![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
first kiss drabbles
All in one post, for your viewing pleasure. I knew there was a reason I uploaded this icon :D
I have a couple still to do, but I'll edit this post to add them later.
BSG: Starbuck/Leoben
Sticky with sweat and with her heart racing pleasantly, Kara made a beeline for the showers, glad to get at the water while everyone else was playing the final quartia.
"Kara Thrace?"
"If you're a scout, you needn't bother," she said, not looking at him. "I've given my word to the Buccaneers. Unofficially."
"I'm not a scout." The man took her arm, but not forcefully enough to warrant a violent reaction. Pity. The coach had been on her case about her temper, and if she lost it one more time then she'd miss the final games of the season, so she settled for pulling her arm away.
"What, then? Just a perve off the streets who likes hanging around locker rooms?"
He smiled, then, and she felt herself clench her hands around her towel; strange, that the urge to hurt him was still there. Still growing. She'd never seen him before in her life.
"I came to see you. Call it a dress rehearsal."
She'd never seen him before in her life.
But she still wanted to lash out, and now she sort of maybe had grounds for self-defense against irritating frakkers who were probably stalkers, but her limbs weren't working. Kara Thrace, the best damn pyramid player this side of Apollo's Temple, and she couldn't manage so much as to duck sideways away from his lips.
When the kiss broke, she found that one of her hands was working again, so she raised it with an exhalation of great relief and slammed it across his face. Blood was running from his nose when he straightened up.
"I'll see you again," he said simply.
"Sure," Kara said. "Freak."
He smiled again, and her fingers tingled.
BSG/Avatar: Laura Roslin/Uncle Iroh
Iroh stared at the White Lotus tile in the centre of his Pai Sho board, and then looked up at the woman sitting opposite him. She took another sip of his best jasmine and cornflower tea, and then set the cup down.
"I have travelled a long way," she said, and he could see that she was choosing her words carefully. "I hear you play an excellent game, General Iroh."
"It is becoming more difficult to find opponents, my lady." She could have been bluffing the rituals; he couldn't be certain. Her expression, her neatly clasped hands...those gave nothing away. "Especially those as beautiful as yourself."
The faint pleased light in her face didn't look feigned. But he had to be sure. Iroh leaned across the board and kissed her gently, formally, two fingers of his left hand resting on the inside of her elbow. Her breath was warm and edged with jasmine, and Iroh wanted to trust her, but he didn't relax until he felt her own fingers tap his. Twice.
"What do you need?" he murmured.
"Information," the woman said calmly.
Milliways: Lucifer/Crowley
With the Angel Lucifer standing directly in front of him, it was hard to gather his thoughts properly. The Captain's light was chaotic, distorting, bespeaking power beyond anything he'd known before and a sense of anger kept in check, and it rippled through any articulate sentences that he might have been able to form.
"You are for the Cause?" Lucifer asked him.
"Well," he said, "I mean," and he thought about the dull white fire of conviction that had swept through him when he first heard the speeches, tried to find the sense memory of it in his veins. He failed. But he held Lucifer's fierce sea-grey gaze and knew that he'd made his choice a long time ago. "Yes. To the end."
"Thank you." And Lucifer leaned in and kissed his cheek; something noble in the gesture, something like reverse fealty that made his heart ache.
"Samael," said the other angel, the one that he'd never seen before. There was wind in his voice and lightning in the short, graceful flick of his dark eyes. "Time."
"Thank you," Lucifer repeated, and turned away.
Bones: Booth/Brennan
She's always liked the lab at night; proper night, not the long familiar nights when everyone is swaying on their feet but pushing through the last stages of a case because a mystery is more than any of them can resist. Proper night. The dull buzz of the refridgeration units and the click of monitors and the eerie bubbling light from the lava lamp that Angela gave Zack for his last birthday. She lets her head fall back on the couch and stares at the ceiling, a study in shadow and metallic glints.
"That was a really stupid thing to do, Bones," Booth says. She's been waiting for him to say it for at least three hours now, but she still hasn't come up with a good response. "Bones." His hand reaches up and knocks against her jaw. "You asleep up there?"
She looks down and watches the way he smiles in the almost-dark, feels the restless shift of his neck on her lap. "No. I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep for a while."
A pause. "Yeah." He sighs and shifts again. "And that was a stupid thing to do."
"I've done it before," she protests.
"And it was a bad idea then, too. Don't go charging into a murderer's house without calling for backup."
"But you..."
She could finish it, you do it all the time, or, you were in trouble, but she doesn't want to argue with him right now. She fiddles with a button on his shirt instead, and studies the amused slant of his mouth, and runs through the list in her head that she's had to pull out more and more of late. Reasons Why It's A Bad Idea To Kiss Seeley Booth.
She thinks, we've talked about this.
But then she thinks, I've done it before.
"I what, Bones?" and it's dark and she feels safe, at peace, at home. She puts her palm against his cheek and finds his wonderful laughing mouth by touch; he inhales sharply, the air cool against her fingers, his chest rising under her other hand.
"Nothing," she says. The darkness is daring her, and she almost died today, and she leans down and kisses him before she can change her mind.
Doctor Who: Jack/Martha
"You could look at it this way," Jack said. "He was in a whole different body back then. Bigger ears. Leather jacket," he added, leering.
Martha swatted him in the back of the head. She had decided not to tell Jack about the time the Doctor kissed her, because a) she hadn't even liked him back then, so she hadn't been able to enjoy it properly, and b) the whole DNA-sampling thing lent the event an air of indignity. No. It didn't count.
"Besides, I never seem to kiss people these days unless one of us is going to die. Or has died. Or come back." Jack snapped his fingers and Martha passed him the wavelength monitor. "I've become morbid in my immortality."
"You've always just come back, Jack." She bumped his shoulder. "And yet I don't see you running around distributing kisses."
Jack gave the antenna a final tweak and pulled back, looking at her with an expression that she recognised.
"Tom will kill you," she warned, trying to fend him off with a greasy rag. "I'll help him. We have scalpels and everything. Jack! You --"
He had the decency to keep it light and friendly, but there was enough heat in the kiss to make Martha's stomach squirm with lost opportunities and the convinction that some of his dirty stories weren't nearly as hyperbole-adorned as she'd thought.
H.M.S. Praiseworthy/Doctor Who: Andrea Andreani/Jack Harkness
It wasn't that the man was wearing a coat that looked vintage -- vintage vintage, vintage for Ada's own time and not just vintage for the Long Night -- it was that he was strolling down the street eating what looked like marshmallows. Just pulling them out of a bag and putting them in his mouth like they were nothing. Ada had stepped into his path before she'd even finished imagining Sophie's reaction if she brought real marshmallows home.
"What do you want for them?" she demanded, doing some dubious barter-math in her head. She'd seen his type before; flaunting luxuries in the street and waiting to be approached. But she was a better trader than she used to be, and if he wasn't too unreasonable then they'd probably be able to afford it.
"Sorry, what do I want for what?" The man looked down at her and blinked. He was very good-looking, and had an easy smile that reminded her achingly of Bullwhip.
"The marshmallows."
"Oh. Here, have one if you like." He tilted the bag towards her, and Ada narrowed her eyes. She didn't do teasers.
"The whole bag. What'll you take for them? I've got some alcohol; not on me, but I could get it."
After a pause, the man stuck out his hand. "Jack Harkness," he said. "You must sure like marshmallows."
"Andrea." She shook briefly. "You're hilarious."
"I'll take a kiss."
She stared at him. "What?"
"For the marshmallows." He rolled down the top of the bag and grinned at her. "I don't need any alcohol, but you look like a good kisser."
"I'm a great kisser," said Ada's mouth automatically, while her brain kicked and prodded her to get on with it before the madman changed his mind.
"What a coincidence," Jack said, taking a step closer, "me too."
And he really was. Certifiable lunatic or no.
"Marshmallows," Ada demanded, as soon as she had her breath back.
"Aw." He grinned. "Throw in another kiss gratis? Last wish of a dying man?"
"You don't look like you're dying." Ada made a grab at the bag and he surrendered it willingly enough. "But my friend's a doctor, and...I guess she could take a look, if you like. She's at the plague clinic today, but she'll be back this evening --"
Jack was shaking his head, still smiling. "I was kidding! Besides, I know a doctor myself. And I'm just passing through."
That was uncommon enough that Ada raised her eyebrows. "On your way to where?"
"Eighteen-sixty," he said lazily, and then winked. "Kidding again."
Ada's heart did something ridiculously loud. "What?" she said. "No you weren't."
Jack grinned. "It's a long story."
Ada made herself smile back. "Try me."
Doctor Who: Master/Doctor
"Ritual," he says, holding the word in his mouth as though it's unpleasantly cold. "Always the same, in and out."
You don't bother to point out that Time Lord rituals are necessary to hold certain universal constants in place, because he knows that, and you've never been one to state the obvious if it can slip into the conversational gaps. "And you do so hate to be bored," you say, mocking.
He spins very suddenly and takes your face in his hands. "Yes." He speaks with a kind of brilliant bronze intensity, and when he kisses you you can taste the metal of his impatience. It's intoxicating; if you didn't know better then you'd accuse time of standing still, but you often feel that way when you're with him. As though he's cheating. As though the two of you could stand in one place and let the universe pass you by, and reach out to change its fabric if the fancy took you.
But that's bordering on treason, just a fantasy, of course, of course, just his warm teasing mouth confusing your senses and tempting disaster. Always disaster, with him, but never more than temptation. Yet.
"Don't ever get boring on me," he commands, heated, and you almost laugh and almost promise no, never, but paradox is alight in his eyes and you've never been able to resist that kind of danger.
"What if I did?" you throw out instead, a challenge.
He kisses you again, this time on the forehead, and when he pulls back he's smiling and a silver thread of time is being spun, careless, between his hands. He flicks his fingers and it's gone. "Why, then I'd probably kill you."
The Gallifreyan language has two words for 'kill' -- one means the death of the body and the transition to a new regeneration, and the other means to annihilate completely. The difference between them is subtle; no more than the length of a vowel. When he says it, looking at you unflinchingly, the meaning is ambiguous, somewhere between the two. It's a common mistake for a child to make, but he has never been inexact in these matters.
So it's a test.
So you smile back.
"And then what would I do?" you ask.
"I don't know," he says, "but it wouldn't be boring."
Supernatural: Sam/Dean
There was a birthday tradition between Jess and Sam; a certain series of events that happened after the presents and the candles, immediately after the singing. Sam hadn't thought of it once since her death, not once, but it popped into his head while Dean was singing a loud and enthusiastic rendition of 'Happy Birthday' to himself. The first birthday that he wasn't meant to have. The first birthday since they'd burnt the contract. Sam looked sidelong at Dean, who was now conducting some kind of invisible demonic orchestra with his index fingers, and suddenly he was too happy to keep still.
"Dude, what are you --" Dean started, and tried to struggle, but Sam took full and shameless advantage of the fact that he could lift his brother off his feet. This was the tradition. Lift and laugh and spin, round and round and round, and Sam couldn't care less that they were spinning on godawful motel carpet under a flickering light and that the cake was a rather squashed-looking thing they'd gotten for half price at a tiny bakery, because his brother was alive.
Just before he was about to lose his balance, Sam halted the spin and -- still on autopilot -- leaned down and delivered a smacking kiss to Dean's indignant mouth. Two seconds later he realised what he'd done and was considering freaking out about it, but the stunned-goldfish expression on Dean's face set him laughing instead.
"Christo," Dean wheezed, leaning in and making a big show of wiping his mouth on the collar of Sam's shirt. "Man, if you're not possessed, you're just an enormous freak."
"Sorry," Sam said, not at all sorry, and set Dean back on his feet.
Dean took two steps sideways and fell onto the floor. "Just gonna lie here until the room stops spinning," he grumbled. "Just gonna --"
"Shit --"
Sam told himself, as Dean's kick neatly scissored his legs out from under him, that he really should have seen that coming. He rubbed ruefully at his elbow and wriggled around on the carpet until he was comfortable, one of his feet bumping Dean's. He looked sideways. "That whole 'and many more' thing, you know I mean it, right? I'm not letting anything else happen to you."
"Whatever, Sammy." Dean kicked him. Hard. "Get up and fetch me some cake."
BSG: Six/Gaius
"I have a secret to tell you," she says, and the graceful wire line of her fingers turns silken, almost caressing.
"I do like secrets." Gaius smiles and she leans in even further, until her lips are touching his ear. He's sure they make a lovely picture; he's even more sure that he's dancing with the most beautiful woman in the bar and every man in the place envies him.
"I knew who you were as soon as I saw you."
Gaius feels the warm glow of satisfaction spread from his chest to his ego, tight curls of pleasure that scatter along every place she touches him: hands, shoulder, the press of her body against his.
"I suppose fame does have its occasional perks," he murmurs back, hitting just the right note of self-deprecation.
"And you're going to be even more famous, Gaius." She turns her face and leans down to kiss him: lingering, showy, glorious. "You're going to be the most important human being in the race's history."
"If you say so, darling," Gaius says -- breath gone, warmth spinning up into his throat and mouth.
Dexter/Bones: Dexter/Booth
"There are plenty of cultural precedents, Booth," she argued. "The ancient Greeks --"
"Bones." He winced and took a deep gulp of beer. "I'm sure there are. But that doesn't mean I have to -- I mean, I'm not --"
"The predominance of homophobia in American males --"
"Christ! Bones." He put his hand over her mouth, waited until she'd stopped making muffled noises, and then lowered it. "I'm not homophobic. I just don't think everyone should be encouraged to have a same-sex encounter as some kind of cultural experiment."
She gave him a dubious look. "I think you are homophobic, Booth. Not a lot! But a little."
Booth stared gloomily at his beer. It had started out as such a promising evening, too, what with Bones' casual when I slept with Angela that one time...
~
"Excuse me."
Dexter looked up from his drink and saw an almost suicidally-determined man staring at him. Somehow he didn't think he was about to be invited to play darts.
"Yes?"
"Look," the man said. "Look, um. I'm sorry about this, it's just my partner, okay, she's got this -- and anyway, you looked the least likely to punch me for trying -- I'm really sorry, this wasn't my idea --" and to Dexter's shock, the man leaned down with his eyes screwed tightly closed and kissed Dexter briefly. On the lips. "Sorry!" the man said again, and stalked back to his own table, where a woman wearing a pretty red blouse had her eyebrows raised and was laughing behind one hand.
Dexter had absolutely no idea what had just happened.
But he felt that way about most social interactions, so he didn't let it bother him too much.
Grey's Anatomy: Meredith/Lexie
Lexie's been counting: she's on three shots and her sister's on five, and of course it just figures that they share a fondness for the same type of alcohol. Meredith keeps catching sight of her and almost wincing, like she's wondering if Lexie is some kind of tequila-induced mirage, and if she concentrates really hard then she'll disappear.
Eventually Lexie loses her patience and pulls Meredith into the hall, away from the rest of the party. "You could at least pretend to be glad I'm here," she says.
Meredith looks tired. "Lexie. Look."
"No, you look," Lexie snaps, and, "I'm sick of giving you space," and, "Everyone makes allowances for you," and then she's leaning in and kissing her more harshly than she's ever kissed anyone before. Lexie Grey doesn't do harsh. But she doesn't snap, either, and she doesn't yank people around inside their own houses, and maybe this is the most big-sisterly thing Meredith has ever done for her: brought out the ugly adult parts of her personality.
And finally, finally, Meredith looks alive. Shocked, even. "You shouldn't do that."
"Why not?" Lexie can feel a sway coming on, but she digs her heels into the carpet and glares at her sister and holds firm. "It seems to be what people do. This whole place, it's just --" she waves a hand "-- sex sex sex, and emotional drama for lunch. I came here to be a surgeon."
"So did I!" Meredith ducks sideways with a twist of one bare shoulder and takes two strides down the hall before she turns to look back at Lexie. "We all did, all right? This is just...survival mechanisms. These are the people who understand. You think I would have had time to find a normal boyfriend? Oh, I tried that, but it turns out I tried it too late."
"Meredith." Lexie hates the bitterness in the other girl's voice because it makes her feel guilty, even though she knows she shouldn't. Her sister's fucking mess of a life shouldn't be hers to share, but somehow the mess is infectious.
"You'll get used to it." Meredith actually sways, and then heads towards the kitchen, calling out for Cristina.
Lexie closes her hand around the wood of the table. "Perhaps I don't want to," she tells the air, but there's nothing. Just the music thumping through her feet and her empty pulse, syncopated. Nothing.
Harry Potter: Remus/Sirius
War is a thin smudging of clouds on the horizon, sensed only fleetingly, and most of Sirius is aching to pour itself into the storm. And yet he finds himself alone with the stones of Hogwarts, his hands running across the cracks and solidity, unwilling to surrender contact with the only place that's ever really been home.
"What are you doing, Padfoot?"
And he feels silly, but Remus has always accepted him just as unflinchingly as the castle has: dear fierce James will speak out against the Blacks and provide clean, constructive anger when it's needed, but Sirus knows that his name could be Black or White or Smith or anything, anything at all, and Remus wouldn't think of him as anything but himself. Sirus.
So he says, "I'm thanking the stones," and doesn't feel awkward about it.
Remus smiles and walks over to place his own palm there too, not quite touching Sirius'. "I know what you mean."
"Thank you," Sirius says suddenly, "I never said --" and he only means to bump his forehead against Remus' but he gets distracted by the knowing sadness of his lips and the fire that flares up in his eyes. Two days until the full moon; really, he should have known better, because there's iron and grace in the way Remus takes hold of his half-loose Gryffindor tie and crushes their lips together.
It should be strange but it isn't, it's valediction, it's just him and Remus and the stones of the castle, it's knowing the value of being judged for your heart and not for your blood.
"The train," Remus says presently, "we should hurry," but the wolf-fire is still there, and even though Sirius watches him and watches him and pulls back until they are no longer touching, it doesn't die away.
I have a couple still to do, but I'll edit this post to add them later.
BSG: Starbuck/Leoben
Sticky with sweat and with her heart racing pleasantly, Kara made a beeline for the showers, glad to get at the water while everyone else was playing the final quartia.
"Kara Thrace?"
"If you're a scout, you needn't bother," she said, not looking at him. "I've given my word to the Buccaneers. Unofficially."
"I'm not a scout." The man took her arm, but not forcefully enough to warrant a violent reaction. Pity. The coach had been on her case about her temper, and if she lost it one more time then she'd miss the final games of the season, so she settled for pulling her arm away.
"What, then? Just a perve off the streets who likes hanging around locker rooms?"
He smiled, then, and she felt herself clench her hands around her towel; strange, that the urge to hurt him was still there. Still growing. She'd never seen him before in her life.
"I came to see you. Call it a dress rehearsal."
She'd never seen him before in her life.
But she still wanted to lash out, and now she sort of maybe had grounds for self-defense against irritating frakkers who were probably stalkers, but her limbs weren't working. Kara Thrace, the best damn pyramid player this side of Apollo's Temple, and she couldn't manage so much as to duck sideways away from his lips.
When the kiss broke, she found that one of her hands was working again, so she raised it with an exhalation of great relief and slammed it across his face. Blood was running from his nose when he straightened up.
"I'll see you again," he said simply.
"Sure," Kara said. "Freak."
He smiled again, and her fingers tingled.
BSG/Avatar: Laura Roslin/Uncle Iroh
Iroh stared at the White Lotus tile in the centre of his Pai Sho board, and then looked up at the woman sitting opposite him. She took another sip of his best jasmine and cornflower tea, and then set the cup down.
"I have travelled a long way," she said, and he could see that she was choosing her words carefully. "I hear you play an excellent game, General Iroh."
"It is becoming more difficult to find opponents, my lady." She could have been bluffing the rituals; he couldn't be certain. Her expression, her neatly clasped hands...those gave nothing away. "Especially those as beautiful as yourself."
The faint pleased light in her face didn't look feigned. But he had to be sure. Iroh leaned across the board and kissed her gently, formally, two fingers of his left hand resting on the inside of her elbow. Her breath was warm and edged with jasmine, and Iroh wanted to trust her, but he didn't relax until he felt her own fingers tap his. Twice.
"What do you need?" he murmured.
"Information," the woman said calmly.
Milliways: Lucifer/Crowley
With the Angel Lucifer standing directly in front of him, it was hard to gather his thoughts properly. The Captain's light was chaotic, distorting, bespeaking power beyond anything he'd known before and a sense of anger kept in check, and it rippled through any articulate sentences that he might have been able to form.
"You are for the Cause?" Lucifer asked him.
"Well," he said, "I mean," and he thought about the dull white fire of conviction that had swept through him when he first heard the speeches, tried to find the sense memory of it in his veins. He failed. But he held Lucifer's fierce sea-grey gaze and knew that he'd made his choice a long time ago. "Yes. To the end."
"Thank you." And Lucifer leaned in and kissed his cheek; something noble in the gesture, something like reverse fealty that made his heart ache.
"Samael," said the other angel, the one that he'd never seen before. There was wind in his voice and lightning in the short, graceful flick of his dark eyes. "Time."
"Thank you," Lucifer repeated, and turned away.
Bones: Booth/Brennan
She's always liked the lab at night; proper night, not the long familiar nights when everyone is swaying on their feet but pushing through the last stages of a case because a mystery is more than any of them can resist. Proper night. The dull buzz of the refridgeration units and the click of monitors and the eerie bubbling light from the lava lamp that Angela gave Zack for his last birthday. She lets her head fall back on the couch and stares at the ceiling, a study in shadow and metallic glints.
"That was a really stupid thing to do, Bones," Booth says. She's been waiting for him to say it for at least three hours now, but she still hasn't come up with a good response. "Bones." His hand reaches up and knocks against her jaw. "You asleep up there?"
She looks down and watches the way he smiles in the almost-dark, feels the restless shift of his neck on her lap. "No. I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep for a while."
A pause. "Yeah." He sighs and shifts again. "And that was a stupid thing to do."
"I've done it before," she protests.
"And it was a bad idea then, too. Don't go charging into a murderer's house without calling for backup."
"But you..."
She could finish it, you do it all the time, or, you were in trouble, but she doesn't want to argue with him right now. She fiddles with a button on his shirt instead, and studies the amused slant of his mouth, and runs through the list in her head that she's had to pull out more and more of late. Reasons Why It's A Bad Idea To Kiss Seeley Booth.
She thinks, we've talked about this.
But then she thinks, I've done it before.
"I what, Bones?" and it's dark and she feels safe, at peace, at home. She puts her palm against his cheek and finds his wonderful laughing mouth by touch; he inhales sharply, the air cool against her fingers, his chest rising under her other hand.
"Nothing," she says. The darkness is daring her, and she almost died today, and she leans down and kisses him before she can change her mind.
Doctor Who: Jack/Martha
"You could look at it this way," Jack said. "He was in a whole different body back then. Bigger ears. Leather jacket," he added, leering.
Martha swatted him in the back of the head. She had decided not to tell Jack about the time the Doctor kissed her, because a) she hadn't even liked him back then, so she hadn't been able to enjoy it properly, and b) the whole DNA-sampling thing lent the event an air of indignity. No. It didn't count.
"Besides, I never seem to kiss people these days unless one of us is going to die. Or has died. Or come back." Jack snapped his fingers and Martha passed him the wavelength monitor. "I've become morbid in my immortality."
"You've always just come back, Jack." She bumped his shoulder. "And yet I don't see you running around distributing kisses."
Jack gave the antenna a final tweak and pulled back, looking at her with an expression that she recognised.
"Tom will kill you," she warned, trying to fend him off with a greasy rag. "I'll help him. We have scalpels and everything. Jack! You --"
He had the decency to keep it light and friendly, but there was enough heat in the kiss to make Martha's stomach squirm with lost opportunities and the convinction that some of his dirty stories weren't nearly as hyperbole-adorned as she'd thought.
H.M.S. Praiseworthy/Doctor Who: Andrea Andreani/Jack Harkness
It wasn't that the man was wearing a coat that looked vintage -- vintage vintage, vintage for Ada's own time and not just vintage for the Long Night -- it was that he was strolling down the street eating what looked like marshmallows. Just pulling them out of a bag and putting them in his mouth like they were nothing. Ada had stepped into his path before she'd even finished imagining Sophie's reaction if she brought real marshmallows home.
"What do you want for them?" she demanded, doing some dubious barter-math in her head. She'd seen his type before; flaunting luxuries in the street and waiting to be approached. But she was a better trader than she used to be, and if he wasn't too unreasonable then they'd probably be able to afford it.
"Sorry, what do I want for what?" The man looked down at her and blinked. He was very good-looking, and had an easy smile that reminded her achingly of Bullwhip.
"The marshmallows."
"Oh. Here, have one if you like." He tilted the bag towards her, and Ada narrowed her eyes. She didn't do teasers.
"The whole bag. What'll you take for them? I've got some alcohol; not on me, but I could get it."
After a pause, the man stuck out his hand. "Jack Harkness," he said. "You must sure like marshmallows."
"Andrea." She shook briefly. "You're hilarious."
"I'll take a kiss."
She stared at him. "What?"
"For the marshmallows." He rolled down the top of the bag and grinned at her. "I don't need any alcohol, but you look like a good kisser."
"I'm a great kisser," said Ada's mouth automatically, while her brain kicked and prodded her to get on with it before the madman changed his mind.
"What a coincidence," Jack said, taking a step closer, "me too."
And he really was. Certifiable lunatic or no.
"Marshmallows," Ada demanded, as soon as she had her breath back.
"Aw." He grinned. "Throw in another kiss gratis? Last wish of a dying man?"
"You don't look like you're dying." Ada made a grab at the bag and he surrendered it willingly enough. "But my friend's a doctor, and...I guess she could take a look, if you like. She's at the plague clinic today, but she'll be back this evening --"
Jack was shaking his head, still smiling. "I was kidding! Besides, I know a doctor myself. And I'm just passing through."
That was uncommon enough that Ada raised her eyebrows. "On your way to where?"
"Eighteen-sixty," he said lazily, and then winked. "Kidding again."
Ada's heart did something ridiculously loud. "What?" she said. "No you weren't."
Jack grinned. "It's a long story."
Ada made herself smile back. "Try me."
Doctor Who: Master/Doctor
"Ritual," he says, holding the word in his mouth as though it's unpleasantly cold. "Always the same, in and out."
You don't bother to point out that Time Lord rituals are necessary to hold certain universal constants in place, because he knows that, and you've never been one to state the obvious if it can slip into the conversational gaps. "And you do so hate to be bored," you say, mocking.
He spins very suddenly and takes your face in his hands. "Yes." He speaks with a kind of brilliant bronze intensity, and when he kisses you you can taste the metal of his impatience. It's intoxicating; if you didn't know better then you'd accuse time of standing still, but you often feel that way when you're with him. As though he's cheating. As though the two of you could stand in one place and let the universe pass you by, and reach out to change its fabric if the fancy took you.
But that's bordering on treason, just a fantasy, of course, of course, just his warm teasing mouth confusing your senses and tempting disaster. Always disaster, with him, but never more than temptation. Yet.
"Don't ever get boring on me," he commands, heated, and you almost laugh and almost promise no, never, but paradox is alight in his eyes and you've never been able to resist that kind of danger.
"What if I did?" you throw out instead, a challenge.
He kisses you again, this time on the forehead, and when he pulls back he's smiling and a silver thread of time is being spun, careless, between his hands. He flicks his fingers and it's gone. "Why, then I'd probably kill you."
The Gallifreyan language has two words for 'kill' -- one means the death of the body and the transition to a new regeneration, and the other means to annihilate completely. The difference between them is subtle; no more than the length of a vowel. When he says it, looking at you unflinchingly, the meaning is ambiguous, somewhere between the two. It's a common mistake for a child to make, but he has never been inexact in these matters.
So it's a test.
So you smile back.
"And then what would I do?" you ask.
"I don't know," he says, "but it wouldn't be boring."
Supernatural: Sam/Dean
There was a birthday tradition between Jess and Sam; a certain series of events that happened after the presents and the candles, immediately after the singing. Sam hadn't thought of it once since her death, not once, but it popped into his head while Dean was singing a loud and enthusiastic rendition of 'Happy Birthday' to himself. The first birthday that he wasn't meant to have. The first birthday since they'd burnt the contract. Sam looked sidelong at Dean, who was now conducting some kind of invisible demonic orchestra with his index fingers, and suddenly he was too happy to keep still.
"Dude, what are you --" Dean started, and tried to struggle, but Sam took full and shameless advantage of the fact that he could lift his brother off his feet. This was the tradition. Lift and laugh and spin, round and round and round, and Sam couldn't care less that they were spinning on godawful motel carpet under a flickering light and that the cake was a rather squashed-looking thing they'd gotten for half price at a tiny bakery, because his brother was alive.
Just before he was about to lose his balance, Sam halted the spin and -- still on autopilot -- leaned down and delivered a smacking kiss to Dean's indignant mouth. Two seconds later he realised what he'd done and was considering freaking out about it, but the stunned-goldfish expression on Dean's face set him laughing instead.
"Christo," Dean wheezed, leaning in and making a big show of wiping his mouth on the collar of Sam's shirt. "Man, if you're not possessed, you're just an enormous freak."
"Sorry," Sam said, not at all sorry, and set Dean back on his feet.
Dean took two steps sideways and fell onto the floor. "Just gonna lie here until the room stops spinning," he grumbled. "Just gonna --"
"Shit --"
Sam told himself, as Dean's kick neatly scissored his legs out from under him, that he really should have seen that coming. He rubbed ruefully at his elbow and wriggled around on the carpet until he was comfortable, one of his feet bumping Dean's. He looked sideways. "That whole 'and many more' thing, you know I mean it, right? I'm not letting anything else happen to you."
"Whatever, Sammy." Dean kicked him. Hard. "Get up and fetch me some cake."
BSG: Six/Gaius
"I have a secret to tell you," she says, and the graceful wire line of her fingers turns silken, almost caressing.
"I do like secrets." Gaius smiles and she leans in even further, until her lips are touching his ear. He's sure they make a lovely picture; he's even more sure that he's dancing with the most beautiful woman in the bar and every man in the place envies him.
"I knew who you were as soon as I saw you."
Gaius feels the warm glow of satisfaction spread from his chest to his ego, tight curls of pleasure that scatter along every place she touches him: hands, shoulder, the press of her body against his.
"I suppose fame does have its occasional perks," he murmurs back, hitting just the right note of self-deprecation.
"And you're going to be even more famous, Gaius." She turns her face and leans down to kiss him: lingering, showy, glorious. "You're going to be the most important human being in the race's history."
"If you say so, darling," Gaius says -- breath gone, warmth spinning up into his throat and mouth.
Dexter/Bones: Dexter/Booth
"There are plenty of cultural precedents, Booth," she argued. "The ancient Greeks --"
"Bones." He winced and took a deep gulp of beer. "I'm sure there are. But that doesn't mean I have to -- I mean, I'm not --"
"The predominance of homophobia in American males --"
"Christ! Bones." He put his hand over her mouth, waited until she'd stopped making muffled noises, and then lowered it. "I'm not homophobic. I just don't think everyone should be encouraged to have a same-sex encounter as some kind of cultural experiment."
She gave him a dubious look. "I think you are homophobic, Booth. Not a lot! But a little."
Booth stared gloomily at his beer. It had started out as such a promising evening, too, what with Bones' casual when I slept with Angela that one time...
~
"Excuse me."
Dexter looked up from his drink and saw an almost suicidally-determined man staring at him. Somehow he didn't think he was about to be invited to play darts.
"Yes?"
"Look," the man said. "Look, um. I'm sorry about this, it's just my partner, okay, she's got this -- and anyway, you looked the least likely to punch me for trying -- I'm really sorry, this wasn't my idea --" and to Dexter's shock, the man leaned down with his eyes screwed tightly closed and kissed Dexter briefly. On the lips. "Sorry!" the man said again, and stalked back to his own table, where a woman wearing a pretty red blouse had her eyebrows raised and was laughing behind one hand.
Dexter had absolutely no idea what had just happened.
But he felt that way about most social interactions, so he didn't let it bother him too much.
Grey's Anatomy: Meredith/Lexie
Lexie's been counting: she's on three shots and her sister's on five, and of course it just figures that they share a fondness for the same type of alcohol. Meredith keeps catching sight of her and almost wincing, like she's wondering if Lexie is some kind of tequila-induced mirage, and if she concentrates really hard then she'll disappear.
Eventually Lexie loses her patience and pulls Meredith into the hall, away from the rest of the party. "You could at least pretend to be glad I'm here," she says.
Meredith looks tired. "Lexie. Look."
"No, you look," Lexie snaps, and, "I'm sick of giving you space," and, "Everyone makes allowances for you," and then she's leaning in and kissing her more harshly than she's ever kissed anyone before. Lexie Grey doesn't do harsh. But she doesn't snap, either, and she doesn't yank people around inside their own houses, and maybe this is the most big-sisterly thing Meredith has ever done for her: brought out the ugly adult parts of her personality.
And finally, finally, Meredith looks alive. Shocked, even. "You shouldn't do that."
"Why not?" Lexie can feel a sway coming on, but she digs her heels into the carpet and glares at her sister and holds firm. "It seems to be what people do. This whole place, it's just --" she waves a hand "-- sex sex sex, and emotional drama for lunch. I came here to be a surgeon."
"So did I!" Meredith ducks sideways with a twist of one bare shoulder and takes two strides down the hall before she turns to look back at Lexie. "We all did, all right? This is just...survival mechanisms. These are the people who understand. You think I would have had time to find a normal boyfriend? Oh, I tried that, but it turns out I tried it too late."
"Meredith." Lexie hates the bitterness in the other girl's voice because it makes her feel guilty, even though she knows she shouldn't. Her sister's fucking mess of a life shouldn't be hers to share, but somehow the mess is infectious.
"You'll get used to it." Meredith actually sways, and then heads towards the kitchen, calling out for Cristina.
Lexie closes her hand around the wood of the table. "Perhaps I don't want to," she tells the air, but there's nothing. Just the music thumping through her feet and her empty pulse, syncopated. Nothing.
Harry Potter: Remus/Sirius
War is a thin smudging of clouds on the horizon, sensed only fleetingly, and most of Sirius is aching to pour itself into the storm. And yet he finds himself alone with the stones of Hogwarts, his hands running across the cracks and solidity, unwilling to surrender contact with the only place that's ever really been home.
"What are you doing, Padfoot?"
And he feels silly, but Remus has always accepted him just as unflinchingly as the castle has: dear fierce James will speak out against the Blacks and provide clean, constructive anger when it's needed, but Sirus knows that his name could be Black or White or Smith or anything, anything at all, and Remus wouldn't think of him as anything but himself. Sirus.
So he says, "I'm thanking the stones," and doesn't feel awkward about it.
Remus smiles and walks over to place his own palm there too, not quite touching Sirius'. "I know what you mean."
"Thank you," Sirius says suddenly, "I never said --" and he only means to bump his forehead against Remus' but he gets distracted by the knowing sadness of his lips and the fire that flares up in his eyes. Two days until the full moon; really, he should have known better, because there's iron and grace in the way Remus takes hold of his half-loose Gryffindor tie and crushes their lips together.
It should be strange but it isn't, it's valediction, it's just him and Remus and the stones of the castle, it's knowing the value of being judged for your heart and not for your blood.
"The train," Remus says presently, "we should hurry," but the wolf-fire is still there, and even though Sirius watches him and watches him and pulls back until they are no longer touching, it doesn't die away.