Various Christmas ficlets
Dec. 23rd, 2007 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i_am_tl_drFirst: Xantiago DeBalsi and Schuyler Henderson. PG. 461 words.
Xantiago was big on surprises. Schuyler got that, he did, but that couldn't make him like surprises himself-- generally, all the surprises he got were incredibly bad ones. Except the ones Xantiago caused, but hey, longstanding aversions weren't easy to break. So when Xantiago insisted that Schuyler spend Christmas Eve with him, and added that he had a couple of surprises in mind, that meant Schuyler stood outside Xantiago's apartment feeling dizzy and worried for a few minutes before he could convince himself to knock. Good surprises, he told himself firmly, and then Xantiago pulled open the door, grinning broadly.
"Merry Christmas," he said brightly, pulling Schuyler in gently, "don't let the reindeer out."
"Reindeer?" Schuyler looked around, confused, until he saw Gracie making a kittyloaf on the windowsill, a pair of fuzzy brown antlers strapped to her head. "Oh... Did you drug your cat to get her to let you do that?" Xantiago pushed his shoulder, mock-scowling.
"This is a drug-free household," he said. "Stash your backpack in the bedroom and come eat, I made this, like, Hawaiianesque chicken thing and Gracie has been trying to get into it since I took it out of the oven." When Xantiago turned away, Schuyler had a chance to look at him properly-- he was wearing a snug dark green sweater, arms pushed up around his elbows, a pair of khakis that did absolutely sinful things to his backside, a white apron tied around his waist... and a candy cane barrette clipped over his ear? Shaking his head, Schuyler went to drop his backpack by the bed, and paused in the door, lips making a surprised O.
The new, soft-looking sheets were a surprise, and the unlit candles spread around on the bedside table and the dresser and the desk. The fact that Xanti had upgraded to a queen sized bed, also a surprise. Leaving his bag and his coat and his shoes, Schuyler went to join Xantiago in the kitchen, and stopped short when Xantiago yelped, "Wait!"
"What? What did I--?" Schuyler was cut off by an enthusiastic kiss, Xantiago bent down and tipping Schuyler's chin up-- and for a second he caught a glimpse of mistletoe through Xantiago's messy brown hair, before he wound his arms around Xantiago's neck and gave in to the kisses. "Only you would put up mistletoe for a party of two," he said fondly when Xantiago straightened back up.
"Surprised you, didn't it?" Xantiago chirped, hand soft on Schuyler's cheek for a moment before he turned back to the stove. "Come on, Sky, before it gets cold. Or I'll let Gracie have yours." Pushing his glasses up, Schuyler joined Xantiago at the stove, slipping an arm around his waist and leaning into his arm.
Xantiago's surprises, he could get used to, he thought.
Second: Trent Anderson-Phillips and Andrew Phillips. PG-13. 687 words.
It was a tacit agreement that Christmas would be a low-key affair in the Anderson-Phillips household, despite leaving behind the place where everything had gone so thoroughly insane that Christmas before; Chad and Skip had the memory of meeting that night to buoy up the fucked-up party in retrospect, but for Andrew and Trent it wasn't a day to be remembered well.
Christmas Eve was good, though, laying around on the couch eating homemade pizza, watching football and A Christmas Story, laughing at the dog systematically eating a tennis ball, and determinedly avoiding anything that had to do with death or guns or anything like that.
When Chad and Skip came out, declaring their intentions to play Halo 2 until Santa came, Andrew nudged Trent out of his doze and half-carried him to bed, smiling at Trent's drowsy murmurs becoming more clear. Finally Trent captured his hand, lacing their fingers together, turning their wrists until he could see Andrew's wedding ring and pulling his hand close to kiss the knuckle just under the skin-warm metal.
"S'almost exactly two years since you asked me," Trent said softly, and Andrew tipped his head to one side.
"Naw, it is two years. Is your memory goin' already?" Trent nipped at the side of his hand.
"Uh-uh. Hour and fourteen minutes from now. I remember completely." Hands still clasped, Trent shifted closer, hooking one leg over Andrew's. "I was so surprised, looking up from the prompter. And everyone around me just didn't matter any more when I saw you there." He grinned, lopsided and sweet. "You looked so nervous. Like I could possibly have said anything other than yes."
"I was more nervous because of the live cameras," Andrew said defensively, free hand brushing through Trent's hair. "Maybe just a little for what you'd say." Beaming, Trent leaned closer and kissed Andrew, just the corner of his lips, brief and teasing. "You're an awful lot of trouble, Trent darlin'," he added mischievously, free hand going for Trent's ticklish ribs.
"Pfft, you love me anyway," Trent said certainly, even though he kissed Andrew properly after that, a soft apology of lips on lips. He was a lot of trouble, a lot to deal with, a whole mess of medical issues and neuroses, and Andrew had been there since those fucked-up weeks back in the dormitory, a strong and steady presence. Wriggling ticklishly, he flopped on top of Andrew, head buried in the crook of his neck, "stoppit stoppit stoppit!"
Stopping, Andrew's hands worked toward getting Trent's shirt off instead, long warm strokes up his back and down his sides. "I do," he agreed easily, "I love you so much, sometimes I don't know what to do with all that love."
"Save it up, I might need it later," Trent joked, ducking his head and letting Andrew pull his shirt over his arms, tossing it away. "Keep it there," he tapped Andrew's chest, one finger drawing a heart over his shirt, "and whenever I'm being trouble, wrap me up in it." The scars marking thick lines over Trent's chest were deeply pink, and Andrew covered them with a broad palm, fingers splayed out over paler, softer skin. Trent was waiting, waiting for a new heart, someone else's accident to become his good fortune...
"You got it," Andrew promised, his voice thick, and he closed his eyes as Trent ran a hand over his cheek, fingertips seeking out the mark where Andrew had been struck, the injury that made Trent realize that he didn't want to think about life without Andrew. "Don't think you need to worry about me runnin' out of love, though."
"Never have worried, never will," Trent said, his breath ghosting over Andrew's lips a moment before they kissed, sweet quickly turning to heat. "Hey, remember what we did after you proposed?" he asked breathlessly after a few more long kisses.
"Hm," Andrew licked his lips, reaching up to tuck Trent's hair behind his ear. "Could do with a reminder, I think." Laughing, Trent pushed his shoulders down against the bed, grinning down at his husband brightly.
"I may have to ad-lib certain parts," he warned, catching Andrew's answering laugh with another kiss.
Third: Karuka Eckhart and Bailey Dowell. PG-13. 1246 words.
Bailey hated group sessions just a little bit less than he hated solo sessions. It was all "how do you feel about that?" and "do you think you could do this sort of thing?" If he knew what he could or couldn't do, he wouldn't bloody be here with no memory, would he?
Still, as much as he hated the one-on-one sessions, it was plain to see that Karuka hated them more. She usually left the room with her freckles standing out, skin gone even more pale than usual, lashes fluttering as if she were fighting to keep her eyes looking at her housemates. After the most recent session, the day after a very strange Christmas, Karuka fled the room and ran from everyone else, locking herself in her room and going silent on the other side of the door.
The silence creeped Bailey out more than if he'd heard her crying. God only knew what she could do to herself... Finally, he brought a steaming kettle and two teacups up to her room, knocking at the door with his forehead for lack of extra hands.
"Karuka? It's Bailey, I've brought tea. Are you all right in there?" After a moment, he heard her door unlock, and wide dark eyes looked out at him, red-rimmed and wary. "It's just me..." She nodded and stepped back, letting him past her, and closed the door again. "Saw the way you looked, and I thought you could stand for a cuppa. Someone gave you a shock, didn't they?"
"You have no idea," Karuka said, her pretty voice gone flat. She dug her tea stash out from her desk, pouring the last of the chamomile and lavender into the tea ball. "Answered some questions, the ones I wish hadn't been answered... but that's life, eh?" Bailey put a comforting arm around her shoulders, same thing he'd done half a million times since they'd woken up in this place, but the first time she stiffened up under his touch. He drew back, watching her face cautiously.
"I won't ask if you're okay, because that's obviously a stupid question." She snorted, looking down at the floor and letting her hair fall between them, veiling her face. "But is there anything I can do? Even just listen..."
"You want to listen? All right then." She tapped the tea ball from one mug, dropped it in the other and took her tea over to her bed, sitting cross-legged, lotus position lacking any peace. "I've always been so casual here about other people's intimacy. Teasing Mirek and Gideon, talking to Holly about her crush on Waverly... but when it came to me, I couldn't bear to think past," she waved between them vaguely. "I mean, I know what it's all about, I just wasn't imagining you... us, together, you know."
"Well, I don't want you thinking that's all I want," Bailey said, confused and maybe a little offended on behalf of his gender. Sure, he'd thought about, imagined it, but he really did respect Karuka, honestly liked her. She flicked a hand at him.
"You said you'd listen, so listen." She blew on her tea, not tasting it yet, just breathing in the steam. "I like you, you know. I like cuddling with you, hanging around playing games or teaching you yoga or just being together. You're a comfortable person to be around, Bailey." She sounded so unhappy that Bailey couldn't take any reassurance from her words. "And part of me thinks that if we did do anything further, that would be good, too." She looked up at him sharply, as if daring him to say anything.
He took the tea ball out of his cup, cradling the mug in both hands and watching her back, solemn and worried. After a moment she nodded, satisfied.
"But another part of me, a bigger part, doesn't want to do anything further with anyone-- doesn't want to be touched at all, and that pretty much sucks because I want to, and I didn't know why." She took a long sip of her tea, wincing at the heat but not pulling away from it.
"And now you know," Bailey said softly, nearly a question. She bit her lower lip, staring down into the swirls of her tea.
"I think so. I think May sort of told me. She acted like she said something she shouldn't have... even though she didn't come out and say it." She didn't look up, didn't raise her voice, didn't really move at all. "I'm pretty sure someone raped me," she said, blankly, "I think I had a badly-done abortion... there's something wrong with me."
"Oh, Karuka..." Bailey's first impulse was to hug her-- but she didn't want to be touched, and he had no clue what to say to her, not the first idea. "I'm so sorry."
"I don't even remember," Karuka said fiercely, "and I'm still fucked up, it's not fair. No one else has a stupid hangup like this, do they? I just, I want to be able to-- I don't want to push you away, Bailey, I just can't let you touch me..."
"Breathe, cariad, calm down." He kept the cup in his hands, but scooted the chair over to the bed, sat facing her, leaning in just a bit. "It's all right, Karuka, popeth o'r gorau, don't cry." She was, anyhow, tears tracking slowly down her cheeks, and he reached up carefully, brushed off a teardrop with the back of one finger. "Shh. If you don't remember it, don't get worked up because of me."
"Isn't because of you," she sniffled, "not all..." She shook her head miserably, leaning in the rest of the way to press her forehead against Bailey's. "Sort of. I'm so mad, I wanted--" Softly, he pressed his lips to hers, nothing demanding at all, a warm flowery kiss that took the anger out of her posture, let her shoulders untense and her mouth go gentle.
"Don't be mad. And don't think you have to do anything, not for me or anyone but you." A couple more tears made trails on her skin, from eyes gone round and wet; Bailey wanted nothing more than to hold her and whisper comfort into her ear.
"I don't--" She bit her lip, then waved with her cup at the one he still held. "Finish your tea and come here, I want to see something." Obediently, he emptied the cup, tongue tingling from the heat, and when he turned back from the desk she was curled up on her bed, tugging the quilt around herself. "Lie down behind me," she said softly, as much an order as a request, and Bailey toed off his shoes before he did as she asked, spooning up behind her with the blanket keeping them apart, warmth seeping through the cloth anyway.
"Is this okay, then?" he asked after a moment, and she nodded.
"Yeah."
"I'd never hurt you, Karuka, you know that?" Slowly he slid an arm around her waist, careful and chaste, and she shivered a little and covered his hand with her own. "Erioed. Not once."
"That's because you're a gentleman, Bailey," she said, moving his hand closer, curling their fingers across her flat belly, cushioned by layers, quilt and sweater and t-shirt, similarly barriered behind. Bailey shook his head, his nose brushing the back of her hair.
"No. It's because you're worth protecting. Taking care of." She made a soft startled noise, and Bailey smiled and relaxed, the chamomile and the warmth and Karuka's nearness, her quiet even breathing, lulled him into a doze.
Finally: Simon Campbell and Peter Houlihan. R. 1193 words.
Peter hasn't missed a midnight Mass on Christmas since he was twelve and had chicken pox for the holidays. It's not just tradition for him; he's heard some of the most beautiful sermons in the middle of the night, surrounded by yawning children and nodding grandparents, whole families turning out for what might be the only church service they attend all year.
Simon sits next to him, husky voice raised with the songs of praise, and when they sit down their hands come together between them on the pew, Peter's warm hand surrounding Simon's thin cool fingers. Both of them could probably recite the story of Jesus' birth, from any of the gospels, and Simon's lips move soundlessly with the reading of the Scripture. Peter still worries sometimes, how he prays and sings and believes, while holding love so deep in his heart that those in the chapel around them would call a sin; he feels defensive, then guilty, then frustrated, and then Simon comes along with his peace and his smile and the way he eases Peter's mind.
"Peace be with you," the mass ends, and the congregants answer "and also with you," the families already waking up children, tying scarves around necks and bundling back into coats.
"I got you something," Simon says, standing up a beat after Peter, cracking his neck to one side. "Oof. I hid it in your office, you have your keys?"
"Of course I do," Peter answers, looking up at Simon curiously. "Why would you hide it in my office?"
"Because that's the one place you haven't been since last Wednesday," Simon says, as if it's obvious, and he leads Peter with one hand in the middle of his back, what looks brisk to anyone else feeling daring and tender to the two of them. No one stops them on their way out, or even looks twice; Peter is never so glad of the convenient placement of his office and apartment and the chapel as he is in the winter, and he sighs quietly when Simon's hand strokes wide circles between his shoulders as he unlocks the door. "Close your eyes," Simon tells him, long fingers coming up to shade over Peter's glasses.
"They're closed," Peter protests, and lets Simon nudge him into the office, slow careful steps until the door can shut behind them, and Simon turns Peter by his shoulders to face the desk.
"You can open them," Simon says; Peter blinks twice before focusing on the spotted white and pink orchid blooming happily on top of his ledger books.
"Oh," he says softly, leaning in to sniff at the flower. "Oh," he echoes, eyes widening with pleasure, and he turns to wrap his arms around Simon, squeezing him tightly. "Oh, Simon, it's beautiful." Simon kisses the top of Peter's blond head, hugging him back not quite so breathtakingly.
"I was afraid it wouldn't thrive in here, but your desk lamp agrees with it," he confesses, "and it smells like cocoa... it was practically begging to be yours." When Peter looks up at him, lip caught between his teeth, Simon worries for a second.
"I didn't get you anything, per se... I mean, I have a plan. That's what I got, for you, or made rather, if you want it, I'd get it if you didn't, but--"
"Peter, Peter, slow down," Simon laughs a little, always amused when Peter starts babbling, even though it's a sign of his nervousness. "If it's from you, I'm sure I'll like it."
"Well, it's not exactly from me. I mean, I made the plan, but it's not-- that is to say, it's me." Peter swallows, watching Simon's face for the moment of his comprehension, which comes after a long pause for thought.
"You-- do you mean that you want--" Peter nods, tentatively, and Simon stares at him a bit more, lips parted. "Really?"
"Trust me, I've thought this over," Peter says, a little bit miffed by Simon's disbelief. "On the wider scale of sins I'd like to commit, this is the biggie, which either makes me a great person for not wanting to kill anybody, or a really bad person for giving into my strongest temptation. But either way, yes, I'm sure."
"Oh," Simon says, a little weakly, and Peter figures the look on his face less as confusion and more as amazement, right before Simon grabs his wrist and races Peter up the stairs, cupping his face in both hands and kissing him hungrily before the door even swung closed. "Peter, you--"
"For Christmas," Peter says, breathless and grinning, and Simon makes a quiet whimpering sound and backs Peter into the bedroom, kissing and kissing him until neither of them can stand up, dizzy and weak-kneed and wanting.
They've become familiar with each other's bodies, mostly hands plotting out the territory of Simon's rangy body, Peter's thicker, more solid form; a few times they've dared to taste, mouths slick and cluelessly hesitant, and even still when they sleep together it's usually nothing more than that: sleeping, spooned up together warm and comfortable and innocent.
Peter has been considering this, though, doing a little haphazard research on the internet (which was terrifying) and in a bookstore (where he twitched every time someone passed him while he skimmed The New Joy of Gay Sex), considering the implications and the necessities and the simple idea of Simon doing that to him, being in him, which on one hand was weird and sinful and uncomfortable, and on the other hand seemed like a really incredibly good idea, somehow. He couldn't really just come out and say, "Hey, Simon, do you think you'd like to have anal sex with me?" so it was easier and slightly less embarrassing to put the idea forward as a Christmas thing. Celebrating the Savior's birth with sodomy was pretty untraditional, though.
It didn't seem to matter about the untraditional or the weird or anything like that, now; Simon was startled by the idea until he was very much into the idea, and the way he's touching Peter now, halfway reverent and halfway ravenous, is a pretty clear green light that Peter had come up with a pretty awesome Christmas gift.
Simon's hands warm up quickly, sliding under Peter's clothes and tugging them off; Peter's body is wide and soft and comfortable, padded hips and pale thighs, and Simon tastes peppermint in Peter's mouth as he discovers how wonderfully pliant Peter can be, how lovely he is when he yields almost gracefully.
Peter makes a quiet pained sound when Simon pulls away, pressing his closed eyes against Simon's shoulder. "Peter? Did I hurt you?" Simon asks, the languid haze of his body's pleasure burning away from his mind. "Look at me..."
"No, no, you didn't," Peter says quickly, even though his eyes are suspiciously bright when he meets Simon's gaze. "That was just... I didn't know what to expect, at all, and..."
"And?" Simon's hands curl around Peter's shoulders, gentle and worried. Peter smiles up at him, shaking his head a little.
"And Merry Christmas. Let's not wait until next year to do this again." Tucking his head back against Simon's shoulder, Peter murmurs, "wake me up for mass in the morning."
Simon's pretty sure they're just going to sleep in.
Xantiago was big on surprises. Schuyler got that, he did, but that couldn't make him like surprises himself-- generally, all the surprises he got were incredibly bad ones. Except the ones Xantiago caused, but hey, longstanding aversions weren't easy to break. So when Xantiago insisted that Schuyler spend Christmas Eve with him, and added that he had a couple of surprises in mind, that meant Schuyler stood outside Xantiago's apartment feeling dizzy and worried for a few minutes before he could convince himself to knock. Good surprises, he told himself firmly, and then Xantiago pulled open the door, grinning broadly.
"Merry Christmas," he said brightly, pulling Schuyler in gently, "don't let the reindeer out."
"Reindeer?" Schuyler looked around, confused, until he saw Gracie making a kittyloaf on the windowsill, a pair of fuzzy brown antlers strapped to her head. "Oh... Did you drug your cat to get her to let you do that?" Xantiago pushed his shoulder, mock-scowling.
"This is a drug-free household," he said. "Stash your backpack in the bedroom and come eat, I made this, like, Hawaiianesque chicken thing and Gracie has been trying to get into it since I took it out of the oven." When Xantiago turned away, Schuyler had a chance to look at him properly-- he was wearing a snug dark green sweater, arms pushed up around his elbows, a pair of khakis that did absolutely sinful things to his backside, a white apron tied around his waist... and a candy cane barrette clipped over his ear? Shaking his head, Schuyler went to drop his backpack by the bed, and paused in the door, lips making a surprised O.
The new, soft-looking sheets were a surprise, and the unlit candles spread around on the bedside table and the dresser and the desk. The fact that Xanti had upgraded to a queen sized bed, also a surprise. Leaving his bag and his coat and his shoes, Schuyler went to join Xantiago in the kitchen, and stopped short when Xantiago yelped, "Wait!"
"What? What did I--?" Schuyler was cut off by an enthusiastic kiss, Xantiago bent down and tipping Schuyler's chin up-- and for a second he caught a glimpse of mistletoe through Xantiago's messy brown hair, before he wound his arms around Xantiago's neck and gave in to the kisses. "Only you would put up mistletoe for a party of two," he said fondly when Xantiago straightened back up.
"Surprised you, didn't it?" Xantiago chirped, hand soft on Schuyler's cheek for a moment before he turned back to the stove. "Come on, Sky, before it gets cold. Or I'll let Gracie have yours." Pushing his glasses up, Schuyler joined Xantiago at the stove, slipping an arm around his waist and leaning into his arm.
Xantiago's surprises, he could get used to, he thought.
Second: Trent Anderson-Phillips and Andrew Phillips. PG-13. 687 words.
It was a tacit agreement that Christmas would be a low-key affair in the Anderson-Phillips household, despite leaving behind the place where everything had gone so thoroughly insane that Christmas before; Chad and Skip had the memory of meeting that night to buoy up the fucked-up party in retrospect, but for Andrew and Trent it wasn't a day to be remembered well.
Christmas Eve was good, though, laying around on the couch eating homemade pizza, watching football and A Christmas Story, laughing at the dog systematically eating a tennis ball, and determinedly avoiding anything that had to do with death or guns or anything like that.
When Chad and Skip came out, declaring their intentions to play Halo 2 until Santa came, Andrew nudged Trent out of his doze and half-carried him to bed, smiling at Trent's drowsy murmurs becoming more clear. Finally Trent captured his hand, lacing their fingers together, turning their wrists until he could see Andrew's wedding ring and pulling his hand close to kiss the knuckle just under the skin-warm metal.
"S'almost exactly two years since you asked me," Trent said softly, and Andrew tipped his head to one side.
"Naw, it is two years. Is your memory goin' already?" Trent nipped at the side of his hand.
"Uh-uh. Hour and fourteen minutes from now. I remember completely." Hands still clasped, Trent shifted closer, hooking one leg over Andrew's. "I was so surprised, looking up from the prompter. And everyone around me just didn't matter any more when I saw you there." He grinned, lopsided and sweet. "You looked so nervous. Like I could possibly have said anything other than yes."
"I was more nervous because of the live cameras," Andrew said defensively, free hand brushing through Trent's hair. "Maybe just a little for what you'd say." Beaming, Trent leaned closer and kissed Andrew, just the corner of his lips, brief and teasing. "You're an awful lot of trouble, Trent darlin'," he added mischievously, free hand going for Trent's ticklish ribs.
"Pfft, you love me anyway," Trent said certainly, even though he kissed Andrew properly after that, a soft apology of lips on lips. He was a lot of trouble, a lot to deal with, a whole mess of medical issues and neuroses, and Andrew had been there since those fucked-up weeks back in the dormitory, a strong and steady presence. Wriggling ticklishly, he flopped on top of Andrew, head buried in the crook of his neck, "stoppit stoppit stoppit!"
Stopping, Andrew's hands worked toward getting Trent's shirt off instead, long warm strokes up his back and down his sides. "I do," he agreed easily, "I love you so much, sometimes I don't know what to do with all that love."
"Save it up, I might need it later," Trent joked, ducking his head and letting Andrew pull his shirt over his arms, tossing it away. "Keep it there," he tapped Andrew's chest, one finger drawing a heart over his shirt, "and whenever I'm being trouble, wrap me up in it." The scars marking thick lines over Trent's chest were deeply pink, and Andrew covered them with a broad palm, fingers splayed out over paler, softer skin. Trent was waiting, waiting for a new heart, someone else's accident to become his good fortune...
"You got it," Andrew promised, his voice thick, and he closed his eyes as Trent ran a hand over his cheek, fingertips seeking out the mark where Andrew had been struck, the injury that made Trent realize that he didn't want to think about life without Andrew. "Don't think you need to worry about me runnin' out of love, though."
"Never have worried, never will," Trent said, his breath ghosting over Andrew's lips a moment before they kissed, sweet quickly turning to heat. "Hey, remember what we did after you proposed?" he asked breathlessly after a few more long kisses.
"Hm," Andrew licked his lips, reaching up to tuck Trent's hair behind his ear. "Could do with a reminder, I think." Laughing, Trent pushed his shoulders down against the bed, grinning down at his husband brightly.
"I may have to ad-lib certain parts," he warned, catching Andrew's answering laugh with another kiss.
Third: Karuka Eckhart and Bailey Dowell. PG-13. 1246 words.
Bailey hated group sessions just a little bit less than he hated solo sessions. It was all "how do you feel about that?" and "do you think you could do this sort of thing?" If he knew what he could or couldn't do, he wouldn't bloody be here with no memory, would he?
Still, as much as he hated the one-on-one sessions, it was plain to see that Karuka hated them more. She usually left the room with her freckles standing out, skin gone even more pale than usual, lashes fluttering as if she were fighting to keep her eyes looking at her housemates. After the most recent session, the day after a very strange Christmas, Karuka fled the room and ran from everyone else, locking herself in her room and going silent on the other side of the door.
The silence creeped Bailey out more than if he'd heard her crying. God only knew what she could do to herself... Finally, he brought a steaming kettle and two teacups up to her room, knocking at the door with his forehead for lack of extra hands.
"Karuka? It's Bailey, I've brought tea. Are you all right in there?" After a moment, he heard her door unlock, and wide dark eyes looked out at him, red-rimmed and wary. "It's just me..." She nodded and stepped back, letting him past her, and closed the door again. "Saw the way you looked, and I thought you could stand for a cuppa. Someone gave you a shock, didn't they?"
"You have no idea," Karuka said, her pretty voice gone flat. She dug her tea stash out from her desk, pouring the last of the chamomile and lavender into the tea ball. "Answered some questions, the ones I wish hadn't been answered... but that's life, eh?" Bailey put a comforting arm around her shoulders, same thing he'd done half a million times since they'd woken up in this place, but the first time she stiffened up under his touch. He drew back, watching her face cautiously.
"I won't ask if you're okay, because that's obviously a stupid question." She snorted, looking down at the floor and letting her hair fall between them, veiling her face. "But is there anything I can do? Even just listen..."
"You want to listen? All right then." She tapped the tea ball from one mug, dropped it in the other and took her tea over to her bed, sitting cross-legged, lotus position lacking any peace. "I've always been so casual here about other people's intimacy. Teasing Mirek and Gideon, talking to Holly about her crush on Waverly... but when it came to me, I couldn't bear to think past," she waved between them vaguely. "I mean, I know what it's all about, I just wasn't imagining you... us, together, you know."
"Well, I don't want you thinking that's all I want," Bailey said, confused and maybe a little offended on behalf of his gender. Sure, he'd thought about, imagined it, but he really did respect Karuka, honestly liked her. She flicked a hand at him.
"You said you'd listen, so listen." She blew on her tea, not tasting it yet, just breathing in the steam. "I like you, you know. I like cuddling with you, hanging around playing games or teaching you yoga or just being together. You're a comfortable person to be around, Bailey." She sounded so unhappy that Bailey couldn't take any reassurance from her words. "And part of me thinks that if we did do anything further, that would be good, too." She looked up at him sharply, as if daring him to say anything.
He took the tea ball out of his cup, cradling the mug in both hands and watching her back, solemn and worried. After a moment she nodded, satisfied.
"But another part of me, a bigger part, doesn't want to do anything further with anyone-- doesn't want to be touched at all, and that pretty much sucks because I want to, and I didn't know why." She took a long sip of her tea, wincing at the heat but not pulling away from it.
"And now you know," Bailey said softly, nearly a question. She bit her lower lip, staring down into the swirls of her tea.
"I think so. I think May sort of told me. She acted like she said something she shouldn't have... even though she didn't come out and say it." She didn't look up, didn't raise her voice, didn't really move at all. "I'm pretty sure someone raped me," she said, blankly, "I think I had a badly-done abortion... there's something wrong with me."
"Oh, Karuka..." Bailey's first impulse was to hug her-- but she didn't want to be touched, and he had no clue what to say to her, not the first idea. "I'm so sorry."
"I don't even remember," Karuka said fiercely, "and I'm still fucked up, it's not fair. No one else has a stupid hangup like this, do they? I just, I want to be able to-- I don't want to push you away, Bailey, I just can't let you touch me..."
"Breathe, cariad, calm down." He kept the cup in his hands, but scooted the chair over to the bed, sat facing her, leaning in just a bit. "It's all right, Karuka, popeth o'r gorau, don't cry." She was, anyhow, tears tracking slowly down her cheeks, and he reached up carefully, brushed off a teardrop with the back of one finger. "Shh. If you don't remember it, don't get worked up because of me."
"Isn't because of you," she sniffled, "not all..." She shook her head miserably, leaning in the rest of the way to press her forehead against Bailey's. "Sort of. I'm so mad, I wanted--" Softly, he pressed his lips to hers, nothing demanding at all, a warm flowery kiss that took the anger out of her posture, let her shoulders untense and her mouth go gentle.
"Don't be mad. And don't think you have to do anything, not for me or anyone but you." A couple more tears made trails on her skin, from eyes gone round and wet; Bailey wanted nothing more than to hold her and whisper comfort into her ear.
"I don't--" She bit her lip, then waved with her cup at the one he still held. "Finish your tea and come here, I want to see something." Obediently, he emptied the cup, tongue tingling from the heat, and when he turned back from the desk she was curled up on her bed, tugging the quilt around herself. "Lie down behind me," she said softly, as much an order as a request, and Bailey toed off his shoes before he did as she asked, spooning up behind her with the blanket keeping them apart, warmth seeping through the cloth anyway.
"Is this okay, then?" he asked after a moment, and she nodded.
"Yeah."
"I'd never hurt you, Karuka, you know that?" Slowly he slid an arm around her waist, careful and chaste, and she shivered a little and covered his hand with her own. "Erioed. Not once."
"That's because you're a gentleman, Bailey," she said, moving his hand closer, curling their fingers across her flat belly, cushioned by layers, quilt and sweater and t-shirt, similarly barriered behind. Bailey shook his head, his nose brushing the back of her hair.
"No. It's because you're worth protecting. Taking care of." She made a soft startled noise, and Bailey smiled and relaxed, the chamomile and the warmth and Karuka's nearness, her quiet even breathing, lulled him into a doze.
Finally: Simon Campbell and Peter Houlihan. R. 1193 words.
Peter hasn't missed a midnight Mass on Christmas since he was twelve and had chicken pox for the holidays. It's not just tradition for him; he's heard some of the most beautiful sermons in the middle of the night, surrounded by yawning children and nodding grandparents, whole families turning out for what might be the only church service they attend all year.
Simon sits next to him, husky voice raised with the songs of praise, and when they sit down their hands come together between them on the pew, Peter's warm hand surrounding Simon's thin cool fingers. Both of them could probably recite the story of Jesus' birth, from any of the gospels, and Simon's lips move soundlessly with the reading of the Scripture. Peter still worries sometimes, how he prays and sings and believes, while holding love so deep in his heart that those in the chapel around them would call a sin; he feels defensive, then guilty, then frustrated, and then Simon comes along with his peace and his smile and the way he eases Peter's mind.
"Peace be with you," the mass ends, and the congregants answer "and also with you," the families already waking up children, tying scarves around necks and bundling back into coats.
"I got you something," Simon says, standing up a beat after Peter, cracking his neck to one side. "Oof. I hid it in your office, you have your keys?"
"Of course I do," Peter answers, looking up at Simon curiously. "Why would you hide it in my office?"
"Because that's the one place you haven't been since last Wednesday," Simon says, as if it's obvious, and he leads Peter with one hand in the middle of his back, what looks brisk to anyone else feeling daring and tender to the two of them. No one stops them on their way out, or even looks twice; Peter is never so glad of the convenient placement of his office and apartment and the chapel as he is in the winter, and he sighs quietly when Simon's hand strokes wide circles between his shoulders as he unlocks the door. "Close your eyes," Simon tells him, long fingers coming up to shade over Peter's glasses.
"They're closed," Peter protests, and lets Simon nudge him into the office, slow careful steps until the door can shut behind them, and Simon turns Peter by his shoulders to face the desk.
"You can open them," Simon says; Peter blinks twice before focusing on the spotted white and pink orchid blooming happily on top of his ledger books.
"Oh," he says softly, leaning in to sniff at the flower. "Oh," he echoes, eyes widening with pleasure, and he turns to wrap his arms around Simon, squeezing him tightly. "Oh, Simon, it's beautiful." Simon kisses the top of Peter's blond head, hugging him back not quite so breathtakingly.
"I was afraid it wouldn't thrive in here, but your desk lamp agrees with it," he confesses, "and it smells like cocoa... it was practically begging to be yours." When Peter looks up at him, lip caught between his teeth, Simon worries for a second.
"I didn't get you anything, per se... I mean, I have a plan. That's what I got, for you, or made rather, if you want it, I'd get it if you didn't, but--"
"Peter, Peter, slow down," Simon laughs a little, always amused when Peter starts babbling, even though it's a sign of his nervousness. "If it's from you, I'm sure I'll like it."
"Well, it's not exactly from me. I mean, I made the plan, but it's not-- that is to say, it's me." Peter swallows, watching Simon's face for the moment of his comprehension, which comes after a long pause for thought.
"You-- do you mean that you want--" Peter nods, tentatively, and Simon stares at him a bit more, lips parted. "Really?"
"Trust me, I've thought this over," Peter says, a little bit miffed by Simon's disbelief. "On the wider scale of sins I'd like to commit, this is the biggie, which either makes me a great person for not wanting to kill anybody, or a really bad person for giving into my strongest temptation. But either way, yes, I'm sure."
"Oh," Simon says, a little weakly, and Peter figures the look on his face less as confusion and more as amazement, right before Simon grabs his wrist and races Peter up the stairs, cupping his face in both hands and kissing him hungrily before the door even swung closed. "Peter, you--"
"For Christmas," Peter says, breathless and grinning, and Simon makes a quiet whimpering sound and backs Peter into the bedroom, kissing and kissing him until neither of them can stand up, dizzy and weak-kneed and wanting.
They've become familiar with each other's bodies, mostly hands plotting out the territory of Simon's rangy body, Peter's thicker, more solid form; a few times they've dared to taste, mouths slick and cluelessly hesitant, and even still when they sleep together it's usually nothing more than that: sleeping, spooned up together warm and comfortable and innocent.
Peter has been considering this, though, doing a little haphazard research on the internet (which was terrifying) and in a bookstore (where he twitched every time someone passed him while he skimmed The New Joy of Gay Sex), considering the implications and the necessities and the simple idea of Simon doing that to him, being in him, which on one hand was weird and sinful and uncomfortable, and on the other hand seemed like a really incredibly good idea, somehow. He couldn't really just come out and say, "Hey, Simon, do you think you'd like to have anal sex with me?" so it was easier and slightly less embarrassing to put the idea forward as a Christmas thing. Celebrating the Savior's birth with sodomy was pretty untraditional, though.
It didn't seem to matter about the untraditional or the weird or anything like that, now; Simon was startled by the idea until he was very much into the idea, and the way he's touching Peter now, halfway reverent and halfway ravenous, is a pretty clear green light that Peter had come up with a pretty awesome Christmas gift.
Simon's hands warm up quickly, sliding under Peter's clothes and tugging them off; Peter's body is wide and soft and comfortable, padded hips and pale thighs, and Simon tastes peppermint in Peter's mouth as he discovers how wonderfully pliant Peter can be, how lovely he is when he yields almost gracefully.
Peter makes a quiet pained sound when Simon pulls away, pressing his closed eyes against Simon's shoulder. "Peter? Did I hurt you?" Simon asks, the languid haze of his body's pleasure burning away from his mind. "Look at me..."
"No, no, you didn't," Peter says quickly, even though his eyes are suspiciously bright when he meets Simon's gaze. "That was just... I didn't know what to expect, at all, and..."
"And?" Simon's hands curl around Peter's shoulders, gentle and worried. Peter smiles up at him, shaking his head a little.
"And Merry Christmas. Let's not wait until next year to do this again." Tucking his head back against Simon's shoulder, Peter murmurs, "wake me up for mass in the morning."
Simon's pretty sure they're just going to sleep in.
