![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I'm not sure what kind of Easter (besides Jewish) is constituted by Chinese takeout, bread-baking, writing fanfic and watching "Lost," but I'm loving it. (There would have been gardening in there, but it rained.) I'm home alone with the cat (menfolk in NYC) and there's still vinho verde, Ben & Jerry's, and possibly hot tub on the agenda.
And yeah, I am a sorry enough Emerson fangirl now to have gone back to a show I gave up on in the third season because I was tired of the whole "let us tease you with our mysteries" thing. I am enjoying the hell out of every shot of his dear bug-eyed face.
Also having fun with the fic, which is called "Halcyon" for what I hope are fairly obvious reasons (although I don't think kingfishers sort themselves into threesomes). It'll be done when it's done; I don't think this week's episode is going to joss it (in the sense that something so totally unlikely could be jossed at all).
*
They left the bathroom; Harold half-expected John to tuck him into bed, but he was steered back to the sofa instead. "Let me know when you feel up to food," John said, sitting close and putting an arm around Harold's shoulders.
"I don't think there is actually--"
"Frozen empanadas. They look homemade."
"Oh. Mrs. Diaz must have--"
"Does she clean and cook for all your identities, or just this one?"
That woke Harold up a little. "Just Partridge, of course."
"Of course. Basic spycraft." And then they were silent, breathing together. It should have been anything but comforting, yet it was. Mammalian instinct, Harold thought vaguely: curling up next to a big, warm presence. He leaned a little closer; John ducked his head and nuzzled at Harold's temple.
"Where's Bear?" Harold asked, the association irresistible.
"In the Library. I didn't think you'd want your face licked."
"I have made diligent attempts to train him not to do that; if you wouldn't undermine--"
"Aw, but it's fun," and there was the slightest touch of a tongue on his cheek; Harold shuddered. He turned, quickly before he could reconsider, and angled his mouth toward John's; John stopped him with a finger on his chin.
"No," he said, and Harold was about to counter with something about mouthwash when John added, "It's not that easy."
Harold withdrew, still shaking. It would have been easy, he thought, until I took care of that possibility. Choked the life out of it, threw it off a building, shut it into a freezer truck and left it to die. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I am so, so sorry, John."
"Well, I'm not. I'm the one who got laid, after all."
It was a knife in the ribs, but the twist could have been much more vicious; John was barely trying. The casualness of his violence had always vexed Harold more than the essential fact of it. "Yes, and I gather you enjoyed yourself," he said, trying for silky and only achieving snippy. "Congratulations."
"And was it good for you too, Harold? That's nice. How about we move on to the next thing now? And I don't mean the empanadas."
"I am not going to let Grace know--"
"Yes," and now the threat was not gentle, "you are."
*
Words. <3
And yeah, I am a sorry enough Emerson fangirl now to have gone back to a show I gave up on in the third season because I was tired of the whole "let us tease you with our mysteries" thing. I am enjoying the hell out of every shot of his dear bug-eyed face.
Also having fun with the fic, which is called "Halcyon" for what I hope are fairly obvious reasons (although I don't think kingfishers sort themselves into threesomes). It'll be done when it's done; I don't think this week's episode is going to joss it (in the sense that something so totally unlikely could be jossed at all).
*
They left the bathroom; Harold half-expected John to tuck him into bed, but he was steered back to the sofa instead. "Let me know when you feel up to food," John said, sitting close and putting an arm around Harold's shoulders.
"I don't think there is actually--"
"Frozen empanadas. They look homemade."
"Oh. Mrs. Diaz must have--"
"Does she clean and cook for all your identities, or just this one?"
That woke Harold up a little. "Just Partridge, of course."
"Of course. Basic spycraft." And then they were silent, breathing together. It should have been anything but comforting, yet it was. Mammalian instinct, Harold thought vaguely: curling up next to a big, warm presence. He leaned a little closer; John ducked his head and nuzzled at Harold's temple.
"Where's Bear?" Harold asked, the association irresistible.
"In the Library. I didn't think you'd want your face licked."
"I have made diligent attempts to train him not to do that; if you wouldn't undermine--"
"Aw, but it's fun," and there was the slightest touch of a tongue on his cheek; Harold shuddered. He turned, quickly before he could reconsider, and angled his mouth toward John's; John stopped him with a finger on his chin.
"No," he said, and Harold was about to counter with something about mouthwash when John added, "It's not that easy."
Harold withdrew, still shaking. It would have been easy, he thought, until I took care of that possibility. Choked the life out of it, threw it off a building, shut it into a freezer truck and left it to die. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I am so, so sorry, John."
"Well, I'm not. I'm the one who got laid, after all."
It was a knife in the ribs, but the twist could have been much more vicious; John was barely trying. The casualness of his violence had always vexed Harold more than the essential fact of it. "Yes, and I gather you enjoyed yourself," he said, trying for silky and only achieving snippy. "Congratulations."
"And was it good for you too, Harold? That's nice. How about we move on to the next thing now? And I don't mean the empanadas."
"I am not going to let Grace know--"
"Yes," and now the threat was not gentle, "you are."
*
Words. <3
