tommyboybbi

Gido's Surf 'N Stay

Gido's Surf 'N Stay was typical of the little dive motels that speckled the coastline near Seaside, right down too its Pepto pink clapboards. Given that it was January and it was snowing at the moment, Blair didn't think there were too many surfers actually lodging there. He'd taken the key from the little East Indian lady at the desk and lugged his backpack and his laptop case to #12.

The paint was shabby and the corners of the ceiling were dark with water stains. Blair shuddered a little and tugged the garish red and green paisley bedspread off the mattress and draped it over one of the frayed wicker backed chairs on hand. The latch hook rug hung over the bed in lieu of the standard pastel beach scenes or 80s abstracts depicted a pair of jaundice-eyed Pandas listlessly chewing bamboo yarn.

He took a quick shower and rummaged through his backpack for a granola bar and a bottled water. Flopping on the bed, he reached for his laptop and booted it up.

The desk lady had promised him internet access, and Blair was pleasantly surprised when his modem cable actually allowed him to log in and check his mail at the station. No updates on his assignment, anyway. He checked his watch; after ten already, and he was supposed to meet Ryersaal at the marina at 5:30 AM.

He did some reading and was about to shut down when Jim pinged him in IM. Shaking his head a little, Blair smiled to think that although Jim was sort of a superhero, the most surreal thing about him to Blair's mind was that he had a BlackBerry and an AIM handle.

ellis0n: How's the room?

ofthefield: it's not the ritz, but it's still nicer than my old warehouse space.

ellis0n: What are you doing up so late? Don't you have a meet in the morning?

ofthefield: pot, kettle. you're the one who's supposed to be backing me up tomorrow. besides, are reputed stoners known for their excessive punctuality where you come from?

ellis0n: You're not so great at this under cover stuff.

ofthefield: and you SUCK at pep talks. I'll be fine.

ellis0n: Try not to get shot this time.

ofthefield: they're fisherman. I'll keep an eye out for nets and the gaff, though, I promise.

ellis0n: This is stupid.

ofthefield: trust me, you'd hate this place. the mildew alone would make you nuts. besides, you hate the way motel beds smell.

There was no reply and Blair figured Jim had lost whatever tenuous signal he'd managed to find in this dead-end town, until there was a knock at the door.

He was unsurprised to see Jim on the other side of the door, his broad shoulders dusted with snow.

"The bed will smell like you," Jim pointed out, crowding into the room and already shucking his sweater.

Blair laughed.

END


for iamsab, XF/etc: Mulder, porn, in outer space

she was an army brat

Aliens were real, space travel was possible and Frohike had come through, as usual.

"Seriously, that is good work. What have you got on there, anyway?"

Mulder shrugged and plucked the flash drive out of Rodney McKay's hand.

"I prefer to maintain a little mystery," he said smoothly.

Rodney's eyes widened.

"You must have some seriously good stuff on there. I mean, the encryption coding alone--"

"I'll send Frohike your compliments," Mulder promised.

"Ah, see, I should have recognized his work. He and I go... way back. He tried to hack the SGC for years." He sounded almost fond. "Oh, that reminds me, is Agent Scully around? Because we tried to recruit her, actually, and I have to say that I found her thesis intriguing-- naive and completely wrongheaded when it comes to Einstein's Twin Paradox, of course, but some solid theorizing, and also? Melvin tells me that she is seriously hot."

Mulder twisted his mouth into a small, wry grin, and watched Scully walk into the room and cross her arms.

"He's right. Scully is seriously hot," Mulder promised.

"She's standing right behind me, isn't she?" Rodney looked crestfallen.

"Yep."

Rodney clapped a hand over his eyes briefly before pasting a smile on his face and turning on his heel.

"Dr. Scully, I presume. I'm Dr. Rodney McKay," he said, extending his hand. "You'll have heard of me," he added.

Scully shook his hand briefly, and then spied the flash drive in Mulder's hand. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously and he did his best to look innocent.

Two people walked behind her before he could confirm or deny her suspicions; one a long-necked guy with high hair and the other a pretty blonde with a capable air.

She blinked at him, and just as he opened his mouth to blurt, "Samantha?" she gasped, "Fox?"

END


for jaebi_lit, SGA: Radek Zelenka, 10 Downing St., bread.

10 Downing Street

Radek Zelenka had very nearly married Regina Fletcher; they had been thrown together at a news conference just as the Stargate Program was going public. Her grandfather had been Czech, and they chatted amiably in that language and Radek would have likely never thought of it again, except that she showed up at his room that night, bringing fresh ground coffee in a little French press that Rodney would have coveted. How she had eluded her handlers and the hounding press, he never knew, but he knew better than to ask. They talked all night and made love all morning, and when she left for a new round of news conferences, she left the French press behind, and made him promise to return it.

He did so, although it was several months and three trips back to Atlantis until he was free to see her again. She called him from cars that were forever driving to airports, and she needled him in her brisk, cheerful way about not working quickly enough on disseminating Asgard beaming technology.

He became an expert on international politics, and found that he saw her more on television than he did in real life. For two years, Rodney nagged him about his time spent on Earth, complaining that without Zelenka on hand, the minions had no one to turn to as "the good cop", that it was messing with his game.

He was with her the week after she won the election, sitting in her bed as she lounged beside him wearing his cast-off dress shirt and nothing else. They had ordered in, and the hotel had fed them sumptuously, but Radek had found the dinner rolls to be especially superb. They sent down for another basket and he handed her a fresh roll, having wrapped it solemnly in a fine linen napkin.

"You should put this in your bag, Regina. To bring to your new office. I do not think the bread there will be so good."

With her increased responsibilities and the ever watchful public eye, they would have no more stolen nights for some time; perhaps ever again.

"I can't help but think you're right," she said, and kissed him, gently.

END


for theemdash, SG-1: Daniel Jackson, Atlantis, dogtags

three pairs of socks

It was past midnight when Jack knocked at his door.

"My plane got in late," he said.

"I was just... packing," Daniel said softly. This was an old argument, and one he'd finally won.

"I brought you something for the road." Jack's voice was amiable, almost chipper, despite the hour and the weariness in his eyes.

He dropped his carry-on on the couch and unzipped it, tossing three pairs of rolled white sweat socks into Daniel's open suitcase. The first pair was gray with many launderings and he could see that there was a hole in the toe.

"Sweat socks. You, uh, shouldn't have." He felt his eyebrows bunch as he studied Jack, who had unzipped his leather jacket and sprawled on Daniel's couch.

"Caring is sharing, Daniel. And take it from me, you can never have too many pairs of clean, dry socks."

Daniel himself knew this from experience to be true, and he dropped the shirt he had been folding and sat down beside Jack.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Daniel said, unnecessarily. Jack hadn't come out here on a whim, after all.

"Yeah," Jack said, and tipped his head back against the couch cushion.

"You could--"

"No, Daniel. I can't."

Daniel found he didn't have it in him to argue or persuade anymore, and so he took Jack's hand in his and held it for a long time. Eventually, Jack drew it away and cupped the side of Daniel's face instead.

"What, no kiss goodbye?" Jack's voice was gentle, even sincere, but there was a smile in it anyway.

"Come here, Jack," Daniel said, and leaned over to draw Jack forward, to meet him with his mouth, to say goodbye the only way he could.

*

Jack wasn't there to see the Daedalus off, but then Daniel hadn't expected him to be.

*

Daniel lost two pairs of socks to the mud pits of IJ5 a month after arriving in Atlantis. The pair he grabbed from his drawer after his forty minute shower was Jack's gray ones with the hole in the toe. He smiled as he unrolled them, and then he noticed the extra weight, the slight jingle, and the silver gleam as the chain slithered into his palm followed by the little clatter of the dog tags clapping into one another.

He looked at them for a long time before slipping them around his neck. He rolled the socks up again and put them back in his drawer.

END


for pearl_o, dS: Ray Kowalski, the cabin 10 miles from the nearest town, sunglasses.

10 miles from the nearest town

He broke his sunglasses wrestling with Sasha in front of the cabin they'd rented for the week. Probably he would have broken them wrestling with Dief, except that Dief was with Fraser ten miles away in Little Mukluk or whatever and probably scamming the locals for doughnuts. Sasha was red and white and had short little legs, but she was crazy, with one blue eye and one brown, and she'd bowled him over and knocked his sunglasses off so she could lick him some more. When he finally managed to shove her off and get to his feet, he heard the glasses crunch under his boot.

Aw, crap.

He sighed and knocked some of the snow out of his hair and told Sasha to line up; she and the rest of the crew did just that, like a little line of privates to his drill sergeant. Sasha was crazy when she was off the leash, but in the lines, she was all business. He harnessed all eight lickety split, and mushed them down to the lake, where him and Fraser had knocked down a few deadfall pines for their fireplace the day before.

The day was white and sunny, snow snow snow and Petrel Lake was shining like a Cher outfit, all diamondy sequins, so bright it hurt to look at, and he let the dogs roam while he chopped wood and loaded the sled with split logs.

By the time he got back to the cabin, his eyes were tearing from the cold and he had a bitch of a headache from all the squinting he'd been doing. He turned the dogs loose and stowed the harnesses before he filled their bowls and closed them in the shed for the night. After that, he stacked the wood on the porch and lugged three logs inside to start the fire.

After he got the crackle going, he sat down on the rug in front of it and rubbed his shoulder, sore from swinging an axe for half the day, and then scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. They'd been itchy, and they were still tearing, even out of the cutting wind. By the time Fraser and Dief showed up, he could hardly even open his eyes, the stinging was so bad.

"What, you guys got an allergy season in winter or something?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Did you eat or touch anything unfamiliar today, Ray?" He could hear Fraser kneeling down and flinched when Fraser gently tried to open one of Ray's eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"Nope. I chopped wood all day by the lake, ate some pemmican, played with the dogs. Sasha broke my sunglasses," he explained.

"Ah. It may well be that you've got a case of snow blindness. Hmm." He got to his feet and Ray could hear him rummaging around. "You know Ray, I was blind once," Fraser said conversationally.

"What are you talking about?" Ray was absolutely not freaking out about his eyesight. Not even a little bit. "I can see. I just can't keep my eyes open," Ray pointed out.
Fraser's bootsteps came closer again, and Fraser handed him what felt like a metal bowl that was full of sloshing liquid.

"Bathe your eyes in this, and I'll be right back with a cold compress."

Ray splashed his eyes with the water; it wasn't the biting kind right out of the cold tap, but it was nice and cool against his scrubbed-feeling eyes.

When Fraser came back, Ray tried to peek at him between his lashes, but the lights were too bright and his eyes still stung.

"Here we are, Ray," and a cool damp cloth was pressed against his eyes. It smelled like it had been steeped in cold tea. "Hold still a moment, now."

It took Ray a moment to realize that Fraser was wrapping gauze around his head, like the time Kuzma had nearly bitten his ear off.

"Whoa, whoa, what're you doin'?"

"Until your eyes heal a bit, Ray, we need to limit your exposure to light and keep your eyes covered as much as possible."

"But I need my eyes for seeing! How am I gonna get around? How long is this gonna stay on?" He took a deep breath; gotta stay cool. "I mean, this is gonna get better, right?"

"It'll only be for a day or so," and he patted Ray's knee bracingly. "I'm sure you'll recover completely, as long as we take the proper precautions."

"You promise?"

"I promise," Fraser said, and Ray listened hard but he heard only deep, solemn Mountie sincerity and not even a hint that he might be dicking around with him.

"My eyes still hurt," he added, sounding sulky even to himself.

He felt Fraser press a cool glass into one hand and little pill-shaped bumps into his other hand, "Here."

Ray knocked them back and Fraser took his arm, hauling him to his feet, saying "You'll be more comfortable on the couch, I think."

He was; he kicked off his boots, dumped his feet on the low coffee table and let Dief settle on the couch beside him and nose at his ear. Eventually, Fraser sat on the other side of him and handed him a cup of broth that was so hot it just about steamed his upper lip off.

"Perhaps you should wait for it to cool," and now, Ray could hear that Fraser was trying not to smile.

"Do not give up years of goody-goody to make fun of the blind guy, Fraser," Ray warned. "That's not buddies."

Fraser chose to ignore that comment and said, "When I was blind, I found myself very attuned to... sounds. Especially Ray Vecchio's voice."

There hadn't been any mention of this in the case reports he'd read, but Fraser's next sentence explained why.

"We were on vacation, actually. Our plane went down, and I took a blow to the head when I landed the plane. Well, I didn't quite land it, I suppose, or I wouldn't have sustained a head injury.

"In any case, I remember thinking that Ray Vecchio sounded... quite frightened."

"Vecchio, huh?" Ray found the idea of a spooked Vecchio reassuring somehow. He shrugged back into the old couch a little, felt the weight of Dief's head on his knee, the solid line of Fraser's thigh against his on the other side. It wasn't exactly fun, maybe, but there were worse places to be than here in a warm cabin with the cool, damp weight of a compress pressed against his eyes, the dark like a blank wall, and the friendly crackle of the fire and Fraser's voice in his ear.

"Well, you have to understand, Ray, that he'd never been in a true wilderness before, and that he'd placed a certain amount of faith in me to keep him oriented and trained in the ways of untamed countryside. Now he was lost in the woods, far from civilization, with an injured companion and a murderer on our trail."

"Jeeze. What is it about you that makes everybody want to kill you, Fraser?"

"I don't know," Fraser answered thoughtfully.

"Did you guys have any supplies?"

"Not really. Very little water, and the plane and its radio were damaged beyond repair. I’m afraid my concussion affected my judgment; I suppose I was quite delirious for a time. It seems to me that it was at that time that Ray was the most frightened."

"It's creepy," Ray said. "When somebody's out of it with a knock to the head. My buddy Jimmy Pino got beat down once in a raid on a meth lab, right? And he was talkin' all crazy about his science fair project from junior high. I mean, he came out of it, but the docs say it was touch and go for a while."

"Yes. In addition to it being 'creepy', I imagine Ray was worried for me. It was entirely possible that I might have died out there; dehydration, swelling of the brain. And there was the fact that I was unable to walk, even though I was conscious."

"That must have scared the hell out of you," Ray said wonderingly, trying and failing to picture Fraser basically helpless.

"It was very unsettling," Fraser admitted. "And rather uncomfortable. Ray had to carry me for some distance. So. I am glad of the opportunity to reassure you that your blindness is very temporary."

"Plus, I can still walk."

"Yes. But if you couldn't..."

"Yeah, yeah, you'd leave me for the bears."

"Ray!"

Grinning, even though it made his eyes sting, Ray thought of all the times Fraser had picked him up off the pavement, dragged him out of sinking boats, lugged him up the sides of mountains. Now Fraser was basically kissing his booboos all better and bringing him beef bouillon that could melt the chrome off the GTO. Even blind, Ray knew love when he saw it.

"You know I'd carry you, too, right?" He knocked the back of his hand near where he judged Fraser's shoulder to be. Fraser caught his hand in his own big warm Mountie mitt, squeezed it and set it lightly on his own knee. Ray grazed the fabric of Fraser's jeans with his knuckles, enjoying the buzz enough to almost forget his bandaged face and his complete inability to see Fraser's.

"I know."

END


Bonus snip for saffronhouse, SGA: McKay's hands

fair and strange

McKay has strange hands, Teyla decides. They are uncalloused, and although they are broad and strong and certainly capable, they are so fair and so oddly jointed that she is at times distracted by them. When they clutch at his P-90, white-knuckled and tense. When he curls them into the peculiar way he types on his various machines. When he's waving a fork around at the tables in the mess. She wonders sometimes what such soft, capable hands might feel like cupping her breasts, curving around the cup of her hip, smooth fingertips against the point of her chin. Such clever, manicured fingers, with clean, rounded nails. Perhaps the strangest thing about those hands is that they belong to Rodney McKay and that she has begun to imagine them unlacing her top, or stroking her training skirts aside, and touching lightly, lightly, the crease where her thigh meets her body, setting the heel of his hand against her mons and the rough curls there, then moving his hand down, to spread her with thumb and gliding forefinger...

Yes, his hands were strange, but not a stranger's, and one day perhaps... a lover's.

END