“Hey,” Nick greeted cheerfully as he walked into Grissom’s office. Grissom didn’t look up right away, too busy reading over the report Greg had handed up. He heard Greg leave, a little surprised but not concerned over the lack of fanfare that marked Greg’s departure.

“Hey yourself.” Grissom gave him a warm look when he finally glanced up from his paperwork. A worried frown marred Nick’s face as the Texan watched Greg leave. “Something up?”

“I…” Nick’s voice faltered as he searched for words. Gil waited patiently, ready to handle whatever it is that had Nick concerned. The Texan shook his head quickly, displacing the worried look with a nervous smile. “It’s nothing, probably. I’m just being silly.”

It wasn’t hard for Gil to guess what Nick was worrying about. “About Greg?” Nick had expressed concern before about their resident lab tech, a concern that Grissom often shared. He frowned absently as he thought back to Greg’s visit in his office moments before. Greg had seemed alright. There hadn’t been anything troublesome in Greg’s report. All the DNA tests had turned out exactly as Gil had expected. Admittedly, the report had been delivered rather plainly, but he’d attributed the lack of flair to the fact that there wasn’t anything spectacular about the results. Greg hadn’t showing off much recently, which suited Gil just fine.

Nick shut the door before he threw himself lightly onto the couch, an indicator that he was going to move the conversation into more personal areas. “I’m sure it’s just my overactive imagination making things worse than they are, but does it seem to you like there’s something wrong with Greg?”

Gil shook his head. “Not that I’d noticed.” He wasn’t exactly the most personable man on the planet but he liked to think he made himself available to his coworkers if they were having serious problems. Greg had been here seconds before and he hadn’t mentioned anything. Besides, if there was anything going on with Greg, Nick would know. They were practically inseparable as friends.

“Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something going on. I’m sure of it.”

“What makes you say that?” Grissom asked calmly as he moved to sit next to Nick on the couch. He let his arm settle loosely over Nick’s shoulders, the most romantic he could afford to be while they were still at work. The Texan’s face was set in that look that meant whatever it that had him worrying, it would continue to bother him, and therefore bother Gil, until they found some way to fix it. If Gil wanted any chance of getting Nick to concentrate on anything else, like his job for example, he knew he’d better play along and help Nick help Greg or whatever it is he needed to do.

“He’s been late to work twice this week, leaving almost on the dot at the end of his shift. He’s been turning down overtime when a month ago he would have jumped at the chance to play CSI.” Nick’s face twisted into a grimace suddenly, as if he’d swallowed a particularly nasty bug. “He’s been distracted, and slow at work. His mind’s not here, you know?”

Gil could name another person whose mind wasn’t here but he wisely kept that observation to himself. Instead, he tried to rationalize Greg’s behavior in hopes of getting Nick to let it go. “He just started dating someone, right? Maybe they’re still in the honeymoon phase. Explains the distraction, and why he’d be reluctant to be in and eager to get out.”

“The guy’s name is Danny. Greg’s mentioned him once or twice, but…” Nick turned his eyes on Grissom, an unspoken plea in his gaze. “But he’s not happy. Even Sara’s starting to pick up on it, and that’s saying something. If he was doting over his boyfriend he’d be blasting music and talking our ears off. As it is, I’ve barely been able to get two full words out of him the past few days and the lab’s been dead silent. Something’s wrong, Grissom.”

Gil had to admit that he’d noticed a sort of somber caste to Greg’s usual activities but he’d always written it off as a result of the particularly gloomy weather they’d had this past week or something equally as trivial. If it was something serious, Greg would have told someone about it.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Nick. You could try talking to him later but I’m sure it’s nothing.” Gil moved his arm so that he could squeeze the back of Nick’s neck reassuringly. “He’s fine, Nick. There’s nothing to worry about.” Despite the sincerity Gil forced into his words, his professional judgment was telling him that there was more to the situation than either of them saw.

Nick finally caught up with Greg in the locker room at the end of shift. If he didn’t know better he would have almost sworn that Greg was avoiding him. As it was, he just happened to keep getting dragged away before he’d had a chance to talk to Greg like he’d been meaning to all shift. “Hey, Greg, got a second?”

Greg glanced over once, a tiny turn of his head before his eyes turned back to the combination lock on his locker. “Not really, I’m running a bit late.”

The lock snapped open with a loud click. As Greg opened his locker, Nick caught a flash of black on Greg’s wrist, just at the edge of his sleeve. He’d only seen the skin for a few short seconds but it only served to heighten his concern for Greg.

“You alright there, Greg?”

Greg’s eyes snapped up suddenly. Greg stared at him with a distinct deer-in-the-headlights look before quickly ducking his head back down as he packed his bag. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s a nasty looking bruise on your wrist, Greg.”

Greg looked down at his wrist guiltily, tugging the fabric over the obvious bruise before he picking up his bag from inside the locker. “I’m fine,” Greg answered automatically, not looking at Nick as he slammed his locker door shut.

Nick shifted his stance until he was leaning against the lockers, effectively blocking Greg’s path to the door. “What happened?” He resisted the urge to tack ‘this time’ onto the sentence. He hadn’t made it this far in CSI on his good looks or the fact that he was sleeping with the boss. This wasn’t the first bruise he’d spotted on Greg and he was starting to get a bad idea of where they were coming from.

“It’s nothing.” Greg’s eyes flicked between his sleeve, Nick, and the door. “I tripped, Nick. Not a big deal.”

“Greg.” Nick made sure Greg saw his hand before he touched Greg’s shoulder. The reassuring move was spoiled by the wince Greg tried to hide, and he frowned. “Did Danny do that to you?”

“No!” Greg blushed as soon as he realized how loud his voice had been. “No,” he repeated a second time in a softer voice. “Danny loves me. You know that, Nick.”

He knew that was what Greg had told him, but he was beginning to think that Greg was just justifying the relationship. He’d seen Greg do that before with bad relationships and it killed him each time. Greg deserved better. “You can tell me if something’s going on,” he pleaded. “I’m not going to think badly of you. I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Greg probably didn’t know how broken his smile looked as he tried to reassure Nick. “I’m fine, Nick. Can I go home, please?”

Nick stepped aside with a sigh. He wasn’t going to get anywhere until Greg admitted something was wrong. “If anything happens, promise me you’ll give me a call?”

Greg paused at the door, looking back with the first passable attempt at a smile he’d seen on Greg’s face in weeks. “I will. Thanks, Nick.”

“No problem.” He tried not to feel like he was giving up on helping Greg but he couldn’t think of anything else he could do at this point, short of throwing Greg over his shoulder and dragging the kid home with him. It was all on Greg now. Nick just hoped that Greg had the sense to look for help if he needed it.

It took Nick a good five minutes to figure out what had woken him. Gil rolled over in his sleep, pulling Nick tight against him. The warmth of Gil’s embrace and the thin blankets on top of them almost lulled Nick back to sleep, but then he heard the sound again, a light rapping on the door. Nick groggily forced himself out of bed, trying not to wake Gil in the process though he had a feeling that was going to be inevitable. Pulling on a pair of boxers and a robe, he rubbed a hand over his face to try and wake himself up a bit before he opened the door.

Apparently it was raining because there stood Greg, dripping wet on their doorway with one massive shiner swelling over his left eye.

“Shit, Greg,” Nick moved aside hastily to hold the door open. “Come in.”

Greg’s eyes stayed anchored to the floor. He shifted feet but didn’t step forward. “I…” A small hiccup made Greg’s shudder, interrupting what he’d started to say. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense.” Nick reached out to pull Greg in, but that turned out to be the wrong move. Greg winced before Nick’d even touched him and pulled back a step, fear shining in his eyes.

“I…” Whatever Greg had been trying to say was lost as Greg suddenly started crying.

Nick was next to him in a second, pulling Greg tight into his arms and making calming noises. Somehow he maneuvered them both into the house and onto the couch before Greg broke down completely, going limp in Nick’s arms while his body was wracked with sobs. Glancing over Greg’s head, Nick shot a grateful look at Gil as he shut and locked the door before joining them on the couch. Gil rested a hand lightly on Greg’s shoulder in support but he didn’t make a move to join them in the hug.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Nick asked as soon as Greg’s crying started to die off.

“Not really.” Greg’s voice was harsh and grainy when he answered. He tensed slightly in Nick’s arms but didn’t make any attempts to pull away.

Nick raised his eyebrow at Gil in silent question. They’d talked before about what Greg meant to them, but that had been idle chatting. They were both fond of Greg. More than simply fond of him if Nick was honest, but he wasn’t sure how Greg thought of them. Either way, Nick wanted to offer his help as much as he could. He wanted to see Greg happy again, and he’d do anything in his power to get that.

Gil nodded, squeezing Nick’s hand over Greg’s shoulder, and Nick smiled back in thanks.

“Come on.”

Greg looked confused as Nick pulled him off the couch and steered him towards the bathroom. Gil moved ahead of them, disappearing into the bedroom for a brief minute before returning with a pair of boxers. Shoving Greg into the bathroom, Gil pressed the boxers into the young man’s hands.

“You’re wet and tired,” Nick explained. He couldn’t help but smile at the look of dazed confusion on Greg’s face. “Get changed. You can spend the night here.” He didn’t elaborate on where he planned to have Greg spend the night, but Greg would figure that out soon enough.

Greg nodded once before disappearing behind the door.

“You okay with this?” Nick asked his lover quietly, suddenly very nervous about what they were doing. There were so many ways this could go wrong but Greg needed it. He needed a chance for real affection and Nick was more than eager to provide it, as long as Gil felt the same.

“Of course.” Gil kissed him softly as proof.

They moved a step apart as soon as the bathroom door started to open. Greg glanced between them shyly, hovering in the doorway, unsure where to go. Nick took the choice away from him. Clasping Greg’s hand gently, he guided Greg towards the bed he and Gil shared. Despite the look of surprise on Greg’s face, he didn’t struggle or protest, just let himself be docilely tucked under the covers between Nick and Gil.

“I…” Fear wavered in Greg’s eyes, mixed with doubt and pain. “I shouldn’t be here. I…”

“Shh.” Nick pulled Greg tight in his arms, rubbing his back soothingly. Very gently, he let his lips meet with Greg’s, not forcing but trying to put some kind of promise in the kiss. He’d keep Greg safe, if he had any way of controlling the world. He’d make him happy. He’d make him feel loved. “Stay.”

Greg’s tension only seemed to double after the kiss. As soon as Nick pulled back, Greg’s eyes shifted down to the arm Grissom had thrown over both their chests. “But I…”

The bed dipped as Grissom half-sat up, the sudden shift making Greg roll back slightly. Gil leaning forward to claim Greg’s lips in a kiss much more forceful that Nick’s had been. Watching the two of them, Nick couldn’t help but smile, a series of wickedly dirty thoughts rolling though his head at the possibilities this night was bringing up.

“Oh.” All the doubt was cleared away from Greg’s face as Grissom pulled away.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Grissom promised as he flopped down on his side again.

Greg smiled then, and let himself be snuggled between the other two men.

“Thanks.”

A happy smile slipped onto Nick’s face as he started to doze off. “You’re welcome.” They’d worry about the logistics of it, and settling each other’s doubts, in the morning. For now he was just glad that Greg was here and that he was going to be safe. Gil and him would make certain of that.

Previous Chapter

“You can’t be doing this right now,” Danny yelled. Rusty was glad Danny had waited until they were alone, well almost alone since Reuben had stuck around, before he’d started shouting, though he wasn’t sure which Danny was more upset about, the possibility of it ruining the heist or the possibility of ruining Rusty’s relationship with Linus. Knowing Danny he was probably more concerned with the latter. “I need everyone focused, and you’re just running around distracted and getting Linus caught in the mix. Don’t do this to him.”

It was a risky gamble going after Isabel while he was here but it would work in their favor. He just wasn’t sure if Danny would see it that way. Linus definitely wouldn’t.

“I’ve been distracted the entire time,” Rusty shot back. “I can’t not be distracted, not with him around. Worst part is I’m kinda enjoying it.” He’d been distracted by Linus back before they were even dating. He’d been distracted ever since they met during the Bellagio heist.

Reuben glanced between the two of them. If he hadn’t figured things out by now, he was probably about to.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Somehow it always came back to that question.

Rusty glared at Danny. They’d talked about this a couple months ago and he’d thought Danny understood. “I know exactly what I’m doing. In the back of my mind I’m planning Valentine’s Day like it’s the biggest heist of my life and it’s not even February yet. I’m on a heist but I’m not thinking about the heist, not fully, because there’s someone else filling my spare thoughts. I’ve been thinking hearts and flowers for months now, when I don’t care about any of that shit, and it’s certainly not for her.”

The angry glare on Danny’s face softened to a look a reproach. “Then tell him that so he stops worrying that you’re about to dump him for an ex-girlfriend. We’ve got enough to worry about right now without dragging relationship problems into it.”

“I can’t tell him any of that shit,” Rusty protested. ” Not without sounding like a fucking girl.”

“You’re not a girl.”

Rusty turned and there was Linus, leaning against the doorframe with a tiny smile on his face.

“You’re getting better at that sneaky stuff.” Rusty smiled widely, too self conscious to let any real emotion show on his face, and he wondered if he’d just earned a year’s worth of brownie points or royally screwed up. Either way the words were off his chest now, no going back.

Linus shrugged off the compliment. “Yeah. Good teachers I guess.”

Reuben set down the glass of scotch he’d been sipping from and moved towards the door. “I believe this is my cue to go. Take care boys. Whatever it is, sort it out. I probably don’t want to know.”

Linus blushed at the comment but he just nodded at Reuben as the older man brushed past him.

Danny clapped Rusty on the shoulder, his grip more threatening that comforting. “Fix it, okay?”

“I will,” Rusty promised.

Danny smiled at Linus as he left, winking when he thought Rusty couldn’t see it. The door closed and then they were alone.

“Hey.” Linus took an awkward step forward. As he came closer Rusty could make out a faint bit of red tinting his eyes.

“Hey yourself.” Once Linus was close enough he pulled the younger man close, thumbing along the edge of Linus’ eyes. He hadn’t meant to do that to the kid. “You okay?”

A deeper blush stained Linus’ cheeks as he turned his head away quickly. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“If you say so,” he shrugged. “About the girl…”

Linus stiffened instantly and started to step back. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do.” Rusty held Linus tight, keeping the younger thief in his embrace. “She’s a friend,” he explained softly.

“She’s your ex-girlfriend.” Bright blue eyes stared straight at him, unflinching. Inwardly Rusty cringed, though he had to admit Linus was taking this a lot calmer than he’d expected. Or maybe Rusty was just too used to women throwing things at him the minute they even suspected he was cheating.

He shrugged easily. “Yeah, she was. Now she’s a friend. Nothing more.”

“Alright.” There was still a hint of defeat in Linus’ voice that meant he didn’t believe Rusty.

“Look,” Rusty tried his best to sound serious and earnest but he wasn’t sure how it came out. This whole ‘talking about feelings’ stuff wasn’t his thing, but he had to try. “I found out a few things about her old man. She’s been looking for him for a while, and I’d like to make sure things are set right. I’m not out to hook up with her. Even if she didn’t hate my guts and was still interested, I wouldn’t because I have you.”

When Linus looked up this time, he had that hope that Rusty’d been trying for shining in his eyes. “And that’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“And what about us?”

Rusty’s smile lit up the room, full of all the warmth and charm he could muster up. “We’re still us, in the finest sense of the word.” He squeezed Linus briefly in his arms, reassuring him with his presence.

“So you’re not dumping me for her?” Linus was venting right now, getting all his worries out in the open so that they didn’t have to bother him anymore, and Rusty was fine playing along.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He took a step towards the bed as they spoke, hoping to move the conversation into a less verbal arena.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“You sure?” There was a teasing smile on Linus’ face now.

“Need me to show you?” Rusty offered as he spun Linus around and pressed back until Linus’ knees hit the bed. The buttons on his shirt were already undone, thanks to the sneaky work of Linus’ quick fingers.

Linus lay back on the bed with a wide smile, his legs parting so that Rusty fit between them. “Only if you know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” he vowed, and then let their lips do a different kind of talking.

The kiss was electric passion, like the kisses they shared when they’d been apart for a long while and had finally got a chance to meet up again. Their tongues battled, though it wasn’t any real contest. Rusty won, hands down, all the time. Of course that was mostly because Linus let him, but it was still a fun victory.

Linus’ hands had been busy while Rusty was absorbed in the kiss. He felt the last of his clothing slip away as Linus pressed a plastic tube into his hand. Their position reminded him of the first time they’d had sex, with Linus toppled over the side of the small bed in his Chicago apartment. In a way it was a lot like their first time. They were still experimenting with each other, experimenting with trust, and love. They were learning boundaries, and Rusty was relearning what it was like to be in a solid relationship again. Him and Linus, they’d lasted a while. A good two years almost, though if he added up all the time they were physically together it was probably closer to three months. Still, he hadn’t had a relationship last that long since… well, since Isabel and even that had just been an extended fling.

“Rusty!” Linus’ strained voice called him back to the present and he stopped his absent teasing, removing probing fingers to replace them with a more solid reminder of his passion. Linus arched off the bed as he entered, fingers grasping at the sheets and Rusty realized then just how close he’d pushed Linus while he’d been lost in thought. He couldn’t help but smirk to himself. Even when he wasn’t paying attention he still knew what made Linus twitch.

Now that he was paying attention he found himself getting close to release as well. Hard not to when he looked down at Linus writhing on the sheets, his mouth open wide as he moaned in pleasure. Linus was hot and tight, squeezing around Rusty and he would have sworn then and there that it was the best damn sex he’d ever had if it meant that he could have more. This here, this was his addiction, being inside Linus while he was hot and they were both going at it like they wouldn’t see each other for months. Normally that’d be the case but they still had a few more days here until the deadline ran out and after that… well, that was later and for now he needed…

Linus came with a shout, legs wound tight around Rusty’s hips and squeezing him in. He couldn’t hold back either, not when Linus felt so good. He was quieter when he came, muffling his grunts in Linus’ shoulder. He’d leave a bruise, he was certain, or at least some kind of mark but that just kinda made the situation feel better. Here and now he was staking his claim and the resolution almost felt better than the sex.

“Rusty?” Linus sounded sleepy, tired like he always got when his nerves got too high strung.

“I’m here.” And he was, both physically and mentally, and he planned to stay that way for as long as he could manage.

He pulled out, got them cleaned up without a word and then tucked under the covers. Linus curled around him, holding him tight enough that Rusty couldn’t leave even if he wanted to, Linus’ head resting right over Rusty’s heart

“You staying?” Linus wasn’t talking about the room.

Rusty didn’t even have to think about his answer. He smiled as he carded his hand through Linus’ short hair, leaning back against the pillows as he started to doze. “Yeah, yeah I am.” He’d work out something once they were done with this job. There had to be an option. There were pockets to pick in Hollywood, just like there were hotels in Chicago. They’d make it work, and even if he had to pull a few connections to make it so, it was going to be the biggest jackpot he’d ever pulled in.

Kotori smiled shyly as he closed the door to his room behind him. Akaiwa sat perched on the bed, returning Kotori’s smile with blinding force as he took the soda Kotori handed him.

“So, your brother’s gone for a week?” Akaiwa asked, his voice sounding unconcerned. Kotori knew exactly where the conversation was heading, the thought bringing a warm blush to his face.

“Yeah.”

“And he’s really gone this time?”

Kotori’s blush deepened as he remembered how Kujaku had almost walked in on them together last time they were alone together. They hadn’t gotten very far that time, because of the interruption, but maybe now….

“Yeah, he’s really gone. I saw him off at the airport with a friend of his.” Kotori tried to be casual as he sat next to Akaiwa on the bed, but he knew their minds were both heading to the same place.

“Ah.” Relief was visible in Akaiwa’s posture, covered with an affected layer of unconcern.

Kotori was the first to turn, surprising Akaiwa with a light kiss on his lips. He’d wanted to do this so many times since their last night together, but Kujaku or someone else was always around. It was difficult, hiding his feeling all the time, but he wouldn’t give up their relationship for anything in the world.

Akaiwa kissed back, taking control after a moment. His hand came up to hold the back of Kotori’s head, his fingers carding through Kotori’s short hair. Kotori parted his lips in a light gasp, the breech giving Akaiwa advantage to slip his tongue inside Kotori’s mouth. He let himself be pushed down, reveling in Akaiwa’s weight on top of them as their hands suddenly sprang into life. It seemed like suddenly they couldn’t stop touching each other, the early lack of contact spurring them into a frenzy to make up for the lost time. Akaiwa’s hands were under his shirt, pushing the fabric up roughly to expose Kotori’s chest.

Their kiss was broken as Akaiwa moved away just enough to help Kotori pull his shirt off, a light blush on Kotori’s face as his chest was exposed. His hands trembled slightly, he wasn’t sure if it was from nervousness or excitement, as he slowly undid the buttons on Akaiwa’s shirt. Akaiwa was smiling at him, a look of gentle peace that seemed to melt Kotori’s anxiety away. He returned the smile, their eyes meeting as he slipped Akaiwa’s shirt from his shoulders.

Kotori laid back, the fabric of the sheets scratching his bare back. Akaiwa followed him down, kissing the side of Kotori’s face while his hands brushed lower, drawing idle patterns on the side of his hips before circling the waistline of his pants. Arching his back, he kept his hips off the bed long enough for Akaiwa to unfasten the button on his jeans, sliding down the zipper, and then slipping his hands under the edges to pull the rest of Kotori’s clothes down his body. He couldn’t help the blush that stained his face as Akaiwa pulled away to look at him. He kept his eyes averted, his earlier nervousness returning as he returned the favor for his boyfriend. Akaiwa naked was… well, it was more than he’d ever imagined, more than he’d hoped from and for some reason he just couldn’t stop staring at….

“Is it really that interesting?”

Kotori’s eyes snapped back up to Akaiwa’s face, and he felt himself flaming hot with embarrassment at Akaiwa’s cocky smirk. “I…” He wanted to explain, to make some excuse that would make him seem like less of a…. he wasn’t sure what he was.

“It’s okay.” Akaiwa kissed him on the forehead, his patronizing tone earning him a swat on the arm from Kotori.

“Don’t make fun of me.” He didn’t think he could handle Akaiwa making fun of him when they were like this. He wanted… something. He wanted to be closer, but he wasn’t sure how to go about asking.

“I won’t,” Akaiwa promised, sealing the words with a kiss. Then his hands were on Kotori, fingers dragging down his chest towards his hips, and Kotori arched almost-unconsciously up into the touch.

They were kissing again, the connection starting out soft and gentle until their bodies met and then it was like they couldn’t get enough. Kotori was moving, urgently, erratically, trying to shove his hips up towards Akaiwa’s so that he could recreate that electric spark they’d found between them. His hands were twisted around Akaiwa’s back and he was using all his strength to keep them together, clutching desperately at whatever expanse of skin he could reach.

“Wait.” The word didn’t make sense the first time Akaiwa said it. They were finally alone, together, like this. Why would Akaiwa want to wait? But then he said it again, pulling back and Kotori couldn’t keep the look of hurt from his face as Akaiwa turned away to reach for his pants.

“Why?” Kotori was hurt. Why was Akaiwa pulling away so suddenly when he’d been the one so insistent about it in the first place? Why…

Akaiwa turned around, his face falling when he saw Kotori, and then he was back, kissing Kotori’s face insistently. “No, I’m not mad or upset or anything. Don’t do that Kotori.”

“But…” He was scared, insecurities flaring up when Akaiwa tried to leave and he thought…

Akaiwa held up his hand, the one that had been reaching for his pants, and showed Kotori the two objects he’d retrieved from his pocket.

“Oh.” Kotori’s insecurity was gone, shifted instead to embarrassment as he realized what Akaiwa was doing. Of course he’d want to… do ‘that’. They’d talked, briefly, last time about it and so it was obvious in retrospect that they’d need… preparation.

“We good?” Akaiwa kissed the side of his face, hands stroking reassuringly down Kotori’s side.

“Yeah.” Kotori nodded once, shifting under Akaiwa until they were back like before. He blushed, feeling a little too wanton as he spread his legs to fit Akaiwa between them.

Akaiwa smiled before shifting until they were pressed together once more, chest to chest and hips to hips. “Relax, okay?”

Kotori nodded, his eyes closing as Akaiwa kissed him again, working back towards their earlier frenzy of emotion. He heard Akaiwa fumbling around, opening the wrapper and slipping the condom onto himself. In his head Kotori pictured the rubber rolling down Akaiwa’s erection, and he thought, maybe next time he’d like to try it himself. He wondered what it would feel like. It’d looked big and soon it would…

His thought was interrupted as Akaiwa touched him and he jumped slightly in surprise as one of his boyfriend’s fingers suddenly started to push inside. His eyes came open then and he gasped, clutching at Akaiwa’s back as he tried to calm himself. Akaiwa murmured to him, his voice low and reassuring, accompanied by his other hand stroking gently against his stomach.

“It’s okay,” Akaiwa repeated and Kotori forced himself to relax as he let Akaiwa inside of him. He wanted it, he knew that, wanted it so badly. They just had to get over the… his breath caught as another finger pushed inside, the invasion not so much painful as really, really odd, more so when they started moving and… they just had to get past that and then they’d be together, really together the way couples were supposed to be.

Akaiwa’s kisses distracted him, covering his face and then pushing inside his mouth until he forgot what he was supposed to be nervous about. When Akaiwa finally pushed himself inside it was like they’d finally found the balance between them. Kotori sighed, his body going weightlessly limp while Akaiwa waited, holding still inside of him for some unknown signal. A shaky breath slipped from Kotori’s lips and then Akaiwa was moving.

Beyond that there was just pleasure. Akaiwa was moving and it was the most perfect thing he’d ever felt. He knew he was saying something, making all sorts of uncool and embarrassing noises, every sound that came out of his mouth needy and full of pleasure, but he couldn’t help it. They were so good like this, so perfect, and Kotori couldn’t doubt their relationship when they were like this. They were meant to do this, meant to find this special connection.

Opening his eyes Kotori stared up at Akaiwa, surprised at the blush on his lover’s face, a paler version of his own bright crimson. They were both a little uncomposed right now, but that was fine. They didn’t need to impress each other, not anymore.

Kotori could feel himself getting closer. It felt like he was reaching, stretching out both of his hands for something that he couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, couldn’t touch. Then Akaiwa moved, thrusting hard into him, and it was right there in his grasp. He spasmed, body arching off the bed as he let himself go with the pleasure.

Akaiwa’s forehead was pressed against his forehead by the time their breathing finally slowed down. Kotori was the first to move, stretching his body and then regretting it as the move only shot another jolt of pleasure straight through him. A kiss against his shoulder signaled that Akaiwa was back to reality and they slowly untangled themselves, the used condom tossed into the little trash can beside Kotori’s bed.

A sweaty face smiled down to him, eyes soft as Akaiwa kissed away the tears that had formed at the corner of Kotori’s eyes. He returned the smile, happier than he could ever remember being.

“We look totally uncool,” Akaiwa said with a smile, his forehead knocking lightly against Kotori’s.

“Yeah,” Kotori agreed, “but I like it better this way.”

The first time Snape saw him was at a staff meeting. He walked in late to find an unfamiliar figure hiding in the shadows of the room. Snape leaned against a back wall and regarded the young man out of the corner of his eyes. Curly black hair marked the man of Semitic descent. His face was youthful but with tired eyes and an engrossing melancholy that aged him. Snape guessed the man to be in his early twenties at the oldest. The traditional black robes of the school hung off the young man awkwardly, showing off wide portions of the muggle clothes underneath.

Dumbledore’s eyes caught Snape’s in veiled reproach at his tardiness before clearing his throat. “Now that we’re all in attendance, I have an announcement to make. As you are all aware of, Professor Vector has taken an extended leave for her upcoming maternity and will not be with us this coming year. My advance congratulations to her and Professor Sinistra.” Dumbledore nodded towards the Astronomy professor. “Thus, I have the greatest of pleasure in introducing our new Arithmancy teacher, Professor Charles Eppes. I assure you all that while Professor Eppes is not an alumni of our school, he has the finest of credentials in his field. I hope you all will make him feel most welcome in his new home.”

A round of applause broke out as the young man in the corner stepped forward and nodded shyly. Severus clapped politely along with his fellows. He found his gaze trapped on the new professor as he stepped back into the shadows the moment Dumbledore continued with the meeting. Professor Eppes was obviously uncomfortable with the sudden attention. Snape could sympathize. From appearance alone he could tell the new professor was going to be a hit among the students. The girls would find his looks, combined with the sad shyness, a compelling attraction. He had no doubt that a number of the third years would be requesting a sudden addition of Arithmancy.

The new professor was surrounded by the more inquisitive staff members the moment the meeting ended, Professor Sinistra foremost among them. Snape slipped away amidst the clamor, shooting a pitying glance at the overwhelmed professor on his way out.

If he’d looked back a second later he would have noticed that the new professor’s eyes followed him as he left.

The second time Snape saw the new professor was a week later at the start-of-term feast. Professor Sinistra had stuck herself fast at the new professor’s side, passing to him advice from Professor Vector. True to Snape’s predictions, Professor Eppes had caught the eye of a fair number of females as the students filed in, and a fair amount of whispering had risen, no doubt wondering who the visitor was.

Attention turned away from the professor as soon as Dumbledore moved on to the more interesting news of the term, namely the installation of Alastor Moody as the latest Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, the announcement of the Tri-Wizard tournament, and the arrival of the guest students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Snape excused himself early from the banquet, as was his custom. The silent, vacant halls were a blessed relief, and he felt his spirits lifting the further away from the great hall he got. He sighed, a strange disappointment settling over him as he left, but he ignored it, chalking it up to the normal dreary mood that came on him at the start of term.

“Excuse me, Professor Snape?” A youthful, high voice called after him.

Severus turned, expecting to be faced with a student, only to find the new professor jogging down the halls after him. He forced a smile on his face, though it did little to hide his disinterested mood. “Is there something I can assist you with?” He drawled.

Professor Eppes shook his head quickly as he skidded to a stop next to Snape, his bright face flushed pink from exertion and embarrassment. “Yes,” he answered quickly, then suddenly thinking about his answer and amending it with a blush. “No. …well, not exactly. Sort of.”

Snape arched an eyebrow at the awkward babble. Professor Eppes was fortunate that he taught electives. The Slytherins would have eaten him alive.

“I wanted to say hello,” Professor Eppes finally got around to the point. “We haven’t really had a chance to meet.”

“A pity. Well, now we have met, Professor Eppes,” Snape turned away, considering his expected greeting complete.

“Please, call me Charlie.” Professor Eppes followed behind him awkwardly, presumably in an attempt to foster conversation, though Snape was unsure why. Surely Sinistra would have mentioned that Snape was not the most social among the staff.

“You teach Potions, right?”

Snape nodded. He would have assumed that would have been mentioned in any initial introductions to the school. “I do.”

“That’s like Chemistry, right?”

The analogy brought Severus to a halt in the middle of the hall and he turned his head to glare down at the professor, his gaze softened somewhat by the look of open curiosity on Charlie’s face.

“Something like it,” he drawled, “though the complexities differ between subjects.”

Snape was beginning to wonder what the ‘finest of credentials’ in Professor Eppes’ background actually were. Now that Severus thought about it, there were no large wizarding universities in the United States. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if he recalled ever hearing of any wizarding school in the Americas. Given that, he wouldn’t be surprised if the professor’s background was almost entirely muggle, a thrilling concept to say the least.

“Ah.” Professor Eppes seemed to have taken Snape’s silence as a dismissal, not an entirely unwelcome assumption on Snape’s part. “Which way to the North Tower?”

With a sigh, Snape turned and headed in the almost opposite direction of his quarters. “This way.” Professor Eppes was going to need more than just Professor Sinistra’s advice if he was going to survive.

Charlie remained silent the entire way until they reached the portrait in front of his quarters, a strange abstract painting made of different colored blocks.

“I trust you remembered your password?” Snape couldn’t keep a light sneer from slipping into his voice.

“I… yes.” Charlie blushed as he fumbled around in his pockets. The sneer turned into a frown as he watched the muggle-turned-professor search for his wand. “Professor Snape, I appear to have…”

Snape had his wand out before Professor Eppes could finish the sentence. A raised eyebrow was all that he needed to prompt Eppes for his password. Snape repeated the word with the appropriate flick of his wand.

“Galileo.”

The portrait swung away to reveal pale cream walls covered by muggle chalkboards with complex mathematics scribbled across every one. Snape raised an eyebrow, and amused smile stealing onto his face as Charlie stepped into his quarters.

“A bit of a math enthusiast, are we?”

Charlie glanced sheepishly between the chalkboards and Professor Snape before nodding shyly. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Snape turned away with a nod. “Good night, Professor.”

“Good night,” Charlie called after him, “and thanks.”

Snape shook his head once he heard the portrait click shut. Dumbledore had definitely picked another odd professor to join their ranks.

Four days later Snape found the new professor knocking on the portrait to his quarters, his approach unnoticed by the distracted professor.

“Can I help you?” Snape drawled the question out in even tones, grinning internally as Professor Eppes jumped in surprise.

“Sorry,” Charlie apologized automatically. “I… umm…” The awkwardness returned, though Snape had noticed that the Professor didn’t have this much trouble stringing together words around the rest of the staff, aside from Moody and Finch. “Dumbledore sent me down,” he explained hastily.

A raised eyebrow and faint smirk was Snape’s only response.

“He said you might be able to help me with the grading scale,” Charlie continued with a nervous smile. “I haven’t had much experience assigning this kind of homework.”

Snape nodded quickly, his amusement dissipating slightly as he realized what Dumbledore was trying to do. He unlocked the portrait with a sharp flick of his wand, muttering the password too low to be overheard. Professor Eppes stood frozen in the hall as Snape brushed past him. Pausing in the doorway, he tried to paste a more reassuring look on his face as he turned back to the nervous professor. “Well, come in.”

Charlie stepped inside hesitantly, peering around as if a strange monster was going to jump out at him. He did jump when the portrait swung shut behind him. “Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you, but I…”

“It’s alright,” Snape cut him off. He draped his cloak over a high-backed armchair as he headed for the small kitchen alcove on the other side of the room. “Better make yourself comfortable.” Loathe as he was to invite company, he knew better than to brush Professor Eppes off if Dumbledore had sent him down. The old coot would probably call Snape into his office tomorrow to report on the ‘quality time’ they’d spent together.

Snape returned to the common room bearing a tea set and two full cups. Professor Eppes was perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, his face radiating nervousness. Setting one cup in front of Charlie, Snape took a seat in a large chair opposite, his own cup balanced on his knee. He watched with satisfaction as Charlie sipped at the tea, which Severus had laced with a small amount of calming drought. His own tea had been laced with a liberal dose of brandy, a necessity if Snape had to push forward with pleasantries between them.

“What did you do before?” Snape asked evenly, referring back to Charlie’s earlier comment of inexperience.

Charlie blinked, too new to the campus to be able to read into Dumbledore’s manipulations. He took a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying a neutral tone as if more than mere physical distance separated him from his life in the United States.

“I was a college professor.” Charlie stared into his tea as he spoke, long curls draping down to frame his face. “I taught advanced math at CalSci, for the most part.” At Severus’ blank look he elaborated. “It’s a Southern California technical university, in Los Angeles.”

“Rather young to be a professor, aren’t you?” He’d assumed that Hogwarts was Professor Eppes’ first teaching job. Charlie looked too young to have had a position at another university for more than a spare handful of years.

Professor Eppes shrugged, a rueful smile crossing his face. “I was a bit of a child protégé. I graduated high school when I was thirteen, and published my first mathematical treatise by fourteen.”

Severus’ eyebrows arched high at the admission. “Impressive. I can understand why Dumbledore chose you, despite what I’m guessing is a thoroughly muggle education.”

Charlie shrugged. “There wasn’t much of any sort of formal wizarding school near Los Angeles, so they arranged for me to have a few special teachers when I was old enough.”

The old memories brought back a rueful smile to the young man’s face, his face brighter than it had been his entire stay here. Snape could tell that Charlie was a happy man by nature, given the ease of his smile. He wondered vaguely what had happened to cause his current almost-constant melancholy.

“Arithmancy’s the only thing I’m good at,” Charlie admitted with a rueful shrug, “since, well… it’s numbers.”

Snape nodded, and found himself watching the professor with renewed interest. “What was the other part?”

Charlie tilted his head in confusion, a look that, if Severus were to allow himself such frivolous thoughts, he almost found endearing. “Pardon?”

“Earlier you mentioned you were a professor ‘for the most part’. That implies you had another profession.”

“Oh.” All the cheerfulness that had worked its way into Charlie’s countenance during their conversation disappeared in an instant. Here, Snape thought, was the source of the melancholy. “I worked with my brother a bit.” Which meant that something had happened between him and his brother to send him off to another country.

“And what did he do?” Snape pushed the issue. This was what Dumbledore wanted after all. He’d sent Professor Eppes here so that Snape could pull out the reason for his dark mood and give him a chance to open up to someone trustworthy. He would have been honored by Dumbledore’s faith in him if it hadn’t meant that Snape had to open up to someone.

“He was in the FBI.” Professor Eppes was apparently full of surprises. The content of the statement was enough to shock him, but then he examined the grammar. Was. Suddenly the situation became a lot clearer.

“Ah.” Snape sipped at his tea while he tried to gather his thoughts. Sympathy was not part of his nature and to offer it was somewhat unusual for him. “I’m sorry.”

Charlie looked away, shaking his head quickly. “It’s okay.”

“If you need to talk…” Surprisingly, Snape found that he genuinely meant the offer. The small smile Charlie graced him with was worth it.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Snape dismissed the thanks with a wave of his hand. He reached for the kettle to refill their cups only to find that the tea was already gone. With a muttered excuse, he stepped into the kitchen to mix a fresh pot. By the time he returned minutes later, Charlie was gone.

Snape took one look at Harry Potter’s essay on the uses of Vetivert Root and tossed the entire remainder of the stack aside. He’d get to those later when he wasn’t in such a congenial mood. Setting his pen aside, he stood and headed for the kitchenette to make a fresh kettle of tea.

“Do you need any help?” Charlie called from where he’d been seated on the floor by the coffee table. After the first time Charlie had been sent to Snape for ‘help’, he’d been back at least twice a week since, with actual questions on grading. Now, Charlie was here almost every night. Sometimes they chatted, normally they just sat and graded papers, Charlie at the coffee table and Snape in his armchair.

“No,” Snape called back as he filled a kettle with water and placed it over a small open flame. The jar of leaves he favored, a pleasant Earl Grey blend, was still out on the counter from their last pot. He spooned a small amount into a round tea-strainer before throwing that into the pot.

Snape lounged against the corner of the doorframe as he waited for the tea to boil, absently watching Charlie grade his Arithmancy essays. He’d found himself growing somewhat fond of the other professor. Well, more than fond if he was to be completely honest, but he’d limited those kinds of thoughts to mere idle contemplations. For now, he was merely relieved to find someone on the teaching staff that was tolerable for long periods of time.

Charlie looked up after a moment, smiling brightly at Snape. For his part, their time together had done much to improve Professor Eppes’ temperament. While he still carried a distinct forlornness with him, the mood was more of an absent habit, chased away by an easy smile whenever Charlie’s attention was firmly focused on something in the present.

“Why do you always make tea the muggle way?”

The question snapped Severus out of his contemplation and he smiled a small half-smile. Charlie’d finally started to pick up the vocabulary of proper speech. “It’s relaxing,” he answered finally. It was like a potion, requiring precise measurements and methodology to brew a perfect cup.

“Ah.” Charlie was smiling again as he marked off a letter grade at the top of his last paper, most likely an A given Professor Eppes’ far too lenient grading.

Snape turned as soon as he heard the kettle start to sing, flicking his wand with a muttered command to bring their tea cups floating over to him to be refilled. Plucking the kettle off the fire with a pot holder and pouring out two cups. He put a liberal amount of cream and sugar in one, Charlie’s, and left his own undressed.

Charlie’s attention was focused on the top of Snape’s essays, a slight frown marring the young professor’s face. “Harry Potter? That’s the famous student right?”

“Infamous would be more precise.” Snape pulled the paper away with a snort. “He’s an attention starving brat.”

“According to Arithmancy he’s imaginative, creative and likes to keep the peace. All his numbers point to great success.” There was that blinding smile again, Snape thought. He certainly couldn’t fault Professor Eppes on his passion for the subject, even if the focus was currently misplaced.

“I don’t believe in that sort of foolery,” Severus sneered. He’d always categorized Arithmancy the same as Astrology and Divination – useless frivolities.

Charlie shrugged off the insult good-naturedly “I’ve always found it accurate for myself.”

He had to admit to a certain curiosity about what Charlie’s personality was according to the numbers. “And what does it say about you?”

A self-effacing grin crossed Charlie’s face. “It says I want to be what I’m not.”

Severus raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on the length of Charlie’s description. “And me?”

Charlie’s grin widened, turning half-teasing. “It says that you’re withdrawn and moody but intensely loyal. You’re self-conscious about your looks. An inventor, you like your independence and hate working with others. You’re a loner and incredibly domineering.”

His face withered into a frown. The remarks were far too accurate for his liking. “That doesn’t fit me at all.”

“It also says that you don’t hide behind masks, and you take what you want.”

Snape wasn’t sure if he was reading those words like the invitation they seemed. His dark mood lifted, just a touch, as he snorted derisively. “I still don’t think it means much.”

“I think it does.” Was that hope lining Charlie’s voice? Did he perhaps… no, that thought was absurd. Charlie was most certainly not interested in him.

“You barely know me.” And yet he somehow wished Charlie would know him better.

Charlie smiled, his good nature seeming to shine through Snape’s sarcasm and biting words. “I know numbers.”

“Severus!”

Snape turned with a sigh, glaring at two students lingering in the halls until they moved their sudden whispering into one of the off-shooting corridors.

“Oh good,” Charlie panted slightly as he skidded to a halt beside Snape. “I wasn’t sure if I’d catch you before I left.”

“It appears you have,” Severus drawled. His curiosity was mildly piqued by the wrapped package that Charlie carried.

“Here.” Snape no longer had to wonder as the package was suddenly thrust at him. The rectangular object was somewhat heavy, and he stared blankly at it for the moment before Charlie spoke. “It’s a present. A Christmas present, actually. To thank you for all your help this past semester. I wouldn’t have lasted this long without you.

Severus snorted. “I don’t need your thanks.”

Charlie shrugged easily, reading the statement for the thanks it was theoretically meant as. “I know, but I wanted to. Being around you has helped me get over…” The sentence faltered as Charlie’s eyes fell to the floor in sadness.

“Your brother?” Snape correctly guessed.

“Yeah,” Charlie nodded. His head snapped up suddenly to meet Snape’s eyes. “It was my fault you know,” he blurted abruptly. “I was consulting them on a case and I predicted something wrong. It wouldn’t have changed things, really. The situation had nothing to do with the numbers. There were unexpected variables… I couldn’t see that then. I wish things could have been different, but here I am.” A small smile graced Charlie’s lips as he stretched up on his toes to kiss Snape lightly on the cheek.

Snape was quite certain that his expression was similar to as if he had been run through with an ox.

“Thanks,” Charlie finished simply, turning just as a slight redness started to creep across his face. “I’ll be back in a week.”

Then he was gone.

Snape spent the rest of the past week in his quarters, sitting in his favorite armchair in front of the fireplace reading the book Charlie had bought him. It was a muggle book on Arithmancy and fortune-telling, and Snape would have never in a thousand years picked it up if it hadn’t been a gift. Strangely he found himself enjoying it, although half of the time his thoughts wandered until he had no idea what he’d just read.

He’d thought a lot over the past week about their brief parting and what it meant. There were a number of different ways he could interpret the kiss, an infinite dimension of harmless meanings, but no matter what reason he came up with his mind always went back to Charlie’s Arithmancy. He didn’t hide, it said, and took what he wanted. He knew what he wanted.

He was prepared on the day Charlie was scheduled to come back. The morning was spent in his quarters, alternating between making tea, thumbing through the book, and wearing a groove into his carpet with all his pacing. When the expected knock on his door came at just past one, he was ready, swooping up a package remarkably similar to the one he’d received on the way to the door. The package was dropped into Charlie’s hands the minute the portrait was open, and he had his hand on Charlie’s back the second he was inside, pulling the young man close enough to lean down and kiss him firmly on the lips.

Snape wasn’t hiding, and he certainly was going after what he wanted. From the way Charlie responded to the kiss, he wanted the same thing.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Charlie asked with a distracted smile as soon as they parted, his head resting lightly against Severus’ chest.

“I decided that I should probably listen to all that Arithmancy nonsense you were spouting.” In translation, that was probably about as close as he was going to get to complementing Charlie in the near future.

Charlie’s smile told him that he’d read it as such. “Numbers don’t lie.”

Snape found that he couldn’t disagree. Arithmancy couldn’t be all that bad. After all, this was where numbers had landed them.

The shop was quiet, pristine silence broken only by the quick puffs of air that escaped every time Saiga moved away. Metal shelves pressed into his back as he quickly gasped in a breath of air, oxygen sliding cool down his throat to momentarily sooth his burning lungs before the breath was gone, stolen by a pair of firm lips. Saiga’s hands kept him in place, one hand on the small of his back, pulling him tight against Saiga’s hips, while the other cradled the back of his head, controlling where his mouth went and when he could breathe.

Moments like this were rare, when it was just the two of them with no distractions and no agenda to worry about. Their work was done for the moment, ready to be handed off into two sets of unwilling hands. Perhaps then they’d have another chance to be alone together and they could go further than the rough pressure their bodies exerted on each other now. It was a push to stay together, to seize the moment to its fullest and intertwine themselves as much as they could while they had the chance.

Kakei smiled as the hand on his back moved, sliding around to his stomach to slip inside his lab coat and under the back of his shirt. Saiga flexed his hand, fingers digging into his skin in delicious pressure, pushing into his muscles before releasing slightly and repeating like a cat’s kneading. Titling his head back, Kakei encouraged Saiga to explore, his smile widening to a smirk as his lover’s insistent lips took the opportunity to trail down the side of his throat.

He murmured softly, keeping any sounds of pleasure low incase Rikuo came downstairs early. The skin of Saiga’s neck was stretched before him and Kakei grinned wickedly as he ran his nails lightly down the skin. Saiga grunted once, pulling away to glare at him in a look that was more gentle warning than any real anger. His smile only widened as he repeated the action, forcing another soft grunt from Saiga.

Suddenly he was rising, strong hands brusquely lifting him up. His legs came around Saiga’s waist automatically, and it was Saiga’s turn to smile as he bucked his hips against Kakei. With an uncontrolled gasp Kakei’s head fell back, knocking slightly into the shelf behind him. Something wiggled on the shelf but he didn’t have time for further thought as Saiga pulled his head down, once more staking a firm claim on Kakei’s lips. They melded together, moans swallowed by insistent mouths, tongues moving to caress as much as they could reach.

A low cough reached Kakei’s ears but he was too busy to pay attention to it. Then a second, more insistent cough followed and Saiga briefly pulled away to glare over at Rikuo. Their young helper had a smug smile on his face as he pointed to the bottles of cough syrup scattered on the floor around them.

“Make sure to clean that up when you’re done.”

“We will,” Kakei replied in a cool and even voice, sounding composed even if he didn’t look or feel such.

Rikuo turned away with a smile as they slowly started to part, matching grins etched on their faces.

Garak knew better than to think that this would ever work. Cardassia and the Federation had never made the best of bedfellows, and that was true both literally and figuratively. Even if they completely ignored the quagmire of political differences that kept their two races firmly apart, there was still a galaxy worth of reasons why they shouldn’t be together. Gender itself would have been an issue in less modern times, or at least that was true for the humans. Their race had brushed past that social stigmata well over a century past, and while the Cardassians did still have some taboo on the subject, Garak considered himself old enough and wise enough to see past that. Besides, given who they were, the fact that they were both male was the least of the rejections against their relationship. The only reason it’s lasted this long is because they’re both too stubborn to actually listen to all the reasons why they shouldn’t be together.

Race had been the largest issue in Garak’s mind. Cardassians were used to hard lives – from the constant state of war to the very nature of their skin, they were hard creatures. Perhaps that was why he found himself drawn almost magnetically to the soft-skinned creatures surrounding him. They would have been a rare treasure on his world in the old days, something strange and exotic, like a fragile flower so easily crushed beneath his palm. If soft-skin was all that he needed, anyone would do in theory but there was more to their current situation than just an attraction to exotic appearance. And yes, he did admit that any human who engaged in the carnal with a Cardassian had to be considered somewhat aberrant by his or her fellows. On Cardassia, captures of war had long accustomed his people to exotic ‘pets’ and an almost accepted exploration of foreign bodies.

No, that tainted need that dwelled in Garak’s body went farther than the shallow obsessions of a warlord for his captives. He was tempted by a creature, a man, that was soft both inside and out, and that balance, so removed from his own warrior-bred and bound mindset, was what truly kept them together despite Garak’s firm assurance that this would all come to an end one day soon. That didn’t matter, at least not in the moment. He sought peace, more a subconscious need than a conscious drive, and in his current lover he had that.

There was no doubt in Garak’s mind that his lover was dangerous, or at least that he could be when needed, but he was not a fighter by nature. Far from it. In fact, one could go as far as to say that their natures were in direct opposition, himself as a former assassin and his lover as a doctor, a healer. Therein lay the greatest draw, and he found in the quiet times they spent together that his lover’s patient, caring nature was a salve on his very soul.

“Garak?” A sleep-addled voice emerged from beneath a haven of covers, accompanied by a protrusion of elbow as Julian turned in bed.

“Is there something you need?” Setting the now-empty crystal decanter he had been sipping from aside, Garak rose from the couch, casting his eyes over the rumple of blankets on their bed. Even in the darkened solitude of his quarters, their quarters really, the deferential tone of his daily occupation still managed to creep into his voice when he wasn’t paying attention.

A hand escaped from the cocoon of blankets, followed by a bare shoulder as Julian half-sat up. “Come to bed.” An almost-sullen pout painted Julian’s features as he stared through the dark towards Garak.

Clothes were shed as Garak traversed the room, folded neatly and set on a chair near the bed. He circled around to the far side, his side, a small smile quirking on his lips at the fact that they had sides. The bed was deliriously warm as he slipped under the covers. Rather than shy away from the chilled hands that brushed his side, Julian gathered them closer, draping Garak’s arms around himself as he snuggled back into Garak’s chest. Pressing his lips briefly to the neck bared before him, Garak held his lover tight in his arms. A low murmur of contentment slipped from the human’s lips as he started to fall back asleep in Garak’s arms.

Temptation incarnate was held tight in his arms so it was little wonder that Garak’s hands started moving, entirely of their own volition of course. More of those tiny little sounds meant that Julian was moving towards awake once again. Julian rolled, blinking owlishly as he threw a pale leg over a green-scaled hip, a small smile slipping on his face as their mouths met in a gentle clash of teeth.

Garak was the first to draw back, capturing the warm hand that brushed against his chest in one of his own.

“Are you opening early tomorrow?” Soft hair brushed his chin as Julian leaned down to place a kiss over their entwined hands.

Garak pretended to consider the question. Really, he knew what his choice would be, assuming Julian was amiable. He had no urgent orders at the moment, nothing that couldn’t wait until the late morning. “I don’t have to.”

“Neither do I.” Julian’s lips trailed up, imploring. Teeth grazed the protruding bone at Garak’s shoulder, a definitive sign that they were both amiable to the same activity.

Garak rolled, a simple shift of weight turning them until Julian was on his back, arms reaching up to bring their mouths closer. As always Garak marveled at the easy surrender as Julian gave in, gave him permission for whatever action Garak might decide to take. In a different time, before he came to the station, such trust would have been a death-sentence for Julian. All it would take was a slight application of pressure on some of the softer parts of Julian’s body and… but he was a different man then.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to more practical matters, considering his lover’s busy profession. “What about your patients?” He was obligated, morally, to ask, even as he let his weight press down on Julian, bringing their skin tight together, their hips coming into delicious alignment. Julian’s head rolled back as he arched, pressing them further together, giving Garak momentary access to run his hands along the human’s spine. If they stayed this way, Garak knew from experience that there would be little scales scattered across Julian’s skin, little dips and ridges mirroring Garak’s skin, tiny marks of himself that tingled beneath his palm.

“If there’s an emergency, they know where to find me.”

A dark smirk crept across his face and Garak rolled his hips, thrusting hard between Julian’s legs. “I’m certain they do.”

Julian swatted him lightly for the implication, his face mirroring a gentler version of Garak’s smile. He stretched, skin rubbing softly against Garak’s scales as he reached out for the small crystal vial they kept on the table beside the bed. A small pool of pale red liquid spilled across Julian’s palm before Garak took the vial away, replacing it on the table with a small smile, the only outward sign of his pleasure as Julian took him in hand, rubbing the oil onto Garak’s previously ignored erection. Garak placed a quick kiss on Julian’s forehead in thanks as Julian finished, easily lifting pale hips to align their bodies. Slowly, gently, he slipped his way inside, eyes trained for far more malicious observation turned to the task of assuring himself that there was no sign of pain on the human’s face as Garak entered him.

A soft sigh brushed away Garak’s brief worries once he was fully implanted. Julian smiled up at him then, and Garak thought it was worth being exiled a thousand times for the chance to stay here.

“Please.” Julian looked up at him with trusting eyes, his face flushed with a need that matched Garak’s own.

“Anything for you,” Garak promised quietly.

They moved together in the dark, rough friction sliding through velvet heat, soft warmth giving way beneath him as he pressed forward relentlessly, seeking the perfect balance between their bodies. Quiet noises of pleasure feel from Julian’s lips, muted by the press of Garak’s hungry lips. Here, like this, Garak knew it didn’t matter how long it lasted. He had this, this perfect balance, this infinite peace, this pleasure of being, and from that he had all that he needed. It didn’t matter that they were two males, a human and a Cardassian, their people fighting on different sides of a war with them stuck in between. Nothing mattered aside from the soft gasps that rose to his ears every time he moved, touched, kissed.

All that mattered was that Julian was his now and he’d make his own war, fight every nation in all four quadrants to make sure that this relationship of theirs, no matter how controversial or flawed, would work.

D’Artagnan glanced over at the gloomy Musketeer sitting by himself in a corner of the boisterous bar. “I don’t get it.”

Porthos looked up from the bosom of a rather feisty wench, his eyes rolling slightly in indication that he was already on his way to being fully drunk. “Get what, my dear lad? I thought we covered wenching quite thoroughly, and last I recall it was not a sport that involved idly watching.”

“No,” the blonde quickly shook his head, waving off the equally feisty redhead that had accompanied Porthos’ current companion to their table. “I don’t get what’s wrong with Athos. The King’s safe, the Cardinal defeated, and France at peace. Why isn’t he celebrating with the rest of us?”

“Athos takes his drinking seriously,” Aramis informed him offhandedly, an absent wave of his cup confirming the matter as commonplace “Seriously and alone.”

“He needs a wench,” Porthos added, firmly distracted by a wench of his own.

Aramis shot the pirate a quick glare, following the look with a sultry wink towards the redhead that was sidling closer to him. “Now Porthos,” the Musketeer’s voice took on the even tone of lecture, “you know quite well that Athos wouldn’t accept that. He thinks they’re all evil, or he’s just pining after the late countess.”

Porthos seemed to sober slightly for a moment at the reminder of the Lady de Winter, but he shrugged the emotion of. “Fine, he needs a plot. Some bandits to foil or princess to save.”

“I think we can do without any trouble.” D’Artagnan looked away slightly as the redhead planted herself firmly in Aramis’ lap, imploring looks demanding a kiss from the priest. He winked quickly at d’Artagnan. “He’ll be back to his normal sunny countenance in the morning.”

Tossing back the last of his ale, d’Artagnan nodded quickly to his now thoroughly engrossed fellows before silently slipping from the table. As he turned away he was surprised to note that Aramis had already deserted the common room, and he found the disappearance somewhat disheartening. D’Artagnan’s nature had never been to leave someone in a foul mood when he thought he could do something about it. He was about to decide the matter irresolvable as he ascended up into the quieter guest floors of the inn, until he spied a thin stream of light escaping from beneath the door to Athos’ room.

Determined to at least try to help, d’Artagnan marched purposefully towards the door. He paused with his hand a hair above the door, suddenly uncertain whether Athos would really welcome the interruption. Steeling his courage, he rapped lightly on the door. No answer came from inside the room. He waited in the almost-darkness of the hallway for several moments but no sound came from the room.

D’Artagnan frowned, wavering on staying another minute longer or giving in to the reality that Athos had probably gone off somewhere more remote. He was about to turn away when the door creeked open and a grimacing face glared out at him.

“What do you want?”

Athos’ breath reeked of alcohol. That combined with the grim look of his comrade firmed d’Artagnan’s resolve to at least ask if he could be of some help.

“I saw your light on. I thought you might like some company.”

Somehow Athos’ manner only worsened at the offer. “You don’t want my company.”

D’Artagnan caught the door before Athos could slam it in his face, turning on the smile that had won him the heart of many a lass… not that Athos was a lass… or that he was trying to win him, but at the moment it just seemed the right thing to do to get Athos to let him in.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.” There was an accusation built into Athos’ statement.

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I rarely do.”

Athos handed him a bottle as he walked in, shutting the door behind them and then taking the only seat in the small room. D’Artagnan glanced around the room, suddenly regretting the awkward situation he had willingly thrust himself into. Taking a hearty swig from the bottle, he forced himself not to cough as the brutal liquid burned down his throat. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes but didn’t fall. Stumbling slightly d’Artagnan sat abruptly on the only place left to sit: Athos’ bed.

A smile had formed on Athos’ lips as he watched d’Artagnan but manners or disinterest kept him from mocking. Nevertheless Athos’ eyes still followed d’Artagnan as they drunk in silence, d’Artagnan only sipping once to match Athos’ hearty swigs.

Sometime later in the evening, when the dregs of the rather large bottle had finally disappeared into d’Artagnan’s stomach, he realized he wasn’t alone on the bed. The bottle was gently slipped from his fingers. Coarse sheets scratched the bare skin of his arms and he floated in a haze of disembodied warmth. Whispered touches ghosted over his skin and he felt a growing chill. His clothes were disappearing, floating away under unsteady hands. He found that he didn’t mind, since he was still warm, more than warm with the strange pressure pushing down on him from above.

“I’m sorry.”

D’Artagnan blinked his eyes open at the slurred words. There was Athos, staring down at him with a mournful look marring his face. He opened his mouth to question, to say something unintelligible, but there was something there before the words, pressing its way warm and wet down past his teeth. The kiss, he recognized it vaguely as such from his experience with women, was strange in its force, a hard insistence behind the subtle invasion that he knew he would have objected to in his more sober moments. However, his current intoxication was giving him a broader perspective and sometime after getting over the strangeness of it all d’Artagnan found he didn’t mind that Athos’ tongue was down his throat. Or that he was doing a remarkably good job at shoving his tongue into Athos’ mouth with equal force.

With the new enlightenment of the inherent pleasure of their current activity also came the knowledge that he had somehow lost his clothing, and that Athos was suffering from the same affliction. Apparently Athos didn’t notice, or maybe he was just too busy knocking over a bottle on the nightstand, his fingers barely covered as the liquid spilled out. There was more in play now than just their lips and d’Artagnan found that there were other parts of Athos that produced pleasurable friction, the most prominent of which was firmly prodding him between the legs.

Then Athos’ hand was there, pressing into a place no man had ever touched. He arched, lips breaking away in a sharp gasp. This was new, quite new and there was no doubt in that vague shred of himself that stayed subtly sober in a corner of his mind that he would never, never ever let Athos live after touching him like that if he was sober. But he wasn’t sober, not even close to it, so instead he found himself actually considering the merits of the activity.

He was certain that the act would have been quite painful without a liberal dose of alcohol, judging from the faint pain that echoed behind Athos’ touch. But there was pleasure, a slight amount of pleasure amplified by the alcohol into something more, enough that he was vaguely disappointed when Athos stopped barely a minute after he’d started. The disappointment was short-lived before pressure was back, slipping inside, thicker this time and warm. There was so much warmth in the invasion that he felt like alcohol was burning inside of him once more, slipping in through his every pore.

Athos was talking again, repeating over and over again the same apology even as he pushed himself further inside d’Artagnan. The words broke through the fog of warm pleasure-pain d’Artagnan was floating in, bringing him closer to the surface of consciousness. Reaching up, he wrapped his arms around Athos’ neck, pulling the older man down until Athos was whispering the words against his shoulder. His fingers clenched over Athos’ shoulder as the elder Musketeer reached between d’Artagnan’s legs, touching him with hard and firm strokes that left no doubt of the resolution.

He came, harder than he could ever remember, the burning of his body shooting out with a loud shout. Athos was still above him, holding d’Artagnan tight against him for the long moments until his body stilled. Then, once d’Artagnan was relaxing back into the sheets, only then did Athos move once more, pushing inside with slower, gentler strokes. Each movement brought a thin gasp to d’Artagnan’s lips, his mind too over-stimulated to think beyond the pleasure of the moment. He held Athos tight, his legs twisting to hold Athos better to him, reaching for something unknown that rested ephemeral between them. He stretched his body, arched and writhed until Athos let go, all the force of their movements breaking away in a sudden, spreading heat.

Athos gasped, more a loud breath than a sign of pleasure, and stilled above d’Artagnan, his face twisted into a slight grimace. When his eyes opened again there was a redness staining the rounds and d’Artagnan knew Athos wasn’t nearly as drunk as d’Artagnan was.

“I’m sorry.” The words were reflected in the gentleness of his touch as he pulled out.

As the apology fell for what felt the thousandth time, d’Artagnan was compelled to answer. He stopped Athos with a hand on his chest, fingers resting over a kiss-bruise he didn’t remember leaving. Later, when he was less inebriated, he might regret their action and the guilt he knew Athos would carry with him, but he knew he wouldn’t take back the words, at least not in his heart.

“I’m not.”

Legolas perched on the edge of a white stone railing, his eyes fixed absently on the distant hills. A cool breeze lifted from the River Anduin, carrying with it the pungent smell of dirt and blood from the Pelennor Fields. Two weeks of infrequent rains had barely wiped away the stain of death from the tattered earth. In the south, fires still burned, consuming the bodies of their dead foe. The men of Gondor and Rohan had been laid to rest a week earlier, but the city was still healing. It would take skilled hands months, perhaps even years, to fix all that was broken.

Soft steps echoed on the balcony behind him. Legolas didn’t turn to face the man, waiting instead for the human to make his presence known or continue on to further business.

“You look lost.”

Legolas slowly turned to face the newcomer, his face still in its neutral mask of contemplation. Though they had never met, he recognized the newcomer instantly. As sure as the sun shone behind him, there was a son of Gondor standing before him. The family resemblance was most noticeable in the eyes, he thought. If he ignored the rest of the man’s face, he could almost believe that Boromir was standing there, alive once more. But Boromir was gone, and his brother had almost joined him.

“Are you here with the visitors from Rivendell?”

A smile quirked on Legolas’ lips as he shook his head quickly, belatedly realizing that he had been quite rude in ignoring Lord Faramir’s query.

“No,” he corrected quietly. “Mirkwood was my home.”

Surprise painted the human’s face with an easy smile, and Legolas was struck with how different in manners Faramir actually was from his brother. While not overly given to dour moods, there had been a more solemn quality to Boromir’s moods.

“A wood elf? I thought King Thranduil’s party wasn’t to join us for another fortnight.”

Legolas returned the human’s easy smile, a slight guilt clawing at him for mislaying the man’s impression. “They aren’t. I came with Aragon and have stayed here in his graces awaiting the coronation, though I have been remiss in not introducing myself to his steward yet.”

The man’s eyes brightened in good humor, no trace of anger or embarrassment at mistaking Legolas’ identity apparent on his countenance. “Then you would be Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood? Aragon had spoken of you to some extent.”

“Pleasant things I’m sure,” Legolas quirked his lips in rueful remembrance of the many stories Aragon could have chosen to share with the human.

A knowing twinkle sparkled in Faramir’s eyes and the man laughed, the boisterous sound somehow lightening Legolas’ heavy heart. The war had taken much from the people of this land and he was glad that some still held joy in their hearts. “There was mention of a contest with a dwarf, but all tales were told in good nature.”

Legolas found himself laughing along with the man as he remembered the counting. Gimli firmly maintained that he had won, despite the actual numbers Legolas claimed. With such a good-natured contest Legolas felt no need to press for correction.

“Yes, that was an interesting contest. I’m sure Aragon will have told all the tales of our exploits soon enough, not that I hold anything as secret.”

“I look forward to the tales.” Faramir was smiling at him in a seeming effortless manner, mirth gracing his face from lips to eyes. “Not to misplace such jovial memories, but are you planning to stay longer than the coronation?”

That question had been the exact cause of Legolas’ earlier solemn contemplation, and the reason the man had correctly guessed him as appearing lost. In a way, he could concede that he was indeed lost.

“That matter is still undecided.” Legolas glanced once at the jovial lord. For some reason he found himself turning to the man as a confidant while he had yet to broach his concerns with the others of the Fellowship. “I find myself at a loss of what to pursue next,” he admitted.

“War does that,” Faramir answered easily, as if the strange conflict inside the elf was a common affliction. “To both men and elves I have heard. I know of such emotions among men, at the least.”

Legolas shifted against the railing, crossing his feet as he leaned more firmly against the stone. “Do you suffer such unrest yourself?” He asked with genuine curiosity.

Faramir shook his head, moving slowly across the small balcony to seat himself on one of the stone benches carved into the palace wall. “I’m afraid I can’t count myself as one. My fate has long been decided for me. I live to serve Gondor and its new king.”

“A worthy fate,” Legolas agreed. He knew without a doubt that this man would serve Aragorn well and true. Aragorn could not have asked for a better Steward of his lands.

“Do you not have similar duties awaiting you in the lands of your father?”

Legolas’ smile waned slightly as worries he’d hoped to hold off darkened his thoughts. “Our people are a long lived race so there would be no need to hurry back to my father’s side, even if I were his first son.”

“That leaves you with a number of options.” Faramir turned his gaze to the far plains, his look mirroring Legolas’ earlier contemplation. Silence reigned between them for several long moments, disturbed only by the river-touched breeze.

When the human finally did speak again, his words were low. “Failing all else, Gondor could always use an extra set of skilled hands while we rebuild.”

Faramir stood suddenly, half-smiling at Legolas as he clapped the elf lightly on the shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve been long away from my duties. I hope that we will meet again during your stay.”

“We will,” Legolas promised swiftly. He watched the human disappear back into the shadows of the stairwell before turning back to the still plains.

True to his word Legolas had sought out Faramir a number of times. The human had proven to be an unexpected boost to his spirits, his easy humor drawing him in to fit naturally among Aragorn and the rest of the Fellowship. It was that same humor that Legolas sought out the night of the coronation, after he had finally spoken with his father of his plans for after the celebration.

As he knocked on Faramir’s door he belatedly realized that Faramir might be entertaining other company, and that he would simply be intruding on the lord’s festivities with his own problems. The door was opened before he had a chance to turn away. Faramir’s eager smile slipped as he glanced at the elf’s worried expression, and he quickly ushered Legolas into his quarters, ignoring the half-hearted protests that Legolas attempted to make.

“What’s wrong, my friend?” Everyone was a friend to the human after a few days in his company, and Legolas found himself gladdened by the connection.

“I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Legolas protested softly. Despite his need for the comfort of their friendship, he was reluctant to put his troubles on another.

“Nonsense. Come in. Sit, please, and tell me what troubles you. Did you speak with your father?”

Legolas flinched even as he obeyed the human’s urgings, perching lightly on the edge of a padded bench. He was torn between sitting and pacing, and he shifted nervously where he sat. The human’s words had somehow cut straight to the point of his troubles, a natural talent he was slowly coming to associate with Faramir.

“I did,” Legolas answered simply, not sure how far he should expand on the matter.

Faramir sat across from him, his brows furrowing slightly in sympathetic concern. “He’s not agreeable then?”

Legolas turned his head away with a sigh. Disagreeable was a pale descriptor for his father’s outrage. “He was not. The idea was quite distasteful for him.” He could partially understand his father’s view. Their people had long been isolated from the lands of men, hidden away in the dark forests of the North.

“He doesn’t think helping us rebuild our lands is a worthy cause?” Anger tinged the edges of Faramir’s voice, though he could tell his friend was keeping the emotion from clouding his reason.

“He doesn’t mean it that way,” Legolas hastily defended his father. “He’s from an older mindset. Our forests too were damaged in the war, and Father feels that my duties lie with my people over those who would actually benefit from my help.”

“So family duty is all that he binds you by?”

Legolas looked over at Faramir with a question in his eyes. There was a sudden hopefulness in the man’s voice and he found his spirits rising in hope that the human had found an answer for him. “You have a solution?”

A strange, contemplative look passed over Faramir’s as he stood, crossing the room to sit next to Legolas.

“Give him another reason.”

Faramir’s calloused hand scraped lightly over Legolas’ chin, gently turning his face within reach of the man’s own. Their lips met, a soft touch at first, tasting the air between them before returning with more pressure. Legolas sat still, his eyes closed while his mind whirled with new possibilities. The move was unexpected, but not unwelcome, he found.

A breath later Faramir pulled away, his gaze fixed intently on Legolas. “That was not unwelcome?”

Legolas smiled at the human’s concern. An answer to his troubles with his father was forming slowly in his head, clearing away his earlier worries. This his father would accept, for he was not too old to forget the passion of a young man’s heart.

“No,” he answered finally, words drawn out while he contemplated his next move. “Aragorn would have told you that my kind is more open than most men.”

Sunshine paled next to the brightness of Faramir’s smile. “He had mentioned such, or I would not have been so bold, friend.”

“More than friend, I think,” Legolas returned the smile, “and my thanks. You have brought to mind an answer that my father would not refuse.”

“I’m glad,” and he could tell that Faramir was indeed glad to have Legolas stay. Another kiss punctuated the words, bringing them both closer together. Legolas moved forward this time, meeting Faramir in the kiss with equal fervor. Strong hands founds his hips, moving slowly in exploration over the thin fabric of Legolas’ formal tunic, fingers twining in the lacings on the sides.

Regretfully Legolas pulled away, breaking the kiss with an apologetic smile. “If I am to stay, my father should hear of it before the morning. His company will be leaving soon to visit the homes of Galadriel and Elrond before they return home.”

“How long?”

Legolas paused as he stood, tilting his head in question. “Their voyage?”

Faramir shook his head, red-brown curls waving slightly with the motion. “No. How long until your father would expect your return to Mirkwood. There’s much to do, here and in the lands of Ithilien that Aragon has gifted me.” He knew Faramir spoke of more than simply rebuilding the shattered land, and Legolas answered to such.

A grin stretched Legolas’ features as he stepped away. “My people are a patient race. Time does not span the same for us, more so for the older generations such as my father. He would barely notice my absence for the span of a decade or more. By then, his opinion may have softened.”

Twin smiles graced their faces as Legolas departed, a fond grin planted on his face as he left to bear tidings to his father. King Thranduil would understand, he was certain. His father understood the duty of the heart. After Legolas explained, he would rejoice that his son had finally found his place in the land.

“Do you remember the 14th century?”

Crowley turned away from his beer to glance at the somewhat-drunk angel seated next to him, an identical stein less full of beer clutched in his delicate hands. “For the most part.”

A look of distant reflection crossed the angel’s face. “What was your favorite part?”

An easy smirk quirked on Crowley’s face. That was an easy question, though there were an number of memorable moments from that little span of fun. “The Black Death.” Ah, the memories of those years… Just glorious, he thought. So much death and destruction. They always waxed on memories of those years down below. Those were the good old days. “Yours?”

Aziraphale’s face crinkled into an expression that resembled constipation more than contemplation. “Chaucer,” he answered finally, the name escaping as an absent drawl.

Crowley nodded conciliatorily. “Those years weren’t very good for your side.” Too many wars and revolts. Back then there was more power on the other side, pushing men towards evil and bloodshed. Conflict had sprung up across the world like wildfire, and Europe had become their special playing grounds.

“I think I was drunk for most of it.”

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

Taking a sip of his beer, Crowley tried to remember if they’d met up back then. He’d been busy, he recalled. Hadn’t had time for much that wasn’t death, mayhem, or mischief. Surely he wouldn’t have neglected his friend for an entire century… He snapped his fingers and the memory was there in his mind.

There was laughter, he remembered, bitter laughter not like what he normally associated with the pleasantness that surrounded Aziraphale. The Black Death had done that to him, or at least that’s what Crowley attributed the angel’s mood to when he found him in a Persian den, drunk off his ass and barely able to string together two sentences. He’d had a book of Chaucer’s with him at the time, one of the original manuscripts that he’d somehow managed to come across.

He remembered gifting the book to Aziraphale, after all, he had no use for a book about some stupid pilgrims. He remembered the way Aziraphale had melted in his lap, too intoxicated to really know what he was doing.

“Hey, Crowley?” The then-Aziraphale had slurred into the sheets, wine miraculously tipping from the bottle he held over the edge of the bed and falling directly into the angel’s mouth without so much as touching the sheets.

“Wot?” He’d answered, firm English accent settled in his voice even back then.

“You’re not supposed to have that much of an accent yet.” Aziraphale had corrected him absently. “They don’t have that kind of slang for a while yet.”

“Sorry,” his tone thinned out to something more appropriate for the time.

“Is this ever going to stop?”

Crowley remembered turning to face Aziraphale and finding their faces closer than they had been before. He’d felt guilty then, staring into the red-rimmed eyes of the angel and knowing that his fun had caused this. The small part of him that had been an angel so very long ago had taken hold then, making him reach out to Aziraphale and drag a finger reassuringly along the angel’s jawline.

“It’ll get better,” he’d promised. To this day he was thankful that none of His agents had been listening in. Or the other Him for that matter, though one would have been more forgiving.

The now-Crowley brought his stein to his lips, the pressure of the mug a faint remembrance of what had followed the words. He doubted if Aziraphale remembered the kiss. If he did, he surely would have brought it up again when they’d met up again in the fifteenth century when the banners of the girl Joan had brought the angels back in full force, for a little while. Aziraphale would have said something about how Crowley had slackened off for a while, giving Europe a bit of a break for a year or two. Well, parts of it.

“I do remember.”

Crowley looked up in surprise, turning just as Aziraphale stood. A light kiss brushed Crowley’s cheek as the angel passed, followed by a wink that promised more.

“Thanks.”

Crowley shrugged offhandedly. “You’d do the same.” He knew beyond a doubt that Aziraphale would. It was their balance, the way they kept each other in check. Through the years their friendship had proven more than good or evil. No matter where either of them stood, remnants of affection kept them together.

“Have you ever considered what would happen?”

Zelgadis looked up from the old text, a treatise on magic as it had been practiced in an old and remote desert kingdom long since swallowed by sand, open in front of him to glare at the Mazoku who had suddenly appeared in the remote library. He didn’t bother to ask how Xellos had found him or how he had worked his way past the very stern monks that guarded the library. He probably didn’t want to know. Instead he answered the Mazoku’s question, experience having taught him that the easiest way to get rid of their unwanted traveling companion was just to play along until the demon got bored.

“What would happen when?” There were a thousand different ways Xellos could be going with the conversation, but Zelgadis was sure the Mazoku would chose the most uncomfortable one. He had a feeling he knew exactly where Xellos was going to push the conversation, and he knew he wouldn’t like it. It wasn’t a hard thing to guess, considering their location.

Xellos nodded towards the thick tome. “After that.”

That was exactly where he knew Xellos would try to lead the conversation, and he was prepared. “Yes, I have.”

“And?” Xellos’ smile quirked upwards at an impossible angle.

Zelgadis returned the smile with one of his own. He wasn’t going to play along with the Mazoku’s taunting. “And what?”

One of Xellos’ eyes opened, a tiny sliver of purple peeking out. “Why do you want to change?”

“Do I need to go into it? I would think that it’s obvious.” It was clear, at least to him, but he didn’t feel particularly inclined to bare his reasoning to the Mazoku. The freak probably got pleasure out of the emotions thinking about it brought up for Zelgadis.

“Not to me.”

Zelgadis stood suddenly, slamming the book shut. He didn’t want to get into it, not now, not ever, but he knew Xellos wouldn’t leave it alone until Zelgadis gave him something. That didn’t mean he had to come out and say it directly though. “Have you looked at me recently?”

Both of Xellos’ eyes opened at that moment and Zelgadis suddenly grew very uncomfortable under their gaze. “I have.” The tone of Xellos’ voice made Zelgadis shiver, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. “More than you know.”

Zelgadis turned away, re-shelving the book in an effort to exert some control over the situation. Xellos’ stare was more unsettling than it should have been. He marked it an effect of the conversation, the subject made him testy under normal circumstances. With Xellos around he was bound to react more extremely.

He fell back on his usual caustic responses, removing his emotions from the subject. “Then you should know that I look like a freak.”

“Not to me.”

The answer was said so flatly, so simply, that Zelgadis turned mid-stalk to stare open-mouthed at Xellos. His mouth flapped silently for a long moment before he forced himself to turn away, shock shifting to disgust. Xellos was mocking him, he was sure of it. “You’re Mazoku,” Zelgadis snarled back.

“So glad you finally noticed.”

Zelgadis refused to rise to Xellos’ bait. “Your tastes are different,” he continued. “You’re all freaks.”

“Just because we have a different standard of beauty doesn’t mean we’re wrong.”

Again Zelgadis found himself stopped in his tracks. There was an honesty in the demon’s words but he refused to believe it. He wasn’t wrong, not after all these years. “You don’t understand,” he finished petulantly. Turning away, he strode out of the library. Silence followed him down the halls of the abbey. If the Mazoku followed him, he remained quiet until Zelgadis stepped outside.

Xellos was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps, his eyes half-open as if he were squinting against the sun. “I understand many things that you do not.”

Anger rose in Zelgadis at the implication. He knew what he was talking about, especially where it concerned his curse. “If you understand so much,” he spat out angrily, storming past the Mazoku in rage, “then you should understand why I need to change.”

“I don’t.” Xellos was bobbing in the air behind him, floating like a wind-tossed kite. “So why don’t you tell me. Make me understand.”

Zelgadis stopped, planting his feet firmly as he turned to glare at Xellos, giving the Mazoku one last chance before he lost his temper fully. “I don’t want to have to hide anymore.”

“Then don’t,” Xellos answered evenly, as if it was the most simple thing in the world.

“Have you seen the way they look at me?” He knew his voice was rising, and he was thankful that the abbey was remote and the road disserted or he would have been calling even more unwanted attention to himself.

“It’s no different from the way they look at me.”

“It is!” Zelgadis was shouting now. He couldn’t remember the last time he had let his emotions get this out of hand. This wasn’t going to end well, he could tell. “You at least look normal,” he continued. “They look at you for the first time and they think you’re just a weird human wizard or something, at least until you open your eyes or start throwing your powers around. They look at me and all they see is a monster.”

Xellos shrugged, unable or unwilling to argue with that point of logic. “They’re humans. Why should you care?”

“So am I. Or at least I was.” The last statement killed his anger, replacing it with the depression that so normally accompanied him.

“Personally, I think you’re better this way.”

That was the last straw. Power gathered, two words to summon it to his fingertips, and in a flash of holy white Xellos was gone. He only felt worse in the Mazoku’s absence.

Xellos left him alone for the rest of the evening, staying away until Zelgadis returned to his room at the local inn.

“I thought you didn’t want to hide.”

Zelgadis turned away as he pulled the draping hood and mask away from his face. “I have to.”

The Mazoku hung upside down from the ceiling, only half of his body visible through the wood. “And do you think turning back is going to change that?”

“Of course. They’re only afraid of me because of how I look.”

A twisted smile stretched across Xellos’ face, and Zelgadis had the sick feeling that his answers were only playing into whatever argument Xellos had prepared.

“Have you thought about what will happen when your powers are gone?”

“My powers aren’t linked to my appearance,” Zelgadis protested quickly.

Xellos drifted slowly down through the ceiling, flipping mid-air, and then settling onto a small wooden chair, his entire posture radiating smugness. “But some of them are. Your invulnerability, your speed, your strength, and even a part of your magic. They’ll all be gone if you become fully human again.”

“That won’t affect too much.” Even as he spoke Zelgadis knew what Xellos’ response would be.

“They will, only then you’ll be hiding from us instead of them. Think of it. You’ll become a hinderance to Lina and her friends instead of an integral helper. If you can’t fight you’re just a liability. They’ll have to leave you behind somewhere, and then what will you do?”

The words stung, more than any crying child’s terrified wails or a woman’s disgusted looks. He schooled his face, years of practice keeping the hurt from registering in his expression.

“I’ll find something,” he promised, more to himself than Xellos. “Become a priest or something.”

“That’s certainly fitting, after all these years of hiding.” Xellos’ mocking tone cut through him. “But is that what you really want, honestly? Do you want to exchange one kind of hiding for another?”

Zelgadis found himself answering the question without thinking.

“No.”

“Good.” With a single word, the heavy air in the room disappeared behind one of Xellos’ smiles. “I’m glad you understand that.”

Zelgadis felt like all the tension he’d been holding inside of himself for so many years had just popped, floating away like the air in a balloon. It shouldn’t be this simple. He’d searched so long for a cure that Xellos shouldn’t be able to talk him out of it in one night. In a way he hadn’t. The hope that he could be normal still remained but the drive that had pushed him to find the cure was gone, replaced instead by a hollow kind of disappointment.

He sat abruptly on the bed, his limbs going limp with the new lack of purpose. Turning his eyes up slowly, he stared at the Mazoku watching him from across the room. “Why do you care?” He had to know why Xellos had pushed so hard to destroy all of Zelgadis’ dreams. The Mazoku was probably getting pleasure from Zelgadis’ pain, that was how Mazoku lived. He couldn’t dredge up the emotions to fault Xellos at the moment.

“That is a good question,” Xellos answered with a wide smile. Purple eyes opened to pierce Zelgadis with their gaze. He felt frozen, trapped inside the look. “I would tell you,” Xellos’ voice was teasing as he stood, “but I think you’ve had enough revelations for the night. Instead I’ll just leave you with a simple answer.”

With a pop of air Xellos was suddenly in front of him, lips pressing firmly over Zelgadis’ in a chaste kiss. And then he was gone.

Zelgadis stayed frozen, staring at the empty room with eyes that saw things with new clarity.