in Fiction of Horror, we were talking about lesbian and gay vampire fiction today; and towards the end of her notes, the lecturer told us to google yaoi or slash fanfic
and I was just sitting there
if any of you really don’t know about it and google it tonight
you poor, unsuspecting souls
by screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse aka thegrumblingirl
As he sat and watched Lewis return to the table they had commandeered with a pint for each of them, Hathaway quietly sighed to himself. There he was, with nowhere else he’d rather be, and yet longing for somewhere that was anything but this. Looking up at Lewis as he put their glasses down and sat on the chair opposite, his eyes were drawn to a fairly large smudge of ink on the Inspector’s tie. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and tugged a little on the fabric. Lewis leaned forward without protest and Hathaway took a closer look. It had landed there earlier, when Lewis had leaned down towards the dead body of an Oxford lecturer involved in their case who’d committed suicide and knocked over his ink blotter in the process, leading to an interesting pool of ink and blood covering the desk. Rubbing his thumb over the stain, Hathaway deduced that it had dried hours ago, and would probably never come out, no matter how many times Lewis washed the tie.
“Found something interesting, James?” Lewis shook him from his musings, and meeting his eyes, Hathaway could see the mischief lurking just at the edges of Lewis’ innocent expression. Trying not to note how the Inspector had leaned even closer across the table and how that made resisting temptation to throw caution to the wind and close the gap between them ever so slightly unbearable, Hathaway smiled a little smugly.
“You really need to take better care of your clothes, sir,” he teased. “That’s the second tie in two weeks.” He was, of course, referring to that incident where a suspect had attacked the sergeant before trying to make a run for it, punching him in the face, leaving him with a bleeding nose. Lewis, after apprehending the culprit with clenched teeth and a bit more force than strictly necessary, had had nothing better to do than to use his tie to wipe some of the blood from Hathaway’s chin before the taller man managed to catch his wrist and inform him of the doubtful merit of that particular idea.
“I have you to take care of, isn’t that enough?” Lewis teased right back, and as Hathaway pretended to pout, his stomach gave a little flip as he registered the Inspector’s eyes flickering down to his mouth. James wanted to say something else, but before he knew it, Lewis had gently pried his tie from his grasp and leaned back in his chair without another word, averting his gaze and picking up his pint.
Hathaway heaved another sigh and lowered his head, letting his hand fall on the table with a little thump. Taking a sip from his glass, he suddenly remembered the bits of a melody and a few lyrics that had unexpectedly formed in his mind the night before, as he had lain in bed, definitely not thinking about when exactly the levels of unresolved tension between him and Lewis would actually prove fatal. Taking his notepad and pen from his jacket pocket, he quickly jotted down a few notes, lightly drumming his fingertips on the table to try it out. He hummed a little to himself, checking with a quick look that Lewis wasn’t paying attention, and started trying to fit the words he had going round and round in his head to the tune he’d composed.
“Pack your things, Watson. You’re going on a trip.”
A heated, but short argument later, it was established that Watson was to fill the familiar position of bodyguard for two days before Holmes could join him in the mansion. Watson had to mind to admit it, but he disliked it when their adventured separated them for any length of time. Holmes knew that, of course, and, just as he often played a small selection of his friend’s favourite melodies after particularly tedious wanderings on the violin, it was understood that he was sorry when he fixed Watson with an intense look from his warm, brown eyes and explained that there was simply no other way of approaching the situation. Watson relented, but warned that the daily reports he would undoubtedly be asked to send would turn out to be very caustic in tone if Holmes were to delay any longer than the agreed two days. The detective stepped up to where Watson had been standing during their discussion and gave him a lingering, but chaste kiss—in deference to the unlocked door and Mrs Hudson’s impeccable timing—which appeased Watson’s apprehension a great deal more than, again, he would have cared to admit. But then, he wouldn’t have had to, because it was all too keenly observed by Holmes in the way his grip on his cane relaxed slightly, and the furrow of his brow eased.
“There you are,” Holmes whispered, still firmly ensconced in Watson’s personal space.
“I’d better get my things, then,” Watson answered, quickly leaning in to steal another kiss, then setting off in the direction of his room, leaving Holmes to ponder their latest mystery.
“I didn’t take it,” was all Neal said as anger and frustration built up within Agent Peter Burke. In that instant, so many memories flashed before his eyes. Neal, off his face on hospital prescription drugs, telling in a small, doped-out voice that he, Peter was the only person he trusted beyond doubt. Neal, pretending not to know what he was talking about when the tape was stolen from Fowler’s favourite judge’s office. Then, on Neal’s terrace, talking, in Neal’ kitchen, promising each other: no more secrets. As Peter found himself accusing his partner, his best friend, his lover, of stealing the art, he asked himself desperately how he could’ve hoped to make this work when his trust in Neal was always going to be this fragile.
With a little snort, Peter startled out of his dream and had to make sure he wasn’t back in that yard, feeling himself spiralling down. It took him a minute to become aware of the hand slowly and gently caressing his shoulder, but when he noticed that Neal probably wasn’t asleep, he turned to face him.
“Was it a bad dream?” the younger man asked, his voice still hoarse from sleep, his eyes glinting in the moonlight shining in through the huge glass windows of the apartment.
“You could say that,” Peter mumbled and raised a hand to brush back a lock of Neal’s hair.
Merlin didn’t know what to say, what to do. Should he enter? He was too scared Arthur would simply chase him right out of his quarters again, so he just lingered outside the door. He’d been trying to bring that stupid statue of a ruddy dog to life for hours now, and he still hadn’t succeeded. If he didn’t, there was no chance he could save Arthur. Merlin stared at his master through the open door, his heart twisting in his chest. The flames were illuminating the Prince’s face, dancing across his cheeks, playing tag in his hair. He shouldn’t stay, yet he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t let Arthur do this. But why would he listen to him now? Unbidden, Merlin thought of the Great Dragon’s words earlier.
“The half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole.”
