t. Jim’s mouth was his to explore, whether it tasted of coffee, bourbon or ‘morning breath’. It was always an adventure, and Spock never found the taste of toothpaste very pleasant. It was one of those necessary evils.

His words caused Jim to deepen their kiss, and Spock sucked Jim’s tongue into his mouth, revelling in everything that was his lover. The softness of his tongue, like velvet, the even, clean teeth that nibbled carefully on his lower lip, sending pleasant spikes of desire through his body

“Ah.”

The moan was involuntary, but Spock didn’t care. They had been lovers for more than a year, and at first, it had been difficult to let go, but now, it didn’t bother him. He had learned how much it excited Jim to hear him let go, so steadily he learned to do just that. It was a small concession to make to someone he loved so much, and as time wore on, Spock realized that he enjoyed not having to control himself so rigidly, in the privacy of their own bed, at least. 

Jim continued to nibble on the sensitive skin of his lip for a moment, before moving further down. Spock glanced at his lover’s face. Jim was slightly flushed, and the glint of desire in his eyes had sharpened, and came into focus. There was hunger awakening. Spock could see it in the half-closed lids, the flush on Jim’s cheeks and the half-open, moist lips. He was not quite panting, but the breaths came shorter, and more labored. It never failed to make Spock excited. He rocked his hips, brushing his erection against the light fur on Jim’s thigh. Jim’s hand wrapped around his erection, slightly cooler than his own skin, but so needed, so wanted. Right there.

“Oh yes,” he moaned again, loving the sight of Jim’s eyes darkening further at his appreciation..

Spock buried his hands in the too-long, dark-blond strands. He knew Jim would have to cut his hair soon. It was longer than regulation permitted, and Spock felt a slight twinge of disappointment. What would Jim look like with his hair sun-kissed, and long about his shoulder, the way the warriors of Vulcan used to wear it centuries ago?

“You are beautiful, Jim,” Spock murmured against Jim’s chin.

“You too, Spock. You too,” Jim replied and kissed him again.

The kiss deepened, and Spock responded to it, eagerly, moaning into Jim’s mouth when he lifted his body to cover Spock. It was a sensation that Spock never grew tired of – being covered by this strong, masculine body in desire. They moved together, slow at first, but with increasing desire.

“I love you, Spock,” Jim whispered as they climaxed.

“I love you, too. Merry Christmas.”

END

JIM/BLAIR

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
By Jinx

MISCELLANEOUS (PETER/HARRY - Spider-Man)

Title: Christmas Traditions
Author: Pip's Sister
Fandom: Spider-Man the Movie
Pairing: Peter/Harry
Rating: G
Archive: Yes, but please tell me first. Slash Advent need not ask, of course.
E-Mail: felicitypirrip@yahoo.com 
Disclaimer: Peter "Spider-Man" Parker, Harry Osborn, May Parker, Norman Osborn, Anna Watson and Mary Jane Watson are all property of Marvel Comics, Sam Raimi and Columbia Tri-Star pictures. They are used without permission for non-profit purposes
Notes: Part of the Slash-Advent challenge situated at: http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/ So, it's slash. And I'd like feedback. Happy Holidays to you all! (It's ironic that I'm writing this by the way. I'm Jewish although I do celebrate Christmas because...well, Harry will tell you why in the course of the story.)
Acknowledgements: To Chris, who suggested that the plot of this story be that Harry trip while decorating the Christmas tree and accidentally fuck Peter in the process. I went for a more. subdued approach, I'm afraid.

CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS

~*~*~

Spider-Man pulled himself up and over the balcony of the apartment, making a loud sound that was more than a sigh and less than a groan. God, what a day. He remembered when he was younger watching a Batman cartoon that portrayed the citizens of Gotham City as unusually good willed in the spirit of the season.

Yeah, right. If anything, today was busier than ever. All those bank robbers and muggers. oh, and he couldn't forget the hold-up at Tiffany's. They didn't really need his help, though. It was actually kind of amazing what a bunch of overly-pampered poodles of rich women could accomplish when angry. For some reason, he thought his aunt would be proud.

Anyway, the point was that he was tired. After stretching and shaking out his limbs, Spider-Man pulled off his mask and plopped down on the couch.

Creeeeek.

The door. Harry! Peter's first reaction was anger at being made to get up when he finally got to sit down. The second was. crap, his spider-sense was buzzing and Harry was coming up the stairs and he was dressed in his spider-suit!

Peter leaped from the couch and grabbed a blanket, jeans and a sweater. He pulled on the sweater, threw his gloves and mask into his drawers, then leaped onto the couch, throwing the blanket over his legs.

The door opened a millisecond later. "God, that was close," he thought. Then he looked at the door.

Harry was standing there, and as soon as Peter saw his face his moment of relief was diminished. Harry was miserable. No surprise really. Ever since his father had died, Harry had had two moods: miserable and possessed. Either way, Peter kept his distance, made himself scarce. He was stuck for now, though.

"Hey, Harry," Peter said, his eyes searching his friend's expression.

"Hey," Harry sighed and wiped the snow out of his chestnut brown hair. "Have you been out there today, Pete?"

Peter thought about the wet spandex currently sticking to his body. "No, not yet. Brutal?"

"You might say that," Harry smiled weakly. "The wind seemed ready to rip my clothes off." He turned to the closet and took off his coat. As he did, Peter seized the opportunity to pull on his jeans beneath the covers.

"You know."

Peter nearly jumped at the sound of Harry's voice. "What?"

Harry blinked. Ooops. Too big a reaction. Harry seemed to let it slide, though. "Um. I was just thinking about this thing one of my father's associates always said. He said there were only two things man couldn't control: the weather and the whether."

"The whether?"

"Whether or not a man could be home for the holidays."

It was Peter's turn to be confused. "That's all that man can't control?"

Harry smiled and shrugged. "My father didn't really agree either. Seems like my life, though. God." Harry plopped down on the nearby chair. "When I think of all the missed Christmases and birthdays. I mean, I wanted for nothing, but."

Peter sighed. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, my aunt's going away for the holidays. I know it really can't compare, but."

"She is?"

Peter nodded. "She and Uncle Ben had tickets for Florida. She used his ticket to bring along Anna Watson. You know? MJ's aunt? So." Peter shrugged. "Here I am."

"Wow. is this your first holiday alone, Pete?"

"Yeah, but. I don't mind too much. It...it kind of wouldn't be the same without Uncle Ben, anyway."

Harry nodded, looked off to the side, and then back at Peter. "Did you do anything special for Christmas?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know. traditions."

Peter sighed. "I guess. yeah. Nothing big, though. Mostly the three of us decorating the tree on Christmas Eve. then we would open our presents that morning and go to church sometime after."

"Oh yeah?" Harry smiled. "That's nice."

Peter shrugged. "Yeah. Though to tell you the truth, I feel more strongly about our traditions surrounding the Mets games."

Harry laughed and shook his head, and Peter realized that this was the first time he'd seen him laugh in weeks. "You and the Mets."

Peter smiled. "Did you have any traditions?"

"Not really. Well, whenever my father wasn't around I'd usually wake up and I'd find, like, this bicycle or computer in my room with a huge bow on it. And. well, it wasn't him, but it was nice, you know?"

Peter nodded, although not very enthusiastically. Harry sounded like he was reaching with that one. "Um. did you ever go to church?"

Harry snorted. "Peter. Christmas is an American holiday."

They both laughed at that.

"You do have a point," admitted Peter. "It's so commercialized."

"Yeah, but you know. I have some great memories of watching the Grinch on television."

"Boris Karloff version, right?"

Harry laughed again. "Right."

"That's a good movie. The best, probably. That recent A Christmas Carol with that guy from Star Trek wasn't bad either."

"I haven't seen it."

"It's good."

"Oh! A Muppet Christmas Carol. That was fun."

"Ehh."

"What do you mean 'Ehh.?' It had Gonzo the Great as Charles Dickens. It's genius."

"He was under-used." Peter slunk down into the couch. "I'm telling you. The Star Trek guy is the way to go."

"Whatever."

Peter didn't reply. He was very tired, almost ready to go to sleep.

"You know what I was planning to do this Christmas?"

He opened his eyes. "What?"

"Mary Jane and I were going to take a night out. A nice dinner, maybe some ice skating. Just walking around New York."

Peter flinched a bit at the name of the girl he loved, but tried to hide it. "Sounds nice."

"Yeah?" Harry rested his chin on his hands. "Thanks."

There was a pause.

"You know what else I was planning?"

Peter glanced at Harry as his friend got up and walked over to him. Then Harry bent down and kissed him, sweetly and chastely on the lips.

Harry broke off the kiss and Peter just stared back at him. ". Huh?"

"I was planning on doing that."

Peter blinked. "To her, right?"

Harry nodded.

"You could have just said that!"

Harry smiled. "It's more fun this way."

Peter continued to stare dumbly. Harry shook his head.

"What are you really saying?" asked Peter.

"I'm asking you if you want to go ice skating."

"What?"

"Well, we can do more than ice skating, but I figured that was good for now."

Peter's head was spinning. "But. why?"

"Well." Harry shrugged. "Let's just say that I've felt this way about you for awhile. And. while I admire my father more than anything, I don't want to forget the people I care about."

Peter blinked.

"You don't have to decide now. But just. just think about it."

Peter nodded slowly as Harry turned and left. He sunk back down on the couch and closed his eyes. Harry. liked him? Really liked him. He was trying to say that, wasn't he? Sheesh. weeks of talking and now this? How was he supposed to react? How was he supposed to.?

He kissed him!

"Oh, by the way."

Peter winced. Oh no, what now? He turned around.

"Merry Christmas, Peter."

Peter smiled slowly. "Merry Christmas."

With that Harry left. Peter touched his lips. He liked him. Harry liked him. It didn't seem right. It didn't make sense but. damned if he didn't like it.

He closed his eyes again and tried to get some well-needed rest. He did need time to think about this. He did need time to take this in. But he felt good about this, and that was a start.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," he said to himself. "Merry Christmas."

The End.